FIC: A Life Less Ordinary (Chapter 6)
Title: A Life Less Ordinary
Fandom: Robin Hood
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Outlaws, Marian, Carter, Guy, Sheriff.
Setting: Post-season 2
Spoilers: 2.13
Summary: They’d saved the King, but had they saved England? An alternate season 3 fic.
Disclaimer: The title comes from the Danny Boyle film, the rest belongs to the BBC
Prologue I Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4I Chapter 5
Chapter 6: Said the Joker to the Thief
Allan-a-Dale gave a heavy sign as he threaded a silver coin through his fingers, watching the firelight reflected in the metal as it spun. The camp was quiet, as usual. Stew bubbled in the pot over the fire, tended to diligently by Much. Little John sat opposite, reading softly to himself a letter from his son, sounding out the words one at a time. Djaq had taught him to read during their journey to the Holy Land, and Allan felt slightly pained by the memory.
Robin was off again. He’d left with the mumbled excuse of taking a walk, but he’d had his sack with him, and they all knew what he was up to. But they pretended not to notice, for Robin’s sake as much as their own. Allan had to admit that it heartened him to hear the villagers still talk of the Nightwatchman. Almost as if a part of Marian was alive, somehow.
“Alright, stew’s ready,” Much announced, and poured a bowl each for Allan and John.
“You not having any?” Allan asked as he reached for his portion, noting that Much hadn’t taken a bowl for himself.
“No,” Much said quietly as he moved away from the fire and began packing a sack of his own. “I’ll eat some later.”
But Allan wasn’t to be mollified. “Where you going then?” he asked almost indignantly.
Much sighed heavily. “I don’t need to inform you of everything I do, Allan.”
“Just curious.” Allan shrugged. “You off to find Robin? Cause I don’t think-”
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do either,” Much responded petulantly. He drew the string on his back tightly and threw it onto his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
“When?”
“When I’m back.” And he stalked out of the camp without so much as another glance back.
Allan shook his head in confusion. “What’s up his shirt?” he asked no one in particular.
John, however, looked up from his stew to give him a stern look. “Why don’t you just leave him alone.”
“Do you know what he’s up to?” Allan almost accused him. He didn’t like being out of the loop.
“No,” John answered calmly.
“And you don’t care?”
John finished his stew and put the bowl down. “Of course I care,” he said gruffly. “But maybe Much needs something separate from this gang. If so, I care enough to respect his privacy.”
Allan slumped back against his bunk. And what do I have? He thought morosely. Robin has his grief and his cause, Little John had thoughts of his family, and now Much seemed to have something else to keep him going. But he tried to cast out the lonely thoughts. He had to keep himself occupied.
“How is little Little John then?” he inquired, changing the subject.
John smiled thinly. “He and his mother are both well. Luke provides a good home for them.”
Allan inwardly cringed. It probably wasn’t helpful of him to remind John that his wife and son were being cared for by another man, even if he knew it was for the best. Allan knew exactly how he felt. Too often his thoughts lingered on Will and Djaq in the Holy Land, wondering how they were, whether they were happy. Whether they missed him as much as he missed them.
“So do you think Robin has a plan?” Allan changed the subject again. “I mean, we can’t sit here forever, picking off the odd traveller as they come through the forest.”
“The Sheriff and Gisborne have been quiet lately,” John added. “They’re up to something.”
“But we’ve exhausted all our contacts in town and the villages,” Allan replied, putting down his bowl of stew and running a hand through his hair in exasperation.
“Something will turn up,” John assured him, and picked up his letter again. “Have faith.”
Allan clucked his tongue and went back to flipping his coin. In truth, he was bored. There had to be a more active way of taking down the Sheriff. He just had to think of it.
*****************
The King’s Company left the Holy Land almost as soon as the treaty with Saladin had been signed. Marian, Djaq and Will were not travelling with the main procession, of course. They were afforded the protection of the caravan, yes, but Richard had suggested they would be safer travelling separately from his party. Djaq wasn’t sure if that meant safety from raiders or from his own soldiers who wouldn’t like the idea of their king travelling with a Saracen women. It didn’t really bother her either way - she felt more comfortable simply to be with Marian and Will. Carter had for the moment abandoned the King’s party, so he could travel with them as well. It was only the stray Marian had picked up - the Hospitaller Tuck - that Djaq felt uneasy around.
But she was glad to be going back to England, despite the hole in her heart that leaving her homeland once again caused. She knew she had made the right decision. She couldn’t wait to see Allan, Robin, Much and John again. If she was honest with herself, she missed her boys. They needed her.
And yet it had pained her to say good bye to Bassam.
“Allah forgive me,” he’d said to her as she was preparing to leave. “Your Uncle would never have allowed you to leave again.”
“But you know better, Bassam,” she told him. “You know I would not have listened to him either.”
“You are so strong Saffiya.” He cupped her cheeks with affection. “You have survived where many others have not. I pray that Allah continues to smile upon you.”
“As do I.” Djaq had placed her hand over his. “And this is something I have to do.”
“I would not try and stop you.” Tears welled in Bassam’s eyes. “I know that I could not. But please remember who you are, Saffiya, remember your people, and your culture. Remember us.”
“I could never forget,” she promised, and embraced him tightly.
Will approached, interrupting her thoughts and resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked her. There was a note of fear in his voice, as if he was worried she was regretting her decision.
“I’m just thinking of what Bassam said,” she told him. “About forgetting who I am.” She turned to him slightly, and his hand slipped from her shoulder to the small of her back. “I always thought that taking my brother’s name - becoming Djaq - was something I did to survive - that I could always go back to being Saffiya. That she was who I truly was.” She looked down at her hands, the skin rough, the fingertips calloused from treating others, from grinding herbs and remedies, from harsh living in the forest. “But now I know that Saffiya died when my brother did. she was just some remnant, some ghost I was trying to breathe life back into.” She looked up at Will and smiled. “This is where I belong. In the fight. Where I can be of some use to the greater good.”
“Djaq...” Will pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “I love you. I know who you are.”
She lent her head against Will’s shoulder. “I know.”
******
The company was finally camped for the night, and Marian was thankful for the rest. She would not admit it to anyone, but the long weeks travelling by ship and on horseback had irritated her side. The wound had for the most part healed, but Djaq had warned her that the internal damage may always give her trouble. So she was relieved to be able to sit down, alone by the fire. She removed her weapons; an English longbow and quiver, and her own brand-new curved Saracen-style sword which Amineh had presented it to her before she had left.
The steel glittered in the sun, and Marian ran her fingers down the blunt edge, and grasped the handle edged with precious stones.
“Made by the finest swordsman in Acre,” Amineh told her with a smile. “I remembered a while ago he spoke of an English soldier - a young Captain, one of Richard’s own men - who had saved his life when there had been a raid on his home. The other Crusaders had become violent, intent on pillaging the town, but the Captain stopped them, and sent them back to their camps in disgrace. In gratitude the swordsman gifted him a weapon.”
Marian swiped the sword through the air to test it. It was lighter than she was used to, but perfectly balanced in her hand, as if it had been made especially for her.
“I asked the swordsman not to recreate the sword he had made for the Englishman,” Amineh continued, “but its complement.”
Marian was touched, and sheathed the sword away in her belt. Her eyes were downcast. “I don’t know how to thank you for all your kindness.” She didn’t know how she would have coped with her long illness, with the waiting and her loneliness, had it not been for Amineh’s even temperament and gentle manner.
Amineh took her by the shoulders and tipped her chin, so she looked her directly in the eyes. “Just remember that you have been saved for a reason, Marian. You must not be afraid of your destiny, whatever that may be. Allah be with you.”
Marian didn’t believe in destiny - and she still didn’t think her survival was thanks to anything other than luck, but she intended to take Amineh’s advice. She was alive, and she planned to make the most of it. She had almost died before - in that awful cave in Sherwood, and at that moment she had promised herself to change her life, to live up to the expectations she placed on herself. To not be held back by anything or anyone. But she had made all the same mistakes. She had grown careless in her manner - she had let her love for Robin prevent her from thinking clearly - she had let her feelings for Guy go unchecked and encouraged him even further. She had let the death of her father effect her too deeply, or not enough, depending on how you looked at it. She had been brash and impulsive when she should have been thoughtful and cunning, and she had been manipulative and calculating when she should have been compassionate. But no more.
She was Marian Fitzwalter. She was not the daughter of Edward, the former Sheriff. She was not the ward of the court. She was not the wife of Robin Hood and the Countess of Huntingdon. She was not even the Nightwatchman.
She was Marian - and that was who she intended to stay. For better or worse.
A figure appeared from the shadows and interrupted her reverie with soft footsteps and a clearly agitated manner.
“What it is, Carter?” she asked, folding her arms defensively. He had been on edge ever since they had left the Holy Land, obviously eager to get her along to discuss whatever grievance he seemed to have.
“Are you well, Marian?” he asked, and she saw his eyes dart down to her side. Marian fought the urge to place her hand there and cover the area protectively. She was beyond such insecurities.
She sighed heavily. “As well as I have to be.”
Carter bristled at her sharp tone, and almost looked as if he was going to lecture her, or argue with her, but he didn’t do either. “I simply fear that the...addition to our party may have put you on edge.”
Marian raised one eyebrow at him. “You were the one who vouched for Tuck,” she reminded him.
“You asked me whether Tuck was an honourable man,” he spluttered. “I had no idea you would invite him to join us.”
“He is a man of God,” Marian said evenly. “I am certain he only wants to help.”
Carter gave her a sad look. “The people who began this war were also men of God,” he said wistfully. “I have no doubt Tuck has only good intentions, but he believes he is bound to a higher power and not to this earth. Such men can be dangerous.”
Marian mulled this over. It was true, Tuck did seem to see her as some kind of miracle incarnate, which made her slightly uneasy. But she had no doubt he was a loyal soldier, and would protect her. Besides, they could use a man like him when they returned to England. He could be a great asset to their cause. It was a gut instinct, one which Marian intended to follow.
“We will be back in England soon,” Marian told him. “We will have enough to worry about then, so we should enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts.”
Carter bowed his head, still obviously disagreeing with her, but deciding to suffer in silence. Marian was thankful to retire, taking her own advice and deciding to enjoy the fact that compared to life in the forest, travelling posed no great dangers.
However she awoke to find out just how wrong she had been, and that the peace and quiet had not in fact lasted the night. Will burst into her tent, too wound up to be embarrassed or even notice that she wore only her thin gown for sleeping.
“It’s the King,” he panted, eyes wide and full of fear. “He’s gone missing.”