Disclaimer: I do not own Ranger's Apprentice. I don't make any money from this story.
Halt's Cabin, Redmont:
The get together went rather well, Will thought. He hadn't told them about Skandia except for the bare minimum, though part of him had wanted to tell them, the larger part did not want them to know about it.
The next day, it was back the usual routine. And the next and the next. As he began to get used to sparring with Halt, he stopped panicking as much. After a few more weeks, he'd all but stopped panicking when Halt invariably won. Even so, there were still days when he did panic, rare, but it still happened and he was always aware of the steadily nearing deadline: The Gathering.
As he began to stop panicking as much, he found that he felt the need to cut less and less, though there were days when he would still do it. As often as not, Halt would appear before he could and stop him, giving him the distinct feeling that Halt was watching him most of the time.
While a part of him was hurt that Halt didn't trust him, the Tug side reminded him that cutting had almost killed him and that Halt would have been unlikely to let him far out of his sight, anyway. Not after Skandia.
Later, try as he might, Will would never remember much about the few weeks preceding the Gathering except feelings and a few vague pictures. Fear that he would fail the assessment and embarrass Halt being the most prominent, as well as determination to pass the assessment, excitement to see a real gathering and seeing Gilan again, and triumph in the fact that he'd gone nearly three weeks without a panic attack and thus not feeling the urge to cut.
The only clear memory he had, was of getting his mandola. He had been at the dinner table refletching arrows. Halt had been pouring over reports, seemingly not paying an attention to Will, though in hindsight, thought Will, he probably was focused on making sure I fletched my arrows properly.
Just as he had finished putting away supplies, Halt cleared his throat. Will looked at him curiously.
"I heard that music can be very therapeutic for people, so, I had an old mandola of mine restrung for you," said Halt. Years later, Will would realize just how polished that speech was and wonder how many times he'd practiced that line.
"You played mandola?" asked Will in amazement.
"No, an acquaintance of mine did. If you could call the racket he made playing, that is," said Halt.
"Was he that bad?" asked Will, curiously.
"He'd have you believe he was virtuosic, but yes, he was he was pretty terrible. He gave me the instruments in hopes that it would... What was it again… Ah yes, "...in hopes that this will make you more appreciative of good music etcetera, etcetera." Anyway, I haven't used. Why anyone would make such excruciating sounds for themselves is beyond me. I've never understood why they don't just use it to deafen the enemy. So, it's over by the fire if you want it."
He'd used it a bit, though he wasn't very good at it. He'd decided to get Berrigan to teach him how to play properly at the Gathering. He never really understood what exactly Halt had meant by therapeutic, but perhaps when he got better, he would.