A/N: Hi everyone! I'm back... if anyone is still reading this, that is XD. I hope you are all still doing well! I really do apologize for the delay. It was just really hard to write anything at all this school semester. I was balancing a full-time job/internship with several classes including this super intense capstone class that had an insane workload (my final project was 50 pages in a word document—not double spaced! I just about died). But I have finally graduated from college with a Bachelor's degree so yay! I don't know what my schedule is going to be like in the near future, but I plan to keep writing as much as I'm able. I hope this next chapter proves itself an enjoyable diversion. Thanks for reading!
ApplePower: Thanks so much for the compliment! I'm really glad you like it so far. I've had a lot of fun incorporating elements from all the different books. This work is actually turning into a bit larger of a project than I'd first anticipated XD. I'm glad Crowley and Gilan's interactions came off well—it was really fun to write them. Evanlyn is not exactly okay at the moment... Also, I hope that the ending, when we get there proves to be satisfactory *evilly rubs hands together* I've got a lot planned.
Guest: I'm really sorry about the wait. X( I'll definitely make sure that the next chapter is out much faster. Thanks so much for the compliment and the review!
Ranger-of-the-shadows: They are definitely in a tight spot—and it's only going to get tighter. I really am very much looking forward to writing them out of the mess I wrote them into XD. Thanks so much for the review!
jaymzNshed: yes they totally did, and the worst part is that it's not just the two of them who have managed to get themselves into a bit of a situation. Thanks so much for the review!
Random Flyer: Yeah, Horace won't be happy with the idea of using all that stolen money to solve their financial troubles. And yes all three of them will have their work cut out for them solving/ getting out of this situation (but I have faith in them too) X). Gilan and Halt meeting is going to be pretty fun. I'm looking forward writing how that will play out. Also, thank you so much for the encouragement and the support. It means a lot :D
Lilly-daughter of Radolso: Thanks so much for all the reviews! It made my day/s. Poor Will indeed. He doesn't really have it the best in this AU… I think it's pretty much canon that Alyss's smile is irresistible XD I'm also glad to hear that Gilan came out how I hoped he would in my writing. Also thanks so much for catching that mistake for me. I really appreciate it. It seems that there's always something, no matter how many times I edit it *sighs dramatically* Thanks again!
Dragonslover98: Yes, this chapter will have a lot of Halt in it for sure XD. Will Horace and Gilan are indeed in some deep trouble and it might not be all that easy to solve… Thanks so much for the review! It was really encouraging.
Gerbilfriend: I'm glad you are enjoying the outsiders XD There's definitely going to be more about them (and exactly what they are up to/in to), and more Gilan, Will, and Horace working together too. I really love them together. Thanks so much for the review!
TrustTheCloak: Your review totally made my day to read XD. I've actually had quite a lot of fun bringing in things from other books. I think that with Halt gone, the Outsiders and Moondarkers would totally be out of control in Araluen, since he was most responsible for kicking them out. I also think that including familiar (but not beloved) characters like Tennyson kinda makes sense all things considering XD. Horace and Will are definitely doing better. And Gilan is not in for the best of times in this chapter arc… Thanks for the review!
Chapter 14: Memories and Outsiders Part II
~x~X~x~
Tracking the traitor priest had turned out to be a fairly straightforward job. Once Gilan had gotten the man's last seen direction of travel from witnesses in the village, he'd been able to sweep the area until he'd come across the man's trail. Seeing as how the ground was moist, the trail was easy to follow once it was found.
Tennyson and the other priest that had hired him had insisted upon following along. They had also brought along two others whom Gilan guessed to be bodyguards based on their sturdy builds, crossbows, and swords.
He couldn't say that he was especially pleased to have those four men at his back. But, then again, it had been a long time since he hadn't minded having someone at his back, he thought with a wry smile. Besides, he'd put up with worse for the sake of coin before. He shrugged mentally, muffling another cough.
"Are you quite certain that he went this way?" Tennyson demanded suddenly from behind him. He sounded almost confused.
Gilan turned to level a look back at him. "Positive."
"But if he kept going this way, it would lead him straight to…" the second priest said before he stopped abruptly, nervously licking his lips. "Towards the area were the bandits of Balsennis always came from," he finally finished.
Gilan narrowed his eyes and only just hid a smile. The man had just as good as confirmed that they were working with the bandits with that statement. If Gilan had to guess, he'd say that both priests were confused that the thief was heading towards the bandits with his stolen goods, because they were working together. A man who had just stolen from their group would hardly run to its other members. It was the only reason for the two priests to be confused that the thief was going this way. From their point of view, the thief should be trying to avoid this area like the plague.
He didn't let on about his suspicions though and instead asked innocently, "why is that surprising? As a traitor to your Alseiass god, wouldn't it make sense that he'd go to the other?"
Tennyson and the other priest exchanged the very briefest of side glances with each other, hesitating before Tennyson hastily answered. "Because the followers of Balsennis are so ruthless that they would sooner kill him and take the tithes for themselves before they'd welcome him or offer him refuge."
Gilan outwardly nodded at them in acceptance of their excuse. But the minimal side glances, hesitation, and hasty answer had as good as confirmed that his first assumption had been correct. He looked back to the tracks, frowning slightly as he discretely cleared his throat to stop another cough. His head ached and felt overstuffed, but he forced himself to focus. There was a question that needed to be answered. The question was, why, if what he had just inferred was true, was the man heading towards the bandits? It didn't make sense. There was something significant there—something important that he was missing. But his head was currently too clogged with illness to make any sort of quick sense of it.
Just then, he heard the sound of many footfalls coming behind them and he turned fully, hand on his sword hilt. His actions were mirrored by the other four in their party. The two bodyguards even started to raised their crossbows before they lowered them, obviously familiar with the approaching men—which consisted of several village watch members, two other priests, and two village men.
"What on earth is going on?" Tennyson asked them.
"Tennyson!" one said urgently. "Kenton didn't take the tithes after all! He dropped them off at the miller's shop! Left a note saying so."
"So, you have the tithes?" Tennyson said relieved, before annoyance crept into his tone, "I'm glad you brought the message, but why did you bring the entire village watch to tell me that?"
"We didn't. That's the thing; before we could get the tithes from where Kenton left them. Two boys came into the shop and stole them! We gave chase but lost them in the forest near the river."
"So you did lose it!" Tennyson said, all the grandfatherly warmth in his tone dissolving in an instant. Then he seemed to gather himself, calm down slightly. He gestured to Gilan. "It's no matter; we'll just have this woodsman track those two boys instead of Kenton. I've already seen that he's good enough to be able to find the trail from wherever you lost sight of them. I am already paying him to help us track down the tithes—it shouldn't matter whom he has to track in the process."
"Except it won't work," one of the priests said—eyes focusing, and then narrowing, on Gilan.
"And why not?" the anger was creeping back into Tennyson's voice along with condescension at being challenged by a subordinate. Tennyson was obviously a man who was not often told what he could or couldn't do.
"Because he's in on it!" the priest said emphatically. "I saw him with the very two boys who stole the tithes earlier today."
Nobody, including Gilan, had expected to hear that. Had his head been clear and his reflexes not dulled by aching and fatigue, he might have been able to put it all together faster, see what was coming soon enough to draw his own bow before they did—or even make a hostage of Tennyson to guarantee his escape and safety. But his head wasn't clear; and although he had started to reach for his weapons before the man had even finished speaking, his response was milliseconds to slow. The two bodyguards were fractionally faster. He found himself standing with his weapon only three quarters drawn, staring down at the murderous heads of four loaded crossbows all aimed at his heart. The rest of the watch moved in to surround him.
Head spinning with the sudden turn everything had taken, as well as what he was certain was the start to a fever, he stood frozen, tense. For the life of him, he still couldn't seem to piece together the string of events that had led to this but had little enough time to dwell on that.
He saw no other option but to obey when he was ordered to drop his weapons. Once he did, the men moved in and he found himself forced to kneel before Tennyson, his hands bound tightly, roughly, behind his back. The tension in his body was the only outward sign he allowed of the building unease and worry beginning to coil in his chest: for Will and Horace as much as himself. Because, somehow, they were involved in this mess—even if he didn't fully understand how. A sudden sick feeling in his stomach mingled with spinning in his head.
~x~X~x~
Will and Horace glanced surreptitiously at each other before coming to a mutual decision. Quietly, they both made their way towards the side of the alcove that was covered by the river plants. They inched out a pace or two and then stopped and listened.
The sounds of the searchers that had hounded them had long since passed from their range of hearing while they had been hidden beneath their cover. However, neither of them was fully certain that that meant their pursuers had moved on altogether. Step by cautious step, they eased along the cliff-like side of the bank through the reeds and cattails. They listened carefully for any hint of danger but came up with nothing. Feeling a little more encouraged, they broke free of the cover of the reeds. Both halted as soon as they did so, waiting for some cry of alarm—but there was nothing. They glanced uneasily at each other before they shrugged.
Will lead the way through the shallows, Horace following behind him, clutching the sodden bag to his chest. They stayed that way, sometimes swimming when the water got too deep, and staying well away from the faster currents but always moving downstream until the high banks lowered enough for them to climb up. Once they were in the relative safety of the woods, they finally deemed it safe enough to speak again.
"What do we do now?" Horace asked a touch breathlessly, gesturing to the bag of jewels and coin held close to his chest. "There's enough money here to last us two winters without work."
Horace saw Will tilt his head slightly in obvious thought.
"No," Horace preempted him in a tone that brooked no argument, "this money belongs to the village!"
"I wasn't thinking anything like that," Will said innocently, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I was just wondering what to do about it. I mean, those men think we stole it after all. We wouldn't get more than three paces into the village if we just tried to bring it back." He chewed on his lip. "We should take it to Gilan. He'll know what to do. He should probably be back at camp by now."
Horace nodded, shouldering the sack again with a soft grunt, before looking at Will expectantly.
"What?" Will asked after a moment.
Horace gestured with his free hand. "Aren't you going to, you know, lead the way?"
"Why me?" Will asked.
"I don't know," Horace said, reddening a little. "It's just that you usually do that, and you were the one who studied the map with Gilan earlier."
"I wasn't exactly paying attention to directions and landmarks while we were running," Will admitted.
Horace looked surprised by that revelation. "I thought that with people like you and Gilan it was just, I don't know, innate?"
"I was a little preoccupied with running for my life at the time in case you didn't notice," Will pointed out a little hotly.
"No, I noticed," Horace said in answer.
Will narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Horace's guileless expression, unable to tell at that moment whether he'd said it as a sarcastic jibe or a straightforward innocent remark. Horace's face gave nothing away and Will eventually decided to give his friend the benefit of the doubt. He let out his breath in a short puff of air before looking around at the surrounding woodlands trying to pinpoint their location.
"I think it's that way," Will said finally, remembering how the sun had warmed his back as he'd run from the village. "At least, it should get us closer to where we were. I should be able to find our way back to camp from there."
Horace merely nodded in response and followed after, trusting Will's judgment implicitly.
"I just hope our luck clears up before my birthday," Horace said finally as they trudged along.
Will frowned slightly at that remark, unconsciously hunching in on himself. He gave only an uncustomary curt nod in response, not looking at Horace.
There was a moment of silence and then. "Are you alright, Will?"
Will tensed instinctively.
"Oh, I'm just fine, it's been a lovely day for me: getting framed for thievery, getting chased and almost killed by a village watch. I wish every day were like this, actually." Will said, his tone pitched a little higher, a little tighter, than normal.
Horace took a slow patent breath. "I was here for that part of it," he pointed out calmly. "I meant before that. You've seemed a little… upset today."
Will felt the defensive tension draining out of him. Horace had, after all, confided in him earlier about his fear of fast-moving water. And that level of trust went both ways… at least, Will wanted it to. He glanced back at Horace and took a breath to steady himself.
"I don't know—don't remember… when my birthday is," he said finally, attempting a casual shrug. He snuck a glance at Horace as the bigger boy looked back at him. His expression went from surprise to confusion and then to something along the lines of guilt within the span of a second.
"Not even an idea?" he asked finally.
Will shook his head in answer. "I don't actually remember all that much before Bawtry," he said carefully. "Not my last name, my birthday… or my mother's face." The last he said softly, almost too quiet to be heard aloud, but Horace did. He stopped short.
Horace seemed to be searching for something to say before he finally settled on, "I'm sorry."
Will shrugged again. "It's not your fault. It's just that I sometimes wish that I did remember those things—I keep thinking that if I did, I might be able to remember more about my mother, or maybe even my father… and that I might feel less like I'm… missing something, I guess. So, when you told us about your birthday this morning, I guess I just got a little jealous."
"I… I don't remember my mother's face either," Horace admitted quietly.
It was Will's turn to be surprised. Although, that feeling was quickly swept away by another: empathy or perhaps understanding. He put a hand on Horace's free shoulder and Horace gripped his in return briefly.
"Maybe we'll both remember someday?" Horace suggested hopefully after a pause.
"Maybe," Will said, smiling wryly.
"And if neither of us remembers, we could always come up with a new last name and a new birthday for you," Horace suggested then.
Will smiled, more genuinely this time. "I think I'd like that."
It took a little longer than they wanted, but Will and Horace finally did make it back to camp—only to find it empty. Will glanced at the low angle of the setting sun and frowned.
"Gilan should have been back by now."
"Maybe he found a job in the village and is still on it?"
Will nodded thoughtfully but couldn't brush away a certain uneasy feeling that had started to take root in his chest. That small worm of doubt only seemed to grow as the sun disappeared entirely behind the horizon.
"What if something happened?"
Horace shrugged a little, nudging the toe of his boot into the cursed grain bag which he'd set near the place he'd chosen as his seat.
"Gil can take care of himself."
"I know. It's just I've got a bad feeling about all this. He gestured to the bag and then in the direction of the village."
Horace frowned. "Well, it's not like we can just go and check. What would we even say? Hello, please don't kill us, we promise we only stole your stuff by accident and, by the way, have you seen our friend?"
It was Will's turn to frown. It did, admittedly, sound bad when put like that. The only sensible thing for them to do, it seemed, was to wait. And wait…. Will tried, he really did. But, the more he waited, the more uneasy he got. He glanced at the growing shadows of night and nodded to himself, his mind made up. Turning, he stilled himself to ignore the protests he knew would follow as soon as he shared his decision.
"I'm going to sneak into the village and see what I can find out."
~x~X~x~
The Wargals were closing in on an old man. Each of the bestial creatures had their weapons drawn as the moved in from all sides. Crowley could guess the outcome of this confrontation as easily as the cowering man could. The man sank to his shaking knees on the ground before them, begging for his life, his slim weathered arms raised in a pathetic attempt to protect his vulnerable head.
It had been the sound of the man's screams, pleas, and wracked sobs that had drawn Crowley further out from the safety of the woods and towards the edge of open farmland. In the distance, he could see the small shape of the village that the farmlands surrounded. All those factors decided Crowley now. The town being so far distant significantly decreased the threat of retribution. In a split second, he had calculated the risks and found them acceptable. Although he had so far been able to keep to his plan of lying low, his conviction wasn't about to last in a situation like this. It just simply wasn't in his nature to stand by when someone needed help and he was in a position to provide it.
Stepping out from cover with his bow drawn, he pitched his voice loud enough to draw the wargals' attention.
"Step away from him!"
At the sound of his call, six Wargal heads turned in his direction. For a moment, the creatures seemed as baffled by his sudden appearance as they were by the fact that someone was standing up to them. Crowley's mouth twitched down in a frown as he realized that it probably had been a long time since anyone in the village had dared to stand up to them or any of Morgarath's men for that matter. Their bafflement didn't last long however as, one after the other, their grotesque faces pulled back into snarls.
"Last warning!" Crowley told them. "Just back away. There's no need to make this ugly."
But the Wargals disagreed apparently. The one closest to the old man raised his club high with the obvious intention to swing it down upon the old man's unprotected head. Crowley's first arrow was on its way in the span of an eye blink. The arrow hit the first Wargal square in the chest and the next two were on their way before Crowley really had the chance to think about what he had just done. All he knew was that he couldn't just stand by and watch the creatures murder someone. All three fell unmoving.
As one, the remaining Wargals charged towards him. Crowley let his next arrows fly, trying to draw the beasts away from their victim and succeeding. Three more Wargals fell before they were able to cross the distance to where he stood. Crowley was only able to get off one more shot before the remaining ones were upon him. The one nearest swiped forward with a heavy club. Crowley ducked under the vicious swipe and pivoted to the left to buy himself distance and time as he exchanged his bow for his two knives, knowing that his bow would do little good for him at such close quarters.
Then, suddenly, he was no longer alone. He sensed rather than heard or saw another presence beside and slightly behind him. Fearing that he'd been flanked, he whirled just in time to see a cowled and bearded man fire his own longbow at the Wargals. The four Wargals nearest Crowley fell in quick succession.
Perhaps, Crowley found himself thinking, his earlier assessment that no one here had the courage to stand against the Wargals could stand to be revised a little. But he had little enough time to dwell on that. Both he and his strange ally renewed their attack on the bestial creatures, Crowley with his two knives and the cowled man with his bow, until the last Wargal fell.
Crowley turned his attention to the man who had helped him, hands still on his knives until the other man sheathed an unused arrow and slung his bow back over his shoulder. After the man had gone to the trouble to help him, Crowley doubted that he would attack him, but it always paid to be cautious. Crowley let out a breath when he saw that the man was clearly not presenting himself as a threat and sheathed his own knives before studying the man more closely.
The man was dark-haired and grizzled. He wore a cloak in a similar design to Crowley's own, but it was a dull forest green instead of mottled. He also had a saxe and throwing knife placed in scabbards set close together on one hip in addition to his bow. His dress, movements, the skill of his shooting, and his manner seemed to strike a familiar chord in Crowley—reminded him of a Ranger… reminded him of… He shook his head slightly, pushing that thought and feeling away. Instead, he smiled warmly at the stranger.
"Thanks for lending a hand with that lot. You made my job much easier."
"Taking on entire Wargal patrols single-handed. Interesting strategy," the newcomer said, and Crowley noticed a Hibernian accent.
"Well it must have worked because I'm still around and breathing and they aren't," Crowley replied, eyes smiling.
"That one way of looking at it, I suppose."
The stranger said it completely deadpan as he stepped closer until they were level with each other. But before they could say anything further, the old man that they had just saved seemed to break free of his cowering trance. He glanced from the dead Wargals to the Hibernian and then to Crowley. His mouth moved but no words came out, his whole body shaking. Crowley was about to take a step towards the man when he finally found his voice and rose shakily to his feet.
"You're crazy, you two are!" he screamed before turning and running away as fast as he could go in his awkward hobble.
Crowley looked after the man, dumbfounded. Then he directed his attention back to the Hibernian when the man spoke.
"Well, that's certainly an interesting way of saying 'thank you'."
"It sort of gives off the impression of not being thankful at all—If you think about it," Crowley agreed a faint smile touching his lips.
"Oh, I doubt he did," the Hibernian said, again without the faintest trace of a smile.
Crowley chuckled and could not help but feel a sort of familiarity, a sort of instinctive liking. Crowley was still thinking on it when the man spoke again.
"And here comes our thank you gift, I suppose."
"What?" Crowley asked, startled from his thoughts as he followed the man's pointing finger and froze.
There, jogging towards them at full speed, was another party of Wargals, this one much larger than the one they had just taken down. It must have been another patrol—one that had been close enough to hear the sounds of fighting. Worse still, they seemed to be heading very purposely towards them.
"I suppose it'd be too much to hope that they're not after us and are instead simply late for a shift change, wouldn't it?"
The Hibernian glanced at the charging line of Wargals and tilted his head quizzically before glancing back at Crowley with a raised eyebrow.
"Thought so," Crowley lamented. "And now the question is what exactly we should do about it."
"Getting out of here might be a good place to start," his companion suggested flatly, calmly—as if he wasn't just about to be run down by a pack of Wargals.
"I'd say that's a good idea considering the circumstances," Crowley agreed, grinning again and keeping pace with the Hibernian as they raced towards and then into the forest, intent on losing their pursuers. And with all the excitement of chasing after them, the Wargals would probably forget about the old man, at least—that was something, Crowley could not help thinking as they raced for their lives.
Crowley turned to his new companion and grinned, holding out a hand as he ran.
"Name of Crowley, by the way," he said between heavy breaths. "Might as well get to know each other since we might well die together if we don't make it out of this."
There was a moment of something, hesitation perhaps, before the Hibernian clasped hands with him in return.
"Halt."
~x~X~x~
Cordell led his horse through the open gate of the castle that served as one of Morgarath's main centers of operation. It was one of the nicest castles in his holdings, after all. Once inside the courtyard, he dismounted, dragging the young princess off the horse by the back of her tunic. He set her beside where he stood, gripping her by her left shoulder. She was bound hand a foot and gagged, so he had no need to grip her tightly. She was not about to escape him. He was about to move forward when Morgarath's right-hand man Teezal stepped out of the castle's central tower to meet him.
"What have you got there, Cordell?" he asked sneeringly once he was close enough. "My lieutenant told me that you said you have something of high importance to deliver to Lord Morgarath. He glanced around and behind Cordell before asking, "and where are your men? Don't tell me that this wench defeated them all before you managed to catch her."
His tone was condescending, mocking, and it made Cordell bristle.
"This wench, as you call her, is nothing less than the crown princess of Araluen. Duncan's brat." He sneered back, feeling the girl flinch slightly as he revealed her identity. She started to struggle again but stopped when he cuffed her hard on the back of her head.
He was inordinately pleased when his announcement thoroughly shocked Teezal.
"That's the crown princess?" Teezal spluttered.
"It is," Cordell informed him. "I was close to the king for a while, remember? I'd recognize her anywhere. I caught her trying to sneak back into Araluen by ship. I heard Lord Morgarath was looking for her—paid a foreign warlord for her capture. Well, I found her, and I intend to deliver her Lord Morgarath."
Teezal seemed to regain his composure a little after that, his sneer returning. "I'm afraid you just missed him. He's on his way to his fortress in the Mountains of Rain and Night to work on…" he trailed and glanced briefly at the princess before continuing, "his project. It's a key part of his recent plan, as you know, and he isn't expected back any time soon."
Cordell felt his face beginning to flush with the beginnings of anger and irritation—both at Teezal and at the situation.
"But you can give the princess to me," Teezal said smoothly. "I can make certain to deliver her to our lord for you so you can get back to your men and job at the border."
Cordell's anger flared entirely to life at that suggestion. "And let you take all the credit for her capture? I think not! The Mountains of Rain and Night are not too far out of my way. Give me some supplies and I'll be gone by sundown."
Teezal snarled at this and Cordell smirked knowing that he'd won this argument.
"Very well," Teezal said finally, as he signaled to his men, "have it your way."
Cordell smirked again; he certainly intended to. If anyone was to get the credit, reward, and glory for capturing the princess, it was going to be him—even if he had to add an extra day or two's ride. His hand gripped unconsciously tighter on the princess's shoulder until she let out a muffled cry.
~x~X~x~
It took a while of running and careful maneuvering to leave the Wargals behind and ensure that they wouldn't be able to track them. By then, both Halt and Crowley had made it deep into the woods and were panting for breath. Halt regarded his onetime best friend, looking him over carefully for the first time in what seemed like ages. He hadn't had the time to earlier as he'd been more focused on helping him fend off that Wargal attack. He had to admit that seeing Crowley had been the very last thing he'd expected to see while tracking the princess through Morgarath's lands. It had been unexpected but, at the same time, it had been the most welcome sight he'd seen in what seemed like a lifetime.
As he studied him now, he saw that his friend looked almost exactly the same as he had in that other time; his expressions, his eyes, the way he carried himself. It was all so much the same that it made Halt's chest ache slightly with familiarity and longing.
But there was one glaring difference. Halt felt his mouth drawing down slightly at the corners as his gaze roved over the massive scar that cut its way deeply through Crowley's face. Halt's fingers flexed, twitched, moving almost of their own accord toward his old friend as if he could somehow brush away that horrible scar and all the pain that had likely come with it. His brain caught up with his heart and he checked the motion before it had been completed more than halfway. He forced his arm to drop and his fingers to relax. He hated that scar. He hated it for what it represented: he'd abandoned his friend and Crowley had paid the price. He had failed.
Crowley seemed wholly unaware of Halt's thoughts or feelings because he merely smiled an all too achingly familiar smile at him.
"Well, Halt, I think we gave them the slip."
"Appears so," Halt agreed, trying and failing to phrase the many questions he wanted to ask, to find the answers he wanted to know, trying to bury that ever-growing ache that had taken hold in his heart.
"I doubt they'll be able to find us," Crowley continued, before glancing at the fading sunlight, "and here seems as good a place as any to camp. Unless you object or have somewhere you need to be."
Halt mutely shook his head in answer and set himself to the task of helping his onetime best friend set up a camp. All the while he'd felt the relief, hope, and excitement—which had previously been making him feel lighter than he had in ages—seep slowly and steadily away as he looked into Crowley's eyes and found them missing the depth and weight of the years of friendship that had shaped their lives together all those years ago.
Halt had just finished lighting the fire when Crowley spoke.
"I couldn't help but notice that we seem to share many of the same skills and weapons? Where did you come by them?"
The sense of memory and familiarity that came with that simple question weighed heavy in his chest to mingle with that painful realization that the familiarity really was only on his part. Crowley didn't remember him, didn't know him in this time.
He didn't know what he had expected, he hadn't thought all that much about it—had been purposely avoiding thinking about it. He just hoped… he'd hoped that, somehow, when he met up with Crowley and the others he'd once known, that they'd somehow remember him too: remember everything they'd lived through together, everything that had been, everything they'd all lost.
There had been a brief moment when he'd thought that Crowley might have remembered him… but the moment had passed. And Halt was left with nothing but the painful realization that Crowley didn't know him. They were nothing more than strangers now. The friendship that they had built together was lost, counted for nothing in this time.
That feeling of hope and happiness that had previously gripped him turned sour as he cursed himself bitterly for foolishly allowing himself to hope, to expect anything better than what this was. He roughly shoved the feeling aside. There was nothing to be done about it now but move forward and work with what he had to start again, rebuild what they had once had.
He gave no outward show of any of those thoughts and merely nodded at Crowley before launching into the story he'd prepared for himself in the event he ran into another Ranger who he hadn't been close enough to remember—he hadn't thought he'd have to use it on Crowley, but there it was.
He'd long since come to the conclusion that Pritchard had to be dead in this time, had died or had been executed instead of being banished from Araluen. That was the only way to explain how everything had changed in this time. So, he started there, hoping he had guessed correctly.
He told his onetime friend how he had been Pritchard's apprentice but hadn't been able to finish his training before Pritchard had been executed for false charges, while Halt himself had been sent to Gallica, banished from the kingdom. He'd told how, only a year after he'd arrived there, he'd been hit in the head during the battle, lost his memory, and had been wandering around Gallica with amnesia ever since. He explained that it was only recently he regained his memory and had decided to return home to Araluen. Then he told of Evanlyn or Cassandra, how she'd recognized him as a Ranger and how he had saved her from that knight. He told about Deparnieux and their narrow escape. He told how he had tried to bring Evanlyn back to Araluen safely, only to run into the Moondarkers and Morgarath's men.
He knew far too many details about Pritchard, Cassandra, and the Rangers for Crowley to doubt his story; so he wasn't surprised when Crowley not only believed him but also promised instantly that he'd help Halt track down Morgarath's men and save the crown princess.
There was a moment of silence as they both stared into the fire Halt had made before Crowley spoke again.
"I can't believe Pritchard took on another student, and that I never heard of you. But it isn't surprising. News posited to me then was always out of date—Hogarth fief was pretty isolated, as I'm sure you remember. And after Pritchard was… well… They had seized all his letters and communications before I saw any of it… I wish I had known, I might have been able to help you, both of you somehow—stop his execution and your banishment."
There was a catch in his old friend's words, and Halt knew Crowley well enough to know by the look in his eyes that his not hearing of Pritchard's fate and inability to intervene had always been, and still was, one of his deepest regrets. Then Crowley shook his head, seeming to shake the feelings and memories away with it and forced a smile.
"Enough about that though, what's done is done I suppose. You're here now."
Halt raised an eyebrow.
"If Araluen ever needed her Rangers, it's now," Crowley explained. "I'm honestly hoping you're interested in making up for lost time."
"I take it that things aren't how I left them then?"
"Couldn't be farther from it; Morgarath as good as owns half of the country. And he is always trying for more. I'm actually supposed to be investigating rumors we received of a more recent plot—but if what you said about the princess is true, that trumps my previous mission."
Halt nodded his understanding and a silence drifted over their small camp.
Halt desperately wanted to ask Crowley about everything and everyone: Will, Pauline, Gilan, Arald. He needed to know that everyone he cared about was safe, and he needed to know the exact extent of the damage Morgarath had caused to the kingdom. But he knew that wasn't a wise course of action. Crowley might trust him for now, but asking about key people, battles, and places would only arouse Crowley's suspicions, so he refrained despite how much it hurt not to know that information.
He was also keenly aware that it was highly unlikely that Crowley would know anything about Will. He was the son of a minor sergeant and farmer after all. No, as much as he hated the thought, he knew he would have to wait patiently for the right opportunities to ask, or for when he could search for them all himself. Instead, he set himself to be contented with more basic information.
"You said that the kingdom was split almost in half. I found the border on the east coast, but where is it from there?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"It isn't a perfect half," Crowley said bitterly. "It cuts at an angle and sort of bows a little. Redmont fief belongs to Morgarath and Aspeinne is now a border fief in the King's lands—if that gives you more of an indication of the shape."
It did. Halt felt his heart rate increase slightly as he heard about Redmont and Aspienne. That put Arald, Rodney, Will, and a lot of the people he had known in danger. He took a small amount of comfort in the knowledge that at least Aspienne hadn't fallen to Morgarath. There was a chance that Will was still out there and alright. Will… he felt a lump grow in his throat as he remembered those bright eager brown eyes.
"The fief that sits on the new border on the west coast is Highcliff," Crowley continued before he stopped, seeming to be waiting for some sort of reply from Halt.
Halt tried to gather his scattered thoughts and shove his worry down enough to respond, feigning only academic interest. "Highcliff fief is ruled by Baron Douglass as I recall? And Geron is the Battlemaster?"
"It was like that fifteen years ago—but hasn't been since the battle of Hackham Heath. Douglass is still the Baron, but Sir David has been appointed the new Battlemaster on account of Highcliff becoming a border fief. It makes it an important strategic position. The King thought it would be wise to post a more experienced commander there."
Halt nodded placidly but inwardly he was reeling. That turn in the conversation had provided him with the perfect opportunity to find out about two people that he had cared dearly for in that other time if he played his hand right.
"Sir David of Caraway fief, the cavalry commander? I remember meeting him before I was banished. He's a good man and a good commander. If he's minding the fief, I'm sure it's in good hands."
Crowley nodded in agreement. "That's the one. And yes, he is that."
Halt felt a small weight lift off him. He knew for certain that two people he cared dearly for were alive and well: Crowley and Sir David. But there was one more person he dearly needed to know about now that he had the chance.
"Sir David has a son, doesn't he?" Halt asked as casually as he could manage.
Crowley's smile faded a little.
"Had a son," Crowley corrected him. "Sir David lost him not too long after the Battle of Hackham Heath."
His friend's words had not been either dismissive, unfeeling, or cruel; he was simply stating what he knew to be a fact. But despite that, they still hit Halt like a punch to the gut.
After a moment, he found a pretense to leave in gathering more firewood. He walked away in a daze wanting nothing more at that moment than the company of solitude. Once he was a decent distance from their camp, he stopped under the shadow of a tree before reaching out a numb hand to steady himself against its thick trunk. His breathing became as ragged as if all the wind had been knocked out of him as he tried to process all he had heard.
Gilan was dead? Dead... His hands were trembling. He couldn't breathe. Dead. He felt his legs buckle underneath him and he sank slowly down to the ground, still struggling to get air into his lungs, through a throat that was nearly closed with the ever-building pain of grief. The chill autumn wind cut bitterly into the wetness on his face, but Halt hardly felt it.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. It shouldn't have been like this—couldn't be like this... That steadily building self-loathing that had plagued him ever since he had first remembered gave suddenly away into hatred. Morgarath... he had done this—and Halt had as good as let him. He gritted his teeth even as his vision swam. There wasn't going to be some happy fairy-tale ending to this. No heroic tale of overcoming odds. It simply was. The hatred gave focus to a grim resolve.
He might have failed to save them all... save Gilan... and maybe he couldn't change that, maybe he couldn't fix this. But he could end the person who had truly caused all this, could end the person who had brought his friends so much pain—destroyed everything before it truly had the chance to start. Maybe he was already too late to save everyone... but he could still save Evanlyn, he could find Will—and avenge everyone else.
"I'm sorry Gilan."
~x~X~x~
Tennyson glared down at the mercenary at his feet, furious for being taken for a fool. It wasn't often that someone played him like this, he thought bitterly. And he certainly didn't appreciate it. He dropped the act of kindly, humble, priest in an instant. Knowing it was safe to do so because all those around him were in his inner circle and knew the extent of everything. He took a menacing step forward.
"So you thought you could con me, did you, mercenary? You thought you could play both sides, make money off my need while your friends stole from me? I don't know how you got the information to pull this off, but it matters little now. I might not have the tithes," he said, a sarcastic edge to the word, "and I might not have your two friends… but I do have you."
Before he'd even finished speaking, he struck forward, lost in his fury. The blow connected with the mercenary's face and the power of it sent him sprawling, leaving Tennyson's bodyguard to pull the mercenary back up to his knees.
Tennyson leaned forward and grabbed the mercenary's hair, forcing his head back and speaking in his ear. "So, now, let me tell you what is going to happen. You are going to tell me where I will find your two young friends and my tithes." He let go of the man's hair. "Where. Are. They?" He demanded following each word with another blow while his bodyguards held the man in place.
He stopped, panting for breath waiting for the man to answer. The mercenary only shrugged, a casual uncaring gesture that the situation made more than a little infuriating. He spat blood and then said simply, "I don't know."
The angry growl that sprang from Tennyson's lips was nearly as startling to him as the ferocity of his next strike.
"I'll ask you one more time: where are they? Where did you arrange to meet?"
But the mercenary didn't answer, just looked him over deliberately, carefully, as if committing his face to memory before steadily meeting his gaze, his lips twisting up in a faint, humorless, and bloody smile. Tennyson was taken aback. It was more than a little unsettling. A man in the mercenary's position really shouldn't be smiling at him like that. But he quickly turned the unnerved feeling into rage.
"You will tell me! One way or the other…"
A/N: Thanks for reading! Leave a review if you've a mind to! I'd enjoy hearing your thoughts. Also, don't hesitate to let me know if you see any room for improvement or have any suggestions. I'm learning after all, so input is very valuable.
There should only one more part left to this little chapter arc. Also, for those who have been asking, there will be some answers as to the nature of Gilan's past next chapter. The full story, though, won't probably won't come out until four to five more chapters in—depending on how things go.
I wish you all the best until next time!