Ice
Gilan liked ice. Ice was fun, from making especially brutal snowballs to throw at people (mainly sentries, and when he was feeling extremely brave, Halt), to making exceptionally slick runs for sleds. Even stupid things, like licking a cold piece of metal to see what would happen and having to listen to Halt's sarcastic comments while trying to retain a shred of dignity. Gilan's absolute favorite, however, was ice skating. The feeling of simply gliding over the smooth surface was something he was unable to recreate anywhere else. Even slipping and falling carried a sense of invigoration, if not a little bit of pain.
Halt strongly disagreed, and constantly asked (told) his student to slow down, take a break, or better yet, not do it at all. Gilan argued that it was because he was a much better ice skater then his teacher, which, unfortunately, was true. Gilan could literally skate circles around Halt, who, in the few times Gilan had convinced him to do it, slid and stuttered and swayed.
In truth, though Halt would never admit it, was because it made him nervous. Halt still could vividly remember the awful memory of Gilan slipping on the ice, his hand frantically shooting out to catch himself despite Halt's too late but desperate, "Don't!". There had been a sickening crack as his left wrist broke, and Halt still shuddered just thinking about it.
Gilan was fine, of course, his wrist as good as new after a careful eight weeks. He still loved to ice skate, and though Halt didn't stop him, he still felt a sense of stress every time his student set foot on the ice.
I just can't get enough of parental Halt. The feels... Argh. I'm debating on whether to elaborate this chapter in a separate one-shot: Readers, would you like to see this? Letter J is next.
-TrustTheCloak
