CHAPTER SEVEN:

Something poked him, hard.

"Go away, Halt," Gilan mumbled sleepily, swatting at the poker without opening his eyes.

"I'm not Halt."

Gilan shot straight up with a "Wha?", nearly tumbling out of his bed in his haste to grab his saxe knife and rolling onto his injured arm. "Ouch!"

When he was finally coherent enough to prop himself up and look around for the intruder, he found Meissa leaning against the nearby wall with an amused expression. "What?" he growled at her, tossing his knife back onto the table. In the back of his mind, he registered that it was probably a good thing that it was Meissa and not Halt who had woken him - his former mentor would have had him running laps for an hour for such a groggy defensive response.

"Good morning to you, too, Sunshine," she said. "Can I take a look at your arm?"

"Really? That's why you woke me in the middle of the night?"

"It's well past dawn."

Gilan glared at her for a moment, but she seemed unperturbed. I need to ask Halt for pointers on intimidating looks, he thought. Mine aren't working on her... Or maybe it's just her. "Fine. Get out so I can put pants on."

"Don't be too long," Meissa instructed, but left him in peace.

He groaned and flopped back onto the bed. "I'm supposed to be giving orders, not you," he muttered, even though she'd already left.

He had intended to let Meissa sleep in that morning. They'd gotten to Whitby well after dark, because the stop about the bandit had taken longer than intended, and had scarcely done more than untack and feed their mounts before collapsing into their respective beds. She'd barely spoken to him the rest of the ride, and he'd let the silence stretch because he simply didn't know what to say. Now, in the light of a new day, anxiety tightened his chest. How can I possibly be a good enough mentor? I can't even get her to talk to me.

The light.

Swearing, Gilan jumped out of bed and fumbled for his breeches. He was still belting them securely as he stumbled into the kitchen, where Meissa was laying out the table. "I can't believe the horses didn't wake us," he said, trying to pull a boot onto one foot and a sock onto the other at the same time. His injured arm was making the task difficult, and he kept dropping the sock. "It's nearly half-day."

"Oh, they woke me. I fed them already, though, don't worry."

Gilan paused, feeling completely bewildered and annoyed by this. "They did? You did? Why? You should have woken me."

"You needed to rest. Your body was exhausted." Meissa pointed at a chair. "Sit and let me redress your arm. Then we can eat, and you can tell me the plan for today."

Miffed but unwilling to argue, Gilan followed her instructions. "You were up early," he said, collapsing into a chair and running a hand through his hair.

"I'm always up early." Meissa picked up a bowl she'd left on the table and squinted at the mixture inside before eyeing him critically. "How do you feel? Any nausea? Chills?"

"No, I'm fine. Certainly fine enough that I didn't need to be woken. Or left to sleep."

"Well, which is it? Should I have woken you earlier or not woken you at all?"

Gilan glared at her. "You're enjoying this," he accused.

The corner of Meissa's eyes crinkled, and she smiled a little. "Maybe."

"No respect for elders, you young ones."

"Oh please."

The words were accompanied by an eye roll, a gesture so relaxed that Gilan began to feel hopeful that whatever had occupied her thoughts last night had dissipated.

"Mmph." He winced a little as she peeled the dirty bandage away gently, the blood having scabbed in the middle of the night. Trying to ignore the discomfort, he watched her face as she examined the wound. It was intent and focused on the task at hand. No trace of the openness from the beginning part of their ride yesterday, nor the distance that had followed after the attack. A new day, he reminded himself. Just be yourself. "So, do you think I'll live?" he joked finally.

"Seems likely." Her voice was even but a corner of her mouth quirked upwards. "I'm going to wash it, and then apply this mixture of honey and onion. It's not a perfect medicine, but it should be enough to prevent any infection while the wound is healing."

Choosing not to hurt her feelings by pointing out that he kept a medical kit with healing salve in it, he watched as Meissa dabbed a damp cloth along the wound with gentle, confident hands, washing the dried blood away. "Where did you learn to do all of this?"

"As I said, my mother says I have magical powers." But now she really did smile. Gilan noticed that the corners of her eyes crinkled again as she did so, and told himself he would try to get her to smile like that more often.

"Ha ha."

"One of the elder slaves taught me most of what I know before she passed. She was from a different Arridi tribe." Meissa began to apply the mixture, and Gilan bite his tongue to stop himself from protesting at the sting. "She said I had the healer's touch." She raised her eyes to meet his gaze for a second. "Am I hurting you?"

"I'm fine. You do have the healer's touch."

Meissa went quiet, and Gilan saw sadness flicker across her face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Gilan opened his mouth to challenge her, but when he met her gaze, he saw a warning there, cautioning him not to press. He sighed. "Okay then."

After she'd rebandaged him, she set out two bowls of porridge mixed with remaining bits of dried apple he'd had stored away while he made a pot of coffee. As he usually subsisted on any leftovers from dinner before, or day-old bread spread with butter, he felt very appreciative of the hardy but tasty breakfast she'd put together. "Thank you for making breakfast, and feeding the horses this morning," he said to break the silence between them as they finished eating. "I realized I hadn't thanked you."

Meissa shrugged, like she didn't know what to say to this. "It was nothing." Then, after a pause, "You're welcome."

"Come on, then. We'll wash up later. I want to start training." Gilan took the bowls from her, set them in the wash basin, and pulled on his second boot before leading her out the door.

The late morning sunlight streamed into the clearing, warming his back. She must have felt the heat, too, because she untied the borrowed cloak from her shoulders and hung it over a tree branch.

Gilan felt the breath catch in his throat.

Until this point, he'd only seen her with a cloak over her shoulders. With it off, he was shocked to see how gaunt she was. Will's shirt, which by all accounts should have fit her reasonably well, or even been a bit tight, hung off of her thin shoulders and swam over her arms. Gilan felt a shiver run through him as he was struck by how strong willed she was not to have had the life beaten from her in over twenty years of oppression. Then he remembered his thoughtless touch the day before in Halt's quarters, how she'd flinched away from him, and he realized his assessment was wrong.

She had been beaten for it.

She'd survived.

"I don't need your pity," Meissa said quietly, sharply. Her chin was raised defiantly, her eyes narrowed.

Gilan opened his mouth to deny that he was doing any such thing, then closed it again. Lying wouldn't help. Instead, he simply said, "Here," and passed her his saxe knife.

Her challenging gaze turned to one of curiosity immediately, and she tilted her head to the side as she took the blade. "What is it? I don't think I've seen anything like it before."

"I'm sure you haven't. It's called a saxe knife. The design is originally Skandian, but the modifications we made to the steel have made it far superior to the original."

She backed away a few steps and gave an experimental swing. Gilan was pleased to see that she held the blade firmly but without stiffness. "It's like a short sword."

"Sort of. Here." He handed her the second knife in his scabbard.

"Oh - odd."

"It's for throwing. The shape is what balances it."

"That seems - challenging."

"That's what practice is for."

She looked up at him quickly, a grin briefly overcoming the guarded expression she so favored yet. "I had the feeling."

Gilan answered her grin with one of his own. "Ready to start now?"

"Really?"

"Why not? You'll have to use mine until Crowley sends along an extra set - wasn't exactly expecting to pick up an apprentice anytime soon - but until we get your strength up, I can't start you on the bow.

The stubborn look returned to her eyes. "I'm strong."

"I know you are." He met her gaze levelly. "But a bow like we use is difficult for someone to use at the top of their health. They aren't a simple hunting tool. Your body just needs time to regain some mass first before you'll even be able to string it."

Meissa seemed to think for a moment. Perhaps she remembered the look of his bow leaning inside the cabin, because she finally gave an acknowledging nod and then frowned at the two blades in her hand. "I forgot to ask yesterday - why do you carry a sword?"

"My father is a knight, and I was under training for it when I was apprenticed to Halt." Gilan shrugged. "It just made sense to continue."

"You seemed to know what you were doing."

Gilan shrugged again. "As I said, it wasn't my first duel. Now, enough of this stalling. Let's get to work." With a clap of his hands, he took the saxe knife from her and pointed to a target painted to a tree. "You're going to practice using the throwing knife today. Most Rangers underutilize their knives; it's easy to think them lesser weapons next to our bows. But they're handy in a pinch, and a lot easier to conceal."

"I can imagine," she murmured. "So how do I hold it best?"

Gilan spent the next several minutes showing her how to grip the knife and take aim in such a way that the knife would spin towards the target. He took care not to touch her, demonstrating himself before passing it back and fixing it vocally rather than physically like he might normally do. He was acutely aware of how tense she was at first, but was glad for his distance when he noticed her begin to relax. After watching and troubleshooting her first few attempts, he stepped away to let her practice without him breathing down her neck.

As the morning passed into afternoon, Gilan became more and more pleased. She wasn't anywhere near the target by any stretch - yet. But he could tell from the way she held and threw the knife that she could already feel the balance of the weapon, could tell from the concentrated expression on her face that she was already thinking and adjusting her movements to it.

She's a natural with knives. He smiled from his chair on the porch as, for the first time, the blade bit into the outermost ring of the target. Yes. She would make a fine Ranger. It would take time to build up her body, but what counted was her spirit.

If only we could learn to trust one another.

*peeking through fingers* hi?

There are no excuses. I mean, there are, but also, probably you don't want to hear them. School, work, crippling anxiety, etc.

Funny thing, though: I actually have some 12,000 words written in this story - all for future chapters, not the upcoming ones. Because of course not. But I will do my best to not let months and months stretch between updates, because y'all deserve better! Which is also why I made this chapter a little longer than usual.

Thank you for all of you returning readers - so glad you've stuck with me! And for anyone who is new - hi! I'd love to hear any feedback you have, especially if you have any insight on how the first few weeks of Meissa's training will go. I have some ideas (we're gonna go meet Old Bob!), but I'm open to suggestions!