Ready
Even long afterward, when they've told each other more lies, broken more promises than there are grains of sand in the desert, Gisborne's memory of her on that day is as keen as good steel: cutting away what doesn't matter, laying the heart of things bare.
His dreams of her were among the casualties, of course; he's not sure he'll ever forgive her for that. But the reality of her is too bright and substantial; his dream-Marian, sweet and thorny as an Isfahan rose, faded fast. He'd looked at her that day, seen the certainty in her eyes, steady on the waiting rope, and knew he'd never really wanted anything before. "I am ready," she'd said.
Knew she'd never yield.
There are things he won't do for her. There are things she'll do to him that she'd never stoop to but for the war they fight, when they must, against each other. He'll break men for power, as Locksley will do for what he calls justice; but she, she'll do it for freedom: break even herself if there's no other choice.
"Make this place bearable," he'd said: this place, this world, my heart, my life; and she'd given him a child's kiss, a friend's glad embrace. But even now, long afterward, he doesn't think she misunderstood. They've cut each other deep; and if his stroke drew more blood, hers left a bit of herself, like a splinter of steel, in what passes for his soul.
At intervals that seem eternities, they reach each other across the gulf that separates her kind from his. When they meet, as they must do, there's always a moment when the air between them ignites with anger, or pain -- or sometimes, to his eternal surprise, laughter; and they both burn, he knows it, even when it's only words and not blows they're trading. He's learned to call it hope, that splinter in his heart.
For what, he's not sure. His dreams of her now are wilder, there's hell as well as heaven in her eyes, and he always wakes, sweating, as he takes her hand and kisses her mouth at last and tells her, "I am ready."
[End
December 17, 2007