Fighting brings no fear. Eating, no enjoyment. Sleeping, no rest.
He needs to feel.
Needs to feel the intimate touch of a warm hand, even if it's only his own. Needs to feel the subtle glow of physical pleasure that is his only reminder that he's not dead. Needs to feel the pulse under his fingers that tells him his heart does still beat and has not yet fully turned to stone.
Only this, a lonely mockery of an act that should be shared with another, only this brings any warmth to the winter that surrounds him. Even then it is a warmth that rapidly cools and congeals on his hands; seed scattered in the depths of dark nights and the mists of murky mornings with no hope of anything to blossom in the spring except the renewed pain of another season without her.
He cries every time and if anything, it is the shame of his tears more than the act itself that drives him from the camp to seek somewhere he will not be disturbed or discovered. One warm liquid spilled onto frost-covered leaves can be explained in terms of base urges, the other speaks of emotions long denied and he would admit to needing the release of the former a hundred times before the latter.
He can go for weeks without the need overwhelming him but the nights when his friends relax into each others arms are always followed by the urge to quietly crawl from the camp in the early light like an animal unwilling to foul its own lair. Each whispered word, each muffled moan and murmur twists in his heart and it seems unfair beyond measure that every one of them has at least one other pair of hands to trace the patterns of pleasure upon their shining, shuddering skin while the larger expanse of his own lies as empty as the barren, bracken-covered hillsides.
His friend's bodies are younger, smaller, fertile fields where lovers kisses are regularly planted to yield bright crops of intimacy and laughter. His is an older, wider wilderness without warmth. On nights like these he hates them all and hates himself more for hating them. They will never hear from him how much pain their passion causes him. It would be like blaming the sun for burning your skin when others only take joy in its heat and light.
Tonight of all nights he prays for his friends to sleep and enjoy only the warmth of shared beds and not shared souls. Tonight, too many years ago, he took her for the first time as his wife; for the first and only time anyone would ever know the simultaneous joy and pain of turning her from maiden to woman. He swore to her then he would never forget the yearly remembrance of the day their lives were linked and he never has, even though he knows she now has other days to remember with a present partner and to her this day will be just one more day like many others in her new life without him.
He listens for the gentle breathing which signifies sleep and when instead the ragged gasps come not only from the noble and his subservient shadow but also from the larger twining of healer, handyman and hustler he curses their caresses and shuts his ears to the soft sliding of skin.
The need builds in him like a stoked fire; a breathing, pulsing creature more alive than he is. He rolls over and turns to the darkness, the burning within him flushing his face. The part of him that is most and least his swells with the same pulse that pounds in his ears; the need that feeds it screaming at him to be set free. He curls his fingers tightly into his palms and is grateful for his short, broken fingernails, that they do not draw blood.
He needs to feel alive but in the absence of life, he will settle for pain.
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Djaq loves these bitter nights, when the cold snaps at exposed flesh like hounds at a hart's heels and movement is a slow, soft, delicate dance so the heat does not escape. They lie pressed close together in the darkness under their covers, evading the sharp teeth of the winter wind like children hiding from a monster.
Will and Allan grumble in their sleep as she slips from beneath the blankets and the gap between them rapidly closes as they subconsciously seek each others warmth in her absence. She could easily have stayed thirsty until the morning but she knows the headache that will give her.
There is a thin crust of ice crystals newly formed over the water and the liquid itself is so cold it is like swallowing shards of glass. Djaq gasps for breath and clutches her coat more tightly around her shoulders. She takes another long draught then shivers, her entire body rippling from the chilling effect of the water.
Her head turns to look around the fire. Low, masculine mutterings come from the pile of clothes farthest from the cave entrance. Much's protestations that they are being too noisy as usual being the only distinct noise the others can determine. If he did not complain that they might notice, they rarely would.
A soft smile lights her face. Robin can be breathtakingly unfeeling towards his former manservant on occasion but she hears enough of Much's voice in the finales to their furtive fumbling to know that in one respect at least Robin can also be generous. She knows Much needs to be loved as much as Robin does, but in small, personal doses, not the mass adoration his Master craves. She also knows, as she is certain Robin does not, that Robin needs to spend this time being generous as much for the sake of his own soul as his fellow Crusader's.
Her smile broadens as she turns to look back at the two men she has just left. The dark and fair hair tangling together in the firelight, worldly-wise blue and stripling hazel eyes hidden in sleep, two halves of a puzzle she will happily spend a lifetime trying to unravel. She does not know where her place lies in that mixture but she is happy just to know that it does and for once, leave the reasoning to others. In every other aspect of her life she feels the need to know, to understand. In this one she only feels the need to be. If understanding comes it will be welcomed but not necessary.
Her smile vanishes as her gaze flicks across the other, smallest bundle of blankets nearest the door. Awake he is the largest of them all, asleep a sad solitary shape, guarding them all and sharing his warmth only with himself. She knows there is as much warmth in John's heart as there is in his large body but he shares that even less readily, particularly with the other men. Only with Marian and herself does he more frequently soften, giving a glimpse of the husband he once was, a man comfortable with a woman's company and able to see her view, if not always to understand it.
It is the sound of his breathing that makes her frown - halting and hesitant, not the measured rhythm of sleep that it should be. Perhaps he is only dreaming and if so it will be best to leave him but chills are easily caught at this time of year and he is also recently wounded, an arrow slicing the same arm he later slipped beneath Marian as he lifted her like a child into her bed.
She slowly approaches and leans over him then recoils slightly in shock as she feels almost physically struck by the pain in his face.
John is lying on his side facing away from the fire, his hand clutching his shoulder so tightly his fingers are white. Silent tears trickle down over the bridge of his nose to pool against his cheek and his large shoulders rise and fall like a smith's bellows as he draws in great slow breaths in an effort to make no sound.
Djaq seizes his hand and his eyes suddenly fly open, startled by her touch.
"John? Is your arm troubling you?"
"Djaq! My arm? No, no, it's fine. I'm fine."
"Are you in pain?"
He does not instantly reply and his eventual quiet answer surprises her. "Yes. But it's nothing you have a cure for in your box of herbs Djaq, so leave me be."
"Tell me, John, please... Sometimes talking can be a cure also."
John closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh. "Today's the day Alice and I were married. We always celebrated it every year. I would make her something and she would cook me one of my favourite meals and we would..." He lets out another long, shuddering breath. "Please, Djaq, leave me be."
Djaq looks back guiltily towards the two shared spots around the fire.
"You can hear us, can't you? Will, Allan and I... and Much and Robin - you hear our lovemaking and it reminds you of yours."
"It's... hard not to grudge you your happiness sometimes. I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to apologise for, John. We have been very selfish in forgetting your feelings. We force you to lie and listen to our love while you miss yours, like sharing a feast in front of a starving man."
She brushes his hair away from his face. "Will you at least let me share my warmth with you? Will and Allan are so wrapped up I will wake them both if I try to get under those blankets again..."
"That... wouldn't be a good idea, Djaq."
"You think my snoring will keep you awake?" she teases him and her hands suddenly dart under his blanket, trying to persuade him to roll back towards the fire.
"Djaq, no!" He grabs her wrist with more force than he means to and she gasps with pain, making him instantly release his grip. "Sorry. I'm sorry, Djaq. You just surprised me." He looks away, obviously disgusted with himself, then gets slowly to his feet and moves silently out of the cave.
She follows after him but he stops a little way from the cave entrance, his breath curling out in large clouds under the moonlight. "Go back inside, Djaq... Please."
"John, I want to help..."
"There's nothing you can do and you of all people shouldn't try."
She hates to be told that, told there is something she cannot do with no reason given, as if she is a child. "What does that mean?" She runs to stand in front of him, challenging him as he stands with his head bowed.
"Djaq... I'm going to put this as plainly as I know how and then we will never speak of it again..." He puts his hands gently on her shoulders. "You are the bravest, strongest and fiercest woman I have ever met..." He moves swiftly and pins her against a tree with one massive forearm across her chest and his long legs either side of hers. She is so stunned she freezes and does not react. "But you are also small and... beautiful..." He gently caresses her face with his free hand then presses hard against her. She is suddenly and terrifyingly aware of him - his size, his smell, his hot breath... his need. She can feel it between them and see it burning in his eyes, barely contained behind the John she knows.
When he speaks, she can hear the struggle in his voice. "I'm very fond of you, Djaq. Go back to Will and Allan and make them tell you how precious you are. Let them hold you. I can't have what you and the others have and I... I'm afraid my need will make me take it from you."
"You would never do that, John." Her voice sounds weak, vulnerable and pathetically female to her ears.
"I hope not, but it's not something I will ever take a risk on, for all our sakes." He kisses her forehead and steps back then turns and runs into the forest. By the time she remembers how to breathe, he has vanished into the trees.
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"Djaq! Your feet are freezin'!" Allan swears quietly as she nudges her way in beside him.
"You were gone a long time - is anything wrong?" Will asks.
She pauses. "Tell me I am precious."
"What?"
"Just tell me."
"You're very precious to both of us, Djaq," he softly says. "We both love you very much. Now, what's wrong?"
"I will tell you tomorrow," she says, curling into his chest, pulling Allan's arm over them both and knowing she will not.
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He runs until he can barely breathe, the need screaming at him with every step. When he finally falls to his knees and sets it free, he does so with a long, lonely, painful cry of rage and loss.
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"What was that? Some kind of animal?" Will's head jerks up sleepily at the distant sound.
"Yes, but go back to sleep, my love - John is protecting us all from it." She kisses his cheek as he lies down again and slips back into his dreams. Her own eyes will not close until she hears the soft sounds of a solitary sentry returning to his post by the door...