This was written for a fic challange at the RH2006 board, but I figured I'd share it here as well. Enjoy.
Set between S2-1 and S2-5
Angst
"Too Much Ale?"
Clouds scuttled across the moon, blown by the same wind that whimpered and groaned through the trees of Sherwood Forest; it blew grit and leaves into the face of Allan A'Dale. Muttering in frustration, he rubbed at his eyes while continuing to hurry through the forest. He tripped on a root and nearly fell; the copious amount of ale he had consumed at The Trip Inn had not improved his balance in the least. Still grumbling under his breath, he trudged on, pulling his cloak about him.
In the course of the usual distribution of food and money through the villages, Allan had stopped off in Nottingham to help the townsfolk celebrate Hallowe'en with a tankard or two. The Trip was not popular with the castle guards, and the people all knew him, so he felt safe to relax there. Between talking with the patrons and listening to a very skilled story teller, he lost track time – and count of the tankards that had come into his hand full and left empty – so it was with surprise that he noticed that the sun had set. Taking his leave, Allan set out for Sherwood and the cunningly disguised camp.
The wind hit him with a chill blast, and he shivered. The moonlight slid in and out of the trees, creating strange and fantastic shapes of shadow and light. Allan slowed, watching out for errant roots and rocks that seemed to appear as if by magic in his path; he should probably had refused that last tankard or two to make the trip through Sherwood a bit easier, but he had never been one to pass up good beer, especially now that he had money to buy it with.
On nights such as this, the spirits of the dead roam the earth again, seeking peace, truth – or vengeance!
The story teller's voice echoed through his head, and Allan shivered again. He told himself firmly it was the wind that was making him cold. Yet, he began to think he saw shapes moving through the underbrush and through the trees: forms that looked vaguely human shaped.
The spirits try to complete their tasks here on earth, or try to impart some message to a loved one. And woe to any man or woman who does not heed the words of a spirit, especially on Hallowe'en!
"Too much ale," Allan told the story teller's voice in his head; the shapes in the trees shifted a bit closer, closing in on him as he walked. "That's all. Too much ale and too many shadows and Hallowe'en."
Allan's feelings of suspicion and fear of spirits and demons that haunted the earth had reached a peak and then faded away after the incident with the strange mask and the Saracen Prince. Any and all of the strange and frightening incidents had been simply explained away as over active imaginations and coincidences. At the time he had called out stories and lessons that had been taught to him as a child, based in a belief system he had never really practiced. Yet he had never really believed in ghosts or the like.
Loved ones, enemies – they all wander the earth on Hallowe'en, during the witching hour.
" 'T'aint midnight yet," Allan muttered. "I'll be at camp by midnight. So no need to worry about ghosts."
Loved ones, enemies . . .
Allan snorted. He had enough of the latter and very few of the former. The wind moaned through branches, ripping the brown and scarlet leaves from their precarious perches to tear through the moonlight and shadow shapes. The shapes continued to move, steadily advancing with the wind. Allan frowned; he had only a few loved ones but a lot of enemies, both in this world and departed from it. Perhaps it was something he should worry about that a bit more than he was.
The wind fell away suddenly, but the shapes still moved towards him. They flashed darkly, with the soft ringing sound of chain mail accompanying them. Slivers of moonlight turn into sword blades; shadows hid the faces beneath the helmets. With a sudden hiss like breath over teeth, they rushed forwards.
Enemies . . . seeking vengeance. . .
Eyes wild and heart racing in terror, Allan cursed and sprang away, darting between two guard-like forms; he felt like he had passed through a curtain of ice water. Two blades narrowly missed him, whistling like a cold wind. Tearing through the trees, Allan hoped to leave the specters behind but where they had been stumbling and rather incompetent in life, the guards were now organized and swift in their pursuit of him.
He drew his sword and slashed at a spirit charging him; he felt no shock of striking anything, but the ghost disappeared like smoke under the touch of the steel. Another guard pressed close, grazing his shoulder with its sword. Allan yelped in pain and fear as his entire arm went numb from the touch. His sword destroyed the ghost, but more and more were closing in around him and he could no longer see a clear path to run.
"Allan!" cried a voice, at once familiar and out of place. "This way!"
Instinctively, Allan turned towards the voice and slashed his way out of the circle of guards surrounding him. Once clear of the shadowy figures, he caught sight of a figure darting through the trees, who called again, "Come on, this way! Run!"
The sounds of a cold wind pursuing him, Allan galloped to catch up with the other man, who was becoming ever more familiar. Yet with mind reeling with panic and confusion, Allan didn't have time to carefully consider who the person was. The man slipped between down into a space between two boulders. Allan followed, hearing the wind roaring over the rocks, but not pausing to dive into the hollow; it seemed they were safe. Gasping for breath, he turned to the man beside him and his heart nearly stopped in shock.
Loved ones . . .
"Tom?"
His brother smirked. "Of course it's me. At least you didn't punch me in the nose this time." He paused and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Not that you could, now."
Allan was struggling to find the breath and frame of mind to form words. "You . . . here . . . how?"
Tom shrugged. "Hallowe'en. And I'm doing what I do best – stealing."
"Stealing what?" Allan's fear was giving way to curiosity.
"Your life," Tom said, and then quickly added as Allan's face went white, "Stealing it back from those ghouls. They would have had you. Hallowe'en's witching hour ain't something to toy with, you know."
"I know now," Allan muttered.
"It doesn't last long, either; I can't stay." Tom stood and clambered out of the hollow and Allan followed.
Once they were among the trees again, Tom said in an uncharacteristically serious tone, "Listen, brother, I gave you another chance. Just like you gave me another chance."
"More than one," Allan interrupted sourly.
"I know, and I wasted them. So . . ." Tom's form began to fade. "Don't waste yours."
A cold wind hissed through the trees again; Allan blinked away the wind driven grit in his eyes and when his sight had cleared, Tom was gone.
The spirits try to complete their tasks here on earth, or try to impart some message to a loved one.
Allan started back for camp, trying to shake off the chill he felt.
"It was the ale," he muttered. "The ale and that story teller. And there are no ghosts. And if there are, ghosts don't give their brothers advice."
As he neared camp, however, he slowed, guilt turning his stomach sour. He was a spy; if he was found out, he was done for. Was that what Tom had meant? Robin and the gang had given Allan several chances to live and change his ways, but Allan had betrayed the trust put in him. If he told the truth now, perhaps he could be given another chance to prove himself.
He shook his head. What was he thinking – he couldn't do that! He was mad for thinking it! He would make his own second chances in life.
He reached the camp doorway and staggered in. The gang had obviously been having their own Hallowe'en celebration with some of the wine and mead they had liberated from the Sheriff; Robin had managed to fell a boar and the remains of a roast pork feast sat by the fire. The gang turned in concert as Allan entered.
"Allan! Finally!" Robin said. "Here we thought you had been captured by Gisborne and sent to the dungeons!"
Allan paled at the words. Will frowned and handed him a mug of wine, asking, "What's the matter? It looks like you've seen a ghost!"
"No, it was just too much ale," Allan muttered and gulped down the wine.
Fin.