Hellow Guys! It's been a while, has it not! this is the finale chapter in this story so i hope you like it!

Epilogue- Filling the Empty Gaps

The sky outside the window was a fragile, pellucid-blue. White clouds carried themselves across the expanse on a slight, ruffling breeze, present in the manner of the trees unfurling and swaying in the waft, the way the garden watches' cloaks billowed like blue flags on the highest tower of the castle, the way the wind hit against the pane, shaking the glass, but Gilan's expression did not flicker or change. He sat by the window, sagging into the small armchair. His shoulders felt heavy, his neck to slight for the mass of his head, tar and copper was on his tongue as he sat in silence. In fact he hardly noticed the weather outside for he was remembering another time, another place where the weather had not been so kind. Where he had plunged in the mud, throwing his clenched fist this way and that with all the built up anger of being used, used as a puppet. And as he rolled over again, the man wobbling on the edge of the cliff, and as he fell, the ground slipping away from under his feet…

'Gilan?' The door remained closed. 'Gilan, are you in there?'

Gilan opened his eyes slowly, heaving upward in his chair. 'Yes, Will,' he said. 'You can come in.'

When Will came in the room Gilan caught his friend's eye. Will turned away for a moment and perched on the edge of the wooden desk on the other side of the square room. This had happened before. Gilan felt comfortable in his friends company, who, for once, quenched his urge and managed to never ask any questions, who just sat there, looking at him but not looking, sometimes talking but never about anything important. It could be that Will was the only person that did not look at him with a sad, pitting look in his face. It could be that Will was the only person that knew he had killed a man in cold blood- however deserving- a man who had once also been a king. But Will look at him no differently than he had months before, there was no pity or hate or anger, only calmness and amity to which Gilan felt he could rely on.

Today, it seemed, it was different. 'There making the king's daughter the ruler in Alpine now,' said Will, looking at him pointedly, telling Gilan to respond, telling him not to ignore his words. 'They are forming a treaty with us. Apparently it's going smoothly.' Gilan said nothing. 'But that only what Crowley said, and he isn't always on point is he?'

Nothing.

'Say something, Gil.'

Nothing.

Gilan looked out the window, this time seeing what was really outside. He did not want to talk about the treaty or how much good it was doing for them, not about the king's daughter because he killed her father and that, even if it had been understandable- if slightly justified- was wrong. Not about anything to do with Alpine because he hated that country. He hated it but it was not a bitter hate. It was a calm hate, like the hazel in Will's eyes. Like a lonely anger that he had held so tightly onto just to keep living that had changed him into a person he knew not of but was unsure of how to turn back. The worse thing was that he despised that he hated in the first place.

'Say anything.'

If Will had expected Gilan to explode as he had done countless times when angry he did not show it. His hand was firmly planted on the desk surface as he waited for Gilan to respond. Five long white fingers tapping in a beat-less tune, only Gilan did not notice the sound, only five fingers of Will's and three fingers of his own. 'What do you want me to say Will?'

He heard his friend sigh as he dropped his gaze to glance down at his feet. 'I don't know. Say anything, tell me anything. Whatever happened, it does not matter-'

'Does not matter in what, the bigger picture?' Gilan's voice was drawn.

'That was not what I was going to say, Gil, and you know it.' Will pushed away from the desk and came to sit in the chair across from his. 'I don't care what happened, what you've done, and I know the other's don't care either. There is little good in looking back and thinking of what you could have done. Nothing will change and nobody thinks of you any different.'

'I don't care what other people think,' said Gilan. 'On the contrary, they can stick their nasty little noses wherever they want and it won't change a thing.' Gilan gave Will a weak smile although he was not sure why he was smiling. It felt the most natural thing he had done in months and the oddest too. 'I remember, it was just after I'd brought you here, being in this inn. A man walks in, a guard mind you, who said he was looking for a ranger- a "little murderous coward" was the actual phrase he used- and I was sitting there thinking, was that really what I had become? I couldn't get it out my head, but you know, I think the man was right.' Will moved to object but Gilan held up a hand to stop him. 'I did kill men, some who probably had no cause to die. And I did kill that king, but you know one thing, I don't regret that it did it, not one bit. And I am a coward because I remember waking up every morning absolutely terrified, and now I won't sleep. I can't sleep. I won't hear those screams again and wake up afraid for no reason.'

Will said nothing for a moment, then, slowly spoke: 'I don't think that being afraid makes you a coward. You've got this far, have you not. A coward is someone that is afraid of being afraid, someone who is scared of being in pain or in danger. You are not any of those things, Gil. Whatever you have been though does not have to affect you like it is doing, so if you'd stop moping around all day and let people help you-'

'What- do you want me to start calling myself a Yubitsume-finger shortening- as they would in Nihon-Ja?' He asked mockingly.

'No, Gilan-'

'Well, I thought it was funny,' said Gilan. 'But I see what you mean.' It had been a stale attempt at humour and Will's smile in return was strained at the most.

'So, are you going to come down stairs at some point?' asked Will, dropping his smile and moving away from the older topic.

'Come down stairs to do what?'

'Oh, come now, you can't pretend to be oblivious forever; you know the council has been meeting for days. I'm sure we're in need for some violent political argument.'

'And that's what you think I'll bring?' asked Gilan. 'I'm not sure whether I should be offended or pleased at that statement, Will.'

'Come on! I don't think any could forget the time you through a chair at the foreign dignitary, or the time where you shouted at a man for hours even though he couldn't speak the common tongue!' Said Will, rocking back in his chair. 'It's just what we need, I think.'

'Will, you're still not ready to think.'

Will laughed at the old joke. 'Fine, you win. But really, will you come to some of the meetings? I mean, it would help. You know there language, you know that lord- what-his-name- and, well after the king's pardon and the other… stuff sorted out, it would be better, wouldn't it?'

'Fine, Will, I'll come,' Gilan said, glancing at the door.

It took Gilan more time than he cared to emit to get out of rooms and down the stairs to the council room. Still, he looked mutedly through the gap in the great doors, his breath hitching in his chest as it expanded and shrivelled back down to nothing more than a wisp of air. Maybe it had been stupid to agree to Will, the man having left before him, and anyway it would be alright to back out now… he could always come tomorrow, or maybe the day after that…

He stumbled backwards. 'Gilan?' asked a voice, peeping round the wooden door. 'Gilan, is that you?'

'Yes,' he replied, resolving his unstable footing and pushing his way into the council room where Will was waiting. He smiled weakly down at his friend and together they walked forward to the large table centered in the middle of the large room where people were dotted randomly, some seated, some standing.

He had been to many council meetings before, sometimes due to his previous- or what might as well have been- occupation, and other times because he had come with his father. David, Gilan realized, had always been to every council meeting; never missing one. But now, looking around the room, gathering his bearings, the squared room looked emptier, or maybe it was just him.

Without noticing he had taken up post in his typical station on the west side of the room. Leaning carelessly on the farthest stone pillar from the main doors- but closest to the smaller one at the back that led to a small escape staircase and up onto the gallery above- with his arms folded across his thin torso, his left shoulder pushed back-so he lent at an angle- the bone resting comfortably in a small indent in the stone. From here he could see most of the intent that was happening in the room, which felt right because he had always been taught to look before acting, to watch before reacting.

The doors opened again and Gilan looked up. The king walked in, his strides long and his blond hair so like his daughters, and next to him strode a smaller, slighter, almost bird-like figure of a woman. That was the Alpine princess, Gilan thought with a pang. I killed her father. The king went to stand on the other side of the table from him, next to both Crowley and Halt, but the princess took seat next to Lord Geraldo who gave her a small smile to which the princess returned, if slightly strained.

He zoned out for a moment, content to listen to the rustle of leaves and the patter of wind as it shafted against the tall windows, to hear the shuffle of paper as it was push aside and grabbed forward, the scuffle of wood on stone as people pushed back, away from the table, and the detached hum of disagreeing voices. Then a voice retrieved him from his numbness, or maybe it just made it worse.

'We've received the casualty list, my lords, your majesty,' said a steward stepping into the room, and approaching the table. He handed them to the king who frowned looking down at the stack of papers.

'Thank you, you may go,' he muttered, not looking up. He tapped his fingers through the pile, sliding some pages away. 'Princess, I do believe some of these are yours,' said the king and handed her about half the pile, if slightly less.

'Thank you,' she said. Her accent was softer than what Gilan had grown used to with the brittle Alpine language. Her voice was higher, sliding across the words that were not familiar to her in a melodic voice. 'You do not know,' she paused, trying to find the right words, 'which- who killed my fath- the king of Alpine, do you not?'

'No,' said the king, sounding almost sorry for the woman. 'But we are trying, my lady.'

'Thank you,' she said again.

I know, Gilan wanted to say, but he did not, at least not to everyone. Instead he walked around the table and near her chair. Geraldo saw him first, and surprise filtered through his face, then- what could it be?- happiness. He reached over the table, clasping hands with a still inwardly shocked Gilan.

'I heard you were injured,' said Geraldo in his language. 'I'm glad that you are doing better.'

'I'm alright, but how are you?' asked Gilan, knowing, and purposely not saying Geraldo's son's name.

'He had it coming, and I knew it. He was not the little boy I knew anymore,' he replied with a tight sad look. 'At the moment I think we're all a little home-sick. It will be better, I think, when we can go home a recover from this ordeal.'

'Yes, I think that's right.' Because Gilan did know, now, how much he had missed home while being away. And it had helped to be back in a familiar place with familiar people around him.

He watched as Geraldo stood up and walked from the room, pardoning himself to the princess as he went.

Gilan didn't know how to start. 'Princess,' he said. That caught her attention. He big green eyes swung around to face him and her pale face opened with a small smile.

'You know my language,' she said.

'Yes,' Gilan replied. 'Yes I do. I made study of it while I was- well, while I was with Lord Geraldo.'

'Oh, he's told me a bit about you,' the princess's smile became larger. 'You're the ranger, are you not?'

'Yes, I was- am,' he said, not returning her smile. 'Princess, there is something I need to tell you, and I do not expect it to be well received.'

Gilan waited for her to say something but she just planted her hands on her lap and waited for him to go on. He breathed slowly. 'You need to go on with the search of who killed your father, Princess, because I know who did it: I did.'

He waited for a flash of anger, or hurt, or hatred to project itself on her small slight face. He waited for the tightening of her red lips with hostility; the glow in her eyes of malevolence, but it remained the same, only becoming more serious 'I see,' she said, 'and It was kind of you to tell me.' she looked at him plainly, giving him the idea that she could see right into his head and know what he was thinking. 'If you are seeking forgiveness, I forgive you. If you are feeling guilt, I relieve you from that guilt. It was not your fault. I-' her voice cracked for a moment and she swallowed. 'I hated him also,' she whispered to him. 'We are both guilty parties on this table and it will do you no good to look back and hate yourself because of an action that someone else forced upon you.'

'But nobody forced it upon me-'

'You wanted to kill him,' she finished. 'But do not let that change you. Whatever he did to you- and I know he must have done something because you seem to not be a man without honor, someone who would take a life for nothing- it was fair. You look hurt, I can see it in your eyes, but do not let the past change you.'

'Thank you,' Gilan said, and he felt light inside like he had received an extra lung.

He had been a fool to think that all was well again. He had been a fool to fall asleep again because as soon as he drifted off the nightmares came back again. Dark dreams, where the shadows were so define they caused perpetual, black fear in his head. Where Gilan writhed in his sheets, twisting them around his legs and ankles as he tried to get away from monsters that did not exist, away from the hands that rose from the mud, dripping with dark blood. He left a shout rise up his throat so he buried his face into the pillow of the bed, smothering him, calming his breathes to a slower calmer rate.

'Hush,' said a soft voice. Gilan turned from the pale sheets colour to see Jenny, her rounded face smiling down at him, her hands holding his. 'Hush, it's alright now.'

Oh, good, he thought, she's not really there. I'm imaging her. 'It is okay, Jen,' he whispered, his voice slurred from sleep. 'I know you're not really here. I know you're not real.'

He felt her hands retracting and her soft voice dissolve to something substantial, more ferocious as it hammered against his ears. He opened his eyes again to look down upon the world. He stood on the edge of a cliff, totteringly. He could not remember a time when he hadn't been able to stomach highs, but now, his head felt light and his knees wobbled, just enough to over balance him.

And he fell.

Again.

Jenny stood stock still outside Gilan's room, as she had done the same every single night from the time he had been permitted to leave the infirmary. Not brave enough to go inside though, she told herself, only to stand here looking at the door, at the door handle: a small braze rounded handle, only one arm's reach away. It was almost as if she couldn't move, her limbs would not function as her mind called them too. She did not feel weak, only wheezy and… empty.

Do it, she commanded herself. Go on, open the bloody door.

Her hand moved slowly. Her fingers felt the coldness of the solid oak under her skin, her palm brushed across its smooth surface as she readied herself to push. Then she heard the little tremor, a small cry and all of a sudden she was shook from her numbness. She exploded into the room, the door swinging back on its hinges then crashing back to where it had been before, only she stood on the wrong side- or was it the right side?

Gilan lay on the bed, mingled between the thin sheet which was just as white and pale as his own skin. He was shivering controllably, an expression of sheer terror on his face. There was that emptiness again, she thought slowly approaching the wooden frame, the cracks that should have been filled but were left starkly void. Shouldn't I feel something? Shouldn't I be rushing to his side as fast as I can?

Jenny reached the bed and perched on the edge of the matrass. Her hand clang to his as she held is long white fingers in her palm, not caring how hard she pressed. 'Hush,' she told him because she could not think of anything else to say. 'Hush, it's alright now.'

Gilan's face turned from the pillow and he faced her, blue eyes wide. She watched him carefully not saying anything else. He was all paleness and angles. His skin thin, his eyes hollowed and shadowed but she loved his eyes, and she loved him. 'It's okay, Jen,' he murmured, his voice thick. 'I know you're not really here. I know you're not real.'

She dropped his hand then. He was dreaming, he did not think she was really here. With him.

'I'll stay,' she told him, settling back in the chair by the bed, surprised at how strong her voice sounded, how certain. 'And I promise I won't go. Ever.'

When Gilan woke it was not yet morning. The light that filtered through his open windows was only half-light, covered in a murky fog, accompanied with rain which seemed to have soaked the long drapes that had covered the glass pane and caused a puddle to start at the bottom of the window. He was getting used to this weather again. Although Araluen did not have bad weather it was not good either: giving one the feeling of dampness in ones bones.

He was also used to rolling over in the bed to see the room stark empty. Not to see someone sitting in the chair by the bed, near the window, who also seemed to be very wet from the rain, and also very asleep. But Gilan would have known her anywhere.

'Jenny?' he said, bushing a strand of hair away from her face. She murmured but did not wake, her head slumping to one side of the chair, bending her neck awkwardly. He slipped out of the bed, cursing because the room really was cold, and bundled her up in his arms, carrying her to his bad and placed her under the cover so she might warm up. From there he slipped on a new shirt and went about to bring the empty fire place to life.

He stared at the flames as he slowed fed it small branches from a bucket next to the mantle. What had Jenny been doing in his room, he wondered. No, that was an easy question. He had known she would come eventually, she had every right too, but in the middle of the night? He could have sworn she was part of his dream, but maybe she had not been. Maybe she really had been there. He cursed under his breath, wanting to slam his head against the brickwork but withheld himself. Why did she have to turn up last night, when she could see him at his worst?

'Gilan.' He turned to face her. 'Gilan, you're going to burn your hand.' He looked back down again. His hand was half in, half out of the fire, yet he had not felt the pain nor the heat. Cursing again he withdrew his hand only to find soft noises coming from behind him. It was Jenny, trying to cover up her… laughter. Laughter?

'It's not funny,' he said, but he was laughing too, almost. Jenny had always had a contagious laugh. It seemed, at least, that not everything was different. 'Are you still wet? Are you cold? Do you need a shirt?'

She nodded, pushing the thin blanket away from her. 'Question: why am I wet in the first place?'

Gilan went over to the small cupboard, searching for a shirt that might fit her. His most likely were too big but that's all he had. He pulled out a random one, holding it out to her. 'You fell asleep on the chair under the window and it's raining outside.'

'Oh.' Jenny sounded generally surprised. 'Turn around then.'

'Right,' muttered Gilan, facing the wall. He heard the ruffle of her taking of the old shirt, a small thump as it fell from the bed and toppled to the stone floor.

'You can turn around again.' It was a quiet voice she used and he turned slowly because it felt odd to make sudden movements now.

'Jenny,' he said in all seriousness, watching her blue eyes watch him back. 'Are you angry with me?'

He saw her bit her pale lip, worrying against the thick skin. 'I was, at first that is, but I'm not now. I don't think it was ever proper anger; I can, no matter what you do, never get truly angry with you.'

'What were you then?' he asked.

'I was hurt,' she whispered, her eyes white, but Gilan knew she would not cry. Jenny hated crying.

'Are you still hurt?'

And she was suddenly standing before him and he had his hand cupping the back of her neck, the other hand stroking her hair through his fingers like river water. She twisted to kiss his hand, gently. 'No. No, I'm not hurt.' She murmured into his palm. 'Are you, Gilan?'

'Nothing that won't mend with time,' he told her then drawing his hand down the curve of her neck he found the long chain that rested on her collar, the ring on the end glinting. 'Are you still going to marry me, Jenny?'

'What do you think?' she said, and kissed him.

One and a Half Years Later

Gilan slung the water foal over his shoulder and picked up the string of rabbits in his other. The lake swished behind him as he made his way up the track to the little cabin. He had taken to using the hunter's trails over time instead of the main path through the forest because that way it was easier to keep an eye on the small shape in front of him. Davie was eight months, already a mess of blond hair had started hanging low on her child thin body and a mix of both Jenny and his blue eyes in one. She had been insistent from the moment she could talk that she would learn how to walk. And after she had learnt how to walk- or walk while clinging hold of his arm and falling over every couple of minutes- she had insisted to come along with him. 'Daddy,' she had said, 'you will let me come, or I'll tell mummy about the time you stole the whole of that cake she spent forever making.' Mind you, Gilan had found it quite funny that a child, barely a toddler, had black-mailed him.

They had agreed together that whatever type of child they had- boy or girl- it would be named after Gilan's father. David for a boy and Davie for a girl. 'What about the second one?' Gilan had asked. 'Who said you're getting another one,' Jenny had replied at the time.

'Come on Daddy,' called Davie, halting her out of tune whistling. 'Uncle Will is going to be here soon.'

'Huh? And who said he was coming?' asked Gilan.

Davie opened her mouth to reply but was still too late. 'Jenny did,' said Will, stepping out from under the tree, his bow swung across his back and a smug smile on his face.

'Careful Will,' mock warned Gilan. 'Or I'll put mud instead of coffee in your coffee.'

'You wouldn't,' said Will, phoning horror. He looked at Davie. 'He wouldn't would he, or we'll tell your mother, isn't that right Davie.'

Davie giggled as Gilan nudged her shoulder. 'Traitor,' he muttered, shaking his head but still smiling down at his daughter.

'Are you ready to go?' asked Will.

'Uncle Will,' moaned Davie. 'You've only just got here.'

'Yes, but your father and I don't want to be late. Do you want to make us late?'

'Where are you going?'

'The annual ranger's meeting,' said Gilan, opened the door to the cabin and setting down the dead animals on the table.

'Can I come Daddy?' David asked, poking the water foal in the foot.

'No, darling.'

'Why not?'

'Because you're not a ranger. And anyway, you've got to stay here with your mother,' said Will, pulling her from under her arms and onto his lap.

'When I'm older can I become a ranger Uncle Will?'

Gilan saw Will look down at his daughter in surprise. 'And why would you want to become a ranger, Davie?'

'Because you help- you kill the bad guys,' she said, sounding so sure- but unsure at the same time- of the words falling from her mouth. 'I think I want to do that too.'

Gilan caught his friend's eyes over her blond head. 'Maybe, Davie. Maybe.'

Well that's it for me! I'm done here!

First off, I wanted to thank every single one of you who ever reviewed:

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Goodbye Guys!