A Black Christmas

Honest Friend?

The woman remained silent. For someone tied to a chair she looked... almost serene. 

"I asked you a question," Gisborne challenged, the 'k' in 'ask' drunkenly absent.

The girl straightened her back, raised her chin a little and looked him over. Her soft, clear eyes roved his face, calm as you please. Guy thought she was too calm; she was probably confident of being rescued.

"You are asking the wrong question," the young woman challenged, a hint of a smile ghosting soft lips.

Gisborne's temper spiked at her provocation and he leaned in sharply, his bare feet deliberately nudging the instep of her boots, widening the spread of her legs. He had not expected this from her, had he made a grave misjudgement? Grabbing a chair arm for support with his knifeless hand, he put his lips to her ear; his tone was a seducer's, his question an interrogator's. As he spoke the knight tapped the blade of his knife on the leather jerkin directly over her heart; every tap a staccato beat accompanying each word.

"Does. Locksley. Know. You. Are. Here?" the Master at Arms ground out. With the last tap, he left the blade pressed firmly on his prisoner's chest, a conduit for her heart's frantic beating. The girl's feet began pressing back against his own, as much as her bonds would allow, and a stuttered gasp stuck in her throat.

Not so bloody calm now!

He felt rather than saw her slowly shake her head as a tendril of hair near her ear brushed his nose. She smelled of honey and fresh air. He did not move.

"No?" Guy qualified, as his distracted mind caught up.

"No," the woman muttered. "Robin wouldn't understand."

"Understand what?" he prodded.

"Why I keep coming here," she answered, as a soft blush appeared on her cheek.

Gisborne had no reason to doubt she was telling the truth; but then she would, wouldn't she? He was interrogating her while stinking like tavern slops. He was pushing her legs apart with his feet, had his blade at her breast and his lips at her ear – all while she was tied to a chair.

"Will you give me up to Vaisey again?" the woman blurted, her voice faintly tremulous. She was asking the right question.

Tendrils of shame budded in his chest – these were Vaisey's tactics - yet he could not pull himself away. It was an intoxicating moment of power, where he felt in control and knew exactly what he was doing. Guy felt calmer now that his prisoner was talking; getting them to start was always the hardest. He thought her a liar, but could he throw her at Vaisey's mercy? If he answered honestly, he would lose the upper hand. A flicker of indecision crossed his face.

"Why do you keep coming back?" he repeated. Their 'conversation' was becoming a messy dance, with one skirting the other, questions remaining unanswered.

"You know why," she murmured into his hair. He still had not moved.

"Do I now?" he growled. "I find you creeping about in the dark, un... un..." Gisborne groped for the right word, and then nodded once in mild triumph – his nose nearly hitting her shoulder - as he delivered it, "Uninvited."

"Will you give me up to Vaisey?" she repeated.

With a sigh, Guy pulled his feet away from hers, leaned back and put his blade next to him on the table; she was securely tethered, he had no need of it now. They stared at each other - the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and their breathing – and Gisborne absently reached for some bread from the table. The girl's eyes followed the crust as it moved from the table to his mouth and Guy wondered if she were hungry. It was probably feast or famine, living in the forest.