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Crowley was happy. He was smiling. He was just about ready to break into a jig. But he was riding Cropper and at a good clip too; doing so would likely result in him landing on his bum on the ground, and his horse and best friend laughing their arses off. By now he would have been whistling a happy tune, but Halt had threatened to skin him and turn his hide into a bodhrán for Berrigan if he pursed his lips to do anything more than cough. Crowley didn’t know what a bodhrán was, but he knew Halt.
The original King’s Rangers had come back together as if they’d never been demoralized, attacked, and scattered. The new rangers they'd recruited were working like the dickens to reach their level of excellence and doing a good job of it, and the Commandant had a small but promising gaggle of young apprentices being trained. Halt’s apprentice, perhaps the most talented among the young generation ((( had he actually begun to think of himself, Halt, and the others as the old generation? ))) was now at one of the most important milestones of his training and his life as a King's Ranger. The Commandant had pulled rank to be there when Sir David’s son Gilan got his Ranger horse.
Crowley was of the opinion that Halt just might have met his perfect foil in the person of young Gilan Davidson, with his persistent questioning, surprisingly perceptive comments, and offhand suggestions for alternative and arguably brilliant tactics and impeccable mechanics of attack and defense, which he always expressed in the technical jargon he'd learned from the Battle Master.
Not to mention, ((( alright yes he often did so and in a subtly needling kind of way ))) that Gilan was at times obliged to complement a technical term that was unfamiliar to his dark-haired and not infrequently dark-miened teacher with what Crowley called ((( but only once to Halt's face; his friend could be a real berk when pushed ))) a “remedial demonstration”.
Halt was either bragging about his brilliant apprentice or complaining about him in a fit of pique. Often at the same time. Sometimes Crowley thought the only thing keeping Halt from losing it and gluing Gilan's lips together with fletching glue was his terror of Gilan paying him back by not making the sublime coffee the lad was as adept at as unseen movement.
It was a glorious, wonderful day. Crowley was looking forward to seeing Gilan’s face the first time he saw his Ranger horse. Looking forward to watching the new apprentice mount and ride… or attempt to ride before Bob Saddler, breeder and something of a wizard with the horses, told him the secret to starting off the closest and most rewarding relationship a Ranger would ever know. Most especially, although he wouldn't admit it out loud to any passing black-bearded ex-Hibernians, he was looking forward to seeing Halt smile with his entire face, and perhaps even chuckle the way he used to.
But right now Crowley was thoroughly enjoying riding his own beloved Ranger horse, with his best friend on his left and his favourite apprentice ((( that is, if he had a favourite, which of course he didn't because a commandant would never show favourtism to any— ) ( fine! he did, he was commandant he was entitled and what were they going to do, eh, demote him? no one else was crazy enough to take the job! ))) that is to say, with his favourite apprentice on his right. Halt and Gilan were separated enough that no bodily harm could come from the one to the other on account of the incessant giddy questions and comments chirping out of the other in unrestrained joy.
So far on this trip, though, Crowley had spotted no smoke emanating out of his friend's ears. That, and the beautiful day riding Cropper over the pristine placid countryside just for the simple enjoyment of it was what made Crowley forget his fear of being bodhráned and pucker up to commence whistling.
Halt’s eyebrows went up as he caught the suspicious movement out of the corner of an eye. "Do you always have to be so insufferably cheerful?" he groused.
"Yes," grinning widely Crowley replied without even having to think about it, "and do you always have to travel around as if there's a big, black thundercloud hanging over your head?"
The rangers reined in their horses.
Still as two statues who were scrupulously emulating King's Rangers, Halt O'Carrick and Crowley Meratyn sat upon likewise unmoving mounts and regarded each other— the one of them through raised eyebrows and an icy glare, the other with an angel about to spectacularly fall glint and a hint of smile around an impish pre-whistle pucker.
"What are you waiting for?" Halt grumbled after ninety-three seconds had passed.
"I?" Crowley asked innocently.
"Get the damned shrilling noise over with so we can get back to our business."
After enduring another half a minute of a Ranger staring impasse, Halt shook his head disgustedly and cued Abelard to catch up with his young apprentice, who had proven yet again that he was a very smart and very sharp apprentice always on alert for any danger from any corner by riding on ahead a short ways and waiting safely out of the line of fire.
"Why are you dawdling, Gilan?" Halt snapped as he rode past David's son... or maybe his son now; the ranger hadn't had the time or mindset, and barely enough years of life lived himself, to decipher a very curious letter that Sir David had recently sent him along with his gift of an uncommonly stimulating blend of strong Arridi coffee and precocious fourteen-year-old boy. "You'll never get your horse this way."
The lad's eyes traveled from his oncoming Ranger Commandant to his onward going Ranger Master. "Sorry, Halt," he called out and quickly rode to join his master, who had stopped to glower like deadly arrows at the Head of the Ranger Corps.
"Eh, Halt," Crowley remarked when he caught up to the waiting pair, "it's been years since the Yellow Parrot, and you still are a bit of a Gloomy Gus. But I love you anyway, my friend." He stood tall in his stirrups, leaned over and planted a kiss on the top of Halt's head. Then nudging Cropper, he cantered on ahead, singing, "A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady, so— he asked her for her hand and gave her a leg of lamb."
“Halt... ?”
A confused malformed question struggled in Gilan Davidson's brain, trying desperately to be phrased and uttered. It was immediately bludgeoned to death by a deep bark and roar of sound beside him.
Gilan snapped around in gobsmacked gaping wonderment.
Halt was belly laughing.
Commandant Meratyn gave a long look back over his shoulder at his companions. He smiled, cued Cropper out of his canter into something more suited to the tempo of the tune dancing in his head, and began to whistle.
It was a glorious, wonderful, beautiful day, and Crowley was happy.