Happy Valentine's Day! Well, it's still lovers' day here, at least. What better way to celebrate it than with an avoidant!Guy? Thank you to everyone who's sticking with this story, despite the inconsistent updates. You are all wonderful.

fiamma71: Your observations of the characters are, as usual, shockingly on-point, except one thing. Ajsa is not jealous of Marian. When she says to Guy that he was "blinded by her pretty smiles," she is deliberately taunting him because he'd implied something rather vulgar about her. That comment was purely meant to hurt and anger him, as he'd hurt and angered her. Ajsa is confident, almost haughty at times, so she would not be jealous of Gisborne's dead, ex-love. She liked Marian, partly because she was independent and partly because she rejected Gisborne. Yet at the same time, as you said, Ajsa can't help but be kind to him when he's drowning in grief and guilt. And that sympathy comes at the expense of the people he torments, which doesn't bother her as much as she thinks it should. So yes, Ajsa is a better person than Guy is (which isn't a difficult feat to accomplish), but she's not as cut-and-dry "good" as Marian was. She has flaws galore. Oh, and yes, of course she was sewing Gisborne's breeches. ;)

Guest: You've just bestowed on me one of the greatest compliments I could ever receive. In all my fics, I strive to keep the characters as true as possible to their original portrayals. Guy is easier to write than Thorin or Lucas, but sometimes I really want to fast-forward and make him decent. That's the challenge of this story-to find a way to bring Ajsa (a comparatively good person) together with him, before he ditches the Sheriff and joins Robin Hood, while still remaining in character. I adore Ajsa, too, but I can't take any credit for her. She literally created herself. I just started writing, and she just was.

williewildcat: Ajsa's a trip, that's for sure. Even I don't fully understand her yet. But in all seriousness, I think the reason she can calm Gisborne, as well as provoke him, is because she's more forgiving towards him than Marian was. And that's because her morals are way less centered than Marian's were, haha.

Chapter 11: What's in a Name?

After the night Gisborne had nearly grasped Ajsa's hand, he took to avoiding her. He no longer complained to her upon his return from the castle, and he certainly no longer confided in her. He left the room if she was in it, but most importantly, he tried to prevent her from getting under his skin.

Yet despite his best efforts, his thoughts consistently featured her. And as Ajsa became more prominent in them, Marian gradually began to fade from them. Her smiles, which had once possessed the power to make his heart soar, were a hazy memory, destined to be replaced by another's far less frequent smiles. The sparkling, blue eyes that had so captivated him were now dull, from more than mere death. No matter how much he fixated on his guilt and love, he could not cling to a ghost.

While he stewed in his frustration, he watched Ajsa by the stables. Ever since Guy had grown distant, she'd begun spending her free time amongst the horses. They liked her. They trusted her. And she liked and trusted them. Her laughter was proof of that. In the year that Ajsa had been at Locksley Manor, Gisborne could count on two hands the number of times he'd heard her laugh. But on each occasion, it sent a tendril of warmth to his cold, hate-filled heart.

Perhaps sensing she was being observed, Ajsa looked up, her gaze meeting his. Her face instantly fell, the happiness morphing into bewildered discomfort. Guy knew she did not understand his recent behavior. How could she? He had been warming towards her-and she towards him-, before suddenly pulling away. He longed to tell her it was not her fault, that it was not what he wanted. She had shown him kindness when others wouldn't or couldn't, and that deserved reciprocation.

But the insistent nagging in his head warned him that Marian, too, had once been kind to him. If she, a noble woman, had had an ulterior motive, surely a dispossessed woman did, as well. And then, of course, there was Marian's spirit. It lingered on, visible only to him, ceaselessly reminding him of his love and crime. Gisborne granted it entry into his life, because otherwise, he feared he would forget her and forgive himself his sins. Redemption was not his to have.

That was precisely why he must limit his interaction with Ajsa, for she was his redemption. Marian could no longer absolve him of his wrongs, but, if they grew to love each other, Ajsa might. The possibility filled him with such a soul-crushing yearning that he staggered back from the window. Wine. He needed wine. Lately he always needed wine. It numbed him to all feeling, the good and the bad. It granted him dreamless, though not restful, sleep. It kept him from bashing Vaisey's skull against the castle wall every time the foul, little man goaded him.

Guy was about to pour himself a goblet, when the front door opened. Ajsa stepped inside, hesitating as she spied him. He paused, the pitcher tilted in his grasp, and just looked at her, his expression inscrutable.

After a silent moment, Ajsa cleared her throat and walked towards him.

"Allow me," she said, taking the decanter of wine from his hand. He acquiesced and fetched a second goblet. She stared at it blankly. "Are you expecting company, my lord?"

Gisborne cringed at the honorific. It sounded hollow and alien coming from her lips.

"No company," he replied gently. "It's for you."

"I prefer water."

He went into the kitchen and returned with a pitcher of water. Filling the second goblet, he handed it to her. They stood facing each other, Gisborne regarding her with a small frown, while Ajsa looked at anything but him.

"Shall we...sit?" he suggested, gesturing towards the bench.

Ajsa opened her mouth, then closed it and followed his lead. Guy knew a protest, perhaps even a reprimand, had been on her tongue, and the fact that she checked it was like a kick to the gut. Only a few days ago, she'd felt confident enough to provoke him; now, she shrank away from the inclination, obeying him like a servant should.

"Talk to me, Ajsa," he pleaded. "I've grown accustomed to the sound of your voice."

Her eyes widened in surprise, before narrowing in anger. It was the first hint of fire he had seen in days.

"I am only mimicking your behavior, my lord."

"Don't call me that," he snapped.

"I will call you that, for that is how a slave should address her master, as you have pointed out in the past."

"Yes, but then, if you recall, I requested that you stop," he reminded her.

Ajsa scoffed derisively. "Forgive me if I am confused by this back-and-forth in your demeanor." She took a sip of water and swallowed it with difficulty. "What do you want from me?"

The plaintive note in her voice affected him more strongly than he cared to admit. Yet again, he was the cause of another's discomfort.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't even know what I want from myself."

"Then, until you discover it, I must ask that we assume the relations befitting our respective stations." She stood and dipped into a curtsey. "If you will excuse me, my lord, I have chores to complete."

When she'd gone, a hand curled into a fist and slammed down onto the table. Everything he did, every word he said, was wrong. Perhaps Vaisey was right. Perhaps he really was a useless cockup who stank of misery, self-loathing, and wine.

Sighing, Gisborne drained his goblet and fastened his sword belt around his hips. The Sheriff awaited. There were Irish nobles to meet and English peasants to conscript.

#

Despite her insistence to maintain formal relations with Gisborne, Ajsa waited up for him, as she normally did. A few hours elapsed, and she realized he was likely not coming home. That was not unusual, since he sometimes spent the night at the castle, but he had always sent a note to inform her of the change in plan. No message came this time.

Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she went outside and peered up at the moon. It was late, probably close to early morning. The village was quiet, and the houses, except for Gisborne's, were dark. An owl hooted nearby, but apart from the periodic rustle of branches in the breeze, all was still.

Ajsa opened the stable door and felt her way to Tempest's stall. It was empty, as she'd expected it to be. A feeling akin to unease gnawed at her. Gisborne, she reasoned, might simply be acting out of anger or spite after her reproval. It would not be out of character for him to deliberately worry her, yet this time, her gut disagreed. For all his crimes and cruelty, he had at least been considerate towards her.

But her concern was hardly altruistic. Ajsa knew that if some ill had befallen him, her situation would quickly turn precarious. Though she was loath to admit it, Guy afforded her protection from lecherous men; from the slaver, Thomas; and from the Sheriff. And for that reason alone, she could not hate him.

#

Ajsa was still asleep when the guards arrived. She awoke to Mary rushing into her quarters, a frightened note in her voice.

"They've come for ye."

Ajsa, still groggy, responded in her native Hungarian.

"Kik?" She stretched and yawned, oblivious to the fact that she had not spoken English. Only when she glimpsed Mary's confused expression did she realize what she'd said. "I mean, who have come?"

"The Sheriff's guards," whispered Mary insistently. "They're askin' for ye, so I told 'em I'd fetch ye. Didn't want 'em seein' ye in a compromised state."

"Thank you, Mary," she said, grateful for the woman's kind foresight.

She exchanged her nightdress for a clean kirtle and combed hasty fingers through her brown hair. Taking a deep breath, she walked out into the main area of the house, with Mary following cautiously. Two guards sat at the table, a tankard of ale in each man's grasp. Ajsa's anger rose unbidden.

"This is the private home of Sir Guy of Gisborne," she said tartly. "You have no right to enter it without his permission."

One of the soldiers scowled, while the other laughed.

"What's a servan' doin' givin' orders to the Sheriff of Nottin'am's men?"

The better-natured guard shot his companion a withering glance. "Gisborne's finished," he informed her. "He let Hood escape one too many times, and the Sheriff finally got tired of it."

"Where is he?" Ajsa demanded.

The more cheerful of the two shrugged.

"Dead, I expect," he replied. "The Sheriff gave him to Prince John as payment. Dunno why he's better than money, but that's what's happened."

Ajsa reeled from the news. Swallowing hard, she placed a hand on the back of a chair to steady herself and looked to Mary for support. But the woman, who had recently borne Vaisey's brutality, stood meekly by the doorway. She would be of no help, then.

The ill-tempered guard had finished his ale and was moving towards her.

"The Sheriff begs the favor of a word," he said, with mock-respect. He gripped her arm and smiled lasciviously. "But after seein' ya, I think 'e'll want a bit more, don't ya, Will?"

The second man, Will, rolled his eyes.

"I don't know or care what the Sheriff intends to do with her," he said, in a bored tone. "Our orders are to bring her in, so let's get moving."

They led Ajsa outside, where two horses awaited. She expected them to tie her hands, forcing her to follow on foot, but the surly guard lifted her onto his horse and settled in behind her. Trapped within the cage of his arms, his chest pressed against her back. He radiated heat and the stench of sweat, and when he reached for the reins, a hand brushed the side of her breast. Ajsa suspected it had not been innocent.

She scooted up as far as she could, but, as she knew he would, the soldier wrapped an arm around her middle to pull her back. She jabbed her elbow into his stomach, eliciting a hiss of pain.

"Oh dear, have I hurt you?" she inquired, sounding suitably contrite. "I slid back so suddenly that I could not move my elbow out of the way in time. Do forgive me."

He muttered a curse but kept his hands to himself after that. Will glanced at her, saw her satisfied smile, and flashed her an amused if slightly disdainful smirk.

They reached the castle without further issue. Her escorts brought her to the Sheriff, whose mere presence filled her with a hint of trepidation. The man eyed her critically. His gaze lingered on her face and hands, but passed only briefly over the features that drew the interest of most other men.

With his fingers steepled under his chin, he said, "It's Ajsa, am I correct?" She stared at him, unsure what he meant. But he evidently did not seek her confirmation, because he continued without it. "That's not a name one comes across very often. In fact, I've never heard it. Why is that?"

"Because it is not English," she stated dryly.

Vaisey grinned. "That's right," he affirmed, standing and walking towards her. "So, if your name isn't English, then what is it?"

Ajsa watched him, perplexed by his questions but aware that he was either testing her or toying with her. Or both.

"It is Hungarian."

"Yes! Very good," he praised, circling her, his bejeweled tooth sparkling in his wolfish smile. "So, if your name is Hungarian, that must mean you are, too. The king of Hungary-what's his name-is obscenely wealthy, and because I need his money, you're going to get it for me."

Ajsa would have laughed had she not been wary of raising the Sheriff's ire. What he proposed was ludicrous.

"I am a slave," she reminded him. "What influence do you think I could possibly have with the king?"

Vaisey grinned again. "You're a slave now, my pretty, but you weren't always." He held up her wrist between his thumb and forefinger, tracing his other index finger over her palm. "The low-born have hands that are roughened from labor. Your hands, however, are smooth." The touch turned into a caress, and Ajsa had to resist the urge to pull away. "They're quite lovely, really. Small and delicate, as a woman's hands should be."

Vaisey dropped her wrist and regarded her seriously.

"So, Ajsa, who were you before you ran afoul of the slavers?"