The Force of Destiny, Chapter 27
Original Post
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/characters: Robin/Marian, Matilda, Much, Little John, Allan, Tuck
Word count: 3389
Spoilers: While this alters the end of S2, there are still minor spoilers for the whole run of the show, including S3.
Summary: Matilda works her magic.
Disclaimer: I'd hope it was obvious that my little story isn't intended to infringe on the properties of the BBC or TA, but am saying so just in case it's not.
previous chapter
-27-
The pain and the sensation of breathlessness, along with instantaneous panic from the latter, were the first things Robin became aware of. But before he had fully regained consciousness, he felt Marian’s hand holding his own, and remembered what was happening; so, he was able to awake without the suddenness that had marked the last time, holding still as he fought to ignore the consuming ache. When that did not work, he at least controlled its hold on him. That, he had done before; that, he could do. What he could ignore, he told himself, were the weird noises emanating from his chest. The wheezing and flapping disturbed him, but they were dismissible.
His eyes, when he finally opened them, went first to his wife, who was sleeping in a large chair beside him. Even as his body burned in agony, his heart warmed at the sight of her. Disheveled and uncomfortably folded into the seat she may be, but she was still gorgeous.
“Good morning, dear,” a low, female voice greeted him from the other side of the room. He turned his head, seeing that the room was more populated than it had been earlier. Much was there, not looking any less worried than he had before; and Allan, Little John, and Tuck all watched him with a mix of concern and sadness, although they tried to cover it. And then Matilda was next to him, smiling at him in the same manner she had when he was seventeen and influenza was ravaging him.
He was uncertain as to whether or not that was comforting. On one hand, she had pulled him away from death’s door then; on the other hand, he had been at death’s door then.
Well, it was not as if that was coming as a surprise to him; he had seen enough men in the Holy Land with wounds such as his die in moments. The fact that he had survived this long was something of a miracle. And he found hope in that-- after all, he had also seen men survive worse.
“What’s... your diag... nosis?” he asked Matilda in as close to a cheeky tone as he could muster.
Her smile faded, and so did his brief flirtation with humor. Buoying her attitude, she replied, “My diagnosis is that men who jump in front of arrows deserve what they get.” Sobering, she continued, “And while I’m proud of you, you dimwitted hero, my diagnosis is also that you’re not going to make it if I don’t put another hole in you.”
He blinked, not knowing what to say. “Oh.”
For some reason, the single syllable woke Marian. Robin’s first indication that she was coming to was that she squeezed his hand. Just a light pressure, really, but enough that when her huge, blue eyes opened, he was watching.
She seemed startled to find him alert, and even darted a glimpse past his shoulder at Matilda before looking back to him with a small, wobbly smile. “Hello,” she said, her voice muffled from sleep.
“'Lo.”
There was an awkward pause in the room, although Robin did not know why it was awkward. Then, Matilda suddenly jumped up and moved toward the door, saying, “Boys, I could use a hand outside.” The outlaws, except for Much, looked to her as if she had lost her mind, so she raised her eyebrows and gestured toward the door with her head. Much got up first and the others reluctantly followed.
Robin watched them curiously, but did not argue anything which gave him a few moments alone with Marian. As soon as they were gone, he turned his head back to her, remembering Djaq’s words and trying to hold still.
Her expression nearly broke his heart; she looked so lost, and he hated that it was his fault. “Marian...” he began, at the same time that she burst out with, “Robin, I need to tell you something.”
His brow furrowed at her tone, and he began to get anxious as he waited for her to go on. If he was going to die, surely they would not make Marian tell him. Matilda would have said so, herself, and without anyone else around, he thought. Had something else happened? Was Marian ill? Please, not that. When she still did not speak, he prompted, “What?”
With a sigh, she began, “I did not mean to tell you like this. It was all supposed to be lovely.”
She hesitated, and he relaxed slightly. News of illness could never be lovely. “Go on,” he urged, wincing at how much talking hurt to do.
Reaching over so that both of her hands were on the one of his that she had been holding, she toyed with his fingers before she glanced at him shyly, her lips curving up. Shy? Marian? If he was not so entranced by that smile, he would ponder it more; but, as it was, the look she was giving him was not fair considering he could barely breathe, much less think of---
“Robin, I’m with child.”
The scant breath he had been able to draw whooshed out of his good lung. He gasped to bring more in, which worried her, and he could tell that she was about to call for Matilda, so he squeezed her hand lightly to indicate he was okay. Relatively speaking, but still okay.
Better than okay.
Marian was carrying his child! He wanted to grab her, kiss her, whirl her around and then do all sorts of other things to her, but settled for a grin. It was strained, since he was having difficulty maintaining control over the pain, but it was still a grin.
Her tension lessened at his reaction, though she still was not completely at ease. “I wanted to tell you our first night at Locksley,” she explained.
“Nice,” he wheezed, when he was unable to produce a stronger sound. He hoped she understood that he meant, That would have been nice. “When?”
She understood. “I had it all planned out,” she admitted wryly. He managed a smile, which she returned in earnest this time. “And, I think sometime in January.”
“New... Year?”
“Perhaps, though I think a bit after.”
Clasping her hand again for wont of being able to do anything else, he whispered, “Love you.”
“I love you, too,” she murmured fervently, the depth of the simple statement shining in her eyes. As cautiously as possible, Marian leant over and gently kissed him. Her belly brushed against his hand as she did, and the combined sensations of his wife’s lips and the realization that their baby grew near his fingers bolstered the fire deep within him, totally different from the one singeing every nerve ending he possessed; this was determination. He was going to live. It had already been there, because he fully intended to live out his days, Marian at his side, raising Atiya to adulthood, hopefully even seeing her children. But now it was as if oil had been poured on that fire, burning hotter and fiercer than before.
The door opened then and Matilda came back into the room, the men following behind with even grimmer looks on their faces than when they had gone out.
“Here now, enough of that,” she scolded, although there was no force behind her words.
Robin stole one last quick kiss before Marian settled back into her chair, not noticing that his friends were not resuming their seats, but rather were standing by. Matilda, meanwhile, refilled the wine in the goblet Djaq had used earlier, adding some herbs and a powder into it. She came over and said, “Drink this down,” starting to prop up his head so that he could.
“What’s... it?”
“Basically, what you had earlier. This is just a bit stronger, is all.”
He bit his lip. Unconsciousness had seemed a good thing before, but now his brain asked, What if I do not wake up? He would have to sleep eventually, he knew that; but he gathered that Matilda had some sort of surgery in mind. And while he trusted her, he worried that his determination would lessen if he were drugged into slumber, perhaps badly enough to give up. He knew it was not all that logical, but he could not shake the fear.
“No,” he rasped, turning his head away from the cup.
The healer’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“No.”
“Robin, drink the wine,” Marian said, as if he were addled.
He stubbornly stared Matilda in the eye. He was not stupid enough to think he could out-stubborn her normally, but she was not winning this round.
She seemed to realize it, too, and handed the wine to Allan, who was nearest her. But she got right back in Robin’s face as soon as her hands were empty. “You need to take this. I cannot do what I need to if you’re awake and fighting me.”
“Won’t... fight.” Actually, he would not mind whatever had dulled the pain last time. He just was not sure whether it was also the stuff that knocked him out.
“Robin.” Much was gazing steadily at him over Matilda’s shoulder. Even though Robin loved his friend, part of him hated when Much was steady like that; it usually meant that he was about to make a lot of sense and that Robin wasn’t going to want to hear it. “You need to drink it.”
He had not been wrong about Much’s expression. The man was right, and Robin did not want to hear the sensible words he said. The frustration at his situation began to eat away at the damper he had been forcing on the pain, and a sharp spike of it drove its way through him. Tensing against it, he could not completely suppress the cry that tried to escape. Frustration turned to anger at what he could not control, and when the attack had passed, he eyed Matilda. She was standing by, too concerned about him to look smug at being proven right, but there was a hint of it on her face.
“For... pain. Not... sleep.”
She seemed to grasp what was bothering him, and acquiesced with a sympathetic look. “It’s a deal.” She tossed the contents of the goblet into the hearth, then refilled it and added only a few herbs, not the powder. This time, Robin drank the contents, after being reassured by Matilda’s nod that she was not trying to trick him. He was also quite thirsty, and she gave him a second cupful without anything extra mixed in.
The effects kicked in rather quickly again, and like the last time, although he still hurt a lot, it was bearable now. He felt heavy, and even if he had been of a mind to try to move, he doubted that he could.
“Are you ready?” Matilda asked him, clearly still reluctant to proceed with him awake, but respecting his wishes.
“Yeah.” Even his tongue felt leaden in his mouth, and while it no longer ached quite as much to speak, he did not think he could try more than that.
“All right, boys,” she said, and the outlaws stepped forward from the silent group in which they had been standing. Marian’s chair was in the way, so she stepped aside and let Much move it back by the hearth; however, she remained standing by the bed. Then, Much and Allan took his arms, and Little John and Tuck each held one of his legs.
Matilda moved over. “I can still give you some of that powder, but I won’t be able to once I’m working on you. Last chance.”
He shook his head slightly, and she sighed. “Okay, then.”
She slid a thin knife between his ribs on the left side of his chest, and although he did not feel it as sharply as he might have done without the herbs, it still hurt. His friends’ hands tightened on his limbs as he tensed against the pain, and they all maintained their grip when he relaxed as she removed the blade. He found out why they had not let go when she inserted something else into the cut she had made, thick enough that he felt a new ache in the ribs between which it was placed. As she slid the object into place, he stiffened again, instinctively struggling against being restrained, grunting with what breath he could take. And then, the pain in his chest increased nearly to what it had been before the medication. His eyes were squeezed shut, and yet he could still see spots starting to dance behind his eyelids, but he fought to stay conscious. He eventually realized that the whimpering sounds he was hearing were coming from his own mouth, when really he wanted to yell, but simply did not have the air for it.
And then, he felt a pleasant warmth on his stomach. He focused on it, allowing it to settle him. As he calmed, the torment easing its grip on him once more, he knew it was Marian’s hand. Concentrating wholly on that light touch, he was nearly back to himself when Matilda announced, “Done.”
He opened his eyes and met Marian’s, which were filled with tears. And love.
He wanted to joke, to say, “That wasn’t so bad,” but there was just no way he could. Plus, it had been, but that was never the point.
As a tear spilled over each cheek, she burst out laughing, drawing odd looks from everyone else. “You are thinking something cheeky, aren’t you?”
Robin winked.
Marian could not decide whether to laugh or cry, so she did both. She was unable to look at the hollow, bone tube Matilda had put into his chest, or what was draining out through it, but she felt lighter than she had since this had all begun.
The men had released him and stepped back, and Much shook his head. “Well, now I know you’re going to be all right,” he declared tremulously, his bravado not really covering up his distress. But nobody mentioned it, as they were all feeling about the same.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Tuck asked Matilda curiously. “I have been around many battlefields, and never saw anything like it.”
She gave him a saucy smile. “That’s because I’ve never worked on a battlefield.”
Robin’s eyebrows shifted curiously, and he tried to lift his head to see what Matilda had done, paling as he did so.
Marian touched his shoulder lightly, reminding him to lay still. “Don’t,” she advised. He stared at her, clearly trying to send some sort of message, which she thought she understood. “You want to know what’s going on, is that it?”
He gave a short nod.
As she explained, she tried to suppress a shudder at the images in her memory. Matilda’s knife had not seemed that wicked, but as it cut into Robin’s ribs, a trickle of blood running down his skin, Marian had to look away. And yet, she had been unable to do anything but stare in near-horror as Matilda slid the instrument into the incision, sucked on it for a second, then pulled back and spit into the bowl waiting beneath her face, into which blood and God knew what else drained out through the hollow center.
She kept her description concise and simplified, not wanting to bother him with the details and definitely not wanting to express her reactions, but as usual, he saw more than she wanted him to.
“’s okay,” he whispered.
“How long’s he gotta have that in?” Allan asked Matilda.
Everyone listened for her answer. “Oh, a few days or so.”
“That’s not so bad,” Much said. Then, he looked at Robin, instantly regretting his flippant remark. “I mean, it is bad; I didn’t mean to say that it wasn’t. But at least it’s only a few days, and not a week or something like that...”
Marian felt Robin squeeze her hand. “Much, it’s all right,” she interrupted him.
“We should go,” Little John spoke up to the others. He moved over and patted Robin lightly on the arm, conveying more than he could in words with a look. Marian often envied his ability to do that, but had never appreciated it more than she did at that moment.
As John stepped away, Robin looked to Marian. Indicating with his eyes the friends who were about to leave, he wheezed, “Baby.”
“Robin, not now,” she admonished, regretting it when he impatiently turned his head more toward her and ended up wincing against a resulting pain. “Wait; we have something to tell you,” she called over to the small group about to exit the doorway.
They all turned to her, all except Much with curious expressions.
“Me?” Robin asked her so quietly she nearly missed the word.
She glanced at him in surprise. “Are you sure?” He dipped his chin slightly, even that movement evidently bothering him. “He wants to tell you himself,” she said, nearly making it a question.
“Eh, he can talk if he wants to talk,” Matilda said from where she had usurped Marian’s chair for the time. At the looks she received, she shrugged. “I’m not saying it isn’t going to hurt like the dickens, but he can do it.”
Little John led the four back over toward Robin, all of them leaning in so that he would not have to project for them to hear. Giving them an approximation of his normal grin, he moved his eyes toward Marian and back to them and rasped, “Having...baby.”
The three who did not already know were not immediately sure they were interpreting him correctly, but knew they had when Much congratulated him and Marian, none of his earlier frustration evident.
“I’d hug you,” he said, “but... you know.” He waved his hand, encompassing Robin’s whole situation. He meant it lightly, and Robin took it as such. The others quickly offered their congratulations, as well, and then Matilda shooed them all away.
When she had shut the door behind them, she sauntered over and plunked her fists on her hips. “Well, that was suitably dramatic, wasn’t it?”
Marian felt her eyebrows nearly climb off of her forehead, but Robin’s grin only grew.
“Now, you don’t want me to give you anything to sleep, but that doesn’t mean you can stay awake for the next week or two. You can’t even stay awake for the few days you’ve got that thing in. And in fact, if you’re not out in the next ten minutes, I’ll pour this powder down your throat myself. Get it?” That she ruffled his hair at the end of her speech did not really detract from the threat.
Going to resume her place in the chair, Marian realized with dismay that she had forgotten to have it moved back. And she doubted that Matilda would be able to move the heavy piece.
“Here.” Robin gestured with his hand that she should lay down on the side she had been sitting on, opposite where the bone tool jutted out.
She glanced uncertainly at Matilda, who nodded her consent. “Just be careful.”
Cautiously, Marian cuddled up beside her husband, not knowing until she did so how much she had been needing that contact, reassuring her that he lived. She rested her head on his shoulder, and then slid over a tad until she could hear his heartbeat. The hollow sounds from his wound were still present, oddly muffled against her ear, but she simply concentrated on the steady beat of his heart, drifting off without realizing it.
Her head on his shoulder had been all right, but was causing considerable discomfort on his chest. Still, Robin would not have her move even if she knew. As her breathing evened out with sleep, her hand on his stomach in nearly the same place it had been earlier, something within him relaxed. She was at peace, at least for a little while, and that meant he could be, too.
When Robin finally dozed, he was smiling despite the pain.
After checking to make sure they were both asleep, Matilda slumped down in her chair, and cried.
next chapter
*
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/characters: Robin/Marian, Matilda, Much, Little John, Allan, Tuck
Word count: 3389
Spoilers: While this alters the end of S2, there are still minor spoilers for the whole run of the show, including S3.
Summary: Matilda works her magic.
Disclaimer: I'd hope it was obvious that my little story isn't intended to infringe on the properties of the BBC or TA, but am saying so just in case it's not.
previous chapter
-27-
The pain and the sensation of breathlessness, along with instantaneous panic from the latter, were the first things Robin became aware of. But before he had fully regained consciousness, he felt Marian’s hand holding his own, and remembered what was happening; so, he was able to awake without the suddenness that had marked the last time, holding still as he fought to ignore the consuming ache. When that did not work, he at least controlled its hold on him. That, he had done before; that, he could do. What he could ignore, he told himself, were the weird noises emanating from his chest. The wheezing and flapping disturbed him, but they were dismissible.
His eyes, when he finally opened them, went first to his wife, who was sleeping in a large chair beside him. Even as his body burned in agony, his heart warmed at the sight of her. Disheveled and uncomfortably folded into the seat she may be, but she was still gorgeous.
“Good morning, dear,” a low, female voice greeted him from the other side of the room. He turned his head, seeing that the room was more populated than it had been earlier. Much was there, not looking any less worried than he had before; and Allan, Little John, and Tuck all watched him with a mix of concern and sadness, although they tried to cover it. And then Matilda was next to him, smiling at him in the same manner she had when he was seventeen and influenza was ravaging him.
He was uncertain as to whether or not that was comforting. On one hand, she had pulled him away from death’s door then; on the other hand, he had been at death’s door then.
Well, it was not as if that was coming as a surprise to him; he had seen enough men in the Holy Land with wounds such as his die in moments. The fact that he had survived this long was something of a miracle. And he found hope in that-- after all, he had also seen men survive worse.
“What’s... your diag... nosis?” he asked Matilda in as close to a cheeky tone as he could muster.
Her smile faded, and so did his brief flirtation with humor. Buoying her attitude, she replied, “My diagnosis is that men who jump in front of arrows deserve what they get.” Sobering, she continued, “And while I’m proud of you, you dimwitted hero, my diagnosis is also that you’re not going to make it if I don’t put another hole in you.”
He blinked, not knowing what to say. “Oh.”
For some reason, the single syllable woke Marian. Robin’s first indication that she was coming to was that she squeezed his hand. Just a light pressure, really, but enough that when her huge, blue eyes opened, he was watching.
She seemed startled to find him alert, and even darted a glimpse past his shoulder at Matilda before looking back to him with a small, wobbly smile. “Hello,” she said, her voice muffled from sleep.
“'Lo.”
There was an awkward pause in the room, although Robin did not know why it was awkward. Then, Matilda suddenly jumped up and moved toward the door, saying, “Boys, I could use a hand outside.” The outlaws, except for Much, looked to her as if she had lost her mind, so she raised her eyebrows and gestured toward the door with her head. Much got up first and the others reluctantly followed.
Robin watched them curiously, but did not argue anything which gave him a few moments alone with Marian. As soon as they were gone, he turned his head back to her, remembering Djaq’s words and trying to hold still.
Her expression nearly broke his heart; she looked so lost, and he hated that it was his fault. “Marian...” he began, at the same time that she burst out with, “Robin, I need to tell you something.”
His brow furrowed at her tone, and he began to get anxious as he waited for her to go on. If he was going to die, surely they would not make Marian tell him. Matilda would have said so, herself, and without anyone else around, he thought. Had something else happened? Was Marian ill? Please, not that. When she still did not speak, he prompted, “What?”
With a sigh, she began, “I did not mean to tell you like this. It was all supposed to be lovely.”
She hesitated, and he relaxed slightly. News of illness could never be lovely. “Go on,” he urged, wincing at how much talking hurt to do.
Reaching over so that both of her hands were on the one of his that she had been holding, she toyed with his fingers before she glanced at him shyly, her lips curving up. Shy? Marian? If he was not so entranced by that smile, he would ponder it more; but, as it was, the look she was giving him was not fair considering he could barely breathe, much less think of---
“Robin, I’m with child.”
The scant breath he had been able to draw whooshed out of his good lung. He gasped to bring more in, which worried her, and he could tell that she was about to call for Matilda, so he squeezed her hand lightly to indicate he was okay. Relatively speaking, but still okay.
Better than okay.
Marian was carrying his child! He wanted to grab her, kiss her, whirl her around and then do all sorts of other things to her, but settled for a grin. It was strained, since he was having difficulty maintaining control over the pain, but it was still a grin.
Her tension lessened at his reaction, though she still was not completely at ease. “I wanted to tell you our first night at Locksley,” she explained.
“Nice,” he wheezed, when he was unable to produce a stronger sound. He hoped she understood that he meant, That would have been nice. “When?”
She understood. “I had it all planned out,” she admitted wryly. He managed a smile, which she returned in earnest this time. “And, I think sometime in January.”
“New... Year?”
“Perhaps, though I think a bit after.”
Clasping her hand again for wont of being able to do anything else, he whispered, “Love you.”
“I love you, too,” she murmured fervently, the depth of the simple statement shining in her eyes. As cautiously as possible, Marian leant over and gently kissed him. Her belly brushed against his hand as she did, and the combined sensations of his wife’s lips and the realization that their baby grew near his fingers bolstered the fire deep within him, totally different from the one singeing every nerve ending he possessed; this was determination. He was going to live. It had already been there, because he fully intended to live out his days, Marian at his side, raising Atiya to adulthood, hopefully even seeing her children. But now it was as if oil had been poured on that fire, burning hotter and fiercer than before.
The door opened then and Matilda came back into the room, the men following behind with even grimmer looks on their faces than when they had gone out.
“Here now, enough of that,” she scolded, although there was no force behind her words.
Robin stole one last quick kiss before Marian settled back into her chair, not noticing that his friends were not resuming their seats, but rather were standing by. Matilda, meanwhile, refilled the wine in the goblet Djaq had used earlier, adding some herbs and a powder into it. She came over and said, “Drink this down,” starting to prop up his head so that he could.
“What’s... it?”
“Basically, what you had earlier. This is just a bit stronger, is all.”
He bit his lip. Unconsciousness had seemed a good thing before, but now his brain asked, What if I do not wake up? He would have to sleep eventually, he knew that; but he gathered that Matilda had some sort of surgery in mind. And while he trusted her, he worried that his determination would lessen if he were drugged into slumber, perhaps badly enough to give up. He knew it was not all that logical, but he could not shake the fear.
“No,” he rasped, turning his head away from the cup.
The healer’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“No.”
“Robin, drink the wine,” Marian said, as if he were addled.
He stubbornly stared Matilda in the eye. He was not stupid enough to think he could out-stubborn her normally, but she was not winning this round.
She seemed to realize it, too, and handed the wine to Allan, who was nearest her. But she got right back in Robin’s face as soon as her hands were empty. “You need to take this. I cannot do what I need to if you’re awake and fighting me.”
“Won’t... fight.” Actually, he would not mind whatever had dulled the pain last time. He just was not sure whether it was also the stuff that knocked him out.
“Robin.” Much was gazing steadily at him over Matilda’s shoulder. Even though Robin loved his friend, part of him hated when Much was steady like that; it usually meant that he was about to make a lot of sense and that Robin wasn’t going to want to hear it. “You need to drink it.”
He had not been wrong about Much’s expression. The man was right, and Robin did not want to hear the sensible words he said. The frustration at his situation began to eat away at the damper he had been forcing on the pain, and a sharp spike of it drove its way through him. Tensing against it, he could not completely suppress the cry that tried to escape. Frustration turned to anger at what he could not control, and when the attack had passed, he eyed Matilda. She was standing by, too concerned about him to look smug at being proven right, but there was a hint of it on her face.
“For... pain. Not... sleep.”
She seemed to grasp what was bothering him, and acquiesced with a sympathetic look. “It’s a deal.” She tossed the contents of the goblet into the hearth, then refilled it and added only a few herbs, not the powder. This time, Robin drank the contents, after being reassured by Matilda’s nod that she was not trying to trick him. He was also quite thirsty, and she gave him a second cupful without anything extra mixed in.
The effects kicked in rather quickly again, and like the last time, although he still hurt a lot, it was bearable now. He felt heavy, and even if he had been of a mind to try to move, he doubted that he could.
“Are you ready?” Matilda asked him, clearly still reluctant to proceed with him awake, but respecting his wishes.
“Yeah.” Even his tongue felt leaden in his mouth, and while it no longer ached quite as much to speak, he did not think he could try more than that.
“All right, boys,” she said, and the outlaws stepped forward from the silent group in which they had been standing. Marian’s chair was in the way, so she stepped aside and let Much move it back by the hearth; however, she remained standing by the bed. Then, Much and Allan took his arms, and Little John and Tuck each held one of his legs.
Matilda moved over. “I can still give you some of that powder, but I won’t be able to once I’m working on you. Last chance.”
He shook his head slightly, and she sighed. “Okay, then.”
She slid a thin knife between his ribs on the left side of his chest, and although he did not feel it as sharply as he might have done without the herbs, it still hurt. His friends’ hands tightened on his limbs as he tensed against the pain, and they all maintained their grip when he relaxed as she removed the blade. He found out why they had not let go when she inserted something else into the cut she had made, thick enough that he felt a new ache in the ribs between which it was placed. As she slid the object into place, he stiffened again, instinctively struggling against being restrained, grunting with what breath he could take. And then, the pain in his chest increased nearly to what it had been before the medication. His eyes were squeezed shut, and yet he could still see spots starting to dance behind his eyelids, but he fought to stay conscious. He eventually realized that the whimpering sounds he was hearing were coming from his own mouth, when really he wanted to yell, but simply did not have the air for it.
And then, he felt a pleasant warmth on his stomach. He focused on it, allowing it to settle him. As he calmed, the torment easing its grip on him once more, he knew it was Marian’s hand. Concentrating wholly on that light touch, he was nearly back to himself when Matilda announced, “Done.”
He opened his eyes and met Marian’s, which were filled with tears. And love.
He wanted to joke, to say, “That wasn’t so bad,” but there was just no way he could. Plus, it had been, but that was never the point.
As a tear spilled over each cheek, she burst out laughing, drawing odd looks from everyone else. “You are thinking something cheeky, aren’t you?”
Robin winked.
Marian could not decide whether to laugh or cry, so she did both. She was unable to look at the hollow, bone tube Matilda had put into his chest, or what was draining out through it, but she felt lighter than she had since this had all begun.
The men had released him and stepped back, and Much shook his head. “Well, now I know you’re going to be all right,” he declared tremulously, his bravado not really covering up his distress. But nobody mentioned it, as they were all feeling about the same.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Tuck asked Matilda curiously. “I have been around many battlefields, and never saw anything like it.”
She gave him a saucy smile. “That’s because I’ve never worked on a battlefield.”
Robin’s eyebrows shifted curiously, and he tried to lift his head to see what Matilda had done, paling as he did so.
Marian touched his shoulder lightly, reminding him to lay still. “Don’t,” she advised. He stared at her, clearly trying to send some sort of message, which she thought she understood. “You want to know what’s going on, is that it?”
He gave a short nod.
As she explained, she tried to suppress a shudder at the images in her memory. Matilda’s knife had not seemed that wicked, but as it cut into Robin’s ribs, a trickle of blood running down his skin, Marian had to look away. And yet, she had been unable to do anything but stare in near-horror as Matilda slid the instrument into the incision, sucked on it for a second, then pulled back and spit into the bowl waiting beneath her face, into which blood and God knew what else drained out through the hollow center.
She kept her description concise and simplified, not wanting to bother him with the details and definitely not wanting to express her reactions, but as usual, he saw more than she wanted him to.
“’s okay,” he whispered.
“How long’s he gotta have that in?” Allan asked Matilda.
Everyone listened for her answer. “Oh, a few days or so.”
“That’s not so bad,” Much said. Then, he looked at Robin, instantly regretting his flippant remark. “I mean, it is bad; I didn’t mean to say that it wasn’t. But at least it’s only a few days, and not a week or something like that...”
Marian felt Robin squeeze her hand. “Much, it’s all right,” she interrupted him.
“We should go,” Little John spoke up to the others. He moved over and patted Robin lightly on the arm, conveying more than he could in words with a look. Marian often envied his ability to do that, but had never appreciated it more than she did at that moment.
As John stepped away, Robin looked to Marian. Indicating with his eyes the friends who were about to leave, he wheezed, “Baby.”
“Robin, not now,” she admonished, regretting it when he impatiently turned his head more toward her and ended up wincing against a resulting pain. “Wait; we have something to tell you,” she called over to the small group about to exit the doorway.
They all turned to her, all except Much with curious expressions.
“Me?” Robin asked her so quietly she nearly missed the word.
She glanced at him in surprise. “Are you sure?” He dipped his chin slightly, even that movement evidently bothering him. “He wants to tell you himself,” she said, nearly making it a question.
“Eh, he can talk if he wants to talk,” Matilda said from where she had usurped Marian’s chair for the time. At the looks she received, she shrugged. “I’m not saying it isn’t going to hurt like the dickens, but he can do it.”
Little John led the four back over toward Robin, all of them leaning in so that he would not have to project for them to hear. Giving them an approximation of his normal grin, he moved his eyes toward Marian and back to them and rasped, “Having...baby.”
The three who did not already know were not immediately sure they were interpreting him correctly, but knew they had when Much congratulated him and Marian, none of his earlier frustration evident.
“I’d hug you,” he said, “but... you know.” He waved his hand, encompassing Robin’s whole situation. He meant it lightly, and Robin took it as such. The others quickly offered their congratulations, as well, and then Matilda shooed them all away.
When she had shut the door behind them, she sauntered over and plunked her fists on her hips. “Well, that was suitably dramatic, wasn’t it?”
Marian felt her eyebrows nearly climb off of her forehead, but Robin’s grin only grew.
“Now, you don’t want me to give you anything to sleep, but that doesn’t mean you can stay awake for the next week or two. You can’t even stay awake for the few days you’ve got that thing in. And in fact, if you’re not out in the next ten minutes, I’ll pour this powder down your throat myself. Get it?” That she ruffled his hair at the end of her speech did not really detract from the threat.
Going to resume her place in the chair, Marian realized with dismay that she had forgotten to have it moved back. And she doubted that Matilda would be able to move the heavy piece.
“Here.” Robin gestured with his hand that she should lay down on the side she had been sitting on, opposite where the bone tool jutted out.
She glanced uncertainly at Matilda, who nodded her consent. “Just be careful.”
Cautiously, Marian cuddled up beside her husband, not knowing until she did so how much she had been needing that contact, reassuring her that he lived. She rested her head on his shoulder, and then slid over a tad until she could hear his heartbeat. The hollow sounds from his wound were still present, oddly muffled against her ear, but she simply concentrated on the steady beat of his heart, drifting off without realizing it.
Her head on his shoulder had been all right, but was causing considerable discomfort on his chest. Still, Robin would not have her move even if she knew. As her breathing evened out with sleep, her hand on his stomach in nearly the same place it had been earlier, something within him relaxed. She was at peace, at least for a little while, and that meant he could be, too.
When Robin finally dozed, he was smiling despite the pain.
After checking to make sure they were both asleep, Matilda slumped down in her chair, and cried.
next chapter
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