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Will thought he knew a great many things about fear. He had faced the Kalkara, the sickening horrors of the battlefield. He had stood face to face with Morgarath and looked death in its hollow eyes. He’d faced years of war and trauma, been trained for a fighting lifestyle since he was fifteen. He thought he knew what it was to be really afraid.
But he had never known true, heart-stopping terror until he saw Halt felled by a poisoned bolt in Hibernia.
It had seemed a superficial wound. They thought Halt had recovered fine, they were back on the trail of the Outsiders and it was all well. Then the poison set in, and the following days (weeks? years?) blurred like they’d become the winds of a storm. The passing time was measured by the slow slide from fear to anguish to desperation to rage, by the burning in his head and the passage of the shadows. The world outside may as well have become dust.
Once the fear had passed, the unbearable guilt and shame hit him— the poison, the wound, the pain that Halt was suffering was all Will’s fault. Horace tried to lie and tell him otherwise, to spare his feelings, but the blood that followed was stained on Will’s hands forever.
(If he hadn’t aimed for the same assassin, if he’d been smarter and not failed again—)
Then, such fleeting hope when Halt seemed lucid, when he seemed to finally be getting better, so quickly stamped out into bitter ashes when Halt fell even more ill than he was before.
Then it was night and Will was riding through foreign barrows while some unearthly thing hissed in his ear, while darkness haunted every pace he crossed. So much fear ate at him, biting like the cold wind that pushed behind his back. It was uncanny, not like the hours he’d spent crouched at Halt’s side, but a sort of creeping dread. So he ran, as fast as he could.
Blind terror— he learned that when Malcolm couldn’t figure out which cure to use, and suddenly the possibility of his mentor dying loomed in front of him like an executioner’s axe. And when there was even the slightest chance that Halt could be saved, even if it meant hurting someone (the assassin, no less, and if anyone deserved it, he did), Will leapt at it.
Maybe it made him wretched, cruel and pitiful, but Halt was the only father Will’d ever had.
The whole nightmare haunted his dreams at night— a death-pale brow beaded with sweat from a fever, he saw grasping hands and vacant eyes, heard a voice (once so gruff, so clear and warm, like home) babbling nonsense. Sometimes the scene changed, sometimes death itself waited for him, but it was always the same. He was always, always too late.
Will stopped sleeping after that.
He was so exhausted at the welcome feast in Redmont he could barely think. Somewhere along the way hallucinations had started, with warping walls and dead faces. Will felt as if he was going to collapse where he sat, and as soon as it was considered appropriate for him to leave, he fled the feast and locked himself in his room.
Slowly, the sounds of activity in the castle died away.
And Will sat and watched the moonlight creep across the walls.
Every rational part of his mind told him to get up from where he was sitting on the bed and light a candle, but no matter how much his mind screamed, Will wouldn’t—couldn’t—move. He couldn’t name the feeling burning through him exactly, could only describe that everything hurt. He wasn’t injured, but the pain and tiredness wore at him.
He felt numb. Hollowed and aching, like he was fading away. His soul didn’t fit in his body, his stomach felt as if it were consuming itself while some bitter thing wept inside his chest. He was grieving, with no one to grieve for.
No one but Halt.
As if the thought had been some kind of silent summon, a knock sounded on Will’s door. Will forced his unresponsive body up from the mattress, crossing through the dark room and unlatching the door to reveal Halt standing on the other side. His mentor’s face was pensive. He seemed almost hesitant.
Any words that were rising to WIll’s throat got stuck there and he found that he couldn’t speak at all. Maybe the man in front of him was a ghost, a dream, and Will had been too late after all. Why would Halt be here, when he was supposed to be resting? He wasn’t worth Halt’s time. If Halt was real, he wouldn’t be here. Will was just his former apprentice. Not someone worth being there for.
Finally, Halt (not-Halt) broke the silence. “May I come in?”
Mutely, Will nodded and stood back from the door frame. Halt walked in and raised an eyebrow at the surroundings.
“Rather dark in here,” Halt said and moved towards the dresser, lighting a candle with his flint and finally illuminating the sparsely furnished room. Will remained stuck in the same spot. “That’s better.” He turned back towards where Will was standing. “Will?”
Will forced himself to just breathe, then sat back down on his mattress and slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He was just so tired. Tired of hurting, tired of dreaming, tired of fighting, tired of trying. It wasn’t worth the effort to talk, and maybe if he was to speak, Halt wouldn’t respond and everything would reveal itself to be an illusion. Halt would be gone and Will would have failed again, failed like he failed to escape capture, like he failed his exams, like he’d done a thousand times. And now his failure would have finally cost someone their life. The life of his mentor (of someone closer than that, his mind whispered). All he did was ruin things, and now he’d done it again. When he woke up, there’d be nothing—
“Will,” a firm voice said, and a strong hand settled on his upper arm. Will looked up from where his forehead had been resting on his hands—hands that had been clenched into fists, when had he done that—to find Halt crouching in front of him, worry written in the worn lines of his face.
A dream, this was a dream, just Will telling himself a lie—
“Will. Breathe. Look at me.” Will bit his lip hard, burning behind his eyes and in the back of his throat. It was so hard to breathe, he didn’t know if he could look up again and bear the disappointment. Gritting his teeth, he raised his head again (look at me, hissed an angry man from another time when the air was cold and the world slid by in shades of grey). Still, Halt didn’t fade away into the air, and some tiny pathetic part of Will dared to hope. “What’s wrong?”
The words broke some dam Will had forced onto his emotions, and before Will knew it, his shoulders crumpled under the weight of sudden, violent sobs. All the pain and fear of the past few weeks crashed into him, roaring through his head and ears until he felt like he was drowning. It hurt.
Through the haze of tears, he registered that Halt had risen from a crouch to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. Then warm arms wrapped around him in a tentative embrace, warm and real.
“Oh, son,” Halt whispered, and Will cried harder than ever.
“I thought you were going to die,” Will choked out. “You were going to die and it was my fault. I couldn’t save you.”
“It was never your fault, Will. I’m alright, and I recovered just fine. But it was never your fault.” Halt rubbed soothing circles onto his back as Will gave himself over to the pain and hope that hurt worst of all. “I’m here. You and Horace saved my life. You were brave, and you did it. I’m okay.”
Will shuddered and gave a cry like a wounded animal, his chest burning so badly he thought he might be torn apart. Maybe this was real. Maybe Halt was alive.
“Are you really here?” he dared ask, terrified of the answer, or worse, no answer at all.
Halt opened his mouth, about to speak with confusion wrinkling his brow. Then he seemed to realise something and his entire face crumpled. He reached out as if to touch Will on the shoulders, but his hands fell and he grasped Will’s forearms. “I’m here. This is real. And I’m sorry I scared you.”
“It was my fault,” Will whispered, his voice cracking. “And I was— I was terrified. That no matter what I did, it wouldn’t be enough.”
“I know. I know. But it was enough. I’m proud of you, Will.”
“But I just feel like I wasn’t, and I knew you were going to die, and I did some horrible things. I was so desperate for you not to die, and what Horace and I did to the assassin to find the cure wasn’t right, but I wasn’t able to do anything else. It was just so bad, and I was so scared. You were getting so weak. You were dying and I wasn’t enough.”
“Will.” Halt’s grip on his forearms was still strong, but his voice had gotten softer, tinged with some sort of tender regret (but that wasn’t like Halt, was it?). “You were enough. You were more than enough. You are. And sometimes we do things that we hate to help our loved ones. You’re not the only one who’s done it. It hurts, and you’ll regret it for a long time, but it’s already done. You have to move on.”
“You have?”
“I have. I’ve left behind things I never wanted to. I’ve given up things I love and hurt people, but if I had to go back, I’d do it all again. Y—it was worth it.”
Will burrowed his head against Halt’s shoulder. When he next spoke, his voice was muffled. “Was it because of me?”
A long pause. Then, “Yes.” Halt drew in a deep breath. “I’m not going to lie to you about it. When you got taken to Skandia… I lost more than an apprentice. I lost family. And there’s nothing I wouldn’t have done to get you back.”
“I was the same for me, too, I think.” Will clenched his hands into fists, nervousness creeping up his throat, shrieking a warning for him to just shut up. Will forced it down and kept speaking, because if he gave up he didn’t know if he could start again. “I didn’t know what it was like to have a father, but—”
“Nor I a son.” Halt rested his chin against Will’s forehead, his regrowing beard scratchy against Will’s face. “And yet here we are. Now I have two.”
“Am I…?”
“Yes.”
Halt pulled Will into another quick hug, then drew back. “You should get some rest. You look exhausted.”
“Okay,” Will mumbled. He was already dressed with the intention to go to sleep, but somewhere along the way, it’d just been lost. He burrowed under the blankets, still trying to quell his shaking. Most of the panic was gone, but he was still so cold.
Halt moved to stand up and Will quickly caught his arm. “Are you leaving?”
Halt paused, then shook his head. “Not yet.”
“You’re not dying yet, either, are you?”
“No, Will. I’m staying with you for as long as I can. I’ll die, eventually, and you’ll learn to move on. But until then, I’m going to be here for you. I can promise you, until it’s my time to go, until I’ve lived a life good enough for me to leave behind, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
Will choked back more tears but tried for a watery smile. “Not every.”
“Well, no, certainly not every. But you’ll always have me, alright? Even if I’m not there in person anymore.” Halt tapped his oakleaf pin. “I’ll look after you. You’re my family.”
Somehow, the words finally drained the last of the tension holding Will tight, replacing it with bone-weary exhaustion. It didn’t completely dispel the fear, the lingering fear that’d haunt Will for days, but it helped. It healed a little fracture, and that was the start of the mending. He gave a long sigh, collapsing back against his pillows. Halt hadn’t given him some unconditional, breakable promise— he’d given Will the only promise he could keep. But it was enough. It was a promise of love and safety, of care that Will hadn’t known before.
For the first time, he was wanted. Cared for. Welcomed.
Home.
Halt blew out the candle and then sat back down at the edge of Will’s bed, offering silent support with his presence. Tiredness finally took control of Will’s worn mind, clearing his thoughts and whispering in a soft Hibernian accent to sleep, to let the rest of the world go for a while. Giving a quiet hum, Will settled into a boneless lump.
“Goodnight, son,” Halt whispered, barely audible.
Will’s heart ached at the simple term, how much it meant to him. “Goodnight, dad.”
There was silence for a minute, then Will felt Halt’s hand settle on his head, combing his fingers through Will’s unruly curls. Will relaxed into the touch, his eyes drifting closed, and he heard Halt start to quietly sing from where he sat on the bed. It was an unfamiliar melody, but soothing.
“Oisín, Oisín, another will come
I’ve given you riches, I’ll give you a son
And your mother has comfort, she’s well and she’s hale…”
As Will drifted into sleep with Halt’s quiet singing, he reflected that this was the safest he’d felt in a long time. He was home, his father was alright, and they were together. For one of the rare occasions in his weary lifetime, he could just rest.
They were home.