Authors Note: I had this idea late at night, and knew I had to write it. I haven't written fanfiction for this fandom in a long time, but these books and this fandom still mean a lot to me.

I hope y'all enjoy this one last hurrah from your's truly.

Will woke to a darkened cell and his hands tied behind his back. Or, no, not tied, restrained. He could feel the familiar tightness of the thumb cuffs around his hands, as well as the hardwood of the chair digging into the sides of his arms. His head pounded, and he could feel the odd stretching of a newly healed wound just below his sternum. What happened?

He blinked once or twice, trying to clear his vision to better assess the cell around him. He last remembered the coldness of winter biting his fingers, so the slight humidity in the air and the dampness of the cell not only confused him but worried him. Where was he? How did he get here? How much time had passed?

Voices faded in down the hallway, familiar voices. Familiar and distressed.

Knowing he wouldn't get out of the cuffs, Will stretched his arms anyways, feeling the leather stretch and dig into his joints. His legs were bound to the chair as well, he noticed, with regular rope.

Then he noticed his clothing—he wasn't wearing his normal Ranger attire, or anything close. Black pants and a stained white shirt hung off his body, about two sizes too big for his thin frame. The shoes he was wearing were also too big and weren't his custom riding boots he always wore, and that he was sure he was wearing when he left for … for where?

Will shook his head, needing to clear the fuzziness in his memory. He was in a dungeon, bound with Ranger issued thumb cuffs, either his own or someone else's. He was wearing unfamiliar and unfitted clothing, and he couldn't remember anything that could be remotely recent. It was winter, he knew, but it felt like summer now, and that was the season he was apparently dressed for. From what he could tell, his memory was missing about six months.

The voices were closer now, and now Will was sure he recognized them. Crowley and Halt, it sounded like, arguing not too far from the entrance to his cell. Was he at Castle Araluen? No, he couldn't be—if he were, why was he in a cell?

"…there has to be something that we can do, Crowley. Will wouldn't …" Halt's voice faded out, as if he were pacing back and forth down the hall. He seemed frustrated. Sad.

Crowley's voice was louder, stronger. "We have to wait and see what he'll say, Halt. But it'll have to be a good explanation, or he's in trouble."

"A lot of things could explain … we just have to talk to him. Jumping to conclusions will just …"

"He's been out since yesterday, Halt. Mariam said that he'd be awake sometime today, but that in his state he might be groggy for a while. Even if he is awake now, we have to wait for his memory to clear."

He'd been out since yesterday? What about the months he was missing? What day was it even? No matter how hard Will tried to think back, he couldn't remember anything that would explain where he was and how he got there. He left Redmont in the winter for a solo mission about … what about, he couldn't remember. It wasn't supposed to be long though, because he vaguely recalled making plans with … with Horace. Horace.

Will groaned, frustrated with how spotty his memory was. But Crowley said his memory would clear, so maybe this is temporary. Maybe if he sat here for a while, his memory would come back and explain this whole ordeal.

It seemed like hours of silence passed before the door to his cell creaked open slowly, and the small form of the Ranger Commandant slipped through the crack. Will had been close to dozing at that point with nothing to stimulate his mind, but jerked awake at the noise.

Unfortunately, his memory was still weak. He left Redmont for … for a solo mission up north. Not as far as Norgate, no, but to a small fort that he couldn't remember the name of. Not too long after Will arrived there, his memory started to fail. Hopefully, it was just whatever the healer had given him.

"Are you awake?" Crowley said quietly, eying Will from the opposite wall. Despite being restrained, the Commandant seemed hesitant to get too close to Will.

Will tried to say "Yes," but found his throat was too dry. When was the last time he had something to drink? "Yes," he said, audibly this time, his voice scratchy.

"Did you just wake up?" His voice seemed oddly flat and emotionless. Un-Crowley-like.

He shook his head, flexing his hands behind his back as he felt the feeling starting to fade again. The cuffs were too tight.

Crowley was silent for a moment, staring at Will with a blank look to his face. "Do you know why you're here?" he said, leaning up against the wall and crossing his arms. His face was still impossible to read.

Will had never seen Crowley like this. Serious. Calculating. Dangerous.

"No," Will replied hoarsely. "No, I don't Crowley. I don't—I don't even know how I got here." Crowley wasn't his enemy, Will reminded himself. Crowley was a friend, his boss. Crowley would make things right. Crowley wouldn't hurt him. All Will had to do was tell the truth.

The Commandant's eyes closed, and for once, Will saw a flicker of despair cross his face. His hands balled into fists, and he seemed overcome with frustration and anger all at once. And then it was gone.

"Will, I'm going to ask you three questions, and I need you to answer them as honestly as you can. No matter what the answer is, okay?"

Will nodded, suddenly finding it hard to breath.

"Do you remember the murder of a farmer's wife named Emma Mulloy?"

Murder? Emma … Mulloy? "Wh—what?"

"Answer the question, Will."

"I—" Will's voice cut off. He couldn't breath. Had he killed someone? Had he murdered someone?

"Answer the question, Will. Please."

He thought back, scouring anything he could remember. But he couldn't remember, he couldn't. He wouldn't kill a farmer's wife, nor could he think of a reason why he'd kill one. But there was only one answer he could give.

"I—" he stared at Crowley, horrified. "I don't know."

Crowley plowed ahead, taking Will's answer in stride. The corners of his eyes glistened.

"Do you remember the murder of stable hand Marlow Willis?"

"I don't know. I—No."

Three questions.

"Do you remember the murder of seaman Graham Cullen?"

Three questions.

Three bodies.

"No."

Two witnesses identified him for Emma's murder, three for Marlow, and one for Graham. All weren't completely positive, but still said Will looked like the guy who did it. There was also the fact that the stains on the white shirt he had been wearing was blood, and that he was found sitting outside the window, knife in his lap.

Not much evidence, but enough.

After Crowley had left, a guard came in with a servant and undid his restraints. Apparently, Crowley had told them he wouldn't fight. He was too shocked. The servant handed over some cheese, bread, and water, and left with the guard, who slammed the door so hard, the bread fell out of Will's numb hands. He stared at it, thinking.

He thought back to his last words to Crowley.

"Do you have anything to say that can prove your innocence, or help us investigate this, Will?"

"… I don't know."

The problem, though, Will realized, was that the moment Crowley said their names—Emma, Marlow, Graham—the moment he said their names, and that they had been murdered … Will knew that he had done it. His hands were clean but he could still feel the sticky, warm blood on them. He had killed people in his time as a Ranger, sure, but killing was different from murder. And the moment Crowley had said it, Will knew.

He knew he deserved whatever the punishment was given to him.

Will picked up the bread.

Halt slipped in early the next morning. Will had moved from the chair to the far corner, hugging his knees to his chest, now that he wasn't restrained. Neither moved.

The older Ranger spoke first. "Crowley said that there's too much evidence against you, Will … that you can't even say where you were at when the … when the murders happened."

Mutely, Will shrugged.

"You're being accused of murder, Will … don't you have anything to say?"

Will said nothing.

Halt closed his eyes, realizing that Will wasn't going to fight it. He was just going to let what happened, happen. He sighed. "Duncan … can't do much, Will. All he can do is spare your life, since all we have to go on is iffy identifications and circumstantial stuff. You'll be banished for life. Until we can fix this."

When Will said nothing in response, Halt looked away. He could feel the tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and for once Halt didn't care if anyone saw. Will wasn't a murderer. But there wasn't much they could do if Will refused to give any assistance. Crowley had said that after he started questioning Will about the murders, he'd gone … oddly silent. As if he were in shock or disbelief.

"I'm sorry, Will," Halt murmured, looking back to his son.

And that was when Will said his first, and last, words to Halt since he was brought in. "No. I'm sorry, Halt."

Horace stood numbly behind King Duncan's chair, taking his normal spot as the Head of the Guard. Today wasn't like any normal day though.

Today, his partner and best friend was being tried for three murders.

Murders that anyone who knew him knew he hadn't committed.

Crowley had offered Horace the chance to see Will before today, but Horace had struggled with accepting it. Will was going to be banished, for murders that Will seemed okay with taking the rap for. Horace wanted to believe that Will was innocent, and everyone else, Halt, Crowley, Duncan, probably Alyss and Pauline if they were here, all believed he was. But just thinking about it made Horace's throat catch.

If he's not proclaiming innocence, does that mean he committed them?

No one could figure it out, and Will refused to explain.

Without him realizing it, Duncan had begun to speak. Looking up, he realized he had completely missed when Will was brought in. Crowley and Halt stood slightly behind and the the sides of Will, looking uncomfortable despite already knowing the outcome to the trial.

Horace had also completely missed Duncan reading off Will's crimes, as well as his punishment. Banishment, as everyone in the room knew it would be. Execution was the normal punishment for murder, but without better evidence, and with Will's reputation, they knew they could get away with a banishment. That way, they would be able to come back to it without the pressure of having to punish Will.

Will had apparently been given a change of clothes, because he now wore standard Ranger attire of green and brown clothing, unlike whatever Halt had said he had been wearing before.

"…do you have anything to say for yourself?" Duncan said. Even the monarch seemed shaken, with an uncharacteristic frown to his face and furrowed eye brows.

The Ranger—no, ex-Ranger—shook his head silently.

"Out loud, Will. Please."

He shifted his stance and looked up. "No, your majesty."

Duncan seemed frustrated by this. "Nothing? Absolutely nothing?"

"I have nothing to say, your majesty."

The room was silent around them. Normally, things ended there, but Duncan pushed forward, realizing that he was getting Will to talk more than anyone else. "And why not?"

Will, who had seemed prepared to leave it at that and accept his banishment, looked confused by the question. "…why…not?"

The King sat forward in his chair, studying the Ranger. "Your Commandant behind you told me you had no memory of the murders, or of the last six months. Why do you not defend yourself then? Many others seem eager to do it for you."

Glancing back to Crowley, Will swallowed hard. Everyone in the room stared at him, but there was only one person Will looked to in that moment.

Horace.

Their eyes met from across the room, and for the moment, Horace held his partner's gaze. He needed support. He needed someone. Horace was willing to be that person for Will, no matter how long this investigation took. They hadn't been able to tell him their plans just yet, to look into it after he made it to Hibernia or Skandia or whatever ally Will wanted to hunker down with until everything blew over. Horace nodded to Will, hoping that it sent the message that everything would be okay.

Everything would be okay.

"Because I know it to be true. I killed them."

Early the next morning, Halt stood alone at the front gate. A few guards stood nearby, awkwardly looking back at the Ranger and then away before they thought he would notice.

Halt glanced back towards the castle, expecting to see at least one other face before Crowley came out with Will. But Horace was nowhere to be seen.

All of what was said in the throne room had been kept between those within the walls, but Halt could tell that it had shaken the knight. Absolutely no one in the room thought that Will had committed the murders … and no one could know that Will had technically confessed.

"Because I know it to be true. I killed them."

Halt jerked back. "Will, what the hell—"

Duncan broke in, putting up a hand to stall Halt. "I thought you have no memory of the past six months, Will. Why do you claim now to remember the murders?"

Will looked back and forth between his mentor and the King. "I … I don't remember the murders. I just … I know that I—"

Now it was Crowley's turn to argue. "So you don't remember, but you're trying to confess to murdering three people?"

"I … I don't …" Will paused, looking confused and frankly scared. He looked back up to the dais where Duncan sat and Horace stood behind him.

Horace was nowhere to be seen. He'd left. "I don't know," Will finished.

A door closed at the base of the keep, and Halt glanced up to see Crowley leading another figure towards where Halt stood. Will looked small, smaller than usual at least. He no longer wore the too-large clothing he had been wearing before, having been given an extra pair of his own clothing that Halt had kept in the bottom of his saddle bags. He carried no weapons—those had been confiscated—but he had a bag with simple supplies that would get him … somewhere. Hopefully to Hibernia or Skandia. He would have a week to gather his things in Redmont and leave the country, but the cabin would have everything Will needed to survive up until he … until he settled somewhere. All Halt and Crowley had to do was to let him know their plans.

When the two figures made it to where Halt stood, Will seemed to pause, and look around. Looking for Horace, Halt knew. Will had told him not to long before he left for the fateful solo mission that he and Horace were apparently in a relationship. It wasn't a surprise to Halt, but he appreciated having been told. When Will had gone missing, Halt had gone to check on Horace to find him an absolute mess. He hadn't been able to get any of his work done, thinking Will was dead or dying somewhere.

And now, he was the one that was missing.

Halt put a hand on Will's shoulder, jolting him from his pointless search. Seeing him in the light broke Halt's heart: his eyes had dark circles around his eyes, exacerbated by white-pale skin. His hair, grown out, was unwashed and dirty, messily tied away from his dirty face. Long sleeves and a dark shirt hid scars Halt didn't know the origin of. In the cell, it had been too dark to see. In the throne room, he hadn't been paying attention to how Will looked.

"Take care of yourself, Will. We'll figure this out," Halt murmured quietly. He started to continue on, to say "We'll figure this out, this is our plan" but something in his throat caught. Looking at Will, Halt saw his 15 year old apprentice, his son, scared out of his mind. He looked so young that for a moment, all Halt wanted to do was comfort him.

For a moment, he thought Will was going to go in for a hug. Halt thought they were going to hug. But then the young man dipped his head, ashamed, and pulled his shoulder from Halt's grasp.

"Don't bother, Halt. I don't want you to waste your time on me."

And then—he was gone.