A/N: Thanks again to everyone for the wonderful reviews.
Bound Home
Chapter 14
The autumn night is clear and cold in the lakka-trees of this courtyard.
I am lying forlorn in the river-town. I watch my guttering candle.
I hear the lonely notes of a bugle sounding through the dark.
The moon is in mid-heaven, but there's no one to share it with me.
My messengers are scattered by whirls of rain and sand.
City-gates are closed to a traveler; mountains are walls in my way -
Yet, I who have borne ten years of pitiable existence,
Find here a perch, a little branch, and am safe for this one night.
- Du Fu, Staying at the General's Headquarters
Spring comes late. The almond trees barely started to bloom by the first day in April, but now, two weeks later, he sees them covered in flowers. Thanks to Aalim's generous offer of an introduction to the shah's secretary two months ago, he has been tutoring a bright, inquisitive prince in French. They are seated in the courtyard of his pupil's house, surrounded by white walls and blossoming branches. A wind comes to stir the trees and shakes loose a few petals. He watches one slip of pale pink as it floats to the ground, and then lifts his eyes to the bright blue sky.
"What do you call moments like this?" the prince asks, his French heavily accented but understandable. He, too, is gazing up at the blossoms and the sky beyond. Guy's mind is slow to produce an answer, transfixed by the beauty of heaven framed by earth.
Eventually an answer drifts into his mind. "Serene," he tells the prince, and he faintly hears the young man repeat the word in his careful, precise manner.
The silence gives Guy's thoughts time to shift and settle, to realize that this calm is altogether new to him. He sits with the prince in companionable quiet, and Guy watches the almond blossoms flutter in the breeze, breathes in their perfume, and idly hopes that one might happen to fall into his open, waiting palm.
He is glad he is not yet in England.
Kalid has his arms full of books – one of which threatens to slide and fall – but he pauses in the doorway and asks, "Saffiya – you have been well?"
From the way he looks at her, she knows he is not asking about her health. She has never confided in him, and he has never pried, for reasons she suspects are based on the color of her husband's skin. But today is a change. Today he looks as though he is sincere, and this question is an attempt at mending a rift that neither had ever acknowledged.
She, however, has not changed. Her privacy – her grief - is sacrosanct. "Yes," she says.
He simply nods, ducks through the doorway, and disappears into the bright sunlight. She stares at that light for a moment, lingering in his absence, feeling less alone by herself than she ever did when he was with her.
It has been nearly a year since Will died. It is a bitter reality that her memories of his final days are sharper and more vibrant than any memories of their happier times. But slowly, slowly, she is beginning to recall the better things. Slowly, she is coming out of the shadow of his death.
When Gisborne knocks on her door that night, she hesitates only a moment before letting him in, and to her piercing relief, he says he came to talk about Sherwood.
"You don't seem the type of woman to take to pity too well," he says, barely smiling with one side of his mouth, "But I took a risk and decided to come keep you company." He ducks his head briefly. "Sometimes it is not easy being alone."
"And you came to give yourself some company, too, I think," she answers, not too graciously – he is right; she does not like the idea of being pitied - but with enough good humor to assure him of his welcome. This is the third time they have met since that day outside the city. Each occasion was marked with half-finished sentences and tight silences, and then distraction: talk of work and journeys and weather, brief conversations held under the guise of an interchange of practical information. Nothing was ever said of her husband, nor did they speak of Marian.
And tonight, it seems, will be more of the same. They sit at her dining table with a roll of bread and a small bowl of olives between them. She asks how Much was getting along when Gisborne left England, which earns her a quirked eyebrow.
"Much? He...was about to be married, I believe."
She feels a genuine smile of delight – the first of its kind in many months – spread across her lips. Gisborne is nonplussed at her reaction, and she understands it to mean that he and Much did not take well to each other, and is not at all surprised. She then asks about Little John, and this time Gisborne speaks at length, with a great deal more affection in his voice. "You got on well," she surmises, and he nods, expression distant, and replies, "We did. He is a simple man, very brave, very open with his affections. I learned much from him."
"He treated me like a daughter. He was a great comfort to me when I first arrived in Nottingham. I am glad to know he does well."
They allow a pause, and Saffiya takes her time pouring them both a fresh cup of tea. She knows who is left to be asked about, and from the thoughtful look on Gisborne's face, he knows, too. He is the first to break the silence.
"My brother traveled with me to the port, but Robin would not go - I did not ask him to. I'm sure he understood my reasons for wanting to come back here. He...handles things differently than I do."
"He always kept his secrets well," she says in agreement. "He never opened up to any of us, though we shared such common trials."
"When he found out where I was going, he closed up even more." Gisborne shakes his head. "I did not even want to tell him. I never wanted to raise up that old ghost between us, though occasionally he tried. I do not blame him for it."
She is at a loss, still stumbling over the hows and whys of Robin and Gisborne's miraculous friendship. "How did you ever put such a thing to rest?"
He stares at the table, absently rubbing his thumb along the rim of his cup. "He was willing to forgive me. And for that, I was willing to lay down my life for him. I nearly did, too, as it turned out."
"The battle that took down Nottingham Castle."
"Yes. Many of us escaped that day by the skin of our teeth. But that is another story, for another time." He takes a long sip of his tea. She can tell by the shadowing of his features that he is getting lost in memories that would be better left forgotten.
"And what does Robin do with himself these days?" she asks lightly. "I imagine he would be restless with no sheriff to steal from."
Her effort at drawing Gisborne out of his darkening mood is rewarded with a small smile. "Robin is content. He has his lands. He has a piece of a family he'd thought lost to him. He has brought prosperity back to Nottingham. His mission, he would tell you, is never over, but...he can rest now. He can be at peace."
He raises his eyes to lock with hers. She feels something unspoken pass between them, an understanding that, for them, peace is yet far off. Her gaze softens. "Thank you for coming tonight. It was good of you."
"No, it was selfish," he says, another small smile ghosting across his lips. "I did not want to be alone with my thoughts."
"Neither did I," she assures him. "You were right about me. I am quite pitiful sometimes." He laughs, and she grins at him, gratified at having lightened his mood. He thanks her for the tea and, realizing that it has gotten late, says he will take his leave. She walks with him to the door. It is close to midnight, and shadows cover the alley. The sky is hazy with silver clouds.
"Sometime," Gisborne says, "I would like to hear more about your husband."
Another kindness. An open door, a waiting ear. "Thank you," she says. "Sometime, I will tell you."
He nods, holds out his hand. She grasps it tightly. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," he murmurs, and walks away. Within moments, he has faded into the blue darkness. Later, when she blows out the candle and closes her eyes, she finds herself thinking, not of empty rooms and fever-wet skin, but of old friends, of laughter, and of a forest, green and beautiful.