Fic: At the End of Our Days
In the end, it’s a stray arrow that finishes it, straight through his chest, toppling him over, landing him in the middle of the forest floor on his back, staring up at a canopy of dark green leaves. If he squints hard enough, he can still catch glimpses of sun peeking through…
The ground is cold and hard against his back, the wetness of the leaves pressing against his clothing. His right hand halfheartedly throws itself over his chest, fingers tensing against the oozing blood. Dimly, he hopes Much isn’t the one to find him, poor, emotional Much, it would surely break him…
Black spots cloud his vision and a spasm of pain courses through his body. A groan escapes him as he struggles to breathe.
He feels like he’s lying there for what possibly seems like hours, watching the tree leaves flutter in the breeze, listening to the calming noises of the forest. An incomprehensible wave of panic seizes him - this is it, this is really, truly it, and damn it, what is he to do now? The Sheriff barely overthrown, Nottingham still in the aftermath of the confusion of everything, and -
Notyetnotyetnotyetnotyetnotyet-
Gathering the vestiges of his strength, he pushes himself up to his elbows, gritting his teeth with the pain. He will survive this. He has survived worse. He - he has to, for there is no alternative…
He topples back to the ground, feeling his throat constrict. Against his mind’s wishes, his eyes flutter shut and he lets himself go.
Nonononononono -
“Fool,” a familiar voice whispers in his ear, and then everything goes black.
**
By the time he regains consciousness, he’s no longer in Sherwood. His clothes are clean and - as he sniffs himself surreptitiously - he finds that he smells like he’s actually taken a bath. He stops, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. This is Locksley, he realizes, the Locksley of his childhood.
He takes long, slow strides across the house, smiling to himself at how pleasant it all was before his parents had died, before he’d signed up for the Crusades. Here, his home smells like - like home, of bread and meat pies, not of smoke and blood.
A thunder of heavy footsteps alerts him to someone else’s presence, and he ducks beneath a table. Who is it? Gisborne? He realizes he doesn’t have his bow, no arrows, no dagger… nothing. He’s a sitting duck.
“Robin of Locksley, I will have my father hang you for this!”
His heart freezes.
“Well, you’d have to catch me first, won’t you, milady?” His ten-year-old self runs through the room, down the hall, and up the stairs, ribbons trailing from his fingers. Two seconds later, she chases after him, face flushed, her curls trailing behind her. She’s absolutely adorable, he thinks, fondly.
“Will you two stop it before your parents hear about this?!” Much is the last to enter, panting heavily. “Spoiled little children, and I have to watch the two of you constantly, as if Robin himself weren’t enough -”
A crash resounds from upstairs, and both Robin and the younger Much wince - Much at the trouble he’ll get in for failing to have properly supervised the two, and Robin from the memory of what had happened. He massages his nose out of instinct.
Marian emerges, descending the stairs calmly, tying her hair up with her ribbons. Much gapes.
“Is he alive?” he asks, finally.
“Go see for yourself,” she snaps, and Much scrambles up the stairs to tend to his master. It’s not long before Robin stomps out, hand clutching a bloody nose.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” he demands, furious and embarrassed.
She clenches her fists angrily. “Just because you can’t take a punch! You’re such a girl!”
“And you’re positively unladylike!” he shoots back, glaring daggers at her.
“Will the two of you just stop all the shouting?!” Much growls, stepping in between the two of them. “Come on,” he pleads with Robin, “let’s just go back into the forest.”
“Fine, but she can’t come with,” he replies, sullenly, as he storms out, Much at his heels. Marian takes a moment to look hurt, and then trails after them, a determined look in her eyes. Robin smiles to himself; it’s that exact same look he fell in love with, after all.
Part 2: Here
The ground is cold and hard against his back, the wetness of the leaves pressing against his clothing. His right hand halfheartedly throws itself over his chest, fingers tensing against the oozing blood. Dimly, he hopes Much isn’t the one to find him, poor, emotional Much, it would surely break him…
Black spots cloud his vision and a spasm of pain courses through his body. A groan escapes him as he struggles to breathe.
He feels like he’s lying there for what possibly seems like hours, watching the tree leaves flutter in the breeze, listening to the calming noises of the forest. An incomprehensible wave of panic seizes him - this is it, this is really, truly it, and damn it, what is he to do now? The Sheriff barely overthrown, Nottingham still in the aftermath of the confusion of everything, and -
Notyetnotyetnotyetnotyetnotyet-
Gathering the vestiges of his strength, he pushes himself up to his elbows, gritting his teeth with the pain. He will survive this. He has survived worse. He - he has to, for there is no alternative…
He topples back to the ground, feeling his throat constrict. Against his mind’s wishes, his eyes flutter shut and he lets himself go.
Nonononononono -
“Fool,” a familiar voice whispers in his ear, and then everything goes black.
**
By the time he regains consciousness, he’s no longer in Sherwood. His clothes are clean and - as he sniffs himself surreptitiously - he finds that he smells like he’s actually taken a bath. He stops, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. This is Locksley, he realizes, the Locksley of his childhood.
He takes long, slow strides across the house, smiling to himself at how pleasant it all was before his parents had died, before he’d signed up for the Crusades. Here, his home smells like - like home, of bread and meat pies, not of smoke and blood.
A thunder of heavy footsteps alerts him to someone else’s presence, and he ducks beneath a table. Who is it? Gisborne? He realizes he doesn’t have his bow, no arrows, no dagger… nothing. He’s a sitting duck.
“Robin of Locksley, I will have my father hang you for this!”
His heart freezes.
“Well, you’d have to catch me first, won’t you, milady?” His ten-year-old self runs through the room, down the hall, and up the stairs, ribbons trailing from his fingers. Two seconds later, she chases after him, face flushed, her curls trailing behind her. She’s absolutely adorable, he thinks, fondly.
“Will you two stop it before your parents hear about this?!” Much is the last to enter, panting heavily. “Spoiled little children, and I have to watch the two of you constantly, as if Robin himself weren’t enough -”
A crash resounds from upstairs, and both Robin and the younger Much wince - Much at the trouble he’ll get in for failing to have properly supervised the two, and Robin from the memory of what had happened. He massages his nose out of instinct.
Marian emerges, descending the stairs calmly, tying her hair up with her ribbons. Much gapes.
“Is he alive?” he asks, finally.
“Go see for yourself,” she snaps, and Much scrambles up the stairs to tend to his master. It’s not long before Robin stomps out, hand clutching a bloody nose.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” he demands, furious and embarrassed.
She clenches her fists angrily. “Just because you can’t take a punch! You’re such a girl!”
“And you’re positively unladylike!” he shoots back, glaring daggers at her.
“Will the two of you just stop all the shouting?!” Much growls, stepping in between the two of them. “Come on,” he pleads with Robin, “let’s just go back into the forest.”
“Fine, but she can’t come with,” he replies, sullenly, as he storms out, Much at his heels. Marian takes a moment to look hurt, and then trails after them, a determined look in her eyes. Robin smiles to himself; it’s that exact same look he fell in love with, after all.
Part 2: Here