Title: Henna
Rating: K
Word count: 472
Characters/Pairings: Will, Djaq, Will/Djaq
Summary: In the Holy Land, Djaq introduces Will to something
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer:Robin Hood belongs to legend and this particular version to the Beeb. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
Earth, he thinks. Not dry and barren but a little moist, a little tender and with hopes of fertility. For a moment he thinks of the sombre, solemn patter of rain and soaked soil and a place with grey skies. He'd never miss them, he once swore on a cold, cold night at camp. A year of unforgiving sun and an endless ochre-coloured world has made him go back on his promise.
There is, however, that distinct something to the smell, he realises, and inhales deeper. He doesn't know what to call it (he's a craftsman after all, and has always been better with hands than with words) but he has never failed to recognise it. She had traces of that something on her when they first found her (boyish and foreign) in a rattling carriage. When they sat at campfires and ate slightly overcooked squirrel and she joined them, wearing the same coarse clothes that they did.
"I don't know", he says after a while, because his eyes have been closed for longer than comfortable and he is more than mildly curious. When she removes her hands from his eyes he is aware of something cool and sticky clinging to his skin. It feels like the wet mud he would have plastered on his face after he and Luke had indulged in one of their wilder games after the rain had fallen.
He looks at her, slightly befuddled. Her eyes twinkle with the happy knowledge of the mystery she is about to impart to him. The mystery (he now sees) that clings to her hands in the form of floral patterns which flow into delicate scrolls and swirls. In his mind, he sees them extend to become the smoke tendrils of burning incense. The fluttering strips of cloth hanging in doorframes.
"Hinna", she says, the 'h' of the word heavy and throaty. She picks up one end of her shawl and wipes the material from his face.
"It's for the celebration", she adds. At her words, the sounds of joyous preparation from the other quarters of the house seem to increase. "Come", she says and turns to guide him towards the place of merrymaking, but not before he has seen a playful smile light up her face.
He knows she has a miscievous bubble floating in her practical self, so whenever it bursts, he asks no questions, shows no surprise. He likes it far too much and instead patiently waits for her to reveal what she means by it.
When they enter the quarters and there is a cascade of female laughter directed at him, and when at his confused look he's handed a mirror, he sees the patterns of her hands on his face. He smiles. Wonders, for a fleeting moment, whether he too has become part of that something.