À Corps Perdu

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/6180010.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Category: Gen, F/M
Fandom: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Relationship: Will Treaty/Alyss Mainwaring
Character: Will Treaty, Horace Altman, Gilan (Ranger's Apprentice), Halt O'Carrick
Additional Tags: Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements,
Random & Short, Cliffhangers, Short Stories, chapters all separate,
unresolved endings, Character Death, Ghosts, Haunting, Resurrection,
sorta - Freeform
Stats: Published: 2016-03-06 Completed: 2016-10-11 Chapters: 8/8 Words:
11667

À Corps Perdu
by Aseikh

Summary

A collection of short-stories, filled with supernatural happenings in the Ranger's Apprentice

world. Anything from ghost stories, to vampires, sprinkled with a good amount of
desperation, horror, and fear.
 Claustrophobia

Monotonous colors bothered Horace. And sure, with age, nature, and misuse, the color had
changed. Not all of it was the pure white marble anymore, some of it was worn to a greyish color,
while other parts were darker or lighter. But it was still there. And it still bothered him.

Horace sighed, running his hands along the past-white marble, rubbing away dust and dirt that had
been pounded into its natural color.

The only reason they were in Gorlan was to see if the castle was salvageable, and if not, to reclaim
the land for another fief. Why assign two highly trained killers to examine a castle, though?
Turning back, Horace saw Will's cloak slip around the corner, possibly heading off to another
corner of the castle out of curiosity, or boredom. He hadn't said anything, but he must've made
some type of noise, or Horace wouldn't have noticed him go.

"And now," the knight muttered to himself, "I am alone."

As he walked, he came to a doorway, shoved into an alcove. Glancing inside, Horace found steps
leading downwards, deeper into the castle, as well as up. Glancing behind him, Horace looked
around for any of the soldiers they had brought with them. They would still be at the beginning of
the ruins, combing through everything diligently. He was alone. Shrugging, he put a hand on the
hilt of his sword, and went down the steps.

He had been on the second floor of the remaining ruins, when he had started down, and he had
noticed entrances and exits of the stairwell as he passed other floors. All of them were shoved into
small, unnoticeable areas. Servant's stairwell, then?

The stairs ended, at a solid wall, the stone more dark grey then white if anything. The bowels of
the castle were probably built of a less expensive stone then the white marble that could be seen
above. Horace turned at the wall, seeing a doorway to his side. He looked into a long hallway, one
door at the end of the hall behind him, and about seven others down the other end.

There was practically no light, being a floor below the ground. Horace didn't even have a torch on
him, with the only light coming from the stairwell behind him. Sighing once more, he turned back
to the stairwell, considering heading back up there to obtain a torch, and maybe some company in
the form of a short, sarcastic Ranger.

A breeze made him pause.

Glancing to the floor, Horace watched as dirt and leaves were dragged across the stone by invisible
fingers. The wind brushed against his face, made him want to pull his jacket and cloak tighter
around him. Where was it coming from?

Something flickered beneath the door at the end of the hall.

Frowning, Horace stepped out of the stairwell, and walked towards the door. The wind got stronger
as he approached, but nothing so bad that he had to turn aside or cover his face. He put a hand to
the handle, and tried to push the door open, but the strength of the wind held it shut. Putting a
shoulder to the door, Horace shoved harder.

The door banged open, the wind bursting out all at once, pushing him back. He stumbled, nearly
falling. But then the wind was gone.
Stepping into the room, Horace found just a standard storage room. A large cabinet was shoved
against the wall, while shelves in front of Horace were covered in old food and supplies. Crinkling
his nose at the smell of the rotted food, the knight glanced around for whatever had been the
source of the light he had seen, or even the wind. He walked around the open door, checking
behind the door.

Another gust of wind slammed the door shut, the bang causing him to flinch.

Where was that wind coming from?

Horace looked at the cabinet.

There were cut marks in the stone around it, as well as more dirt thrown on the ground. Making his
way towards the cabinet, Horace considered for a moment going to find someone, namely Will,
who would tell him how irrational his fears were. But the darkness was kind of unsettling . . .

It wasn't dark.

The only light, before, had been from the stairwell, and now that the door was shut, it should have
been completely dark in the room. Yet Horace could still see his hand, could still see details around
the storage room. There was a light source somewhere, but where?

Looking back to the cuts and scratches in the stone, hidden behind the large cabinet, Horace
decided to at least see what was behind the cupboard before leaving.

Putting his shoulder against the wooden side, Horace anchored his feet, and pushed. Nothing much
must have been within it, as it moved easily. It scraped against the floor, pushing dirt to the side.
The knight didn't have to move it much before he saw the tunnel.

It was old, obviously made before the fief had been abandoned. It was tall enough that he wouldn't
have to duck if he decided to go in, but . . . no. Dark, enclosed spaces were not Horace's idea of a
fun time. Either way, dirt and dust crumbled wherever he touched, not making him eager to get
much closer.

"I could always order a few people to investigate it," Horace said to himself, tilting his head to look
deeper into the dark tunnel, "as I'm sure Will would find it fun to go in there," he snickered.

Behind him, the door creaked open. Figuring it was either a few soldiers or Will, Horace turned, a
hand raised in greeting.

What he saw, however, was not an Araluen soldier or Ranger.

The door was partially open, and with the racks on the other wall, that left a small opening around
to the door. What stood in that opening made bile run up Horace's throat, and he gasped it back,
stumbling back in horror. Morgarath, Lord of the Mountains of Rain and Night, stood before him.
His long, pale blonde hair ran into mats and tangles and held dirt and leaves. The former Baron still
wore the armor that he wore when Horace had killed him, which was soaked with the blood that he
had spilt, something that was burned into the knight's memory forever. Skin was basically
stretched over his skull, with random cuts and holes, showing the bone. The eyes sockets were
black holes, no eyes, along with the mouth, which just gaped open. The lips that stretched over his
teeth were thin, but he could see the skull's grin through the opaque skin.

Clutched in his right hand, Morgarath's large sword scrapped along behind him, blood crusted onto
the blade.
Horace shuffled back, unable to believe what he was seeing. His heel caught the lip of the tunnel,
and he toppled over, straight into the lip of the tunnel. It was slanted downwards partially, and the
Oak Leaf Knight slid partway, before he caught himself. Scrambling to his feet, he screamed out,
not knowing why, "Will! Anyone!"

The last thing Horace saw before the cabinet was shoved back in front of the hole was Morgarath's
grinning skull.

Darkness enclosed on him, and suddenly he couldn't breathe. No light, none at all. The walls were
so close, so suffocating, crumbling. He was alone, and doubted that anyone had heard his scream .
. . The walls . . . the darkness . . . it was all so . . . so deafening . . . so . . . so . . . Will?

Horace turned, sure that he had heard something behind him. Breathing, and footsteps. It must be
Will . . . right?
 Remembrance

He wasn't fast enough.

Will spun, hoping to draw his saxe in time to block the blow, but knowing that it would be
impossible for him to stop the blade from falling. It would hurt, he knew. He would probably die, if
it hit in the right spot. And, at the time, all Will could think about was for Halt and Gilan to make it
out okay.

The blade never hit.

As he turned, he saw another wearer of the green-grey cloak come in-between him and his
attacker. A blade swept up, easily blocking the bandit's clumsy stroke. Taking his chance, Will
sheathed his saxe, and retrieved his dropped bow. Putting his back to a tree trunk, he drew an
arrow, and sighted on the man now struggling against Gilan. But before he could release, the
bandit slipped, and took Gilan's blade into his side. He crumbled to the ground, dead seconds
later.

Gilan sheathed his sword, and turned to Will with a satisfied smile. Releasing tension, the younger
Ranger took the arrow off the string, and slipped it back into the half-empty quiver at his back.

"You know where Halt is?" Gilan glanced down at the dead man, but didn't seem to give too much
thought to him.

Will shrugged, "He said he was going to scout around, but considering that these people are here,
something must've happened."

Grimacing, Gilan walked past Will, back towards where they knew the bandit camp would be.
"Well, guess we have to find out, huh? Someone probably heard something, if not everything," Will
turned to follow, falling in step behind him.

"So, we might have to deal with all of them?" Gilan waved his hand at Will's assumption.

Turning back to Will, he stopped walking. "If they heard something, that is. We can't be—" Gilan's
eyes had flicked over Will's shoulder, and focused on something. A fraction of a second later, Will
felt something snatch his shirt, and he was dragged forwards. He was thrown off balance, and fell
to the side, landing on his chest.

Struggling to get up, Will rolled onto his back, drawing his saxe as his did so. Gilan lay on the
ground, on his side, and moved slightly. Assuming he was getting up, the young Ranger glanced
back to where he'd seen Gilan's eyes go.

He saw the crossbowman raise the weapon once more. Without a second thought, Will raised his
arm, and threw the saxe towards the man. It wasn't until he'd released that he realized that an
involuntary jerk could make the crossbow go off anyway.

It didn't.

The saxe slammed into the bandit, throwing him back into the bushes.

Sighing, Will turned to see if Gilan was all right. He assumed that Gilan had been the one to drag
him to the side, and that Gilan had dodged the quarrel as well. His blood ran cold when he saw
Gilan still laying on the ground, an arm wrapped around his side, while the other held something .
. . the quarrel, which stuck out from just below his sternum.

Will looked down on the table in front of him, still not believing what had happened. On the table
lay two possessions he pretended just to be keeping for his friend. The straight bladed sword Gilan
had favored still had the worn grip, but was obviously well-cared for. It wasn't in a sheath, but just
laid bare on the tabletop. Beside it lay a silver oak leaf necklace.

"Will!" Halt yelled.

The young Ranger, however, just stared dumbly down at whatever was piled at his feet. His eyes
were wide, and his face was pale. He didn't have his bow, and from what Halt could tell from the
distance, he didn't have his saxe knife either. And where was Gilan?

Behind him, more bandits crashed through the foliage, trampling anything in their path. They were
still a ways off, but the Ranger would have to make their escape soon—and fast.

"Will!" Halt snapped, dragging Will's arm as the grizzled Ranger finally got beside him. "We have
to get going, where the hell is Gilan?"

Instead of speaking, Will slowly brought his arm up, pointing to a small heap a few meters in front
of him. Then he saw the cloak, with its distinctive pattern, and the sword sheath poking out
underneath it. Halt stepped forward, and saw the crossbow bolt in seconds.

He wasn't breathing either.

Halt set a hand on Will's shoulder, gently shaking him. He'd been in shock ever since they got
back, and Halt honestly didn't know what to do. He'd never lost someone so close to him, not as
close as Will and Gilan had been. He still hadn't gotten out of Will what had happened, how Gilan
had been shot, or even how they had been found.

They'd sat in silence on the way home, Will clutching the sword to his chest. Halt had tried to
convince Will to let it go, seeing the cuts the blade was putting in his arms and hands, but had been
ignored.

Knowing that the bandit group was coming, Halt had shaken Will, and informed him of the bandits
coming. For a moment, the young man had looked between his fallen friend, and his former
mentor.

"What about Gil?" He had whispered.

Walking forward, Halt bent down and took Gilan's sword out of it's sheath. To be sure, he also felt
for a pulse at his throat, but felt nothing. Then he also took the oakleaf from around his neck, and
slipped it off. "We can't bring him back, Will. It's too dangerous," that was when Halt had made
the mistake of handing the bare weapon to Will, "take these, hold on to them. Let's get to the
horses."

Crowley watched as Halt tried to get Will to speak again. Gilan was dead, the only momento of
him being his sword and his oak leaf. Sighing, Crowley glanced back at his desk, his eyes glazing
over the papers and the messes. Gilan was gone. He was so young, full of promise. Crowley had
even been thinking of offering the commandant position to him.

Letting his eyes wander back to the table at which Will sat, his eyes landed on the blade. David,
Crowley's eyes went wide, he has to be notified that his son is gone.

Gilan sneered, and turned his back on Will. "It's your fault I'm dead, so thanks a lot."

He faded away, quickly replaced with an older man, who was obviously related to the fallen
Ranger. Sir David, Will recognized. He didn't seem any more happy than Gilan.

The knight crossed his arm, and glared down on Will. "You killed my son! How could you! I
thought you were friends, I thought you cared for him! And yet, you let him die! He's gone because
of you!"

David lashed out with his fist, causing Will to stumbled back.

He flinched awake, eyes wide open.

Kicking his feet off the bed, he turned and faced the wall for a moment. Will ducked his head,
covering it with two hands. He rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward. Breathing hard,
he moaned.

Tomorrow, he would have to tell David.

David's eyes went from the blade in the young man's hands, to the sorrow and terror in his eyes.
And suddenly, he knew what he was about to hear. He could see the tears welling in his eyes, the
shaking in his arms and hands, the barely restrained breakdown waiting to happen.

Instead of making him suffer any longer, David stood, and reached out for the sword he would
recognize anywhere. Will gave it over, eyes refusing to look at his friend's father.

Taking the sword gently in his hands, the knight caressed it for a moment, looking down at the
only thing he would have to remember his son. "Thank you," David whispered, looking back up to
Will.

And suddenly, he couldn't restrain the words anymore. "He saved me," Will blurted. He paused for
a moment, stunned that he had said it. But then he continued, knowing that David would want to
know how his son died. "He had saved me twice in a row. I was too slow blocking a blade, and he
caught it. He dragged me out of the way when the man shot. I—I didn't know that he had been
hit." Will put a hand into his pocket, and drew out the silver oak leaf. With a shaking hand, he held
it out to David. "It's my fault he died. More men were coming, and Halt didn't want to risk trying to
take his body. I—I'm sorry."

David gently took the necklace out of Will's hand, watching it shake. Putting the necklace around
the sword grip, David reached out with a free hand, and took Will's outstretched hand.

"Don't blame yourself, Will. He saved you because he loved you. Don't give up what he gave you
because you feel you don't deserve it. My son thought of you as the younger brother he never hand,
so do me a favor, and live for your older brother. He wanted you to live, not to feel guilt over his
own choice," David squeezed Will's hand, smiling sadly.

Will felt the tears come, and no longer could he hold them back.

Gilan smiled, looking over from his perch by the fire. He knew Will would never be over his
death, but at least he was no longer blaming himself.
He knew his father would hang his sword above the fireplace, replacing where his old war-time
sword hung at the moment. And his oak leaf would reside on his father's nightstand, where he
would see it every night, and every morning. Over the years, Gilan also knew, his little brother and
his father would meet, and spend time together, reminiscing on a certain sarcastic know-it-all.

Standing, Gilan waved, although he knew neither would see it.

 A Mother's Love

Will tapped Halt on the shoulder, setting his coffee on the table as he did so.

"What is it?" Halt mumbled, slapping down a piece of paper he had been reading. Except Will had
seen the signature at the bottom, and the writing had been in Crowley's hand, so Will doubted that
Halt was actually annoyed at being interrupted.

Taking ahold of his mentor's empty cup, he moved to refill it. "I was in town today, and Jenny told
me of a rumor that I think we might need to check out," he started. Pausing, he poured some freshly
made coffee into Halt's mug, before continuing. "People are saying that around the border between
us and Aspienne, there's been 'disturbances'."

Setting down Halt's coffee, Will sat across from him, crossing his legs and reaching for his own
warm mug.

Frowning, the grizzled Ranger glanced up. "What kind of 'disturbances'?"

Smiling, Will stood, setting down the coffee without ever taking a sip. "How 'bout I go get Horace,
and we'll go find out?"

"It's a ghost town," Horace moaned, hunching over Kicker. Next to him, Will heard his stomach
growl loudly, and winced in sympathy.

Halt sighed, and glanced around them, pursing his lips. This place reminded him of somewhere . . .

They hadn't stopped for lunch, expecting to find the small town where the majority of the reports
and rumors came from to have some people. Instead, all of the houses were empty, and the inn
abandoned and strangely hallowed out.

Suddenly, Halt realized where they were. Whipping his head around, he looked around them,
trying to find the small cottage he knew would be at the town limits. "Halt?" One of the younger
men asked, but he wasn't paying attention to them. Wheeling Abelard around, Halt left the two
friends puzzling over his actions as he moved towards a run down cabin some ways to their left.

He stopped at the doorway, and dismounted. Seconds later, Will was next to him, a concerned look
to his face.

Ignoring him, Halt turned, and pointed towards a small area at the edge of a forest. He could see a
small rock in the center.

Quietly, he said, "This is where you were born."

Will paused, concern being overcome by surprise. "What?"

Halt motioned towards the rock, "And that's where your mother is buried."

Will looked down on the rock, reading the words etched into it over, and over, and over.

A Brave Mother.
Halt, inside the run-down house, glanced at the small crib. Memories came flooding back, as he
recalled giving Will milk while he lay in that small bed. No one must've taken this house after she
died, Halt realized. Setting a hand on the side of the crib, the stairs to his side creaked.

His saxe was out, ready to throw, before he saw who stood there.

Horace leaned against the side of the house, watching Will from afar. Halt had told him to stay
with Will, but to not disturb him. His friend didn't seem happy to find where he had been born, but
looked moreover sad.

And, he guessed he would be sad too, if he found where one of his parents had died.

Halt watched as Will picked up the pot, and went to go fill it with water. When he was out of ear-
shot, Halt beckoned to Horace. "C'mere, Horace," Halt murmured.

With no hesitation, the knight moved closer to Halt, leaning in to hear what he said.

"Don't tell Will," he started it with, and watched as Horace's eyes went wide. He continued before
Horace could protest, "but I don't think we're alone in this town," and then, he began to describe to
Horace who he'd seen.

Will walked back into the fire-light, and heard as Halt and Horace's conversation stopped abruptly.
Seeing the confused look on Horace's face, and the barely restrained frustration on Halt's face, Will
knew that had been talking about something.

"What did I miss?" The young Ranger asked conversationally. He sat in his spot, and noticed that
Horace had moved closer to Halt since he'd left. That left him on the other side of the fire, alone.

Halt shrugged, and waved at Horace before the knight could respond. "I was just explaining to
Horace what happened in Alburn, with the Lady's missing broach."

The young Ranger didn't believe him. He saw through the lie with one look to Horace.

After an awkwardly silent dinner, Halt knew for sure that Will knew that he had been lying. For
appearances sake, Halt began randomly to explain what happened in Alburn to Horace, but the look
on Horace's face just got more and more confused as he went on.

Will, however, got more and more upset as he went on.

Suddenly, Will stood. "I need to take a walk, be right back," and with that, he was gone.

He read it again: A Brave Mother.

Will sighed, and looked up into the forest. What had Halt and Horace been talking about, and why
had they hid it from him? Shaking his head, he turned away from the grave, and looked to the
house he had been born in.

Someone stood in the doorway.

She wore a simple dress, nothing fancy. Her brown hair was up in a bun, elegant, but, again,
simple. For some reason, even though Will had never laid eyes on the young woman before, he
knew her. He recognized her.
He stepped forward, but felt something at his back. A deep, burning pain, at the base of his spine.
Will yelled out, feeling his legs collapsed from underneath him, feeling himself slam into the
ground.

The woman still stood in the doorway, but she was shaking her head.

Halt and Horace heard Will's yell.

Both shot up to their feet, running in the direction that it had come from. Halt pulled his bow out,
drawing an arrow as they came to the clearing where the old house stood. Nearby, the mother's
grave—Will lay on his back, something sticking out of his back, only a few steps from the grave.

Seeing no one around, Halt let the strain off his bow, and threw it away. He ran to Will's side, with
Horace steps behind him. Blood soaked Will's back, around where a crossbow bolt stuck out of his
back. Kneeling down, the older Ranger put a finger to Will's bare wrist, searching for a pulse. He
watched Will's back, waiting for it to rise and fall.

But it didn't.

"No, no, Will, please be okay," Halt whispered, placing a hand on the shaft, not knowing what to
do.

"Halt," Horace whispered. The Ranger looked up, seeing Horace looking away. Towards the
house.

A woman stood in the doorway. A simple dress, hair in a simple bun atop her head. She had a hand
over her heart, and seemed to be looking down on Will's lifeless body.

On the ground, Will gasped.

Halt's eyes went down to Will for a second, before he looked back up to the woman in the
doorway.

But she was gone.

A few weeks later

By himself, Will sat on one of the porch chairs, watching a few birds bicker over a worm. He had a
blanket thrown over his legs, and steaming mug of coffee in his hand. He wore a loose shirt, so not
to strain any bandages around his torso.

The door to the cabin opened, and Halt stepped out. He had his own mug of coffee, and sat next to
Will on the porch.

Silence stretched between them, until Will murmured, "Can I ask you something?"

Halt, being too worried about the exhaustion in his apprentice's eyes, nodded, motioning for him to
continue.

Will sighed, and set his mug on the table between them. He began to play with the stitches in the
blanket, not looking up at Halt. Slowly, he began to describe a woman. Simple dress, simple
hairstyle. Brown hair, a gentle face. Seemingly familiar, but had no recollection of where he
might've seen her before he'd been injured.
He took a breath, looking down on the stitches he played with. "It—It was my mother that I saw . .
. wasn't it?"

It was all the same. Same to the specter he'd seen in the house, same as the woman he'd seen in the
doorway when Will had been dead. Same as the woman who saved his life, when he had been
trying to save her's from a few ex-military gamblers.

Silently, Halt nodded.

 Where the Eyes Will Follow

He could feel their eyes on the back of his neck.

He'd felt them all day, following him wherever he went. Sometimes it didn't make sense how he
could feel them following him, with him being in positions where . . . it wouldn't be possible. He
could be in a room alone, and he would still feel them, boring down the back of his skull. If he
turned around, they would still be at his back. It didn't matter what way he was facing, where he
was, or who he was with—someone was staring at him.

Some might boil it down to just simple paranoia, but that wouldn't make sense. Why would he feel
paranoid? Nothing serious had happened recently, and as far as he could remember, there was no
possible way any of the enemies he had made in the past could come back.

Will stepped out onto the porch, no longer able to stand the odd feeling of eyes on him when he
was alone. At least being outdoors would give it an excuse.

As he stepped out, he saw a woman walking up the trail, alone. She wore a light blue dress, with a
simple apron over it. Her brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun, with strands of hair slipping
out. Even from the distance, Will could see the strands of grey streaking her hair. He watched her
pick her way through the clearing, stepping over a few branches that were knocked down in a
storm a few nights ago. Leaning up against the pillar near the porch steps, he waited.

"Hello," he said when she got close enough. "Can I help yo—"

"You killed her," the woman interrupted.

Will's words caught in his throat. Her eyes. He recognized her eyes. They were the same as her's.

"Yo-You're Li—"

"Don't you dare say her name, you bastard," the woman snarled, stomping up the steps towards
him. Unable to help it, Will took a few steps back. She stood a step below him, nose to nose with
him, as she said, "you killed her."

"Lila?" Will asked, hand instinctively going down to his belt. But both of his knives were inside,
resting on the table. "I didn't kill—"

The woman lashed out, hands curling into claws, going for his face. She lunged forwards, while
Will jerked back, attempting to get out of her reach.

He lost his balance, his foot caught on the porch, and he fell. His back slammed into the wall
between the door and the window, and his head snapped back, cracking on the door frame. He let
himself slid to the ground, his eyes shut tight. A hand came around, and he cradled his head, and
ducked it between his legs.

And opened his eyes, to see the ceiling of his bedroom, lit only by the light of the moon. It came in
through the window, where they hadn't completely shut the curtains.

He sat up, shaking the bed slightly. Beside him, Alyss stirred.

"Babe?" She mumbled, rubbing her eyes as she turned over, "you alright?"
"Go back to bed, honey, I'm fine," he whispered, swinging his legs off the bed. "Just getting some
water."

She turned back over, sleepily murmuring, "Okay."

Instead of getting up to get his water, though, he sat on the edge of the bed. Waiting. Thinking.
Debating.

Lila . . . had wandered too far from home. Her mother found Will, and asked him to find her
daughter before dark. Will had found her, but was too late to stop a wolf from lunging towards her.
Of course Will had shot the animal, but the girl, Lila, was still severely injured. She bled out before
Will could administer the proper care. He had carried her body home, back to her parents.

He didn't like remembering what happened after that. But the woman from his dream had been
Lila's mother.

He felt the eyes on him again.

Will paused, wondering what he would see if he turned. Every other time—nothing. Nothing had
been behind him. That much had been true, he remembered testing to see where the eyes would
follow earlier in the day, and even the day before. They had been following him. Following him
everywhere, ever since—

Ever since Lila.

"You killed me," a little girl's voice said from behind him. Alyss didn't even stir.

He turned, dreading what he would see.

She was smiling, however, looking across the bed to him.

"Lila," Will whispered.

Her smile widened.

 Hypothetically

Will tapped the table, just a small knock, and waited for Halt to look up from his paper. Holding
the other hand behind his back, he hoped his mentor wouldn't ask what he held. Because that
would sure be hard to explain, especially if they hadn't spoken first.

"Yes, Will?" Halt murmured, lifting his gaze from the letter. His gaze went straight to his face, not
even a glance to the hand.

"Uhh," the young Ranger paused, suddenly unsure if he should ask. What would Halt think?

As the silence stretched, Halt sighed, "Will, I actually have things to do. What is it? Something
wrong?"

What the hell? "Hypothetically," he started, "what would you think happened if someone had
fallen off a cliff, and was later seen walking around?"

"How big was the cliff?"

Fidgeting, Will shrugged, "Big."

The grizzled Ranger frowned, looking up curiously at his former apprentice. "Why?" He asked, a
suspicious look in his eyes. That's when his eyes finally registered Will's arm, and glanced
downwards at the hidden hand.

Shrugging, Will moved the object to his other hand, keeping it behind his back, and moved the
other hand through his hair nervously. "It's just a hypothetical situation, Halt. So?"

Slapping the paper down on the table, the old Ranger sat forward, clasping his hands together.
"Then, hypothetically, the cliff wasn't actually that big. Or they never fell at all, or they landed on a
ledge."

"What if you saw their body? Knew they were dead, once and for all?" Will countered, but the
quickly added, "Hypothetically, of course."

Halt pinched the bridge of his nose. "So, without a doubt, the person died, but later is seen
uninjured and alive?"

"Hypothetically."

Pursing his lips, Halt raised an eyebrow, obviously tired of the word. "That's impossible Will. The
dead don't walk."

Will scrunched his face, frustration overwhelming his eyes. "But what if Halt? What if that,
hypothetically, happened?"

Finally, Halt stood, facing Will. "If you say 'hypothetically' again, Will, I'll hypothetically kick
your ass," he snapped, before turning to the small kitchen, and fetching the coffee pot. It wasn't
until he was done preparing the coffee, and set it above the fire, that he turned back to Will. "It's
not possible Will, it's just not."

Will seemed to panic. "What if?"

Finally, his words registered with his mentor. "How much of this hypothetical situation actually
happened, Will?"

Biting his lip, the young Ranger considered his options. He is the one who started this entire
conversation. "Hypothetically, all of it."

"What's behind your back?" Halt murmured, pointing to where Will's hand was still hidden.

Hesitantly, Will drew his hand out, holding out a cloth that was striped black and white, with a
black sword standing out against it. It was partially ripped, as if torn from a shirt, or a bigger piece
of cloth. Something pinkish stained the corner, making it stiff.

It took a few minutes for the implications of the cloth to dawn on Halt's aging mind. He wasn't
directly related to the case, and had only heard the description of that coat of arms very briefly,
many years ago. The file it was written down in was probably buried somewhere on Crowley's
desk in Araluen. But it had concerned Will, nearly killing him, so it was buried in Halt's mind. It
was there, because he wouldn't forget any injury done to his apprentice lightly.

"Anyone could have that thing, Will, that doesn't mean—"

"That he's back?" Will finished, a dead look to his eyes as he stared blankly at Halt. "I took this off
him myself, Halt. I didn't kill him though. I don't know what would have happened if I killed him
again."

"What about his face? Was it burned from the acid?"

Numbly, Will shook his head.

 Chaser

Will never got a good look at their face.

They always came from behind, whoever they were, and took him there. Slit his throat, break his
neck, stab him through the back, it varied every time.

And always, whenever he jerked awake, sweat-stained bed clothes and bed sheets, he would sit in
bed for a few minutes before getting up, and getting a glass of water. That was usually when they
would come out of the shadows once more, and kill him all over again. Usually the second time
was more painful, longer, more drawn out.

And sometimes, it would happen enough times in a row, Will waking up, thinking he was awake,
but being attacked again, that he began confusing what was a dream, and what was reality.

He sat down at the bench, heavily, and with a large sigh. The morning light streamed in, and he
could hear birds singing within the clearing outside. That was how he knew that he was awake—
the sun. The birds. Other life forms. Other people.

Halt set down a mug of coffee in front of his former apprentice, eyeing him curiously. "You all
right?" The older Ranger asked, going back into the kitchenette to retrieve a mug for himself. He
sat down across from Will, spooning in honey. He raised an eyebrow as he watched Will gulp
down the coffee black, with no sugar, milk, or honey added to sweeten it.

Will shrugged after he swallowed, but didn't want to explain everything to Halt. "I didn't get much
sleep last night."

"I didn't think Alyss was in town?" Halt said casually, but gave a mischievous grin when Will
glared daggers at his mentor. "Seriously, though, you having trouble sleeping? Something happen I
should be aware of?"

"Thanks for the concern," Will said, smiling, "but I'm fine. Bad dreams, that's all."

Halt frowned, "What kind of bad dreams?"

"Well—" Someone knocked at the door, interrupting their conversation. Before Will could stand,
Halt was on his feet.

"Tell me later," Halt mouthed, and he opened the door.

This time, Will saw his face.

And this time, they weren't there to kill him.

A knife came out of nowhere, halfway thrown at Halt, even as the hand followed the trajectory.
The dagger slammed into his chest, and the hand slammed into him seconds later, pushing it
deeper into Halt's body.

"NO!" Will yelled, standing brusquely from his seat, and knocking back the bench. He attempted to
step over the fallen bench, but his legs got tangled and he stumbled and fell to the ground—

—and jerked awake in his bed.

He didn't sit and wait this time, scrambling out of bed, and staggering over to the bedroom door,
sweat pouring off him and dripping to the floor. He wanted to know—needed to know—if that had
been a dream.

Because that man.

That man. The one who chased him through reality and dreamscapes.

That man was long dead.

 The Hunt
Chapter Notes

Before you read!!! This is just a repost of my former 3-part story "Fading Memories". I
was a little upset with it, and didn't exactly want it on my stories list, if that makes
sense. So I blended the chapters, renamed it, and decided to throw it into ACP. If you
have already read "Fading Memories", then there's really no point in reading this
chapter. If not, read on!

If he ever sat down to think about it, Will would find that his memory of his early apprenticeship
was fading. It didn't matter that when he became a Ranger's apprentice, he went through hell. It
was fading, he knew, and he wasn't exactly sure if it was because he was getting old, or because he
had dealt with worse. Most of the Battle for Skandia was a blur, his slavery, which had never been
in his mind to begin with, was just blackness. His sea voyage, his capture at the burning bridge, his
journey through Celtica, he only remembered snippets of. Sure, he remembered key parts; throwing
the knife towards Slagor on Skorghijl, cutting the wood and lighting the bridge on fire, even when
he first met Cassandra, then Evanlyn.

When he looked further, specifically to his encounter with the Kalkara, his memory got a bit more
selective. He remembered more, but none of the important parts. He could remember part of his
journey to get the Baron and Battlemaster, and even part of the return with them. He remembers
seeing Gorlan, but not seeing the Kalkara. He remembered knowing that his friends were in danger,
but not his actions to prevent it.

Will recalled drawing his recurve bow back, the arrow burning, and sighting it above the creature,
and getting a slight burn on his hand.

Except there was one thing that never faded. What never went away - the one that shattered his
sleep and kept him up until dawn, that followed him anywhere and everywhere - was their terrible
screech. He couldn't even describe it, but it practically haunted him.

That day, Will was alone. He would be alone for sometime as well. Halt had to travel to Castle
Araluen to help Crowley with a small mishap, Alyss was away, also at Castle Araluen, and Pauline
had gone with her. Horace had been visiting to do classes at the Redmont Battleschool, but he was
currently away - with the Baron - visiting one of the smaller neighboring fiefs. That left Rodney in
charge of the fief, and Will in charge of maintaining order.

It was silent in the cabin, other than the crackling fire and the scratchings of his quill as he wrote a
report. Considering everything; his fading memory of the events, the silence, and his occasional
all-nighters, when he heard the screeching sound from hell, he thought he was just hearing things.
There was no mistaking the sound - it grated him, rubbed him the wrong way, made him flinch,
dropping his quill, and spilling his ink on his half finished report.

The screech split the silence, tearing it apart and shredding it to pieces.

Will sat there, stunned for a moment. I did not just hear that. I'm hallucinating, that couldn't have
been real. Will stumbled to his feet as the shriek ended, and silence enveloped him once more. He
hesitated, before spinning on his heels, and heading for the door. Reaching out, his hand gripped
the handle, ready to fling the door open.

Knowing that if there was an actual Kalkara out there, it would do nothing to protect him, the
Ranger slipped his free hand to his sheath, and slid the large saxe knife out. Holding his knife
loosely beside his thigh, Will turned the handle.

The forest was silent.

Completely silent.

He listened, standing there in the doorway for a few minutes. The normal sounds of the forest were
dead around him. No chatting squirrels, singing birds, or chirping insects. After a full five minutes,
there was a slight thump, and Tug came trotting around the cabin, shaking his head with a certain
look in his eyes.

Will hadn't imagined that shriek.

Tracing his steps back into the cabin, he slung his quiver over his shoulder, and grabbed his cloak
off the peg by the door. He swung that around his shoulders as he walked across the room to get a
hold of his bow, which was leaning up against his bedroom door. He slid his saxe back into it's
sheath when the solid yew bow was in his hand. The Ranger turned back to the door, heading
around the table, forgetting about his half finished report. He had to get out of there.

Exiting the cabin, he shut the door quietly. From what he remembered, Kalkara mainly tracked by
smell and hearing. Their eyes weren't that useful. Unless he wasn't remembering correctly. He tried
to remember a definite fact about the Kalkara, something he could use. They were weak to fire,
two skilled knights were killed, and one crippled, when they attempted to kill a Kalkara during the
Battle at Hackham Heath. He skipped the steps, jumping down from the porch to the ground in one
step. When his feet hit the ground, another screech ripped through the forest around him.

Long, drawn out, filled with hatred and a need to kill. It was also closer than the one before.

That's when Will remembered.

The Kalkara weren't mindless killers.

They were methodical.

They were inherently assassins.

They killed someone only when told.

Will paused, a hand on Tug's bridle, one foot on a stirrup. He only stopped for a few seconds,
however, before he mounted Tug, and started down the path towards Wensley. The small horse
broke into a gallop without being told, while Will reached to his quiver, and nocked an arrow on
the long bow's string.

He was halfway to the small village, and safety, when he realized he would never make it. When
he saw he would never make it.

Tug skidded to a halt, meters from the crouching creature. It stood in the center of the trail, no way
around it. On either side was thick forest, too thick for Tug to go through in a rush.

Will studied his old enemy, drinking in the thick matted fur, the small eyes, the hunched-over
back. It's claws were hanging down near the ground, carving circles into the rock underneath it. It
growled, and even it's growl wasn't right.

The Ranger gulped, and raised his bow. He had no fire with him, wouldn't have the chance to even
start a fire. He should have stayed near the cabin, by the fireplace. Will turned in his seat, just in
time to see the second Kalkara step out of the woods, blocking his retreat back towards the cabin.

Two Kalkara, one arrow. He wouldn't have time to draw another one. His best bet was to
incapacitate the one blocking the way back to the cabin, where he would hopefully be fast enough
to reach the fireplace. Leaving Tug outside, however, would surely be a death sentence for the
small horse.

And suddenly, Will didn't have any more time to think. The original Kalkara let out an earth
shattering scream, and lunged towards the pair. Will loosed his shot, aiming for the eyes. The
arrow slammed into the left eye, causing it to stumble to the side. Tug took a chance, and shot
forward, galloping at full speed towards Wensley. Will spun in his seat, another arrow nocked,
intending to shoot at the other.

The last thing he saw was the outstretched claw, and the wretched, bloody face and wide maw of
the first one bearing down on him.

Sirs Rodney and Horace trotted down the small path towards the small Ranger's cabin. Horace and
Arald had returned earlier, and since Will hadn't showed up at the castle, the young knight decided
to go look for his friend. Because everyone else was away, Will and Horace had planned to spend a
few days together. They had been separated for a while previously, and so took the time to catch
up.

Rodney had been meaning to ask Will a few questions about a current problem going on near the
border of the fief, and so had decided to check in briefly with the Ranger.

They were about halfway there when they smelled the blood.

The two knights gave each other a wary glance, before urging their battlehorses faster. They came
around the bend to find where Will had his last stand.

In the distance, a shriek was heard. Horace flinched upon hearing it as he dismounted, his intention
on running to his friend paused.

"Horace, stop," Rodney snapped, a cold realization settling into his gut. Horace looked up to his
former mentor, fear and horror in his eyes. Rodney paused, looking between the scene before them,
and his grief stricken friend. The Battlemaster dismounted, and stood in front of Horace.
Hesitantly, he put a hand gently on his shoulder.

Tears filled up the young knight's eyes, and Rodney turned him away from the bloodbath. "What . .
. how . . . Will, he's . . ." Horace murmured, as he brought up a hand to cover his mouth.

Rodney looked over Horace's shoulder, and then back to him. "This is the work of a Kalkara,
Horace," he whispered.

Confusion clouded Horace's face, and he tugged his shoulder from Rodney's grip. He faced the
bodies, hesitated, but then made his way over to where he saw the material of the Ranger cloak
over some sort of lump. "The Kalkara are extinct, sir," Horace said with no emotion in his voice.
"You were there yourself."

Horace dropped to his knees beside the figure, putting a hand on was he presumed was Will's side.
"I know the work of a Kalkara, Horace. And that sound," Rodney took a breath, and watched as
Horace moved around to the other side of the body. "That sound was one of them. They're back."
Suddenly, Horace went still. His eyes were focused on the lump beneath him, and for a moment,
the Battlemaster wasn't sure if he was even breathing. "Horace? Are you listening to me?"

For a moment, Horace's head dropped, closer to the body. Then, he shot up, his eyes focused on
Rodney.

"Help me. He's still alive."

Horace turned away from the prone body of his friend. It was hard even looking at his face,
because all he saw would be the blood spattered skin from when he first found him. He would be
scarred horrendously for the rest of his life, Horace knew. He also knew that he couldn't do a thing
about it.

Other than find who sent those damn creature, and make sure they can't ruin someone like that
ever again.

Rodney stood near the doorway of the infirmary, leaning casually against the door frame. He
looked exhausted, dragged down, and the grey hairs in his close cropped beard and hair seemed all
the more prominent. Horace glanced between the two, his brother, and his mentor. The
Battlemaster had known Will as well, and probably hadn't expected to live longer than the young
man.

The moment Horace turned to face his former mentor, however, a look of resignation came over
the older man's face. Horace raised an eyebrow in question, in a mock fashion of all the times he'd
seen Halt and Will do it. Rodney shook his head, and pushed himself away from the wall. "You're
planning on finding this person, aren't you?"

Without answering, Horace grabbed his sword and belt, which he had taken off when they had
gotten Will back to the castle. In doing that action, his injured friend came into his view, and made
him pause.

The Kalkara hadn't gone for his face, and that really was the only visible part. But it was pale. Too
pale. He'd lost too much blood, the wound had been too big. The healer doubted that he would
even last the night. From Horace's view, he could have almost been sleeping, if he hadn't been so
pale. Just seeing the condition his friend was in made him angry. Why would anyone do this? What
had Will ever done to them? Horace shook his head, and turned back around, buckling the sword to
his hip as he walked past Rodney, and out the door.

"Of course I am. Whoever did this needs to be punished," Horace raised his chin, and gave Rodney
a determined look that said: I'm going to find whoever did this to him, and then I'll make them pay
for what they did to my brother.

The Battlemaster sighed, and followed after him while running a hand through his beard. Together,
they walked down the halls of Redmont, the older following the younger. Horace walked with
determination, while Rodney walked with reluctant resignation.

"How will you even find them? We don't know who sent them, or the reason. We just know that a
Kalkara - or more - was sent after Will," Rodney motioned back towards the infirmary at the
mention of Will, but kept his eyes on Horace.

In response, Horace shrugged. "Can't we follow the tracks? That should at least take us to its lair,
right?"

Grimacing, the Battlemaster took ahold of Horace's shoulder, and stopped walking. Horace turned,
and faced him, an impatient look already forming. He sure is protective of his family, Rodney
thought, studying the young man's face. "You don't understand much of the Kalkara, do you,
Horace?"

"Then explain it to me, sir," Horace tilted his head, looked Rodney straight in the eyes. It wasn't
until then that the old warrior realized how angry Horace was. The red hot fury was something he
hadn't expected to see in his former apprentice, but it was there, and growing every second. He
knew it wasn't directed at him, Rodney figured, but it was still unsettling to see.

He thought out his words carefully, before putting his other hand on Horace's other shoulder, and
held him there. "Horace, first off, those things are dangerous. I and the Baron and Halt nearly died
the last time we ran into one, and the only reason we survived is because of Will. But he was far
away, and lucky enough to be able to make a shot like that that ended up saving us," Rodney took a
breath, and saw Horace open his mouth to speak, and so continued before the young knight could
say anything. "They are dangerous. Very. You need fire to kill one, because attacking it any other
way would be suicide. And, in addition to that, we have no idea how many attacked him. If it was
one, or two, or five."

Horace frowned, "Rodney, I already know that. I'm not after the Kalkara, though. I'm after-"

"Whoever sent them, I know," Rodney brought Horace' face closer to his, and whispered fiercely to
him, "but we have no clue about who they are. And as you said, the only way to find out would be
to track the beasts. But there's a few problems with that, Horace," Rodney raised his head, and
spoke to the knight before him in a normal, but still low, voice. "First, we'd have to go to the lair,
and they would most definitely smell or hear us. Second, we have no guarantee that the person
who ordered them to attack would even show up. Third, we have no one who is skilled enough to
track for us. Will is down, we know that. Halt isn't here, and Gilan won't be coming soon. It
wouldn't be wise to bring a local hunter into this either."

At that, Horace wrenched his shoulders out of Rodney's grasp, and stepped back a few feet. "So,
what? I just sit here and wait for Will to die? Like hell, Rodney," he snapped, and spun on his
heels.

Rodney stood, alone, watching Horace walk down the hall, back stiff, towards the courtyard. A
few minutes later, he shook his head, and followed the young knight outside. He, however, turned
towards the Keep, where he knew the Baron would be settling back into his routine. Horace had
probably already gotten to the stables, and ridden out. He knew he was too late.

He quickly made his way into the tower, and climbed the stairs two at a time, much to the protest
of his aching legs and back. When he made it to the Baron's door, he paused to catch his breath.
Then, he knocked.

"Come in," came the monotonous call.

The Battlemaster opened the door, not exactly flinging it open, but definitely opening it in a hurry.

Upon his entrance, Baron Arald, who'd been bent over his desk studying some papers, looked up.
"Ahh, Rodney, good to see you. I heard about some bloody business from Charles, what's that
about?" He straightened, and gave his old friend a smile.

Hesitating, Rodney said, "It-it was Will, Arald. He was attacked not far from his cabin. Horace and
I had been heading there, you see, and we heard a . . . a sound."

The Baron's face had already been overcome with shock and horror at the mention of Will's name,
but at Rodney's curious pause, he squinted his eyes, looking at the Battlemaster. "A . . . sound?
What sound?"

"Well, from the damage done to Will, and obviously from previous experience, it, well, it sounded
like a Kalkara."

At that, the Baron's face became all the more serious. Rodney knew that a statement like that
would have been hard to believe, but he was relieved to see that Arald didn't question him. His
mouth opened, but he seemed to pause, and he moved over to the window, leaning out to stare into
the courtyard. That was how Rodney realize Arald had gotten his message. "And, where," Arald
turned back around to face Rodney, a curious look in his eye, "is Horace?"

Rodney pursed his lips, and looked to his feet. "He left. He wanted to go after whoever sent the
monsters after Will. I tried to talk him out of it, but he-"

"Didn't listen," the Baron finished for him.

"No," Rodney murmured.

"Well," Arald sighed, staring back out the window. "There's really nothing we can do for Horace,
is there? He's long gone. I could see him crossing the bridge over to Wensley, before," Rodney
moved to stare over his old friend's shoulder, out the window. The Baron continued, "But, let's go
see how Will is getting on. All we can do is hope that Horace will return."

Horace tapped on the door of the small cabin. It was probably only a quarter of the size of Will's,
and it was probably only one room. It wasn't in good repair, either, although that said little about
who dwelled inside.

The door creaked open, revealing a young man. He aged probably at least half a decade younger
than Horace, with dark brown hair, and darker skin. His eyes were the color of a frozen river,
however, and his sight always unnerved Horace.

The two of them had been briefly introduced by Will a week before. And although they barely
knew each other, Horace knew that the young man in front of him was a good friend of Will's. He
was also a master hunter, and knew his way around the forest.

The young man looked Horace up and down, recognition flashing in his eyes, before they traveled
back to Kicker behind him. "Sir Horace, what can I help you with?" He asked.

Horace smiled, and held out his hand. "Bram. I have an animal I need you to track, if you don't
mind."

Bram motioned towards the cave, and murmured, "They went in there, but they aren't in there
now."

Horace frowned, and glanced towards the shorter man beside him. "Where are they then?"

Shrugging, the hunter grimaced. "How should I know? Look, the beasts aren't in there, I can see
that from where the tracks overlay. But someone is in there," Bram motioned towards the ground,
pointing out random scuffs in the dirt, "They went in there while the beasts were still in, I bet, and
then the beasts left, leaving whoever is in there alone."

Nodding, Horace set his hand on the pommel of his sword. "Really? Well, then, thank you. I can
pay you, if you wish, but it'll have to be later, if you don't mind," Bram nodded, and looked back
the way they came. It was nearing night. "You can go home, if you wish. I can probably find my
way back in the dark," Horace smiled, and motioned him back the way they went. Bram's eyes
went back and forth between Horace and the cave, an unspoken question in his eyes.

However, he didn't need a second cue, and nodded, before turning back around, and making his
way back the way they had come without a goodbye. Horace waited until his sound died down,
until it was dead silent.

After securing Bram's help, Horace had taken the tracker back down to Will's house. He made sure
to find tracks that didn't go towards the pool of blood that was still there, because he didn't want
Bram to know that anything had happened. When the hunter said he knew which direction to go in,
Horace had asked him to wait. The knight had traveled back up the trail to Will's cabin, and went
around to the lean-to. There was a brief moment when he realized that Will's small horse wouldn't
be in the lean-to with Kicker, as most of the blood back down the trail had been the horse's. Horace
sighed, but then resolved to make Kicker comfortable. He didn't know how long he would be gone,
so Horace dumped a bucket full of grain, made sure the water bucket was clear, and patted Kicker's
neck in farewell.

"I'll be back, bud."

Just upon seeing the cave, Horace was glad he didn't ride Kicker here.

Horace pushed his shoulders back, and took a step towards the cave. Keeping a firm grip on his
sword, he warily made his way down, as the maw of the cave was nearly a hole in the ground. As
he got closer, he could see where the Kalkara had gone in and out. Sometimes, it seemed, they had
been dragging victims behind them. Blood was smeared across the dirt and grass, and random
bones littered the ground. Some were dried. Others still had wet flesh hanging from the bones.

He was just about to the open cave when he saw it. It was just a normal bone, like some of the few
he'd seen before, except this one . . . he could clearly seen that it had been chewed on. Gnawed on,
even. By something with human teeth.

At that moment, Horace was thankful that he hadn't eaten breakfast.

Standing before the opening, he hesitated drawing his sword then and there. But thinking better of
it, he left it where it was, and instead drew the dagger beside it.

What the hell am I getting myself into?

Horace stepped inside, and was immediately overtaken with a rancid smell. He quickly covered his
nose with his free hand, and looked about trying to find the source of the sour smell. Then he saw
another bone, with more teeth marks. Gagging, Horace stepped over and past it, and continued
downwards into the cave. Even if I came here to find Will's attacker, it's a good thing I found this.
Looks like the home of a freaking cannibal, the knight thought as he stepped over another bone.
Thankfully, the tunnel was wide, and there was still plenty of light, and so that didn't add to his
fears.

After a while, the ground leveled out, and there were more bones. The tunnel ended, and widened
out into a more cavern-like area, and it was like someone had dug up an entire graveyard just to
throw all of the skeletons in a heap on the ground.
His free hand slowly dropped from his face, although his nose was already scrunched up. He
switched his dagger to his other hand, and let his hand settle back on the pommel of his sword.
Studying the walls, he found that a cavern was all it was. There were no other exits beside the one
he came from, and no hidden room or the like. Just piles of bones.

Some were cracked in half, like they had been stepped on. Others showed marks like the previous
bones, teeth marks and gnawings. Others still had chunks of flesh on the bone, as Horace saw
fingers and whole hands and even a foot. He dropped his dagger, and it thumped against a bone,
making a loud hollow sound. He sucked in a breath, realizing that he hadn't been breathing.

Something cracked behind him.

Horace froze. Something's behind me, something's behind me, ooohhhh, ohohoh, something's
behind me. What do I do? Horace sucked in another breath, and let his hand grip his sword.
Moving quickly, he unsheathed the sword, spinning around and bringing the blade in a swift arc
that would have taken off anyone's head had they been taken by surprise.

Or if there had been anyone behind him.

He let the tip rest on the ground as he stared at the empty space in front of him. "What the hell . . .
?" Horace turned in a circle, looking behind him and around him. He was alone.

A shriek split the air, echoing down the tunnel and into the cavern.

The Kalkara had returned.

Spinning around, Horace faced back towards the tunnel. They were coming down, already he
could hear them. He had no way out, and little chance to protect himself. As a last thought, he
recalled the condition he'd found Will in.

Horace raised his sword, just as he saw the shadows of two Kalkara coming down the tunnel.

Something slammed into Horace's chest, throwing him back and right into the pile of half-eaten
limbs and bones. His sword went flying, and he heard it clang into the side of the cavern wall.
Attempting to sit up, the knight put his arm out, but he slipped on a bone, and slammed back onto
his back. Something was pushing him further down into the pile. Bones rattled on top of him,
covering him. Whatever it was, it was burying him. He could feel himself slipping further
underneath the pile, and he opened his mouth to call out, to yell, to -

The Kalkara padded into the room. Horace stopped, hearing them.

He wasn't exactly sitting up, but at least he was awake. Will smiled wanly, but didn't want to go
through the pain that laughing had brought to him earlier. Instead, he gave Horace an incredulous
look, before shaking his head, and looking back up to the ceiling. "I don't believe any of that," he
rasped.

Horace frowned, and crossed his arms. He was sitting next to Will's bed in the infirmary, the
morning light streaming through the window. He sat barefoot, a light shirt thrown on, and regular
pants. His hair was also wet from the shower he took right when he had gotten back from his . . .
adventure. "What? Why don't you believe me?"

Will smiled, the exhaustion already showing in his eyes. He'd only be awake for a few minutes,
and in that time he'd heard all about Horace's actions from Rodney, and had even gotten a narrative
of what Horace had gone through from him. Rodney had left immediately after Horace had arrived,
however, but Will didn't exactly know why. He had seen his friend speak to the Battlemaster, but
hadn't heard what was said. The Ranger took in a shaky breath. "I don't believe you, because it
doesn't make sense. None of it. Human teeth marks on bones? Seriously?" Will shifted himself, but
winced as pain shot up his side.

Pouting, Horace got up from his seat. Over on the table across the room, a pitcher sat out with a
few cups around it, filled to the brim with ice water. He partially filled one, and made his way back
over to his bed-ridden friend. With no words passing between them, Horace leaned forward, and
put a hand behind Will's head, tilting it up a fraction. He put the cup to his lips, and let Will drink.

As Horace took the cup away with a wry grin, Halt and Rodney walked in through the door.

"Halt? When did you get back?" Horace asked, surprised, setting the cup on the nightstand next to
Will's head.

The older Ranger shrugging, and motioned towards Will. "I got back this morning. I was notified
about what happened, and went out to deal with it," Halt said, studying Horace's face. "I had fire
arrows with me. They're dead." He said simply.

As the silence stretched between them, Horace realized that there was another person to add to the
list of people angry with him. He knew he had acted rashly, but he no longer thought of it like that.
He was just glad that both he and Will were alive. Horace opened his mouth, to apologize, to
defend himself, to do what, he didn't know.

Will spoke first: "Is that the last of them? Because last time you said that, you were wrong," he
moaned. He was grinning, though, and seconds later the room was filled with laughter. As much as
it hurt, Will let himself this time around.

Horace laughed as well, and on the outside, he seemed normal. Happy, even. At least he hoped so.
Because on the inside, he could not help but wonder . . . what the hell had hit me in the chest?
 Loss
Chapter Notes

I really don't know?? I haven't written anything in a while, so if this seems lacking,
please tell me!!!

“And what happened when you woke up?” the man leaned forward, narrowing his eyes a fraction
in order to study the young Ranger closer.

Will gulped, looking away as he took a heavy breath. His hand clenched and unclenched the
bedsheets, seemingly trying to still the shakes that were still overtaking his body. “I-I don’t
remember, not immediately after I woke up. It-it kind of fades in, when I woke up, that is. I was
already moving when my brain started recording.” Will opened his mouth to continue trying to
explain, but the man waved a hand, stopping him. The man nodded, leaning back into his chair as
he started to scribble notes down on a small pad of paper.

The silence rang between the two men for a few minutes before the scratching of the stranger’s
pencil ended, and the man sighed. “So what is the first thing you remember, Mr. Treaty?” he
asked, once more watching Will’s face.

“Darkness,” he answered simply, his jittering hand suddenly going still. A few seconds more
passed before Will replied, his hand slowly letting go of the bed sheet. Eyes focused on something
behind the stranger that was questioning him, Will slowly licked his dry lips, his tongue going over
the cracked and bleeding skin.

“And then?” the man prompted.

Will didn’t respond.

His eyes still fixated on the corner, his tongue going over the cracked lips, even as his teeth bit into
it and drew even more blood. He didn’t even flinch as a large drop of blood pooled and dribbled
over his chin.

“Mr. Treaty,” the stranger tried again, leaning forward to snap his fingers in front of the Ranger’s
eyes.

No response.

“Will.” The questioner reached further, gripping Will gently, but firmly, on the shoulder. He shook
the Ranger marginally, hoping to catch his attention.

Still, nothing.

“Crowley,” the man said, dropping the pad he had been writing on onto the bedside table. “I think
we lost him again.”

The Ranger Commandant stood from the corner, stepping forward in front of Will. He hadn’t been
hiding at all-in fact, he would have been in Will’s direct line of sight if his eyes even strayed from
the other man.
Crowley’s movement caught Will’s attention: “Halt?”

Flinching, Crowley stepped back, out of distance from Will’s extended hand. “Halt?” Will
repeated.

“Horace, let him get some rest,” Crowley’s hand slapped down on the man’s shoulder.

Horace looked up, a pained look on his face. “But we nearly got him, Crowley, if we just-”

“-If we just what Horace? Wipe Will’s mind so he forgets whatever the hell he’d seen?”

Getting to his feet, Horace picked up the chair he had been sitting in, intending on putting it back in
the corner next to the one Crowley had been sitting in. “I don’t know, Crowley. I just want Will
back. Yes, Halt being here would be nice, but it’s a lot worse losing both of them-”

“Look,” Crowley snapped suddenly, yanking open the door that separated the young Ranger from
the rest of the Araluen infirmary, “Halt’s gone. Will’s mind with him, caused by something. Why
don’t we focus on finding whatever threw my best Ranger into insanity and the other six feet
underground before trying to accomplish the impossible.”

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