#ra ask

Please write your own though more people need to write about this concept it's awesome

Omg hii!!!! This counts as my frist ranger's apprentice ask!

I'm not allowed to touch ao3 until I finish the books, and I'm on The Sorcerer of The North (book five of like 12(?) For my non RA friends). To avoid spoilers and such because its my first read through of the series.

So far ive avoided spoilers VERY well and I know I risk it by posting my reading experience but nothing was more fun for me than watching my friends experience my favorite book series for the first time, so I thought some folks would have fun watching my unfiltered reactions.

Oh but of COURSE!!! Ahem: It started with me wondering about Cassandra's overprotection of Maddie, which is one of her greatest faults in TRR. It almost overwhelms her personality at times, which makes me feel like there had to be some catalyst or problem that made her SO worried about Maddie. What could that catalyst be? Well, losing a child seems really likely.

So then it got me thinking--what if, back when Maddie was VERY young, only two or three, Horace and Cassandra had another child. But one terrible night, the child was stolen (Tangled-style), and disappeared. The royal family couldn't have broadcast that a royal child was missing, since that would put them in even more danger. So the Corps was dispatched to search for years, but never found anything.

I think if Maddie is a mirror to Cassandra, this child is a mirror to Horace. Similar build, able to fight with a sword, but has far more anger issues due to the way they grew up. I have a few pieces of fanfic about this kid, and how difficult it would be for them to find out they had a family all this time. How they and Will would probably bond over feeling lost and separated from family, and how Halt would help them adjust from commoner to royal life, since he did the same in reverse.

The boy was silent and utterly still, sitting cross-legged on the verandah and looking out into the forest. As Halt watched him, a breeze stirred the edges of his cloak, ruffling his hair, but still he did not move.

These days, Will tended to do this a lot. It had been some time since their return from Skandia, and still he wasn’t back to his cheerful self. And “cheerful” was the wrong word, Halt thought. No, he certainly didn’t expect his apprentice to be cheerful after his recent ordeal, but Will just seemed… distant. Absent from himself. 

Often when he laughed, the mirth would fade from his face as soon as it appeared, and his apprentice would fall silent for hours on end. He was less certain of himself. Will observed less, made fewer connections, fell behind with his training. And Halt was at his wits’ end as to how to help him.

- - - - -

He got the idea after he took Will to the Crooked Platter one night, a worn-down but cozy dining establishment in Wensley Village. One of the servers had short auburn hair and a cheerful grin and seemed vaguely familiar to Halt. 

“Jenny,” Will cried, and then it hit him—this Jenny person had been one of Will’s wardmates, the one apprenticed to Master Chubb on her Choosing Day. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, Master Chubb hired me out to the owner of this place.” Jenny winked. “Said it was good to learn to host and interact with customers. Speaking of which—” she dug around in her pocket for a notebook—“what will you two be having tonight?”

“I don’t recall having seen a menu,” Halt remarked archly.

“That’s because there really isn’t one,” said Jenny with another wink. “Mind, I’m trying to get the owner to develop one—it’s great for business, you see—but he doesn’t seem all that interested. Just between you and me, I think he just wants to be rid of this place.”

“You should take over, Jen,” said Will. “You’d do great with it.”

“I want to, believe me,” she said. “But I still have so much to learn: three years of apprenticeship left, and I think Chubb really wants to take me on as an assistant chef.” 

Halt dimly heard Will’s stomach growl so he asked, “What is there to eat tonight?” 

Jenny clapped her hands together, excited as always to talk to other people about her food. “We’ve got venison tonight on the spits tonight, slow roasted with my own blend of spices and served over bread and roasted corn.” 

“Isn’t that illegal?” Halt frowned. “Or have your suppliers been poaching?”

“The Princess keeps delivering game to the local restaurants,” said Jenny. “I don’t know when she became such a good hunter, but I won’t complain.”

“Ev—Cassandra is here?” Will was unable to keep the surprise from his voice. “Since when?”

“I just told you earlier today,” Halt admonished gently. “She’s here to visit Lady Sandra this week.” 

“Sorry.” Will fell into his usual deep silence again, and Halt mentally berated himself. It wasn’t his apprentice’s fault that he was more forgetful than usual. 

Jenny frowned, seeing the exchange but not understanding it. “Well, I’ll have your food out soon, then,” she said awkwardly. “It’s been good to see you two.”

Will still didn’t look up as she waved to them and returned to the kitchen. 

They ate the meal—Halt did have to admit it was very good; Jenny’s blend of spices augmented the flavor in all the right ways—in uncomfortable silence. Halt thought about saying something multiple times. He even opened his mouth to apologize before closing it again, deciding Will was best left alone. But his apprentice was clearly pained, and the fact that Halt was unable to help him made his heart ache.  

Will only showed interest when the musicians in the corner (probably hired, Halt thought: they looked too professional to be a rag-tag group of travelling minstrels) began to tune their instruments, promising for a lively night of entertainment. By the end of the first song, Will’s foot was tapping and his head was nodding ever so slightly along with the beat. 

By the end of the performance, he was humming along to the songs, clapping his hands in time with the piece. His expression still wasn’t cheerful, exactly, but it was the brightest Halt had seen it in months. And (his breath caught in his throat when he noticed) more importantly, Will’s eyes were the brightest Halt had seen them in months. 

He made sure to tip the musicians extra on their way out.

And that was the beginning of Halt’s grand idea.

- - - - -

Three months.

That’s how long it took.

There was wood to be gathered, cut, glued, painted, and polished. Sinews to be cured and tied, leather to be boiled and shaped, and two trips to the silversmith and one to the library of Castle Redmont to be made. It was difficult work, to be sure, but Halt had spent his life crafting longbows and arrows to near-perfect precision, not to mention Will’s recurve bow. There was nothing he relished more than a challenge.

The more difficult part was keeping it a secret from his apprentice. Halt worked into the late hours of the night. He chopped firewood as a pretense to obtain materials. He would set Will to a task—learning maps and charts, doing target practice—and rode like hell for Ambrose’s house in Wensley village to pick up finished parts from the silversmith. It required skill, timing, artistry, and care—none of which Halt naturally possessed in large quantities—but it would all be worth it in the end.  

Thirteen weeks after their night at the Crooked Platter, the gift was ready. After dinner, Will sat outside on the verandah in his customary place, still staring at everything and nothing, but he sipped occasionally from the cup of coffee in his hand. That was an improvement, Halt thought as he fiddled with his oakleaf, preparing himself to present the gift. He hoped it wouldn’t go over the wrong way with Will.

He cleared his throat, taking a seat next to his apprentice, holding the gift in his lap. After a heartbeat, Will turned, his gaze seeming to focus on Halt with great difficulty. “Oh, hullo Halt,” he said dully, but his eyes seemed to brighten by just a degree.

“I made you something. It’s not perfect, but… ” Halt paused, wondering if he ought to elaborate, but then decided simplicity would be best. “I thought you might have use of it.” He handed the case to Will and gestured for him to open it.

Gently, Will unlatched the silver clasps and opened the lid with a care approaching reverence. His breath caught in his throat. 

Nestled inside the cloth-lined leather was a beautiful mandola, the amber wood glowing gold in the light of the setting sun. It was teardrop shaped, just slightly asymmetrical, with a roughly circular hole about three-quarters of the way to the top. The kinks in the wood were sanded down but still present, dark streaks against the polished instrument that made it seem all the more lovely. Four pairs of strings ran from its neck to the bottom, and Will, almost holding his breath, lowered his finger onto one and plucked it experimentally. The sound it made was twangy but rich, and he fell in love with it immediately. 

He remembered his mentor watching over his shoulder, the person who had gifted him this wonderful instrument in the first place. It was, without a doubt, the most priceless thing Will had ever owned. Words failed him. “I… don’t know what to say,” he said lamely. “Thank you, Halt.

“It’s imperfect,” Halt repeated gruffly. “I’m sure you could find a better one—“

He was cut off as Will set the mandola aside and hugged him. Halt could feel his apprentice bury his face in his shoulder, shaking. Hesitantly, he returned the hug, realizing that this was the most physical contact he’d had with Will for months. His ribs complained, but Halt himself certainly didn’t.

“I don’t think I could ever find a better one,” Will said, his head still buried in Halt’s shoulder. 

“I guess this means you like it?” he asked, gently patting Will on the back. “Mind, it’s a little rough around the edges, and—”

His apprentice finally came up for air. “Like it?” His tone was almost indignant, as if he was scandalized Halt would use such a weak choice of words. 

“The imperfections only serve to increase the perfection, Halt. Like it?” he repeated again, his voice rising still higher in pitch. “Imperfect is perfect—I’ll treasure it forever.” 

To be honest, like 80% of the projects I start get dropped. Composing an art piece is the hardest part for me! So if the pose or composition is wrong, even if I'm 5 hours in or so, I'll drop it. In fact, here's some of a painting of Horace and Cass I spent like 7 hours on, hated it, never finished it. Such is life!

The Queen’s eyebrows knit closer and closer together as she skimmed farther down the latest report from Caraway. Farmers overburdened with tax. Northwest villages on brink of famine. Children begging in larger towns. 

She read to the bottom and realized that the report wasn’t even from the Baron, probably because he would have never authorized it. No, it had been meticulously drawn up by a village headwoman who had managed to see Caraway’s unjust system for what it was. Cassandra made a note of the woman’s name for future reference. She also made a note of the Baron’s name for more immediate reference. 

“Your Majesty?” the messenger asked, worried by the lack of reponse from the Queen, that he would be punished as the bearer of bad news.

Cassandra looked up distractedly, then noticed the poor man was still kneeling on the floor. “Oh! My apologies, Martin. You’re free to go.” 

“My Queen.” With a final bow, he turned and backed out of the room, never turning his back on her. 

With a sigh, she turned her attention back to his delivered report and slumped lower in her chair. “Formalities, formalities. I have no time for court protocol. I have a nation to run.”

“All due respect, my lady,” said Lord Peter, one of her advisors, “but not only are these formalities tradition, they help cement the authority of your office and the authority of the Crown.” 

“I do not require you to parrot the words of my childhood tutor, lord,” Cassandra said frostily. “I know perfectly well the necessity of protocol.”  Protocol that Lord Peter had technically breached by addressing her as “my lady”, but the man had always been a hypocrite. Currently, she had larger problems than overbearing advisors. 

“Now,” she said, forestalling his reply. “Lord Anthony, does this report from Caraway seem accurate?”

Anthony glanced at the report, then at the treasury records of Castle Caraway and Castle Araluen. He hesitated. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then,” Cassandra said quietly, “would anyone like to explain to me why all tax income from the northwest is coming from the common people? No money from the nobility at all?”

“My lady, have you stopped to consider that the population of the commoners is over twenty times larger than—”

Cassandra managed to refrain from throttling some sense into Lord Peter. That was the problem with nobility at Castle Araluen, she thought. They were too cloistered, too removed from the outer reaches of the country, and they failed to remember the humanity of the ones they taxed. The people were not a source of income or men-at-arms. They were—well, they were people.  

“Have you stopped to consider,” she said, each word weighed down with thinly veiled contempt and anger, “that the nobility is far more than twenty times richer than the common man? That the way they earn their money in the first place is by bleeding their people dry?”

No one dared to meet her eyes. Cassandra took a deep breath, wondering if she’d overstepped. There was a fine line she had to walk when addressing her senior advisors. She couldn’t afford to lose their support and weaken her already tenuous grip on the court. 

Lord Anthony consulted his papers again. He cleared his throat cautiously. “Ah, Your Majesty—there’s the small matter of King Herbert’s treaty with Caraway Fief in 497 CE.”

“Enlighten me.” Cassandra realized her hands were clenched too tightly around the report, so she deliberately set it on the table. She schooled her expression into a blank slate and managed to push back most of her frustration. For now. 

“Fine details aside, the King agreed to waive land taxes on Caraway in exchange for loyalty in the war against Picta, Your Majesty. But because the law requires a tax of ten silver reels from each fief per fifty persons, the money has to come from somewhere.” 

Several lords and ladies widened their eyes at the implication. Lord Peter remained stony-faced: probably because he was exactly the type of man that would turn a blind eye to this sort of thing, Cassandra thought. 

“Then am I correct in concluding that the treaty benefits only the nobility, because most common farmers don’t own the land they work, Lord Anthony?” she asked. 

“Certainly, Your Majesty.” Anthony acknowledged the truth with a grim nod. “Most of the tax in Caraway is therefore levied on the harvest even before a share of it goes to the lords and their knights.”

Cassandra mentally berated herself for not having realized this earlier. She had a responsibility to her citizens, and not noticing or stopping injustice was the same thing as perpetuating it. She should have done better. 

In her head, she also thought some very uncomplementary things about the baron of Caraway and wished she could say them to his face. Maybe she ought to send a forcefully worded carrier pigeon. 

“Then hear my decree,” she said instead, reaching for a pen and some parchment. She read aloud slowly as she wrote: “All harvests are thereafter to be taxed only after they are collected. No tax is to be derived from the farmer’s share of the crop. Deductions for Harvest Day may only be made if aforementioned holiday is directly paid for by the baron and his nobles. The fees levied on market transactions will remain in place.” 

She signed her name at the bottom with a flourish and handed it to the chamberlain.  “Lord Anthony, I will rely on you to figure out the new figures that Caraway nobles must pay. The Scribeschool can help with the wording of the final amendment.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Anthony struck his staff against the flagstones. “Consider it done.” 

“Your Majesty!” Lord Peter burst out, blindsided by the current turn of events. “This is violating the letter of the treaty! It is unadvised—”

Cassandra’s self-control snapped. “What is unadvised, my lord, is to continue talking when your contributions are so obviously unwanted. If the nobility has qualms about paying their fair share, they’re welcome to join the class of the common people.” 

Luckily for Peter’s career, he desisted, turning an admirable shade of puce that clashed horribly with his red robes. “I—You—yes, Your Majesty,” he said finally. 

“You know what’s dumb?” Will said suddenly, setting his cup down.

“Mmph?” Evanlyn, taken aback, chewed rapidly and swallowed her mouthful of pie. “What?” she asked, wiping her mouth on the tablecloth.

Jenny rapped ever-present her ladle on the table, but even she didn’t dare whack the Crown Princess across the knuckles. She contented herself with a gibe made in jest. “Your Highness, don’t they teach you any better in that castle of yours?”

“Of course they do,” Evanlyn said, stifling a light burp. “I just choose to ignore it when I can. And that’s quite enough of the Your Highness, please.”

“If you insist, then.” Jenny grinned, but then she froze, her eyes darting toward the water clock sitting on the bar. She sighed. “Damn. Sorry, but I have to run. Lunch rush is about to start,” she said apologetically.

“Good catching up with you,” Will said.

“Come over to Castle Araluen sometime and give the staff a couple pointers,” Evanlyn called. “My father will jump at the chance to hire you.”

“And miss the chance to outdo Master Chubb every time I get? No, thanks.” Jenny made a face and waggled her fingers at them both. 

Will grinned, watching her hurry away, and then turned back to Evanlyn. “What were we talking about again?” 

“You asked what was dumb,” she said bluntly.

“Oh, yeah!” Will’s expression cleared. “I was just thinking—”

“—always a dangerous pastime—”

“You’ve spent too much time around Halt,” he complained.

“No, actually.” Evanlyn reached for another slice of pie. “I’ve spent time around Horace, who, yes, has been spending too much time around Halt.”

“Oh, whatever. But what I was going to say: I mean, if you think about it…  isn’t it dumb that the Kingdom of Araluen was almost overrun because of a crack in the earth?” Will smiled at his own wit.

Evanlyn sighed, spraying crumbs everywhere. “It’s almost like geographical features affect the course of war.”

“But if the crack had been anywhere else—if the crack had been, I don’t know, just a little higher in the mountains, nothing would’ve happened,” he protested, irritated that she didn’t find this fact as ground-shaking as he did. “We would’ve had troops stationed at the Fissure from the outset, and he would’ve had to find another way out.” 

“Okay, that is food for thought,” Evanlyn admitted. “Because I guess then there might never have been a bridge to burn. Morgarath might’ve had a different plan, and the war might’ve gone totally differently.” And we never would’ve gotten kidnapped and sold as slaves, and then Skandian and Araluen would’ve been overrun by Temujai. 

All because of a stupid crack.

Okay, she thought, grinning.

It used to be so cool that they were identical. Halt would slip into Ferris’s robes and attend his archery lessons; Ferris would go sit on a council meeting for him. They confused their father’s advisors and played pranks on the noblemen. Ferris covered for Halt whenever he wanted to slip away from the castle, whenever he became overwhelmed by royal life and needed a breath of fresh air. Everything always worked out just fine, until it didn’t. Until a day when they were seventeen, a day that involved a fishing trip, a small canoe, and exactly one oar. 

Halt used to take pride in having a brother.

 Now, his twin haunted him like a second shadow. Halt saw him in the summer forests, because emerald green was his favorite color; in pockets of wild chrysanthemums (his favorite flower) in the Araluen meadows; in the darkness of every night on watch as he remembered lying on his back with Ferris as children, tracing their own nonsense constellations into the night sky. 

And perhaps worst of all, he remembered his brother every time he saw a river or pond. A clammy hand would touch Halt’s back as he recalled the feeling of waterlogged clothing, the oar scraping his shoulder, Ferris calling for him innocently from their fishing boat. Worse, every time he leaned over the water, he saw his brother in his own reflection. 

They had been identical, after all.

The night before, a trio of Gorlan soldiers had confronted Crowley in the tavern. Halt had sauntered up, offered them a drink, and when they’d let their guards down, he knocked them out with three well-placed hits. It bothered him because it was such a Ferris thing to do: befriend someone and stab them in the back when it benefited you most. 

Halt used to believe he was everything like Ferris, his twin and best friend. They would have ruled Clonmel together, jointly and in peace. Then Ferris had revealed himself to be the conniving backstabber he really was, and Halt had vowed to never be like that. His brother may have gotten the throne, but he would always be the better person.