Robin Hood: Hands
Title: Hands
Author: arliddian
Rating: G
Fandom: Robin Hood BBC
Characters/Pairing: Robin/Marian
Timeframe: Post-2x13
Summary: Robin's hands were made for his bow. What good were they now?
Word Count: 240
Author's Note: Inspired by a prompt by kalesbohan. It was meant to be a drabble, but it grew a little. I'm still accepting drabble prompts here, if anyone's interested. I just remembered that my entire journal is f-locked, but if you want to request a drabble, just comment! Restrictions: no slash, no explicit material, no impossible challenges. =)
Warnings: Spoilers for the season 2 finale, and a bit of angst.
Disclaimer: Don't own it; don't sue me.
'Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat to the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry'
- Ash Wednesday, I, TS Eliot
Robin's hand quivered, bowstring drawn, the arrow feeling strangely loose in his fingers.
He had never felt so lost with his bow in his hands. Ever since boyhood, he had been sure, steady. These were the hands of Robin Hood, finest archer in Nottingham - yet they no longer understood the curve of the wood, the song of the bowstring.
He could no longer stand to hold his bow because he could never hold her again. How long had it been now, since he proposed by that fresh grave by comparing her to his weapon? Time had blurred and he merely moved from one day to the next, looking without seeing, hearing without listening. Existing without living.
His shaking hand gripped the bow tighter, and he loosed the arrow. Then another. Then another. The first embedded itself in the tree trunk too far to the left; the second simply grazed the bark; the third flew too wide, into the forest.
"You promise me you keep fighting," she had said. He had promised, and he would honour that promise. He would keep fighting - but only as half a man, a man left behind. The other half - the part that dreamed, that hoped, that believed in things bigger than itself - died the same day Marian did.
"I'm sorry, love," he whispered to the still air.
His hands fell slack by his sides, and the bow slipped to the ground.
Fin
Author: arliddian
Rating: G
Fandom: Robin Hood BBC
Characters/Pairing: Robin/Marian
Timeframe: Post-2x13
Summary: Robin's hands were made for his bow. What good were they now?
Word Count: 240
Author's Note: Inspired by a prompt by kalesbohan. It was meant to be a drabble, but it grew a little. I'm still accepting drabble prompts here, if anyone's interested. I just remembered that my entire journal is f-locked, but if you want to request a drabble, just comment! Restrictions: no slash, no explicit material, no impossible challenges. =)
Warnings: Spoilers for the season 2 finale, and a bit of angst.
Disclaimer: Don't own it; don't sue me.
'Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat to the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry'
- Ash Wednesday, I, TS Eliot
Robin's hand quivered, bowstring drawn, the arrow feeling strangely loose in his fingers.
He had never felt so lost with his bow in his hands. Ever since boyhood, he had been sure, steady. These were the hands of Robin Hood, finest archer in Nottingham - yet they no longer understood the curve of the wood, the song of the bowstring.
He could no longer stand to hold his bow because he could never hold her again. How long had it been now, since he proposed by that fresh grave by comparing her to his weapon? Time had blurred and he merely moved from one day to the next, looking without seeing, hearing without listening. Existing without living.
His shaking hand gripped the bow tighter, and he loosed the arrow. Then another. Then another. The first embedded itself in the tree trunk too far to the left; the second simply grazed the bark; the third flew too wide, into the forest.
"You promise me you keep fighting," she had said. He had promised, and he would honour that promise. He would keep fighting - but only as half a man, a man left behind. The other half - the part that dreamed, that hoped, that believed in things bigger than itself - died the same day Marian did.
"I'm sorry, love," he whispered to the still air.
His hands fell slack by his sides, and the bow slipped to the ground.
Fin