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Crowley walked through the camp, his possessions slunk over his shoulder in a messy heap. His steps had a merry spring to them, the sort that could come only from doing something good. And maybe making a friend.
Due to his abrupt recrutation—so to speak—Egon didnʼt even have a sleeping mat. Now that Pritchard had officially confirmed him as the leader, Crowley felt obliged to offer up his. That left him with no mat to sleep on, but it didnʼt bother the redheaded Ranger overmuch.
He brought his stuff right to his usual spot. “Iʼll sleep with you,” he announced and dropped his blanket on Halt's mat.
Halt eyed him wordlessly from where he lay sprawled on said mat, whetting his throwing knife listlessly. Scree, the whetting stone went, sliding along the blade. Scree and scree again, in closer succession. Louder and louder with each stroke.
Crowley kept smiling amiably, tactfully ignoring his friendʼs display of growing irritation. At last Halt set down the knife and picked himself up to a fully sitting position. He shifted his glare to the dropped blanket, then up at Crowley again. Crowley chose to remain oblivious.
Having expended all other courses of action, Halt spoke up. “No, you will not,” he said simply.
“Yes I will,” the redhead replied cheerfully, and, taking that for the end of the discussion, flopped down on the mat next to Halt. “Yours is the biggest mat in the camp, you can host me for a while.”
“Absolutely not,” Halt protested. His friend could sleep on the ground for all he cared.
“It is,” Crowley nodded sagely. “I checked. Ours are all the same, Corps-issued. Just look at it, thereʼs more than enough space for two.”
“Thereʼs more than enough space between your ears and yet you choose to keep it unoccupied!” Halt shot back, his face darkening as a horrifying realisation overcame him: the realisation that Crowley was, in fact, serious about inviting himself to his mat.
The redhead folded his arms on his chest in offence and did not move by an inch. “Why is this such a problem, Halt?” he asked indignantly. “Weʼre sharing the tarp already.”
Halt grunted annoyedly. To him, the difference was obvious: the tarpaulin was wide enough for three standard mats, allowing for plenty of distance. “My mat is wide enough for two Rangers,” he conceded cautiously and Crowley beamed, sensing victory. Over his dead body! “Alas, you are a tad wider than one Ranger is supposed to be.”
“Wha—Are you calling me fat?”
“Fat? No.” Halt looked Crowley over, then voiced his harsh verdict. “Merely overweight.”
Crowley scoffed. “The problem isnʼt that I am, as you put it, overweight—which Iʼm not, mind you! The problem is—” He pointed his index finger in Haltʼs face. “—that weʼre trying to fit three on a mat sized for two.”
“Three,” Halt repeated, raising an eyebrow. He opened his mouth to point out the glaring miscalculation, but his friend was quicker. “Yes, three,” Crowley said. “You, me, and your ego.”
Pritchard, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation with growing amusement, failed to suppress the chuckle that escaped him. Both young Rangers glanced at him reproachfully, then went back to their argument.
Halt made one final, desperate attempt at defending his dignity without resorting to violence—his property was forfeit, he could see that much already. “I can trade you my mat,” he offered graciously. “But go sleep on it with Egon.”
“Absolutely not!” Egon chimed in from the other side of the camp. The older Rangers shared a laugh. Very funny, thought Halt. Very funny indeed.
“Crowley,” he growled quitely. “Last warning. Begone.”
Crowley gave him a hurt look, and when even that failed to change Haltʼs mind, he threw his arms up in the air with an exasperated groan.
Suddenly both of them remembered their mentor was there. Pritchard regretted not restraining his curiosity earlier as Crowley turned to him and cocked his head. Do something, Pritchard, his pleading eyes said. Help me.
Well, so did Haltʼs, in his subtler way.
Pritchard shook his head. “Youʼre grown men,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at one then the other. “Graduate Rangers! I hope—no, I firmly believe!—that you can arrive at a suitable compromise yourselves.”
His former apprentices, to blazes with them, swapped knowing glances and turned back to him, doubt painted clearly on their faces.
Pritchard stood his ground. “No way. No.” He rose from the log and made a show of brushing dirt off his breaches, waiting for the pain in his knees to subside. “Deal with it yourselves, Rangers. Iʼm done with you.”
Although actually, the old Ranger had no intention of leaving. No, this was shaping up to be too much fun to miss.
Halt focused back on the intruder on his mat, summoning his best noble expression of disdain. “Off my mat, Crowley.”
“Our mat.”
“My mat!”
Crowley cut him his best lopsided grin. “What are you going to do, fight me for it?”
Halt glared at him. Then, slowly, keeping eye contact, he pulled his riding gauntlet off. Thrown, it bounced off Crowleyʼs chest harmlessly. The redhead blinked down at it in disbelief.
“Very well,” Halt spat out. “Pick your weapon. The winner keeps the mat.”
“Let me remind you,” Crowley reminded Halt for the third time already, “that Iʼm being very generous letting you sleep on my mat. Generous like a real friend, one could say.”
Halt refused to acknowledge him, eyes fixed on the steady drizzle outside their lean-to. He was one—one!—snarky comment from deeming it better company than Crowleyʼs.
The redhead had beaten Halt unfairly, even if he hadnʼt technically broken any rules. Of course it wasnʼt his fault Halt was unfamiliar with his chosen weapon. Strikers, what choice was that? The right choice, apparently.
One could consider it a sign of respect, that Crowley wouldnʼt risk any other weapon. Pritchard himself told him so while lending Halt his set of strikers. Halt had seen them on occasion back during his apprenticeship, but had held the tools in no high regard. Until this evening heʼd believed they had no use beyond what the hilt of a knife could accomplish, and they were difficult to manufacture in Clonmel anyway.
Cue his surprise when he learned they could be joined together and thrown. The balance of the tool was different than that of the knives, so even though he figured it out after a couple throws, Crowley had still beaten him hands down.
Some sign of respect, that he would stop at nothing to rob Halt of his property. And privacy. And comfort. And a handful other things whose rightful space was now commandeered for Crowleyʼs clutter and Crowley himself.
To think Halt had supported him as the leader.
“Halt, come sleep,” Crowley said with a yawn. “We have to ride early tomorrow.”
“Well, why are you not asleep? At least youʼd be quiet—” Halt paused, remembering an important detail. “Except for the snoring.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley shrug the arm he wasnʼt leaning on. “Your snoring is worse.”
“Maybe you should have picked someone else’s mat, then,” Halt replied curtly, and that was the end of the conversation.
They settled to sleep back to back, barely fitting on the mat. Crowley fell asleep instantly, which was confirmed by his occasional snoring. Halt hated it dearly.
After years of sleeping alone out in the wilderness where the slightest sound could mean grave danger, he found himself painfully unaccustomed to travelling in a pack. The Rangers turned in late and rose early, leaving him too little time in his half-alert sleep to wake properly rested. This close, Crowleyʼs snoring was hard to ignore. If it kept waking him throughout the night, Halt would be in a sour mood indeed in the morning.
He should have expected Crowley had worse in stock for him than noises. Suddenly his sneaky little fingers reached over his half of the mat and draped themselves over Haltʼs shoulder. And tugged.
Patience, Halt reminded himself. Patience was a virtue of a Ranger. If he could stay inert for hours on watch, he could be patient now. He could. Not.
Crowley tugged again and Halt lost his temper. He felt it snap, like a cut bowstring, snap and lash out. He grabbed the blankets and tugged them over himself with by far more force than Crowley could muster in his sleep.
The redhead rose in his sleep, confused. He looked around in search of his blanket, missing it entirely, then mumbled something to himself and settled down.
The position he chose, however, was rather different from the previous one. Crowley threw his arm over Haltʼs chest and buried his face in his shoulder. Halt stiffened. He cracked one eye open, just widely enough to glare at his friend.
If glares could kill, Crowley would be dead within heartbeats. Alas, it was just an angry look, and so Crowley didnʼt even wake up. Halt tensed as if to dislodge him—but then, unexpectedly even for himself, changed his mind and settled. Crowley mumbled something in his sleep again, huddling even closer to Haltʼs back.
For a while Halt lay awake, trying to decide if making a fuss was worth the candle. He edged a few centimetres away from his end of the mat, and Crowley accommodated him without protest. It was certainly warmer this way. Despite himself, he felt his body relax.
Carefully, he slid one of the blankets back over Crowley, then glanced around in a sudden bout of anxiety, trying to determine whether anyone saw.
Small tents were scattered across the clearing, tied off against the drizzle. Another tarp hung between the trees ahead, shielding from the damp the other Rangers who lacked their tents, and—There. There Halt found Pritchardʼs amused eyes gleaming in the darkness, his hand on his mouth to muffle his laughter.
Of course.
Pritchard could hardly believe that he was back in Araluen. His very soul sang with every step he took on the home ground. The woods, the roads, the skies—all the same, and yet so significantly different.
He had made it across Hibernia in a mad race, pushing himself and his mount to their limits. The crossing itself he barely remembered, save for the feel of Berriganʼs letter folded in his fist.
I believe you wonʼt be overly surprised to hear whoʼs leading our noble endeavour, it said. No one else but your redheaded prankster and some grumpy Hibernian—he says heʼs yours too, by the by. Is that news to you as well?
Pritchard could read the accusation between the lines. Why hadnʼt you told us? Berrigan wanted to know. The reason had been simple: Pritchard hadnʼt dared to hope.
Yet here he was, among his own again, and so was Halt. It was little wonder Pritchard found it hard to sleep, especially since his old body demanded less and less rest with every passing year.
He could stand watch over his sleeping apprentices instead.
They have grown up, his boys. Crowley was no longer the overexcited youth assuming his first Ranger post. Just as Pritchard had predicted, he had grown into his duties quickly, and even outgrew them to become something more, a force that could not only uphold the kingdom, but change it. Pritchard was proud, even a little amazed.
Halt, on the other hand… Halt had grown rougher. Wilder. Whatever life he had led, it had made him tough, if crankier—somehow that was still possible.
Pritchard had asked around, searching for confirmation of what he already knew in his heart, of what heʼd guessed the day he parted ways with his younger apprentice. No one quite knew where Crowley had found Halt or what had transpired, only that it had been recently.
Trust Crowley to find his errant boy. Trust Crowley to convince him to stay and see past the grumpy facade to the core of gold.
Indeed it was no surprise that Crowley had befriended Halt immediately. What was surprising was that Halt seemed to reciprocate… Right up until Crowley made a claim to his mat. And now, the redhead was reaching out to claim Haltʼs blanket as well.
Pritchard tried not to laugh when he saw Haltʼs brow twitch. There was only so much his younger apprentice would tolerate, and Crowley was drawing closer and closer to that line with every tug.
Finally, Halt had had enough. He rose on his elbow and pulled both blankets—Crowleyʼs and his own—back over himself. Pritchard chuckled in his elbow, but he hadnʼt seen the best yet.
Crowley, half asleep, sat up and looked around in confusion. Then he lay back down... And snuggled up to Haltʼs back, throwing his arm around his shoulders.
Pritchard almost suffocated trying to muffle his laughter. Haltʼs eyes found him in the dark, glaring, though he made no move yet to dislodge Crowley off his body.
“Was he always like that?” he mouthed at Pritchard when the old Ranger had calmed down.
“Always,” Pritchard confirmed through tears of joy.
Halt sighed, a long-suffering sigh punctuated with a roll of his eyes, then settled down to sleep, Crowleyʼs arm still over his chest.
He could sulk and frown all he pleased, but once he fell asleep again—quicker, so much quicker this time—a faint smile danced on his lips.
They were brothers, in a way. Even if they had only known each other so long, their shared experience brought them close. Halt could be a brother Crowley had never had but had always wanted, Crowley the brother Halt deserved rather than the one heʼd left behind.
Or maybe he was witnessing the beginning of something else entirely, something unexpected but not unheard of. Either way, Pritchard was glad to the core of his heart.
Because it wasnʼt that far off, he could feel it in his bones—this day when they would only have each other left in this world. But they would be alright, his boys, when he was gone. So long as they had each other, it would be enough.
At last, Pritchard could sleep at peace.