- CHAPTER FIVE -
I Miss You, I Miss You

Where are you? And I'm so sorry
I cannot sleep, I cannot dream tonight
I need somebody and always this sick, strange darkness
Comes creeping on, so haunting every time

Don't waste your time on me, you're already
The voice inside my head
(I miss you, I miss you)

-Blink-182

Two weeks later

Crowley took a glance through the dingy window of the tavern and cringed. There were multiple reasons for this—one, the window was incredibly dirty. No self-respecting establishment would take such poor care of their property. Two, the scene inside was just what he had been afraid of: a crowd of rowdy, drunken men singing inappropriate folk songs loudly and off-key while dancing around (or crashing into) the tables, flirting with any women (or men) who came near them, and (can't forget this one) drinking. This was actually normal for a weekend night in any tavern, but the scene itself wasn't really what Crowley was worried about.

It was the fact that Halt was right in the middle of it.

Now, Crowley had never married, nor had he ever had children and therefore couldn't fully understand or imagine losing them. And he felt for his friend, he truly did. But couldn't Halt see he was no use to either of his boys drunk off his mind?

It had been two weeks ago to the day that Halt had ridden back to the Araluen army's camp, cold and soaking wet and absolutely miserable. One look at his face had said everything. Crowley hadn't bothered asking what had happened—he'd just taken his friend into his tent, gotten him dressed in dry clothes, and forced him to sleep before going off to speak with the King.

It had been a long conversation. Lost in grief as he was, Duncan was still the king, and a good one too. This was a personal tragedy to be sure. But he knew that it was more than that. What Halt, in all his exhaustion and self-loathing following his perceived failure, had failed to realize were the possible repercussions of their situation. One princess, two Rangers—presumably headed straight for the Skandian capital.

Worse still, they were all young. Normally a Ranger in such circumstances would be responsible for keeping all the state secrets he knew. Rangers were trained in such eventualities; they knew how vital their silence was to the safety of the nation. Gilan knew as well as any other. But, as Crowley had quietly informed the king, such training was kept until the third year of any apprenticeship. Even the Corps, known for its demanding apprenticeships, acknowledged that fifteen was too young to learn some things. So younger apprentices were typically sent out on smaller training missions until then—inter-fief missions in which there would be no need for such training. And even upon graduation, the dangerous missions were typically given to the more experienced Rangers. Will and Gilan had been sent to Celtica because it was safe.

Not that they hadn't proven themselves capable. Anyone would have agreed to that. Duncan certainly did. Their courageous actions at the bridge were the only reason any of them were still alive. But the fact remained that the most junior Ranger in the Corps and a young, relatively untrained apprentice were on a wolfship with the Crown Princess, headed toward a country that had reliably been less than friendly toward Araluen in the past.

This wasn't only a personal tragedy. It was a national security worst-case-scenario.

But until a ransom demand came through for Cassandra, there was nothing to be done. And both Crowley and Duncan knew that likely wouldn't be for some time. The captives would have to cross the Stormwhite, arrive safely in Skandia, and then Cassandra would have to somehow find a way to present herself before the Oberjarl and convince him that she was truly Araluen's Crown Princess. Maybe once that happened, maybe, they could send someone for Gilan and Will. Maybe.

It was all a waiting game.

So Crowley had left Duncan, alone in his tent with the heavy air of a man thirty years his senior, and had called an emergency Gathering. In a post-war Araluen, the Rangers acted as a cleanup force. There were always post-war crime sprees and a general increase in violence, and those were important, but as for his top agents Crowley had other plans. His best were out tracking down Morgarath's inner circle. Oh, they'd caught a few of them in the wake of the battle—but not enough. Not nearly. Crowley had a list of missing names and reports of new sightings, and he'd put his best Rangers on the trail. With Morgarath well and truly defeated by the army, it was now the Rangers' job to make certain all traces of his evil were stamped out permanently. And that meant tying up loose ends.

Halt had been assigned to Foldar, one of Morgarath's most powerful and dangerous commanders with a particular thirst for bloodshed. He was known for being clever, too—which was why Crowley had put Halt on his case. Had clearly being the operative word, seeing as they'd both ended up here, with Halt on one side of the filthy tavern window and Crowley on the other.

Crowley started towards the door, suppressing a sigh. He was all for the "friendship through thick and thin" concept, but even he had to admit that this was a low moment and would probably end badly. The heavy wooden door was worn and scarred, and several long, deep, suspicious looking cuts decorated its exterior. Knife cuts? Crowley didn't know. He didn't want to know.

It was a little-known fact, but Crowley hated taverns. And it was a littler known fact that this was because with every fiber of his being, Crowley hated alcohol.

Upon entering, he quickly strode over to the table where Halt had situated himself. As always, it was in the darkest corner of the room—so that he could keep an eye on things while being secure in the knowledge that no one could sneak up on him from behind. It was basic Ranger training, and apparently some habits stuck even while drunk.

Halt was scowling at the crowd of dancers from behind his mug when Crowley came to stand beside him.

"Crowley?" Halt growled, and Crowley sighed.

"I think you've had enough for tonight, Halt."

When the grizzled Ranger didn't reply, Crowley decided to take his chances. He reached out and wrapped his hands around the outside of the mug, pulling gently so as not to spill the liquid inside—was that paint thinner? He wrinkled his nose. Halt, who was most definitely drunk and holding onto the handle with only a loose grip, lost the tug-of-war, and Crowley set the mug down on another table, giving it a bitter shove as he did so. If it spilled, he was doing someone a public service.

When he turned back to Halt, the Ranger was glaring at him. "Crowley," he said, halfway between a growl and a slur, and Crowley twisted his lips in displeasure.

"Halt," he replied, unimpressed. "Care to let me know why you're out here making an utter fool of yourself instead of doing your job?"

Halt shrugged. "Can't a man have a drink when he wants to?"

"You can't tell me you've had just one, Halt."

"Not making a fool of myself."

Crowley and Halt had decades of friendship between them. Halt was unquestionably Crowley's best friend—something closer to a brother, even. Which was why bitterness surged up within him at Halt's declaration. "No?" he asked archly. "You, sitting here drunk and neglecting your duty? Then what would you call it?"

Halt snorted. "Part of the plan."

For a few seconds, Crowley was speechless because he was confused. Then he was speechless because he was angry. And then he was speechless because he hurt, though he wasn't certain whether it was because his friend's words had hurt him or because he ached for his friend's own misery. Maybe both.

"Plan?" he half whispered. Halt nodded.

"Drunk people are damn fools. Say foolish things. Things with consequences."

That was all Crowley was willing to hear. He grabbed his friend's arm and hauled him upwards, dragging him away from the table. "Come on. We're leaving."

Halt stumbled, and Crowley tightened his grip on his arm. "And you told me you weren't drunk," the Commandant muttered to himself.

Halt didn't bother protesting as they headed for the door. Hardly anyone spared them a second glance. The sight of a drunk man being led out by his sober friend was hardly a rare one, after all, and both Halt and Crowley had conveniently left their cloaks behind so neither would be recognizable as Rangers. Conveniently. "Part of the plan." Halt's words echoed through Crowley's mind.

Crowley might have been the only thing keeping Halt from falling headfirst into the dirt, but Crowley knew that never for one moment had his friend not known what he was doing.

The door banged shut behind them on their way out. "I assume Abelard is in the stable?" Crowley asked, and Halt nodded.

"Took care of him."

"I know you did," Crowley reassured quietly. "You would never leave him."

Sure enough, Abelard whickered in greeting when Crowley stepped inside the stable. "Hello, boy," Crowley murmured. Abelard responded with a nervous whinny, like he too sensed that all was not well with his master.

"Misses Tug," Halt said. Crowley sighed.

"What?"

"Tug. Will's horse. Abelard's not used to leaving him behind."

Crowley didn't have a response for that.

Crowley left Halt leaning up against the wall while he went to saddle Abelard. He reached up to pet the horse's velvet nose. He and Abelard were old friends—Crowley was one of the few people alive (other than Halt) who had ridden Abelard, and they were well familiar with each other. "I know, boy," Crowley murmured. "I know. I'll look after him."

After preparing Abelard's tack, Crowley led the horse out toward his friend. Halt was by the wall where he'd left him. His friend's face was not ruddy with drunkenness like some men's. Halt looked pale and ghostly, the lines of his cheekbones dark and shadowed. In the dim light of the wall torch Crowley could just see a single tear snaking its way down Halt's cheek.

Something in the back of Crowley's throat ached. Halt was a fortress. The two of them had walked through hell and back together, and through the worst of it Halt had always been immovable, unshakable. There was a version of himself that he presented to the world. And as broken as Halt was in this moment, Crowley knew that he was the only one alive on earth allowed to see it.

He swallowed. "You'll get them back, Halt." Halt shrugged despondently in a rare moment of vulnerability.

"Maybe."

Crowley swallowed again and wished with all his heart that he could offer Halt something other than false reassurances. But there was nothing. So he kept his mouth shut and started them off on their way home.

Halt was going to have a massive hangover come morning. Good, Crowley thought. Serves him right.

And yet a part of him was glad that Halt wouldn't be waking up for a while. He didn't want the Ranger finding out his plans, as he would insist on accompanying him (after all, Halt would say, they were his apprentices). But Crowley wanted to do this alone. Their present solution to the problem at hand wasn't helping anyone, least of all Halt. In Crowley's mind the only logical conclusion was to come up with a different solution.

They might have been trapped in a waiting game, but truth be told, Crowley had never really been one for waiting. The parchment message Crowley had left on Halt's kitchen table was short but clear:

Don't do anything stupid yet. I mean it. I'll be back in two weeks.

He had to see the King.

"I Miss You" is by Blink-182. Also worth noting: I haven't read any of The Early Years, so I've given Crowley some of my own backstory on this one. I've no idea how it compares to canon, but we'll see more of that along the way.