Ranger's Apprentice; An Emotional Tale

IX: Home

A scream tore through him like a great shard of glass.

Halt felt his eyes widen and pulse quicken, his heart thudding like a rock rattling in a box. The scream came again, desperate, terrified... human. The blood drained from his face as he realized to whom that sound belonged, and before he was even aware of making a conscious decision his legs were pounding furiously on the uneven snowy track, his ears straining for more sounds, more clues as to where it had come from. The old Ranger had no clue as to what he'd do when he got there, just that he had to get there, fast.

Halt pitched his ears when he heard a new sound. Whinnying. Desperate whinnying. It sounded familiar, and Abelard turned to the right when he heard it, whinnying a reply. Halt soon followed, pushing away and breaking frozen branches and in snow covered leaves. They entered a small clearing, and as Abelard rushed towards Tug, Halt almost sucked in his breath.

Will lay on the ground, his face ghostly pale, his lips bluish, his eyes closed. His body was surrounded by dark, red blood.

"No," Halt whispered and he ran towards lifeless figure, "No, no, no!"

He grabbed his apprentice's wrist and desperately searched for a pulse, a sign that he was not dead. He couldn't be. He was Will. Will Treaty. He had survived so many things and he couldn't die because he'd saved Halt's life.

Just like his mother had.

Halt sunk back, giving up, ready to let tears stream down over his face.

But when his mentor released his grip on him, Will screamed, screamed like a baby in a tumble dryer, garbled, muffled, intermittent, but none the less distressing and intense.

To say Halt was happy that he screamed may sound worse than it actually was. He was happy. He was so, so, indescribably happy, that it took a moment for him to realize what he had to do. Will was still alive, though barely, so his wounds needed to be cured. Halt quickly stood up and whistled. Abelard came running at him, followed by Tug, who wore a nervous expression. The Ranger took his aid box from his saddle and gestured the horses to give him some space. With his smallest knife he cut open Will's shirt on the side, in order to see the wound in his side that seemed to affect him most.

Only then did he see what Will was holding in his hand.

The tube of warmweed salve.

Halt felt his heart sunk down. Will's situation wasn't affected only by the wounds. It had another, more emotional reason.

In his life, Halt had seen crazy men, panic attacks, seen people go wild by just a sight, a sound or a smell. He knew that in order to heal from psychological and emotional trauma, you had to face and resolve the unbearable feelings and memories you had long avoided.

But not like this.

Not in a situation similar to the one you'd experienced that trauma in. Not all of a sudden, not alone.

Physical wounds were healable. Emotional wounds, however, were less so. And a repeat of the event spoken about could worsen the memories.

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Will lay on the ground, his pale face closed in a grimace, his skin pale and clammy. Every now and then he'd scream. It had a raw quality, the realness of a person consumed by pain that knew no end or limit. A second later he'd go quiet, just panting. His eyes had frozen over like the surface of a winter puddle, robbing them of their usual warmth. He was in there, Halt knew, but it was like he had just taken a huge step back from life. It was questionable when and if, he would take that huge step forward again.