A/N: My internet connection has been absolutely haywire lately, so my apologies for another late update. This chapter has been fleshed out quite a bit more, and introduces a slightly different feel and direction than the previous version. Let me know what you think, as I'm still a bit undecided about it.
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, and to all who are still reading.
Bound Home
Chapter 19
Now that the sun has set beyond the western range,
Valley after valley is shadowy and dim...
And now through pine-trees come the moon and the chill of evening,
And my ears feel pure with the sound of wind and water
Nearly all the woodsmen have reached home,
Birds have settled on their perches in the quiet mist...
And still - because you promised - I am waiting for you, waiting,
Playing lute under a wayside vine.
-Meng Haorang, At the Mountain-Lodge of the Buddhist Priest Ye Waiting in Vain for My Friend Ding
The child is no different from any other - small, fat, pink-cheeked, and bald. But Much and his Lady Eve coo over him as if he is the most beautiful and perfect babe to have ever graced the earth, and Robin and Little John are likewise charmed, talking to the child as if it could understand them. He supposes this was inevitable. Children generally follow marriage. But Guy thought Much would have gotten this part of it out of the way by the time he returned from Acre – that the wonderment and celebrating would be over, and all that would be left for him to do would be to smile and say a nice word about how healthy the child looks.
But William of Bonchurch was born one month after Guy arrived back on English soil, and everyone within riding distance of Bonchurch has been invited to come with their congratulations, himself included. He tried to weather the storm at Loxley, but John flatly refused to let him, saying something about being polite and proper, and giving the child and its parents what was their due. His words were true enough, but the civilities that are commonly exchanged among nobility, the etiquette and rituals that were once appealing, now sit on him like a too-large doublet. They now only call to mind the delusions of honor and standing he'd had under Vasey's guidance - make him shiver with humiliation at the grand manner in which he'd deceived himself into thinking he was living up to his knighthood, when he'd really been shaming it.
A certain other kind of oddness strikes him, too - the oddity of attending such a ceremony with men who'd once been forced to live as outcasts, when eating squirrel stew (one of Much's specialties) and drinking pilfered wine was considered a feast; when they lived not much better than the forest creatures around them. He sees Sherwood's mud still on John's boots; thorns and twigs still lurking beneath the delicate embroidery of Robin's cloak. He wonders if the refinements of civilized life will ever feel real to them all again. He wonders if the others ever go to sleep wishing to be back under the stars rather than a roof and heavy blankets. He knows he does, at times. Five years has not been enough time to forget the man Sherwood forest made him into.
But regardless of those years spent as outlaws, Much is now lord of his own estate and is celebrating the birth of an heir, and Guy has obeyed the request for his presence. He stands stuffed within a crowded hall, listening to drunk peasants chattering about which parent the child favors more and which girl in the village might one day be his bride. He is happy for Much and Eve. The child does look remarkably hale. But he cannot help but feel as though everyone's eyes are on him, remembering old grievances, whispering suspicions... It is the guilt that presses on him especially when he is surrounded by Loxley's folk. His longing for the shade and safety of Sherwood forest spikes within him - it is getting breathtakingly hot in the hall, and he slips through the crush of people toward the door, fighting the urge to knock past them and push them out of his way. It is, perhaps, what they would still be expecting him to do. He walks carefully and murmurs his apologies with a small smile.
Outside, the sun is just starting to descend. The bright morning is sinking into an overcast afternoon. Now clear of the crowd, he feels some ease returning to him, and his discomfort, so stifling just moments ago, fades. He walks away from the cheerful noise of the house, heading for a low hill that overlooks a stream Archer and Much tried to fish in when Much was first granted the property. If he recalls correctly, the attempt was unsuccessful, as the men caught more insect bites than anything else.
The memory works to settle him further. He looks back at the house, dissatisfied at his departure, but unable to regret it. There will always be time for merrymaking. He can give his good wishes to Much another day.
He turns away to walk along a row of saplings, touching each one's tender leaves as he passes by. He wonders what sort of gift he ought to procure to celebrate the birth, and his lips turn up when he remembers Much's fondness for a certain cheese they once stole from a particularly disagreeable nobleman.
Fond memories. He is still at times surprised at how many he has, most of them having been created after his departure from Vasey's service. He would never have guessed that such contentment would be his, not after the hell he put himself through. A part of him will perhaps always feel that such contentment is undeserved - his unease around the villagers is proof enough of that. And a part of him aches for his sister, at all the happiness she threw away – but that is another regret that will always remain with him, and, as he often does, he turns his thoughts away from her and his past and tries to think on better things.
He is contemplating Much's suitability as a father when he glimpses a figure moving toward him, coming from the south – another well-wisher, in all likelihood, arriving late. But as the figure comes closer and takes on a more definite shape, Guy realizes this is not just another villager.
When Saffiya catches sight of him, she smiles more brilliantly than he has ever seen before, and the last of his worries vanish into nothing.
The lush fields surrounding Robin's estate are bright green and glistening with dew, and the air is thick with cool winds and growing, blossoming things. March is bursting into April. Nottingham is alive with spring.
"Can we still call you Djaq?" Much asks, bouncing his son nervously in his arms. "I mean, it's not really your name, and I imagine you've been going by your real name in Acre, so I would understand if you didn't want to be called Djaq. It's just what we've always called you, though, so-"
"Much, you're going to make him sick with all that jostling," Robin interrupts, and he holds his arms out as if to take the child.
The new father twists slightly away. "No," he says, lifting his chin. "William prefers to be held by me."
"Well, at least try not to toss him over your shoulder. What are you so anxious about, anyway?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all." Much's gaze sweeps over her and Robin, and his lips thin into a tight line. "If she finds out, I am dead."
"Oh, Much, what have you done?" Robin laughs.
"It wasn't my fault, not really!"
Saffiya listens with half an ear as the story unfolds – something about a misplaced silver rattle – and tries to name the feeling now suffusing her with warmth. She cannot pin it to one word, but she idly imagines it is how pigeons feel upon reaching their nest after a long flight abroad. Her friends are much as they ever were, changed only in that they are happier, reaping the rewards of their sacrifices. Such justice has been rare in her life, and is all the more dear for it. Her welcome was everything she could have hoped for. Robin insisted she stay at his home - "As long as you like. I mean it!" - and Much had actually shed tears over her return. She suspects Little John was nearly in the same condition, but he turned away before she could get a good look at him.
They talked of Will. John took her hand. Much cried some more. And Robin said again, Please. Please stay with us.
"So what will it be?" Much asks, drawing her out of her thoughts. Robin is now holding William, and looking quite pleased with himself. "Djaq or Saffiya? Either is perfectly good, you know."
"Call me what you wish," she answers, even though her real name on the lips of Robin's men still sounds strange. She is too happy to care.
"Djaq it is!" Much announces. "Well, for myself anyway. I'd have felt terribly awkward calling you anything else."
"Well, now all that's left to do," Robin says brightly to the baby, "is to go say hello to your mum. I wonder where she might be right now."
"Robin..." There is a touch of real fear in Much's voice, and Saffiya laughs at his pained expression. He turns a remarkably familiar expression on her - he's taken offense, a not uncommon state for him - and then chases after Robin and his son as they head back to the main house. "You said you would not tell her!"
Robin twists around, walking backward, and asks her if she is coming with them.
"Oh, so she can watch my wife murder me?" Much interjects, reaching for his son.
She shakes her head, still laughing. Robin, dodging out of the way of Much's hands, holds her eye just long enough to see that she really is alright, and then turns back around and picks up his pace. William gurgles happily in his arms while his father continues his lament.
The sunlight is intoxicating. She roams the meadow with her face tilted toward the clear blue sky, lost in the beauty of the day.
In the first few weeks, she was ambushed by memories. She traced down each lane a recollection of her husband's worried brow and his stern eyes. The birdsong sparked a memory of him smiling down at her as she tried her hand at fletching. The noise of crickets reminded her of nights they spent whispering to one another while the rest of the camp slept. And on and on it went, she roving the land, discovering pieces of their life together tucked away in every glen and stream.
But the pain was brief. The initial sting has faded, and now she sits in the grass thinking, not of Will, but of how happy she is to be back among friends. She spots a row of green vines tangling alongside a creek – honeysuckle, waiting for the full heat of summer before they blossom. She follows the twists and turns of the vine with her eyes, and remembers that Allan had been the one to first show her the sweetness of the nectar. A pang of regret - one that lives beneath her ribs, a permanent though fluctuating fixture - kicks deep within, protesting that two of the men she holds most dear could not be here to see the beauty which has overtaken their friends' lives.
A shadow falls over her. She quits her daydream and looks up to see Gisborne standing close.
"Am I interrupting?"
She smiles. "Not at all."
He sits down beside her and says, "Everyone is wondering where you've gone off to."
"And you came to look for me?"
He cocks an eyebrow in the direction of the main house. "I came to escape the noise. Much is upset about...a rattle, or something." He shakes his head and sighs. "Much is always upset."
She nods in agreement, and they sit in silence for a long stretch of time, watching the cloud shadows roll over the distant hills, listening to the wind blow through the trees. The sun brightens and darkens and brightens again with the passing clouds.
"Peaceful, isn't it," he murmurs.
She pulls her legs to her chest and rests her head on her knees. "Yes. I have missed this place."
"And...you have been well? Being here again...?"
He is always hesitant when he asks questions which might touch on Will. She peers over at him, squinting against the sun, and smiles to assure him that his concern is welcome. "I am happy. I have missed him more, at times...but I am happy."
"You do not regret coming back?"
"No. Do you?"
He shakes his head, his answer coming quickly and decidedly. "No, not in the least."
There is another interlude of sun and sky and quiet. Saffiya gazes at the golden horizon until she feels Gisborne's eyes on her. She looks over at him – he is staring at her in puzzlement. He takes a breath and asks gently, "Why did you not come with me?"
She quirks another smile, this one not nearly so easy. "I was wondering when you were going to ask me that." She bows her head for a moment to try to collect her thoughts. There are many ways to answer his question, but in the end, she settles on the simplest. "I was afraid."
He looks upon her with great patience, giving her time to think and respond as he always does. She tries to elaborate, but words fail her. She adds only, "I was afraid to leave him."
He nods, and she knows he understands her perfectly.
"I am glad you came," he says, casting his gaze at the fields below them, and never letting it wander in her direction. He seems slightly uncomfortable with the admission, and she goes still, put on edge by his change in mood. "Being back home," he says, "has not been as easy as I had hoped. Nottingham holds as many bad memories as does Acre. I've not had any activity to occupy my time or thoughts since returning, and it has resulted in a...a resurrection of feelings and fears I'd hoped were long gone." He gives her one glance, and a glimpse of a crooked smile. "Marian was not the only one I've wronged."
She nods. Carefully, she asks, "Do not the people here know what you've done for them in recent years? Your friendship with Robin...I'm sure they know you better now. I'm sure they know you've changed."
He makes no answer. His sigh is small, and barely heard over the rustling of the tall grass. She touches his shoulder. ..."But you fear they are slow in accepting you."
"Or they might never accept me. It is only right." He finally lifts his eyes to hers. "I am determined to make amends however I can, but the naturalness of their reaction does not take away its sting. I'd much rather face it with you at my side. You give me a bit of courage, you know."
She grins at him. "Oh?"
"Your friendship - your forgiveness..." He pauses, and his eyes tighten, his chin lifts - he seems to breathe in the wind before looking her straight in the eye. "I can't have Marian's, but yours is nearly as precious. So thank you." He takes her hand that was resting on his shoulder and cradles it between his own. "Thank you."
She asks no more questions. His words, and the deeper understanding they caused, linger between them. They sit in companionable silence as the morning gives way to afternoon. She eventually lies back in the grass and stares up at the sky until her lids grow heavy, and the buzz of insects begins to lull her into a light sleep.
An unknown measure of time later, she hears Gisborne say "They will be looking for us," and she cracks open one eye to see that he is squinting up at the sun. "It is time for the noon meal," he explains.
She sits up and stretches her arms, blinking away the last of her languor. Gisborne, standing over her, offers his hand. A surprising flash of heat rises in her blood the moment her hand meets his again, running from fingers to arm to breast, something gentle and heady. His grasp is large and warm. His arm is steady as she pulls on it to come to her feet. She looks up at him, face suddenly hot. All thought evaporates as his presence takes on a charge, changes - she tilts her head back to look up at his face.
He is staring at her with a peculiar look in his eyes. He swallows, and turns away.
They walk slowly back to the manor, side by side.