Halt carefully turned the sword in his hands, eyeing it critically. It had a simple handle, wrapped with a soft leather for comfortable grip. The sword was straight and well balanced, the blade itself featuring a blue tinge. It was fine weapon, specially crafted by the same men who made the Ranger's knives.

Halt wouldn't have accepted anything less. The sword was for Gilan.

And considering that at some point, this weapon could determine whether his apprentice lived or died, Halt would be at fastidious as he pleased.

The Ranger closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. He was fine. Totally fine.

Today was his apprentice's graduation.

Maybe he wasn't fine.

Crowley took a sip of coffee. "So. Gilan's graduating in only three weeks now, right?"

"That's right," Halt answered shortly, staring into his own mug as he swirled it.

"Very good," the Commandant said approvingly. "I'm quite pleased with how everything is lining out; Maynard gave me his retirement papers last week, which will leave Meric Fief without a Ranger, which, coincidentally, would be a perfect fit for a just graduated Ranger to get his feet wet in. Gilan will get to go right to work."

Halt almost spat out his mouthful of coffee. "Meric? You're assigning him to Meric?"

Crowley frowned at his friend's reaction. "Is that a problem?"

"Meric is a five day ride from Redmont," Halt replied flatly. Crowley shrugged.

"So it is. And that's a problem because?..."

Halt went back to staring into his coffee. "Crowley, I've been thinking. Gilan is only nineteen; a year younger than when most apprentices graduate. He's still so young."

"You think he should wait another year?" Crowley said, his frown deepening. "Does Gilan agree? Have you discussed this with him?"

"I have not," Halt replied testily. "He would... be opposed to the idea."

"From your reports, he seems to be doing excellently. In fact, some of his marks surpass those of current Rangers." Crowley paused a moment, softening his tone before continuing. He knew why Halt was acting this way. "He's ready, Halt. It's time to let him make his way in the world, and I think you know that."

"He's still just a boy," Halt snapped back.

Crowley answered slowly, clearly. "That boy is just about a man, but you let his cheerful ways fool you into thinking otherwise. You can't hang onto him forever."

Halt's shoulders sagged. He knew Crowley was right, but it did nothing to ease the heaviness in his heart. "Meric, it is, then," he replied dully.

After that, Crowley pretended not to notice the white-knuckled grip his friend maintained on his coffee mug.

Halt had been maintaining his composure fairly well during the remainder of those three weeks.

Except when they had been facing off with a large group of bandits.

Halt's fear then had been perfectly justified, he reasoned.

They had been doing well - the bandits were relatively skilled, but even that stood no chance against a Ranger. It was when one of them had slammed his club down, and Gilan had raised his weapon to deflect it.

His apprentice's sword had snapped.

CRACK.

The shock was evident on Gilan's face as the sharp sound rang through the air. The force of the blow had knocked him down, and for a few seconds, the boy stared wide eyed at the short piece of blade that he now held. Gilan had never had a sword break on him before.

The sound of the club rushing through the air again jolted the young man back into action - if that club connected with his head, it would be over. His hand flew to his belt, searching for something, anything... his fingers found the hilt of his throwing knife, and in a fluid movement, the boy unsheathed the weapon and blindly thrust it upwards, praying that it would be enough.

There was a wheezing groan, and the man crumpled, the throwing knife sitting squarely in his chest. Unfortunately, the stout bandit toppled forward, directly over and onto the still halfway down Gilan. The boy gasped as the wind was knocked out of him. He was pinned. Gilan was by no means a large bodied boy - he was tall, but he never had really filled out. With his arms stuck awkward to the side, and the man's dead weight lying directly on top of him, there was no way to get free. Gilan gave a mewl of discomfort and struggled more, unable to fight the uncomfortable feeling of being stuck. Blood from the man's chest wound was beginning to seep onto him, warm and thick and repulsive.

"Gilan!" Halt's voice was fearful, and a second later the heavy weight from on top of Gilan was thrown to the side. Gilan gave a sigh of relief as the claustrophobic feelings subsided.

"Thanks," Gilan said breathily, beginning to sit up when Halt's hands suddenly began pawing at his tunic. Gilan flinched, because, well, getting a little personal there, before he realized what Halt was looking for.

"Are you alright? Gilan, are you alright?!"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Gilan said hurriedly, trying to reassure his teacher. "It's not mine!"

The hands slowed. "Not yours..." Halt trailed off before saying tightly. "Spit for me."

Gilan sighed, but nevertheless spit at the ground. It was only after seeing the lack of blood in it that Halt finally relaxed. "What happened?" The older man asked, his tone clipped and short. Most people would think he was angry - Gilan had been around him long enough to know that it was actually worry.

"My sword broke," Gilan answered, a note of surprise still in his voice. "It just... I never thought it would break."

"Your sword..." Halt pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's fine, it's alright. You're fine."

The next day, Gilan didn't notice Halt carefully checking and testing the remainder of his weapons.

Gilan's sword breaking could never happen again. Luck had saved him once - Halt wouldn't trust it to save him a second time. The day after the incident, Halt had contacted the Ranger blacksmiths and made the special request of a sword.

This sword wouldn't break.

However, it was only after this careful inspection that Halt deemed it fit for his boy - yes, his boy. Because somewhere along the line, this smiling, too tall, gangly youth had become family. He wasn't Gilan's father - Gilan already had a wonderful, loving father in Sir David. Yet, in a similar but different sense, Gilan was his.

Halt slid the sword back into its leather sheath. Today Gilan graduated. Today was something that Gilan had wanted, had been working towards for years. Halt refused to be the one to ruin it.

Gilan sat at the table, anxiously nibbling at his thumbnail. Halt absently reached out to swat the boy's hand away from his mouth. Chewing his fingernails had always been Gilan's nervous habit - and no matter how much they had tried, they had never been able to totally break it.

"Halt? Can I ask you something?" Gilan's normally cheery face was slightly clouded.

"You just did," the older Ranger replied, the familiarity of the exchange feeling bittersweet.

A smile momentarily touched Gilan's lips before he continued, "Do... do you think I'm... ready?"

Halt paused a moment and thought - really thought. And when he replied several seconds later, it was with total sincerity. "You're ready, Gilan."

Gilan's wide smile threatened to break his face as he accepted the silver oakleaf symbol that Crowley put in his hand - it was such a small item, yet it carried such great significance.

"Well done, Gilan!" The Commandant said warmly, clapping the young man on the shoulder. "You may be the tallest Ranger to ever be in the Corps; rather ironic, considering you apprenticed with who many consider to be the shortest..."

Crowley was cut off by Halt's fierce slap to the back of his head. "What?" he whined, glaring at his friend. "It's true..." Turning back to Gilan, Crowley held out the transfer paper. "You're to report to Meric Castle in exactly two weeks from today. I know you'll do a fantastic job."

Gilan slowly took the paper. There it was, in writing: Ranger Gilan, attached to Meric Fief. "I won't let you down."

"Careful; if you blink, it might disappear."

Gilan started at Halt's voice and grinned sheepishly. He had been staring at his silver oakleaf again, still in slight awe that he had finally achieved it. "Can't be too careful, you know."

A beat passed. Halt took a breath. "I have something for you. Call me sentimental, but I thought a graduation gift might be appropriate. You know, social graces, or something." The older Ranger shrugged and reached from where he had rested the sword under his desk.

As he passed it into Gilan's hands, he said softly, "This one won't break."

Gilan's eyes were wide as he unsheathed the sword and took in the blue tinged blade. "Halt..." he breathed. "It's...amazing."

Halt nodded toward the double knife scabbard on Gilan's hip. "It should be; it was made like a Ranger knife."

"I don't know what to say. Thank you, Halt. Thank you so much, and not just for the sword. Thank you, for everything."

Halt paused. "You too." He didn't try to say anything else, out of fear that he might do something stupid, like cry. Emotions were such a hassle, sometimes.

Halt felt slightly lost the day he watched Gilan ride off to Meric Fief. He had given his apprentice a very manly hug, thank you very much, and the only reason that his eyes had glistened was because there was a breeze that had gotten some dirt in his eyes.

He had forgotten how lonely his life had been, how much he had loathed the loneliness.

Halt's eyes drifted toward Castle Redmont, his mind whirling.

Perhaps it was time to check on Will.

*In my age timeline, Halt would have only been a year or so without an apprentice by the time he takes on Will.

I've been wanting to write this story for a long time, but I've always been a little nervous. I've used a slightly different style than my normal (short sentences, a little more abrupt) - this was done in part to emphasize Halt's mental state about the whole situation.

Reviews are greatly, greatly appreciated.

Thanks for reading!

-TrustTheCloak