Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, made possible by the Ranger's Apprentice by John Flanagan. I have only borrowed his creation and I make no money. For this story I have used several other Rangers from the books, though I've also added my own. I do this only in the hope to entertain…

Author's Note: No harm shall come to the characters that can't be fixed with enough coffee…

And One I Had Before

Chapter 1

The young man was good, there was no doubt about that. He had the skill and the determination needed to make a great Ranger. He was devious enough as well, sometimes almost too much so, but it was a trait needed if some wanted to admit it or not.

The Rangers were responsible for keeping the kingdom safe. They worked in the shadows while the knights worked in the open, their shining armor gleaming in the sun. The Rangers worked in the dark of the woods, in the shadows where their mottled cloaks made it virtually impossible to see them.

Yet it seemed the entire Kingdom of Araluen had fallen under darkness. The knights, though most clung to their armour knew not what to do. The Rangers, were mistrusted by those they had sworn to serve.

It was with bitterness Pritchard thought about his banishment. Though he tried not to let it on for his apprentice. Not an official apprentice, he was far too removed from the corps. In another country entirely, forbidden to ever return to his home again. If it had not been for the youth he had met, a young man, already marked by a hard life himself he did not know how he would have born it.

It wasn't only his country and old life he missed, it was the man he might as well have called his son.

His first apprentice, his only other one. A young man he had trained for many years. A special relationship tended to form between the Rangers and their Apprentices. When he thought about Crowley, it was the way a father would think of his son. The red-haired youth had really wormed his way into his heart, even when he seemed intent on driving him into an early grave.

Pritchard loved Crowley, he truly did, it had broken his heart to know he had to leave him behind. He had not had the chance to tell him why he was leaving, nor would it have mattered as he would not have done it either way. He could not have afforded to let Crowley know what was going on. If he had, nothing could have kept Crowley from trying to stop it, and more likely than not either got himself banished alongside Pritchard, or killed…

He could not have allowed that, he needed to know that his apprentice was safe. It was one reason he left, for fear that if he did not, they would go after Crowley. The boy had red hair, and a temper to match it. When Pritchard first took him, his temper was wont to get out of hand, and he had been forced to devise ways for him to deal with it. Exercises and punishment duties that would allow him to burn off the anger in somewhat more constructive ways.

He was willing to swear he got enough wood sawed and chopped during his apprentice's first year to last him through the fifth… Crowley was no fool, he was young and inexperienced, but he knew Pritchard was right. The boy had got himself into several scrapes because he couldn't keep his temper in check. He knew he had to, and he truly tried.

For every time he took about ten years of Pritchard's life, scaring him half to death, and then once more with some stunt, he gave him a lot more to live for.

The relationship between mentor and apprentice tended to be special, it formed a deep bond, and even though he had to leave Pritchard could not bear to fully leave his apprentice behind. He needed to know the boy was alright, that someone was looking out for him. Thanking the heavens that Berrigan and Egon were both more than happy to help him.

They were Rangers, they would have been pretty poor Rangers if they had not seen what was going on, how Morgarath was working to turning the King against them. Trumped up charges of treason like the one Pritchard had been banished for. Supposed to undermine the Corps, and doing a damn good job out of it.

If he had fought against it, as he might have, he was sure the man would have gone after Crowley next.

So he had left, urging the others to leave Crowley out of it for the time being, not wanting him to do something rash.

He had gone to Hibernia, mostly because it was the closest place with the most pleasant climate. He was old, old enough that even if he had stayed he would not have gone much longer without getting his gold oakleaf. The apprentices wore a copper oakleaf, when they graduated, they were given a silver one. A retired Ranger wore a gold oakleaf. He had looked forward to that, he had hoped to be settling down somewhere close to Crowley. It was common for the retired Rangers to live in Castle Araluen where they could live out their days in a comfortable life. Helping when needed, but no longer having to sleep out on the ground that seemed suddenly so much harder and colder. Nor ride all day until they were unable to climb off the horse. It was the common practice, but it was not entirely uncommon for them to settle down a bit closer to their old apprentices, to help them, to chide them and to cherish them. It was what Pritchard had hoped for, instead, he found himself here.

It was not all bad, though it was not thanks to Morgarath. Araluen wasn't the only kingdom with trouble, that had been evident once he finally got the lad to open up. A young man, a complete opposite to Crowley and yet so much alike him. Grumpy, black haired, determined and stubborn. He had instantly taken a liking to Halt, had felt the same instinctive need to protect him he felt about Crowley. Though he did not tell the lad so.

He had already spent two years training him, and yet had not told him of Crowley, not when he sat in the shade, watching the boy stand in the hot sun, shooting arrow after arrow into a target while Pritchard helped him to tighten up his technique. Not when he taught him how to make a rabbit stew and wine sauce.

It was not simply because he was afraid Halt would think he was second choice, it was not uncommon for the Rangers if they ever had a second apprentice to not say a lot about the first. Some did, it also depended on the apprentice. A lot of them though if told there had been one before them would constantly compare themselves to them. So even if they were told, it was usually not during their first year. They needed to form a bond first, to trust their mentor.

This was never a problem with Halt, he trusted Pritchard, and in some ways, almost more than Crowley. Both were strong willed and knew their own mind, Halt was more quiet, Crowley was a prankster at heart. Pritchard had equipped Halt with a saxe and a throwing knife, and had him practice for hours on end.

Now, Pritchard was relaxing, stretching out his aching limbs, trying to keep up with the red headed monster for five years had aged him.

Funny how those same five years seemed to be the best ones of his life… When he left, he had been certain it was the end of him. There could be no purpose so far away from his home. No reason to struggle on. A part of him had wanted to call it quits, either find himself a warm cozy tap room where he could wait for the inevitable. Or, give all that he had left in one huge effort.

Then he came across the sullen Hibernian, the one who needed him just as much as Crowley ever had. What more, he himself needed Halt. He needed that purpose, that reason to go on.

Maybe he would go back at some point, go back to Araluen, preferably to see Morgarath swinging at the end of a rope. He had no proof it was him, no evidence to give that would let them listen to him, but he felt it in his bones. The man was a scoundrel, the worst kind…

…almost the worst, he reminded himself as he looked at where Halt was drawing the bowstring back. There was a youngster who had suffered a great deal. He should have been having a grand time, the heir, the crown prince. Instead he had to put up with a buffoon of a brother who was jealous and tried to kill him. To make matters worse, the twat was such a nincompoop he never could get it right. His attempts were an annoyance and a menace to the boy, but if he ever succeeded in killing his brother, it would be from sheer dumb luck.

There was nothing worse than being the victim of an incompetent murder…

"You're off centre to the left," he stated.

"I haven't even shot yet," Halt relaxed the bowstring for a moment to turn and glare at him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, go ahead then," Pritchard graciously gestured towards the target.

Halt pulled the bowstring back, the arrow laying against the bow, he found his anchor point, exhaled softly, and released.

"You're off centre to the left," Pritchard repeated.

Thud, the arrow sank into the target.

Halt glowered at him, but drew a fresh arrow from the quiver, nocking it, and drawing back.

"You're off centre to the left."

This time Halt ignored him, releasing, and scowling as the arrow sank into the target, a little off centre to the left.

"I really wish you wouldn't do that," he muttered as he drew a fresh arrow. This time, Pritchard was quiet, and Halt drew and released smoothly.

"You're off centre to the left," Pritchard grinned.

"You could at least look before you say that," Halt complained.

"Would it matter if I did?" Pritchard raised an eyebrow.

Dejected, Halt studied the target, and the arrow that had sunk into it, a little off centre to the left. "No."

"Then why bother," Pritchard shrugged.

Halt scowled again, drawing and releasing.

"You're off centre to the right," Pritchard mused.

"Don't you mean to the left?" Halt demanded angrily, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"No, because on your fifth shot, which this happens to be, you always get angry enough to overcompensate."

"How do you know it's not the target that's off centre to the right, and my arrows are true?" Halt demanded.

"Go get the arrows," Pritchard nodded to the target, and grumbling under his breath Halt complied. When he returned to where he had stood, Pritchard took the bow from him. Before Halt had time to even voice an objection, he'd sent one arrow flying, one more, and one more, the first one had not yet reached the target when the fourth one was in the air. All four of them thudded neatly into the target, all four of them dead on centre.

"Seems perfectly centred to me. Go get the arrows," Pritchard handed the bow back to him.

Humbled, Halt did as he was told, taking his stance again, he tried to sight better, to lay the shot out in his mind, and Pritchard cleared his throat.

"I haven't even shot yet," Halt growled.

"There's no use, you'll be off centre to the left," Pritchard softened his tone. "Try again."

"Isn't that good enough?" Halt lowered the bow, easing up on the string, holding the arrow lightly in place with one finger. "I'm already better than anyone else around here."

"You are, so if all you want to do is to go and show up those dumb wits in their harvest festival shooting games, go ahead," Pritchard mused. "You'll beat them all and no doubt about it, but you can do better than that."

"If I stop shooting off centre to the left…" Halt sighed, shoulders slumping.

"And then overcompensating to the right," Pritchard confirmed. Crowley hadn't had the same problem, his problem was that he got excited and snatched at the string. For five years, Pritchard had tried to break him out of that habit, and he would not be one bit surprised if he was doing it still. He was a good lad, just a little overeager and excited…

Halt drew the bow again, feeling the ground under his feet through the soles of his boots, taking stock of his stance, drawing his back muscles and flexing his fingers on the bow. "I think I know what I'm doing wrong," he decided.

"Yes, that's exactly what you're doing wrong," Pritchard confirmed.

"Huh?" the lad frowned.

"You said 'you think' you know what you're doing wrong, and that's just it. You're an apprentice, you're not ready to think," Pritchard grinned.

"Not funny," Halt scowled again.

"True though, it really is, you think too much," Pritchard shook his head softly. "You're a good intuit shot Halt, one of the best I've seen. Perhaps not the best, but one of them… But you think, you think you know where your arrow will go, you think you know how to aim it right. And you shouldn't. You should feel it. From now on, you're not allowed to sight, I want you to raise the bow and shoot, don't sight. You'll find it worse at first, because you've taught yourself not to trust your instinct, but I promise you, that once you do, you'll be dead on."

"We'll just see about that," Halt muttered, but he kept the bow down, raised it and fired in one smooth motion. Half of them went wild, several inches off his target, but the rest seemed to fly just a little more true and Halt realized Pritchard was right. He couldn't think too much about where he was aiming. He had to feel the shot, feel that it was right as the arrow shaft scraped against the bow.

He started doing better, and Pritchard beamed as he told him so. It was important to tell them when they did good, to encourage them. It was easy to forget how much a little well-earned praise could mean.

"That's enough for now," he decided. "You did pretty good there. Remember that, don't overthink it. You're not going to have the time to lay out every shot in your head, don't try. Pick your target, and shot it."

"Alright," Halt nodded.

"And practice," Pritchard added. "An ordinary archer practices until he gets it right. A Ranger practices until he never gets it wrong."

"Alright," Halt fought down the urge to roll his eyes, Pritchard was very fond of that saying. It was true of course. He knew as much, practice, even when you were skilled, was essential. It could get a bit tiresome to hear it thirty times a day though. He didn't show his irritation though, for one very good reason. It wasn't just practicing that Pritchard was fond of, it was throwing an annoying apprentice into a handy river…

"That's good then," Pritchard rubbed his hands together. "Now, do you think you might scare us up a couple of plowers? That would be just the thing for tonight I think. I'll teach you the best way to bake potatoes in the coal."

"I saw some salad greens by the water, I'll get some of that to," Halt decided. If he could see the sense in the endless practice with the bow, he had to admit he was more fond of learning how to cook good food. Eating was essential, he'd eat most things and didn't consider himself to be too picky, but there was something to be said for eating a good meal. Instead of one that was at best mediocre.

"Do that," Pritchard nodded. Crowley had been a bit quicker on the uptake when it came to shooting, and a bit slower on the cooking. He was good at it, quite excellent, and for all he loved to rush right in with all he had, he had learned that it was far better to let the food take the time it took. Halt had taken to it like a fish to water, watching the bird, turning the spit ever so slowly so that it roasted evenly. Raking hot coals into a trench, then taking a nice bit of trout or salmon. Wrapping it in leaves, with lemon and garlic if you had it, plain salt if you did not. Cover it up with a bit more of the coals to bake. If there was a better way to bake a salmon, he had not heard of it. Crowley saw the sense of it, and was willing, if not happy, to let it take the time it needed. He had learned to estimate the time it needed based on the size of fish, the heat of the coal, and the quality of the soil. Damp or dry ground mattered, if it was cold or hot in the air.

Crowley seemed to consider it a challenge, where Halt had a more natural aptitude for it. In both cases it meant that Pritchard ate quite well, something he was very happy about. He helped the youth to pluck the birds he caught. Brushing the dirt of the potatoes and showing him where in the hot coal to place them so they wouldn't be done too quick, nor too slow. While they waited for the birds and the potatoes, Halt mixed the bitter greens he had found. Greens were important, and a little oil with herbs did wonders for the taste of the most bitter of them. Pritchard also, to the horror of his horse, cut up an apple into small squares that he mixed in with the greens. The sweet apple would counteract the bitter flavour of the vegetables.

Halt watched eagerly as he did this, making sure he would remember the trick for himself.

With a full stomach Pritchard sat back, it was late evening and he should take the time to give a few pointers about unseen movements. Halt was good at that, very good. Crowley weren't half bad either, but he was even better at moving silently. He hadn't been able to procure one of their grey and green mottled cloaks for Halt. The ones that let them blend in so well with the woods around them. It was astonishing, even for one who knew the trick, to see how well it worked. How a friend could just seem to disappear into thin air. Instead, Halt had a faded brown cloak that worked almost as well. It was better to have a slightly darker shade than a lighter one.

When the shadows started coming in deeper between the trees, a man could be all but invisible, and he would help Halt see how to use the shadows. How to see the way they moved with the wind in the branches, and how one should follow that pattern. Halt was good at it, he needed a lot more work, but for one so young and yet untrained he was good. So was Crowley, but yes, he was even better at being silent. That lad moved without a whisper through a field of dry leaves…

How many times had he managed to sneak up on him, just stand there waiting, smiling as Pritchard turned around?

He had been annoyed at it, and now he missed it. It was funny how that worked. Halt wasn't the type for pranks like that. He was too serious minded and too grumpy for it. He'd never try to sneak up on someone, while Crowley was irrepressible. He had however learned not to sneak up on his mentor while in throwing distance of any water. Pritchard, once he got over the shock from having the boy scare him half to death, just standing behind him like that, would instantly give a good toss and send him into the water.

Rangers were trained to get over a shock like that very quickly, it usually didn't take more than a split second to see the boy go from smiling to soaking…

They had eaten, and it was time he started the lesson, but he would take another few minutes. Hopefully he would get another message from Berrigan or Egon soon, to let him know how the fool boy was getting along. He missed him, every day, and worried about him. Berrigan would try to keep an eye on him, but it was not an easy task. Crowley was alone in his own fief, and liable to get himself into more trouble than he could get himself out of sooner or later.

Knowing he would, and knowing there was nothing he could do about it broke Pritchard's heart. The lad deserved so much better, but so did Halt. He couldn't help Crowley right now, no matter how much he wanted to. His presence would only have endangered him, and that was something he was not willing to do. He missed the boy so much his old heart ached, but he would not allow himself to put him at risk.

Crowley was on his own, and he could only pray he had taught the boy enough to keep himself alive in the mad world they suddenly found themselves in. In the meantime there was the grumpy youngster in front of him. Washing their plates without a word as he had quickly learned that the housework was his job, it built character after all.

As soon as their gear was in order he'd start on the unseen movements. He would do his best to make sure the lad would be okay. He was a good lad, he deserved it.

Maybe one day he would see Crowley again, not just hear about his latest exploits from Berrigan and Egon, but speak to him, make sure for himself the lad was doing alright, and chide him for all the foolish things he had done. He didn't need either Berrigan or Ego to know there would be a lot of foolish things. He knew the lad well enough to know foolish things were in his nature.

"Alright, let's get to it," he started slowly as he pulled his aching body to upright. "Let's see if you can do a bit better this time, eh? You reminded me a bit too much about a great hulking elephant last time."

"Have you ever seen an elephant?" Halt wanted to know as he stood.

"No, and the racket you were making, we never will," Pritchard grinned. "Unseen movements means movements I don't see. Slow and easy, make sure you follow the pattern of your surrounding. It sounds hard, and it's not much easier. But when you really get the hang of it, no one will see just how good you are…"

"Sounds promising," Halt decided. He had long since learned that Pritchard liked to annoy him during training. He wasn't quite sure what purpose it served, except anger him to the point where he wanted nothing more than to prove he could master any task given. Which, when one thought about it, might very well be the reason… He took a deep breath, relaxing.

"If I don't see you, I'll do all the cleaning up after dinner tomorrow," Pritchard declared.

"Which means you're sure you'll see me," Halt scowled. He still turned to look at the forest around them. The thick steady boughs, the gently swaying leaves, he watched the shadows as they played over the ground, then when he felt confident he slipped into the first shadow, moving with it, creeping over the ground.

Every once in a while Pritchard would call out to him, and he would grit his teeth, dig in his teeth and try to sink deeper into the shadows. It was effective, Pritchard grinned where he stood leaning against a tree. It helped them to want to do better, Crowley had been the same way, except there had been more curses whenever Pritchard called out that he might just put an arrow in that skinny behind if he spotted it one more time.

What Crowley never figured out, and what Halt hadn't figured out yet, was that he did not always see them before he called out. Why wait? the better they got the better they would be. Oh, often enough he really did see them, but not quite as often as he let on.

He was their mentor, it was his duty to make sure they would be safe. In this world, with men like Morgarath and Ferris he could not guarantee their safety, no matter how much he wanted to. What he could do, and what he would do, was to give them every tool he was able to in dealing with it, and to stay safe.

They were good lads, both of them. He hated Morgarath deeply, not just for what he'd done to him, but for knowing what it would have done to Crowley, for taking him away from his apprentice.

He would always be bitter about that, but not about it bringing him to Halt. He cared just as deeply about him. Maybe one day, if Morgarath got his comeuppance, maybe if they were able to expose him for what he really was, both his boys would be safe, together and safe.

Maybe, if he was lucky, he would even be there to see it…

The End

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