Pinecones

A random title for a random story because I really didn't know what to call this... ah OOC alert!

Disclaimer: I don't own Ranger's Apprentice.

The rough parchment was not rolled and sealed like the business documents his father was always complaining over; it was cut in strips and pressed in the spine. It was a book, though not one like those in the castle library with fine, fragile wisps of paper and letters printed with stamps. This was crude, handwritten in a spiral script, just a sentence a page to describe the illustration. It was beautiful too. Each page was ink-dipped, faint blue and green and violet soaked into the pages. The loose strokes of oil painting, with charcoal shadows, formed knights and castles and jongluers and damsels-in-distress.

The clumsy hand of a child traced the two page spread, from the blonde princess in her silver castle, down the walls to the mounted knight, over to the left page where the colours darkened to a rich indigo night dotted with golden stars and silhouetted trees and a green cloaked ranger where the child's fingertips lingered. He liked this page, even more so than the brightly coloured jongluer page. He always thought he could see the shadows move.

Gilan was cuddled in his mother's arms with the book in front of them. One of her hands stroked his hair, the other rested on the corner of the page, ready to flick it over when he was ready. He could feel her breath on the tip of his ear. Outside, a savage wind rattled the windows and gusts crept through the stonework of the castle. But the fire burned and his mother had a blanket wrapped around them and pillows propped against the headboard. She always looked tired, sad, when his father was away.

"Next page," he said, his voice small compared to the raging weather. She kissed the top of his head and turned the page. A meadow, with dots that he'd first thought were fallen stars but his mother had laughed and said they were supposed to be daisies, and big brown horses with their riders clad in chainmail. Heroes, Gilan knew. He pointed to his favourite one.

"Like dad," he said proudly, sure that under the helmit, that broad-shouldered man on the rearing horse would have his father's strong chin and bristly beard. He squirmed around to beam at his mother, so that she might share in his wisdom. "It's dad. He's fighting now. For Araluen. A hero."

"Yes," his mother agreed. She didn't sound proud, or happy. Resigned, but that word wasn't in Gilan's vocabularly yet, so he simply thought she must be sad. He pouted and patted her hand and tried to think of what might have upset her.

"Were you like her?" He asked, turning the page back over and pointing to the princess in the castle. "Like in the stories." He grinned. "Was dad the strong and brave knight that saved you?"

She laughed. "Saved me from what?"

Gilan screwed up his face. He was happy that she looked happy now. But he had to think about what she might have been saved from. He shrugged. The princess in the castle didn't look too bad off- he lived in a castle so he knew it was nice enough and there was lots of space and the cooks made good food- and now he wondered what she was afraid of.

"The enemy," he decided on. "The Pictans." It came to him in a stroke of genius because his dad was in the north, fighting the Pictans. "He'll kill all the Pictans."

His mother's face tightened. The line at the corners of her mouth deepened and the skin between her eyebrows was taunt. She brushed his fringe back from his face and bent over to kiss his cheek. "Do you know what your dad's best quality is?" she asked softly.

Surprised, he cocked his head. His dad had many good qualities and he didn't know which one she wanted. Two months earlier, Gilan had started his lessons on history and writing and general knowledge. His tutor was a plump man who always wore a grey robe and smelled of dust. Very quickly, Gilan learnt that there was a right and wrong answer to every question asked of him, black and white, yes and no, no room for creatuve thinking. He also learnt that if he said the wrong answer, his tutor would whack his palm with a leather belt. Gilan knew his mother wouldn't do any such thing. He tried to read her thoughts regardless.

"It's that he's kind," his mother said. "He's merciful. It's when he can hurt something but he doesn't because he knows it's weaker than him. That's when he's at his best."

….

Five boys played knucklebones in the castle gardens. The baron's son, in his velvit breeches and buttoned up coat; the scribemaster's two boys with their matching bowl cuts; Neilson in a surcoat he'd been given by his father before, with a wooden sword buckled to his belt, and Gilan, who also had a wooden sword. The older of the scribe boys kept score, while the younger reminded them of the rules every time Neilson 'mistakenly' said it was his turn when it wasn't.

"Guess what I overheard," the baron's son said, while Neilson had his turn- his real turn this time.

"What?" Gilan's curiosity stirred before the others had taken their attention away from Neilson.

"Morgarath is gathering his army. Dad thinks the King is going to mobilise our's. I heard him mention Hackem Heath or something."

"Where's that?"

"Dunno."

"Is it war?"

"Dunno."

"Will there be fighting?"

"Gil, I don't know!"

Neilson tossed the knucklebones too high and they landed in a rose bush. An instant cry of outrage came from the older scribe boy. The younger poked the bush. He pricked his finger and his eyes teared over as he stared at the speck of blood. The older bent over the injury in concern. Neilson, who had been on the receiving end of a lot worse, scoffed and crossed his arms.

"You did that on purpose!" The baron's son accused.

"Did not!" Neilson threw back instantly. "It was an accident. You distracted me with all your talk of war. It's your fault."

"It is not-"

"You threw them. You get them!" The older scribe boy demanded.

"Well, I would," Neilson drawled. "But it's getting late. Mum wants me home before dinner."

"Neil," Gilan said, a caution. It wasn't unheard of for the baron's son to get in a snit and go tattling to his father. That was something no one wanted to deal with. Least of all their parents. Sir Macneil had enough on his plate with the tension around Morgarath, and Gilan's own father had been unusually quiet at mealtimes. It didn't help that his mother was ill.

"It's the truth," Neilson said. And it was. But it was also midday, a long time until dinner. The scribemaster's youngest boy said as much. Neilson crossed his arms. "She said before dinner. Now is before dinner. She didn't say how early before dinner. I will take my leave." His bow was courteous, an imitation of his father's grace at court. Gilan couldn't help laughing, which earned him a sour look from the other three.

"Both of you can leave then," the baron's son said. His fleshy cheeks reddened and his squinty little eyes blinked rapidly at them. "Thomas, Jeremy, I have more knucklebones in my quarters. Silver knucklebones. Real silver. And real books to look at."

"Well, I..." Neilson paused for dramatic effect. He jumped onto the edge of the rose garden and brandished his wooden sword. "...am a knight of the realm. En garde, Sir Gilan. Arise and fight me."

Gilan swept the wooden sword from his belt. The blades touched with a light clunk. He imagined it was a chime of metal. "En garde, Sir Neilson. I accept your challenge. Wait! You're supposed to do it with a glove."

"I'm not wearing gloves," Neilson pointed out. The other boys rolled their eyes. They were soft, fleshed out, born scholars, the type that tried to act above their age because they believed themselves better than their peers. Gilan didn't mind them, not really. But his best friend was Neilson, who was fathered by a knight like him, and had the same rough-and-tumble attitude with a spark of humour, and his mother was a lovely woman with soft brown hair that brought Gilan's mum flowers when she was sick.

"Nevermind then. I will duel thee!" Gilan cried, ignoring the noises of disgust from the 'scholars' as they turned away and started back towards the castle.

"To the death!" Neilson yelled dramatically. They connected swords. Hack, whack, just light enough not to splinter the wood. Gilan disconnected first and ran lightly through the courtyard, leading his friend towards the town. He let Neilson catch up with him enough to parry a few blows then kept running.

"Get back here!" Neilson shouted after him. They reached the town. Gilan ran through the marketplace, laughing as Neilson tripped against a barrel of apples. He knocked it over and all the apples spilled onto the cobblestones. The seller was a man with cheeks as red as the fruit. He pinched Neilson's shirt and snarled down at him.

"Sorry!" Neilson gasped. The wooden sword hung from his fingers. Gilan hooted and waved his sword around, all the more delighted when Neilson shot him a glare. The man was saying something about boys and reckless behaviour and slack fathers, but Gilan wasn't paying much attention. He sprinted off and heard the man yell and the patter of footsteps as Neilson squirmed free and chased after him.

"You coward!"

"You snail!"

"You runaway!"

"You old grandmother!"

Through the gutters where the beggers huddled in their blankets, past the bakery with the pie cooling on the windowsill and the blacksmith and the jeweller. Into the farmlands, where fields of grass had cattle and sheep, blocked off with old rickety fences. Here, Gilan allowed himself to be caught. He was ready for it when Neilson barroled into him, sword swinging wildly. He blocked, parried, then launched into an attack of his own. The wooden tip hissed through empty air. Neilson had turned and was running towards the woods.

"Hey!" Gilan yelled on impulse. Neilson flicked a grin over his shoulder.

"You old grandmother," he said, throwing Gilan's words back at him. "Can't you run any faster?"

He could; he did. The wind felt great- cold, clean, fresh. A hint of pine. Patches of mud stuck to his boots. The cows continued grazing in the pastures as they passed. He was gaining. They had just reached the first trees of the woods, by the creek, with the farmlands behind them, when he lobbed himself at the other boy and crashed into his back. Neilson howled and laughed and tried to wrestle free. The rolled, over and over, their swords mistakenly whacking the other and themselves, until they rolled right into the creek.

The shock of cold water made them let go of the other and sit up, gasping for breath. Gilan tried to look apalled at the water soaking through his clothes and weary as he stood. Then he kicked water all over the other boy.

"You great lump!" Neilson shouted as he flinched away from the cold water. "That's it! Prepare to meet your end!" He jabbed with the sword, connecting with Gilan's ribs.

"Oow," Gilan complained. He jabbed right back, but Neilson was ready and deflected the blow clumsily. He swung. Their swords connected. They hit away at the wood, not aiming to hurt the person weilding the weapon, simply to knock the opponants sword from his hand.

Something hit the back of Gilan's neck. He flinched and spun around. Neilson's sword whacked his arm. "Ooow!"

"Sorry," Neilson said. "I was already swinging; I couldn't stop. What's the matter?"

"Look at that." Gilan pointed to a pinecone on the ground.

"What?"

"That. The pinecone. It just hit me."

"It hit you."

"Yes."

"What, you mean it sprouted legs and-"

"No." Gilan peered around the treetops. Another pinecone whizzed from a top branch and smacked his forehead. "Ow." This time, he saw the culprit. A farmboy, dressed in rags because farmboys couldn't afford much else in times of imminant war. He had dirt smeared on his cheeks, pouty lips, wide hazel eyes, a ragged haircut, barefeet, younger than Gilan. He twisted another pinecone off the branch and hurled it at Neilson. It bounced off the top of his head.

"What's your problem?" Neilson yelled as he spotted the boy. He rubbed his head. "Get down from there brat. Let me show you how a knight deals with ruffian like you!"

"Let me show you how normal people should deal with you posh nobles," the farmboy called back boldly. "All warm in your castle. All dressed in silk. Bet you don't know what a soggy winters like. Bet you don't!" He threw another pinecone. Neilson trembled with suppressed rage. "Bet you've never killed. Killed a sheep I have. Had to; needed the meat. Bet you talk about your knights killin' but you never done it. You lot never seen nothing. That's what my daddy says."

Gilan straightened. "Your dad doesn't know anything about us. We've never met him."

"He knows alright. He knows." Another pinecone. "Wars coming. Bet your daddies'll be in fur blankets while mines out fightin' for Araluen."

Neilson scrambled at the treetrunk. "That's it, farmboy! My dad is Sir Macneil. He's been preparing to fight Morgarath while your dad's killing sheep and cows and chickens."

"Neil, don't." Gilan dragged him away from the trunk. "When we can hurt something but we don't because it's weaker than us, that's when we're at our best. He's just a farmboy. He doesn't know any better. Look at him, he's poor, he's skinny, like the beggers on the town street." He saw the anger leaking from Neilson's face. "And he's smaller than us. Let's just go. You have to be home before dinner, remember?" He grinned and was pleased to see an answering grin tug on Neilson's lips.

…...

"So I told him what you said. When we can hurt something but we don't because it's weaker than us, that's when we're at our best. Then we left." Gilan held her hand loosely. It was damp and sticky, the fingers like twigs. Her skin was yellow. The nightgown hung on her like a sack where it had once been form-fitting. The thick blackets drawn to her chin dwarfed her. He could hardly believe she had not been suffocated. Purple circles were under her watering eyes. She could barely speak through her swollen throat and cracked lips.

She managed a smile. A small, pain filled smile. Her hair was dishevelled. Greasy and unwashed. The whole room was greasy and unwashed, unclean, rotten, dying. From the broken threads of the rug to the cracks on the walls and the mould embedded in the wooden bedframe. The fire in the grate coughed. It stank. The air was heavy with it. Sickness. So thick he could barely breath. It couldn't be right. He wanted to take his mother down to the creek, or the woods, or the farmlands, where it was bright and fresh. She could breath there. The wind would tousle her hair and her skin would turn to peach again.

His father had spoken to him very gently. No Gilan. She isn't well enough. She has to stay in bed until she recovers. Then she can go with you. Anywhere you like. Anywhere? Gilan had asked. Anywhere, his father confirmed. His mother stared at them with hazy eyes. That scared Gilan. But she'd taken his hand and that made things better. She'll get better, his father had said, one hand on his son's shoulder, eyes entranced by the awful bloodless face. He had used his 'Sir David' voice when he said it. The command voice. The 'you'll do what I tell you to' voice. You'll get better, I won't let you disappear. But the sickness hadn't gone away. It was still there. It didn't float with the dust, it dampened it, weighed it down, stuck it to the surface of everything until the whole room was a layer of grey. Not even the fire could burn it away. The fire was dying.

How could his mother get better in a room where Gilan could barely breath? He couldn't breath when he held her hand, or when his father held her hand and he saw his strong knuckles turn white with the force of it, or when his father shooed the servant away to tuck the blankets under her chin himself and caress her forehead, and especially when his father gripped him in such a tight, desperate, heart felt embrace that the air whooshed from his lungs.

He tried to open a window. He thought it would help. Blow the sickness away. It was too cold, his father said, shut the window son. So the sickness kept building up and Gilan could hardly stand to be in the room.

…

He was summoned by his father. He didn't want to go. He dreaded it. It wasn't fair of him, perhaps, selfish, probably; he just didn't want to enter that room again. Didn't want to know, didn't want to find out, didn't want everything to change. Gilan hovered outside the door. He touched the cool wood. The sickness had seeped into it. It had scratches and peels and flakes of white paint. Pure white paint, stripped, falling, feathers from a dying angel.

"Son. Gilan." His father's voice from inside the room. No doubt he knew his son had been standing outside the door for the past few minutes. Gilan sucked in a breath. He pushed open the door. The wave of sickness slammed into him. His knees trembled. His lungs struggle for air, his palms sweated, his heartbeat was rapid. He took a step, then another. He stared at the floor, at a crooked nail.

The healer was there in his white coat. Gold buttons, red badges on his shoulders, a velvit collar. Fake, rich, greedy, like the baron's son, like the scribemaster's boys, like the noble children that thought their fancy embellishments made them better than everyone else. No, it didn't. Gold buttons hadn't done anything, didn't do anything, hadn't changed anything. Gilan itched to run up to the bed and pull those covers off her face and see.

"Oh, Gil," his father said, the tone more heartbreaking than anything Gilan had ever heard in his life. He didn't know what to do. He wanted to removed the fancy buttons from the healer's white coat. He wanted to ask them why his mother's head was covered by those thick blankets and why he was packing away his remedies. He thought he knew. So he didn't ask. Never had he been more afraid, more frozen and silent. "Come here."

He stepped across to the chair where his father sat. Strong arms wrapped around him. He was lifted onto a lap. Nails dug into his shoulderblades. A whisper in his ear, a soft murmur, a tingle of breath- like when he and his mother looked at the book and everytime she spoke he felt it on his earlobe- a lump clogged his throat- as his father told him.

His father crumpled over him. Knights don't cry. There were no tears. Just ragged, harsh, uneven breathing and fingers that dug so hard into his back they were in danger of leaving bruises. Gilan feared it was only his small weight that held the heavy shoulders up and stopped them from collapsing onto the floor. He clung to the sweat soaked shirt on his father's back and leant his chin on the shoulder, while he struggled with the enormity of the words forever and never and gone. The room was dead. The walls were rotten, the floorboards had decayed. Dead.

…..

The blade of a wooden sword was not sharp enough to bite into a tree trunk. It did give a satisfactory thwack and that would have to do. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Sweat trickled down Gilan's back. Thwack. His muscles bunched as he hit the trunk with all the strength in his body. Again and again. The sun burned down on him. Thwack. The creek gurgled. Thwack. The scribemaster's boys were helping to pile paperwork. Thwack. The baron's son was doing something- Gilan didn't know what, didn't care either. Thwack. Neilson was with his older brothers. Thwack. What would he do when the knights moved to Hackham Heath? When the war started? When his father was gone. Thwack, thwack, thwack.

A pincone hit the top of his head. Gilan paused. That farmboy again, he saw. The dirty one in the ragged clothes.

"Stop that," he said, because he really wasn't in the right frame of mind to have pinecones thrown at him. He couldn't bring himself to feel sympathy for the boy.

"You fancy nobles," the farmboy said. "All high and mighty. Lemme tell you. This is my country out here. You can go back to your castle. This is my country."

Gilan dodged the next pinecone. "Oh shut up!" he snapped. "I'm not even a real noble. My dad's a knight, that's all, he got there through hard work."

"My dad's a farmer. He got there through hard work. Doesn't mean I get shiny buttons or white shirts or silver buckles on my belt." The farmboy had to balance along the branch to find the next pinecone.

"I have every right to be here," Gilan said, suddenly annoyed. The pinecone flashed passed his face. It might have been frustration or grief or anger at the world, but the farmboy looked less of a boy now and more of a bully and Gilan lunged at the treetrunk. He was nimble and he climbed easily onto the branch the boy was on. The farmboy clutched the branch, eyes wide, apparently losing his willpower to antagonise.

Gilan glowered at him. Very deliberately, he plucked a pine cone and hurled it at the boy. It caught the side of his face and the farmboy toppled off the branch. A sick feeling rose in Gilan's stomach as, for a second, he thought he might have actually caused hurt. Below him, the farmboy got to his feet, clutching his arm. A few stray tears slipped down his cheeks.

"You-you-" the farmboy seemed at a loss for words. Gilan slipped down the trunk. No sooner than his feet touched the ground, a body hurtled at him and he was thrown onto his back. He was taller and bigger and stronger. He rolled them over. The farmboy hooked a punch into his ribcage that was surprisingly painful. A gust of breath escaped him. His fist bunched. He hesitated- he was at his best when he could hurt someone but he didn't. Yet what did that matter. His mother was gone. Gone. Forever. Never seen, never heard from again. Her smile, her breath against his ear, her soft hands: gone as if she never existed.

A hand on his collar pulled him off the farmboy. Gilan twisted around and saw the stern features of the local ranger. He swallowed hard. Under the hood, the ranger looked even more menacing close up.

"What is going on here?" the ranger asked, more of the trees it seemed, than of the boys themselves. Before either could formulate a response, he had regarded Gilan thoughtfully. "I know you. David's son. Condolences, boy, for your mother." Gilan lowered his gaze. The iron grip around his collar released him. "You," the ranger jerked a thumb at the farmboy. "Off with you. Go home. Get that arm seen to. And you, David's son- I'm heading towards the castle anyway; I'll drop you off."

Gilan was tempted to say indiganantly 'my name's Gilan, not David's-son' and equally tempted to run into the woods and not have to face his father. Maybe he could try that disappearing thing that rangers were so fond of. How hard could it be? As if reading his mind, the ranger dropped a hand on his shoulder and steered him towards the castle. It was a subdued, painful, awkward walk home. It was not often that Gilan lowered his head and stared sullenly at the ground without speaking a word.

When the familiar door to the family quarters came into view, he strode into his home and straight to his mother's bedroom. It wasn't sick anymore. It wasn't even dead. The door had been freshly painted white. The surfaces were dust free, the window was open and a chill breeze came in, fluttering the curtains. The ash in the fireplace had been cleaned. The tapestries on the walls were yellow and orange, bright autumn colours. It smelled of flowers and parchment.

Gilan trembled as he stood there. It was worse to have no sign of the illness- had there ever been a sign of it? It was as if she'd never been there, never existed, except that haunting covers on the bed that seemed to be lifted over a ghost body, while the pillow was creased by a ghost head. With shaking hands, he jerked open the bedside drawer. It was where she kept that book. The pretty one with the oil paintings of knights and damsels in distress and brightly coloured jongluers.

He sat down on the bed and laid it over his back. As he flicked through the pages, he found he could not believe it. Didn't the noble rescues ever go wrong? Did the princesses and the glittering knights ever have farm brats throw pinecones at them? That page, of the war, with his favourite knight on the rearing horse and the star daisies. It was wrong, all wrong. Gilan didn't want his dad to go away to the war. Not now, not ever again.

The hinges creaked. His father stood in the doorway. Gilan hunched his shoulders, waiting for the disappointment. It didn't come. The bed dipped as his father settled beside him. Warm hands gripped his shoulders. "Gilan. My son," David said, then he must have run out of words. He pulled the boy into his embrace.

Gilan pressed his face to the shirt. He felt rings of mailcoat under it. A foretelling of the war. The arms tightened around him as he trembled and sobbed. His father stroked his hair, his back; together they mourned, all the other had left. There was not a trace of sickness in the air; the breeze carried the scent of pine.