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…

Chapter 9

Watching his two apprentices Halt ran a thoughtful hand over his face. There had been no improvement in Gilan's condition. During the fortnight he had stayed with them, there had been no change at all, except for an increase in the frequency of nightmares. What they were about, Halt did not know, but more often than not the boy seemed to wake up in terror. Truthfully, he expected quite a few were things that he had experienced, part memories, trying to reemerge in his sleep. Gilan though refused to talk about them, and Halt hadn't tried to push him. In all honesty, he wasn't certain how to approach him.

This Gilan was nothing like his own, he was sullen, quiet and withdrawn.

There were many who had seen his cheerful mannerism and thought he couldn't get mad, which Halt knew for a fact was not true. Gilan's anger, when provoked, was a frightening thing. Will's was quicker, less controlled and more easily evoked. Gilan's was slower, harder and more violent. He kept it in check so well it was easy to forget, for Gilan never let it slip unless he wanted to. He could withstand the most extreme provocation. Quietly determining to himself how much of it he would allow himself to use in retaliation.

That was the part that could even frighten Halt at times, that it was so easy for him to hide it, and how vicious he could be when he chose to use it. If two Battleschool cadets should corner Gilan, to harass him, he would usually not fight them. He was far too aware of how much more skillful he was and would not wish to injure them. That did not mean he let him get away with it though, he'd use all his energy, all his imagination to pay them back for the act.

Will, in the same situation would get mad, hurt, and if avoidance did not work would attempt to show them he bested them in skill. Usually by something such as nailing their cloaks to a tree with arrows. Much like Halt himself would do. Gilan was not above climbing a tower to enter their sleeping quarters and filling all their under-drawers with thistles.

The main reason why Halt knew this, was because a few such situations had arisen, involving both of his apprentices at separate times.

Currently Will was outside in the clearing practicing his archery skill, and Gilan would soon leave for sword practice. Something he did not seem minded to do. He had most of the use of his arm back, able to perform most tasks though not for a prolonged amount of time. The limp was still quite pronounced, but he was at least moving with more ease.

"Gil," the soft voice caused him to look up from the surface of the table which he had been staring at. "You might want to get going."

At first, Halt thought he might question him, object to the idea, then he simply shrugged and stood. Shoulders slumped he shuffled towards the door. He didn't say much unless he absolutely had to, so Halt wasn't surprised that he left in silence.

Heading towards the Battleschool, Gilan was in no hurry. Sir Rodney was pleasant enough, and he certainly had nothing against him. What he disliked was the idea that they thought waving a stick around would give him so much back. For all he knew, he had lost his memory long before he arrived at Araluen, and he just couldn't remember that he already was unable to remember. He could have been used for any number of things, and have no idea of it. Even if the sword was starting to feel a little more natural in his hand, he didn't see how it could be such a miracle worker. There was always someone looking at him, as if wondering why it hadn't worked yet. Sometimes he felt as if they thought he was doing it on purpose, not remembering anything.

Not Rodney, and certainly not Halt. He was glad he was staying with Halt, the older man was patient and compassionate. He thought Will meant to be, he kept wanting him to try things. A pastry that he claimed Gilan loved that he was sure would do it. A flower to smell, and every time it didn't work he'd look so disappointed it made Gilan feel like a cad. He didn't dislike Will, not at all, but he still tried to avoid being alone with him. He just couldn't stand to think he was the one who made him look so sad.

As he had gained skill and confidence Rodney had insisted on them sparring and though he was extremely uncomfortable with someone moving the wooden sword against him, he could tell Rodney was indeed very skilled.

"Focus Gilan," Rodney urged as Gilan once more tried to duck out of the way rather than raise the sword to block the strike.

Gilan though didn't even start to raise his wooden sword. "Will's got a bronze oakleaf," he started.

"He does," Rodney nodded. "Rangers wear a silver oakleaf to identify them as Rangers. Apprentice Rangers has a bronze one."

"All Rangers?" Gilan asked, and Rodney nodded.

"All Rangers," he knew Gilan didn't have his, it had been missing when he was found. Given this, he was surprised when the young man nodded.

"Then I suppose it's true I really am one, I had one of those, didn't I?"

"You did," Rodney confirmed. "Do you remember it?"

"No," Gilan hesitated, then he pulled the top of his shirt open a little, revealing his chest. "But I saw this…"

Obviously at some point, he had been outside without his shirt off Rodney mused. For the skin was somewhat tanned, and under his throat was a pale patch of skin, roughly in the shape of the oakleaf he had worn. He could imagine that for Gilan it had to be something of a relief to see evidence of what he was told.

"It's what it's from alright," he stated. "I've seen you wear it enough times."

"Not all the time?" Gilan frowned. He was under the impression that Rangers never took it off. At least, it seemed that way on Halt and Will. He'd even seen Will reach down, take his bronze oakleaf out to admire it, and he often reached up a hand to touch it.

"Just about all the time, since you became Halt's apprentice," Rodney amended. "I knew you before then, if not well. I knew your father to be more precise, and he used to always have you with him."

"Why?" Gilan frowned. "Why would he have me with him, if he didn't even want me?"

"Who the devil told you that?" Rodeny demanded.

"Someone," Gilan answered evasively, dropping his eyes for a moment, chewing on his thumbnail. "True, though, isn't it?"

"Absolutely not," Rodney snorted. "Whoever told you that was lying. I've known your father for many years, and I have nothing but the highest respect for him. It's no coincidence that he's the King's Supreme Battlemaster. He's one of the most skilled knights I've ever known. I saw him in tournaments many times when he was young. He was almost impossible to defeat. Baron Arald could, but then he's just as good himself. I think David competed less after you were born, whenever you saw him, he'd have you with him."

"Why would he do that?" Gilan wanted to know. It seemed to make some sense to him, his father resented having to give up the competition.

"I don't think there was really anyone he could leave you with, it's not easy for a man sometimes with a small child," Rodney shrugged. "We all knew how skilled he was though, and he was training you. You made a pretty good impression to back then," he frowned. "What's this about?"

"Nothing," Gilan shrugged, looking at the practice sword in his hand. "Just wondering, I hear some things, but no one wants to tell me a lot. Everyone seems to think they know best what I need to know or not."

"They're only trying to help," Rodney mused. If he hadn't known the boy in front of him was in fact Gilan, he would never have believed it. He had never known the boy when he was not smiling. Usually he was an overactive bundle of sunshine that barely stopped laughing for anything. This though, was strange, though he imagined it was the affliction that caused it. He did not see how anyone could be so cheerful when they did not know who they were. He found it strange though, and did not always know how to handle the boy. He wanted to help him, desperately, but he found it hard to reach him. He was guarded in a way Gilan never had been.

Oh, Gilan wasn't to be underestimated, several of his cadets had made that mistake over the years. They saw the strange boy come with his sword for private lessons with Wallace and Rodney, and they assumed he was the son of a minor noble or wealthy businessman who was being humored because his father paid. They thought he would be easy picking and not able to defend himself against them.

All of them tended to find out how wrong they were, usually by some rather extravagant revenge. Gilan rarely engaged them in actual sword play as he knew he was much too skilled for them and feared injuring them. It was a difficult position he had always been in, being so much better than most. He wondered who had told the boy his father didn't want him along all those times, when they had all seen David's eyes shine up as he presented Gilan,

Rodney had met him the first time when the boy was about five or six, a wooden sword strapped at his waist, like so many others of the boys had. Yet Gilan had not only instantly become the champion of the half-pint league at the tournaments. The official, unofficial worst kept secret of the entire sport.

All the children engaged in it were convinced their parents didn't know what they were getting up to, while all the adults were very careful to keep away from it so that they would not accidentally discover them. The boys snuck away to have their own version of fighting and jousting, with nothing to keep order but a few older boys. It worked, quite well, but Gilan had been so skilled he was quickly refused entry. After he was no longer allowed to play with them, he had been resigned to walk around with his father, when he wasn't sent off to run errands for the other knights. He knew Arald had favoured sending the boy for all kinds of tasks, most of them so the child would get to spend some of his abundance of energy, and have an excuse to give him a treat or a coin.

"Let's try again," he stated, hoping to bring the boy out of his reverie, though it did not seem very effective. Gilan was clearly not paying attention, and Rodney was forced to check his swing so he wouldn't hit him. "Concentrate."

Nodding, Gilan hefted the practice sword, his eyes fixed on Rodeny's own, but his posture was tense and his arm was locked. He brought the wooden tool up, but was unable to block in time, giving a yelp and dropping the sword as he rubbed his arm where Rodney's wooden sword had struck him.

"You need to concentrate Gilan," he urged. He could have checked his swing, but he had known it wouldn't be a bad strike, and he felt the boy needed a reminder of what he was doing.

"I am, I'm trying," biting his lip, Gilan picked up the sword, holding it so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Losen your grip, you're locking your arm. You won't be able to move in time," Rodney reminded him.

Again, Gilan dropped the blade with a cry as the practice sword hit the same spot on his arm. "I'm trying," he exclaimed, bending to pick it up, favouring his bad leg somewhat.

"You're tensing up, not concentrating, there's a difference," Rodney mused. "Let's try again."

They did, with the same result, and after two more tries, and fails, Gilan took a step back, rubbing at his arm. It was pounding from the impacts, even if he knew Rodney had taken care not to hit too hard. There was no real damage, but it was getting more and more sore. "I, I can't concentrate," he admitted. "Can we stop this?"

"Gilan…" Rodney sighed softly.

"I'm sorry, but I can't concentrate, I need to think, to figure something out, and I can't do this when I can't stop thinking about it," Gilan pleaded desperately. "How's me getting hit every single time going to make me remember anything? Or is that what I'm supposed to remember? What it feels like to be one of the quintains? Was that what I was during practice? I certainly don't seem to be much of a swordsman."

"You certainly weren't a practice dummy, I was lucky if I ever got one over you," Rodney sighed. "But now you are not concentrating."

"Well I can't, I've tried but I can't, so can we please not do this right now, I need to think," Gilan pleaded again. "I never ever even get room to breathe. Anytime I try, I got Will wanting me to look at something, smell something, always sure it'll do it, and then he'll look so disappointed when it doesn't work. As if I was doing it on purpose. I need to get a few quiet moments to just think, please…"

"Alright," Rodney nodded. "That's hardly unreasonable, but you could have told me before."

"Suppose, but I wasn't sure…" Gilan sighed, dropping his head. "I don't know what's okay and what's not, I don't know who wants me to act what way…"

"Asking for a bit of space when you need it, is most certainly okay," Rodney assured him. "At least with me it is. I'll see you again tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I suppose," he nodded, handing over the practice sword. "Thanks…"

"Don't mention it," Rodney watched him shuffling away. He was worried about him, and did not know what to do to help him. He really hoped they could figure it out though. It was killing him to watch the boy hurting so…

TBC
The caffeine addicted Cricket wants to thank you all for reading...