InsaneJournal

WHO: John, Eleanor
WHAT: John's hit rock bottom
WHEN: Wednesday 25th Jan, morning
WHERE: somewhere quiet and restful.
NOTE: Reposted as a favour, originally posted by John and Eleanor



John spent the night in a jail cell.

The first hour, he threw himself at the walls, raging until he exhausted himself, then he sat on his cot and chewed his fingers until they bled. He didn't sleep at all the entire night.

When morning came, John was disoriented and silent, and the guard had to bodily lift him to his feet to get him up.

"You're free to go," he was told, but there was a car waiting out front for him to get into, so he knew he wasn't free. He just felt numb and ill. He curled up on the back seat, chewing on his thumbnail, eyes red and wide, not paying attention to where they were going.

When he was assisted out of the car by men in white uniforms, John began to take things in again, but dully, with little interest. He was helped into a wheelchair and pushed down a carefully calm corridor into a sunny, friendly, calm room.

"Here we are, Mr Haveland," the cheerful orderly said, parking the wheelchair in a patch of sunlight. "Welcome to Avonlea. We'll have to do something about your fingers, won't we?" John said nothing, didn't even look at the man, even when he was patted on the shoulder and helped out of his rumpled suit into a pair of pyjamas that were white with little boats on them. He was told where the bathroom was, told when dinner would be, told he was sure to feel better soon. And then he was left on his own at last, in carefully calm silence. He felt like he was going to be sick.

It had been Eleanor's idea to send John to Avonlea. After everything with Robin and Richard, she had a feeling he could certainly use the break. She was going to come and get him once she was fully satisfied that he was better, but lord only knew when that might be. Still, that didn't mean she couldn't visit him.

She inquired after him at the desk, and an orderly showed her to where John's room. He didn't look at all well. "John?" she asked softly. "How are you feeling, love?"

Eleanor's voice broke through to John, and he turned his head slightly towards her. "Go away," he croaked, turning his back to her and hunching his shoulders. "You've come to laugh at me too."

"Yes, because that's exactly the kind of thing I'd do," Eleanor replied with a snort. She found a chair and seated herself, not too close because she didn't want to crowd him. "I just want you to be yourself again," she went on. "Everything seemed to be falling on you at once. I only wanted to help."

John's mouth turned downwards, and he looked down at his hands. "Why do they all hate me so much? They just laugh at me. They don't respect me." His lower lip wobbled slightly. "Richard-" He cut off, unable to speak for a moment.

Eleanor swallowed a sigh. Until John learned that he had had a hand in getting himself in this spot, nothing would ever change. And she didn't ever see that happening, so she had to work with what she had. Which, unfortunately, was rather limited.

"They don't hate you, love, they just...don't understand you," she said at last. "If it'll make you feel better, just forget about Richard for a while. Right now, this is about you getting better."

John found himself tearing up and before he could stop himself, bursting into big fat blobby tears, bawling like a child as he fell to his knees and crawled to cling to his mother's skirt. "Why don't you love me best, Mother?" he wailed, voice wobbling and pathetic. "It's not fair, it's not faaaair! I hate him I hate him I hate him!" He ground his teeth at the miserable injustice, making strangled noises of pain and frustration.

Eleanor refused to jump back from her son crying on the ground at her feet, she merely hauled him up by his arm and drew him in close. "Shh, love, don't fret," she whispered. "I have always, and will always, love you. Never doubt that for a moment." She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the tears off his face. "I'm your mother. Death itself cannot stop me from loving any of my children, and I'd like to see Him try."

"It's not fair," John sniveled, cuddling against his mother's lap. "Everyone hates me because I inherited Richard's mess. They all love him even though he was a stupid king. Maybe- maybe I wasn't the best at everything, but- but I wanted to make things good," he said, completely believing what he'd told himself over the years. He conveniently forgot how petty, nasty, and selfish he had been while king, and only remembered trying to hold onto a kingdom who held him up to his brother's high standards and expected things he couldn't give.

"None of us were the best at everything we did, dear," Eleanor murmured, stroking his hair. "I know you wanted to make things good. You applied the laws to all free men, you always were interested in meting out justice. You and Richard were different kinds of kings, to compare you is probably not all that fair."

John sniffed loudly, the feeling of her stroking his head soothing him. "Why can't I ever win?" he whined, tears still dripping down his face into her skirt. "I hate that Robin Hood so much. He laughs in my face every chance he gets, and Richard just encourages him."