Author's Note:

Well, after many hours of procrastination, I've finally decided to hop on LibreOffice and type out the first chapter to this revamped fanfic. As a short warning, this version will be a lot more orthodox (as I've said in my profile), therefore meaning that the previous story will differ much more than this one. Overall, I believe that this one will be much more enjoyable, for it ties in with the original plot and canon. But of course, if I were to miss something, I trust the readers and reviewers of this archive to correct me.

As a preface, I would like to take the time to explain the story's basis, and how the title pertains to the actual story. Time is of the essence in almost everything we do. We're often 'on the clock' whether we choose to be or not. This was one of the things that I felt lacked in the original series. Of course, Halt's Peril was very time-based, but I created this story to parallel how crucial time could be, matched with what would happen if the wrong decision was made under rushed circumstances.

Now, the story won't be cynical in the sense that the protagonist will always and constantly make the wrong choices. This is where the 'coming of age' motif, which was so heavily prevalent in the original canon, comes in. Keeping this in mind, the chapters could very well be longer than most, which can drive some people away.

The Repercussions of Time

Chapter 01

The echoes of time are forever marked by the occurrence in which motivates the echo itself. One by one, repercussions of repeated intransigence render themselves into their own subdivision within a parent category, usually becoming obsolete in the grand scheme of things. What the tides of man failed to realize is the repercussion is fueled by the most trivial of decisions, of which a numerous amount can be ample enough to cause an occurrence of greater importance, like a connection of tiny estuaries that empty out into a larger body of water. Such conclusions could only be reached by someone who had seen it all; someone who realized that those who repeat the actions of another do it out of hopes of superiority, not the faded echoes of 'those who don't learn from history are condemned to repeat its mistakes in the future'.

Of course they are.

The windswept region was nearly synonymous with the young man's mood as he trudged through the plant dense forest. He walked northward, his sense of direction keen; it needed to be in a time like this. Meter after meter, he covered ground easily, gliding across the forest floor with uncanny (although incoherent) silence. Every few minutes, he would stop. The young man looked into the sky and at the sun's position, grimacing as the sharp wind slashed at his uncovered face. In a few more hours, the moon would take sun's place, and nightfall would be upon the desolate entity roaming the forest. The young man needed to reach his destination, and fast. He looked downward, to a two sided wound on his side. As he went on, he realized, the condition of the wound had worsened, the bloodstained shirt wrapped around it in futile efforts to cease the bleeding. Another heat-less night might have been the death of him, and quite literally. He scaled a series of fallen trees, most likely the result of a storm, with relative ease, grunting in exertion and pain while doing so. The grunt was a little exaggerated, due to his low morale. It was angered, a logical output of anger as he tried his best to compose himself. He tried increased his pace, now breaking into a slow canter, as if trying to escape the events of a previous occurrence.

A couple more minutes passed, and he reached a clearing of which was inhabited by waist high grass, symbolic of Hibernia. He figured the region was always dreary and lacking in weather, which went measures as to soil his already disgruntled mood.

"This could explain Halt's personality," he icily humored himself, oblivious to the hypocrisy in his words. Over the next few minutes, he had realized that his vision was beginning to blur. Time and time again, his perspective would taunt him, and he would find himself stumbling. The shirt was not working. Exerting himself through several more meters of tough terrain, his eyes set on a particular structure, and he emitted a sigh of relief.

Abandoned. The old cabin must have been where it was for quite some time. Uninhabited for many years, it was bleakly accompanied by high grass, which masqueraded its appearance, virtually blending it into the forest that was understandably vacant. Such circumstances made it a makeshift headquarters for the team currently inhabiting the structure that had been in its prime decades ago.

Finally reaching the safe house, in which he could go as far as to call a haven, he rapped on the wooden door tiredly, the thought be being in a somewhat safe environment adding fuel to the fire. Out of relief or impatience, he rapped again, and received a reply from inside.

"Who's there?" the distinctive Araluen 'accent', that was foreign in a region like this, broke the monotony of the young man's thoughts, as well as the forest.

"The king himself," the blatant sarcasm was curt. "Open the damned door."

On the receiving end. The man could tell from the familiar voice that the person on the other end was in anguish. It had been days since he had heard the sarcastic voice. Opening the door a little more anxiously than he had wanted, he was welcomed by an alarming sight.

"Nick!" The figure before him was bleeding profusely. His eyes were wavering uncontrollably, a sign of fluctuating conciseness. He could see the futile effort at stopping the bleeding, as well as its almost nonexistent effectiveness. He instinctively reached out for his friend, who in turn stumbled as he crossed into the wooden safe house. Nearly falling, the burly man caught the stumbling figure.

"Damn it Nick; what happened?" he was more than a little alarmed at the sight. The brute of a frame basically carried the lame figure in, as Nick found it hard to support his balance in his depleting consciousness.

But Nick was now in a conscientious limbo. He made an effort to reply, but his attempt came out as a disgruntled sigh. He could still hear and see the three other inhabitants of the lofty cabin, whose sense of urgency were now all aroused. But that was the extent of his responsiveness, and his vision was hazy. His limbs felt nonexistent. Slowly, the encumbering warmth was washing over him, until finally, his fell unconscious, as if the concept of consciousness had been stripped from him.

Late that Friday night, he had awoken to the sound of quiet profanity. His head less than settled, he instinctively reached to his wound, and felt clean bandaging. After a few minutes, the young man realized that he awoke well into the night hours, for the other inhabitants of the cabin were either asleep or engaged in small conversation with each other.

"Michael?" he whispered. Leaning forward in a bedroll that wasn't his, he saw his burly friend deep in concentration as he tried to glue a bow back together. Using a bit more of the substance than he would like, smearing it over the wooden frame, Michael muttered a couple suggestive words as he chastised the inanimate object. Finding Nick awake, he set his bow down on the wooden floor, rose from the simple wooden chair, and kneeled beside Nick, whom was easily young enough to be kin to him.

"How do ya' feel?" The thick cockney accent was reminiscent of the eastern fiefs of Araluen.

"Better," was Nick's answer. He was glad to be in the presence of someone he knew; most of the cabin-dwellers were strangers to him.

Michael, well into his forties, was one of Crowley's closest friends, and was Nick's guide on this campaign. Introduced to Nick in earlier years of apprenticeship, Michael shared a relatively close and rather unique bond with the commandant's apprentice. Acting as an adviser and offering insight, Micheal's childhood friendship with Crowley had caused the middle-aged brute to incoherently treat Nick as if he were his nephew, scolding him on the same things Crowley would've. And complimenting his high intelligence, Micheal's tall and solid build provided a physical backbone to Nick, a satisfactory backbone to say the least.

"Good."

Now up and running, Nick peered out of a window, seeing a darkened, rainy haze. Was Hibernia always like this? The internal question was more of a blatant observation. Returning to the casual happenings of the cabin, he could see that the shelter was in its downtime – many were dozing off, their work not too far from them. In particular, a slightly framed man in his middle ages shifted through reports with an alert concentration that suggested a lack of sleep.

Now turning back to Michael, he could now see that the older man was deep in thought. Characteristic of him, he rubbed the side of his shaved head as he took on a more unsure look. Nick knew that any moment now, Michael would speak, and it would always be the opposite of what the apprentice would expect.

Michael sighed. "Nick, I'm really beginning to question whether you should keep doing this."

The apprentice was right once more, perhaps correct enough to quit taking pride in the now trivial observation.

"What are you talking about?" The distant sound of thunder didn't wake anybody; nevertheless it was still heard within the cabin.

Michael made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, don't give me that!" he snarled, the accent a little more prevalent. "You went missing for two days – I do not think it takes two days to scout a camp of bandits."

Nick scowled. "Nothing happened. It just took a little longer than expected." the answer came out a little more defiantly than what Nick intended.

"Nothing happened?" The brute became fiery. "You arrived pale as snow, with a bloody stab wound for goodness's sake; you looked like death himself!" The thunder returned, this time a little closer. It cosigned with the increasing precipitation that proceeded outside. "And that's not even to mention how you lost consciousness as soon as you walked in the damned place!" He added the icing on the cake. "But if you insist, nothing happened."

A couple inhabitants of the cabin were now awake, and watching the ordeal with a particular interest. They remarked that the chide was more of a heartfelt type, not the usual authoritative scold. For a brief second, that house was illuminated as lightning pierced the night sky. Nick, in return, cast his eyes downward, slumping into a seat beside Michael. He opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't think of a counter. The apprentice sagged lower into the wooden chair, a sign of defeat.

Michael realized that his statement drove the point home. Although the apprentice seemed stoic and expressionless, Michael had known him long enough to detect the few features that deciphered his emotions. Looking into the youthful figure with consoling eyes, he eased his tone.

"Nick, I wouldn't want to have to explain to Crowley as to why you were killed, in the event you were." The sound of the rain was becoming more and more apparent as the two crossed into the wee hours of the morning. Michael reduced his voice to a more private tone. "You need to tell me what happened."

The hesitancy in Nick was obvious. Michael could tell that whatever happened was most likely the result of a mistake on the apprentice's behalf – the type of thing that nipped away at Nick's morale like termites to wood.

Before he could answer, all heads turned to the door of the cabin. Previously shaded from the sound of the rain, the small party could now hear the sounds of yelling and instruction, as well as the splash of feet within puddles of water. Almost immediately, the team quietly mobilized itself while remaining relatively silent. Instinctively, Nick's hand dropped to the recurve-hybrid bow that lay not too far away. Slowly rising from his seat, he looked to Michael, who now peered outside the window in subtle secrecy. The sound of man was unmistakable now; the irregular spots of light confirmed the allegation as they moved hurriedly. There was going to be a fight.

When it rains, it pours.

Thanks for reading!

As always, you are more than welcome to review. Also, LibreOffice's spell-check feature is a little sketchy, so if there are any grammatical or spelling errors, please do not hesitate to tell me.

-LazyCommodore