Hi there! It's Your Shining Light ✨ You can call me Light :) (she/her)
I love to read, write, draw, listen to music, get lost in my thoughts, yap about things I'm passionate about, and being creative in general!
On this blog I mainly post about my passions, have the occasional yap session, and whatever else I feel like doing at the moment. Like I said, I love to write, and I post fics from time to time, both on here and on ao3. My name there is YourShiningLight :)
This blog is ANTI AI, ANTI CENSORSHIP, AND PRO BEING WHOEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT TO BE AND WRITING WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT TO WRITE. Just wanted to clear that up ;) I am also a really big fan of not harrasing anyone for who they are or what they write <3
Fanfic masterlist:
I will try to update as I post new fics :)
Ranger's Apprentice & The Brotherband Chronicles:
Took an Arrow to the Knee (The Side, Actually): Halt & Crowley are out on a mission to catch a dangerous group of bandits, it goes wrong. The last two chapters contain Craltine, a ship I would die defending 😌
From Crown Prince to Ranger (WIP): a series consisting of 3 parts in which I explore Halt's childhood, his time with Pritchard and how his past might have affected him throughout his life
Ranger Gathering 2025: All the fics I wrote for the Ranger Gathering 2025, organised into a series. Mostly RA, but also includes 4 BB fics.
The Dragon Prince:
The Moon and His Heart: a fluffy fic between Ethari and Runaan
Some 'personal' tags I use from time to time:
light answers asks: used for posts in which I answer an ask
light yaps: used for posts in which I yap about anything (could be fandom related, could also be about anything else)
celebrating queerness: I'm using this one (when I remember to, this is also a tag I implemented only recently so you won't see it that much yet) on my own posts (so normally not on reblogs) about anything queer. Mostly it's for when I yap about queer characters/ships, or when I yap about being queer <3 Cause for me yapping about anything queer is part of celebrating who I am :)
light reblogs handy things: I use this on post reblogs in which handy resources/tips/recipes/information/… are listed, mainly so they’re easier to find later on
light holds a vent session: for when I’m venting about (mostly personal) stuff. So if you don’t like to see those posts you can filter them out :)
Other tags will be added when I think of them or when I start to use a new one
If there's anything else you wanted to know about me, feel free to ask!
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Crowds of people mingled and talked loudly, gathering into small and large groups of conversation, blocking everyone's path and occasionally accidentally bumping into one another, causing brief scuffles. There was a band playing music in one corner of the room but the instruments' sounds were all but completely drowned out by the guests' endless chattering. It was hot, it was crowded, it was loud, it was far too social, and Halt hated all of it.
“Oh stop being so dramatic,” Crowley told him. “We’re here for Duncan’s birthday, and he’s our friend.”
“I've never been to one of his birthdays before.”
“That's because you were never around in the area before. That's why I may or may not have sent you and Will on an assignment near here at this time.”
Halt glared at him. “I’ll say it again: I hate you.”
“No you don't. I’m too great for anyone to hate me.”
“That’s debateable.”
“Debate with the wall. It’s probably the only thing that’ll listen. Now shut up, and let’s go say hi to Duncan.” Before Halt could protest—not that Crowley would listen—the other ranger grabbed him by the hand and dragged him through the crowd, weaving around all the people who decided it would be a great idea to stand in a large group right in the middle of where people were walking.
Crowley spotted Duncan on the other side of the room in the far corner and when he came closer yelled out to his friend. Halt almost cringed as his friend shouted above the crowd, although no one seemed to care or notice. It was just another yell among the obnoxiously loud laughter, arguments breaking out and the excited exclamations from friends. It was all so annoying.
Duncan turned around and waved a hand to Crowley then beckoned them to come join him and the group of people he was talking to.
“Hi Duncie,” Crowley said, and Duncan rolled his eyes amusedly at the nickname. “Are you having a good night so far?”
“I am, thank you Crowley. And Halt,” he grinned down at his other friend, “Long time no see. Thanks for coming. I know these sorts of parties aren’t really your thing.”
Halt was about to mention that he hadn’t wanted to come, and that Crowley had forced him, but Crowley squeezed his hand warningly. He didn’t need to say anything for Halt to know he wanted him to shut up before he even spoke. Instead, Halt just nodded in acknowledgement.
“This is Sir Isaac,” Duncan said, gesturing to the man standing next to him. “He’s the battlemaster at Whitby. And this is Sir Finn, his second in command.” Crowley shook hands with both men in greeting, while Halt just stood back, arms folded across his chest, unintentionally glaring at them. God, he really didn’t want to be here, stuck talking to these men who he could already tell were stuck up pricks.
“Isaac, Finn,” Duncan continued, “This is Ranger Crowley, the Ranger commandant, and Ranger Halt. I’m sure you know who they are.”
“Ah, Ranger Halt,” Sir Finn said, “You recently married, did you not? To Lady Pauline of Redmont I believe.” Halt nodded, avoiding speaking as long as possible. “Congratulations, you picked a good one. She’s really something, isn’t she? A real beauty. You’re a lucky man.” He went to clap Halt on the back, but the ranger quickly side stepped him. His unintentional glare slipped into a real one, not just at the attempted contact, but at the objectifying language Finn was using.
“Pauline, yes I remember her,” Isaac started, “I met her years ago when I visited Redmont Tried to court her if I’m being honest. I mean, imagine what I could tell people if I had managed to get a dance with her.” He laughed scornfully, seemingly forgetting Pauline’s husband was standing right there. “She rejected all my attempts, and ever so kindly told me what I could do to myself. I realised right then I was better off without her, if she was so entitled she thought she could do better than me. I honestly had begun to think she was just cold hearted and enjoyed crushing men’s feelings. Didn’t think she would ever get married, but I guess you never know how the future will turn out.”
Crowley and Duncan glanced nervously at Halt, who had gone unnervingly still. He had been quiet throughout the whole interaction, but now the quiet was laced with an underlying threat of danger for Isaac if he didn’t shut up right then and there.
“She’s not that bad,” Finn said, trying to get his commander to stop talking. Like Crowley and Duncan, he had noticed Halt’s tense posture. He didn’t know anything about Halt as a person, but he knew that rangers were dangerous people, and he could practically feel the rage that had already begun to radiate off of him.
“Agree to disagree,” Isaac said carelessly. “I think she’s quite rude. I mean, it doesn’t take that much effort to just take a fellow up on his offer for a dance does it?”
Halt had now unfolded his arms and instead was clenching his fists tightly at his sides, his breathing growing heavier as he tried to control himself. He knew he should probably walk away, but he also couldn’t bear the idea of letting this moron insult his wife further behind his back. It was a miracle Sir Isaac hadn’t burned into a pile of ashes from the force of Halt’s glare, but perhaps it was because he hadn’t even seemed to notice. Crowley placed a hand on Halt’s arm and moved closer, preparing himself to hold his friend back if the need be.
At that moment, Will approached them, having finished the conversation he had been having with a few, surprisingly not that arrogant, young knights. He was about to offer a friendly greeting to the group, before he picked up on the tension, the greeting dying on his lips before they even left them. He took one look at Halt, immediately picked up on his mentor’s rapidly increasing anger, then took one look at Crowley’s ready position and knew things were not going alright. He made eye contact with the King, a question in his expression. Duncan held up a hand, telling him to hang on. He thought it was about time to step in before things got too out of hand.
“Isaac,” he said in a casual but firm voice, “I think that’s enough talk about Pauline. Perhaps she just wasn’t in the mood for a dance. But none of that matters now, it was all in the past.” He hoped Isaac would take the hint to drop the subject and move on, but Isaac seemed to be insistent on insulting Halt’s wife.
“If she didn’t want to dance then why would she even be there? That would just be a huge waste of time for me.” He looked around the group, searching for someone to agree with him, and his eyes landed on Halt, seeming to remember he was listening the whole time and heard every vile word he said about Pauline. Still, Isaac ignored the dangerous look in Halt’s eyes and addressed him directly.
“I must say I don’t envy you,” he said, and Crowley internally cringed. “I didn’t know it at the time, but I’m fortunate to not be stuck with some full-of-herself woman who can’t respect a man enough for a dance.”
Despite Crowley’s hand on Halt’s arm, he wasn’t fast enough to stop his friend. His face a mask of pure protective fury, Halt grabbed Isaac by the collar of his overpriced shirt and slammed him against the wall. In the same movement, he drew his fist back and with rapid speed slammed it straight into Isaac’s face with as much force as he could muster in the moment. Blood immediately began to pour from Isaac’s probably now broken nose. It poured into his mouth and down his shirt, and coated Halt’s split knuckles with it, but he didn’t care. He was about to punch him again when Crowley finally caught up to him, and grabbed him firmly on his arm, stopping the fist in its tracks.
With a strong grip on his friend, Crowley forced Halt back and quickly wrapped his arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides. Halt struggled in his hold, trying to get another satisfying hit on Isaac’s stupid face. But Crowley held strong, and dragged him further away from the bleeding man. Will stepped in between Isaac and Halt with his hands held out to his mentor in a placating gesture even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good.
Crowley didn’t feel bad for Isaac in the slightest—in fact, he believed the man deserved to get punched—but there was a crowd of people now watching, and it wouldn’t do good for them to witness Halt beating the shit out of a battlemaster. That, and also Crowley couldn’t guarantee that Halt wouldn’t just kill him.
Halt kicked Crowley hard in the shin in an attempt to break free, but it didn’t work. Crowley had dealt with worse from a simple kick and he continued to hold strong.
“I think we’ll be going now,” Crowley said to Duncan. “Enjoy the rest of your party.” And with that, he dragged Halt through the crowd of people, talking soothingly yet commanding to him as they went. Will quickly followed.
“Happy birthday, your majesty!” He called out to Duncan before disappearing between the sea of people.
People continued to look as they went, but a quick death glare from Halt made them look away. Crowley almost rolled his eyes. The second they stepped out of the busy hall, Crowley’s hold loosened and Halt forcefully pushed him away. He didn’t say anything to him, or even look his way. He just made his way straight to the castle stairs with the intention of going straight to the room he was staying in and being alone.
Crowley jogged after him, and despite Halt’s obvious annoyance, walked side by side with him.
“Do you want to talk?” Crowley asked gently.
“What do you think?” Halt replied between gritted teeth. The rage was still obvious in his voice.
“Alright then.” He had known Halt long enough to know to not push any further. What his friend needed now was time and space to himself to calm down, and Crowley was more than happy to give that to him. Subtly, he started to slow his pace and let Halt go ahead of him until he was walking by himself.
When he reached his room, Halt immediately collapsed on his bed, curling in on himself. He took a shuddering breath, trying to calm his temper down enough to think rationally again. He just wanted to see Pauline and be with her again. First thing in the morning, he decided, he would grab Will and go home so he could hug her.
It was almost all over. He was close to finally getting away from this place and being free from his family. He was looking forward to it, had been looking forward to it for years now, but was also extremely nervous and terrified of what was to come next.
He had lay in his bed unconscious for hours after a rough beating from his father - the worst one yet. Pritchard had gone searching for him and found him laying on the dungeons cobblestones, where his father had dragged him so they could have a “private chat”. Pritchard had helped the poor injured boy back up to his rooms, expertly avoiding questions the castle staff asked him. While he had been unconscious, Pritchard had packed some bags full with their essential items and devised a plan of escape. He had explained it to Halt when he woke up.
“You’re getting away from here. After what happened with Ferris yesterday and with tonight-” he paused, fighting back tears of fear for his kid. “You can’t stay here. You’ll die if you do. So I’m helping you get out. I’ve packed our things. I have a friend who lives on the coast of Hibernia and I’ve already sent him a letter letting him know we’ll be coming. I’m sure he’ll let us stay with him and his daughter. We can stay there until everything dies down, because I’m sure people will be looking for you. Maybe in that time you can try and change your appearance, maybe cut your hair or something.”
Halt listened intently to the plan. It was a pretty good one, he thought, but that all fell on Pritchard’s friend being trustworthy and not immediately turning him back into the castle. In addition to that, they’d also need to sneak out of the castle without anyone seeing them, which might prove to be a bit difficult. But he felt better that Pritchard would be staying with him throughout. That better feeling was instantly ruined by Pritchard’s next words.
“Eventually we’ll get you on a boat to Araluen, and hopefully you can try and make a life for yourself there. Who knows, maybe you could even become a ranger,” he said with a slight grin, that quickly faded as he continued. “But I don’t know if that will be possible at the moment with the Corps falling apart. I won’t be able to come with you. I can go with you as far as the coast and stay with you and my friend, but you’ll have to go to Araluen alone.”
“Why?” Halt asked, trying to mask the fear of abandonment he was beginning to feel. He didn’t want to go to a foreign country all by himself. Not yet. He was always planning on moving away from Hibernia, preferably to Araluen, but this was all too sudden and too soon. He didn’t want to do it without Pritchard. Couldn’t do it without him. Pritchard smiled gently at him, sensing his feelings.
“I’ll have to stay back and make sure no one’s onto your trail. I’ll wait and see if people report you dead or just missing, see how many people are looking for you. Maybe I’ll find a way to get people to forget about finding you. I’ll try and find you eventually, don’t worry. I’ll just be following a little behind you.”
“Okay,” Halt said, but his voice was small. Pritchard moved to sit next to Halt on his bed. He wrapped an arm around his shoulder but was cautious as to not hurt the fresh wounds across his back.
“Hey,” he said gently, “It’ll be alright. You’re strong enough and skilled enough to handle being on your own a little while, you know. And it won’t be forever. I’ll find you again eventually, I promise.”
Halt nodded, staring at the ground and not saying anything. He didn’t trust himself to. He was afraid that if he did, the tears he was trying to hold back would spill. It was strange, the entire night through all the beatings and yelling, he hadn’t cried. He had feared for his life, had screamed until his throat felt like it was bleeding and pleaded for his father to stop, but he hadn’t cried. It was weird to think that after everything, the thing that would send him over the edge was Pritchard leaving him temporarily.
“Everything’s ready,” Pritchard said quietly, breaking the silence. Halt glanced up at him confused so Pritchard elaborated. “I’ve packed all our bags. We have everything we’ll need. As soon as you’re ready we’ll sneak down to the stables and get out of here.”
The moment was finally here. His freedom - so close. But among all the things he would finally be breaking free from, he would also be leaving things behind. Leaving people behind.
“What about Caitlyn?”
Pritchard sighed sadly. “It’s not like we can bring her with us. And you can’t stay here. You’ll be leaving her, yes. But she’ll be fine. Nobody’s hurt her right?”
Halt shook his head. “Not as far as I know.”
“Then she should be safe. Ferris has no reason to hurt her, and she’s your father’s favourite.”
“I’m still leaving her by herself.”
“I’m sorry kid, but there’s nothing we can do. But you know she’s strong. She’ll be fine. You’ll both be.”
The worry was still evident in Halt’s expression but he didn’t say anything further. He at least needed to see her one last time. The chances of that ever happening again were low. He voiced his wish to Pritchard, but the older man shook his head sadly.
“We can’t risk it,” he said. “We have to get out of here as fast as possible, no detours.” Halt was about to argue back, his expression changing to one of determination to see his sister, but Pritchard held up a hand before he could speak. “I’m sorry,” he said more firmly, “but we can’t. Her room isn’t the way we need to go. If we want to leave tonight, we should get going now.”
Pritchard swung his pack around his shoulder and carried Halt’s bag with him as well as the teenager was still quite weak. Pritchard led him down the halls, signalling to him when to stop or hide in the shadows from approaching guards. Moving the way they did, they quickly made it out to the stables. Pritchard swiftly saddled their horses and helped Halt mount Declan. They walked their horses out of the castle, the guards at the front too tired to bother getting a proper look at them. If they were leaving the castle surely they weren’t a threat. As soon as they were out of sight, they put their horses into a high speed gallop and bolted through the village of Dun Kilty, leaving that wretched castle behind.
← — →
Two years later:
Halt was finally a full fledged ranger, and ready to start this new chapter in his life. He had just finished moving his few belongings into the cabin in the outskirts of Wensley village that would be his home for the coming years, and had settled in.
Already he was bored.
So far there was nothing to do. As he had just started, no boring paperwork had been sent his way, he didn’t have to attend any monotonous meetings, and no one in the village was in mortal danger.
Often, when he was bored, his mind would wander, and this time his mind went back in time to Clonmel, when he was with his sister and enjoyed her company. Before that was all ruined.
He missed her. He missed her a lot and he missed her every day. Every time he thought about her a strong feeling of guilt would form. Guilt that he left her behind and didn’t even say goodbye. During the first couple of nights after leaving, he would be kept up at night by thoughts of how she was doing, and if anything had happened to her. It was killing him slowly on the inside. He had to do something about it, and he knew how.
Walking into his room, he opened the drawer of the table sitting beside his bed, where a couple pieces of parchment and pens were stored. He pulled one out and leaning on the table, quickly wrote.
Cub stór
Tá mé go maith, níorbh fhéidir liom ach imeacht agus éalú uathu. Tá mé beo agus slán agus ag déanamh go maith. Shíl mé go mbeadh sé ceart duit a chur ar an eolas.
Grá agat.
He didn’t need to sign it. She would know it was him from the nickname at the beginning, and it would be too risky if someone else saw it and reported to Ferris - who was now king as he had heard news his father had died not too long ago. Good riddance.
Later, he would go to the castle and get it sent to her, and let her know he was finally safe.
Translate:
Darling cub,
I'm doing fine, I just had to leave and get away from them. I'm alive and safe and doing well. I just thought I'd let you know.
Love you.
(The darling cub part was different on the translator though so I don’t know how accurate it is - I just remember searching that up ages ago)
There is trans Halt in this, and while writing I realised there is also a hint of autistic Halt
“I don’t like it here.”
Pritchard glanced at the brooding teenager next to him. “You don’t like it anywhere.”
“There’s too many people here,” Halt insisted. “It’s loud. And people keep bumping into me.”
“It’ll be fine. Just stay close to me and you won’t get lost.”
“I’m not worried about getting lost,” Halt groused. “I just don’t want these strangers near me.” But despite that, he inched nearer to Pritchard, almost grazing his arm with how closely he was following. He folded his arms tightly, looking around him and glaring suspiciously at no one and everyone at the same time. He wasn’t used to being out in the open like this, without at least a small party of royal escorts. Now he only had Pritchard. Being in the village located right next to the castle, everyone surely knew who he was. A sense of vulnerability and exposure came over him every time someone so much as looked his way. It was doubled every time he noticed people not so secretly whispering to each other while practically making eye contact. But Pritchard had insisted on dragging him down to the market to “enjoy some time together”, as if they didn’t already spend almost everyday together training when Halt wasn’t studying on how to be a ruler.
For once, he actually missed the escorts. Usually he was annoyed at how much people would fuss over him the second he even bought up the idea of stepping outside the castle walls. He felt like a child whenever he was told to stick with at least three guards when going to the village, having no freedom at all. But at least they kept prying eyes away and prevented strangers' clothing brushing against his skin.
Things would have been so much better if he had been allowed to wear the cloak Pritchard had lent to him. But when Pritchard had approached his father and asked permission to take Halt into the village alone, his father had been adamant that Halt leave it behind.
“I can’t risk people recognising her and wondering why she’s dressed like a simple forester,” his father had said. “What would people think? We have a reputation to uphold.”
So he had no choice in the matter. Fortunately, he hadn’t been forced to wear those stupid uncomfortable frilly dresses he hated. Instead he got away with just wearing a plain brown shirt and trousers. Royal reputation be damned.
“Come on, cheer up,” Pritchard grinned. “I took you out here to have fun. Now stop moping and let’s look at some of the stalls.”
“If you wanted me to have fun then why would you bring me here?”
“I don’t know!” Pritchard was beginning to get exasperated. “To take a look at what there is? To find something you might want and buy it? Have some food? Try out some of the games?”
“They’re all rigged,” Halt cut in.
“Then don’t try the games. There’s other things here.” Pritchard was close to giving up. He looked at his moody kid and began to think there was nothing he could say to change his mind. Halt’s definition of fun was obviously not the same as most people’s. Maybe he should have just taken him on a walk through the woods as they usually did to spend time with him. Or taken him to the river for a swim. No, that would never work. Maybe they should just turn back.
He was about to suggest this idea to Halt, sure the teen would eagerly agree, when a stall further up ahead caught his attention. Without saying anything, he grabbed Halt by the wrist and led him to the stall.
“What-” Halt was caught off guard as Pritchard practically yanked him forward.
“Good day,” Pritchard greeted the seller as they approached. He flashed a friendly smile her way that she eagerly returned.
“Good day,” she replied back. “What can I help you with today?”
“I’d like to buy one of your fine quivers for my kid here,” Pritchard said, waving Halt’s arm up.
Halt barely cared for once. He was too focused on the range of items hung up on the poles holding up the small roof of the stall, and displayed on the table in front of them. There were daggers and sheaths, arrows and a few bows, along with a collection of smaller trinkets and weapons, and of course, quivers. They all appeared to be delicately and beautifully hand crafted.
“Of course,” the woman replied. “And what are you looking for today, young man?”
She directed the question towards Halt, which he was caught off guard by. Not only was he busy admiring the crafts on the table, but he also wasn't used to anyone calling him “young man”. Not even Pritchard called him that. Did this lady not know who he was? He hoped so.
“Just… anything really,” Halt replied awkwardly. He hadn’t prepared himself for this interaction. Up until ten seconds ago he didn’t even know why he was here. Fortunately Pritchard saved him.
“I think this one looks quite nice don’t you agree?” He had picked up a brown leather quiver, with plain brown thread stitching it all together. There was a little depiction of an acorn at the bottom of the quiver, embroidered with golden thread. Like everything else at the stall, it was very well made and looked strong and as if it would last a long time. Halt guessed it was big enough to hold just over twenty arrows in it.
“That one’s nice,” he said.
“I agree. It’s very well made. Did you make them?” He directed the question towards the woman, who politely shook her head.
“No. My daughter did. She usually comes down here to sell them herself but unfortunately she’s not feeling that well today so I’m standing in for her. She’s very talented.”
“She is. Give my compliments to her.”
“I will. Are you looking to buy that one?” She nodded her head toward the quiver Pritchard was still holding. He nodded.
“Yes. How much will it be?”
While Pritchard and the woman discussed price and made the trade, Halt realised what had just happened. Pritchard had just bought him his own quiver to keep. While training and practising his archery he had only borrowed ones from the armoury, as he did with all his weapons. Despite the fact that he was very skilled, his father still insisted he was “too young” to own his own weapons, so he had always borrowed them. But now he finally had something for himself. And a very nice something.
Pritchard thanked the woman and he and Halt walked away.
“Here you go,” Pritchard said, handing Halt his new quiver.
“Thanks.” His gratitude went deeper than a simple ‘thanks’, but Halt couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Don’t mention it, kid. I think it’s about time you actually owned something, don’t you?”
Halt didn’t reply, once again not knowing what to say. He swung the quiver round his shoulders, testing the feeling. It was almost exactly the perfect size for him, and didn’t feel too uncomfortable. It was an amazing gift. Maybe coming down to the market wasn’t that bad after all.
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The trouble with packing, Will reflected, was that it always seemed a great deal simpler before one actually began doing it.
He had his satchel open on the bed, although “open” was perhaps too generous a description. It had been open half an hour ago. Now it bulged at the sides, the seams threatened to burst, and looked as though it might give up entirely if he tried to force one more shirt into it. Will, however, was not a man to be intimidated by a piece of leather, and he was currently attempting to wedge a spare cloak into a corner where, to any reasonable observer, there was no room for a spare cloak.
Maddie stood in the doorway and watched him for some time.
“You know,” she said at last, “there are people who pack as though they intend to find things again later.”
Will glanced over his shoulder. “And there are people who stand in doorways making unhelpful comments.”
“I’m being very helpful. I’m warning you that your bag is about to explode.”
“It’s not about to explode,” Will said, pushing down on the cloak with one hand while reaching for a pair of socks with the other. “It’s simply full.”
“It was full ten minutes ago.”
Will gave the satchel a final shove, then sat back and regarded his work with mild satisfaction. “There. Perfect.”
Maddie crossed the room, took one look inside, and made a small sound of disgust. Before Will could object, she began removing items and laying them in neat piles on the bed.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Saving you from yourself.”
“I don’t need saving from myself. I’ve packed for missions longer than you’ve been alive.”
“Yes,” Maddie said, folding one of his shirts, “and apparently nobody ever had the courage to tell you that you’re terrible at it.”
Will opened his mouth, then closed it again, because the shirt she had folded took up half the space it had before. She folded another, then another, fitting each piece of clothing neatly into the satchel until the bag, traitorously, began to look almost spacious.
Will watched in silence for a few moments.
Maddie didn’t look up. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t thank you.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
“You were thinking it.”
Will considered denying this, but since he had in fact been thinking something uncomfortably close to gratitude, he decided to change the subject.
“Are you packed?”
Maddie gave him a look. “I’ve been packed since breakfast.”
“Overconfident,” Will said. “That’s dangerous.”
“Disorganized,” Maddie replied, pressing his spare socks into the side of the bag. “That’s embarrassing.”
Will took it from her, tested its weight, and found—annoyingly—that it sat more comfortably on his shoulder than it had before.
He nodded once. “Adequate.”
Maddie smiled. “That’s Ranger for thank you, isn’t it?”
“It’s Ranger for don’t push your luck.”
They left shortly after dawn.
The message from Gilan had arrived two days earlier, carried by a courier who had looked very relieved to be rid of it. That, Will had thought, was never a good sign. Gilan’s messages tended to be brief under ordinary circumstances, but this one had been especially irritating.
Strange lights reported at old border fortress. Locals refusing to approach after sunset. They suspect ghosts. Possible criminal activity. Investigate.
That was all.
There was no map beyond a rough marking of the fortress’s location, no description of the lights, no names of witnesses, and no indication of what “possible criminal activity” might mean. It was exactly the sort of message Gilan enjoyed sending: vague enough to be unhelpful, official enough to be unavoidable, and just interesting enough that Will couldn’t ignore it.
Maddie, naturally, had questions.
She began asking them before they had even cleared the trees surrounding the cabin.
“What kind of lights?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many locals saw them?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old is the fortress?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why was it abandoned?”
“Maddie.”
“What?”
Will turned in the saddle and looked at her. “I don’t know.”
She guided Bumper around a rut in the road, frowning. “You don’t have to say it like that.”
“You’ve asked me seven questions in five minutes, and the answer to all of them is the same. I thought I’d save us both some time.”
“Well, Gilan’s letter was useless.”
“Gilan’s letters often are.”
“Do you think he does that on purpose?”
“Almost certainly.”
Maddie considered this with the serious expression of someone adding another grievance to a growing list. “That seems irresponsible.”
“It’s educational.”
“That’s what people say when they’re being irresponsible.”
Will smiled faintly and let Tug choose his way along the forest path. The morning was cool and damp, with mist clinging to the lower ground and beads of moisture illuminating the grass. The road north wound through open woodland at first, then gradually narrowed as they approached the border country, where farms became fewer, and trees grew thicker.
By midday, Maddie had returned to the subject.
“So what do you think it is?”
“What do I think what is?”
“The lights.”
Will shifted in the saddle and shrugged. “Could be smugglers.”
“Could be bandits?”
“Possibly.”
“Could be soldiers from across the border?”
“Unlikely, but not impossible.”
“Could be ghosts?”
Will didn’t answer immediately, which was a mistake, because Maddie noticed.
“You hesitated.”
“I was deciding whether that question deserved a serious answer.”
“That means you considered it.”
“It means I considered ignoring it.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Maddie.”
She leaned slightly forward in her saddle, eyes bright with the sort of curiosity that was admirable in an apprentice and exhausting in a traveling companion. “The villagers think it’s ghosts, don’t they?”
“Villagers often think things are ghosts when they don’t want to walk somewhere after dark. And ghosts are almost easier to understand than criminals.”
“That isn’t the same as saying you don’t believe in them.”
Will glanced at her then, and something in her tone told him she wasn’t merely teasing anymore.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Will?”
The question settled between them more heavily than he expected.
For a while, the only sound was the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Tug lowered his head as they passed under a canopy of oak, and patches of pale sunlight slid over Will’s cloak, then vanished as the branches moved in the breeze.
Before Alyss died, he would have laughed at it and answered without hesitation. No, of course not. Ghosts belonged to frightened children, lonely shepherds, and travelers who had spent too many nights sleeping badly in unfamiliar places. Rangers dealt in tracks, signs, patterns, evidence. A light in a ruined tower was a lantern. A whisper in the dark was wind through stone. A shadow at the edge of sight was only a shadow.
Afterward, things had become less simple.
He had never truly believed he saw her. He knew that. He was not a fool, and grief had not robbed him of sense, no matter how close it had come.
The blonde woman turning a corner in a crowded marketplace was never Alyss. The pale figure at the edge of the trees near the cabin vanished because it had never been there at all. The voice he thought he heard sometimes, soft and amused and heartbreakingly familiar, was only memory moving through silence.
He knew all of that.
But knowing a thing and feeling it were not always the same.
There had been mornings when he woke from dreams so vivid that for several seconds he expected to find her by the fire. There had been evenings when the cabin seemed to hold the shape of her absence so clearly that he almost turned to speak to her. And there had been one night, not long after her death, when he had stood outside beneath the stars because he could have sworn--could have sworn--he heard her laugh from the trees.
He had dismissed it afterward, of course.
He had dismissed all of it.
The trouble was that dismissal did not make memory any less powerful.
At length, he said, “I think if ghosts exist, they probably have better things to do than rattle around old fortresses frightening farmers.”
Maddie stared at him. “That is the most annoying answer you could possibly have given.”
Will shrugged and kept his eyes on the path ahead.
They reached the village late in the afternoon, and it took less than an hour to discover that the locals were perfectly willing to talk about the fortress, provided they were safely inside a warm room with the doors locked. The innkeeper described blue-white lights moving along the ruined walls. A farmer claimed to have seen a figure standing in the broken tower with no lantern in hand, glowing faintly against the night sky.
An elderly woman told them that the fortress had been cursed since the old border wars, which she described in great detail until Will gently pointed out that those wars had ended nearly two hundred years ago.
“Curses can be patient,” she informed him.
Will didn't know how to answer that.
By sunset they were approaching the ruins.
The fortress stood on a low ridge overlooking a narrow valley that once must have been an important crossing point. Time had not been kind to it. One wall had collapsed almost entirely, spilling stones down the slope like the bones of some long-dead animal. Ivy climbed the remaining tower, and young trees had rooted themselves in cracks along the battlements. The gatehouse had lost its doors, and the empty archway gaped black in the fading light.
It was an excellent place for ghosts, Will had to admit.
It was also an excellent place for smugglers.
They made camp well away from the ridge, hidden among pines with a clear view of the fortress. Will allowed no fire, which Maddie accepted with only mild grumbling, and they ate cold bread, cheese, and dried meat while the last light drained from the sky.
For the first few hours, nothing happened.
The ruins stood silent beneath the stars. An owl called from somewhere behind them, and once a fox barked sharply in the valley, making Maddie turn her head with sudden interest. Otherwise, the night was pretty calm.
Then, shortly after midnight, a light appeared in the broken tower.
It was small at first, no brighter than a candle cupped in someone’s hand. Then it moved sideways, vanished, and reappeared lower down near the collapsed wall.
Maddie’s hand went to her bow. “You saw that.”
“I did.”
“It’s moving.”
“Yes.”
“That’s unsettling.”
“Only if you were hoping for ghosts.”
She glanced at him. “You’re sure it isn’t?”
Will continued watching the light as it bobbed briefly, disappeared behind a broken stretch of stone, then emerged again near the base of the tower.
“Ghosts,” he said, “rarely carry lanterns.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m willing to make an educated guess.”
They waited another half hour, long enough to see two more lights appear and vanish within the ruins. Then Will rose, settling his cloak around him.
“Stay close. Step where I step. And if I signal you to stop, stop.”
Maddie gave him a look that said she had heard this particular instruction before, possibly several hundred times.
“I know.”
They moved toward the fortress through the long grass. The wind shifted along the ridge, carrying with it the smell of damp stone, wet leaves, and something else beneath it: smoke, very faint, and something that smelled of animal sweat.
Will paused, crouching beside a fallen section of wall. Maddie dropped beside him.
“Not ghosts?” she whispered.
“Not unless they’ve started keeping pack animals.”
Finding the entrance took longer. Whoever was using the fortress knew enough to avoid the obvious archways and broken gates. Will circled the outer wall twice before he found the scrape marks near a bramble-choked section of collapsed stone. The marks were faint, but fresh: boots, more than one pair, and the drag of something heavy.
He parted the brambles carefully.
Behind them, half-hidden under fallen masonry, was a narrow opening leading down into darkness.
Maddie leaned closer, her voice barely audible, and very visibly excited. “Secret tunnel.”
“Old drainage passage, probably.”
“That’s less fun.”
“Most true things are.”
They slipped inside.
The passage sloped downward beneath the fortress, and the air changed immediately. Aboveground, the night had been cool and clean. Here it was stale, damp, and carrying the mineral smell of old stone and earth. Will led the way with one hand brushing the wall, moving slowly enough that loose gravel would not betray them. Behind him, Maddie was silent, and despite himself, he felt a small flicker of pride. There had been a time when she would have bumped into something within the first dozen steps and then looked offended that the darkness had dared to exist to inconvenience her.
Voices reached them after several minutes.
Men’s voices.
Maddie leaned close to his shoulder. “Definitely ghosts.”
Will’s mouth twitched. “Very talkative ones.”
The tunnel widened ahead into a storage chamber beneath the fortress. Three men were there, seated around a small hooded lantern, with crates stacked behind them against the wall. One was sharpening a knife with theatrical concentration. Another was counting coins. The third had his boots off and appeared to be asleep.
Smugglers, then.
Will signaled Maddie left, then pointed to himself and the man with the knife. She nodded once.
It should have been simple.
And for the first ten seconds, it was.
Will moved first, striking the knife from the man’s hand and bringing his saxe knife hilt down hard against the side of his head. Maddie crossed the chamber in the same instant, catching the coin-counter off guard as she slammed a knee to his gut, then a punch under his chin as he folded forward with a startled grunt. The sleeping man woke just in time to see Will standing over him with an arrow nocked and pointed very steadily at his chest.
“Don’t,” Will advised.
The man didn’t.
Unfortunately, someone in the next chamber did.
A shout rang out, followed by the scrape of boots and the unmistakable sound of steel being drawn.
Will sighed. “I dislike it when people shout.”
The next few minutes were confused, loud, and deeply inconvenient.
More smugglers than Will had expected poured from the adjoining tunnel. Six at least, perhaps seven, armed with short swords, clubs, and the frantic confidence of men who had been surprised and were trying to turn fear into aggression.
The chamber was too narrow for proper archery, so Will fired once, dropped one man with a shaft through the shoulder, then slung his bow and drew his saxe knife and throwing knife in one smooth motion.
Maddie fought at his left; she had improved more than she realized in recent months. There was less wasted movement now, fewer dramatic flourishes, more practicality in her stance.
Will had time to think that Halt would have approved.
Then a smuggler came at him from the right, and approval became less important than not being stabbed.
He ducked under the first slash, caught the man’s wrist, and drove his knee upward. The smuggler doubled over with a strangled sound. Will shoved him backward into another attacker, but the movement took him half a step too far to the side.
His boot found nothing beneath it.
For one brief, deeply unpleasant moment, Will had just enough time to realize that the floor beneath the old fortress was not nearly as dependable as he had assumed. Then the darkness below him opened like a mouth, and he dropped.
He hit the side of the shaft first, shoulder glancing off rough stone with a burst of pain that stole the breath from his lungs. A heartbeat later he struck the bottom hard enough to make the world flash white behind his eyes.
For several seconds, he lay still, stunned by the abrupt silence after the chaos above. Somewhere overhead, men were shouting. He heard Maddie’s strikers crack against something with a sound that was almost musical, followed by a cry of pain that was not hers.
That, Will decided dimly, was encouraging.
He tried to draw breath and discovered that his ribs objected strongly to the idea. His shoulder objected as well, and his hip had apparently decided to join the discussion. He lay on his back and stared up at the square of dim light overhead, forcing himself to breathe.
In.
Out.
And again.
His vision steadied by degrees just as a head appeared over the edge of the opening.
“Maddie?” he called, though his voice came out weaker than he liked.
“No,” she said, breathless. “A ghost.”
Despite everything, he smiled. “That’s unfortunate. I was hoping for someone useful.”
“You fell into a hole,” she said.
“I noticed.”
“That was pretty dumb.”
“I thought it might be useful to inspect it.”
Maddie disappeared for a moment, and after a bit of shuffling, a rope dropped down beside him a moment later. Will took hold of it with his good hand, then paused as pain ran through his shoulder like fire.
Above him, Maddie’s voice softened. “Can you climb?”
He could hear what she was trying not to say. Can you climb, or do I need to come down and get you?
Pride suggested he should say yes immediately, sense and comfort suggested otherwise.
Unfortunately, sense had been speaking in Halt’s voice more often lately, which made it especially irritating.
“Not quickly,” Will said.
“Then don’t,” Maddie replied. “Tie it around yourself.”
It took longer than he liked, but eventually the rope was secure beneath his arms. Maddie braced herself above, and with a combination of her pulling, his pushing, and a considerable amount of muttered commentary from both of them, Will emerged from the shaft and rolled onto solid stone.
For a moment he lay there, breathing hard.
Maddie crouched beside him. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
She looked him over quickly, hands efficient as she checked for bleeding, broken bones, and other consequences of falling through neglected architecture. Will allowed it because he didn't have the energy to protest.
The remaining smugglers had fled deeper into the tunnels.
Maddie helped Will to his feet, though he insisted on calling it “steadying” rather than helping. Together they moved after the smugglers, slower now but still silent enough to surprise two of them as they tried to force open a concealed exit beyond the storage chamber.
Maddie took the first down with an arrow to the man's calf. Will, whose body was aching in a way that promised a miserable morning and a probable infirmary visit, contented himself with placing the point of his saxe knife against the second man’s throat.
“I’m having a difficult night,” he said pleasantly. “Please don’t improve it by making me chase you.”
The man surrendered pretty quickly after that.
By dawn, the fortress no longer seemed haunted, merely damp, broken, and chock-full of illegal goods. The lights, as they suspected, had come from hooded lanterns carried through the old passageways. The strange wails that had frightened the villagers were nothing more supernatural than wind passing through cracks in the stone, helped along, Will suspected, by men who knew that frightened locals were less likely to investigate.
The smugglers were bound together in the lower chamber, their goods identified and counted as best as Will could manage with one arm working poorly.
There were bolts of stolen expensive cloth, casks of untaxed brandy, and several crates of expensive metal. The tunnels connected the ruined fortress to a concealed exit in a ravine beyond the ridge, allowing the men to move goods unseen while the villagers avoided the place out of fear of supernatural curses.
Will had to admit it was a very clever arrangement.
He would have admired it more if his shoulder and ribs had hurt less.
“Ghosts are better funded than I expected,” Maddie said, her eyebrows raised.
Will, sitting on a fallen block of stone while one of the captured smugglers glared at him, adjusted the sling Maddie had made for his arm.
“Smuggling is a lucrative afterlife, apparently.”
She smiled despite herself, then looked toward the shaft again, the humor faded as her smile dropped.
“You really could have died, ya know...”
Will followed her gaze. In daylight, the hole looked even more unpleasant than it had in the lantern glow the previous night. Deep enough to kill a man if he landed badly. Deep enough to make Maddie’s fear pretty damn rational.
He glanced at her and saw that she was waiting for him to make light of it.
So he did.
“I suppose I came rather close to becoming one of your ghosts.”
Maddie rolled her eyes, but some of the tension left her shoulders. “You would make an awful ghost.”
“I disagree. I think I’d be excellent at it.”
“You’d be unbearable.”
“Exactly. I’d haunt you specifically.”
“Why me?”
“Because it'd be fun.”
He continued, "You'd be doing the mission reports because I'd be too dead to do them myself, and I'd appear over your shoulder and point out spelling mistakes."
“You already do that alive.”
“Yes, but as a ghost I could do it at all hours.”
For a second, Maddie tried very hard not to laugh. Will could see the effort in her face, which made it worse. Then she gave in, and he found himself laughing too, though it hurt his ribs and he had to stop almost immediately.
It was a strange habit Rangers had, laughing after literal near-death experiences. Will had noticed it years ago in Halt and had thought, at the time, that it was merely one more sign of his mentor’s deeply questionable character.
Now he understood it better. There were only so many ways to tell the body that danger had passed. Sometimes laughter did the work better than words.
The village constable arrived shortly after sunrise with six men and a cart. The smugglers were handed over. The goods were counted. The tunnel entrances were marked for sealing.
The villagers, who only hours earlier had been speaking of curses and spirits, now spoke very confidently about how they had suspected smugglers all along.
Maddie listened to this with a raised eyebrow.
They remained long enough to make sure the prisoners were secure, then began the ride home late that morning. Will’s shoulder had stiffened by then, and every jolt of Tug’s gait sent a fresh ache through his ribs. Maddie watched him from the corner of her eye for the first hour.
Eventually, he said, “If you keep looking at me like that, I’ll assume you’re concerned.”
“I’m making sure you don’t fall off your horse.”
“That sounds like concern.”
“I'm looking out for myself, I don't want to find a new mentor if you fall off and crack your head open.”
“I see.”
“You’re welcome.”
Will looked ahead, smiling faintly. “Adequate.”
Maddie groaned. “That is not going to become a thing.”
“I think it already has.”
They reached Castle Araluen two days later; it was closer to where they were than Redmont was after all. Will figured he'd save them both the time of writing and sending off a report and just do it in person. Plus, it had been a long while since he had seen his old friends at Araluen, and he figured Maddie could use a day or so with her parents after that surprisingly difficult mission.
Will allowed them exactly one evening of rest before they reported to the Commandant.
Gilan received them in his office with the expression of a man who had expected trouble and was pleased to find that it had at least been interesting. He listened as Will gave the verbal account, interrupting occasionally with questions and once with a poorly concealed smile when Maddie described the shaft beneath the tunnel.
“You fell into it?” Gilan asked, his voice quivering slightly as he tried to suppress the laughter building in his chest.
Will regarded him coolly. “Temporarily.”
Gilan’s smile widened. “That’s a new term for falling.”
Maddie looked between them, clearly enjoying herself far more than was respectful.
When the account was finished, Gilan leaned back in his chair and nodded. “Good work. I’ll send word to the border fief. The baron there will want to inspect the goods himself.”
Maddie shifted slightly, clearly hoping that meant they were dismissed.
Gilan smiled.
It was not a reassuring smile.
“And I’ll need the written report, of course, by tomorrow before you head home.”
Maddie nodded, knowing his assignment didn't include her. She was switching her weight from one foot to the other, anxious for a hot meal and a good night's sleep.
And Will felt a warm and entirely unreasonable glow of satisfaction before he spoke his next words.
“Maddie will write it,” he said.
She turned to him. “What?”
“Excellent,” Gilan said, far too quickly. “Good practice.”
“What?!” Maddie repeated, this time including both of them in her disbelief.
Will adjusted his cloak around his injured shoulder with an exaggerated flinch. “I would do it myself, naturally, but my arm is wounded.”
“You injured your left shoulder, not your right hand.”
“The pain travels.”
“It does not.”
“It might.”
Gilan’s eyes gleamed. “Best not to risk it.”
Maddie stared at them both as the horrible truth dawned on her. “You planned this.”
“I fell into a hole,” Will said. “Show some respect.”
It was, he had to admit, deeply satisfying. Halt had made him write reports after missions, usually when Will was tired, hungry, injured, or some combination of the three. At the time, Will had considered it unnecessary cruelty disguised as discipline.
But later on, in their quarters at Araluen, watching Maddie scratch out half a line and mutter something uncomplimentary about old tunnels, Will now began to see the wisdom in his old mentor's unorthodox teaching methods.
Maddie looked up suddenly. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“A lot.”
Will took a sip of coffee. “Possibly.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re making me write this because Halt used to make you write reports, didn't he?”
“Now that would just be petty.”
“It is petty.”
“It is educational.”
Maddie stared at him after hearing that world one too many times in the last two days.
Educational.
Will lowered his mug slowly.
He had heard that tone before. Worse, he had used that expression before: the calm, mildly infuriating certainty of a mentor who had already decided that mild discomfort was good for an apprentice. He thought of Halt sitting by a fire, offering dry comments while Will struggled through some unpleasant but supposedly character-building task. He thought of the raised eyebrow, the folded arms, the maddening ability to make silence feel like criticism.
Then he thought of himself, sitting by the fire, drinking coffee, making Maddie write the report.
The realization was sudden and deeply unsettling.
Maddie saw it happen. Her expression shifted from annoyance to triumph.
“Oh,” she said.
Will said nothing.
“Oh, that’s bad.”
“What is?”
“You’re turning into Halt.”
Will opened his mouth at once, because the accusation was outrageous and clearly required a firm denial.
Unfortunately, no denial came.
He sat there with his mouth slightly open, one hand around his coffee cup, and realized that he could not think of a single convincing argument against her.
Maddie leaned back in her chair, smiling now. “You even did the eyebrow thing.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I have my own eyebrow thing.”
“That’s exactly what Halt would say.”
Will looked into the fire, where the flames shifted and cracked softly over the logs. For a moment, he imagined Halt’s voice, dry and amused, telling him that there were worse fates than becoming like one’s mentor. Will suspected that it was true.
He also knew he would never admit it aloud.
Across the table, Maddie dipped her pen again and returned to the report, though she was still smiling.
Will settled back in his chair.
“Make sure you include the part where I heroically survived falling into a pit,” he said.
Maddie did not look up. “I’m writing that you fell through rotten wood.”
“Same thing.”
“It is not.”
“History is only written by the victors.” He quoted.
“And victors so often lie.”
Will smiled into his coffee.
Outside, the trees whispered softly, and if there were ghosts in the world, they kept their distance that night.
The past few hours, and even days, had been extremely tense. From Will riding all the way back to Castle Redmont to grab Baron Arald and Sir Rodney, to watching Halt, Arald and Rodney all come to close to death by the hands of the kalkara, to finally killing the last one. Now after Rodney and Will took care of Halt and Arald’s injuries, they could finally rest and restore their energy before returning.
Arald and Halt had been sleeping for the last couple hours, and while they did that Will busied himself with exploring around the castle ruins to find some branches and sticks they could use as wild fire. With a nice bundle in his arms, he returned to the temporary camp and was surprised to find Halt awake and sitting a little apart from their spot.
He was facing towards the ruined walls of the late Castle Gorlan, one leg drawn up to his chin and the injured one stretched out in front of him and looked lost in deep thought.
“Is he alright?” Will asked Rodney as he approached the knight. A hint of concern leaked through into his voice and Rodney hid a smile as he heard it.
“He’s fine,” he replied. “I think. Just thinking I’d assume.”
“About what?” Will asked and then realised that the question might seem a bit too invasive or personal.
“How should I know?” Rodney said, not unkindly. Will picked up on something in his voice that made him think that Rodney may know. But he decided he’d put his curiosity and questions to rest for the time being.
“Bring those sticks here and we’ll make some coffee,” Rodney was saying. “Halt’ll want some and I’m sure Arald will appreciate it when he wakes up. You picked a good collection here boy. These will light pretty easily and we’ll have some spares.”
As Will helped Rodney build the fire Arald began to stir. Rodney immediately ran over to him to make sure he was alright. Will lowered his head to the firewood to hide his grin. Over the years of living at the ward he had seen Arald and Rodney walking around together and he assumed they were good friends. These last couple days spent with them had proven to him that they were closer than just regular friends. It was obvious to everyone around them that they cared very deeply about each other.
“Rise and shine sleepy head,” Rodney teased as he helped Arald sit up. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Fine,” Arald said. “My back just hurts like all hell.”
“Getting torn up by a beast sent straight from the pits of Hell would do that to you.”
Arald ignored his friends teasing and looked over to where he had last seen Halt before he had fallen asleep.
“Where’d Halt go?”
“Over there.” Arald followed Rodney’s pointed finger to where the Ranger sat, still dissociating from the rest of the world. He looked at his friend with a knowing and caring look in his eyes, and it finally dawned on Rodney why Halt seemed more isolated at the moment. He hadn’t been there at the time, but he had heard what happened.
“Help me go to him?”
Rodney pulled Arald’s arm over his shoulders and helped him up. Arald grunted with pain and Rodney immediately moved slower, giving his friend time to ease into the movements. With great effort, the baron walked with Rodney over to his friend. Halt didn’t move as they approached, didn’t turn to look at them and barely acknowledged their presence. But he didn’t tell them to go away either so Arald took that as an invitation that he could stay.
Rodney turned back to the fire and poured a couple cups of coffee - despite the fact they were only briefly coming to Gorlan for an emergency, they had still found time to pack coffee mugs - and walked back over to Arald, handing them to him. Arald nodded his thanks and Rodney walked away again, leaving the two friends be.
Arald handed Halt one of the mugs.
“Here,” he said. “Rodney thought you might like some.”
“Thanks,” Halt said quietly, taking the coffee and cupping the warm mug in his hands. It was only a one word response, and spoken in a way that some people might struggle to hear, but Arald had been good friends with Halt for years and was one of the few people that could pick up on the hint of sadness in his voice.
“Are you feeling alright?” Arald phrased the question in a way so that it could be easily referring to Halt’s injured leg, but in reality, he was using it as a subtle way of telling Halt that he cared and that he was there for him, beyond his current injuries.
Halt didn’t have a worded response this time, just a simple shrug of the shoulders. Arald took that as a no. Just as he meant the question to mean more than just physical, he was sure Halt meant his reply in the same way. He wasn’t alright with being here, and Arald couldn’t blame him. Just being at the ruined remains of Castle Gorlan was bringing back memories, many of them bad. And he knew it was ten times worse for Halt. Halt had lost someone very special to him not too far away from where they sat right now, and he never got a chance to avenge his death, and probably never would.
Morgarath himself wasn’t responsible for Pritchard’s death, both Arald and Halt knew that, but Halt blamed him more than anyone else for it. Mainly because he would never know who it was that had wielded the sword that sliced straight through Pritchard’s body and killed him. They were unknown, and would forever remain unknown. The murderer themself probably didn’t even remember killing Pritchard. To them, he was just another body among many. So the next best person Halt had to direct all his rage and anguish towards was Morgarath - and he was high up in his precious Mountains of Rain and Night, cowering away from facing justice for his horrific crimes, unreachable for the time being.
“Things’ll turn out alright,” Arald said softly. Halt still didn’t say anything, but hugged his okay leg closer to him, seeming to sink a little into himself. Arald didn’t know what to do. He could see Halt was in pain but didn’t know how to help, and he so desperately wanted to. But then he realised there was nothing to say. Pritchard was dead. Murdered. No amount of words would be able to ease the hurt Halt carried with him because of it, and nothing in the whole world would change that. But he could still be there for his friend. He could sit with him for a while, show him that he wasn’t alone, communicate with him that he was there to help if Halt ever needed it. For now, that was the best he could do, and perhaps it would be enough.
They sat together in silence, finishing up their mugs until Gilan came by to collect Blaze from Will, have a quick swig of coffee to restore his energy and rode off again. They decided then it would be time to make their own way home. Will and Sir Rodney ran over to him the two injured men stand, despite Halt’s insistence that he could do it himself.
On the ride back, Arald tried his best to make conversation with Halt and distract from his thoughts. At first, his attempts were futile, but as they rode further and further away from Gorlan, Halt became more talkative, and soon the two were discussing various topics, all the way back to Redmont.
international crowley angst day time . in true unmanaged adhd fashion I forgot to write until just now umm I'm sorry it's short I have an event to attend I WILL WRITE A LONGER VERSION SOON
Crowley never wanted to be commandant. He didn't feel worthy of his title as a ranger, let alone the commandant. He'd tried to refuse it, tried to push it onto someone else, because he didn't deserve it. When their group had run into Samdash, they hadn't given him a chance to speak, to pass the title on. They'd instinctively defended him.
He wished they hadn't.
Flipping through the next report, Crowley clenched his teeth. Samdash still wasn't pleased that they'd kept him as commandant, and every report was full of malice. This time, it was egotistically bragging about how Samdash had ended a burglaring spree. He read through the items stolen and returned, noticing the distinct lack of mention of the items that never got returned unless you compared the two lists. The final pages were a summary of the incident, and... unnecessarily comparing it to a previous incident in Hogarth. From when Crowley was the ranger there. He chewed his lip as he read through the failings and shortcomings Samdash listed, sighing and closing the folder.
Truthfully? Crowley agreed with him. He wanted to resign, to give the title to Samdash and reclaim his placement in Hogarth, but, as the paper listed, all he was good at was paperwork. He couldn't handle assignments as optimally as everyone else, and always managed to screw them up. It was for the best he was resigned to paperwork. Nobody could get hurt because of his incompetence this way.
As much as he'd like to forget, Crowley still remembered that incident. The way he'd failed to catch someone as planned and it costed a townsman his life. Crowley still remembered the horror and confusion in his eyes as the knife protruded from his chest. He remembered how much faith the man had in him. The worst of it all? He remembered the look of betrayal.
Crowley poured the last of the coffee into the two mugs, only able to fill them halfway this round. Making sure that Halt could see his face, he grabbed the coffee jar and made an exaggerated face of disgust as he poured a couple spoonfuls into one of the cups for his friend.
“Its not going to kill you, you know,” Halt said from the couch.
“It could if I drank it,” Crowley replied. “It’s practically poison.” He picked up the mugs and brought them over, setting them down on the coffee table in front of him and took a seat on his couch next to his friend.
“Well, good thing it’s not for you then.”
The two friends sat in comfortable silence, but as comfortable as it was, Crowley was searching for something to talk about. Halt had only been visiting Castle Araluen for three days, and the next morning he would be going back to Redmont. It was so rare when he got to see his friend and he wanted to make the most of him.
He looked at Halt as he thought, and caught sight of the light but still visible scar that ran across his right cheek, hidden just underneath his beard. Halt had told him that he had gotten it from some bandits, but nothing more than that. Crowley was interested to hear the full story.
“Where did you get that scar from?” Crowley asked, pointing at his face.
Halt swiped his hand away as he replied shortly, “Some bandits cut me. I thought I told you that already.”
“You have,” Crowley conceded. “But you haven’t told me what actually happened. Who did it? Why did they do it? What were you doing in the first place? I want to know the actual story. You’ve told me all your other scar stories in full. Even the stupid ones.”
Halt didn’t reply at first, instead looked down into his mug. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was imagining things or not, but he could have sworn for a split second something unusual flashed in Halt’s eyes. Hurt.
“Was it not a good experience?” Crowley asked carefully. Halt shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t think getting cut by a blade is ever a ‘good experience'."
“I meant was it worse than the others. Did something else happen? Something you don’t want to talk about?” Crowley usually wasn’t this upfront when it came to personal things. Most of the time, when he could sense someone, specifically Halt, didn’t want to talk about something, he would just not say anything more on the matter and move on. But he sensed there was something more to this. And knowing Halt’s tendencies to keep everything bottled up, he thought it would be healthier if just for once, if Halt shared his burdens.
Halt was quiet for a long while, and Crowley began to doubt if he would say anything else at all, but finally, he spoke.
“It wasn’t a bandit. It wasn’t from anyone like that. He wasn’t even a criminal but God knows how many crimes he’s committed." Halt’s voice was quieter than normal as he talked. Whatever the truth was was clearly a heavy one, and one Halt had kept with no one but himself for probably years.
“Who was it?” Crowley asked, equally as quiet.
“My father.”
Crowley gave a barely audible gasp. Every now and then Halt had shared little tidbits about his father, and he didn’t seem like the greatest guy, but this. This was not what he had expected.
“What happened?”
“We were having dinner, and apparently someone earlier in the day had told him that I was calling myself a boy and that everyone else had pretty much accepted it. He hadn't, and I knew he wouldn't, which is why I never told him. But he knew then, and asked me about it during dinner. He started screaming at me, telling me I was delusional and his daughter and I would always be his disappointing daughter and nothing else. I yelled back at him, and we got into a pretty big fight. Then he must have just snapped, and he picked up a knife and cut me with it.”
Crowley was speechless. Speechless and outraged. How anyone could be so cruel to do that to another innocent human being was beyond him. How anyone could be so evil to do that to their own son was something he guessed only the Devil himself could answer.
“That’s not all,” Halt continued and Crowley dreaded what he was about to hear. “Afterwards, everyone went quiet, and my mum was about to do something I think, but he quickly said that he was sorry and that he didn’t mean to do it, and that he would take me somewhere more private to make sure I was alright and apologise properly.”
Crowley clenched his fists at his side in rage and fear for what was coming next. He had a feeling he knew.
“He did take me to a more private area, but when he got there he immediately began beating me. He was yelling worse than before and calling me slurs, and then he just left me there, pretty much knocked out. I ran away that night, and ended up catching a boat here, so in a way I guess it worked out.” His pathetic attempt at a joke fell flat, just as Halt expected.
Crowley was staring at him, a deep sadness for his friend in his blue and hazel eyes.
Halt didn’t tell him about Ferris, didn’t even mention to him that he had another sibling other than Cailtyn, whom he had talked about before. Crowley was the person Halt trusted the most. Multiple times he had put his life into Crowley’s hands and came out alive, just as he knew he would. He knew Crowley wouldn’t tell anyone about what he learned, and if Halt asked him to he would never bring it up again. He would trust Crowley with the knowledge of Ferris, just as he had trusted him with the knowledge of his father, but he just wasn’t ready to share that story yet. Perhaps one day.
Crowley didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what he could say. He didn’t think a simple, ‘I'm sorry’ would have any effect on Halt. Halt knew he was sorry for him, and expressing that through words wouldn’t change anything. But he didn’t want to just sit there in dumb silence. Surely he had to say something.
Halt seemed to sense his dilemma, and answered it for him.
“You don't need to say anything,” he told him quietly. He knew how much Crowley cared for him, even if it took him a while to accept that. And he knew that Crowley was probably wanting nothing more than to punch his father straight in the face.
“Do you know if he’s still alive?” Crowley asked, confirming Halt’s suspicions.
Halt shook his head. “He died shortly after I left, and thank God for that. He was pretty sick at the time but apparently still well enough to be an abusive piece of shit.”
The last few words were spoken between gritted teeth, and Crowley sensed Halt had a long-harboured resentment and rage towards his father, which was boiling up again now that he was talking about it, and he couldn’t blame him. He moved closer to Halt, and took his hand in his own, holding it tightly.
“At least he’s gone now,” Crowley said, words soft. “He can’t hurt you anymore. No one can.”
Halt didn’t say anything, but Crowley felt him lean closer into him. He put his arm around Halt’s shoulder, slowly at first, wondering if Halt was going to shove him away, but he didn't move, and let Crowley hold him.
They stayed like for a few more minutes, before pulling apart and finding something else and more light hearted to talk about. The rest of the night went on with nothing to bring the mood back down, but Crowley would never forget what he learned that night, and he prayed that Halt’s father was rotting in Hell, right where he belonged.
alright i haven’t pre-written anything for this gathering so we’re rawdogging it, hope u enjoy! happy gathering!!!
—
The camp had finally gone quiet sometime after midnight.
Not fully silent -- desert camps never were. Somewhere beyond the ring of dying fires, Selethen’s guards traded shifts, horses stamped occasionally in the sand, and the canvas tents rustled softly in the warm night wind.
But the chaos had ended.
They were alive.
That alone still felt faintly improbable to the group.
Gilan sat near the edge of the firelight with a waterskin dangling loosely from one hand, watching the embers collapse inward on themselves. Across from him, Halt leaned back against a saddle, cloak pooled around his shoulders; his eyes were closed as though he were asleep, and he appeared outwardly relaxed in the way only Rangers ever managed after having been almost publicly beheaded.
Horace and Evanlyn had long since gone to sleep, and Selethen quickly followed suit, yawning as he headed to the larger tent set up for him near the edge of the camp.
And Will--
Will had vanished nearly an hour ago after ensuring every last detail of the camp had been settled.
Of course, he had.
Gilan shook his head faintly into his drink as he thought of the young boy.
“Your apprentice,” he muttered, knowing his former mentor wasn't actually sleeping.
Halt’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
“My apprentice,” he agreed, his eyes still closed.
For a while, they simply sat there in companionable quiet.
Then Gilan finally asked the question that had been bothering him since the moment the cavalry had appeared over the dunes.
“What if he hadn’t made it?”
Halt opened his eyes now, looking up at him, appearing mildly puzzled at the inquiry. As if the question itself didn’t entirely make sense.
Gilan huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s exactly the look I expected.”
“Well, you do make a habit of asking odd questions,” Halt replied.
“We were prisoners in the middle of the desert,” Gilan said. “Outnumbered. Disarmed. You were quite literally at death's door,” He paused. “And you never panicked. Not once.”
Halt shrugged one shoulder.
“There wasn’t much point to that.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Halt's lips pursed at that.
The fire cracked softly between them.
Gilan studied him for a moment before saying quietly, “You knew he’d come.”
This time, Halt did not answer immediately.
His gaze drifted toward the dark edge of camp, toward the endless desert beyond it.
“I knew,” he said at last, “that if Will was alive and free, he would come for us.”
The certainty in his voice settled heavily into the silence.
Gilan felt something strange twist in his chest at the detection of it.
Because Halt did not speak that way lightly. About anything. About any one, for that matter.
“You trusted him with all our lives,” Gilan said quietly.
Halt’s expression remained calm.
“Yes.”
Gilan let out a slow breath through his nose.
“That’s… a great deal of trust. Especially coming from you, and especially considering you were ready to knock me unconscious the other week for suggesting you trust him with his own life.”
Halt’s eyes flicked toward him again, faint amusement buried somewhere beneath the exhaustion.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“No, I think you know exactly what it means.”
That earned him a small nod.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Halt said, quieter this time, “ I trusted him long before this.”
The firelight shifted across the hard lines of his face.
“But this was the first time I quite literally handed him my life.”
Something about hearing the words aloud struck Gilan harder than he expected. Because Rangers trusted carefully. Completely, once earned --but carefully.
And Halt trusted almost no one completely, not fate, kings, plans.
There are a few exceptions, of course; Crowley, Arald, and himself, perhaps.
Yet the ranger had sat in chains in the desert and remained calm because somewhere out there, he knew his 20-year-old apprentice was coming to rescue them.
Gilan suddenly understood something that had been slowly forming for years without him ever quite naming it.
This had stopped being a simple apprentice and master relationship long ago.
Somewhere between Redmont and Skandia and all the years since, something else had grown in its place. Family, perhaps. Not by blood, but something deeper for the lack of it.
And strangely, the realization brought no jealousy at all.
It could have, once. Years ago, perhaps, when he was younger and more uncertain and still craved Halt’s approval like a plant craves sunlight.
But sitting here now, watching the exhausted certainty in Halt’s face, Gilan found himself feeling only an immense, quiet gratitude.
For Will.
And for Halt.
For the fact that somehow the universe had seen fit to throw a malcontented orphan boy into an irritable ranger's path all those years ago. And in those years, something grew between them that perhaps the universe had planned for all along.
Halt broke the silence first.
“There’s a sense of destiny about that boy,” he said quietly.
Gilan smiled faintly.
“You really believe that.”
Halt’s gaze lingered on the fire.
“Well, I don’t believe in destiny, I never have,” he said.
Then, he swallowed, and after a pause:
“But I do believe in Will.”
The words settled deep. And suddenly Gilan understood why Will would follow Halt anywhere on earth.
Why a half-starved castle orphan had looked at this grim, impossible Ranger and decided, with all the terrifying certainty only children possessed, there. That's who will care for me.
The sound of shifting sand interrupted the silence.
Both Rangers looked up automatically.
Will stood several yards away at the edge of the firelight, very still.
Ah.
He’d heard.
Judging by the faint look of horror on his face, perhaps more than initially anticipated.
For one terrible moment, Will looked absurdly young again.
Not the confident young man who had manipulated desert tribes into an army and stormed across the dunes to rescue them.
Not the boy who had faced Temujai cavalry and Skandian warriors and Kalkara.
Just a startled child who had accidentally overheard something far too large for him to hold properly.
Gilan watched the realization hit him in real time.
Halt trusted him.
Not merely as a student or subordinate.
But no, he trusted him completely.
The expression on Will’s face turned dangerously bright around the eyes.
Well.
That simply would not do.
Before Gilan could say anything, Will cleared his throat abruptly and looked vaguely like a man preparing to flee the continent.
“I was--” he started, then stopped. “Selethen wanted--”
“No he didn’t,” Halt said calmly.
Will blinked.
“…No,” he admitted weakly.
Silence.
Gilan very carefully looked away before the poor idiot died of embarrassment.
Will shifted awkwardly in the sand.
“You really just said that?”
Halt raised an eyebrow.
“Which part?”
“That you--” Will visibly struggled through the sentence. “That you trusted me with your life.”
“You’re offended?”
“No!” Will said immediately, sounding appalled. “No, I just--”
He stopped again, words failing him entirely.
Gilan hid a smile behind his waterskin.
Because there it was again — that strange contradiction that was uniquely Will.
The boy could talk leaders into alliances and command armies without blinking.
But one sincere expression of affection and he unraveled instantly.
Halt, meanwhile, regarded him with the same steady look he had worn since Will was fifteen years old and covered in mud outside his cabin.
“You came back for us,” Halt said simply.
As though that explained everything.
To Halt, perhaps it did.
Will swallowed hard enough that Gilan noticed it even in the dim firelight.
Something raw flickered briefly across his face -- so quick most people would have missed it.
But Rangers noticed things.
And Gilan suddenly realized, with startling clarity, the ghost of the child Will had once been. Small, alone, unwanted for so long that love itself seemed to catch him off guard. Perhaps because he never learned what it felt like until now.
Halt saw it too.
His voice softened almost imperceptibly.
“I knew you would.”
That did it.
Will looked down immediately, scrubbing a hand across his face in the world’s least subtle attempt to recover himself.
“Right,” he muttered hoarsely. “Well. Good.”
Then, because he was Will:
“The army helped.”
Gilan barked out a laugh.
Halt’s mouth twitched.
“A small army,” Will added defensively.
“You assembled cavalry in a foreign desert nation in under three days,” Gilan informed him. “That stops qualifying as small.”
Will pointed vaguely at him. “See, that’s exactly the sort of unrealistic expectation that becomes a problem later.”
And there he was again. The tension broke like a snapped bowstring.
Gilan laughed harder, and even Halt finally let out the quiet huff of amusement he usually tried to disguise.
Will looked between them, still embarrassed, still suspiciously bright-eyed, but smiling now despite himself.
And Gilan thought, not for the first time, that meeting Will had truly changed all of their lives forever.
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It took years, few near death accidents and hundreds of comfortable in silent evenings for Halt to trust enough to tell Crowley anything about the past. When he did, it was like the first breath he ever took. Painful at first but bringing the overwhelming relief. And with every other word made it easier and easier.
Put your 4 favourite characters from 4 pieces of media as options and let your tumblr pals decide which one most suits your vibe then tag 4 people
Jamie Tartt {Ted Lasso}
Blitzø {Helluva Boss}
Evan 'Buck' Buckley {9-1-1}
Izzy Hands {OFMD}
Voting ended onJun 21, 2024
Not me having some kinda type...
Who shall I tag? I think I wanna tagggggg... @mybugsmybugsmybugs @mexicangela @lunar-years @biscuitboxpink but no pressure!! I just thought it would be fun!
It was painful to choose specific characters! So many beautiful characters were tossed aside! Abandoned! Why must I always have a million favorite characters!? WHY!? It's like choosing between children!
Anyway, peoples: @lost-my-gender-in-the-war @honestly-idk-anymory
I don't really know anyone else who hasn't already been tagged so yeah :P
Thanks for the tags @iwillneverwork and @brandyestchristi
which fictional human is meeeee
Buck Wild (Ice Age)
Pigeon Toady (Storks)
The Twins (HTTYD)
Crowley Meratyn (Rangers Apprentice)
Voting ended onJun 1
@ppickles4 @your-shining-light @starryrants @meadow-roses @that-one-enby-ranger-2000 sorry if you've already been tagged. That just means you're well-loved!
[Image ID: the meme of Jason Momoa sneaking up on Henry Cavill. Cavill is labelled "a perfectly nice lunch scene at Jenny's restaurant" and Momoa is labelled "He's my brother". /end]
one day i will be normal about this twist. but it is not this day.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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biggg fan of characters who look big and tough and stoic but only because they're internally thinking "fuckk what do i say how do i make friends. they didn't teach me this in sword school."
