I'm back! As promised, this chapter's themes are Pen and Paper, Puzzle, and Comfort. Characters are Cassie, Halt, and Erak - although Will is mentioned in just about every theme, he doesn't actually make an appearance. Enjoy!

Pen and Paper

Cassie never really figured out when it had started—but if you had asked her, she could have guessed.

It was a cold winter's night, sometime after her return from Skandia. That wretched place still haunted her dreams and nightmares, which seemed to have grown more vivid since her return home. Upon waking, she often found that, if she closed her eyes, she could see nothing but endless whiteness pressing down on her.

Naturally, with this in mind, falling asleep was hardly a good idea.

Before that point, she had sat up, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring bleakly at the wall and waiting for morning to come. But something about that night—something about the nightmare, possibly—was different.

And this was where Cassie figured it had started.

There was always the chance that the suffering and hardships she—they—had endured in Skandia would fade away and be lost in time. And indeed, perhaps that was best—for they had suffered greatly, and neither one wanted to burden anyone else with their own pain. But, for some reason she still could not fathom years later, Cassie didn't want this for herself.

She often supposed that was the only reason she remembered what had happened in the ice and snow—though what possessed her to write it all down, she had no idea. But that night, in the wake of that horrid nightmare, she had mindlessly gone for her pen and her paper and begun writing whatever came to mind.

It was dark, and cold. I can still feel it, now that I am awake. When I close my eyes, I can still see the snow—fields and fields of endless snow, and mountains covered in it and valleys filled with it. But in that one place—that one horrible place—the snow is always stained with red.

It wasn't a normal journal, by any means. The entries weren't dated, and never took up exactly a page (sometimes much more, sometimes much less). Sometimes, overcome by guilt or anger of sadness, she would write pages and pages of memories and dreams—and sometimes, overcome by fear, she wrote only a sentence or a fragment, as if worried someone would find it.

I remember walking outside, trying to fetch and carry firewood and do my work while ignoring the constant cries of pain and fear. Sometimes you could hear them inside, while you were trying to sleep. I never could—because I knew Will was amongst them…

I can see her eyes—still, in my sleep…

…The red was everywhere, and when it stained the snow, it fell so heavily you knew what it was, but you couldn't avoid stepping in it or being covered in it, because it was everywhere…

…Realizing that I was truly alone, in a cold, icy, barren world devoid of any kindness or tiny spark of hope…

It had eventually stopped. By the time of Halt and Pauline's wedding, she hadn't written in the journal for over a year. But sometimes, when she couldn't sleep, she would take it out and brush her fingers lightly over the worn leather cover, as if she could feel all the conflicting emotions contained within its pages.

She never once reopened it.

Horace read through it, after they were married. Alyss did as well—Cassie said she owed her that much, especially since Will made it a habit to never talk of the things they had been through as slaves, even to his wife. She knew that Alyss had comforted her husband after many a nightmare, and that Will had told her some things. But she also knew that the tall, elegant Courier needed to know more, even if Will couldn't tell her.

Halt knew that she kept the journal, but he had never read it—he had never even seen it. He had said in a gruff voice, "I don't need to read it." He was already burdened enough by the knowledge of the few things Will had told him, she knew, and didn't need any more.

Surprisingly, her father didn't know about it. She had never told him, even when she told the others, simply because she felt he couldn't handle it. His face still grew haggard and weary at the mention of what had happened in the north. He didn't need his daughter's worries on top of his own.

The last person to ever open it was Will.

They had been alone together, in her room, years after they had been married and had children and Horace and Alyss had read it, finishing with tears in their eyes. She had brought the small book out, and he had slowly read through it—every word. It was hard, and took hours—hours they spent together, comforting each other, because neither could bear to be alone.

It was strange, Cassie reflected. Skandia didn't haunt her anymore during her every waking moment, and it rarely visited her in nightmares. She was living a happy life, a good life, a free life, filled with friends and family. But even glancing at the journal brought back such fierce memories, such strong memories—memories they would never be free of.

But sometimes, she thought that writing things down was her way of releasing them, or at the very least reconciling them to herself. The journal was a symbol of what no longer was, and for that, she was glad.

But the day when she could put away that journal forever—the day when she didn't want to take it back out again—that day was long in coming.

And, for now, the scars remained.

Puzzle

When Halt had taken Will on as his apprentice, he had known he was different. Not necessarily in a bad way, just different. In many ways, he was opposite of Gilan, and highly reminiscent of Halt himself as a teenager, which almost made him harder to teach than Halt would have expected. He could definitely see what Pritchard had meant about the stubbornness.

Before the Choosing, when Halt had merely watched him from a distance, he had noted things such as his friends and enemies, and strengths and weaknesses. But now, after taking him in and observing him as a person, he knew more. He knew of the fierce protectiveness and loyalty Will held for those he considered his friends, and his ability to forgive those who meant it. He learned of Will's bravery and courage, but also of his doubt and fear.

In short, the fifteen-year-old was confusing.

But then again—who wasn't?

After the Kalkara attack, while Halt was still recuperating, he learned even more of his new-ish apprentice. He thought little of himself, always believing others to be more important, and never burdened anyone with problems he considered his own—and because of this, he often found himself alone. But, Halt reflected, it was a noble sort of separation, which Will never seemed to mind. It was just another one of his peculiarities Halt was beginning to pick up on.

It became even more obvious after his return from Skandia, when he was still haunted by nightmares and memories of what had happened in that awful place. Despite his being surrounded by countless friends, Will was completely alone in what he had experienced and ultimately survived. No one understood his silent suffering—although Halt tried—and in the end, it was his battle and his alone. By this point, Halt had begun to see the youngster as a sort of surrogate son, and felt Will's pain almost as deeply as Will himself. Halt could see him fighting day by day, and as the months went by, things began to get better. He smiled more, laughed more. He was himself again, a fact for which Halt couldn't have been more grateful. There had been a small period of time where he had wondered if the Will he knew had been forever lost in the snow and ice of Skandia, and a slightly longer period of time, when Will hardly slept at all for fear of what would happen when he did, when he had been sure of it. But, as is generally said of time, it passed by, and things grew better.

They really did.

And, at this point, Halt felt as if he had seen his apprentice for who he truly was. He had seen the days where Will had put on a brave face, and smiled and laughed to make it seem as if everything was all right—days when he was so, so strong and so alone. And he had seen the nights that followed—the long, long nights—when Will couldn't sleep, when nightmares haunted his every moment—nights when Halt was wakened by screams and cries of pain. He had seen both sides of the boy—what he pretended to be and its opposite—and who he really was: the strongest person Halt had ever met.

And now, after the shadows had cleared and things were more or less back to normal, Halt still couldn't shake the knowledge of his apprentice from his head. The knowledge of who, when called upon, Will could be. Everything from a shoulder to cry on (which he had learned from Alyss) to someone to lean on (Evanlyn) to someone to lead you (Horace), and, as Halt had found, someone who—sometimes—needs someone else.

And Halt was more than willing to fulfill that need—more willing than he had been in all his life.

Comfort

A/N: This takes place in book three, after Erak has told Evanlyn he's going to get her and Will out of Hallasholm and they've thrashed out all the boring details.

"I should go," Evanlyn said, standing up and staring awkwardly at Erak. After all, what do you say to someone who offers to get you and your best friend out of hell? Thank you? Evanlyn doubted it. Instead, she settled for, "I'll be missed."

The senior Jarl nodded. "Yes," he said. "But first, I have something that belongs to your friend."

Evanlyn watched him rooting around in one of his desk drawers with mixed feelings. What could he have possibly taken from Will? Well, that was worth returning, anyways - the two of them had been captured with nothing but the clothes they were wearing. On one hand, she was angry that he would have taken something from Will in the first place. They were alone, on a strange island, about to be sold into slavery, with little hope of rescue. Was it really necessary to take from him the one last link he had to home? And, on the other hand - because there was, of course, another hand - she was strangely touched by the fact that he wanted to give it back.

Finally, the Jarl stood and pressed something into her hand. "It belongs to him," he said, obviously unused to giving stolen property back to its rightful owner - or as close as Evanlyn was, in any event. "Give it back to him when he wakes up."

Evanlyn nodded. She didn't need to look at the object to know what it was. "Thank you," she said, and this time it was heartfelt. "Thank you so much."

Erak once again took his seat and waved a hand at her. "No need," he said gruffly. "Go. If you want to thank me, survive."

She nodded, but not uncomfortably, and left the room. After checking to make sure she was alone in the hallway, she opened her fist and secured the thin chain around her neck, feeling the comforting weight of the bronze oakleaf on her chest. She slipped it under her shirt, making sure that neither the chain nor the oakleaf were visible. Despite the fact that it wasn't even hers, the oakleaf somehow made her feel braver. She smiled to herself. Maybe Rangers were magic after all.

Well, there you have it. Three more themes complete. I have to say I think my favorite is the second one. I'd love to hear your opinions, which would mean reviewing. **winkwink**

Normally, I give a little preview here of what the next chapter entails. I would love to do so now, except I have no idea what the next three themes will be yet. :) So you'll just have to be surprised. Please review!