Archive of Our Own ^beta

Crowley,

Enclosed you will find my monthly report, along with a list of those apprehended in the incident detailed in Entry 9. You may find it interesting; four were known associates of Morgarath, though I questioned all six extensively and did not find any evidence to suggest their actions were motivated by this loyalty.

Regards,
Halt

Halt,

Did you truly think you’d get away with sending a late report just by changing the date on your letter? Hardly an original idea! And it’s never worked on me anyway. I’ll be gracious enough to overlook it this time, since you’re a backward, uncivilized foreigner who’s clearly never experienced a punctual courier service. How hard it must be for you, all alone in this polite, responsible country…

I looked into the names you sent, but none are particularly concerning. I’ll keep an eye out, but I don’t think we need to worry.

Speaking of worry, I ran into David yesterday. He’s quite busy these days with the Royal Cavalry, but we found an evening to catch up—did you know he takes his coffee with cinnamon? We had the most entertaining debate over it. Anyway, he seemed unusually preoccupied with his son. Took every opportunity to ask after him. Did I have any news, had you written much about his progress, were you bringing him up to the castle soon? On and on! Give your old friend some peace of mind, would you, and let him know how Gilan’s doing. If you haven’t killed the boy yet, of course.

I indulged myself with a trip down to the markets. They’re as wondrously lively as ever, and more crowded than I’ve ever seen them. Stalls crammed end-to-end and people packed in the street like arrows in a quiver. But much more colorful! I bought far more than I should have, mostly little trinkets for my desk and sweets for the princess, though I did find a good pair of new boots and a bolt of the most intriguing blue fabric. Most exciting of all, though, are these new inks. So many colors! I’m writing your letter in red to match the seal. Did you know that every color has a meaning? Red is the color of fierce passion and undying love. And violence, of course, but that’s not nearly as romantic.

Yours forever,
Crowley

Crowley,

Your magnanimity astounds me. I hope you will find the timing of this month’s report more satisfactory.

Gilan is alive, though I admit I have been tempted to rectify that. He’s an adequate learner, sufficiently talented to perform well at most tasks but not nearly enough to justify his absurd ego. He’s pleasant enough company when he chooses to be, but far too often he behaves like an excitable five-year-old. I have already sent David a less critical letter; there is no need to relay the contents of this one.

Markets, really? If you must waste your time and coin on such frivolous pursuits, there are far more sophisticated ones for as high-ranking a man as you.

On the topic of excitable toddlers, lately I have encountered several troubling rumors concerning the princess. The worst of these claim she is fictitious, dead, or even half-Wargal. Don’t trouble Duncan with this information; I am working to discredit them. However, it might do to keep a closer watch on what is said about her at the castle.

Regards,
Halt

Halt;

You; sure; are; fond; of; your; semicolons.

“Sufficiently talented”? High praise, from you! I take it to mean that Gilan is a once-in-a-generation prodigy, the best Ranger the Corps will ever see, and/or already better than you. Ten years and my job might be in danger.

A most unconventional way of asking after someone! But I’ll humor you. Princess Cassandra is a delight. She’s the image of her father, but her personality is all her mother’s. Duncan trusts me with her, so I visit whenever I can. She enjoys playing with the toy bow I gifted her—perhaps we’ll make a Ranger of her yet!

In case you truly were worried, I’ll tell you not to concern yourself too much with rumors. Folk have always spread outrageous tales about the royal family, but most people are sensible enough that they do no real harm. You must have encountered such rumors in Hibernia. Unless you lived alone in a cave in the woods, of course. Actually, the more I think about it the more likely it seems…

It’s so cold out! It seems only yesterday that the sun was bright and warm and the world was alive. The trees were so beautiful, all yellow and orange and red so deep it was purple. And now they’re empty and those beautiful leaves are all crumpled and brown underfoot. The seasons change so quickly these days. I just want to grab onto them and drag them back. Don’t go! I’m not ready yet! But time waits for no one.

How are you doing, then? Keeping out of the cold, I hope. I remember how much you hated silent movement at this time of year. Well, it’s certainly not a problem for me! A few crinkly leaves are nothing to my vastly superior skill.

My sincerest love and affection,
Crowley

Crowley,

You are hardly in a position to criticize my use of punctuation. Your own is atrocious, and your command of grammar is tenuous at best, nonexistent at worst.

My silent movement is as good as it always is. You are far too arrogant for your own good.

Enclosed is my monthly report, along with a pressed leaf that I thought you might enjoy. It comes from a common maple, but has several interesting abnormalities. Note the asymmetry.

Regards,
Halt

Halt,

It’s been a terrible week! Bad weather, inordinate amounts of paperwork, and the little princess managed to pass me her cold. But every time I look at this leaf, I can't help but laugh. You, scavenging for leaves! For me! Somehow it’s both ridiculous and touching at the same time. No, don’t glare at me like that. I won’t tease you anymore, I promise.

For some reason, I’ve been finding myself in a rather reflective mood lately. Something feels a bit melancholic, in a poetic sort of way. Have you ever read the work of Ilduir Grant? He has such a way with words. You read one of his poems and suddenly you’re somewhere else, or someone else, you feel things that aren’t there and recall memories you never had! I was never patient enough for poetry when I was younger, but recently I’ve been starting to appreciate it more and more. Does that mean I’m getting old?

I suppose what I mean to say is that sometimes everything just feels so unreal. I do everything I should, of course, and a great deal more that I shouldn’t. But it doesn’t feel like living as much as it used to. It’s like reading a poem of my life, I feel and see and remember everything, but it’s still incomplete. I wouldn’t be so bothered if I knew what it is I’m missing. At least then I could go after it!

Well, life goes on, busy as ever. This kingdom never seems to rest, and I can’t afford to spend too much time lamenting over poetry if I’m ever to have a hope of staying on top of it all.

So how are you these days? Staying dry? I wish we could find the time for a visit, it’s been far too long. I remember when we’d spend weeks on the road, just traveling and planning and trying to work up the courage to take Morgarath on. We had everything back then and we didn’t even know it! What I wouldn’t have given for what I’ve got now—a good job and better friends and a warm place to sleep at night. And now look at me, yearning to be back in the cold again, off on another adventure with nothing but a sliver of hope and just enough of a plan to justify it.

Ah, what am I talking about? You’ve no reason to miss me. You’ve built yourself a life in Redmont. Speaking of, how’s Pauline? I haven’t heard from her in a few months…

Your dearest friend,
Crowley

Crowley,

Melancholy? Poetry? Why must you waste what precious little brainpower you have on such useless pursuits? It does you no good to dwell on the past. We had what we had, but it’s over now and there’s no going back. Perhaps it’s time you found yourself a woman.

As for Pauline, I truly wouldn’t know. You may write to her yourself if you wish.

Attached is my monthly report.

Regards,
Halt

Halt,

Ah, Halt, you should know by now that there are no women for me. But now it seems there are no women for you! A surprising development, especially to one who was in the room when you and Pauline first met. I don’t mean to pry, of course.

And I’m sorry I teased you about the late report, but ten days early is clearly unnecessary. I expect to see the skipped days listed at the beginning of next month’s report.

With expertly veiled curiosity,
Crowley

Crowley,

I find it ironic that you would pry for half of a page and then claim not to be prying.

I have thought about what you wrote last month. You say you’re “missing” something with such earnestness it would be comical were you not so serious. What could possibly be missing? You live comfortably and do good work. There’s nothing more to ask for. As I see it, you would do well to stop reading poetry and coloring over your perfectly fine life with its artistic sadness, and start focusing on what’s real. Even if there was more to be had, why pursue it and risk losing all you have now? Far better to accept your life, flawed though it may be, than to squander it to greed and be left with nothing.

You live in the past. Look around you: the war is over and the world has moved on. However much you may long for the past, it’s gone and you’d be blind not to see that we’re all better off for it. We were miserable and cold and certain each coming day would be our last, but you said it yourself that you’ve good friends at Castle Araluen now and a warm bed at night. I have an apprentice to look after; I can’t afford to be anywhere but the present. And neither can you, though apparently it hasn’t stopped you from trying.

Inside the package is a jar of dried cranberries. I remember your fondness for them, and Gilan tells me they rarely grow in Araluen fief.

Regards,
Halt

Halt,

Every time I share my ramblings with you, you tear them apart so viciously and thoroughly you leave me feeling like a fool. Well, that’s why I keep you around, isn’t it, to knock some sense into me when I drift too far from what’s sensible. I hardly remember what was in that letter, but I have no doubt it was insufferably melodramatic. Or so it must have seemed to you. I have no objections to melodrama!

Would it please you to know I dreamed of you last night? More likely it would irritate you. Well I did, and it was the strangest dream I’ve had in weeks. We were soaring through the air like birds, and you were flying so fast. You never slowed down, no matter how I called for you or begged you to wait. I reached as far as I could, but you were always just out of my grasp. And then right when I was about to finally catch you, I woke up!

I look forward to seeing you at the Gathering, and to meeting Gilan for the first time as a true apprentice. I do hope he lives up to your generous praise, as I certainly won’t go easy on him. Your mentorship has my full confidence, of course.

Forever chasing you,
Crowley

(P.S. The berries are delicious. Did you tie that bow on the lid yourself?)

Halt,

Enclosed is a note for Baron Arald excusing you from your post for ten days. This isn’t an urgent matter, but it’s a delicate one and I suspect you’d rather address it in person.

Duncan held an audience with King Ferris of Clonmel last week, and he and I are somewhat confused. Don’t worry, I’m the only person he’s told. Still, we’d like your explanation, or as much of it as you can give. Please come at your earliest convenience.

All my love forever,
Crowley

Halt,

I saw a raven today and thought of you. He alighted on the ledge outside of my window and sat there for a moment, gazing nobly off toward the horizon. His plumage was so dark a black it was nearly blue, and so sleek it caught every twist of my little candle’s flame. The sharp tuft of feathers on his head was stirring slightly in the breeze, and I was struck by an image of you, the way you are when you stand in front of a red sunset and stare out at something I can’t see, and your hair lifts a bit and the edge of your cloak flips over in the wind.

I reached out to stroke him, but he was gone as soon as he saw me coming. Ah, well. Perhaps next time. Have you ever met a raven?

My deepest love and admiration,
Crowley

Halt,

I ran into the little princess again today. Every time I see her, she seems to have grown! First she was only as tall as my knee, and now she’s almost to my waist. I remember holding her when she was born, and she was such a tiny thing, light as a feather. Three years old and her hair hasn’t darkened a bit. I suspect she’ll be blonde, like Duncan—a shame, if only in that I wish some part of Rosalind could have lived on in her face.

No message with your monthly report? Not that one is required, of course, but you always have before.

Miss you,
Crowley

Crowley,

I sent no message because I had no words worth writing. Perhaps you would benefit from occasionally following my example.

Regards,
Halt

Halt,

Why must you insist on doing this? Surely I’ve told you a hundred times by now that I’d think no less of you for anything. Don’t you remember what I said that day, years ago while we were camped just outside Dacton? It was right before we picked up Leander. I was being the prying bastard I was and pestering you nonstop for your story, but you refused to say a word. And I told you that I didn’t give a damn who you’d been or what you’d done, that I knew you and there was nothing you could say to make me think any less of you.

Well I meant it then and I mean it still, though I suppose the danger now is that I’ll think more of you. But don’t worry, I don’t. You’re still the same grim old crank you’ve always been, and I assure you I’ve seen you in enough compromising situations that any hope of you striking awe in me is long gone.

So stop sulking and accept that I don’t care who you were. Nothing has changed between us, so stop pretending it has! Now which one of us is being dramatic?

With fond exasperation,
Crowley

Crowley,

Please refrain from alluding to our conversation last month so explicitly in writing. I need not remind you that I intend for that information to remain strictly between us, and that letters are hardly a secure mode of correspondence.

I can’t decide which to be more offended by, that you think I spend my days worrying over your opinion of me like a lovesick girl, or that you would use “grim old crank” as a compliment.

You forget that, unlike you, I have real duties to attend to. You seem to have endless amounts of time to spend reading poetry, playing nursemaid to the princess, and overanalyzing my messages. But I have an apprentice and a fief to tend to, and if I look away for an instant one will have found a way to destroy the other.

No, there is no time to “sulk” about anything. Truly, I wouldn’t care if you did think differently of me. Your friendship is not so important that I couldn’t find another if you left. Perhaps you’re the one who’s worried.

Attached is my monthly report, along with a supplementary page expanding on the incident listed under Entry 11.

Regards,
Halt

Halt,

“Lovesick girl”? Well, you said it first…

I’m hurt! Surely after all we’ve been through together, all those long weeks on the road, all the times we saved each others’ lives and guarded each others’ backs, the secrets we’ve told and nights we’ve shared, surely after all that I’m more to you than just “not so important”. Well, to me you are irreplaceable!

Deny it all you want, but I know how you really feel. The absurd level of defensiveness in your last letter tells me more than enough. If it wouldn’t certainly earn me an elbow or two in the ribs, I’d laugh at you.

(The image above was supposed to be a portrait of me winking, but my pen suffered the most unfortunate malfunction halfway through…)

But enough about your needlessly cruel words. Don’t worry, I know it’s just your way of expressing your embarrassed but heartfelt thanks to your oldest, dearest, and handsomest friend. Now I really must stop before you actually do kill me.

Look, high summer is upon us at last! I thought it would never come, but the rains are letting up and I see dirt outside for the first time in weeks. Real, hard dirt, not gritty mud and chalky puddles. Sometimes I just open the window and lean out and do nothing but breathe the clean air and let the sun warm my face. How I’ve missed the sun!

Summer was always my favorite season. Everything is so alive. Birds in the trees, rabbits and foxes and squirrels in the brush, bees building skinny little nests on the walls, tall grasses rolling in the wind like the plunging Semath. And all the flowers! Even at night the world is alive with crickets and fireflies and wolves in the forest.

What’s your favorite season? I’ll tell you what you remind me of: winter. The deepest, stillest time of winter. When the trees are gray and barren and the ground is frozen through and ice clings to your skin when you step outside. When the air bites and the wind slices right through you, precise and deadly and as unstoppable a force as the roaring seas. Calm and silent and utterly terrifying. But then one day you wake up and the world is covered in white, every branch drawn dual, black wood on pale snow. And anything the light strikes scatters in a thousand directions and all the colors of the world beneath, and it’s the most beautiful sight you’ve ever known. You want to sink your hands into the snowdrifts but you’re afraid of ruining them, and you know it’ll sting without gloves.

Ever the sunlight to your snowfall,
Crowley

Crowley,

Only children have favorite seasons, and your amateurish attempt at prose is agony to read. I couldn’t have coaxed a clumsier metaphor from the mouth of a slug. At least the slug would speak of practical things, like soil or leaves. You waste ink rambling about sunlight on snow and grass moving like rivers as if I would ever appreciate such things.

Well, here’s a metaphor for you to think about.

Yesterday a dull bird flew itself into my window and managed to crush both of its wings. I found it floundering around in my herb garden, drenched in blood with half its pin feathers bent backwards. I could have tossed it back into the woods and let Nature do with it what she will. Leaving it would have been the safest option; had it lashed out and drawn blood I could be dead of infection by now. But it would have picked at the broken feathers and bled itself to death, or stumbled too close to a wolf’s den and made itself a meal. So I took it in and removed the damaged feathers, replaced enough of them so that it could fly, and left it with food and water.

The bird was exceedingly dumb, and the damage was extensive. Almost certainly it will die anyway. If I’d snapped its neck when I found it I would have saved time and resources, and I would’ve been spared my apprentice’s disappointment when we inevitably find it dead somewhere tomorrow. The bird’s fate was set the instant it was born, stupid and clumsy as it was, and it would have died from the crash whether or not I helped it. And yet still I did.

Endings, like beginnings, are unchangeable. The bird couldn’t choose its birth, and it likewise can’t choose its death. But nothing between its beginning and its ending was ever determined. I couldn’t prevent it from dying, but I could offer it comfort and dignity on its last day. Fate is a bowstring, fixed on both ends but ours to flex and twist, pull and release in the middle.

Your boot marring the fresh snow on the road does nothing to stop the cart that passes by an hour later. Don’t waste your life worrying about things that don’t matter beyond the moment in which they happen. If you want to do something, just do it before somebody else does.

Gilan thinks it an appropriate use of his free time to leap between trees like an overgrown squirrel, and for this foolishness he’s earned himself a twisted ankle. I’ve enclosed a message to MacNeil explaining the situation, and I would appreciate it if you could relay it. Choose a courier who can deliver it before Gilan’s scheduled lesson on the 25th.

Regards,
Halt

Halt,

It is precisely because our lives are ours to shape that I worry! How am I to know which path is right? What if I do something irreversible and lose what little good I have? You said it yourself. “Far better to accept your life, flawed though it may be, than to squander it to greed and be left with nothing.” Not seven months ago you said this. How quickly we switched positions!

What’s all this talk of fate? Why do you suddenly urge me to take the risks you once scorned? Halt, I’m always so far behind you.

I met with Duncan last week. We see each other every day, of course, but those meetings are strictly work. We meant to spend the time catching up and drinking like proper old friends, but somehow we ended up talking about you. He asked how you were doing, and I said you were fine, if a bit ruffled still from our last meeting, and being as mysterious and severe as ever in your writings. He made some comment about how you never change, do you, and I must have agreed too passionately with that because he gave me such a knowing look. I still don’t know what he meant by it, but I fear it was something far above what either of us are prepared to deal with.

But it’s later than it should be, and I’m bold in the way only the deep hours of night and a little too much drink can make me. So I shall ask it:

Do you change, my friend? Would you change for me? Would you let me change you?

Ruiner of snowdrifts, yours for all forevers,
Crowley

Crowley,

Duncan would do well to mind his own business. Hasn’t he a child to raise? And a kingdom to rule? Don’t tell him I wrote that; I can’t afford to be executed just yet. Though I doubt Duncan has the nerve. I’m his best advisor.

I “switched positions” only because you write so poorly that I couldn’t have known which position to take. You cannot for the life of you convey one simple thought; instead you meander all around it and trust that I have the patience to decipher your convoluted, incoherent ramblings. I understand now what you were trying to say, though it’s no thanks to you. And the necessary effect of changing my interpretation of your words is that I must also change my reaction to them. If this bothers you, perhaps you might try to speak your mind next time and not whichever body part happens to be leading you around that day.

Do I change? You know better than anyone that I have. But would I change for you, and would you be my changer? These are harder questions. Some things cannot be moved, and some things cannot be stopped. I won’t leave Redmont for you. Neither can you leave Araluen for me. The years will pass like this, and we will have to be content with these letters and what brief visits we already make. But if it’s enough for you, it’s enough for me.

Attached is my monthly report, along with a list of items confiscated from the individual mentioned in Entry 2.

Regards,
Halt

Halt,

You tell me to be straightforward, so I will.

I wake from dreams of canvas tents to stone walls and stone ceilings. My bed is clean and soft, but it’s lonely without the little stones and soft dirt under my sleeping roll, and it’s cold without you next to me. I step out onto my soft rug and look around at my books and decorations, but they’re poor substitutes for the great pines that ringed our humble campsite. I eat good food in the castle kitchens, but it doesn’t fill me like your atrocious soups did. Bitter greens and stringy meat and far too many spices! But they were yours, and they tasted like home.

The days are warm, but they would be made warmer by the sunlight on your face and the gentle breeze stirring your hair. The days are cold, but they would be made colder by your boots tracing patterns on the hard ground and your dark eyes reflecting the ice-white world. The wind is never as strong as it is when you’re standing at my side. The stars are dead in the sky without you, the moon is a rock and the mighty river is as still as a black lake.

Every poem is about you. I dream of you every night and think of you every day. I am not even a shadow without your light to cast me at your feet. For always at your feet am I, forehead pressed to the cold stone and hands clasping your ankles, begging you to stay. Always to stay. But you never do, and every time you leave you take a piece of me with you. Halt, you ruin me! How do I continue without you, how does my tattered body hold itself together without your arms around it?

Okay, okay, I’ll stop now. I’m sorry for teasing you. But just because I was exaggerating doesn’t mean that all of it was false.

I do miss you, desperately, and not just because you’re my closest friend. You’re not the only person who’s ever understood me, so I won’t tire you with that old cliché, but you’re the one who understands me best. Somehow you look right through me. Whatever we are beneath these ugly shells of flesh, whatever it is that makes us human, you see it in me. And I like to think that I see you as well.

You’re more to me than a friend, more even than a brother. I would spend the rest of my life at your side. We’ll never have that little cottage by the sea I yearned for as a boy, and you’ll never be the tall, dark, dashing knight I imagined—not that you aren’t handsome, of course! But those dreams don’t matter to me nearly as much as you do. If all we’ll ever have is what we have now, I’ll be the happiest man in Araluen.

I feared to tell you this because I knew our friendship could never be the same again. Tell me I haven’t just made a terrible mistake!

Your (anxious) friend,
Crowley

Crowley,

You are confessing your love to me on a thin, coffee-stained, doodled-on piece of leftover paper? This is utterly ridiculous. Write to Arald and give me a week’s leave. You will say this to my face.

Kind regards,
Halt