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The arrow went astray and shot the bird right through the chest. In a puff of blue feathers, it fell to the grass, beak open, eyes black. Will’s hand flew to his throat and it took everything he had not to be sick on the spot. He was painfully aware of Halt watching, always watching.
It had been a month, or twenty-eight days to be exact since Will had taken his first life. In the quiver of every ranger lies the lives of twenty men. He’d heard the saying. Knew it well. He thought he understood. But…
In the early hours, through the settling fog, while shadows still stirred uneasily they crept. Lantern light flickered ahead of them, marking the way, marking their target. A bandit king and his grizzled crew. Outlaws making the most of the chaos thrown about with the war against Morgarath. It was an easy task, almost too lowly for a ranger and his apprentice, but Halt had thought it would make good practice. Through the dark, they had crept. Following like wraiths until at last the bandit king had stopped. He perched himself up on a log, completely unaware of the threat nearby. His men laughed around him. Too loud for this early hour.
“One well-aimed shot,” Came Halt’s murmur in Will’s ear.
But the arrow, lined perfectly, had gone astray. The most gentle breeze, or perhaps even it was Will’s own shaking hands, had changed its path. It was meant to strike his shoulder, disabling him, but instead, it sliced right through his throat. A perfect kill.
His men, confused, and afraid, seeing their leader dead had fled.
And from then, It was like the ghost of the bandit king had clung to him, hidden away in one of his pockets, waiting to strike. He saw the man’s eyes in every reflection now, and every foggy morning.
To take a life…
“Will!” Halt’s call brought him back to the present day and he shook off the mist in his mind. By now the ants had already claimed the fallen bird. They raced, full of enthusiasm up and down the arrow shaft, readily crawling around in its eyes. It’s too much. And it was too much. He looked away.
“Will.” Halt reached him across the training field, eyes greying as the sun slipped behind a cloud. The trees swayed in warning. Another storm was coming.
Later, Will sat in the cottage, nursing hot coffee and listening as the storm raged outside. The armchair creaked beneath him. Nearby, Halt sat with his own coffee. He held a book in his hands, but his eyes were still. Will wondered what he was thinking about.
“I remember my first,” Halt said softly, and Will jolted, startled.
Halt was still as a statue, with a faraway expression. “He was a thief. On the roads. Before I was a ranger.”
Will opened his mouth, but no words came out. Halt finally looked up and closed his book, placing it on the coffee table between them. And then he looked at Will and raised his eyebrows. An invite for questions. Will looked away. There was a silence between them. The fire crackled, and the rain pounded the windows. The wind whistled through the cracks and in the ceiling, mice scurried and chewed.
“Do you ever forget?” Will kept his gaze locked on the fire, lest Halt sees the tears that threatened to spill.
“Of course not.”
Halt reached across and put his hand on Will’s shoulder.
The tears spilled over.
They were silent for a long time after that.