Will Scarlett: The Hands of a Carpenter
By Ebbtide
DISCLAIMER: Don't own. Don't sue.
Will Scarlett watched his father struggle with a small board of timber. In the years past, the elder Scarlett would've had little trouble maneuvering the wood to his workbench, but that was before. Regret hung heavily upon Will's heart, dragging him deeper into a depression that had been growing. Since Robin Hood's return to Loxley, things had indeed gotten better. His father no longer needed to work in order to feed himself and his younger son. This was little consolation for a carpenter, as Will well knew. It wasn't merely a job, it was an art. The elder Scarlett was an artist starved of his medium. The hands of a carpenter were the equivalent of a painter's brush. Without it there was no painting...no life, and it was his entire fault.
For a few more seconds Will hesitated, then he walked forward into his father's shop.
"Do you need some help, father?" He asked evenly.
The old man nodded. "Yes." His tone was relief without the expected bitterness.
"Over here."
Will followed his father's instructions and soon the board had been cut and fashioned into a useful bench. They stood together, shoulder touching shoulder, while they inspected the new piece of furniture.
"Lady Mira needed this for her daughter's wedding present. Thank you, Will." The old man clapped his one hand on his son's shoulder. "I don't know how I would've managed without your help."
Will gave his wrist stump a critical look. "You would have managed fine without me...without my trouble." It was hard to talk about it, even so vaguely.
The elder Scarlett shook his head. "You were not at fault for trying to bring food in for our table. You did what you could, Will. I am alive. For that I am thankful, as you should be." There was no anger or trace of betrayal. "The past is the past, son."
Will bowed his head, hiding the tears that brightened his eyes, but refused to fall. "You would still have two hands if it wasn't for me, father. How can I simply let that go? How can you?"
He had finally voiced the fear that plagued him day and night.
His father studied him for a few long moments before pulling him into a tight hug. "You're my son, my blood. Nothing can make me love you less. I would gladly have given my hand if it meant protecting you, Will."
Will let the tears fall then, knowing that it would be alright. "Thank you, father."
Years of hurt disappeared under the thatched roof that morning. Will left with his soul soaring and his heart healed once again by the man that had taught him everything. His father.
.THE END.