Guy woke with a start. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
It was still dark, for one thing.
Slowly the events of earlier that night came back to him, and he closed his eyes with an inward groan, wishing the memories away. It must surely have just been a dream, hadn't it? After all, Vaisey was dead- Guy had killed him himself. And there were no such thing as ghosts. He was a grown man, after all, not some weakling child who took everything he was told as the truth. Spirits. Ha! Oh, there had been spirits, all right. That had been what caused him to envision Vaisey in his sitting room, shaking all of his transparent torture devices in Guy's face. Yes, spirits in excess.
Suddenly, Guy caught his breath as out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of movement to his right, over by the window. There it was again! Guy reached for the curved dagger on his bedside table, his movements so slow they were almost imperceptible. He could now see a figure through his thick burgundy bedcurtains. A thief, no doubt. Still lying on his back, heart palpitating, Guy moved the dagger into position as the figure moved closer, closer. The beating in Guy's chest, the blood pounding in his ears, the fear leaping in his throat- none of it should be happening; he should be cool and calm. But the memory of Vaisey's words suddenly rang out in his ears like metal on stone, and he could not stifle his gasp.
At that moment, the figure reached out a hand and drew back the bed-curtain. Caught off his guard by his sudden strike of paranoid memory, Guy had no time to react, and he found himself looking up at the face of the perpetrator.
It was a thief, all right. A thief whom he happened to know very well.
"'Ello, mate!" said Guy's former lackey with excessive cheerfulness, a wide grin stretched across his face. The blue eyes glanced down at the dagger in Gisborne's hand. "What's that for?"
"Er... nothing. Allan, what are you doing here?" Guy tried to sound angry- Allan was, after all, an outlaw, a traitor, a cohort of his mortal enemy, and currently trespassing in his bedroom. But the question came out incredulous and almost relieved; in comparison to who (or what) Guy might have seen, he must admit he was nearly glad that it was Allan who stood before him.
"I'm not Allan, mate."
Huh? Apparently, the lad had indulged in too many spirits himself. Guy rolled his eyes.
"Of course you're Allan," he said in a practical, somewhat bored tone. "You look like Allan, you speak like Allan, you act like Allan..." Upon hearing this, the thief quickly put the silver cloak-link he had been fingering back into its drawer and smiled innocently.
"I'm tellin' you, mate, I'm not Allan. But I suppose I can't expect you to believe that."
Well, that was the first rational thing he'd said so far. "What reason would I have to believe you?
You betrayed me." Guy winced at the unbidden hurt that crept into his voice, but if Allan noticed, he didn't let on.
"I didn't betray you, Allan betrayed you." His tone was calm and patient, like a mother telling a child for the thousandth time that they could not have their dinner until they had washed the grime off of their hands.
Fine, then. He'd play along, humor the boy.
"Well, if you're not Allan, then who are you?"
He smiled. "I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past."
Gisborne snorted. "The what?"
"You heard me. And don't act like you didn't know I was coming. The Sheriff came and warned you, remember?"
Guy's heart skipped a beat in fear at this reminder, but he didn't let it show on his face. This was all just part of one of Allan's elaborate pranks. He had drugged his food with something, probably nicked from that glorified monk Hood kept around his camp these days, and now he was toying with Guy's head.
"So why is the Sheriff's ghost is actually the Sheriff, but you're not really Allan?" Ha, now he'd cornered him.
The blue eyes rolled skyward. "Look, mate. I don't make the rules, I just follow 'em. Now are you coming or not? We haven't got all night."
Coming? "Coming where?"
Allan/The Ghost of Christmas Past/ Figment of Guy's Imagination smiled mischievously.
"Christmas Past, of course! Your past, actually. Come on, out the window's by far the quickest way. Just grab the edge of my cloak and let's be off!" He beckoned Guy eagerly with a wave of his hand.
Now Guy was really beginning to fear for the lad- he really didn't seem drunk. His speech wasn't slurred, his blue eyes were perfectly clear... perhaps he'd finally gone mental living in that forest?
"Allan, are you... feeling all right?" Guy spoke deliberately, choosing his words with care; he had heard that the best thing to do with mad people was not to let them know you suspected they had gone mad because they could get angry and retaliate. Allan had never been quick to anger, but if he'd gone off his rocker, well...
He seemed to be getting frustrated now. "For the last time, I'm not Allan, and I'm feeling rather claustrophobic at the moment- not used to being in one place so long, but thank you for asking- so we really ought to get going so come on, out the window we go!"
"Can't we just take the door?" Guy glanced demonstratively over at the entrance people normally took to get in his bedroom.
Not-Allan laughed jovially. "Yeah, but where would be the fun in that?" And with that, he grabbed ahold of Guy's arm, placed his hand to his outlaw's cloak, and jumped.
And then they were falling from Guy's second-story window and Guy was screaming at the top of his lungs. They were maybe five feet from the ground when they suddenly stopped falling and started floating. The ghost- for Guy was finally convinced that this was what he was-, rolled over so that his back was facing the ground, folded his hands leisurely behind his head, and grinned up at Guy.
"Rather thrilling, wasn't that? I'd have to say it gets better every time!"
His eyes enormous, Guy managed to choke out between gasps of breath, "Was that... really... necessary?"
The Allan-shaped spirit smiled cheekily. "Absolutely not."
Guy's eyes flashed dangerously, and he made to reach up and give the insolent thing the walloping it deserved, but Allan-ghost shook his head with a with an expression of amused warning.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, mate. You might not like the consequences. Especially not if you let go of the cloak."
He poked a finger in the direction of the ground, which was still just a little too far away for Guy to be comfortable with meeting it. He settled for a low growl. Allan smirked. Guy narrowed his eyes at him and then made the mistake of looking down. He didn't open his eyes again for several minutes after that, but when he did he gradually found that he was actually enjoying the sensation of flying a bit. It was simultaneously exhilarating and peaceful. But he would rather let go of the cloak and smash into the ground below than let the Allan-ghost know that.
Soon, the indistinct figure of a manor loomed in the distance, and when Guy squinted to better see it he caught his breath.
"It...it's...home," he whispered, swallowing hard and hating having to do so.
The spirit smiled gently, displaying a rather un-Allan-ish tact by saying nothing. Instead, he placed a hand on Guy's shoulder and guided him down toward the ground until they stood at the window to the sitting room. Guy leaned on the windowsill and stared eagerly at the four people within.
Even though it was dark outside, the room was well-lit courtesy of a roaring blaze in the fireplace. Sir Roger of Gisborne, dressed in all of the holiday finery befitting a noble of his stature, stood near the mantle, a chalice of spiced wine in his hands. He was laughing jovially at the antics of an enthusiastic seven-year-old Isabella, who was relating to him with broad gestures the size of the snowman she and her friends had built earlier that day. Lady Ghislaine sat in a soft chair near the corner of the room so that she could still feel the warmth, but the intensity of the fire would not harm her smooth, delicate skin. The reflections of the flames illuminated the sweet smile upon her fair face as she observed her family.
There was one person who was not smiling, however-the teenaged boy with a shock of black hair who stood in a corner, leaning against the wall opposite the fireplace, as though he was trying to stay as far from its warmth and light and cheer as possible. The young Guy of Gisborne's arms were crossed, and his face held the same uninterested expression that he up until recently had often employed to convince Vaisey that he, too, could not care less about the woes of peasants.
"Havin' a grand time, weren't you, mate?" The tact had vanished, and the cheeky grin had returned. Guy glared at the spirit.
"Shut up." The movement of Isabella's red velvet dress toward the corner in which his younger self stood caught the corner of Guy's eye, and he turned back toward the window. The child was holding a wound-up string of greenery in both arms, its length making it so bulky that it nearly covered her eyes.
"Guy, come and hang the greens with me! I'll start here, and you can start at the fireplace, and we'll race to see who can hang all theirs first!" The little girl held her burden out at arm's length toward her brother, eyes shining with all the excitement of a child at Christmastime. Her brother merely raised an eyebrow and gave a long-suffering sigh.
"Racing is childish, Isabella. And we have servants to hang the greenery."
Isabella's face fell at his admonishment. Sir Roger cast his son a disapproving look.
"Guy, what is wrong with humoring your sister every once and awhile?" He rested his hand on his daughter's shoulder, as she had trudged back to seek solace in the folds of his cloak at her brother's rejection.
"I have no use for her immaturity and childish games, Father! Such frivolities have no place in the life of a lord." Guy rolled his eyes toward the ceiling in frustration at Sir Roger's lack of understanding.
"But Guy, it is Christmas! Now is the time for all to become childlike, for the sake of family, and for the good times."
"Your father is right, Guy," Lady Ghislaine's melodic voice lilted into the conversation. "Would you hurt your dear sister for the sake of maintaining an image?"
"An image that is sorely misguided, no less. Have I not taught you, over and over, that a lord gains the respect of his people by showing them love? Guy, how can you expect them to feel your love if you cannot even show it to your own sister?" Isabella gazed at her brother with eyes that shone with unshed tears as their father said this. Standing at the window, Guy felt his heart clench at the pain mingled with hope in her expression, silently pleading that the older brother whom she idolized show her affection, as though he had not made the decisions himself all those years ago.
The teenaged Guy gave a resigned sigh, stepped forward, and held out his hand toward Isabella. It took the little girl a moment to understand, but then her face lit up and she unceremoniously dumped the load of greenery into Guy's arms.
"Three, two, one... go!" Guy dashed toward the fireplace, a joyful grin that seemed out of place lighting up his visage.
"Guy, I haven't got my own greenery yet!" Isabella was trying fruitlessly to pick up an equally large string in her tiny arms.
"Well, you'd better hurry up and get it because I'm going to win!" Guy's voice held a playful challenge.
"I don't think so!" Isabella abandoned her attempt at lifting her own greenery and grabbed the trailing end of her brother's and attempted to drag it across the room. She didn't get very far, however, as her brother wrapped his arms around her and she squealed with joy as he lifted her into the air and swung her around.
Sir Guy of Gisborne laughed along with his parents as he watched the scene unfolding, believing just for a moment that he stood in the room with them instead of outside in the snow. The illusion was shattered when he heard the familiar voice from behind him.
"Time to move on, mate."
He turned disappointed eyes on the spirit. "What?"
"We've got more to see, my friend."
Guy felt inexplicably sad at this statement. "But the servants brought in the Christmas tree after that, and we all decorated it together. Father lifted Isabella up so she could put the star on top, and you should have seen the look on her face when..." What was he saying? The words, the memories, were just flowing from his tongue like water from a spring. He shook his head in frustration at his lack of ability to understand and put into words his own motives. All he was certain of was what he wanted at that moment.
"Can't we stay?"
The ghost shook his head sadly. "If we stayed as long as you wanted at every place, we'd never get through everythin' you've got to see. This is just one Christmas."
"I won't stay any longer anywhere else, I promise. It's just..." Guy broke off, shaking his head and turning back toward the window, where the family-his family-was still merry as they went about their festive undertakings. Maybe if he didn't say it, maybe then the memories of what would happen so soon after this night would just vanish.
"It was your last Christmas with them, wasn't it?" Guy whirled around to stare wide-eyed at the Allan-ghost. "Your father went off to the Holy Land less than two months later, and didn't come back or send word for years. You and your mother and sister grieved for him, believin' he was dead until his unexpected return. But even then your celebratin' was short-he came back a leper, an impure disgrace to your family."
"MY FATHER WAS NOT A DISGRACE!"
Before he even knew what he was doing, Guy had closed his fingers around Allan's throat and slammed him into the side of the manor. His gaze burning into the blue eyes, he expected the fear he was used to seeing there, the anticipation of the consequences due an employee having wronged the one who controlled both their wages and their future. But he was met with a calmness that almost shocked him into loosening his grip, and just as he realized that there was absolutely nothing he could do to hurt this Allan, the spirit vanished from beneath his fingers and reappeared at his side, his neck remaining pale where a red mark should have been forming.
"No, no he wasn't. There was nothing he could have done about it. Leprosy isn't a choice. Not like selling one's sister to the highest bidder."
Guy felt his blood run cold, and he fought the urge to slap his leather-clad hands over his ears to drown out the sound of Isabella's tinkling laughter that still drifted from inside the manor.
"I...I had no choice. We had no one, no money, Squire Thornton could provide a better life for her, it was either that or the both of us starve..." His reasons had sounded so acceptable at the time, so why did they appear now as no more than petty excuses that were not even convincing to himself?
"I'm sure she understands. She clearly loves you." Allan motioned toward the window and Guy reluctantly followed his gesture. He locked his eyes on the small form of his sister just as he felt the spirit's hand on his shoulder, and suddenly the world was spinning around him.
The next thing he knew was pain that started in his rear end and shot up his tailbone, causing stars to explode before his eyes. Blinking them away, Guy glanced around him and beheld the familiar, but not necessarily welcome sight of the stone walls of Nottingham Castle.
"Sorry, mate. I've never been much good at those quick incomin's." The Allan-spirit grinned and held out a hand to help him up. Guy glared up at him for a minute, then realized that he might not be able to get up on his own, and accepted the offer, wincing as he was pulled to his feet.
"That was low, Allan. Even for you. Taking off without even warning me."
"Try not to hold it against the actual Allan. I don't think he'd appreciate it."
Guy didn't have the energy to even muster up the glare the ghost deserved. His thoughts were still at the manor, his childhood home.
"It's in the past, my friend. There's nothin' you can do to change it now." Guy fought back a shiver as he wondered if the spirit could see right into his soul, or at the very least his thoughts. He tried thinking insulting things about Allan, just to see if he got any reaction. There was none, but that didn't really prove anything.
"Why are we here, anyway? I thought this was supposed to be Christmas past..."
"Take a look for yourself, mate." The spirit moved aside to reveal a direct reflection of himself. This Allan, however, was not dressed in an outlaw's garment; he was wearing the black leather that he had always donned when he had been in Guy's service. Though his smiles had become increasingly rare the longer he spent in the castle, Allan had normally seemed fairly energetic as he carried out his master's orders. But tonight, Guy thought he looked positively melancholy as he leaned against the cold wall of the stone hallway, staring out of a window.
"Can he... does he know we're here?" They stood maybe four feet from Allan at the most. Guy wondered how he would react if he saw the duplicate version of himself that stood next to Guy. Surely Guy could not be the only person who could see the spirit, could he?
"No. He's not really Allan, either. Just a memory. Real Allan's probably asleep in Robin Hood's camp."
More likely snuggled up next to some whore in the Trip, thought Guy smugly. "Well, how many Allans can there possibly be?"
"As many as there are memories of him. So...a lot."
Guy did not think he liked this idea. After seeing what the young thief was capable of, he often thought that the world incapable of handling even one Allan A'Dale.
"Just look at the poor chap," the spirit was saying. "It's the saddest thing, to be all alone at Christmastime..." The spirit shook his head in fond sorrow at Allan's slumped form. "He's got no family, no friends..."
"Well of course he hasn't got any friends. He betrayed them all for money," Guy snorted.
The ghost shot him an icy glare. "Because you had him tortured until he couldn't even stand on his own two feet!"
"He would have taken the money anyway. I've heard tell he's always had a soft spot for shiny things that jingle in one's pockets." Guy chuckled dryly.
"Tell me, Guy, what man hasn't got some weakness? Certainly not yourself." The smile vanished from Guy's face at the insult. "Isn't it better to build up one's fellow man than tear him down? Support him in times of trouble instead o' profitin' from his pitfalls?"
"Well listen to you being all philosophical," Guy said with a smirk, but the spirit's comments were affecting him more than he liked to admit-he was beginning to feel the smallest fingers of guilt creep up inside his chest. He searched for a way to squelch the feeling in its tracks, and suddenly found one. "Wait a second..." He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "I thought you said this was about my past! What's he even doing here?"
"Showin' you the effect your actions can have on other people's lives. If it hadn't been for you, Allan A'Dale would be makin' merry in the outlaw's camp with his friends after a day of helpin' the poor. Instead, he's no longer welcome in the place he thought to be his home, shunned by the people he came so close to being able to call his family."
Guy could take no more. "What I did was merciful!" he snarled. "He's an outlaw, a wolf's head. Had the Sheriff known he was in the dungeons he would have had him hanged immediately! I spared his life!"
"Well, it's all all right then, i'n't it? You just keep telling yourself that, mate. It's not like you were the one who captured him in the first place or anythin'." The specter looked absolutely disgusted with his charge, as much as Guy wanted to continue to believe his own words, his heart sank with the knowledge that the ghost was right.
Guy felt a respite from his guilt when he heard the footsteps coming down the hall. His relief was short-lived, however, for the guilt came barreling back a thousand-fold when he turned to determine the identity of the newcomer.
It was Marian.
He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, just looking at her. It had been mere months since her life's blood had been spilled by his own sword, by his own hands. Guy did not even realize he how hard he was trembling, or feel the tears running down his cheeks-all he knew was that her face was now miraculously before him, and for a moment he felt wildly elated. Could it possibly be that somehow she had lived, and fooled both him and the vengeful Hood? But then he turned searching, desperate eyes on the spirit beside him, and the pity and apology written on the ghost's features told him that Marian, too, was only a memory. She was still lost to this world, and to Guy.
"Let us be finished with this, now." Guy did not care who this spirit thought he was-he had crossed the line now, and Guy could bear no more of this.
The specter shook his head. "'Fraid not, Guy. You haven't seen everything yet."
"What is the purpose in all of this, to make me feel miserable? Well, you've done an excellent job with that, so why must we stay any longer?" Now that the fact was reaffirmed, Guy did not think he could stand to look upon Marian's face for another second, though her beauty was as haunting as ever.
"Misery might very well be a side effect, but you're not done until I say." The ghost nodded toward the happenings, and Guy had no choice but to watch.
Allan had heard the footsteps as well, and turned quickly from his post at the window and tried to look alert and untroubled, but failed abysmally until his eyes lit up with recognition.
"Merry Christmas, Allan!" Marian's voice was cheerful and her smile large and warm as she wrapped the young lackey in a gentle embrace. Allan seemed a bit taken aback by this gesture, but returned it nonetheless.
"Merry Christmas, Marian," he said with a bit less conviction, but when she released him he managed a small smile all the same, though the pain in his eyes was still evident.
"Is everything well?" Guy swallowed hard as he remembered Marian's demeanor for caring about the feelings of everyone around her, a trait which he had written off as weak and feminine far too many times when she was alive.
Allan sighed softly and then gave a small nod.
"As well as it can be."
She laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly. "I've brought some wine down to the kitchens for the servants in celebration of the holiday," she said. "I asked the cook to save you a glass for when you came off duty. I'd say it's nearly that time, wouldn't you?"
Allan looked a bit surprised that she had mentioned him specifically but pleased at her thoughtfulness. "Thank you, Marian. Merry Christmas."
Marian's smile was tinged with pity as she watched him walk away, but footsteps approaching from the opposite direction soon pulled her attention away from Allan's receding figure.
"Guy!"
Guy felt his heart momentarily cease to beat when he heard her lips utter his own name, but his hopes fell again when he saw an identical version of himself, decked out in even more black leather than Allan had been, striding toward Marian. Suddenly Guy was struck nearly blind with the force of memory-he knew exactly what was going to happen next. And he did not wish to witness it again.
"Spirit," he said as calmly as his trembling voice would allow. "I can assure you that I remember very clearly the events which are about to take place. It is not necessary for us to remain here any longer."
"Oh, I think it is." Guy had never heard Allan use that tone of voice before-it was confident, which was normal, but also held hints of omniscience, and it was utterly calm and untroubled. It did not allow for argument.
The version of Guy that was only a memory smiled almost cockily at Marian's greeting.
"Good evening, Marian."
"Where are you going?" She glanced around him, in case he was hiding something behind him that would help her deduce the cause of his overly confident mood.
"Down to the dungeons to...take care of some things." He set to work donning a pair of leather gloves, and Marian's eyes widened in horrified understanding.
"You...you're going to torture the prisoners? But Guy, it's Christmas Eve!"
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Marian, justice never takes a holiday."
She snorted. "Is that one of the Sheriff's new lines? Because it sounds like his voice that's coming out of your mouth right now. And how is this justice, anyway? Those people have done nothing-they have nothing left to give! Couldn't you at least give them a reprieve for tonight? If they must be separated from their loved ones, can they not at least have this one night of peace to themselves, without the fear of injury? Or will you again let the Sheriff's promises of wealth and power squelch the humanity that I know is hidden somewhere within your heart?" She reached out and laid her hand upon his leather-clad chest, and for a moment, his eyes softened. From his post mere steps away, the Guy that stood in his dressing-gown internally pleaded with his former self, willing that somehow, the event he knew would happen next would take a different turn. How could he not have seen that look in her eyes exactly one year ago-the faith? She had believed in him, after all of his attempts to prove to her that he was worthy of her affections. But the expensive gifts, the promise of wealth and power, they had meant nothing to her. All she had needed was the simple proof that he had it within him to make the right choice. And for once, he had denied her.
As Guy knew would happen, just as soon as his former self let his guard down, he threw it back up again with a vengeance, eyes flashing with anger.
"I do not let the Sheriff make my decisions for me, Marian-those prisoners need to be taught a lesson, and in the interest of keeping the law effective I am more than happy to be the one to do it. And if it means that Sheriff's will gets accomplished and provides wealth and power for me in the process, then I am more than happy to see it through. I have much attend to tonight, so I bid you good night, Marian." With that, he stalked past her, the heels of his boots clicking sharply against the stone floor.
"Good night, Guy." Marian's whisper, angry and injured, shook a bit as she watched him go with fire in her gaze before she set off down the hall in the opposite direction which Guy had gone.
He watched her get farther and farther away from him, at the same time begging his own figure to turn around and take back what he had said.
"I'm sorry, Marian..." he whispered, unable to vocalize any further sentiments in his grief. He gazed at the corner of the hallway where she had turned and vanished long after she was gone. Then, he whirled upon the spirit, clutching at his jerkin in the same way he had often grabbed Allan's vest when he wanted to get a point across. This time, however, what he wanted were answers.
"Spirit, you know thoughts, motivations...tell me! Would Marian have loved me if I had treated the peasants the way she wished me to? Would she?"
"Would it really have changed what you did? Would havin' her love have kept you from chasin' the wealth and power that those peasants' torment brought about?" The spirit spoke with that same calmness and knowledge that sounded so strange coming from Allan.
"Answer me!" Guy slammed the ghost's back up against the wall, his eyes wild with anger and desperation.
""What difference would it make, Guy? There's nothin' you can do to change it now that she's dead."
"DON'T YOU DARE!" Guy swung back his arm to deliver a punch to that utterly composed face. But just before the moment of impact, the ghost vanished once more from beneath his grasp, and Guy's fist connected painfully with the stone wall.
Gasping with pain but not deterred, he cast about him, searching for wherever the specter might have reappeared.
But he did not reappear.
His anger cooling and replacing itself with the fear of being alone, trapped in the past, Guy called out.
"Spirit! I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, come back! Spirit!" He turned round and round, but his search proved fruitless. "Spirit?" His tone was softer this time. "Allan?"
Suddenly the walls began to spin around him just as the manor had before. The rectangular stones turned into rhombuses, stretching and swirling at the same time. And then Guy was swirling with them, and rising, up, up into the air, faster and faster, as though he were caught in a tempest. He would be dashed against the ceiling, and surely perish! Guy shut his eyes and waited for the impact.
But it never came.
