![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
[Interlude: The Greenwood]
Jan. 3rd, 2025 11:32 amSomehow, the summer has been worse than the long winter--for in the winter, at least John could drink himself stupid and then hole up to sleep like a great bear. But as the spring came, and the snowmelt ran in a great shimmering curtain down the walls of the cave, and the tender green shoots pushed out from the earth like they were trying to hold the sun ... still no horn sounded in the forests, and no merry laughter rang through the greenwood.
He's let himself go, without anyone to bully into cutting his hair or trimming his beard. He still hunts, now and then, but it feels like animal survival, without his merry men to herald the hart with whoops and cheers.
He ought to go among the people at the mansion, he knows, but the longer he's apart from them, the less he knows how to be with them. There was a time when he could charm a laugh out of anyone with a quick joke or a twinkling smile--and charm the gold from their pockets, too. But here, no one carries gold, and so Little John is robbed even of the sport of fleecing them.
(Well--there was the orgy; his lips twitch to think of how he'd stolen all those goodfolk's clothes. A bright little spot in the long dark.)
He's tired, is what he is. Tired of not being where he belongs. He's walked every deer-trail through the forests, explored the shadowed ways where trees bend into each other until they form a shape like a great arched door; he's even stood beside Ragnelle's bower in the driving snow, begging. He's brought her milk, hasn't he? He's been a good host for the fair folk, hasn't he? Could she not work a bit fairy magic to take him home?
But Ragnelle slept on, and Little John returned to his cave to whittle arrows and drink.
The season is turning again--toward autumn, now, green leaves starting to burn golden. Little John knows that he should raid the mansion's cellars once more, and start laying in beer for winter, but he can't find it in him to do it. What's the purpose of a dozen barrels of good ale--or a hundred--without Will and Robin to share them with? What's the purpose of Little John?
He sits on a stone at the edge of the lake, bow unstrung beside him as he carves a month's worth of beard from his chin. The scrape of the knife is the only sound that breaks the quiet.
Then John hears a horn winding from far away, and for the first time in a long time, his heart leaps.
He abandons his half-shorn beard. He sheathes his knife and gathers up his bow, slinging it over his back. Boots, on; he spares a moment of thanks to the Virgin that he's worn his Lincoln green today, when he's spent so many days puttering around the cave in a grubby white t-shirt full of holes where the fire's shed sparks.
Then he takes off through the forest, bounding like a stag, following the sound of the horn as each blast grows louder and nearer--
--until at last, he stands once more before Robin Hood.
Robin looks the same as he had the day Little John left, with his fox-fine features and his auburn hair still picked out in red and silver where the summer sun had touched it. He grins, and it's a revelation. It's a homecoming.
"Robin," says John, and very bravely manages not to fall to his knees and kiss Robin's feet.
"John," Robin answers. He reaches out, thumb brushing the boundary-line between John's smooth cheek and his beard. "I've been searching for thee everywhere. What happened to half of thy beard?"
"I'll tell thee as we walk," John promises. "It's a long, strange story, and thou wilt not believe the half of it."
"Well enough," laughs Robin--and when he pulls John down to kiss, John goes. "Let's take thee home."
[Little John will no longer be an active character at DesperateFans.]
He's let himself go, without anyone to bully into cutting his hair or trimming his beard. He still hunts, now and then, but it feels like animal survival, without his merry men to herald the hart with whoops and cheers.
He ought to go among the people at the mansion, he knows, but the longer he's apart from them, the less he knows how to be with them. There was a time when he could charm a laugh out of anyone with a quick joke or a twinkling smile--and charm the gold from their pockets, too. But here, no one carries gold, and so Little John is robbed even of the sport of fleecing them.
(Well--there was the orgy; his lips twitch to think of how he'd stolen all those goodfolk's clothes. A bright little spot in the long dark.)
He's tired, is what he is. Tired of not being where he belongs. He's walked every deer-trail through the forests, explored the shadowed ways where trees bend into each other until they form a shape like a great arched door; he's even stood beside Ragnelle's bower in the driving snow, begging. He's brought her milk, hasn't he? He's been a good host for the fair folk, hasn't he? Could she not work a bit fairy magic to take him home?
But Ragnelle slept on, and Little John returned to his cave to whittle arrows and drink.
The season is turning again--toward autumn, now, green leaves starting to burn golden. Little John knows that he should raid the mansion's cellars once more, and start laying in beer for winter, but he can't find it in him to do it. What's the purpose of a dozen barrels of good ale--or a hundred--without Will and Robin to share them with? What's the purpose of Little John?
He sits on a stone at the edge of the lake, bow unstrung beside him as he carves a month's worth of beard from his chin. The scrape of the knife is the only sound that breaks the quiet.
Then John hears a horn winding from far away, and for the first time in a long time, his heart leaps.
He abandons his half-shorn beard. He sheathes his knife and gathers up his bow, slinging it over his back. Boots, on; he spares a moment of thanks to the Virgin that he's worn his Lincoln green today, when he's spent so many days puttering around the cave in a grubby white t-shirt full of holes where the fire's shed sparks.
Then he takes off through the forest, bounding like a stag, following the sound of the horn as each blast grows louder and nearer--
--until at last, he stands once more before Robin Hood.
Robin looks the same as he had the day Little John left, with his fox-fine features and his auburn hair still picked out in red and silver where the summer sun had touched it. He grins, and it's a revelation. It's a homecoming.
"Robin," says John, and very bravely manages not to fall to his knees and kiss Robin's feet.
"John," Robin answers. He reaches out, thumb brushing the boundary-line between John's smooth cheek and his beard. "I've been searching for thee everywhere. What happened to half of thy beard?"
"I'll tell thee as we walk," John promises. "It's a long, strange story, and thou wilt not believe the half of it."
"Well enough," laughs Robin--and when he pulls John down to kiss, John goes. "Let's take thee home."
[Little John will no longer be an active character at DesperateFans.]
