A/N: A belated Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone! I hope you are all having a pleasant conclusion to your year! (If you follow the Gregorian calendar, that is). It's been awfully quiet here in the RA fanfiction forum/page lately, so I hope you all are well. Anyway, here's the chapter that several of you have been waiting for (the one with all the answers/the truth about Gilan's past). As the whole chapter takes place in the past/is a flashback, it mainly focuses on Gilan, Sir David, and Baron Douglass. I know that's a little bit more narrow of a view than usual, but I felt it needed to be done. If it helps any, I will be moving to an arc mostly centered on Will, Horace, Alyss and Evanlyn and their adventures next chapter as we move towards the climax. Again, I'm sorry it took longer than I anticipated to get to this point. I hope the answers are satisfying and seem believable for the characters and the situations they were in. I really enjoyed writing this one and I hope it is at least a little enjoyable to read X)

Inspiration for this chapter came from the first few stanzas of the old Irish folk song Moorlough Shore:

Your hills and dales and flowery vales
That lie near the Moorlough Shore.
Your vines that blow by Borden's grove.
May I never see you more.

Where the primrose blows
And the violet grows,
And the trout and salmon play.

With my line and hook, delight I took
To spend my youthful days.

Jammeke: Thanks so much for your review! I'm glad to know that you enjoyed the last chapter despite my problems getting it out. I'm of the opinion that Halt definitely knows his apprentices too well for them to be able to hide things from him. I hadn't initially planned to write that part about Sir David but, I realized as I was working on the chapter, that it was a scene that would probably need to happen because of everything he learns from the others. I'm excited to write more clearing up misunderstandings as the story goes on. I love Will and Halt and it's been interesting exploring what their relationship would be/how it would reform when Will doesn't remember much more than unclear and fleeting impressions. Thanks again for taking the time to review! It totally made my day!

Gerbilfriend: Yup, the story is a little bit of a mess and definitely does suck. I really like Halt and Pauline together so I had to have them meet again. Poor Halt though indeed. I'm looking forward to bringing the focus back to Horace and Will next chapter. I really love the two of them too! Thank you so much for your review! It made me super happy XD

TrustTheCloak: Yes, he's definitely not blameless, but there's a lot more to the story, and to his actual level of involvement in it all than Arald knows. The tension will all come to a head soon and I'm really looking forward to writing the resolutions to everything. There are a lot of characters that have unfinished arcs that need answers and conclusions after all. Well, Gilan does have a penchant for doing things like that on occasion so it's definitely possible. X) That's totally fine! No need to apologize: life comes first after all. I hope all is well. Thanks for reading and for your review! It very much made my day XD

Chapter 22: Highcliff Fief Part IV

~x~X~x~

Around a Few Years After the Battle of Hackham Heath

~x~X~x~

Fourteen-year-old Gilan chuckled to himself as he guided the battle horse down the wooded and night-shadowed path that led from the farmlands to the village, enjoying the sense of freedom and speed he always felt when he was on horseback. The horse he rode wasn't his though; rather, it belonged to Sir Kiran, one of the senior knights. Gilan grinned again as he thought back on the prank that he'd just pulled. He'd discovered, while on march one day, that one of the outlying farmers had a raggedy horse that had almost the exact same markings and colorings as Sir Kiran's horse. The only difference was that the farmer's horse was a lot smaller and a bit more run down and shaggy. As soon as he'd noticed this, he hadn't been able to pass up the opportunity it presented.

The night before the day when Sir Kiran was to be one of the riders in the parade in honor of Highcliff Castle's yearly tournament, he had replaced the knight's battle horse with the farm horse. Sir Kiran's face had been priceless and he'd been the butt of many a joke from his fellow knights for at least a week after. Sir Kiran had actually had to suffer with the wrong horse for about two weeks now, and Gilan knew that all the other knights had pretty much given up on lying in wait to try and catch out the prankster when he tried to swap back the horses. That was why he had waited so long to make the trade.

Yes, it had been a very worthwhile prank, he thought, still grinning. It was almost as good as the time that he had managed to lace the Drill Master's soup with a murderously hot foreign spice at banquet, or the time that he'd replaced the Drill Master's stirrups with smaller versions that he couldn't quite get his feet through—and the man had not noticed the change until he'd tried to mount his horse. There was also the time that Gilan had dug a small pitfall near where the Battleschool instructors usually stood to shout their orders and filled it with the same foul muck that they used to fill the pit in the training obstacle course. All the cadets had had a good laugh that day; a laugh that was worth the punishment run they'd all had to take part in later.

Or maybe it was nearly as good as the time when he'd caught that huge angry sow, tied some fake tusks made from branches onto her, and then set her loose in the castle courtyard one night after screaming—in a voice that had been as far from his true one as he could make it—that there was a wild boar in the castle grounds. Then he had found himself a quiet out of the way spot to sit and watch the chaotic hilarity unfold as the knights scrambled to stop the 'dangerous beast'. All in all, it had been a very good year for pranks. And the best part of all was that he had not been caught yet.

Although he was pretty sure his father, the Battlemaster, suspected—probably knew, even if he couldn't prove it—that Gilan was the one responsible for it all. He frowned a little as he thought of his father. For as long as he could remember, his father had been pushing him, training him, to be a knight like him and follow in his footsteps. It seemed as if absolutely everything had a lesson about knighthood attached to it whenever his father was involved.

But Gilan had grown sick to death of all the discipline and formality of a soldier's life since he'd turned twelve. Every day was an endless, and mindless, litany of repeated drills and lessons—lessons that he'd learned years ago thanks to his father. He was just so bored all the time; the only challenges were the ones he set for himself. He chewed his lip as he thought on it, guiding the borrowed horse down the left trail when it forked. He could see the village lights up ahead now.

Ever since he'd turned twelve he'd had this pervasive sense of discontentment. It was as if he had a feeling that he'd known something better once, that there was something better out there, something he was missing, and something else that he wanted. But he'd never been able to place it—let alone do something about it. The one thing he did know was that he didn't want the life of a knight and that he'd never before felt to stifled and trapped on a path that wasn't his own…

As he neared the lights of the village, he dismounted. The last thing he wanted was to catch any undue attention by galloping blithely through the town. Instead, he led the horse as he walked. There were quite a few people out and about at this late hour, the majority either leaving or coming to the tavern. It caused a surprising amount of foot traffic around that area—surprising, that was, until he became aware of the sounds of music and singing inside. There was a jongleur visiting the village.

Gilan nodded to himself. That explained the crowd. A wandering minstrel was fairly big excitement in a small village. In fact, he found himself moving towards the direction of the tavern. He always loved it when jongleurs traveled here, loved the music and the festive happy atmosphere. He was still angling toward the building when a merchant—who had obviously been indulging in the tavern's drink for longer than most would consider prudent—tripped over a stone in the road as he was leaving. The man, just too tipsy to properly regain his balance, windmilled his arms desperately—one of which still held quite a full bottle of strong-smelling drink. He stumbled sideways, colliding headlong with Gilan.

Gilan had tried to sidestep, but the man's closeness to him, coupled with the randomness of the direction he had taken as he stumbled, spoiled the attempt. He found himself on the ground, tangled with the merchant and completely soaked by the man's drink, which had splattered onto his face and down his surcoat front. He spluttered, trying to push the man off of him. The merchant, for his part, tried to get off of Gilan. But all of his clumsy attempts seemed only to make everything worse. Gilan finally managed to disentangle himself and roll free. He rose to his feet, more than a little annoyed. But, if he was annoyed, then the merchant was furious.

"Stupid boy! You should watch where you're going!" he yelled, rising awkwardly to his feet. "Look at what you've done!" he growled, gesturing to his now empty bottle.

Gilan looked at the man in mild disbelief, one eyebrow raised. Considering the merchant's current state, he didn't really consider the man's loss all that much of a problem. Besides that, it had all been the merchant's fault start to finish. If anything, Gilan should be the furious one; he'd have to scrub for hours to get the smell and stain out of his surcoat. But he knew better than to say anything along those lines. Instead, he re-gathered the battle horse's lead reins and continued on his way without a word. It wasn't worth it, and neither was the man. He kept an ear out though, just in case the drunk man was intent on trying to cause trouble or a fight, but soon relaxed.

"You knights and knight apprentices," the merchant complained as he began heading away, "always getting in the way of things!"

Gilan continued on his way, trying to ignore the pungent smell of the alcohol for the time being. After all, his only other option would be to head straight back to the castle to take care of it, and he didn't want to give up what was left of his free time just yet. He knew that he still had some time before the knights on patrol would make their circuit of the village: a patrol practice his father had initiated when he'd been stationed here because Highcliff was a border fief.

~x~X~x~

Rubin, the town's most wealthy merchant, made his slightly unsteady way home down the main street of the village. It was on the outskirts of the settlement and was, truthfully, one of the nicest houses in it. He was still upset over his lost bottle. So, as soon as he made it inside his home, he did not head upstairs to his bedchamber, nor to the left towards the kitchen and living space. Instead, he turned right: to the area of his home that he'd turned into a storeroom for all the goods he traded. It was dark, so he fumblingly lit a lantern, placing it on the ground next to him once he was near the back of the room. He bent down and lifted a secret panel in his floor that concealed a cellar just small and cool enough to house his finer wines and spirits. He was reaching down to retrieve a specific bottle, which he had in mind to be his consolation for losing the other, when he was startled by a voice. Belatedly, he recognized it as belonging to his wife.

"I thought I heard you come home. What kept you so late? I was worried," she started, but her tone grew a little angry when she saw what it was that he was holding and caught his scent. "Rubin! You promised me that you'd stop drinking! For the baby," she said, placing a hand over her stomach where their child waited.

He stood and turned angrily to face her. "And I did. What I've done tonight isn't really drinking, just celebrating over the new deal I struck. You'd not deny me that!"

"You promised!" she insisted, her voice now as desperate as it was disappointed and angry. It had the effect, such as it was, to make him angrier too.

"Damn it, woman! Am I not the master of my own house, and of myself? I'll damn well do as I please when I please!"

"You—" she started, but then stopped suddenly and stepped back as his face contorted in a rage she knew all too well from previous times that his mind had been clouded with drink.

"Get out!" he practically screamed at her. "I'll not have you talk to me like that!"

She took several more steps backward, putting her hands up in surrender and turning to hurry towards the door to leave. She stopped just under the doorjamb however, her voice much more timid than before.

"At least remember to put out the light," she warned.

"Out!" he yelled again and continued raging even after she was gone. "Stupid woman, talking to me as if I'm a child who doesn't know his own business! Talking to me as if I don't know how to care for my own storeroom!"

In his fury, he forgot to watch his footing. The side of his boot knocked into the lantern, tipping it over so that it hung precariously, half over the lip of the open hole in the floor. He quickly righted it and then slammed the trap door shut. He took the lantern with him as he left, grumbling and shouting angrily all the way. He then blew out the lantern and slammed the storeroom door shut behind him as he headed up the stairs to join his wife in bed.

What he hadn't noticed, however, was the few embers that had dropped out of the lamp as it tipped over—dropped out of the lamp to land in the dry straw that was used for packing around his wines and casks of ale, mead, and beer. Small embers flared slowly to life and then grew quickly, devouring the straw and then the wood of the casks that contained the highly combustible spirits. The fire grew terrifyingly fast after that, devouring absolutely everything in its path—and nearly devouring the merchant and his wife as they slept.

Their flight from the burning home was one of smoke and fear and confusion. The merchant only managed to save one of his possessions, a leather satchel, and, after that, his wife whose nightdress had caught alight. He knocked her to the ground as soon as they were clear, trying to roll and pat her furiously to put out the flames as she screamed in agony and he could barely breathe through his coughing and the smoke in his nose and lungs. Tears streamed down his face from the smoke he'd gotten in his eyes. His wife lay there, still screaming, crying, and moaning even after the fire was off of her. She needed help, badly.

He looked back to the burning wreckage of his house and he realized, with agonizing clarity, that he had just lost everything. For a moment he couldn't seem to breathe, and it wasn't because of the smoke this time. There would never be any compensation for his own drunken foolhardiness, he knew that. He had just lost it all. He was ruined, absolutely ruined…

Unless...

Gradually, he felt the hysteria die down a little. Unless… His mind, keen again now it was clearer of drink, focused in on the memory of the Battleschool cadet that he'd run into earlier that night—the one that had been out past dark, and most decidedly out past the Battleschool's curfew. His mind began turning as he clutched his precious satchel to him. Inside was the power, the incentive, to create a fair number of witnesses to say whatever he wanted them to.

~x~X~x~

It had been uncharacteristically hot for the past couple weeks; an out of the ordinary dry sort of heat that proved effective at making everyone uncomfortable and irritable. Odd weather often tended to put people out of sorts and on edge though, David thought. There had hardly been a cloud in the sky for weeks. In fact, today had been the first nice day in a long while, he thought idly as he glanced up at a starry sky which was now partially obstructed by slow-moving clouds. There was a cool breeze that brought with it the scent of moisture and rain; both were long overdue and more than welcome.

He checked his horse's pace as they headed through the village and the knight beside him did the same. Technically, as Battlemaster, he did not have to undergo the task of going on patrol; he, however, rather enjoyed the respite it brought from his usual scheduled duties. Patrols through the village and land surrounding the castle were usually fairly uneventful and offered him the chance to clear his mind. And he needed that—especially recently.

He and his son had been butting heads increasingly over the past year. It was always over the same thing: his son's increasing lack of application, dedication, and discipline when it came to his training as a knight. It irritated David because he knew his son could be so much more if he would just drop the discontented, restless, slightly testy and rebellious attitude he had recently gotten and apply himself. He had reached his wit's end as to what to do with the boy. He'd been preparing Gilan to be a knight since the moment he could hold a sword, and now it seemed as if he were just throwing it all away by some stubborn and willful refusal to reach his potential. David took a breath to clear his head as he glanced once more at the stars.

Then a flash of light through the trees caught his eye. He stood in his stirrups before turning to the side to call to his fellow knight as he pointed.

"There's a fire," he said, reseating himself and beginning to urge his steed to a gallop.

His companion did the same. Both of them knew that, if one of the village houses had caught aflame, people could be in desperate need of help.

"It looks like it's coming from the merchant's home," his fellow knight, Edward, said.

"Go rouse the Village Watch—we might well need their help," David ordered.

Edward nodded and broke off to the left while David rode towards the fire.

It was indeed the merchant's house that had caught aflame. As David skidded his horse to a stop, he saw that the burning building was already too far gone to be saved—even if Edward made it back quickly with the watch and they formed a bucket chain or went at it with wet sacking. His only thought after coming to that conclusion was to try and help the people.

As he thought it, his eye fell upon the form of the merchant himself, crouching over another figure. They were both a fair distance away from the blaze. David dismounted and approached them quickly. He saw then that the other figure was none other than the merchant's heavily pregnant wife who was sobbing weakly with pain. Her clothes were burned and, in the light of the fire, he could see that she had been burned too… badly so.

"Is there anyone else in there," David asked, mentally preparing himself to run in and find them if the answer was yes. But the merchant shook his head, coughing.

"Just us," he managed and David relaxed a little.

"Have you been injured?" he asked then.

The merchant shook his head again. "No, just my wife."

David bent over the injured woman to see what he could do. Most knights carried a field dressing kit with them and had a basic knowledge of wound care. He could do a little for her, but he knew she urgently needed a far more skilled healer than himself. It was then that Sir Edward arrived with some members of the Watch who had been on duty. David immediately sent one of the watchmen to the castle to go and get the castle healer. At another signal from him, Edward took over for him and Sir David turned his attention upon the merchant.

"How did this happen?" he asked then. "An accident?"

But the merchant shook his head for the third time that night. "This was no accident."

David listened as the merchant explained about a troop of village youths that had ridden through earlier. They'd been drinking, carousing, roughhousing, and playing around with fire. It was they who had set fire to his home or, more specifically, their ringleader had in an act of drunken and reckless carelessness. The merchant hadn't been able to identify most of the boys—all he knew was that they looked like typical village youths. But he could tell David something about the ringleader. He had caught the merchant's eye because he wore the surcoat of a Battleschool cadet.

David felt a stone of dread beginning to settle in the pit of his stomach as he heard the man describe the cadet in question, and the horse he had been riding; the description of the boy and the horse he rode had been just too accurate. He felt himself taking a step back in utter disbelief. He had long suspected that his son often snuck out after curfew to wander the village—possibly meeting with other village boys or even going to the tavern. But hearing it actually confirmed, and confirmed in such a manner… he looked towards the still-burning house and the injured woman, almost unable, in that moment, to catch his breath. It couldn't be…

"How long ago was this?" he found himself asking, his voice sounding strange, even to his ears.

As the merchant answered, Sir David realized that he might have a chance to catch up to his son before he reached the castle. He began to move towards his horse. Sir Edward, who had been listening, rose from where he had been crouched near the woman and jogged a few paces to catch up to him. He reached a hand towards his commanding officer, his friend, gripping his shoulder. David turned to face him.

"You don't have to do this," Edward began awkwardly, but David held up a hand to silence him.

"Yes, I do. It's my duty."

"But he's your son."

"We're way past simple points like that now," David said bitterly. "This is going to end tonight."

"But he's your son," Edward insisted, making a helpless gesture. "I could go—"

But David cut him off. "I'm the senior officer, so it's my responsibility. You stay here with the woman until the castle healer comes."

Edward nodded reluctantly. "Yes, Sir."

With that, David headed off after his son: a son who had just gone far past the point of rebellious actions and mischief—a son who, in one night, had come to betray everything David had ever stood for and everything he had ever tried to teach him. He headed down the road at a gallop while the last surviving flames from the nearly incinerated house flickered dully behind him. Smoldering ruins: that was all that was left.

Then he shook his head, trying to tell himself that it simply couldn't be. There had to be some kind of mistake: maybe the merchant hadn't seen what he thought he had, or maybe had simply seen someone else. Likely as not, David would make it all the way back to the castle to find Gilan hadn't even left. At least, that was what he desperately tried to convince himself as he spurred his horse onwards.

It had to be a mistake. It just had to be…

~x~X~x~

Gilan had dismounted to lead the officer's horse across the very edge of the open lands before the castle, heading for the secret path and entrance, when he heard the sound of rapidly approaching hoofbeats. It was barely audible over the sound of serf from the coast, but he heard it none the less. He turned to look behind him and saw that the serf had hidden the sound of the other rider until he was about one hundred meters from him. He felt his heart sink and he swore under his breath.

The sinking feeling only grew as he recognized the figure on horseback, even from that distance. Not only was he going to be caught for the first time, but caught by none other than his father. He cursed again, this time partially directed at himself. He'd been a little careless this night; his ability to easily evade notice over the years had made him somewhat complacent, he realized miserably.

He stopped moving forwards then. There was no doubt his father had spotted him; he was a little obvious standing out in the relative openness, after all. There had been no cover to duck into, unlike when the other fast rider had passed him by about five minutes earlier. Also, there could be no other reason why his father would be riding hard straight for him. Running or trying to hide would be pointless, he knew. So he grudgingly accepted the inevitable: that he was going to be in serious trouble. He faced his father as he rode up and then reined in right beside where Gilan stood.

"Is there a problem, sir?" Gilan asked innocently, the barest trace of defiance and sarcasm in his manner—though that trace quickly faded quickly when he caught sight of the stern figure before him. His father dismounted and faced him. He had the look of a man who had just been staggered by some monstrously heavy blow, his expression almost inscrutable except for the pained, yet dangerous, anger in his eyes. A short but tense moment of silence stretched between them before Sir David broke it.

"You are under arrest."

"What?" Gilan asked incredulously, a bemused smile spreading across his face.

He raised an eyebrow. Often fairly stern and formal, his father wasn't usually the type for joking, but this had to be a jest. The smile died and a look of sheer surprise came over his face as his father's sword appeared suddenly underneath his chin, its point just a hairsbreadth from the skin of his neck.

He looked from the sword up to his father's face, confusion mixing with a sudden sense of wariness as he realized that, not only had he underestimated his father, but he'd also seriously underestimated how his father would react to such a situation. He began to have the begginning feeling of misgivings that came with the suspicion that this time he had perhaps pushed things just a bit too far.

"Drop your sword!" The command was ringing despite the break in his voice.

Gilan unbuckled his sword belt and let it drop. He then spread his arms away from his body in a movement that was half surrender, half a peacemaking gesture, while that small sense of wariness began to coil itself in his chest at the sudden seriousness of it all.

He'd always known that he'd be in serious trouble if he were ever to be caught. But, he had always thought that, at worst, he'd most likely get a severe reprimand and several weeks of unpleasant duties and extra physical exercises. After all, that was what had happened to the last cadet that had been caught breaking curfew. It was true that the other cadet hadn't also 'stolen' the horse of a senior knight for a prank, but still. This had to be because he had pushed his dad too far lately, he realized then. He'd obviously reached his father's breaking point with his recent antics.

Sir David lowered his sword as soon as Gilan's hit the ground. He took a step nearer him then reeled back as the pungent scent of alcohol hit his nose. Gilan could read the utter disappointment, disbelief, and anger that flashed across his father's face. He easily guessed the reason why.

"That isn't mine, I wasn't drinking," Gilan said. "A drunk merchant tripped into me on the road and spilled his drink all over me."

His father's face darkened in anger. "And everything else?" he ground out, his tone conveying that anger as well as his utter disbelief of his son's excuse.

Gilan perceived that question to refer to his position now, out past curfew and leading the officer's missing horse. So thinking, he answered promptly, still feeling his father was overreacting.

"It was just a bit of harmless fun," he said lightly, trying to mitigate the whole situation.

As soon as the words left his mouth, however, he sensed instantly that he had said the wrong thing.

David's eyes widened and his face went white with livid rage. Gilan had never before seen his father so angry.

"Harmless fun?" the disbelieving words were torn through clenched teeth.

David's hand shot forward and grabbed him by the collar of his surcoat, pulling him forward and off-balance. Gilan felt the blood drain from his face, his earlier unease beginning to morph into something like fear. For one broken moment, he almost thought his father might strike him but, instead, David used his free hand to forcibly knock the lead reins that Gilan still held from his grip.

"F-father, please…I," he started to stammer, but he shut his mouth as his father pulled him closer, bringing his incensed face just inches from his own.

"I don't want to hear another word from you," David ground out, his voice soft now—but for all that it was no less dangerous, no less angry. Gilan obeyed instantly, his face paling still further.

"As I said, you are under arrest. Give me your hands!" despite the anger, there was a catch in David's words.

Gilan, still reeling from it all, hesitated only for a moment before he obliged. David let go of his surcoat. And Gilan watched in something like shock as his hands were bound together in front of him with a long rope. His father then bent to pick up his discarded sword and the lead reins of the officer's horse. He tied the rope and the lead reins to the saddle of his own horse. He spared his son only one last glance before looking away—as if it pained him more than words could say to look at him… at what he'd become. He then mounted his steed without a word.

To Gilan that look almost hurt worse than if his father had hit him, and all he could do was wonder in confusion how what he'd done had earned it. True, he'd broken regulations and flaunted the discipline he so hated, but it had all been just as he'd said: harmless fun, and nothing more.

~x~X~x~

Despite the best efforts of the castle healer, the woman hadn't made it, and neither had her child. The graveness of her injuries and the stress of it all forced her into premature labor, and that had been the beginning of the end. That meant that charge of her and her child's death had been added to all the others against his son: theft, arson, manslaughter, drunken and disorderly conduct, disobeying the commands and orders of senior officers.

Gilan claimed he hadn't done it. David held his head in his hands as he thought it. The truth was that David had desperately wanted to believe him. His son had almost never lied to his face before like that—but this was no idle prank or simple disobedience. The consequences would be grave and Gilan likely knew it. David had seen many men accused of greater and lesser crimes act the same: insist innocence even when caught in the act—or nearly so in his son's case.

Yes, David hadn't wanted to believe it; he still didn't want to believe it. Even after he'd arrested his son, he'd secretly harbored the vain hope that Gilan hadn't been lying to him, lying to everyone, when he'd protested his innocence and vehemently insisted he knew nothing about the fire. He didn't want to believe that his son had become nothing more than a thief and an arsonist—that he could have caused the death of an innocent woman and her child.

But that hope was not to be.

Gilan was found in possession of the officer's stolen horse. He'd reeked of strong spirits when he'd been arrested, and he'd been out past curfew: just as the merchant had described. It also hadn't helped Gilan's case that he'd admitted to being in possession of the horse, and to having snuck out during curfew that night, and many other preceding nights before, to go to the village. He admitted to having met, and messed around, with some boys in the village on a couple of those occasions before as well. He'd even admitted to going to the tavern that night—although he'd staunchly denied drinking. Not that that denial had lent him any credence amid everything else.

But the capstone was all the witnesses that had come forward to testify against him. There was the tavern owner who had admitted to having sold him drinks that night—enough drink to sufficiently cloud senses and destroy inhibitions. There were two tavern goers who had confirmed that. And there was the woman who had attested to seeing him hanging around the tavern and on the street later with the other village boys involved. There was the merchant's eyewitness account. And, finally, there were the three village boys who had come forward.

After that, there was little to no doubt in anyone's mind anymore that Gilan was guilty. Especially since those village boys had as good as condemned themselves as minor accomplices in the process of their reluctant and regretful confessions. They had come forward even though they knew they'd be punished for it—sentenced to several months of hard labor in the fields for their part in it all. There was just too much evidence to deny that Gilan was the one at fault. As much as he wished it wasn't true, Gilan had broken the law, committed a horrible crime... He needed to be brought to account for what he'd done; David knew that… at least intellectually.

Even so, Sir David felt his face pale when he heard the severity of the Baron's sentence. He lifted his head out of his hands, eyes wide with shock. He felt the beginnings of a horrible twisting sensation growing in his gut.

"He's just a boy," He found himself saying, horrified, nearly cutting off the Baron, that horrible feeling only increasing.

His son had already spent a little over a month in the dungeon awaiting Douglass' final ruling; he was even today missing out on his own birthday: something that the two of them always had celebrated together—which only made everything about this hurt all the more. And now this, this ruling. David's hands clenched.

"Age doesn't negate the fact that he's committed a serious crime," Douglass pointed out, silencing David with an emphatic gesture. "He has had a fair trial. The majority of the senior staff, as well as myself, are in accord. My decision is final."

But David couldn't—wouldn't—just let it go at that and he opened his mouth to protest, "It was an accident!"

The Baron's blue eyes flashed at David's protest, their expression one of patient condescension.

"Did he not break curfew? Did he not steal an officer's horse? Did he not decide to go drinking and behave in a manner so reckless and utterly heedless as to catch a house on fire? Is a merchant not without all his possessions, his very livelihood in serious jeopardy?" The Baron asked angrily, rapidly shooting one question after the other before he took a breath and spoke again more quietly. "His actions led directly to the death of a woman and her child. You know the law, David; that last and arson are hanging offenses. Several members of my senior staff even wanted me to punish him that way. Considering this, I'm certain you see that I am being quite lenient—it could almost be said, too lenient.

"I think you are letting your feelings and attachment get in the way of your judgment here. You've never hesitated to see justice done before. And, as I said, my decision is final... unless you wish to ignore your oaths of fealty by defying the law, me, and your King in the process."

And there was the heart of the problem. As much as he hated it, as much as the thought both horrified and sickened him, there was nothing he could do without breaking his oaths of fealty, without breaking the laws of the kingdom he served and devoted his life to. Due process had occurred, judgment had been passed, and the law had to be upheld.

David had dedicated his life to his kingdom and its laws. He couldn't just ignore it when it was inconvenient or personal for him, nor would he. That would make him little better than the criminals and tyrants he'd often defended the kingdom from. He could not turn his back on everything he was and everything he stood for, as Gilan had. His son had to face the consequences of his actions, and there was nothing David could do. He could only watch as the order was signed and then carried off to be enacted.

Everything had, by then, taken on a nightmarish quality. And what hurt the worst was the fact that he knew it wasn't a nightmare that he could just wake up from. All he could do was live it, and wonder how and where it was that he had gone so wrong… Because this was his fault; somehow he had failed as a parent, failed himself, and his son.

~x~X~x~

Three days later David sat in the Baron's throne room, waiting for his son's final trial. His only consolation had come in the form of Baron Arald who had arrived unexpectedly two days previous for a war council and helped intercede on his and Gilan's behalf. Things were still grim, but not as grim as they otherwise would have been.

Even still, the nightmarish and sick feeling brought on by all of this hadn't gone away and worry had only made it worse. Although better than the outright death sentence of hanging, what his son had undergone had been extremely severe—and carried with the potential for lasting damage… or worse. He'd been trying hard not to think about the instances he'd heard of death happening as a result. And things weren't looking good. He'd seen how sick his son had looked, even in sleep, the one time he'd been allowed to visit the infirmary.

He was startled then when the double doors flew open and his son stepped through them, precisely on time and dressed smartly in his cadet's uniform. He strode, or more aptly put, swept into the Baron's receiving room with all the poise, stance, and bearing of a knight heading to take the place of honor at a tournament's victory feast… or, at least, that was how he appeared on the surface. David knew his son and so could see the way that he nearly limped sometimes, how he moved gingerly despite the bravado, how his gaunt face was still far too shadowed and pale. It was nothing more than a show, a lie of protective armor. But, at the same time, it wasn't completely. The defiance and the challenge there were real.

There were a few moments of formality and the familiar words of official proceedings before the Baron spoke to deliver the final sentence.

"You will be given some money and provisions and four days to leave this fief, never to return on penalty of death..." A hush spread throughout the room as those present heard the severity of the sentence. Then the Baron spoke again. "Alternatively, I have decided to offer you a chance for mercy should you choose to take it. You will be stripped of rank and welcome in the Battleschool, but accepted into the ranks of the foot soldiers and garrison and allowed to stay in this fief. There will be a twelve-month probationary period," he finished, looking at the youth before him as he waited for a reply, having no doubt as to what the answer would be.

He seemed taken by surprise then when the boy shook his head in response to his merciful offer. But Douglass was not the only one who was surprised, almost everyone in the room seemed as startled as he.

"A soldier that does not have the trust of his superiors is nothing but a liability," Gilan said coolly.

Sir David looked up sharply at that, as his son recited a mantra he had often told him and the other apprentices during their training.

"Are you saying that you are not trustworthy?" Baron Douglass spluttered, still a bit taken off his guard.

"Not at all, my lord," the youth said, an odd faint smile growing on his lips. "But, truthfully, none of you think otherwise." He inclined his head deeply at the Baron then. "Thank you for your offer, but I decline."

Still spluttering, the Baron signaled one of his aides to come forward with the money and provisions he had offered, as well as the terms for the now-former cadet's departure. The youth took the money and weighed it carefully in his hand for a moment before passing it back to the aide.

"Thank you again for your generosity, but I wouldn't dream of taking something that belongs to you, my lord, something that was the result of your labor and the labor of your people to accumulate, guard, and protect." He bowed fractionally, stiffly, wincing, his young face tight with pain, then turned on his heel.

Baron Douglass, for his part, felt an uncomfortable sense of familiarity; he had used those very words to condemn the youth earlier for the restitutions he had had been forced to pay to the merchant from his own coffers and from the fief's tax money. The boy had some nerve. He glanced at his steward who was having more than a bit of a hard time trying to hide an expression that looked very suspiciously like shocked awe. He glared at the man and then glanced around the room to see that everyone present was scandalized.

Sir David stepped forward, his face an agony of flustered concern. He reached out and lightly grabbed his son's shoulder, stopping him. The youth flinched visibly and shook off his hand.

"Think about what you are doing and saying, son. You won't get another chance."

"I already have," came the short reply before he left the room.

Nobody saw the youth's posture shift as soon as he left or saw, when he had rounded several corners, how he used one hand to lean painfully against the wall before lowering himself carefully into a sitting position. He held his head in hands he could not seem to keep from trembling. A look of absolute misery, hurt, anger, and frustration twisted his expression from the calm and unconcern he had been using as a mask. He stayed there for a long moment, simply trying to breathe properly, before he finally gathered himself. He squared his shoulders, rose painfully to his feet, and headed to his quarters to gather his belongings.

~x~X~x~

As soon as David had seen his son ride away, he'd made up his mind. He wasn't going to leave it like that. He couldn't. It was true that David couldn't, and wouldn't ever give up or betray his commission as knight and Battlemaster of Highcliff. He had a duty to his King and the people of Araluen that he could not ignore. Highcliff was a border fief, its strategic position was vital, he couldn't abandon his post or duties—but he could ask for a short period of leave. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn't in an emotionally fit state for command at the moment anyway.

If he was granted leave, he could go after his son. True, Gilan could never come back to Highcliff Fief and David couldn't abandon his post, but he could make certain his son was safe and could help him find some semblance of stability and normality.

David wasn't under any delusions. He knew son's prospects would be slim. It wouldn't be long until the noble scuttlebutt managed to spread across the King's Lands. With such a crime on his record, the chances of any of the Barons accepting his son into their service as a knight were slim to none. The moment he gave his name and lineage, doors that might have been open would slam shut. His son would have little prospect in supporting himself on his own. But perhaps David could find him a working position somewhere. Perhaps he could do something to try and make this right again… He had to try.

It was very late that night when David was finally packed and ready. He intended to leave just as soon as it was light out. It had taken him quite a while to convince Baron Douglass to grant him leave. It wasn't until Baron Arald had offered to cover for his absence that Douglass had finally agreed to let him go—since he no longer had any credible reason to deny him. By then it had been evening and he had known he was probably too late to catch up to Gilan. Instead, he had enlisted the aid of a local forester to help him track Gilan down. It would have been nice to ask a Ranger, they were well known for their accuracy in tracking, but there were too few of them since the war. However, David knew the forester he'd picked well enough to trust his abilities. It would just have to do.

He had just blown out the candles to try and get a couple hours of rest when the castle's alarm bell sounded. A messenger had come from one of the outlying towns nearer the border. Apparently, a party of Wargals had broken through the border defenses and were laying waste to the town. But that was far from the worst of it. The messenger had babbled, almost incoherently with fear, about some kind of bear-like monster that was working with the Wargals—a monster that had slaughtered the entire regiment of border patrol soldiers that had been protecting the town as easily as breathing.

Needless to say, Sir David, Baron Arald, and Sir Rodney went immediately to muster and organize a party of knights to try and save the town and people as soon as the man had finished describing what he'd seen. As David left the castle at a gallop, he closed his eyes briefly, whispering a silent apology.

Gilan was going to have to wait.

A/N: Thanks for reading! As ever, feedback means the world if you've got the time or inclination to leave any. Well, there are the answers (and the whole truth this time, despite there being bigger aspects at play that may or may not come back later). Did anyone have their predictions proven correct? XD I dearly hope it proves satisfactory and believable for the situation. I had taken care to leave little hints all over the place from the start that suggested this to be the truth so I really hope it doesn't feel disconnected or that it came from nowhere.

*Side note* I'm guessing that perhaps, by the lack of response, last chapter wasn't very popular or to everyone's liking. (Though perhaps some of you, like Halt, were merely reserving judgment until you knew the full story/saw how things panned out or just didn't have the time or inclinationX') Regardless, if you did, in fact, dislike the last chapter, feel free to (and please do if you could possibly spare the time and effort it would take) tell me why that is so I might fix what went wrong. I'm only a novice writer and so am bound to make grievous mistakes from time to time after all! And I guess last chapter was the time I went and did myself in :(. But hey, as I have learned from RA, mistakes are only errors if you don't learn from them. If you choose to help me out, I thank you for your time in advance. I very much appreciate it! :D

*Other Notes*

Aside from the song Moorlough Shore, this chapter arc was also inspired by a quote that Root says in Person of Interest: "The truth? The truth is a vast thing."

*History nerd note* Arson was actually a crime that was punishable by death in the middle ages. According to my research, this was most likely because fires could spread very quickly through towns made of highly flammable wood and thatch and the people then did not often have the means to put them out effectively. Also, punishments for breaking the law back then were, on a whole, much more severe/extreme than the ones we have now in general, no surprise there. X)

I wish you all the very best; stay well and safe! Until next time!