Let me get one thing straight: I liked John Rolfe. I liked him a lot. More than John Smith, you could say (historically speaking, the real Pocahontas marries John Rolfe). But this is for all those people who are the other way around.
This fanfiction starts off at that tavern with the hooded John Smith, because man, I loved that bit.
Enjoy!
The tavern was full of lower-class men, grubby cloth hanging off sweaty bodies, singing boisterously as they swayed at their tables. Many lurched about drunkenly, waving tankards of frothy ale that spilled wastefully.
In the corner, sitting at a dark table that was not illuminated by a candle or lantern, was a hooded figure. Although he was completely covered by a thick grey travelling cloak, the delicate curve of his spine and the broadness of his shoulders indicated at a young man of good physique - something most unusual for the tavern.
The man did not touch the ale in front of him; his head was bowed, giving off an almost sullen vibe, and he did not seem to be aware of his surroundings.
"Poor old Rolfe," cackled one of the more drunken men, tripping over his own words. "Johnnie boy, poor Rolfey!"
"Ay, shut your gob, you blundering fool!" cried his friend, tipping his tankard over the first man's head. "You too drunk to - to -" he hiccoughed, and downed the last of his ale.
"What's poor Rolfey doin', making of with - hic - that - that - that-a - Honk? Poker? Poker honk!"
"Pocahontas, you fool!" said another.
The hooded figure looked up immediately, his body under his cloak tensing visibly.
"Poor both of 'em! Poke-hontas, locked up to be...ehh...off with 'er 'ead!"
The hooded man leapt to his feet, causing a hushed stir all through the tavern. The man ran to the door and kicked it open, sprinting outside and disappearing momentarily from sight. The next second he was flying past on a horse.
An unusually wealthy man stood up, unsure on whether to be stunned or enraged.
"S- stop! That's my horse!"
John Rolfe was pacing about the backyard of his house, idly spinning his sword in his hands as he despaired at Pocahontas's capture, when the hooded man appeared before him. Rolfe had excellent reflexes and managed to put his blade between himself and the attacker, but he was not fast enough to process what had happened. The hooded man, his head cool and level, batted the sword out of Rolfe's hands using his own. Rolfe watched it fall to the grass, where it barely made a sound.
"Who are you?" he demanded. He found that, although he was at sword point, he had a most unreasonable amount of courage. It must be because of Pocahontas, he thought dryly. Because there's nothing I can do for her. So I might as well be heroic elsewhere, and if I die…so be it.
One hand still pointing the sword at Rolfe's throat, the stranger reached up and pulled his hood down. Rolfe gasped; ruffled blonde hair fell about a well-defined face, fierce blue eyes boring into the other man's.
"J - John – but you're dead!" Rolfe said, and he found he was stuttering slightly. So much for being heroic.
"Legally," said John Smith, "I am." Although his voice was steady, John's face held so much sadness that Rolfe couldn't help but feel sorry for him. A little.
"I ought to get you arrested," he said, which didn't sound very impressive as he was the one with a sword less than an inch from his face.
"Funny," said John, who clearly felt the same. "But, you know, I ought to rescue Pocahontas. And I thought you could help."
Rolfe, quite forgetting his imminentdeath, took a step forwards in shock. John hastily lowered his sword lest he stab his potential partner in crime.
"You would do that? Really? ...With me?"
Yeah, yeah, thought John.
"But why would you…? Oh, wait…oh." His expression, which had lit up, fell once more. "You're the one Pocahontas loves, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am," John said testily. He realised he was becoming protective now, but he couldn't help but continue. "And what's that to you?"
He's such a boy, he thought. I can't believe this. I wonder if Pocahontas –
"Nothing you need to know about," replied Rolfe. The two men glared at each other for a moment, before John felt it prudent to hurry things along.
"She's going to be executed," he said in a helpful sort of way.
"What?" Rolfe seized the front of John's cloak, pulling him close. "Then what are we doing standing around here?! Tell me your plan!" He paused, regaining most of his composure. "I mean – you do have one, right?"
Looking mildly amused, John detached himself from Rolfe and sheathed his sword. "Better than any you could dream up in your lifetime."
"This? This is your plan?"
Rolfe rowed the small boat down the river, nodding to the guards watching them pass. They tilted their heads in return.
John didn't answer, his face hidden once more by his hood. His hands were chained together, and he rocked gently in time with the boat.
"Who's this?" A huge guard stood at the entrance to the prison, scrutinising the men in the boat.
"A prisoner," said Rolfe, although he rather felt like he was stating the obvious. "To be executed." He gave his best grin at this, and it must have looked nefarious enough because the guard returned one.
Soon, inexplicably, they were through. Rolfe found some shameful pleasure in shoving John before him down the twisting, stone-covered corridors. All he could think about was Pocahontas; how this man was her lover, had probably been kissed by her, had felt that exhilarating emotion -
Rolfe sucked in a breath in pain. He grabbed John's shoulder and glared at his back, trying to ignore the painful throbbing in his left foot.
Meanwhile, John was thinking bizarrely similar thoughts to Rolfe's, although he felt more satisfied after a stomp on the other man's boot.
"Calm it," he muttered. "Don't turn this thing real."
"What did you say?"
John froze, his heart growing leaden. Behind him, he heard Rolfe inhale sharply.
Stupid, John thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did you have to say that? Really, John?
The head guard stepped out of the shadows, burly arms crossed in front of a large chest. "I don't remember signing any papers for another prisoner."
"It was all last-minute," said Rolfe, his voice betraying nothing. "He murdered a man several hours ago, and I had been given the strictest orders to send him immediately to the dungeons to await his execution. By hindering me, you hinder the king's orders."
The guard seemed to waver, his face half-covered by the gloom.
"All right, then," he said at last, and John and Rolfe began to pass him with relief. The guard watched them go.
John tried to duck his head as he walked past, but it was abruptly held still by the guard's large hand. Wincing, John's head was forced up until he was staring right into the guard's eyes.
"John Smith," he said. "I thought so."