i can't get out

by caffeineinducedchild

Summary:

Missing for nearly a week, Will and Horace are found alive-- but barely.

----

"He could handle injuries, or trauma or death, but this... this waking death? This brain death?

This slow, blank, agonizing unraveling of the boy he’d raised?

It clawed painfully at something paternal in him.

Halt looked at Will now--his pale face, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the hollows under his eyes--and felt grief as though he were dead."

Notes:

um sorry in advance this is sad.

BUT LOOK AT ME GUYS A MULTI CHAPTER FIC THAT I ACTUALLY HAVE A PLAN FOR

be proud.

 

---

Chapter 1

 

They had found them in the forest after six days.

 

Six days they had been stranded. The cavalry squad was in tatters. Only five had survived, and two of them weren’t expected to make it through the next fortnight. Captain Mark Rowley’s body had to be gathered in pieces from the clearing where the wild dogs had dragged it recklessly.

 

 

Horace was unconscious and feverish when they arrived, a bloodied and pale wreck half-buried in Will’s extra cloak. He groaned in pain as he was immediately rushed to the emergency wing of Redmont’s infirmary.

 

 

Will Treaty was found wide awake.

 

 

Wide awake, and… not quite right.

 

 

They had tried to speak to him when they found him, but he only stared, as if straight into their souls. His eyes were bloodshot and dry from an obvious lack of sleep. He’d clutched his Saxe knife in a blood-caked hand and refused to let go until Gilan gently pried it free. He and Halt exchanged concerned looks and coaxed him to his feet, urging him to mount Tug. Who was very worryingly neighing and brushing his mane against his master's shoulder, huffing loudly and indignantly when Will didn’t seem to recognize or even see him.

 

Once he, too, was brought inside the infirmary, his injuries were treated—nothing life-threatening, just a few lacerations, some bruised ribs, and a dislocated shoulder—but Will still hadn’t spoken a word. Not once. He just stared. 

 

 

 

---

 

 

“Reactive psychosis,” the healer said quietly, relaying the diagnosis gently while drying her hands on a cloth. “It’s not uncommon in soldiers exposed to sudden trauma. Especially when isolated. And especially when deprived of sleep or food and water.”

 

 

Halt’s jaw clenched, his eyes scanning the woman in front of him. “He’s not mad,” He said almost defensively.

 

 

“No one’s saying he is,” the healer replied firmly, all too accustomed to worried mother-henning parents, they were often hovering, desparate, and filled with a helpless fury, there was something a little quitly terrifying about seeing those same symptoms in a man as powerful and legendary as the one in front of her. “Physically, Ranger Treaty will recover just fine. But his mind is still… processing. It might take time.”

 

 

Time.

 

 

Halt stared through the infirmary window at the still figure lying on the cot. His former apprentice —no, his son, for all intents and purposes—was alive. But it sure didn’t feel like it.

 

Will only slept when no one was around. And the minute someone was near, his eyes shot open and stared at them. As if he had a sixth sense, or he was possessed or he was listening to something no one else could hear.

 

The night staff couldn't take it. Some requested-- or demanded more accurately-- to be reassigned to another wing. Some swore he was watching them before they even entered the room. When spoken to, the Ranger slowly turned his head to look--but never said a word. If anyone came too close too quickly, he flinched or lashed out, once knocking over a tray of instruments with startling speed--his Ranger reflexes clearly still intact despite everything. He wouldn’t touch food unless it was left beside him in silence.

 

The only sign he was truly still in there and listening came on the third day.

 

Two nurses, thinking him asleep or deaf or gone, had whispered by his bedside. They spoke of how utterly creepy and unnerving it was that he hadn’t said anything. One suggested--jokingly, but not really--that maybe it wasn’t Ranger Will anymore. That maybe something else was wearing his face.

 

"A demon," she said. "It must be, something that looks like him, but definitely isn't, why I heard the other--"

 

The vase of wildflowers by his bedside shattered against the wall before she could finish the thought. 

 

 

The nurses screamed, and shards flew everywhere. Will's breathing was ragged. His hands trembled, and his eyes darted everywhere like a caged creature.

 

 

That was the first time he'd moved on his own accord.

 

--- 

 

After the vase incident, Will had to be restrained. 

 

Two nurses and a senior healer with a firm voice walked in with the restraints, and were shocked when Will didn't fight them. He didn't shout or struggle, he simply lay still as the thick leather cuffs were fastened around his wrists and ankles, fixing him to the infirmary cot like a criminal. Like a madman.

 

Halt stood by with his arms crossed across his chest, silent and seething. 

 

“He’s not a danger,” he’d growled, arms crossed like a drawn bow. “He’s just scared. He's trapped, can't you see that?!”

 

“We don’t do this lightly, Ranger,” the senior replied, keeping her tone respectful but unmoved. “This is the last measure before he’s considered for transfer to the northern ward.”

 

Halt had gone still at that, his hands feeling cold as he fought the shiver going down his spine.

 

The northern ward.

 

That's what everybody called it, as if avoiding the word would soften what it really was. 

 

But Halt knew the truth; it was a glorified asylum. A place where utterly broken and hopeless minds went when there was nothing else to be done for them. Where people were locked away and never spoken to or of again.

 

They thought Will was that far gone.

 

And Halt couldn’t even prove them wrong.

 

Now, hours later, he sat beside the boy--no, the man-- he had raised. The man who had become the most precious thing in his life, and felt the weight of helplessness like he was digesting a stone in his gut.

 

And Will still hadn't moved. 

 

He was awake, eyes open, as always. But the restraints painted a new kind of horrific picture in the room. His wrists now bore angry red marks, from where he’d flinched instinctively earlier when a nurse came too close. And still, he hadn’t spoken. Not since that one explosion of motion. Not a word.

 

And Halt hadn’t left his side.

 

He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t moved. Just sat there, hunched in the wooden chair, his elbows resting on his knees, hands laced in front of him. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Praying.

 

His throat ached from wanting to say everything and saying nothing. His back protested from the long hours hunched over. And still he stayed. Still he prayed. 

 

Because if Will was still in there--if even the smallest part of him was listening and aware of his surroundings, and Halt somehow knew he was--Halt wasn’t going to let him sit in silence alone.

 

But something still twisted inside of him. A helpless panic seemed to snake around his inner organs. 

 

He didn’t know how to fix this.

 

He always knew what to do. That was what he was famous for. His self-assurance. His prowess. His leadership. In war. In crisis.

 

Even when Will had been sixteen and angry at the world, Halt had found ways to pull him out of the spiral. He had found ways to help him help himself again, even when he didn't want to. 

 

But this wasn't something he could protect Will from. This wasn't a lesson to be learned. This wasn't something he could shoulder for him. 

 

This was Will slipping away in the very worst of ways. And Halt didn’t know how to reach him, didn't know the words to say or the moves to make. This was a chess game that he wasn't sure he could win; he wasn't even sure if he was playing, if the pieces were even on the board anymore. 

 

At some point, exhaustion beat anxiety, and Halt drifted off into a dreamless and restless sleep. 

 

He didn’t hear the door open.

 

Didn’t hear the quiet footsteps across the wooden floors.

 

Only when a hand touched his shoulder did he jolt awake, tense and immediately alert.

 

“Easy,” came Pauline’s soft voice.

 

He blinked up at his wife, bleary-eyed. The lines of worry on her face were deep tonight. She looked tired, but steady.

 

“You’ve been here all day,” she said. “You need food.”

 

“I’m not leaving him,” Halt said hoarsely, shaking his head and averting his gaze.

 

Pauline didn’t argue.

 

She merely looked at him, long and full of something that went unspoken. Then, gently, she crouched and took his hand. Her other hand brushed against his cheek, just briefly, like smoothing the weariness from his skin.

 

“You’ll be no good to him if you fall over,” she said, her voice delicate but firm.

 

“I—” Halt started, but the words caught in his throat. He looked at Will, bound to the bed, eyes distant and dark.

 

Pauline followed his gaze.

 

She didn’t speak for a long time.

 

Neither of them did. They just looked at him. 

 

When she did, her voice was barely above a whisper. "He's always carried so much. But no one is supposed to carry this..."

 

Halt swallowed hard.

 

“I was supposed to protect him.”

 

"You have," she said, squeezing his hand. "And you will again. But right now… all you can do is take care of yourself, so that you can take care of him."

 

Halt didn’t respond right away. He just stared at Will, his throat working silently, his jaw grinding.

 

Pauline stood, brushing lightly at her skirt. "Come on. Just a bowl of stew. I kept some warm for you in the apartment. And I’ll stay with him until you get back."

 

He hesitated. He didn’t want to leave, God, he really didn’t want to leave, but his body was stiff and aching and empty, and Pauline wasn’t asking. She was telling him, she was ordering him to take care of himself. 

 

He stood slowly, casting one last glance at Will.

 

"I’ll be quick."

 

Pauline nodded. "Take your time."

 

And as Halt stepped out into the corridor, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click, she crossed the room and sat in the chair he’d just left.

 

Will didn’t react to the change of guard. Didn’t even blink.

 

Pauline exhaled slowly, folded her hands in her lap, and leaned forward. She didn’t speak. She just watched him, her eyes soft with sorrow.

 

Finally, she whispered softly. "This isn’t the end of you, do you hear me, young man?"

 

She reached out and took his hand—gently, carefully, over the leather strap at his wrist. Her thumb brushed the back of his hand in soft, slow strokes.

 

And though Will didn’t move, didn’t tighten his grip or give any indication of knowing she was there, she didn’t let go.

 

She stayed.

 

The oil lamp crackled faintly. The sky outside darkened into deep blue. The halls of the infirmary fell quiet.

 

And Pauline sat beside him in the silence, holding on, as if her presence alone could anchor him to the world.

 

The boy she had grown to love as her own.

 

The boy who had already survived too much.

 

And now this.

 

She blinked back tears.

 

And kept holding on.

 

 

Chapter 2

Summary:

Will receives some visitors

 

Everyone came as soon as they could. At first, for fear that Horace might die, his condition was certainly touch and go for a few days, but eventually he pulled through in a surprising wave of energy, much to everyone's relief. So everyone's attention-- and concern-- diverted to Will, who still hadn't said a word.

 

 

Gilan came late one afternoon, when the sun was beginning to turn golden with fatigue. The infirmary was relatively quiet, save for the soft clinking of glass vials and the low murmur of healers conversing and passing by.

 

 

Horace, heavily sedated, slept behind a drawn curtain in the room opposite Will's. He had finally been discharged from the emergency wing, much to Cassandra's relief, as this made it much easier to go back and forth between the two young men's rooms without having to tire herself with the stairs.

 

 

Gilan peeked into Horace's room and gave a brief nod as he saw the steady rise and fall of a healing chest.

 

 

Then he took a deep breath and strolled into the room opposite the hallway, his eyes scanning his young friend's frail figure and dead eyes.

 

 

"Hey buddy," he said, trying to keep his tone light and steady as he sat in the chair beside Will's bed.

 

 

"How ya feeling?"

 

 

No answer.

 

 

Will didn't even look at him.

 

 

Gilan ignored the pang of hurt in his chest, shifted in his seat, and tried a different approach.

 

 

"Everyone's been pretty worried about you." He said, his gaze shifting to the floor, "King Duncan asks for updates on your condition every two days, like clockwork. I think he nearly sent a messenger when they didn’t arrive the other day."

 

 

A pause. Nothing.

 

 

"Cassandra's in here every waking minute that she's not with Horace. She makes sure that you get fresh bedding every day, and she picked those flowers too," he added, nodding toward the little bundle of yellow thistles in the vase by Will’s cot, a replacement for the ones he had flung at the nurse the previous week.

 

 

"She said they reminded her of that wildflower field by the cabin, thought you might be reminded of home."

 

 

Gilan swallowed hard at the deafening silence.

 

 

He went on, gentler now. “Even Crowley’s coming down to check on you. You know how he is—pretending it’s all business, but really it's cause he's a sentimental teddy bear."

 

 

He paused here, waiting for a reaction; a laugh, a grin, a blink, anything!

 

 

"He’s worried. We all are.” He felt as though his words were bouncing around an empty room.

 

 

He watched as Will blinked, slowly and disinterested. Like their care and concern for him meant nothing.

 

 

"Horace is doing alright too, thought you'd like to know that. He even opened his eyes yesterday, squeezed Cassandra's hand. The healers say that's good. They think he'll pull through ..." Gilan's voice fizzled out again, and he rubbed his palms over his knees anxiously. He hadn’t expected it to feel like this--this helpless.

 

 

“I don’t know what I thought coming here would do,” he said aloud, more to himself now. “Thought maybe you'd hear my voice. Maybe… I don’t know. Blink twice. Wiggle your damn fingers. Just something to let us know you’re still in there.”

 

 

He looked at Will again, really looked.

 

 

His hair was ragged and long, more so than usual, and quite tangled. There were dark hollows under his eyes, making him look as though he were haunted. The skin at the corner of his mouth was dry and cracked, and his pale hands were resting loosely on his lap like they'd forgotten all about how to grip a bowstring.

 

 

It broke something in Gilan. Something right in the center of his chest, where his heart should be.

 

 

He blinked quickly and scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping tears he didn't know were there. "You're stronger than this," he whispered.

 

 

“You’re so much stronger than this. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen you fight through things that would knock anyone else flat. Will Treaty I swear to God if you're not fighting this--.”

 

 

He cut himself off, letting out a shuddering breath.

 

 

“And I’d take it from you if I could. I swear I would. I’d carry it. All of it. Just so you didn’t have to sit here like this. This hurts me, Will, can't you see it hurts me to see you like this?”

 

 

There was still no answer.

 

 

Gilan shifted, restless and exhausted, and flopped down sideways on the lower half of Will’s bed, his shoulder pressed into Will's shin. The man didn't react, not even a flinch.

 

 

Gilan stared at him sideways from his spot on the bed, glancing at Will's hand and wrapping his own fingers around it, giving it a gentle squeeze.

 

 

The tears came slowly at first. One blinked away, then another. And then they were just constant, sliding freely down his cheeks as the glow of the sunset streamed through the window and bathed the bed in a warm glow.

 

 

Footsteps approached in the corridor.

 

 

Gilan wiped his face quickly with the sleeve of his cloak, blinking hard. He sat up, and turned just in time to see the door creak open.

 

 

Baron Arald stood there, looking older than usual in the dying daylight. Shoulders were a bit more stooped. His eyes fell on Will’s motionless form, and the mask of perfectly practiced composure slipped—just for a moment.

 

 

He looked quietly, utterly devastated.

 

 

“I—I can come back,” Arald said, his voice low, his eyes shifting awkwardly between the still figure on the bed and the ranger sitting beside him.

 

 

“No, please,” Gilan said, standing. He stepped back and gestured to the chair beside the bed. “I was just finishing up.”

 

 

The baron nodded, hesitated, then crossed the room slowly. He reached into his jirken and pulled out a small wooden carving. A hawk, its wings outstretched mid-flight, it was a bit jagged, definitely not professionally carved, and Gilan raised an eyebrow at its appearance.

 

 

The Baron set it down on the nightstand beside the bright wildflowers.

 

 

“I kept it on my desk,” Arald said softly. "Will gifted it to me at Yuletide one year. He was eleven. Told me he'd carved it in a carpentry intensive at school."

 

 

Gilan smiled faintly, not knowing this little tidbit about his friend, his lips pressed tightly together. "He must've been proud of it," he said with amusement.

 

 

Arald nodded once. "He'd said he wanted to give back."

 

 

Gilan nodded again, his brow creasing.

 

 

Arald didn’t sit. He just stood there, looking down at the boy he’d once helped raise. The boy with a remarkably unusual beginning. An orphan child, brought to his doorstep by a Ranger. The boy was a troublemaker in his youth, always with a quick wit and a quicker sprint. He was a quietly clever spark of a child who had grown into something more than anyone could've imagined.

 

 

And now--

 

 

“Thank you for sitting with him,” Arald said at last, his voice hoarse.

 

 

Gilan looked at Will one last time, then back at the Baron. “Of course.”

 

 

He left the room quietly, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Arald alone in the warm light with the frozen hawk and the frozen boy who'd once carved it.

 

Chapter 3

Summary:

alyss sees recognition.

Notes:

sorry this one's a short one, but hope you like anyway!! :))

 

---

Eventually, Horace came too.

 

Wheeled in on a chair, still clad in a healer’s gown and bundled in far too many blankets, he looked pale and pinched, sweat clinging to his brow from the exertion of simply being upright. His side was wrapped tightly, and every breath looked like it hurt. But he'd insisted--no, demanded--to be brought to Will’s room. No one could tell Horace no when he got that specific look in his eyes. Not even the healers.

 

He sat beside his best friend, speaking slowly and deliberately, as though pacing himself was the only way he’d make it through.

 

He talked to Will about the mission. About how he remembered bits and pieces of it--the ambush, the confusion. The days following the ambush. The way the trees looked stranger and stranger every time he weaved in and out of consciousness. About the moment he thought he might die. And how every time he opened his eyes, Will was there, and how that brought him comfort.

 

He told him about how bad the soup was in this infirmary. About Cassandra fussing over him, and about how flustered that makes him. About how bad his hair looked right now and how deeply offended he was that no one had brought him a brush.

 

Nothing.

 

Will didn’t look at him.

 

Eventually, Horace’s voice started to strain. And he faltered. He looked at Will’s face--empty, quiet, eyes focused somewhere no one else could see.

 

Horace pressed his lips together, trying not to let the sting of tears overwhelm him. It shouldn’t hurt this much, and yet it did. The fact that Will had fought so hard for him, bled for him, held him together through sheer force of will, and now couldn’t even look at him.

 

But somehow… he wasn’t surprised.

 

Whatever had broken inside Will had cracked something deep.

 

Horace remembered very little from the woods, but what he did remember was pain. So much pain stitched together like fragments in his mind. Screaming from those around them. Will's bleeding face hovering over his, Will's broken hands pumping his chest to help him breathe. Will dragging bodies through mud and blood to check for pulses; limping to and from other fallen soldiers, despite looking to be injured himself. Will whispering things Horace couldn’t hear, cradling him like something precious, like something he couldn't bear to lose, with hands that trembled.

 

That look in his eyes...

 

Horace remembered.

 

Not everything, but certainly enough.

 

Enough to know that whatever had broken in Will's mind, would've broken in anybody else's mind much sooner.

 

When the healers wheeled him back to bed, there were silent tears on his cheeks. He fell asleep soon after.

 

Alyss was next.

 

She had been to see him several times, coaxing him to sip water, gently cleaning the dried blood from his hands. She had brought lavender oil, just a little. Will loved the scent of lavender; he often diffused it in the cabin and brought a little on missions to ease his anxiety. She had hoped the smell would draw something back, but to no avail.

 

Sometimes she talked to him. Other times, she just sat, and stared, and hoped.

 

But this time, she had watched Horace's one-sided conversation from the hallway. Something in her heart dipped when Will didn’t respond. Not even to Horace.

 

He was their last hope.

 

Gilan had come, the Baron had come, Crowley had come, Cassandra had come, and Halt had never even left...

 

Horace was their last chance to reach Will through physical attempts to connect with his psyche.

 

Alyss entered the room slowly, quietly. The flowers on the bedside were new again--Cassandra’s doing, no doubt--and a navy colored blanket had been tucked neatly around his shoulders.

 

She sat by his side, gingerly took his hand, and pressed it to her heart, speaking softly to him as if he could really hear her. Like he was just somewhere behind a wall, and all she had to do was knock hard enough, "I’m here, sweetheart," she whispered.

 

And then--

 

a flicker.

 

It was nothing. Less than nothing in fact.

 

But his eyes shifted. Just slightly. Just once.

 

To her.

 

And then away, like it never happened at all.

 

Alyss' heart stopped.

 

Her breath caught in her throat, heart hammering wildly against her ribs. Did she imagine it?

 

No words. No smile. No change in expression. But there had been movement, right?

 

Alyss looked quickly to where Halt stood in the corner of the room, still as stone. His eyes were locked on Will, wide, and only blinking once.

 

He had seen it too.

 

It was so brief that he doubted it for a moment, but the look on Alyss' face confirmed it for him just as well as it did for her.

 

Their gazes met, just for a second. Neither of them said anything, they didn’t need to.

 

Because Will had moved.

 

He had seen her.

 

It was momentary, it was quicker than a heartbeat, but he had moved.

 

It was something.

 

And in a week filled with nothing, something felt like a miracle.

Chapter 4

Summary:

two weeks go by, and still no sign of life from the young ranger, and Halt has a moment of grim acknowledgement of how dire their situation is.

 

-----

 

 

Two weeks passed agonizingly slowly.

 

Fourteen days of complete, deafening silence. Of carefully managed and carefully timed meals. Of screaming fits in the night when he thrashed against the restraints they sometimes had to use on him. He bit a nurse once. Another time, he clawed at his own throat. He was unrecognizable to all his friends, almost as if he were under a spell or mind control.

 

Alyss never left his side.

 

Neither did Halt.

 

They switched off every so often, one going to the dining hall for a meal while the other kept a constant watch. But all the time, someone was there with him.

 

It was late in the evening now.

 

The infirmary wing was quiet, lit only by the flickering glows of oil lamps lining the hallway walls. Most of the staff had retired for the night, save a few night healers who still roamed the halls, checking on patients, and one assistant practitioner who appeared to be dozing in the chair by the supply shelves. Horace had been sedated once again; he wasn't able to sleep otherwise, and the doctors insisted that time and rest were the only cure for his damaged internal organs. Even Alyss, who was keeping her ritualistic watch over her boyfriend in a chair by his bed, had finally been lulled away to sleep by the drip drop of the water clock and the quiet footsteps of the night staff.

 

But Halt stayed awake.

 

He sat on the other side of Will’s bed, still, silent and solemn, arms resting on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles looked white.

 

Will lay just as he had for the past thirteen days--propped slightly upright on stiff pillows, bandages hidden beneath the blanket pulled up to his chest, eyes open. Wide awake.

 

Wide awake and alarmingly still.

 

Except for earlier. When he had looked at Alyss.

 

Halt had been there, he had seen it. Denied it at first, attributing it to the endless restless nights he had experienced lately. But when the young courier had looked sharply at him, her eyes wide and hopeful, he knew he hadn't imagined it. Will had looked at her. He had subconsciously realized who she was, perhaps, and subconsciously went to look at her. His eyes were drawn to her for whatever reason.

 

Halt had demanded answers from the healer, who once again went wide-eyed and stuttered out an answer equating to the human brain being precariously unstudied. Every move Will makes is being documented for future studies. Halt was taken aback at this.

 

His condition was so jarring that he was being studied??

 

Like a lab rat.

 

The thought disgusted Halt, and he stepped away from the man before he knew he would get physical with him.

 

Now, hours later, Will stared at the ceiling again. Still silent. Still gone.

 

Halt leaned back and exhaled slowly through his nose.

 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this useless.

 

He’d always known what to do. In battle. In politics. Even with Will--when he was a boy, when he was angry, impulsive, in pain whether that be emotional or physical, Halt had rarely ever found himself at a loss for the next move to make. He had always known how to pull Will back. How to ground him. He had always known when to use silence or when to offer truth. When to just put a hand on his shoulder and be there. He had always had a sense of what Will needed.

 

But none of that would work now.

 

He hadn’t said it out loud, not even to Gilan or Crowley. But this frightened him. This was truly Halt's biggest nightmare.

 

He could handle injuries, or trauma or death, but this... this waking death? This brain death?

 

This slow, blank, agonizing unraveling of the boy he’d raised?

 

It clawed painfully at something paternal in him.

 

Halt looked at Will now--his pale face, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the hollows under his eyes--and felt grief as though he were dead.

 

How many times had Will saved others? Pulled them from burning buildings, or taken an arrow for them, or trained men to fight who had never fought a day in their lives, or held the line against impossible odds? How many times had he chosen to keep going when no one else could? When even he didn't know he could?

 

And now, after all that, he was being devoured from the inside out--something inside his own mind was killing him, and Halt wanted to punch something from the helplessness of being unable to stop it.

 

The thought scraped like nails on a chalkboard in his mind.

 

Halt leaned forward again, gaze fixed on his old apprentice's face.

 

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, unused.

 

“You’ve always made it hard for me, you know. Even as a kid. Never did what I told you. Always had your own damn way of seeing things.”

 

He huffed. A soft, humorless sound.

 

“But you listened. Eventually. And I always figured you’d come back from whatever foolish thing you’d gotten yourself into. Because you always did.”

 

He looked down at his hands.

“But this time… you’re not coming back, are you?”

 

A long silence. The lamp crackled. The water clock dripped.

 

Then Halt shook his head once and muttered, almost inaudibly, “Don’t do this to me, son.”

 

His voice broke, just at the end. He coughed once to cover it. Reached up and wiped at his face with the heel of his hand.

 

He didn’t cry. Not properly.

 

But the wetness on his cheek was real.

 

He stayed like that until morning--watching Will, keeping vigil. One hand resting lightly on the edge of the blanket.

 

Just in case Will ever reaches back.

Chapter 5

Summary:

Will speaks

Notes:

TW: a bit of gruesome descriptions

The sun had barely begun to rise when Halt realized how much time had passed.

A faint yellow light seeped through the infirmary windows, looking more grey as it shone through the white curtains, as it brushed the stone floor with a thin wash of silver. Halt hadn’t moved all night. He hadn't slept either. His back ached, his knees protested, but he stayed where he sat, eyes fixed on the boy who was somehow both here and not at the same time.

Will hadn’t stirred. Just blinked, now and then. Just… existed.

The door creaked open behind him, and Halt swung his gaze around to see Alyss stepping in, wrapped in one of Will's cloaks, hair slightly tangled from sleep. She held two mugs in her hands.

"I figured you’d still be here," she said softly, shutting the door behind her.

Halt nodded once, accepting the mug she held out to him with a slight smile. Hot coffee. Strong. Familiar, in the way old habits were. He didn’t drink immediately--just held it between his palms, feeling the warmth.

"He looked at me yesterday," Alyss whispered, pulling up a chair beside him.

"I saw."

"I keep thinking I imagined it."

"You didn’t."

Alyss looked at Will--at his still face, pale under the morning light.

“I can’t tell if he’s trapped somewhere…. or if he just gave up.” Her voice cracked. She took a long sip of her coffee to cover it.

Halt’s jaw worked. “He didn’t give up,” he said firmly, almost as if he were trying to convince himself and not her.

Alyss blinked quickly. “So then what do we do?”

Halt didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on Will. Watching the rise and fall of his chest. The slackness of his expression.

He let out a long breath through his nose. “He’s shut himself off. He’s still there, but… he’s buried deep. And I can't say I know how to reach him down there.”

Alyss nodded slowly, then reached a hand up to comb through his curls, grimacing as her fingers got stuck in the tangled, matted hair. She shook her head, “He hasn’t been properly bathed in weeks. They sponge him down, but I think it just irritates him. He hated sitting still for things like that...”

Halt made a low sound. “Maybe we should bathe him properly. Might help him feel… human again. Normal, or whatever, I don't know.”

Alyss looked at him. Her eyes a little sad, but understanding.

They stood in unison, and for just a second, Halt placed a hand on her shoulder. She leaned into him, ever so slightly. And he took that as a signal to pull her into a tight hug.

He didn’t often offer comfort this way often--through touch--but Alyss was part of their strange little family now. She had been for a long time. Not just because of her relationship with Will, but because he truly loved her like a daughter.

“I hate seeing him like this,” she whimpered into his shoulder, voice small. “He always took care of everyone else. And now he won’t even let us take care of him.”

Halt nodded as he pulled away, giving her one last comforting squeeze as he did so. "I know." Was all he was able to say.

She hesitated, then said, “I'm going to bathe him, would you help me?”

Halt looked at her, surprised. But she was already moving toward the bed, adjusting the pillows and brushing a loose curl from her face.

They worked wordlessly. Alyss turned down Will’s blankets while Halt gently supported his shoulder. Will didn’t resist, or fight, or flinch--just followed wherever they guided him. Like a puppet with cut strings.

When Halt moved to help him stand, Will’s legs trembled under his weight. Alyss reached out quickly, and together, they steadied him.

They made their way slowly through the corridor to the infirmary’s washing chamber. The halls were empty. A blessing, Halt thought. He didn’t want anyone to see Will like this--not because he was ashamed of him, but because Will deserved his dignity. He deserved at least that.

In the bathing room, the air was warm and heavy with steam. Alyss knelt beside the tub, adjusting the water while Halt eased Will down onto a bench.

They untied his infirmary gown gently, which was stiff with dried sweat and a bit of blood. Halt shook his head in frustration at the staff's incompetence; they couldn't even get him fresh gowns every once in a while? But then again, he had seen Will's reaction to any strangers touching him, so he supposed they couldn't be blamed.

Halt and Alyss both unknowingly grimaced as they tugged the loose shirt up over Will’s arms. The bruises along his ribs had turned deep violet. There were long, angry scratches on his collarbone, half-healed and ugly. His shoulder was swollen, and the healing skin looked to be stretched too tight.

The Ranger paused for a moment, glancing toward Alyss. He was suddenly aware of her presence as a young woman, not Will's wife or fiancée, though they had been together for years. Halt only hesitated because he wasn’t sure if this would embarrass her--or worse, embarrass Will, if he ever came back to himself and remembered this. It felt strangely intimate. Too private almost.

But looking at the young woman beside him, she didn’t flinch. Her face was calm and collected, and her hands were working with a quiet and unphased determination, and in that moment, Halt understood. This didn’t rattle her, not because she didn’t care, but because she did. Because this wasn’t about propriety. This was about love. Compassion in the vulnerable moments. And this was as vulnerable a moment as any.

If anything, Will would be grateful.

Halt shook the thought from his head, and together they guided the young, trembling man to the warm water, his body sagging in their arms.

Alyss knelt on one side of the tub, Halt on the other.

And together, they began washing him in the sudsy water--quietly, so gently, the way one might wash a fallen comrade, or a feverish child.

Will still didn't speak or move. He sat in the wooden tub like a broken doll, knees drawn in slightly, arms propped on either side. Staring forward. Lips pale and slightly parted. His warm brown eyes were blank and empty. Alyss nearly flinched every time she looked into them. Will's eyes had always carried a cheerfulness, an uncanny sense of fun and humor, and love. But now, looking into them, she didn't even recognize him.

Will didn't react to the warmth of the water, or the tenderness of his friends, even the way Alyss clasped his hand with one of hers, giving it a gentle squeeze every so often. He didn't react as Halt rinsed his hair and Alyss washed his back and shoulders.

Until--

"I can’t get out."

Alyss froze, a sponge falling soundlessly from her hand into the water. Halt's breath caught, his face had gone slack, and all color quickly drained from it.

Will didn’t blink.

“I can’t get out,” he said again.

The words were monotone. Empty. As if someone else were speaking with his voice.

Alyss’s throat tightened, and her breath started coming in quick gasps. She exchanged a look with Halt--a silent, stunned communication. Did you hear that too?

Halt moved first.

He shifted onto his knees beside the tub, voice low and careful, like he was approaching a wild animal.

"Will." He said the name not as a command, not even as a question--just as an attempted tether. A way to call him back. A lifeline in the sea of torment the young ranger was drowning in.

"We’re here, Will."

Will didn’t look at him. He didn’t seem to hear.

"I stayed awake for six days straight," he said, his voice flat and disturbingly calm. "I remember every minute… of those six days. I couldn’t… move. And Horace just kept… dying. It was so annoying. I had to keep saving him, cause he kept trying to just die on me."

Halt flinched. The way Will said that--so matter-of-fact--made it worse than if he’d screamed it. Alyss’s hand gripped the edge of the tub to steady herself, and her hand rested on Will's shoulder timidly, as if she were scared to touch him. There was no anger in the ranger's voice. No bitterness. Just a dull, numb exhaustion. Like he was reciting something that had already happened a thousand times in his mind. Something that perhaps had happened a thousand times in his mind.

"It was dark at night. The ground was wet and I didn’t have fire materials, so it was cold, too. Cold and dark. So, so dark. There were so many stars." He paused. "I just wanted to lie down and sleep. I wanted to sleep on Horace cause he was warm, but he kept trying to die, so I had to stay awake."

He finally looked up at them.

"But I wanted to sleep. All the other men were asleep. Or dead. I’m not sure which. One of the men drank the last of the water, and I remember drinking something really bad…"

Halt’s face didn’t change, but his hands trembled faintly.

Will paused.

Then his voice dropped even further, his eyes seeming to grow further and further away from the present.

"Then I heard noises. Animal noises. Growling. Fighting. Right there, right next to us. I kept waiting for the animals to take me, but they didn’t. Then I realized they were fighting over Captain Rowley."

Alyss gasped and covered her mouth quickly.

"I tried to keep them off him," Will continued, in that same even voice. "But I couldn’t move. I watched them tear his body apart. It was… kind of disgusting."

Something shifted in his expression then. Just a flicker. Revulsion. Shame.

"I just wanted to lie down. But I stayed awake. For six days straight. I couldn’t get out. I can’t get out."

Silence.

The water lapped against the edge of the tub. Somewhere down the hall, a bird chirped in the courtyard, oblivious.

"I can’t get out," Will whispered again. And this time, his voice cracked. Just a little. Enough to betray the first fracture of emotion present beneath all the numbness of his exterior.

Halt moved then. Quietly, slowly, he reached out and took Will’s face in both hands. His palms were rough and warm. Solid. Real.

"You’re not in the woods anymore, Will," he said softly. "You’re safe. You’re home."

"No," Will said, shaking his head out of Halt's hands, not even sparing him a glance. "I’m still there. I think… part of me is still there."

Alyss crouched beside them, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

"We’ll find you, then," she said. "We’ll go back and bring you out."

Halt nodded, hand still firm. "We're here for you, okay? We're here, son."

Will blinked. He didn't respond, but his body slumped forward slightly, like some tension had finally begun to ease in his chest. He didn’t resist when Alyss leaned in and gently rested her forehead against his temple.

And for the first time in two weeks, he cried.

Silent, slow tears that trickled from his open, dead eyes.

Notes:

sorry not sorry

Chapter 6

Summary:

The fragile hope from Will's progress falters as another crisis surfaces

Notes:

sry this guys short

Will’s eyes fluttered open, slow and uncertain, as if they couldn't yet understand where to go from there. They no longer stared blankly at the ceiling but shifted around constantly, tracking the faint movement of Halt as he moved softly by his bedside, Pauline, as she sat in the chair beside his bed, flipping through a pamphlet from the infirmary, and Alyss, as she straightened up the room.

The young man's fingers twitched slightly when Halt reached out to brush a stray curl from his forehead, and a faint, barely audible breath escaped from his lips.

Halt caught his breath and leaned closer, a flicker of something like a cautious relief stirring in his chest. “Will,” he whispered, voice low, careful. "Are you feeling any better?" The words were hesitant to escape his lips. Halt didn't necessarily trust that Will even comprehended what he was saying, but he had to try. Progress was progress.

And what had happened yesterday was certainly progress. Will had spoken, and not just incoherent words; he had been aware of his surroundings, he had recognized Alyss and himself. Will had been himself; broken and numbed, he may be, he was in there, clawing his way out. 

Will’s lips parted, and a single word, rough and cracked, escaped his throat: "Alyss…"

Alyss smiled softly as she rushed over to his side, tears glistening in her eyes. "I’m right here, honey," she said, reaching to gently squeeze his hand. "We're here with you, we’re not going anywhere."

Will's eyes fluttered closed again, as if her words brought him the peace he needed to rest.

Though his body was still weak and trembling, and his mind even more so, these small signs--the movement, the speaking, the recognition--these were miracles carved from weeks of despair. Halt let himself hope, but only just. Will’s mind was still a thick-walled prison, and though he had escaped just momentarily the other day in the bath, it seemed he would have to scale those walls a few times before he was fully free.

The morning light flickered through the windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors. The room was quiet, but not the absolute void of silence it had been for the last several weeks, now there was a fragile and timid hope that hung in the air. Will was going to be alright, and it felt like the storm of despair in all their minds was beginning to calm.

But then the next wave struck.

The door creaked open slowly, drawing every eye in the room--even Will’s, though his gaze was distant. A young woman appeared, her face pale and breathless, eyes wide with urgency. Cassandra.

She took a few hurried steps inside, then stopped, looking at all the concerned faces in the room. Then she spoke. Her voice was low but urgent. “You should come quickly. It’s Horace…”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unsettling, but she said no more. Before anyone could respond, she turned on her heel and vanished back down the hall, leaving a current of unease behind her.

Halt exchanged a sharp glance with Pauline and Alyss, their silent communication clear. Without hesitation, they rose and followed after the Princess.

Before leaving, Halt cast a brief look over his shoulder at Will. The young ranger’s eyes remained open but unfocused, and Halt knew he would be all right alone for a few minutes.

The three dashed through the quiet corridors of the castle, toward the chambers that Horace had been moved to after being discharged several days before.

The echo of their footsteps was swallowed by the thick stone walls that made up Castle Redmont. The air grew heavier as they neared Horace’s chamber, and a familiar feeling of fear settled in their chests.

They entered the room cautiously, and Halt’s gaze immediately found the infirmary nurse standing near the door. Without a word, Halt approached, his voice low and sharp, questioning. The nurse’s replies were muffled to the others, but the tone was grave, their faces stony.

Alyss’s eyes, however, were fixed on Horace.

He lay still on the bed, his skin pale beneath a sheen of sweat that clung to him as if he had been submerged in water. His breathing was shallow, uneven, each intake of air seemed to be a challenge.

Cassandra sat close, her fingers tightly entwined with his, her face taut with silent pleading. Nearby, Alyss remained standing; her own complexion was drained of color, but her expression was resolute, determined not to falter again. She had seen Will through this, and now she would stand tall for Cassandra and Horace.

Besides, they were newly engaged, Horace would be just fine. He had to be.

Yes, they would be married within the year. Horace will be fine. They'll all be fine, it's going to be--

Alyss took a shaky breath as Pauline set a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"I need a moment," The young woman said as she fled the room, catching the very last words from the healer's mouth as he spoke to Halt, whose face, stony as it was, was sinking into a grief Alyss hadn't seen since Will himself was at death's door.

"I would prepare yourselves for the worst."

Alyss heard no more as she fled from the building and was violently sick.