The field was still and almost eerily quiet, but the group of Rangers milling around the outskirts watched with as much attention as one would pay a jousting tournament.

The grass in one corner of the field rustled. Several meters away, a cloaked figure appeared from the grass and took a single crouched step towards the rustle, before glancing back towards the scrap of blue fabric propped into a solid pine tree. He paused, seeming to hesitate about whether or not the movement was worth investigating.

A moment later, the decision was made for him as in a panicked flurry, a smaller boy scrambled to his feet and made a frantic dash towards the flag. In his fevered sprint, he didn't see the crouched figure in his path, and was completely unable to avoid the swat laid on his arm - tagged.

"Blast. That's a bad habit to have," Cedric said gloomily, recognizing his first year apprentice as the boy sheepishly moved to settle on a fallen log - the other team's "jail". With a heavy sigh, the Ranger tossed a few coins into one of the piles they had started. He should have known better than to bet on a first year; Cedric had done so out of loyalty, but that didn't change the fact that he was now several coins poorer.

"The boy's young. He should train out of it," Leander smiled as he gave his fellow Ranger a friendly knock on the shoulder, before his smile slowly faded into a frown. "I'm more concerned with the fact that Mark gave away his position the way he did." Mark was Leander's third year apprentice, and definitely should know better.

Halt stood a ways off, briefly watching the exchange before turning his attention back to the field. The game of capture the flag had been Crowley's idea; an enjoyable way to keep the apprentices occupied, while still providing some practice and an assessment of skills. Somehow, and perhaps unsurprisingly, the game had turned into a bet between the older Rangers as they discussed what team and apprentices they thought likely to achieve the target goal first.

Of course, the apprentices couldn't be expected to be perfect. Even as he skimmed the large field, Halt could see a dent of grass where a boy was undoubtedly lying flat, a peek of a cowl over a rock, a small line where the brush had been trampled down by passing feet. Overall, however, the older Rangers had been pleased with the apprentices' performance. Halt hadn't seen Gilan, nor did he expect to. His own apprentice's natural skill in unseen movement catered towards exercises such as these.

Until suddenly... Halt did see him.

Almost directly in front of him, sporting a cheeky grin from his crouch in the grass.

"Bored already?" Halt said dryly. "Or did you just forget the objective of the game?"

"Neither. Just thought I'd drop by and say hello in case you were lonely," Gilan replied sweetly, before flailing a hand in the general direction of the blue flag. "I'm going that way."

"Get going, then."

As Gilan smirked and melted back into the brush, Halt called quietly, "Oh, and Gilan?"

The boy's head peeked up curiously, and Halt continued, "I have five royals bet on your team. I would hate to lose them."

The cowl vanished once more, and several minutes later, cheers erupted as Gilan triumphantly swung the blue flag from where he sat perched in the tree.

Halt, of course, gave himself some credit. After all, it was thanks to him that Gilan was so practiced in climbing trees quickly.

"Paprika."

At Halt's request, Gilan turned to face the spice cabinet, his hand freezing mid-reach as he frowned at the vast variety of options. It was no secret that Halt enjoyed cooking and, whenever possible, put effort and skill into the meals he prepared - hence the amount of spices.

However, it was also no secret that when it came to creating inviting meals, Gilan had a better chance of burning the house down.

"Quickly, Gil!" Halt barked, stirring the simmering soup. Gilan's hand fluttered uselessly for a moment before hastily grabbing a spice jar and shoving it towards his mentor.

His mentor, who eyed the jar for only a second before throwing his student a glare. "Hilarious. I said paprika, Gilan. This is cinnamon."

Gilan bit his lip; Halt had made it clear that it was better to admit when you were unsure rather than try to bluff through a situation. "They... they look the same to me."

Halt's eyebrow lifted. "They what?"

"Cinnamon and paprika. They're both red, and..." the boy trailed off with a wince as Halt pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You're useless in the kitchen, boy."

"Your soup is boiling over," Gilan offered helpfully.

Gilan grunted and feebly shoved at his mentor as Halt pinned him for the fourth time, this time sweeping a foot out to hook one of Gilan's legs. Gilan's coltish limbs were usually deceptively coordinated, but this time the sweep had caught him off guard, yanking him off balance with a yelp.

"You hold back too much in hand-to-hand. You fight like you're afraid you'll hurt someone," Halt said with a shake of his head as he let up on his student.

"But right now, that someone is you!" Gilan argued back, somewhat tired and grumpy from the sparring. Both his ego and backside were bruised from being pinned over and over.

Halt rolled his eyes. "Practice only helps if you treat it like the real thing. You need to learn how to fight dirtier."

At the words, Gilan's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Fight... dirty?" he answered, sounding outright confused.

"Bite. Hit the throat. Kick the groin. Claw eyeballs out with your fingernails," the older Ranger elaborated, none too gently.

"I know what fighting dirty is," the boy answered with a wrinkle of his nose. "But it's wrong. You're not supposed to do it."

"And why not?"

"There's a code. There just... is. You're not supposed to fight like that."

Understanding flooded through the older Ranger, and he took a moment to internally curse the rigid knight's ethics and code that Gilan had been raised on. "Knight's code is all well and good, but I assure you that your enemies won't be granting you the same respect."

Gilan's face crumpled, the conflict visible in his eyes as he gnawed at his lower lip. He had grown up on this code, and to hear it so blatantly dismissed waged war on his very identity. "But... I was always told-"

"I know what you were told," Halt cut him off. "I'm not saying to forget it. Adjust it. You can still have standards and morals, but I also need you to stay alive."

Gilan slowly nodded, still not looking completely pleased, but not nearly as lost has he had a moment ago. "Adjust it," Gilan repeated, tasting it.

Halt took a fighting stance. "Again," he ordered.

This time, as Halt put his apprentice into a lock, Gilan twisted and jabbed an elbow towards Halt's throat. Though the older Ranger deflected it and still threw his student into a pin, there was a light of approval in his eyes.

"Better," was all Halt said, before taking a stance once more. "Again."

Gilan beamed.

Gilan stirred slightly, and Halt immediately moved closer. His apprentice had received a sizable gash in his upper arm, and the boy had been pale and shaky by the time they had made it to the cabin. Worried about the blood loss, Halt had called for a castle healer. A clean line of stitches later - along with a hefty dose of pain-killing and sedating herbs - had the healer on his way, with the promise that Halt's apprentice would be just fine.

Before he'd left, the healer had given a final warning. "Those herbs I gave him were pretty strong," the man said, nodding to the now sleeping Gilan. "He won't be feeling any pain when he wakes up, but he... uh, he may not be making a lot of sense."

"How long will they last?" Halt had answered with a trace of concern.

The healer had shrugged as he turned to leave. "Not terribly long. Until then... have fun?"

Now, Halt watched as Gilan blinked open bleary, wandering eyes that finally landed on his arm, wrapped in a crisp white bandage. Gilan stared, hardly blinking.

Slightly uncomfortable, Halt prodded, "Gil? Are you feeling alright?"

"... My arm's white, Hal'," Gilan slurred, still staring intensely at his arm.

"Your arm is cut. The healer wrapped it to protect the stitches. Does anything hurt?" Halt answered, then frowned at Gilan's glazed look. The boy hadn't absorbed a word of what he'd just said, Halt realized. The Ranger scrubbed his face with one hand and continued, "You know what? Don't worry about it. Go back to sleep."

Gilan shook his head and doggedly insisted, "It's white. It should be... green. Halt. Halt, why didn' you do green?"

Have fun, indeed, Halt thought darkly, before sighing a response. "Because I didn't. Go back to sleep, Gil. You'll feel better when you wake back up." At least, Halt was hoping this would be the case.

However, to the Ranger's absolute horror, fat tears welled up in his apprentice's eyes. "Hal', I can't... hide in trees anymo'. It's white?" Gilan gave his arm another glance before erupting into a fresh round of sobs. "And it's too bi'... I won't... fit in my cloak!"

"The bandage is thin. Of course it will fit in your cloak," Halt replied, desperately needing for Gilan's tears stop. "Stop thinking and start sleeping."

"It's too big," Gilan wailed.

Halt felt a little like wailing himself, but forced himself to take a breath. "For pities sake, Gilan, it's thin!" he said exasperatedly.

The boy sniffed and gave his mentor an accusing glare. "Well, you're not, so how would you know?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Halt said darkly before shaking his head. Normally, a retort like that would have his smart-mouthed apprentice sleeping in a tree, but Gilan's bleary eyes and the fact that he'd just been sobbing over a bandage being white had Halt feeling lenient. "Will you please sleep?"

As quickly as they had come, the tears stopped. "...Alright," Gilan answered as he slumped back against his pillow, asleep in moments.

Disbelief painting his face, Halt watched his apprentice for a moment before leaving the bedroom. He needed a cup of coffee.

Thank you for reading! I adore reviews if you feel so inclined to drop one.

-TrustTheCloak