Fic: Returning to the Point Halfway (Robin Hood: Robin, John, Allan, Much, PG)
Title: Returning to the Point Halfway
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters: Robin, John, Allan, Much
Words: 1,094
Disclaimer: Never mine, I'm just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Home is a hard place to come back to.
John is called little, but there is little in him that regrets the life he has now. To be sure, behind closed eyes he sees nothing that could ever come close to home and child, to his good wife, her voice and caresses; a dozen lullabies for this rough and determined man who married her for love, as only the good men do. He sees them in his worst moments, in the blank stares of mercenaries sent to kill--but now, returning to the forest, he looks only at their leader, hooded and silent, and finds that his regrets are few and fading.
Robin stops walking. The trees, full of high, swaying boughs that reach far into the sky, cast thin shadows over his upturned face.
"They don't change," he says. "You notice that, lads?"
It is the first thing he has said for many hours. And it requires no answer; the idea is a shared one, and there are nods all around. Robin's eyes search each of them out, and after a time the shadows move away, so his expression is clear and whole beneath his hood.
It is Little John who leads them home.
~~
Allan once said if he were put to trial, he would lose it. A line of judicial power, of noblemen, caring nothing for Allan or Allan's injustices; men cloaked in scarlet and with an all-knowing eye; men, in other words, brought together to ponder his sorry state and declare his life tarnished forever. He escaped that time, but he would not like to face them today.
He follows behind the others, drawing his cloak tight in thin defense to the wind, which rustles through as if a welcome and stern reminder in one. It is familiar ground; if the King were to be transplanted from his desert battlement, Allan thinks, he would not find the war so different here. Wrong is wrong whether it is cast deep in foreign ground, or lost in scattered leaves and woodland. Allan has seen it from both sides. He knows only too well what guilt will do to a man weak enough to drink it in.
He senses that they are closing in on home. But mixed in with the relief, Allan finds himself wondering if Will's craftsmanship will still be there, deep under soil--or gone, buried as a tomb.
The last makes him shiver. He thinks instead of the blinding heat that only comes from a landscape made of sand and pitiless, scar-bright sky. He imagines being left there. And he thinks of her.
The two are intertwined with something Allan would otherwise call guilt; but he doesn't, he can't. All he feels is relief.
~~
Much is accustomed to silence. Ironic then, that he should so often be accused of breaking it. Perhaps he is accustomed to that, too.
He listens to Robin speak, taking comfort in the sound and the clarity of it. Words are easy. They always are.
"You'll feel better," Much offers quietly, watching Allan pull at his cloak, "once I have a fire going."
Allan only nods. He is aware, as Much is, of the trust between them striving and failing to take hold. Thin and brittle trust, frayed to its limits while Allan's self-preservation and denial fought against the betrayal that Much still carries, though he is trying, always trying, to put it right.
Robin has already forgiven, but Much cannot. Not yet.
He won't say anything, of course. Later, he will find kindling and rustle up some sort of meal, serve out meager portions with cheerful instructions to eat well, as there is always more. This is what Much does, generosity and spirit as important as each moment of silence, regret or finality, perhaps more so than any of them can understand.
~~
Halfway across the dark ocean, in the lull between forgetting one place and remembering another, Robin tells himself that he has nothing, nothing at all, to compare this to. No feeling has ever cut him so hard, or spurred so much grief in such a short time.
And it is the same here. He peers up at the trees, to the white sky beyond, clouds painted with a thick hue that tells of rain fast approaching. Inevitable rain, making the branches rattle in protest. He believes there is sand beneath his boots, but it is a thing of trickery, locked in his mind. Ignoring it is like ignoring the curve of sound that a sword makes through the air, whispering within the faintest apology--she is gone, she is gone. Impossible. He simply can't.
So Robin concentrates on walking, on the simple act of moving forward. But he feels heavy, watching the imprint of his boots through eyes half-open to the light; and it is a weight that has been with him for a long time, long before Acre, and long before his return to Sherwood with good spirits and Much by his side. If anything, Marian has merely hidden it; but oddly, now she is gone, he feels that each step closer to home is a little firmer, more sure and capable. The point halfway has shifted. He knows what he must do to put things right.
"That's the best idea I've heard today," Robin says to his old friend, and the blue eyes that look into his own shine a little, the simple pleasure in being thanked still there after all this time. "Home, a fire and food."
"And tomorrow..."
This is the Much that Robin loves best, the earnest pull of optimism so striking in its opposition to every complaint or heartfelt argument. Robin stops, his feet twisted in a pool of fallen leaves. He can hear the wheeze of John's breath, can see the apprehension in Allan's face, there for a moment, and then tossed aside in typical stubbornness. He listens, and his fingers tingle. This memory causes his words to catch; it is the feel of her hands, trembling weak, dry from the heat, and so light he can barely remember.
"Tomorrow we get up," he says. "We revisit the village stores, mend fences, and trick whichever fools have been misfortunate enough to guard Nottingham, into thinking there must surely be a dozen of us running ropes about their heels, instead of just four."
They are silent at first, but inevitably, it is Much who asks the question. "Are you sure?" And Robin closes his eyes, because this is the plan that hurts the most.
"I am. That's tomorrow. That is what we do."
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters: Robin, John, Allan, Much
Words: 1,094
Disclaimer: Never mine, I'm just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Home is a hard place to come back to.
John is called little, but there is little in him that regrets the life he has now. To be sure, behind closed eyes he sees nothing that could ever come close to home and child, to his good wife, her voice and caresses; a dozen lullabies for this rough and determined man who married her for love, as only the good men do. He sees them in his worst moments, in the blank stares of mercenaries sent to kill--but now, returning to the forest, he looks only at their leader, hooded and silent, and finds that his regrets are few and fading.
Robin stops walking. The trees, full of high, swaying boughs that reach far into the sky, cast thin shadows over his upturned face.
"They don't change," he says. "You notice that, lads?"
It is the first thing he has said for many hours. And it requires no answer; the idea is a shared one, and there are nods all around. Robin's eyes search each of them out, and after a time the shadows move away, so his expression is clear and whole beneath his hood.
It is Little John who leads them home.
~~
Allan once said if he were put to trial, he would lose it. A line of judicial power, of noblemen, caring nothing for Allan or Allan's injustices; men cloaked in scarlet and with an all-knowing eye; men, in other words, brought together to ponder his sorry state and declare his life tarnished forever. He escaped that time, but he would not like to face them today.
He follows behind the others, drawing his cloak tight in thin defense to the wind, which rustles through as if a welcome and stern reminder in one. It is familiar ground; if the King were to be transplanted from his desert battlement, Allan thinks, he would not find the war so different here. Wrong is wrong whether it is cast deep in foreign ground, or lost in scattered leaves and woodland. Allan has seen it from both sides. He knows only too well what guilt will do to a man weak enough to drink it in.
He senses that they are closing in on home. But mixed in with the relief, Allan finds himself wondering if Will's craftsmanship will still be there, deep under soil--or gone, buried as a tomb.
The last makes him shiver. He thinks instead of the blinding heat that only comes from a landscape made of sand and pitiless, scar-bright sky. He imagines being left there. And he thinks of her.
The two are intertwined with something Allan would otherwise call guilt; but he doesn't, he can't. All he feels is relief.
~~
Much is accustomed to silence. Ironic then, that he should so often be accused of breaking it. Perhaps he is accustomed to that, too.
He listens to Robin speak, taking comfort in the sound and the clarity of it. Words are easy. They always are.
"You'll feel better," Much offers quietly, watching Allan pull at his cloak, "once I have a fire going."
Allan only nods. He is aware, as Much is, of the trust between them striving and failing to take hold. Thin and brittle trust, frayed to its limits while Allan's self-preservation and denial fought against the betrayal that Much still carries, though he is trying, always trying, to put it right.
Robin has already forgiven, but Much cannot. Not yet.
He won't say anything, of course. Later, he will find kindling and rustle up some sort of meal, serve out meager portions with cheerful instructions to eat well, as there is always more. This is what Much does, generosity and spirit as important as each moment of silence, regret or finality, perhaps more so than any of them can understand.
~~
Halfway across the dark ocean, in the lull between forgetting one place and remembering another, Robin tells himself that he has nothing, nothing at all, to compare this to. No feeling has ever cut him so hard, or spurred so much grief in such a short time.
And it is the same here. He peers up at the trees, to the white sky beyond, clouds painted with a thick hue that tells of rain fast approaching. Inevitable rain, making the branches rattle in protest. He believes there is sand beneath his boots, but it is a thing of trickery, locked in his mind. Ignoring it is like ignoring the curve of sound that a sword makes through the air, whispering within the faintest apology--she is gone, she is gone. Impossible. He simply can't.
So Robin concentrates on walking, on the simple act of moving forward. But he feels heavy, watching the imprint of his boots through eyes half-open to the light; and it is a weight that has been with him for a long time, long before Acre, and long before his return to Sherwood with good spirits and Much by his side. If anything, Marian has merely hidden it; but oddly, now she is gone, he feels that each step closer to home is a little firmer, more sure and capable. The point halfway has shifted. He knows what he must do to put things right.
"That's the best idea I've heard today," Robin says to his old friend, and the blue eyes that look into his own shine a little, the simple pleasure in being thanked still there after all this time. "Home, a fire and food."
"And tomorrow..."
This is the Much that Robin loves best, the earnest pull of optimism so striking in its opposition to every complaint or heartfelt argument. Robin stops, his feet twisted in a pool of fallen leaves. He can hear the wheeze of John's breath, can see the apprehension in Allan's face, there for a moment, and then tossed aside in typical stubbornness. He listens, and his fingers tingle. This memory causes his words to catch; it is the feel of her hands, trembling weak, dry from the heat, and so light he can barely remember.
"Tomorrow we get up," he says. "We revisit the village stores, mend fences, and trick whichever fools have been misfortunate enough to guard Nottingham, into thinking there must surely be a dozen of us running ropes about their heels, instead of just four."
They are silent at first, but inevitably, it is Much who asks the question. "Are you sure?" And Robin closes his eyes, because this is the plan that hurts the most.
"I am. That's tomorrow. That is what we do."