Aw, you guys are so good to me :3 Here's another update for all the great responses from last time.

~37~ Reunion

With a snort, Horace's head snapped back up, sleep retreating reluctantly from the whips of alarm, his dream with it. The unfriendly awareness of his predicament permeated his consciousness once more, and he remembered that he was not in Araluen, he was not in a warm bed and he was not about to get up and enjoy a bountiful feast. He was in Toscana, leaning against a mound of damp earth without a shirt, no feast in sight. And his valiantly-won fire was dying.

Springing to his feet, Horace almost fell over from exhaustion as he went about collecting anything flammable and tossing it into the weakened flames. He would not lose this fire, he would not! He had spent too much time making it to let it die.

Once he had it fed, it cackled in satisfaction, glowing warm and banishing the encroaching chill of predawn. Sighing, Horace neared it and rubbed his hands together. All he had on were his trousers. His upper body was coated in mud, which he found was the best way to fend off the mosquito swarms. His tunic was currently on his slumbering companion like a blanket.

"Hope you're enjoying that, Halt," he said to the Ranger, not expecting any witty reply. Nor any reply at all. Halt had been fully asleep for hours now. Horace knew this; he himself had been awake all night watching over him, making sure that the fever didn't take the man while he slept.

Horace had remained conscious after he and Halt plunged over the waterfall and landed in the river below. He didn't know whether the Ranger lost conscious from the fall or from hitting his leg against a rock near the bottom of the river, only that he was grateful to find him and pull him from the water before he was lost forever. Horace then carried him away from the river, deeper into the trees, until he came to this ravine. He'd stripped himself and Halt from their sodden clothes, knowing that keeping them on would make everything worse, and then checked the Ranger's leg, which thankfully was not broken. But it was badly bruised, as were other parts of his body. At least he was alive. Having covered him up with dried leaves for extra warmth, Horace then went about making a fire. It was unwise, he knew, but they had to have one. They had to. Without it, they would have both perished from cold and damp.

"You'd have a cow if you knew I'd done it, though," he said to Halt now. "Vieri and his dogs might still be out there. Once dawn comes, it'll be a beacon for them. We'll have to be gone by then."

Halt, of course, still did not reply. But he did roll over, muttering nonsense as leaves poured off of him with gentle rustling.

He had first regained consciousness when darkness fell and Horace was giving him water. He'd opened his eyes and gazed at him as though he were a stranger. When the knight said his name, he blinked, then closed them again. By that time, their clothes were dry by the fire and Horace had put them back on the Ranger. The man's hands had been clammy, but his brow was flaming warm. The fever broke some hours later, however, and it was then that relief had sidled up to Horace and coaxed him to rest. But he couldn't. Not yet.

Another bodily need was prodding at him now. Hunger. As he yawned, his stomach yowled like a starved cat, expecting to receive food at that very moment. His endeavours to find food the night before had been in vain. He hadn't been able to catch a fish, not that he risked much time trying. There were berry bushes that he didn't trust, and the the only bird nests he'd found were out on limbs that even Will wouldn't have dared reached for. The two he'd managed to knock down with stones were empty, and night had stolen any more opportunity to try again. Horace had to contend himself with the gratitude that he, and his friend, were even alive to be hungry.

Halt rolled over again. He had not shivered for hours now, and Horace knew all he had to do now was wait for him to wake up again and start giving orders, as usual.

"Horace."

The Ranger shifted once more, curling closer to the fire. His breathing was slow and even, but every once in a while, his arm or hand twitched to betray the nightmare that undoubtedly plagued his sleep.

Horace yawned once more, rubbing his eyes furiously. He'd soldiered through nights before without resting, but after being chased by dogs and madmen into a merciless river, he felt like he had been kept awake for a week.

He heard a smacking sound, and turned his head to see Halt's mouth open up, his breathing raspy. He must be parched.

Taking up a chunk of cloth he had torn from his own tunic, Horace hastened off into the trees to where he had discovered a brook earlier. Soaking the cloth, he carried it back to his companion and dribbled water down his throat. It was then that Halt opened his eyes for a second time. They gazed at Horace with a veil of uncertainty, incomprehension, and for one horrifying moment the knight feared that Halt might have lost his memory.

"Halt," he said softly. Then with more force, "Can you hear me?"

The Ranger opened his mouth, looking confused, and croaked, "Where...? Where is...?" He could say nothing more, and Horace gave him more water.

"Sleep now," said Horace, and the Ranger obeyed, closing his eyes and returning to his fathomless dreamworld. The knight dearly wished to join him in the oblivion of sleep, but knew he had to have complete vigilance lest their enemies come upon them. So far there had been no sound of dogs or men, but their fire would be a beacon once the sun shone and the dawn mists gave way.

"We'll have to move soon," he said, setting his back against an earth mound. "If Vieri finds a way across the river, we'll never outrun him."

Vieri Albani would know these woods. Horace did not. The bloodthirsty Toscan could be on their trail right now, silent as a lion on the prowl. Just the thought had the knight whipping his head around, half-expecting to see the tip of a crossbow bolt poking through the foliage.

The first sopranos of the dawn chorus seeped into Horace's fading awareness, and he had to jerk himself awake again. Dawn seemed to be coming exceptionally quickly. Or else he had dozed off again.

He cursed under his breath and stood up, mud flaking off his bare chest. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed them. But it was an arduous task even to raise his arms. He needed rest. He needed food. What he wouldn't do for some of Jenny's legendary poached eggs with pork sausages and toasted rye bread and—

Stop it!

Horace stomped into the trees until he came to the brook, where he promptly knelt and plunged his face in. The icy chill that permeated his eyelids and trickled down his neck as he sat up was refreshing, but not enough to prevent Horace from simply wanting to curl up by the bank and sleep. He stood to shake the temptation, just in time to be startled by a rustling in the undergrowth.

He froze. It had not sounded close, but it could have been anything from a deer to a man. Holding completely still, Horace let his eyes scan the trees around him. Had he never been in the company of Rangers, he would have either dismissed the sound as nothing or dived for cover. Silence and stillness were his best bet in figuring out what had made the sound.

But he did not have the patience of a Ranger, and by the three minute mark, he surrendered. There was nothing. Probably a bird or squirrel. Even so, Horace decided that he would have to move Halt, asleep or awake, now.

Halt was sitting up when Horace got back, staring around at the unfamiliar surroundings with an expression the knight had difficulty placing. Then he realized why.

It was fear.

"Halt," he said, and the Ranger's head snapped around to see him. Horace was relieved to see that there was no longer the veil of confusion in his eyes, and the scared expression had evaporated.

"What the devil happened?" Halt demanded, his voice rasping. "Where's your shirt?"

"You passed out, after we fell over the waterfall. I brought us here. You have my shirt."

Halt moved, then winced, teeth baring as he grimaced.

"You're badly bruised."

"I realized that." Halt pushed away the blanket of leaves and Horace's tunic, rolling up his pant leg to inspect his limb, which was almost completely purple on the outer side.

"It's not broken," said Horace softly. "I've checked."

"And since when have you been an expert?"

Horace was almost too tired to feel angry. Almost. But the burs of Halt's ungratefulness snagged like barbed hooks in skin, and he threw down the sodden cloth he had used to bring water to the Ranger.

"Since you decided to keep passing out and let me do all the work!" he snapped.

Halt stared at him, aghast at his outburst. It usually took a lot to snap Horace's temper, and the Ranger had barely prodded him. Clearly he had been unconscious longer than he thought.

"Horace..." he said. "Forgive me. I suppose you didn't get much sleep."

"No," the knight replied sullenly, coming to sit by the fire. "And I can't now. We have to move. If they see the smoke—"

"Who's they?"

"The Toscans. You know, the ones who were chasing us? What, you can't remember? I envy you." Horace started rubbing his eyes, as thought so wipe away the purple smears hanging beneath them.

But Halt did remember. Quite suddenly. Then he remembered other things – imprisonment, losing Crowley, days at sea with Handor the Skandian, Gilan struck by an arrow, a burned cabin, the fear that Will was forever lost to him...

"Hell's fire," he muttered, resting his brow in his palms and his elbows on his knees. His hair, parting between his fingers, was still slightly damp at the roots from his dip in the river. Dip. A dip in the river. The understatement actually coaxed a sensation so rare, he was probably more surprised by it than Horace. It was mirth.

He began to laugh, and then he couldn't stop.

"Halt? Halt, I think you should lie down."

He felt Horace's hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down. But Halt resisted, laughing until his stomach began to ache from the use of muscles that hadn't been used so vigorously before and were now being bombarded by madness.

Horace feared that the Ranger had lost his mind. The sound of Halt's laughter was, for a lack of a better word, wrong, like he was listening in on a conversation he really shouldn't be hearing.

"Halt, I really think you should keep your voice down," he hissed.

The Ranger continued to chortle for another minute or so, arms resting on his knees, head bowed between them. Eventually he calmed, the occasional hiccough of hilarity reminding them both of Halt's sudden and unexpected loss of control.

"I'm sorry, Horace," he managed to say. "That's never happened before."

"Usually people say that after their dog attacks someone," Horace said softly.

Halt looked at him, and for a moment the knight thought he would lose it again, but then a bird bursting from the underbrush not far from where they sat interrupted them. There was the frustrated bark of a fox, and then silence.

"You are right, though," said Halt, clearing his throat and preparing to stand. "We should move." He tested his bruised leg. It was the worst injury either of them had sustained, and by the way Halt stood, it seemed he could still walk.

The Ranger grimaced as the leg took his weight, but said, "I don't suppose you found any food."

"Not even a mushroom."

Halt grunted, but said nothing until the fire was extinguished and all remains of it scattered. When Horace made it look like they had never been there, to the best of his abilities, Halt said, "Thank you."

Horace didn't need to ask for what.

Their progress was painstakingly slow, but Halt simply could not move any faster, as much as the stubborn goat wanted to. Horace offered to carry him more than once, though he knew very well the Ranger would not allow that.

"While we're still young, then, Halt," he jabbed, pointedly looking the other way to conceal his smirk. And to avoid the fire burning in the old Ranger's eyes like pipe embers.

He wasn't sure where they were going, only that they were heading west, away from the river. Without any knowledge of the landscape, they were taking a risk. But they had little choice.

"I need to rest again," said Halt, resting against a tree. The Ranger hardly ever complained about anything, and it was usually Horace who had to call for a rest. Halt taking the initiative on this specific regard usually meant that he was ready to collapse. Now that they weren't being relentlessly pursued by dogs and hunters, Horace felt that they should stay for an hour at least.

"Sit, Halt, and rest properly. I think we're safe here for now. Sit."

Halt finally obeyed, and relief was evident on his face as he took the weight off his feet. They, along with Horace's, were bloodied and bruised from their trekking, as both men had kicked off their boots in the river.

"Where are we going?" asked Halt, and Horace looked at him as though he had asked, "Will you marry me?"

"Er, isn't that your job?"

The Ranger stared at him.

"I mean...you're Halt. You boss me around. I thought I was following you."

"Horace, I can barely follow, let alone lead, with this leg. I figured you had a plan."

"So we've been leading and following each other for the past three hours. Brilliant." Horace had no more energy to spare, and let himself relax against a mossy tree trunk, nestled up between its roots. Wouldn't it be so nice just to sleep...

"Horace."

The knight jerked awake. Halt had barely moved his lips, but the 's' sound in Horace's name was like a serpent's hiss, and alerted him immediately.

The Ranger had found a place to doze beneath a bush, out of the beaming Toscan sun, his eyes glinting in the shadows. Even without his cloak, he was nearly invisible. Horace almost asked, "What?" before remembering that Halt had whispered his name. The Ranger had heard something.

Horace felt himself fingering for a sword hilt that wasn't there. His eyes scanned the trees in front of him, though every nerve within him screamed for action, not discretion. After a few minutes, though, with no sight or sound of anything unusual, Horace's accusing eyes fell back on Halt, who was still taut with anticipation.

"There's nothing there," the knight hissed, and Halt scowled at him just as a rustle of leaves sounded somewhere behind Horace's tree.

Swallowing, the knight stood, excruciatingly slowly, keeping his back as close to the trunk as he could without his tunic snagging on the bark. Even more slowly, he edged around so that he got more and more of a view to his right, trying to spot movement.

Halt stared silently from where he lay on the ground, watching as an old friend stepped out from behind the tree on the opposite side that Horace was looking. Though he was not wearing a Ranger cloak, Gilan had managed to make it within ten metres of their resting place before Halt spotted him. Whether or not his old apprentice realized Halt was there, he didn't know. And he preferred it this way. This should be interesting—

"What're you doing?"

Horace jumped so high he almost ended up in the tree's branches. Whirling around, his swinging fist would have taken off Gilan's head had the man not ducked in time. But then Horace flung himself at the Ranger and embraced him, squeezing him until Halt feared the knight would break him in two.

"Horace. Horace! I—can't—!"

Air whooshed into Gilan's lungs as Horace finally released him.

"Breathe," he gasped.

"What the blazes are you doing here? How did you find us? Where's your cloak?"

"Let him speak, Horace."

Halt stood unsteadily, not taking his eyes off his former apprentice. Gilan was similarly dumb, and for several moments, they just stared.

Finally, "Halt."

"Gilan."

Horace glanced from one to the other. And then Gilan strode forward to embrace his old friend. Both men were trembling.

"I told you to take care of Crowley in Araluen," Halt muttered slyly. Stiffening, Gilan withdrew, looking sheepish.

"Oh. Right. Yes, about that..."

"Sounds like we all have a story to tell," said Horace.

Gilan grinned. "You first."