(no subject)
He finds himself standing at the doorway of his house, watching his eighteen-year-old self trying and failing to tell her goodbye. Even now, so many years later, the sight still hurts. Leaving her has never been easy.
“Well, goodbye,” he says, uncharacteristically somber.
“Goodbye,” she echoes, nodding at him.
He thinks this is probably the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. She stands there, two feet away from him, looking so beautiful that it hurts, it physically hurts to gaze at her. She has her arms wrapped around herself as if she’s struggling to hold herself together. He yearns to reach out.
But he doesn’t.
He dawdles, taking much longer than is necessary. Making sure the saddle is fastened properly, that his bow is in perfect condition, that his arrows are sharpened. He runs a comb through his horse’s hair, dissolving all the tangles. All the while, she stands behind him, unmoving, unspeaking. He almost wishes she would just leave already, but immediately casts the thought out of his head.
He tries to tell himself it’s not forever. Because it isn’t, of course it isn’t. The war will not take long, he thinks, and refuses to believe that it is merely an ignorant, foolish thought. Perhaps a year or so and then King Richard will be back and the Holy Land will be theirs once more and then he can - he can return and marry Marian, and -
But it won’t be that easy, will it? Where his life is concerned, things are never simple.
So he busies himself with something unimportant like making sure his bag is attached securely to his horse and tries to scratch every detail into his memory. The way the wind blows the scent of her hair in his direction. The way the sun shines on her chestnut brown hair. The way she stands, strong and determined, never breaking eye contact.
Much pulls up beside him, fully aware of the gravity of the situation. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.
“Master… it’s time.”
He knows it is. He knows he’s wasted at least five minutes, standing here in awkward silence with her.
So he does what he does best - he fakes a smile, settles himself comfortably onto his saddle, and takes the reins in his hands. He nods, waves in her general direction, and gallops off, Much following closely behind.
He doesn’t look back because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to leave otherwise.
There are so many things he wants to, needs to say, but he swallows his words and buries them deep within his heart. Someday, he thinks, he’ll tell her, and she’ll love him, and they’ll finally get the ending they deserve.
**
In the Holy Land, he dreams.
Amid the sweltering heat of the desert, the unceasing firing of arrows, and the eternal bloodshed, stained forever on his fingertips, sleep is a commodity that is hard to come by. Sometimes, he doesn’t know if he is awake or asleep. No matter his state of consciousness, the screams of fallen men echo in his ears.
But sometimes, he gets a reprieve. Sometimes, when he finally allows himself to fall asleep beneath an unsteady, wavering truce, the blood washes away and the sands disappear into evergreen leaves and he finds himself back in better times.
Her hair is beautiful, he thinks, not for the first time. He wonders at the softness of it, the natural curls, the deep brown.
Her back is turned to him, and a smirk curls up on his lips as he approaches her from behind, a hand reaching for her shoulder…
His fingers grasp air.
“Marian!” His voice is hoarse, his arm outstretched, as he bolts upwards. His breathing is heavy and loud to his ears, and Much stirs next to him.
“Master?” Much asks, groggily.
It’s only a dream, he realizes. It always is.
.
Part 4: Here