I find myself at a lull while writing Home Fires, so I dug this out of my computer and polished it up to post it.
I really wanted to write this scene—but I really have no idea what the post-betrayal interactions between the outlaws are like, seeing as I'm in America and haven't seen the second series past the ninth episode yet. So if it's a bit off, I apologize. I've had to improvise! (Hey, that rhymed.)
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's Robin Hood. Or the characters therein. Damn.
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The last time she'd been on a ship, she was a slave—property, owned by Christian men and being sent to England to work like an animal in the mines. She and the others had been crammed into every available space in the hold, like cargo, smelly and sweaty and packed and uncomfortable and breathing stale, hot air. Since then, she hadn't so much as thought about returning to a ship. Where would she go? There was no future for her in Acre, certainly; cutting off her hair and assuming the identity of a man, and living among men in a forest would make her an abomination in their eyes.
Her future, it seemed as she thought on it, was back in England. Or was it? She scratched her head in thought but couldn't come up with an answer.
The boat wasn't so bad, though, now that she was free to roam wherever she liked. The rocking motion was gentle and soothing, at least to her. Less so to John and Much, who had spent most of the day leaning over the rail and emptying their stomachs. Will was less bothered by it, though he was having a great deal of trouble walking without falling down. Robin was pretty well unfazed by it, as were she and Allan. In a few days, everybody would probably have found their sea-legs and the worst would be over.
It was long past sunset, now, and the only light anywhere was provided by two little lanterns on the ship's deck, and the moon and stars overhead casting a ghostly blue-white light on the ship. Djaq was the only other person on deck aside from the crew's night watch. Everybody else had turned in for the night, crowding into their small cramped quarters. She'd just been down to see her companions, all curled up around one another like a litter of kittens. All except for one: Allan a-Dale.
Even though they had tentatively accepted their former friend back into the group, they were obviously doing so with extreme reservations. They showed him the cold shoulder, ignored his usual jokes and pretended that they didn't hear him when he spoke—just generally made him feel entirely unwelcome, leaving no doubt in the former pickpocket's mind that they were prepared to kick him out again without a second's hesitation. And instead of trying to ease his way back into the gang, he kept a respectable distance. He probably didn't want to push his luck, she decided. He knew damn well how lucky he was that they hadn't all jumped on him with their weapons.
She and Will were the only ones who didn't show the young man outright hostility. Will simply kept his distance and stayed quiet, but she knew how sorry Allan was, and thought that even he deserved a second chance. He was a good man—she always thought that about him, even while he was living in the castle and dropping breadcrumbs for Gisbourne and the Sherriff. She knew he was only doing it to earn his keep, to save his own skin while he lived in the lion's den. He was well and truly sorry for what he'd done, and she believed him. How could these people call themselves followers of the Prophet Yeshuah—the one they called Christ—whose message was love and peace and forgiveness, when they refused to forgive their comrade?
The wary looks from the two men on watch made her edge towards the hatch and ladder that led into the belly of the ship, where her friends and the rest of the crew slept soundly. Down here, there was even less light—just one dim lantern in a corner, illuminating a dark figure set apart from the sleeping pile of outlaws.
Allan.
Djaq carefully picked her way around sleeping bodies and tied-down cargo and made her way over to him. He looked up as he heard her come closer, his sad eyes betraying his true feelings around the smile he wore like a mask.
"May I sit?" She asked quietly.
"If you want to—you sure you want to be seen with the traitor?"
Kneeling carefully and settling down on the floor, she shook her head. "Don't call yourself that."
"It's true though. I betrayed everybody—loyalty to the highest bidder," he growled bitterly. He nodded over to the shifting pile of bodies that marked their comrades. "Did they send you over here to make sure I wasn't gonna do nothin' stupid?"
"No. They are all asleep and cannot tell me anything. I am here because I want to be. Unless you would rather I left."
He said nothing, only looked at her with those piteously sad eyes.
They sat in quiet for a while, looking unblinkingly at one another in the yellowish light of the lantern; the only sounds were the creaking of the ship and the gentle snores of the people around them.
"Do you need a blanket?" She asked. "It will be difficult to sleep without other people for warmth."
"Nah—I'll be fine," he replied, flicking his hand.
"Are you certain?"
"Yeah."
Pause.
"Why're you bein' so nice to me? Aren't you gonna yell at me or make me feel like horse shit for what I did?"
"No," she said softly, reaching across the distance between them to rest a hand on his shoulder. "You are getting more than enough of that from the others. I think perhaps now, more than ever, you need friends."
He looked confused. "You're not angry?"
She shrugged. "I was—maybe I still am, a little bit."
"So then let me have it."
"What?"
"Just—let it all out. Yell at me, hit me, tell me you hate me. Go ahead. I deserve it."
"That is certainly true."
"So go ahead."
"I will do no such thing," she declared.
"Everybody else has."
"Then you have already had more than your share."
"Djaq…" he breathed raggedly. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but instead he drew his knees up to his chest and folded his arms across them, resting his forehead against them.
She moved the hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, rubbing it soothingly. He trembled under her touch, the effort it took to keep from breaking down and sobbing. She talked softly to him in Arabic, purring words of comfort over his head that he didn't understand but that calmed him immensely.
He reached behind himself and clutched her hand; his shook badly.
"You're so bloody wonderful," he murmured, his head still down and his voice muffled. "Why don't you hate me? How can you sit there and tell me you forgive me, when everybody else thinks I'm a monster?"
"You are not a monster," she insisted. "Now is not a time for hate and anger. It is a time for forgiveness. Will forgives you, too. He is just not sure if he can trust you again."
"He what?"
"He forgives you."
He looked up; his eyes were bloodshot, but the tears went no further. He'd always expected that Will would be the last person in the world to forgive him. He was the one who'd told him with a deadly calm face that he'd never be able to live with himself for doing what he did—for betraying his friends. And yet here was Djaq, telling him that Will didn't hate him.
"He told you that?"
She nodded.
"Then why—?"
"Because he does not know if he can trust you," she answered before he could finish the question. "He thought of you as a brother, and he believed you thought of him the same way. What you did wounded him. It was as if his own brother betrayed him."
"And he said he's forgiven me?"
"Yes, he has. As have I."
He squeezed her hand and laughed weakly. "God, the two of you. You're the two most good people I know. The two people who're most entitled to hate me and you don't. He doesn't hate me, and you don't hate me."
"But you want us to."
"Yes! I want you to hate me. You should hate me! You have every reason in the world to hate me!"
"I know."
"So why don't you? That you're sitting here and looking at me with those big eyes and telling me that you don't think less on me—that just makes me feel worse."
She pressed her free hand to his cheek and forced him to look at her. "I know."
No matter how much she still cared for this man, and regardless of that fact that she'd forgiven him for what he'd done to his friends, she still felt content to let him suffer by her—not by abusing him, or by beating him down like a dog like the others were doing. No, like a hermit feeling himself unworthy of anything but misery, Allan felt that he deserved every cruel gesture, every scathing look, every angry shove, and every ounce of disrespect he got from his former comrades. The cruellest thing anybody could do to him was to forgive him.
To be kind to him.
His big blue eyes went wide. Then he sighed enormously, shakily. Then he broke down, dissolved against her shoulder, his whole body racked with sobs. Surprised at first, Djaq slowly brought her arms up and around his shoulders and hugged him tightly; he wrapped his arms around her and gripped the back of her cloak in his quivering hands.
She just held him, let him cry. After a time, the sobs slowed and quieted and became shallow, hiccoughing breaths; the trembling subsided and he let go of the fistfuls of her coat. She gently stroked the back of his head until he fell silent.
He let her go, then, and leaned back against the wall, eyes closed and breathing evenly.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to…"
"It takes a big person to cry like that."
His lips curled up on one side in a half-smile. "Funny, I don't feel big."
Silence fell over them again; she nervously fiddled with the hem of her tunic as he stared at her with an unreadable expression on his face. She looked over her shoulder at the sleeping pile of outlaws. Will was the closest, and through the darkness she thought she could see him looking over at them. She might have some explaining to do if he saw them here.
"So," Allan piped up. "You and Will, then."
"Me and Will."
He'd watched, amused, as she and the shy young carpenter walked side-by-side along the docks before boarding the ship; then his mouth dropped open when he saw his friend take her hand. Such an obvious display of affection, from young Will Scarlett, was as forthright as if he'd stood on the rail and shouted his love for her to the entire city. He didn't know when it had happened, or how far they'd gone—all he knew was that Djaq was his, and that he had no choice but to gracefully bow out of the picture.
"I can't say I'm surprised. The best man won."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Will never told you, did he?"
The confused look on her face was an answer enough.
"I'm not bein' funny but… well, I like you, Djaq."
Pause.
"I mean, I really like you."
Pause.
"Say something, please."
"Will knew this?"
"Yeah. We sort of… said it at the same time."
"When?"
"Last year, when you were captured by the Sherriff."
She didn't press further. Of course Will would not have told her this—it was not his business. It was Allan's.
"So anyway, the best man won. Will's a good man, and I'm, well, not. Not that you'd've ever gone for me anyway, would you?"
Now he was fishing for compliments. "No, I do not think so."
"To be honest, I'm a little disappointed."
"You are a little boy, Allan a-Dale," she scolded. "And you like to misbehave."
He sighed and shook his head, a bitter smile on his face.
"I am sorry."
"Nothin' to be sorry for, Djaq. Not really up to us when and where love happens, is it? It just… happens."
"True."
She covered a huge yawn with her hand.
"You oughtta get to sleep. Go on into the heap—I'll be fine here on my own."
Nodding, she stood up and made her way to her comrades—to Will—nearby.
"Goodnight, Allan."
"'Night, Djaq. And… thank you."
o…o
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And that's all she wrote. Much of the interaction between Djaq and Allan comes almost verbatim from a conversation I had with a friend who had done some really stupid shit and was apologizing for it; he wanted me to be angry with him and all I did was say, "You're forgiven." My life is very much like a soap opera sometimes. And, ironically, my friend's name is Alan. He didn't burst into tears, though.
Reviews are much-loved, but not demanded.