Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
xxx
This was the end, it had to be. His end. His lonely end.
He was alone here. Alone with his dead Brothers. Alone with these enemies who had not been able to escape. Alone with his wounds that kept him from getting up. Alone. Alone as always. Alone in life, alone in death. Without the strength to fight it.
Obviously his fight was over.
xxx
He was alone ...
Alone ...
xxx
His fight ...
Fight ...
xxx
The trees whisper his name.
"Gisburne."
An incessant rustling comes from their leaves.
"Gisburne."
The name is thrown back from the mighty trunks, from the giants that have ruled this forest for centuries.
"Gisburne."
The name is drawn beneath the ground by the roots of the trees, but is immediately spat out again.
"Gisburne."
For a moment, the name floats above the surface of the water ... and then is drowned beneath it - oh, he knew exactly how that felt, and the memory haunted him.
"Gisburne."
The name is driven forward - like a leaf in the wind.
"Gisburne."
His name ... His name? Is it him?
Gisburne?
What is he doing in this forest?
"Gisburne!"
Where is he going?
"Gisburne!"
"Gisburne!"
"Gisburne!"
"Gisburne!"
"Stop it!" he shouts into the trees. "Stop it!"
"Gisburne!"
The knight turns and stumbles away from the trees whispering his name. But he immediately finds himself among other trees that are also whispering his name.
"Gisburne!"
He turns in another direction, but to no avail, he cannot escape them.
"Gisburne."
Suddenly there is a slope. He rolls it down. Without thinking, he spreads his arms out, hoping to stop the fall. He tries to hold on to roots and branches, but as soon as the trees and bushes begin to whisper his name, he lets go as if he has been burned. He continues to roll down the slope until a tree stops him.
Which, of course, immediately begins to murmur his name.
"Gisburne. Let go."
Gisburne covers his ears with both hands, but it is no use. He can still hear his name whispered. Again and again and again.
"Let go, Gisburne! Gisburne!"
The knight struggles to his feet. He looks around, not knowing what he is looking for at first, until he suddenly remembers that he lost his sword at the very beginning. Or maybe it was snatched from him by one of the trees.
He stumbles on. Towards the next group of trees, which immediately start murmuring his name.
"Gisburne."
As he stumbles over a root and lies there for a moment, gasping for air, he hears his name rising from the ground.
"Gisburne."
He walks on, his name driven by the wind like a leaf alongside him.
"Gisburne."
"Stop it!" he shouts again, looking for a way to get out of here. He must do it soon, or he will surely succumb to madness.
"Let go!"
But if he goes mad, it does not matter if he finds a way, for then it will not be long before he is dead. He knows that a knight cannot survive in this forest.
"Let go!"
A knight? Is he a knight?
Now he remembers. He is a knight. Do the trees think he will surrender to them? A knight would not. He is a knight! So what do they expect him to do?
"Let go!"
Gisburne senses something has changed, but he does not immediately realize what it is. But he knows it, it will surely come back to him in a moment, he just has to concentrate long enough. He will certainly succeed ... and as soon as he knows what has changed, he will ...
Rage.
That is the change.
Rage.
This emotion is very familiar to him. Suddenly he remembers that this rage has always been there. Sometimes it lies dormant, sometimes it boils, but it is always there. It is the source of his strength. It keeps him going even when everything is against him, when nothing seems possible. It is the reason he never gives up. Never. No matter what is against him.
He has never given up! He does not know what it is to give up!
He will not give up this time either. His rage will drive him on. His rage will allow him to somehow find his way out of this forest. Even if every tree and every bush whisper and murmur his name, he will find the way ...
... to St. Mary's Abbey. He has no idea how long it took him, but he found the way. Nothing else matters.
The important thing is that he did not give up. He escaped thanks to his rage. His rage at Herne, Sherwood and the trees that dared to try to drive him mad. Who tried to force him to let go and give up. He got away by simply not being made to give up. No one helped him, he alone deserves the credit for escaping his enemies.
xxx
He alone.
Alone.
He was used to being alone. He had always been alone. He could not remember it ever being any different. Now he was alone again. He was the only one left. He was alone. Like always.
And yet not like always, for he sensed that something was different. Was it his doubts? Was it that this time he did not believe he could find the strength to escape? He had searched within himself, but he could not find any rage. There was only fatigue.
He was so tired of everything. Of the battles that never ended. Of the intrigues in which he was caught like a fly in a spider's web. Of the treachery that surrounded him like the air he breathed. Most of all, he was tired of the treachery. So why should he go on?
But on the other hand ...
... on the other hand, he did not know when it was time to stop. He had never been able to tell. No one had ever shown him how to give up. And he had never figured it out for himself. Probably because he was just too stupid. The Sheriff had always said he was good for nothing. And Hood had treated him as if he could not think for himself.
But he just thought ... He thought he had survived worse. Or what?
More worse than slowly bleeding to death? What could be worse?
xxx
He cannot breathe. His mouth is open because he urgently needs to inhale. If he wants to live, he has to take a breath, but he cannot. There is no air.
He is helpless, at the mercy of his tormentors. This is indeed terrible, but ... unfortunately ... nothing new for him. He has experienced this before. To be subjected to pain is also nothing new for him, although it is terrible as well. And dying ... dying is also terrible, yet it has been part of his life for a long time. He cannot remember a time in his life when he was not in danger. So it is nothing unusual for him. It is not something that makes him furious. Even though it is terrible.
It would not be surprising if he felt rage when he recalls how many times he has stood on the threshold of the realm of the dead. But it was not like that. He knew early in his life that he should not expect to grow old. That was the price he had to pay to make his dream come true. Even as a child, he dreamed of becoming a knight. And he was and is willing to pay the price. Even though he knows that his death will be violent. And most likely painful. That does not scare him. Nor does it make him furious, for that is the way it is. Death has been a part of his life, his companion since childhood. And so familiar that he misses him when he is not there. Something that rarely happens.
There are other things that make him furious. Not being taken seriously as a knight. To be treated as if he is not worth as much as others, when he has worked so hard for everything. In such situations, his rage flares up, sometimes uncontrollably, but always as a source of strength to carry on.
And a situation like the one he is in now naturally makes him furious. And the rage gives him the strength to endure what is being done to him. It gives him the strength to hold his breath, even though he is way past the point where he should be able to. It gives him the strength to gasp for air in the brief moments when he is not underwater, even when he is vomiting water and spitting up blood. It gives him the strength to ignore the pain in his head, the cramps in his stomach, and the burning in his chest.
His rage also allows him to endure the insults hurled at him.
Perhaps it would be better for him if he had the ability to give up. Then he would have put the fights, the humiliations, the defeats, and the ridicule behind him long ago.
But he was obviously not born with that ability. Maybe it was also because he was not smart enough to know when it was time to give up. But he did not think about such things, for he had realized years ago that he would not find the answer to that question. And he did not have to, for he had something else.
Rage.
Rage at Hood and his gang for thinking they can do whatever they want to him. Rage at that witch from Elsdon, who proves incapable of doing what she was told, even though she believes her husband's life depends on it. Rage at the Sheriff for coming up with this idiotic plan. Rage at Abbot Hugo for allowing his brother to use his steward as if he were his own property. Rage at his mother, who gave birth to him as a bastard, depriving him of the chance for a better life.
It is this rage that prevents him from accepting death calmly, even though he knows that he could be spared a great deal. But peace and calm are obviously not something he has a right to. Where he is, there is no peace. He realized this a long time ago and has since accepted it. Actually, it suits him just fine, since what he has heard about peace only seems to confirm that it is boring. But he cannot stand boredom. Boredom dulls his strongest weapon, boredom dulls his rage. Without rage, he is nothing.
For Sir Guy of Gisburne there is no peace, no surrender. No matter what happens to him, no matter who he faces. No matter how overwhelming the enemy he must face alone.
Alone.
Always alone.
Always.
Alone with his rage.
Just him and his rage.
Against everyone else.
xxx
And now his rage had abandoned him as well. Now he was truly alone. But had it really gone, or was it just hiding from him? Was it possible that he simply could not find it? He could not imagine it, but... if it really had abandoned him, what was left of him? What was he then?
Nothing.
And if he was nothing, what reason did he have to go on? But did he need a reason? Had he ever needed a reason? Other than the conviction that he could not give up.
Why did he need a reason now?
He had no answer to that question. And no one else could give him one, for he was alone. No one else was there. Everyone else had left this place of death. Only those who had not made it were still there. But none of them could give him an answer. Either he would find it himself, or ...
... or what? Would it help him to find an answer? Would it help him if he was clever enough? Clever enough? He had never considered himself clever! If he had to describe himself, he would certainly not use that word. He was not clever, he was stubborn, unyielding ... furious, ...
He was ...
His mind could not come up with anything else, but his body was telling him that he was hungry. And his body should know, for this was not a new experience for it either.
xxx
He was hungry.
Had been for days.
Without any hope that things will get better.
He knows that, but it does not change his rage. He is so furious that he can ignore the growl of his empty stomach. He is so furious that he does not mind settling for what little he has. He is so furious that he does not care how long it takes.
In the beginning it had been different. In the beginning, he had hoped that they would not go hungry for too long. He had hoped that the King - or at least his commanders - would send an army as soon as possible to free the city from the stranglehold of the enemy. Soldiers, mercenaries, knights, and even squires - in other words, every combatant who had been present in Argentan since the siege began - had been ordered to stand ready. For Guy, this meant that their commanders assumed that the whole affair would not last too long and that they would soon have the opportunity to break out. So he had practiced patience, as his knight had repeatedly urged him to do, for it was not something that came easily to him. He had practiced patience and tried to control his rage about the French taking them by surprise.
But nothing happened. No army came. No one came to free the people trapped inside. They continued to starve. They continued to die. One by one. Not at the hands of the enemy, but simply from lack of strength to carry on. And they still do. Starving and dying.
But Guy is not ready to surrender to hunger. He did not follow his knight to Normandy to die like that. That is not worthy of a knight or a knight-to-be. He came to this side of the Channel because he felt - and still feels - that it was his duty to protect his country. And because one does not shirk one's duty to one's King just because it is difficult to fulfill. Even the fact that there is not enough to eat does not absolve you from that duty. If there is one thing he learned in his childhood, it is that there is nothing more important than duty.
Even for someone like him.
Especially for someone like him.
Of course, there was another important reason for him to come to Normandy. He was here to earn his knighthood. But how could he achieve that goal if he gave up and died?
Of course, there were always circumstances beyond his control. He was aware that there were things he could not change. He was and is prepared to die in battle. But no one had prepared him for hunger, and he simply had not expected it. No one had ever mentioned that knights - or even squires - could starve. And he was not the only one who was surprised. But many who have had to face this realization now say that it is easier to surrender to death. And they seem to assume that this is how he sees it. Do they really think he is willing to do that? Do they not see that this is cowardice?
He hates cowardice!
It makes him furious.
But that should not surprise anyone, for there are many things that make him furious. Some just a little, some more, and then there are things that make him so furious that he will not let any obstacle stand in his way. Hunger undoubtedly falls into the latter category. And here it is in the same category as his mother and her husband. But also in the same category as the knowledge that he is a bastard. But here - in Argentan - there is only hunger, and he can focus all his rage on it.
And that rage gives him the strength to go on where others cannot. It gives him the strength not to give up like others. But his rage also prevents him from accepting the inevitable.
That would probably not change for the rest of his life, no matter how short or long it might be. After all, he had never learned to give up quietly. And he had no intention of learning.
xxx
Was this to be the end?
Had he learned to give up? Could he finally go quietly?
Guy frowned as he became aware of the thoughts running through his head. Should he really give up? Should he 'let his light die', as one of his old teachers used to say? The knight could almost hear the monk's voice as if he were standing right next to him: "Imagine people's lives like the stars in the sky, my boy. Imagine how they twinkle and shine. Imagine that beauty. But if they're not careful, if they assume it will always be like this, if they don't make an effort, then their shine will fade. And before they know it, their light will have died. Even before their time has come. Take care, my boy, so that you don't end up like this." These words had impressed him so much that he had actually tried to live up to them. He had tried hard not to let his light die. Did the monk know then that he was incapable of giving up?
But even though he had tried to follow that advice, he was sure that his teacher would not like his way of life. Rage had never pleased him, he did not like it. But that was all right, he was a monk and Guy was not. The monastic life had never appealed to him, even though he respected his teacher. But the boy could not afford to give up his rage, and neither could the man the boy had grown into. Not to mention that there were so many things that fueled his rage.
Thinking about the reasons and causes was useless, and yet he could not suppress the thoughts and memories.
First of all, there were his parents, who had given him a heavy burden to carry in life. There was his stepfather, who had been the first to try to divert him from his path.
There were all the men who refused to take him seriously. Men who wanted to keep him small. Like Hugo de Rainault, who thought he could fob him off with promises of the afterlife. Like his brother Robert, who tried to turn him into a caricature of a knight. Like Robin Hood - first one, then the other - who thought he could make a mockery of the knight's notions of duty and observance of the law. The Earl of Gloucester had abused his oath and dragged him into the mire of his conspiracies. The Grand Master had made promises to lure him into the Order, but when he had the chance to keep them, he wanted nothing to do with them.
Were these not enough reasons to be furious?
Sure, and now he knew it once again.
He was furious. A moment ago, he had thought that his rage had left him, but now he knew that he had been wrong. His rage was still there. It had just been dormant, and he had only thought it was gone. But now he could feel it growing stronger again.
His rage was there to give him strength. Once again.
Enough strength to resist the false promise of peace. Enough strength not to give up.
Enough strength not to let his light die.
Enough strength ...
... to believe in himself.