Fic: The Justice of Fools (Robin Hood: Eve, Much/Eve, PG)
Title: The Justice of Fools
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters/ Pairing: Eve, Much /Eve
Words: 1,482
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: For 1.09 'A thing or two about loyalty' and 1.13 'A Clue: No'.
Summary: She watches the King return, but knows it is a lie.
Notes: I was intrigued by the character of Eve, and this is an attempt to try and understand her a little better. This also is my first Robin Hood fic, so any feedback is greatly appreciated.
--
Her mother would tell her that a man's heart is changeable. That taken from home it turns wild and unpredictable, bullish for loyalty and acceptance among those it clings to at war, or in the forest. She would say that waiting is a nightmare, and that memories turn sour like milk left in the sunlight, when a man is forced apart from his wife and children. Love has a way of bending what is most fragile. Hope for a man is as fervent as hope for a king, or country. And look what that has got them. Nothing. A great hope, and then nothing.
Eve, though she loves her mother and trusts her advice above all others, feels as if this is just one way of accepting the faults of a world caused not by man's love, but by his greed. It is unfair to label one as the other; for every man as hungry for machiavellian deeds as the Sheriff, or that hapless soul beneath his thumb, Gisborne--for every man like that, there is yet another handing out sacks of coin, or good pig's hock to the poor. It is this man who is the true soldier of the forest; he seeks no loyalty because in him it is a natural thing. His is the love that her mother means to speak of, but dares not. Eve knows this because one man--in every way opposite to those who would dare speak French and plot the savage downfall of a good King--one man alone gave her riches he should have kept for himself, and told her that when there was justice, and the world was right again, he would return for her. And she believes, now as she did then, that this is the sort of man that she and every woman like her should know, as only a woman can, to be unchangeable. As true as love itself.
So she waits. She watches the flurry of excitement as a man posing as Richard returns in a suit of armour to Nottingham and for one moment anticipation turns blindly, like a sickness, to rejoicing. She watches, but does not hope. It is too easy--too simple. Too good a thing to be anything but a ruse--and she is right. It forces a dull weight into her stomach, standing with the crush of villagers as this King, a false Knight in silver too new and untouched to have come from the Holy Land, rides through the gate and holds a hand up to accept the cheers of the people, and the knowing smile of the Sheriff.
Eve wishes that doubt, that mistrust, was not so easily taken; if it were bitter, like a medicinal draught, or herbs swallowed to cure a sick and fluttering tempest, then perhaps she would toss it aside. Sightless fancy is so much easier, she thinks; hope, simple and honest, is that much smoother on the tongue. But she has been inside those walls, has been seated, unmoving, while the Sheriff gripped cold hands to her shoulders and thanked her for stealing from a good and honest man.
Sweet Eve. Lovely Eve. Much is a fool. Go through the fool to get to the man who plays soldier for his Locksley, for the fool is as blind to Robin as Robin is to the King. The King will return, he'd said, lips to her ear as a finch rattled in a cage by the window, by the chair made to look like a throne. He will return and the people will cry praise for brave Richard. And she'd laughed and carried his words to Bonchurch, to the fool who was a hundred times braver than anyone she'd known in her life. Much, his Master's tags hidden like a lovers knot of twine under the dirty scarf around his neck; Much, who kissed her with the nervousness of a youth caught robbing apples, but whom she knew would never lie like the Sheriff.
Much, whose heart she would take with her when he had returned to the forest, and whose words she would later think of when told by her mother that she was her own fool, to wait for the gamble to run its course.
Maybe she is a fool. But let them proclaim a fool's promise to be lighter than air, as worthless as silver blackened in fire. It doesn't matter. This is a love that will make all things right in the world; it is a love she can believe, because it is far better than a noble King's return. It is truth.
Outside, there is breathless silence as they wait for the proclamation to be made behind closed doors. Soldiers watching them are like statues placed to honour a false war. She hears murmurs around her, and feels her mother's hand grip her own with a tightness that might give her pain, were she awake to it. And she spots hoods in the crowd, weaving through, past the soldiers. One turns; she sees a face and her heart leaps, but it is not him. But she thinks, perhaps, that he is here. Her senses are awake to the truth just as they are to lies, and she believes in her heart that her fool is nearby. If she closes her eyes, she can almost hear his voice.
That man is no King.
"By my soul, Eve, I cannot stand this waiting." Her mother's lips are pressed in a thin line, and she turns to look at her daughter. "What is to become of us?"
Her mother knows. They are alike; they see through the same eyes. "He is here," Eve says softly.
"Robin."
She hides her smile. "Yes. And Robin, too." But her mother doesn't hear that. Maybe she is glad for it.
Men will die today. Honest noblemen, whose only fault was failing to see a plot twisted around to bite their own in half. A false move; left for right, right for left, a knife in the throat for failing to fall into line where power stepped forth.
A cry goes up. They have been deceived. Eve is right, and she hates herself for it. The crowd surges, and now the solders glance at each other, confusion compounding the urge to keep order. But these are no savages--only peasants, farmers and families; women and children who remain with the real Richard in a land too far away to be of sense. Eve finds herself pushed to the edge; her hands find the great wall, cold and rough against her palms. She presses against it and her vision is blurred. Those are his tears in her eyes, as well as hers. Her mother, separated now, looks back and Eve nods, giving her what she hopes is a reassuring smile, but knows is false. The soldiers drive them back and out of the gate. Return to your villages; there is nothing to see here.
Eve wants to yell that they are wrong. Everything is here--it is only that the people are allowed nothing. It is only that good men are dying inside. It is only her greatest fear; that he may be among them.
--
Life returns, gradually, to what it was. The outlaws are returned to their forest. The Lady Marian has left Gisborne, and for all anyone knows, is with those outlaws, but the people can only speculate. They dare not criticise. She is too good a woman to have chosen wrongly.
Eve looks after her mother. The Sheriff, as if humiliation has made his quest for power even greater, installs some poor soul who knows only loyalty, to look after Bonchurch. She is half-glad that the place will not rot from neglect, but saddened that perhaps now, it is more closed off than ever. She turns to village life with a full heart, but thinks of it, and him, more than she'd like to admit. Maybe it is better like this. Maybe justice is, after all, too far away; is fighting and, as long as things stay as they are, will be fighting long after her life has ended.
She sometimes sees them, like shadows, at the far reaches of the forest. Robin, though he is swifter than any of his men, is easiest to spot; but Eve thinks that is only because he wants to be seen. But he is the only one.
Once, she returns to her door to find a rose pinned to it, the broken-off head of an arrow piercing the thick yellow petal, and underneath it, a note:
To my Eve,
Justice did not come. But keep looking to the forest; for one day, it will return.
-- M.
She holds the paper to her lips. Hope for a man, as fervent as for a king. But Eve believes in fools, not kings.
In that world, she is happy.
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters/ Pairing: Eve, Much /Eve
Words: 1,482
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: For 1.09 'A thing or two about loyalty' and 1.13 'A Clue: No'.
Summary: She watches the King return, but knows it is a lie.
Notes: I was intrigued by the character of Eve, and this is an attempt to try and understand her a little better. This also is my first Robin Hood fic, so any feedback is greatly appreciated.
--
Her mother would tell her that a man's heart is changeable. That taken from home it turns wild and unpredictable, bullish for loyalty and acceptance among those it clings to at war, or in the forest. She would say that waiting is a nightmare, and that memories turn sour like milk left in the sunlight, when a man is forced apart from his wife and children. Love has a way of bending what is most fragile. Hope for a man is as fervent as hope for a king, or country. And look what that has got them. Nothing. A great hope, and then nothing.
Eve, though she loves her mother and trusts her advice above all others, feels as if this is just one way of accepting the faults of a world caused not by man's love, but by his greed. It is unfair to label one as the other; for every man as hungry for machiavellian deeds as the Sheriff, or that hapless soul beneath his thumb, Gisborne--for every man like that, there is yet another handing out sacks of coin, or good pig's hock to the poor. It is this man who is the true soldier of the forest; he seeks no loyalty because in him it is a natural thing. His is the love that her mother means to speak of, but dares not. Eve knows this because one man--in every way opposite to those who would dare speak French and plot the savage downfall of a good King--one man alone gave her riches he should have kept for himself, and told her that when there was justice, and the world was right again, he would return for her. And she believes, now as she did then, that this is the sort of man that she and every woman like her should know, as only a woman can, to be unchangeable. As true as love itself.
So she waits. She watches the flurry of excitement as a man posing as Richard returns in a suit of armour to Nottingham and for one moment anticipation turns blindly, like a sickness, to rejoicing. She watches, but does not hope. It is too easy--too simple. Too good a thing to be anything but a ruse--and she is right. It forces a dull weight into her stomach, standing with the crush of villagers as this King, a false Knight in silver too new and untouched to have come from the Holy Land, rides through the gate and holds a hand up to accept the cheers of the people, and the knowing smile of the Sheriff.
Eve wishes that doubt, that mistrust, was not so easily taken; if it were bitter, like a medicinal draught, or herbs swallowed to cure a sick and fluttering tempest, then perhaps she would toss it aside. Sightless fancy is so much easier, she thinks; hope, simple and honest, is that much smoother on the tongue. But she has been inside those walls, has been seated, unmoving, while the Sheriff gripped cold hands to her shoulders and thanked her for stealing from a good and honest man.
Sweet Eve. Lovely Eve. Much is a fool. Go through the fool to get to the man who plays soldier for his Locksley, for the fool is as blind to Robin as Robin is to the King. The King will return, he'd said, lips to her ear as a finch rattled in a cage by the window, by the chair made to look like a throne. He will return and the people will cry praise for brave Richard. And she'd laughed and carried his words to Bonchurch, to the fool who was a hundred times braver than anyone she'd known in her life. Much, his Master's tags hidden like a lovers knot of twine under the dirty scarf around his neck; Much, who kissed her with the nervousness of a youth caught robbing apples, but whom she knew would never lie like the Sheriff.
Much, whose heart she would take with her when he had returned to the forest, and whose words she would later think of when told by her mother that she was her own fool, to wait for the gamble to run its course.
Maybe she is a fool. But let them proclaim a fool's promise to be lighter than air, as worthless as silver blackened in fire. It doesn't matter. This is a love that will make all things right in the world; it is a love she can believe, because it is far better than a noble King's return. It is truth.
Outside, there is breathless silence as they wait for the proclamation to be made behind closed doors. Soldiers watching them are like statues placed to honour a false war. She hears murmurs around her, and feels her mother's hand grip her own with a tightness that might give her pain, were she awake to it. And she spots hoods in the crowd, weaving through, past the soldiers. One turns; she sees a face and her heart leaps, but it is not him. But she thinks, perhaps, that he is here. Her senses are awake to the truth just as they are to lies, and she believes in her heart that her fool is nearby. If she closes her eyes, she can almost hear his voice.
That man is no King.
"By my soul, Eve, I cannot stand this waiting." Her mother's lips are pressed in a thin line, and she turns to look at her daughter. "What is to become of us?"
Her mother knows. They are alike; they see through the same eyes. "He is here," Eve says softly.
"Robin."
She hides her smile. "Yes. And Robin, too." But her mother doesn't hear that. Maybe she is glad for it.
Men will die today. Honest noblemen, whose only fault was failing to see a plot twisted around to bite their own in half. A false move; left for right, right for left, a knife in the throat for failing to fall into line where power stepped forth.
A cry goes up. They have been deceived. Eve is right, and she hates herself for it. The crowd surges, and now the solders glance at each other, confusion compounding the urge to keep order. But these are no savages--only peasants, farmers and families; women and children who remain with the real Richard in a land too far away to be of sense. Eve finds herself pushed to the edge; her hands find the great wall, cold and rough against her palms. She presses against it and her vision is blurred. Those are his tears in her eyes, as well as hers. Her mother, separated now, looks back and Eve nods, giving her what she hopes is a reassuring smile, but knows is false. The soldiers drive them back and out of the gate. Return to your villages; there is nothing to see here.
Eve wants to yell that they are wrong. Everything is here--it is only that the people are allowed nothing. It is only that good men are dying inside. It is only her greatest fear; that he may be among them.
--
Life returns, gradually, to what it was. The outlaws are returned to their forest. The Lady Marian has left Gisborne, and for all anyone knows, is with those outlaws, but the people can only speculate. They dare not criticise. She is too good a woman to have chosen wrongly.
Eve looks after her mother. The Sheriff, as if humiliation has made his quest for power even greater, installs some poor soul who knows only loyalty, to look after Bonchurch. She is half-glad that the place will not rot from neglect, but saddened that perhaps now, it is more closed off than ever. She turns to village life with a full heart, but thinks of it, and him, more than she'd like to admit. Maybe it is better like this. Maybe justice is, after all, too far away; is fighting and, as long as things stay as they are, will be fighting long after her life has ended.
She sometimes sees them, like shadows, at the far reaches of the forest. Robin, though he is swifter than any of his men, is easiest to spot; but Eve thinks that is only because he wants to be seen. But he is the only one.
Once, she returns to her door to find a rose pinned to it, the broken-off head of an arrow piercing the thick yellow petal, and underneath it, a note:
To my Eve,
Justice did not come. But keep looking to the forest; for one day, it will return.
-- M.
She holds the paper to her lips. Hope for a man, as fervent as for a king. But Eve believes in fools, not kings.
In that world, she is happy.