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[Morgan]

Morgan's hand plucked the wineskin out of the darkness. Abandoning his knife, he pulled out the stopper and raised the skin to his lips. He drank deeply, the acrid taste of the wine filling his mouth. The alcohol fuelled him, coarsing through his veins. "Don't speak to me in that tone, wench!" Morgan retaliated. "I owe you no explanation except that I had a nightmare." Much as he would have liked to have told Devon the reason behind his fear, Morgan knew that she would leave the farm, thinking him a lunatic.

Taking the blanket off his bed, he wrapped it around his shoulders and raised the wineskin again, this time savouring the taste rather than gulping it down. A drop ran down his chin, but Morgan wiped it away with the back of his hand. "I thank you for your concern, Devon, but what do you want me to say? I had a bad dream and it spooked you." Morgan shrugged his shoulders, then held out the wineskin for her. "Take some wine. It'll help you go back to sleep." He averted his eyes, not wanting her to see into his soul. He hoped to God that she would be fobbed off by his explanation, but doubted it. Devon seemed to have the habit of sniffing out answers.

[Devon Creek]

When Morgan snapped at her, Devon recoiled slightly. It brought back some not-too-pleasant memories of her father. She began rubbing her right forearm worriedly, her fingers tracing the all too familiar branded symbols.

Stop it! she told herself sharply and forced her ears to hear what he was saying.

"I owe you no explanation except that I had a nightmare." He said, but she just crossed her arms at him.

"No explanation? You nearly tried to kill be back there, and I get no explanation?!" She snapped. Did he really think she was going to settle for that. "A bit old for nightmares, aren't we?" she asked before she could stop herself. She was willing to bet she'd pay for that snide remark.

Suddenly his attitude changed and he informed her politely that it was just a dream. She swatted the proffered wineskin away and glared at him, waiting for his to return her gaze.

"Cut the formality, and the business talk," her voice cracked through the night air like a whip. "Don't talk down to me. If I'm working and living here, I'd better know what the hell just went on and why. Else you can expect to see me here every time you cry loud enough to wake the dead." She'd crossed the room now, and wanted nothing more than to reach out and turn his head to face her. She might have overstepped her boundaries, but she didn't care. If was trying to keep her blind from the horrors he'd witnessed or protect his ego, it was a wasted effort.

[Morgan]

With a small sigh, Morgan abandoned the wineskin, leaving it on the bed. Shrugging the blanket off his shoulders, he stood up in front of Devon. He was so close that he could feel her warm breath on his bare chest. Morgan looked down into her upturned face (scuse pose), searching it, questing with his own eyes. Then slowly he blinked and turned around. The smooth skin of his back was crisscrossed with scars. They were old wounds, now hard weals on his flesh. “How much do you know about my life before I returned to England?” Morgan asked softly, keeping his back turned. It seemed easier for him to talk when he wasn’t looking at her. “I think you know I was a Crusader, do you not?” Morgan turned his head and half glanced over his shoulder before returning his gaze to the dark night outside his window. “During one of King Richard’s attempts at recapturing Jerusalem, I was taken prisoner by Saladin’s army.” He paused for moment, inhaling deeply. Perhaps it was his mind playing tricks on him or not but, as Morgan mentioned it, he could have sworn he could smell the heat and stench of that Saracen prison.

“I was their captive for two very long years. Not in the best of conditions either. There must have been at least 30 of us all crammed together in little more than a holding pen. It was hot, stinking and disease ridden. Every day, we were given only enough bread and water to survive. I suppose, they wanted to keep us weak so that we couldn’t fight back. At night, the screams and cries of the prisoners they were torturing kept us awake.” He took a shuddering breath as he remembered his dream and the piteous screeches that had haunted it. “The only way I can describe it is as Hell on Earth, Devon,” Morgan continued. “We were little better than animals to the Saracens. I was brought so low that many a time I prayed I would die.” He swallowed hard as the emotion threatened to choke him and a sob escaped from his lips. “And then, one morning, about six months ago now, Saladin’s emissary came to the gaol. King Richard had found out about my imprisonment and petitioned for my release. I’m told he paid a hefty ransom as well.” Morgan bowed his head. “I returned to the English camp and, after an audience with the King, I was given this farm, enough gold to live on and sent home.”

The condensed version of his tale told, Morgan turned back to face Devon. “So there you have it. I lived the nightmare and it still holds me in its grip. I still hear the screams and pain of my companions. I’m still tormented by the fact that I escaped and they didn’t.”

[Devon Creek]

Two strange feelings swept through Devon, neither of which she enjoyed. The first was guilt, something she'd never experienced before. It felt like a pit had developed in her stomach. But she shooed it away quickly, thankful that its effects were short-lived. The second emotion was one she had felt before, though not often. Sympathy was something she had never been good at. Why should see feel sorry for other people when they didn't feel sorry for her? People didn't need sympathy in her mind. People should learn to move on from their past demons. The sympathy stayed with her a bit longer, but found it weakened the less she saw of his scars.

When he faced her again, she could see how dark his eyes were, but it had little effect on her this time. "Well, we all have our stories, don't we." She said, her voice still too sharp and brittle. But the silence and the despair in Morgan's voice unsettled her. She was a person fueled on rage and anger; that's what she knew how to handle. She could put up with her father's yells or her mother's screams. She'd just yelled back, but this was harder. Without knowing it, he was forcing her to act in a way she never had before. She forced the new feelings away and set her jaw.

"You think the Holy Lands were Hell on Earth?" She wanted to scream at him, make him angry. But most of all, she didn'twant to feel for him. "Over half my life was spent in prisons. I was sentenced to swing more times than you could imagine. Do you know what they do to people like me? Have you ever been locked in a cell with five men who see you as little more than a plaything? You don't get sympathy because you're a girl. They want to test your boundaries, see how far they can push you before you scream for help. And if you just sit back and bite your tongue, it only gets worse. They want nothing more than to see your pretty little face covered in tears, so they can dry them off and start all over again! And your family isn't there to help, else they get caught! Then all you hear about is how it was your fault, how stupid you were." Her chest heaved with laboured breaths and her cheeks were flushed with anger. "Don't ever talk to me about Hell on Earth."

She didn't want to think about it, but her kept bringing up memories, sounds, things that made her retch. Adrenaline course though her veins, echos of pain attacked her limbs, her own screams teared at her skull. Feelings rushed through that she hated. Guilt, sympathy, agony, fear all made her head spin. Without thinking she snatched up the wineskin and drank as much as she could manage, trying to douse the flames inside her.

[Morgan]

Morgan was rendered momentarily speechless at Devon’s outburst. She carried scars too, but whereas his were on his back, hers were hidden inside. What was the likelihood that two damaged people, such as themselves, would find each other? Perhaps it was not surprising that he’d had the niggling feeling since they'd met that she needed him as much as he needed her.

“You have my promise, Devon,” He said softly, his voice cracking with emotion, “That no one will touch you unless you wish it. No one will force their attentions on you whilst you're under my roof.” Morgan felt confused by his conflicting feelings towards the girl. On one hand, he felt protective towards her, like an older brother. But, there was no denying the fact that she was a desirable young woman. However, after what she'd just told him, Morgan knew that any such thoughts of that nature were inappropriate, probably unwelcome on her part. He looked at the wineskin in her hand then leaned towards Devon and took it from her. Putting the stopper firmly in the end, Morgan put the wineskin back on the table. "One thing I've learned is that heavy drinking doesn't make the pain go away. It'll just give you a bad head in the morning."

Picking up his discarded blanket, Morgan held it out to Devon. "Take it, the night's turning chilly." He told her. Morgan didn't really know how to handle her in such a volatile state. Whatever he did, would Devon think he was trying to come on to her? "It seems we have more in common that I thought," Morgan added as he reached for the wineskin again and passed it to her. "Sip it this time."

[Devon Creek]

When Morgan looked down, Devon had to avert her eyes. She didn't want his pity. She wanted to tell him that she was fine and she she didn't need sympathy from the likes of him. She'd moved on from that pain; she was fine now.

Only she wasn't. A small part of her wanted his compassion. She wanted someone to understand the pain she'd gone through.
That part of her, the one that wanted help and compassion, had been suppressed for so long. Her entire life, she supposed. Her father had always told her that it was weak to need other people, so she tried not to. And in a way, she never did. She'd been denied that humanity her whole life and now this man, someone she barely knew, was offering it to her. It made her eyes well-up, another weakness. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, but not before a few silent ones fell. This night was just too much for her.

Having someone know her weakness was hard, but felt good somehow. When his voice cracked, her heart lurched and something gripped at her stomach. She couldn't figure out what it was, but it made her chest tight.

She let Morgan pry the wineskin from her shaking fingers but shook her head when he offered the blanket. It took her a moment to find her voice before she responded.

"You're the one without a shirt," she said, a weak smile flickering across her face. She put the wine back on the table then turned to Morgan. "I-I'll..." She struggled for something to say, but couldn't find the words, afraid more of her weaknesses would come if she spent anymore time with him tonight. She needed somewhere to think properly. And, if she was being honest, somewhere to let what was tightening her chest out. She gave a weak smile, but her eyes softened, her once cold, harsh steel melting into a warmer gaze. He cares was all she could think as she ran down the stairs and out past the gate to the river.

[Morgan]

"You're the one without a shirt," she said, a weak smile flickering across her face.

Morgan gave a small smile. "Yes, you're right." he replied, moving towards the clothes press with the intention of getting a clean shirt on his back but he stopped and turned back towards her when it seemed that Devon was going to say something else.

"I-I'll" she started to say then ran from the room. Morgan took a step towards her, his hand outstretched as though he was trying to stop her. "Devon?" He called, bewildered. Then he allowed his hand to drop. "Don't go." Morgan whispered at the empty space where she'd been. His heart sank and Morgan was quite at a loss to understand why that should be. Thoughtfully, he retraced his steps to the clothes press, opened it and took out his only other shirt. Slipping it over his head, Morgan went over what had just happened in his mind, analysing it carefully to see if it was his fault and what he'd done to upset the girl.

Slowly, Morgan paced up and down his bedroom. What should he do? He glanced over at the wineskin on the table. Perhaps a drink would help him. Reaching out for it, Morgan stopped, his hand hovering mid air. "No, not this time," He decided firmly, clenching his hand so that his finger nails dug into the flesh of his palm. Tilting his head, Morgan listened carefully, hearing the sounds of the old farmhouse settling around him with creaking beams and floorboards but no sounds to suggest that Devon was still in the house.

Now Morgan started to feel worried. Grabbing his discarded boots, he padded downstairs. A quick cursory glance around the hall and kitchen told him that she wasn't anywhere to be found. Returning to the hall, Morgan sat in his chair and pulled on his boots. The main door to the farmhouse moved gently. A light wind had got up since he'd retired to bed. The wooden latch crashed against the door frame as the breeze caught it. Morgan opened the door and looked out across the dark yard. There was no sound or movement to betray where she was. "Devon?" Morgan called, wondering where she was and why she'd suddenly fled.

[Devon Creek]

Devon ran, willing her legs to take her as far as they could. She was running to have an excuse for not being able to breathe. She ran until she winced in pain so she'd have a reason for the tears. It was late and the moon was hidden by the encroaching trees, leaving Devon to run in darkness. In the distance she could hear her name being called, but it only made her run faster. She wanted be far away from Morgan, as far as she could be. She didn't want his help, or sympathy, or anything. It had been a mistake to even agree to work with him.

Devon's legs gave out from underneath her and she disappeared into the tall grass growing on the banks of the river. There, she let the pounding of her heart and her heavy breaths consume her until that was all she could think about. It was peaceful in a way. All she could hear was the thud thud thud of her heart hammering and uneven sound of air rushing into and out of her lungs. But her peace was short lived; all too soon her heart returned to normal and she caught her breath. Then her mind spun.

Everything she'd thought while running was a lie now. She didn't want to be away from Morgan; she wanted his help, his sympathy, his humanity. She'd worked with him for a reason. But she didn't have her excuses anymore, so she had no excuse for the tears that ran down her face. A different pain filled her chest, one she knew wasn't physical.

Devon screamed in frustration, letting her hands beat against the soft dirt. It was like there was a bloody war going on inside her and the side she wanted to win was losing. She wanted to pick up everything, say a few choice words to Morgan and move on. She didn't want the drama or the pain he brought with him, but new feeling tugged at her. Compassion, guilt, a want for something she'd been denied of her whole life.

But she'd be damned before she went back and begged for forgiveness. With that as her new strength, she stood and took off again, running away from Morgan and his baggage and his stupid humanity, and running to the horizon, wherever it took her.

[Allan A'Dale]

Allan was bivouaced down by the river's edge, snoozing in the moonlight. He was a fairly accomplished fisherman, and often seized the chance to take a night by himself to land the gang some more varied sustenance.

It was true that often you'd make a better catch in darkness, and lately he'd found himself actually volunteering to go out. Of course, he didn't always find the river, often ended up at the pub instead; but he was pretty sure that he brought enough home on his 'lucky' nights that the others weren't too bothered by the occasions when he came home empty-handed.

This evening he'd done well; aside from the rainbow trout that was now a mere skeleton - not as if he didn't deserve a reward for his efforts, after all - his keepnet held a brace of carp and a fat tench as well. But by now it was really early morning and he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

A scream shot through the silence of the night, jerking him painfully from his comfortable drowsing. He wasn't sure at first whether it was human or animal, but he wasn't going to sit there and wonder. As quietly as he could muster, he pulled his sword belt on and clambered to his feet, wincing as his sleepy muscles objected. Just as he started in the direction of the noise, he heard footsteps thudding towards him - most definitely human. But was it the one who'd screamed, or the one who'd caused it?

He drew his sword- he'd only brought one for something as simple as a night's fishing- and called into the darkness:

"You can stop right there, mate. Care to tell me what's going on?"

[Devon Creek]

Devon winced as she ran through a large growth of thick reeds, their woody stems scratching her legs. She swore under her breath as little drops of blood stained her trousers but kept running. Not paying attention to where she was going, she actually ran into Allan. At his question, she tried to push him aside.

"I don't have to stop. I'm not stopping." She groaned. She wanted to keep running, but she was only a few steps away from Allan when her legs gave out again. Sinking into the tall grass, she gasped for breath. She wiped at her face to clear it of the tears that had fallen and was surprised to see that they were still falling.

"Go away," she croaked at Allan, trying desperately to stop crying. She never cried, she never needed to cry. Crying was a weakness. She sniffed, managing to slow the tears and tried to get up again with little success.

[Allan A'Dale]

Devon came careening out of the darkness and ran full-pelt into him. She was going at a fair clip; if he hadn't been in a fighting stance she would have probably knocked him flat on his back. He could barely make out her words, she was so out of breath, but he could well understand her sentiment. By the time he'd collected himself enough to reply she was striking out again, although she didn't make it further than a couple of yards before she fell to her knees in the waist-high grass.

"Look, I didn't mean..." he began, then started again, speaking softly; "I thought someone was getting robbed, or worse. Is someone after you?"

She just hissed at him to get lost. He relaxed a little; probably meant that she was on her own out here. Didn't mean he was planning on leaving.

Still, Allan let her have a few minutes to herself, to calm down and catch her breath. Walking back to his makeshift camp he picked up an empty waterskin and shoved it under the surface of the fast-flowing river. Glancing up in her direction, he noted that she was striving to be up and off again. He jogged back over to her and put a hand on Devon's shoulder, staying her for a second and waving the bottle in her face.

"Have some of this," he offered, "it's fresh out the river, proper cold."

She was clearly upset - that was an understatement - and he wasn't going to push her for the reasons right now. But he was equally determined not to have her roaming Nottingham in the pitch black in her current state.

[Devon Creek]

At Allan's touch, Devon shook off his hand, but took the drink. "I staying here long enough to catch my breath, then I'm off to Nottingham, or York, or somewhere that isn't here." She told him while drinking. She tried to make her voice stronger, to get the thick sound to tears out of her tone. She looked up at the outlaw and grimaced at what she saw in his face.

"Not you too," she snapped, noting the worry she mistook for pity. She threw the waterskin at him and took off again, walking instead. "Can you people just not care?" she yelled back. She was sick and tired of this; she wanted her old life back. She didn't want the compassion that seemed to find her in Nottingham. Part of her yearned for it, yes, but she wasn't going to breakdown in front of him. Not after what happened at the Trip. He already knew some of her weaker points, and she didn't want him to see the rest.

[Morgan]

Morgan stood alone in the farm yard. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he could make out the shapes of the barn and stables, where he could hear Pilgrim moving restlessly in his stall. Relying on his sense of hearing and limited vision, Morgan slowly walked around his farm house, listening carefully in the hope of hearing where Devon was hiding. He was still confused about how she interpreted what had happened earlier and why she'd suddenly taken flight. As far as he was concerned, they'd just about reached an understanding of each other but now, Morgan realised that he didn't really know Devon at all.

Far off, across the meadow, the sound of an angry shriek penetrated the air. He started, suddenly alerted by the sound. Morgan stalked forwards three paces until he came to the fence. There, he rested his hand on the top bar, straining his eyes against the darkness to see across the meadow. "Devon?" he called again, feeling like a fool. The piercing cry of a vixen rode the night air and Morgan relaxed. It must have been the fox that he'd heard before. Down in the village, a dog barked in response.

Morgan gave a sigh. Wherever she was, he had no doubt that she'd turn up in her own time. Reluctantly, he returned to the farmhouse and, stepping into the hall, he closed the door but didn't pull the bolt across. It didn't feel right to bar the door when Devon was still out there. Dismissing the idea of returning to his bed, Morgan settled down in a chair in front of the fire. Despite the fact that it was still several hours before dawn, he felt that sleep would evade him. Morgan stared into the embers of the fire, alone with only his thoughts.

[Allan A'Dale]

Allan caught the vessel clumsily as Devon flung it at him and swore as it soaked his sleeve.

He started after her but hung back, knowing full well the trying to physically stop her would earn him a black eye, or worse.

"Look, Devon; hold up a minute," he asked in a concilliatory tone, keeping pace a few yards behind her. "I'm not interested in what's happened or where you're going, but I wouldn't let anyone I knew leave town in the middle of the night on an empty stomach. I mean, I know you'll probably have nicked a horse in half an hour, but you know as well as I do that a day's travel is best done on a night's rest. I've got a load of fresh fish back there-" he pointed with his thumb, "-an' a spare blanket. You don't even have to stay, you can take it with you if you want. It's up to you."

His piece said, he slowed. If Devon was insistent on being alone, he wasn't going to push it. He knew she was more than capable of fending for herself, and he wasn't about to start patronising her. If her mind was made up, there wasn't anything he could do about it.

[Devon Creek]

Devon slowed at Allan's words and came to a stop a few yards from him. She wasn't hungry, the stew still felt warm inside of her, but Morgan's nightmare had snapped her awake and the strain from running as far as she had was starting to take effect on her. With a soft moan, she turned back and stopped in front of him long enough to say "sleep." She followed his gaze to the small camp he'd set up and sat by a low fire.

Exhaustion began to take over her, and with it she stopped worrying about not needing anybody or her weaknesses. She swore in a fluent stream for a few moments as she realized what she'd just done. "I've just mucked everything up," she admitted. "I just ran from him," she looked over her shoulder in the direction of the farm, though it had faded into the distance a while ago. Another wave of guilt swept through her but she didn't fight it this time. Instead she just groaned and fell back onto the prickly grass. "I just can't handle it...this..." she sighed and pulled her arms around her, the loose cotton shirt doing little to keep her warm.

"I should just go back to York and admit defeat, or Durham or Scarborough." She admitted finally at Allan, though she wasn't sure if he'd been listening at all. "Seems like a good decision now,"