Fic: Four Ways Robin Didn't Die and the One Way He Did (Robin Hood) Robin/Marian, pg
Title: Four Ways Robin Did not Die and the One Way He Did
Author: lily_268
Pairing: implied Robin/Marian
Summary: creative writing exercise - five possible deaths of Robin, in chronological order
Disclaimer: I do not own Robin Hood (2006) that's the BBC. Nor did I profit from writing this.
Word Count: 3000
I.
It was a messy affair, filled with confusion and fear. The air was filled with the thick smoke of burning flesh and the black stench of rotted food, dropped where it lay by a soldier in the field who will never be coming back for it.
The sweat fell into his eyes and the sun bore down on his back as he fired shot after shot across the enemy lines. Soon his quiver was empty and he stole a quick glance around his protective shield he had been using. With lightening speed, he ran to the supply tent. Yelling to the cowards who were not preparing for a second wave.
Face falling, he noticed how young these children were and thought of softening his rebuke. But war is a time for hard men, men with hate in their hearts and victory in their souls. He grabbed new arrows to stock himself and unsheathed his sword.
To death, for so many, but all he could yell was that they were fighting for King Richard and England. A dozen more fell under the sting of his bow before he missed a shot. A sticky liquid had gummed up his fingers and he looks down, surprised at the blood dripping from his shoulder. His hesitation is enough to allow a foolhardy Saracen to attack. The sun’s warmth is fading and all he is aware of is the coppery smell of finality.
Of death.
He welcomes the tingling in his fingers as he loses more blood, blocking out the anguished screams of his best friend who has just discovered his body. His heavy lids close forever with one final face hovering beneath them.
II.
He treads the royal line, smiling and simpering to the Sheriff, who counts his coins behind locked doors. Behind his own locked doors, he sees the faces of the four men he condemned to death. In the morning, he speaks at another funeral of a villager who died of starvation. His afternoons are filled with mindless political games that make his head spin. His nights are spent on accounting and although it is boring work, it is preferable to interacting with people again. At best, the numbers are nothing, they feel nothing, and they mean nothing. He can do no harm to them. And he can empathise with them. It has been months since he last felt something. At worst, he falls asleep on the books, only to be woken by nightmares. He long ago had to ignore the pangs of guilt and the urges to make his people love him again. Instead, he sits alone, isolated from his friends and Marian. He cannot even look at her through his shame. Pieces of his soul break away each time he sees the mixed feelings playing across her face knowing that she has simultaneously protected him and doomed him. He is alive, but no longer himself, no longer a man she can be proud of.
He can no longer wait for death to deliver him, knowing that although it will be upsetting, it would be preferable to living a lie, with his skin wearing thinner with each day until all his humanity is drained away. Despite his absence of feelings, he still craves the ancient idea of glory and the Christian in him forbids suicide. Yet action must be taken.
He dresses himself in his finest silks and robes and rides alone with a wagon of riches to the deep parts of the forest. He is an hour off the path and the leaves are so dense there is no chance of sunshine to get through. He hears the following footsteps minutes before he stops to water his horse, humming like a dolt. He acts angry and shocked when the band of rogues blocks his path and put up what he thinks, somewhat smugly, is a good fight. However, he is without his bow and outnumbered and his back is soon pressed against the damp earth. He spits and curses, threatening and insulting them. It is not long until of them suggests silencing him. Robin inwardly smiles but fights against his bonds with an increased frenzy, even biting one of the hands that gag him. Exasperated, a larger man picks up a staff and Robin only sees white light as it crashes down to connect with his head to a sickening crack. Again, Robin struggles, despite his body telling him to stay still, to flee rather than fight.
Robin’s body is only still after the large man wipes the blood from his staff and crosses himself, murmuring an apology, swearing to the cooling body that he would share the riches they had stolen with families that were having trouble. The man’s fingers gently closed Robin’s eyes and the forest gang decided, after much arguing to leave him to be found in his fine clothing, as the least they could do, unaware of the pleasure they were bringing to a departed soul.
III.
King Richard had long ago returned, pardoning all the outlaws. All but one.
So she stands at her lookout on the parapet of Nottingham, unable to stand either Locksley or Knighton Hall. Too many memories haunt her, so she is forced to haunt the stones of Nottingham, waiting. She fingers and old locket idly, scanning the horizon with wearied eyes.
“He fell m’lady, in the forest”.
“We were being chased by fifty men with dogs.”
“I thought he was right behind me.”
They had babbled their excuses, stories overlapping so that the knowledge took time to trickle to her heart. Her body went numb and she gracefully rose from her chair to be alone in her room. For hours, she waited for the tears to fall. But she had to know for sure, so while her body felt empty, her ears were still trained, listening for any sign of mistake, any sign of Robin. The reports came in so fast that she had to plug her ears with cotton until everything sounded as muffled as she felt. She forgave them all of course. It was no-ones fault. Besides, he was just lost. He would wander back to her. No one seemed to share her view, but that did not shake her belief.
It was a sunny morning. It was a silly theft in the forest. They were being chased by the same incompetent soldiers as always. No, if Robin were to leave her, it would be in a glorious battle, something to be sung about for ages, not to be forgotten and lost in the underbrush of Sherwood. He could not fall so ingloriously.
Everyday she waited, knowing that one afternoon he would walk through the sun-dappled forest with that cheeky smile she hated.
“M’lady, you must eat today, your father demands it”. A large sigh accompanied the loud clattering of clearing uneaten meals. Marian had no idea, but her maid was no longer hiding her displeasure. “M’lady, step into this gown, you must wear black to a funeral.”
Her eyes focused again to the present and she looked up for the sound that disturbed her thoughts. “Whose---?”
“Why, Robin’s of course, been missing a month now. Can’t put it off any longer.” The wrinkled old maid thought that perhaps there had been a better way to break it to the poor child, but she had to accept facts.
“But, he promised me.”
The crone’s heart almost broke, looking into Marian’s hollow eyes, observing her sunken cheeks. She vowed to be softer next time. “Not all promises can be kept, child.”
“This one can.” She sounded so far away; the women could barely hear her soft voice.
“Be that as it may, you still have to step into this dress.”
She knew there were rumours and stories about her. The stone widow that paced the walls, waiting silently for her love to return. She was a statue looking towards the heavens, closest to God, so that he might better hear her prayers. She became a cautionary tale to others, a spirit to frighten children into washing behind their ears and to eat their vegetables. “Go to bed now or Lady Marian will snatch you away and freeze you to the walls, like her gargoyle pets.”
She did not mind; let them twist her tragic story so they can live with it. The truth was too painful. While they lived their lives without hope, she knew that one day she would be woken from her trance to see him standing in front of her, to feel the warmth of his hands in hers again. It would be the same as walking into a stained glass church for the first time. Not knowing that you missed the dazzling coloured light until you left after the service, pining for the elaborate shapes and delicates patterns. If you had never seen the inside of such a chapel, you could never mourn it, but Marian had lived in light for so long, she was unaccustomed to such darkness, and waited, searching for him to bring the light back into her life.
“Promise me you’ll be safe?”
“Aren’t I always?”
“And you’ll come back?”
He sighed, breathing onto her hand, “I promise.” He left a gentle kiss on her fingers, enough for the tingle to reach her toes.
It was years before the arthritis in her joints caused the patrols of the castle impossible in damp weather, and soon she was restricted to complete bed rest. With a bad cough, he was a menace to her nursemaids, demanding to be taken to the defence walls. Restlessly she tossed and turned, knowing that he would be looking for her to welcome him home, she could not let him down now. Not for a silly little chest cold.
One day she opened her eyes to a bright room that felt so familiar she thought that perhaps her nursemaids had moved her to the parapet for an afternoon. It was then that she heard his musical voice, still filled with humour after all this time. She had lived in denial for long, thriving off the hope when his body had not been found that when she saw him again, she felt overjoyed. Then, looking down at their hands as they intertwined, she noticed how young they both were. How smooth his skin was, how bright his eyes glistened. She looked over his form, absorbing every divine detail.
“A dream?”
Her eyes began to well up. To come so close only to be teased. She had not had one of these dreams in years. She did not know if she should be relieved, angry or happy. Either way, any Robin was better than none at all. And she still had enough hope in her to pay close attention to his next words.
“Better. We never have to wake up.”
She liked the sound of never. Smiling, she walked with him into the distance.
IV.
All he felt was a hot sting, burning like a million suns. It was far worse than any heartburn he had ever experienced. Was this a curse? He tried to walk to the door for help, but his knees gave out under him. Alone in his room, he fell to the floor.
Except he was still on his knees, looking down at the beige floor covering that was slowly turning burgundy. Then he started to notice other things, like the prickling hair on the back of his neck, the sharp pain in his lower back and the choking hold of his tunic. Someone behind him was holding him up, ensuring he would not fall.
He tried to twist around, only to meet the backhand of a solid leather glove. But footsteps were approaching, but instead of his attacker, he saw Much, and he would have breathed a sigh of relief if it did not hurt so much to breathe.
But Much just stood there, staring at him. Why was he not going to raise the alarm? Why not shout for a doctor?
Realisation is slow to dawn on those who have just been stabbed in the back.
“Much?” He did not know what he was pleading for, except that his whole essence craved it.
An unfamiliar voice floated from behind him. A voice from his past. “Trouble in paradise, Hood?”
“Guy?”
The weight of the room was closing in on him, and it was taking an enormous effort just to keep his eyes open. His knees were wet and cold. He could not feel his toes.
He was surely dreaming, but Much looked so sad. He wanted to yell to him, to tell him not to be so down. He wanted to cheer him up, to make him smile.
Then he heard the far off wail of his son, heard the answering song of Marian’s soothing voice as she tended to him. Then this was no dream, leaving him confused in a puddle on his bedchamber floor.
“Why?” He croaked out, his lips dry.
“He brought me along for the journey. Did not think he would have the guts to deliver the fatal blow himself, but wanted it to be done. I was only too happy to oblige.”
He question remained unanswered. Much saw his eyes silently demanding an explanation until he diverted his eyes to the floorboards.
Robin tried to make another sound, to warn Marian, alert the kitchen-boys. But then, what if they are in on the plot too? Robin had never felt so alone and unloved, burning hot on that stone floor.
As if reading his mind, Guy answered the silence “Don’t worry it’s just us. And we are not here to burn and pillage. I just want what is rightly mine.”
“Mar-“ His chest was on fire, and he clutched at his breast.
“Correct.” Robin could barely tilt his head to see Guy’s smug grin, and immediately wished he had not.
Again his eyes swivel to Much’s face, hoping for the loyalty he had trusted for so many years to still be there. He could not die knowing she was not safe.
Much gave a swift nod, “I’ll look after her”.
“Not that she’ll need it as my bride.”
“Much...please...”
“Stop, Robin. It’s too late for apologies.”
Robin’s mind raced. Apologies? What injustice had he done to Much to deserve his life slowly bleeding out of him?
He had barely given notice to him after he was settled, he no longer ordered him around...it must have seen that he no longer cared for he had barely given notice to him. Oh, what a fool I have been!
This was the revenge for his thoughtless behaviour on the hill in Locksley, watching over the church. That and the million other small barbs that must have ate away at Much everyday. The tiny attacks meant as light jokes but perhaps taken seriously after years of them.
So they were both dying here, although Much had been carrying his injuries for longer.
How did this happen? How did I take him for granted? That I never let him know what he meant to me, how much I needed him.
Oh Lord, when I prayed for humility, if only you had also given me awareness. I have been a truly rotten selfish creature.
Watch over my babe and his mother; let them not fall into cruel hands, dear Father.
Forgive Much, My Lord, for I take all the blame with his guilt. He is a lamb.
He continued to murmur for minutes, half-dazed snatches of conversation could be made out from his feverish prayers. He never once shed a tear or groaned from the pain.
Much stood over his crumpled body until the last breath escaped, weeping over his master. His regret was only matched by Marian’s grief when she came in to see the two of them in her room and Robin on the floor.
V.
“It was a peaceful end for the Earl of Huntington, our dear Lord of Locksley.
In his bed, surrounded by his family and friends he passed into the Lord’s open arms from old age. His last words to his daughters were to tell them of their beauty and strength, a trait they inherited from their mother, God rest her soul. His last words to his eldest child, his son, were words of courage and intelligence, things he learnt from his companions. His last words to his friends were ones of mercy and kindness, lessons they had all learned long ago, and he only repeated to further enforce his personal moral code.
Beloved by all who knew him, he was known to be a fair man. When he first returned to England, it was as an outlaw. Fighting a corrupt system, he battled for the common family, who continue to be indebted to him. However, he never asked for favours in return.
Respected by his elders for his cool head and by his subordinates for his ability to make quick decisions, he created a team of supporters so loyal they would follow him anywhere.
But today, as we bury Robin of Locksley, he goes alone to Heaven.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
When the Friar had finished his sermon, there was not a dry eye in the small cemetery as they watched Robin’s oak coffin laid into the ground next to his wife.
Author: lily_268
Pairing: implied Robin/Marian
Summary: creative writing exercise - five possible deaths of Robin, in chronological order
Disclaimer: I do not own Robin Hood (2006) that's the BBC. Nor did I profit from writing this.
Word Count: 3000
I.
It was a messy affair, filled with confusion and fear. The air was filled with the thick smoke of burning flesh and the black stench of rotted food, dropped where it lay by a soldier in the field who will never be coming back for it.
The sweat fell into his eyes and the sun bore down on his back as he fired shot after shot across the enemy lines. Soon his quiver was empty and he stole a quick glance around his protective shield he had been using. With lightening speed, he ran to the supply tent. Yelling to the cowards who were not preparing for a second wave.
Face falling, he noticed how young these children were and thought of softening his rebuke. But war is a time for hard men, men with hate in their hearts and victory in their souls. He grabbed new arrows to stock himself and unsheathed his sword.
To death, for so many, but all he could yell was that they were fighting for King Richard and England. A dozen more fell under the sting of his bow before he missed a shot. A sticky liquid had gummed up his fingers and he looks down, surprised at the blood dripping from his shoulder. His hesitation is enough to allow a foolhardy Saracen to attack. The sun’s warmth is fading and all he is aware of is the coppery smell of finality.
Of death.
He welcomes the tingling in his fingers as he loses more blood, blocking out the anguished screams of his best friend who has just discovered his body. His heavy lids close forever with one final face hovering beneath them.
II.
He treads the royal line, smiling and simpering to the Sheriff, who counts his coins behind locked doors. Behind his own locked doors, he sees the faces of the four men he condemned to death. In the morning, he speaks at another funeral of a villager who died of starvation. His afternoons are filled with mindless political games that make his head spin. His nights are spent on accounting and although it is boring work, it is preferable to interacting with people again. At best, the numbers are nothing, they feel nothing, and they mean nothing. He can do no harm to them. And he can empathise with them. It has been months since he last felt something. At worst, he falls asleep on the books, only to be woken by nightmares. He long ago had to ignore the pangs of guilt and the urges to make his people love him again. Instead, he sits alone, isolated from his friends and Marian. He cannot even look at her through his shame. Pieces of his soul break away each time he sees the mixed feelings playing across her face knowing that she has simultaneously protected him and doomed him. He is alive, but no longer himself, no longer a man she can be proud of.
He can no longer wait for death to deliver him, knowing that although it will be upsetting, it would be preferable to living a lie, with his skin wearing thinner with each day until all his humanity is drained away. Despite his absence of feelings, he still craves the ancient idea of glory and the Christian in him forbids suicide. Yet action must be taken.
He dresses himself in his finest silks and robes and rides alone with a wagon of riches to the deep parts of the forest. He is an hour off the path and the leaves are so dense there is no chance of sunshine to get through. He hears the following footsteps minutes before he stops to water his horse, humming like a dolt. He acts angry and shocked when the band of rogues blocks his path and put up what he thinks, somewhat smugly, is a good fight. However, he is without his bow and outnumbered and his back is soon pressed against the damp earth. He spits and curses, threatening and insulting them. It is not long until of them suggests silencing him. Robin inwardly smiles but fights against his bonds with an increased frenzy, even biting one of the hands that gag him. Exasperated, a larger man picks up a staff and Robin only sees white light as it crashes down to connect with his head to a sickening crack. Again, Robin struggles, despite his body telling him to stay still, to flee rather than fight.
Robin’s body is only still after the large man wipes the blood from his staff and crosses himself, murmuring an apology, swearing to the cooling body that he would share the riches they had stolen with families that were having trouble. The man’s fingers gently closed Robin’s eyes and the forest gang decided, after much arguing to leave him to be found in his fine clothing, as the least they could do, unaware of the pleasure they were bringing to a departed soul.
III.
King Richard had long ago returned, pardoning all the outlaws. All but one.
So she stands at her lookout on the parapet of Nottingham, unable to stand either Locksley or Knighton Hall. Too many memories haunt her, so she is forced to haunt the stones of Nottingham, waiting. She fingers and old locket idly, scanning the horizon with wearied eyes.
“He fell m’lady, in the forest”.
“We were being chased by fifty men with dogs.”
“I thought he was right behind me.”
They had babbled their excuses, stories overlapping so that the knowledge took time to trickle to her heart. Her body went numb and she gracefully rose from her chair to be alone in her room. For hours, she waited for the tears to fall. But she had to know for sure, so while her body felt empty, her ears were still trained, listening for any sign of mistake, any sign of Robin. The reports came in so fast that she had to plug her ears with cotton until everything sounded as muffled as she felt. She forgave them all of course. It was no-ones fault. Besides, he was just lost. He would wander back to her. No one seemed to share her view, but that did not shake her belief.
It was a sunny morning. It was a silly theft in the forest. They were being chased by the same incompetent soldiers as always. No, if Robin were to leave her, it would be in a glorious battle, something to be sung about for ages, not to be forgotten and lost in the underbrush of Sherwood. He could not fall so ingloriously.
Everyday she waited, knowing that one afternoon he would walk through the sun-dappled forest with that cheeky smile she hated.
“M’lady, you must eat today, your father demands it”. A large sigh accompanied the loud clattering of clearing uneaten meals. Marian had no idea, but her maid was no longer hiding her displeasure. “M’lady, step into this gown, you must wear black to a funeral.”
Her eyes focused again to the present and she looked up for the sound that disturbed her thoughts. “Whose---?”
“Why, Robin’s of course, been missing a month now. Can’t put it off any longer.” The wrinkled old maid thought that perhaps there had been a better way to break it to the poor child, but she had to accept facts.
“But, he promised me.”
The crone’s heart almost broke, looking into Marian’s hollow eyes, observing her sunken cheeks. She vowed to be softer next time. “Not all promises can be kept, child.”
“This one can.” She sounded so far away; the women could barely hear her soft voice.
“Be that as it may, you still have to step into this dress.”
She knew there were rumours and stories about her. The stone widow that paced the walls, waiting silently for her love to return. She was a statue looking towards the heavens, closest to God, so that he might better hear her prayers. She became a cautionary tale to others, a spirit to frighten children into washing behind their ears and to eat their vegetables. “Go to bed now or Lady Marian will snatch you away and freeze you to the walls, like her gargoyle pets.”
She did not mind; let them twist her tragic story so they can live with it. The truth was too painful. While they lived their lives without hope, she knew that one day she would be woken from her trance to see him standing in front of her, to feel the warmth of his hands in hers again. It would be the same as walking into a stained glass church for the first time. Not knowing that you missed the dazzling coloured light until you left after the service, pining for the elaborate shapes and delicates patterns. If you had never seen the inside of such a chapel, you could never mourn it, but Marian had lived in light for so long, she was unaccustomed to such darkness, and waited, searching for him to bring the light back into her life.
“Promise me you’ll be safe?”
“Aren’t I always?”
“And you’ll come back?”
He sighed, breathing onto her hand, “I promise.” He left a gentle kiss on her fingers, enough for the tingle to reach her toes.
It was years before the arthritis in her joints caused the patrols of the castle impossible in damp weather, and soon she was restricted to complete bed rest. With a bad cough, he was a menace to her nursemaids, demanding to be taken to the defence walls. Restlessly she tossed and turned, knowing that he would be looking for her to welcome him home, she could not let him down now. Not for a silly little chest cold.
One day she opened her eyes to a bright room that felt so familiar she thought that perhaps her nursemaids had moved her to the parapet for an afternoon. It was then that she heard his musical voice, still filled with humour after all this time. She had lived in denial for long, thriving off the hope when his body had not been found that when she saw him again, she felt overjoyed. Then, looking down at their hands as they intertwined, she noticed how young they both were. How smooth his skin was, how bright his eyes glistened. She looked over his form, absorbing every divine detail.
“A dream?”
Her eyes began to well up. To come so close only to be teased. She had not had one of these dreams in years. She did not know if she should be relieved, angry or happy. Either way, any Robin was better than none at all. And she still had enough hope in her to pay close attention to his next words.
“Better. We never have to wake up.”
She liked the sound of never. Smiling, she walked with him into the distance.
IV.
All he felt was a hot sting, burning like a million suns. It was far worse than any heartburn he had ever experienced. Was this a curse? He tried to walk to the door for help, but his knees gave out under him. Alone in his room, he fell to the floor.
Except he was still on his knees, looking down at the beige floor covering that was slowly turning burgundy. Then he started to notice other things, like the prickling hair on the back of his neck, the sharp pain in his lower back and the choking hold of his tunic. Someone behind him was holding him up, ensuring he would not fall.
He tried to twist around, only to meet the backhand of a solid leather glove. But footsteps were approaching, but instead of his attacker, he saw Much, and he would have breathed a sigh of relief if it did not hurt so much to breathe.
But Much just stood there, staring at him. Why was he not going to raise the alarm? Why not shout for a doctor?
Realisation is slow to dawn on those who have just been stabbed in the back.
“Much?” He did not know what he was pleading for, except that his whole essence craved it.
An unfamiliar voice floated from behind him. A voice from his past. “Trouble in paradise, Hood?”
“Guy?”
The weight of the room was closing in on him, and it was taking an enormous effort just to keep his eyes open. His knees were wet and cold. He could not feel his toes.
He was surely dreaming, but Much looked so sad. He wanted to yell to him, to tell him not to be so down. He wanted to cheer him up, to make him smile.
Then he heard the far off wail of his son, heard the answering song of Marian’s soothing voice as she tended to him. Then this was no dream, leaving him confused in a puddle on his bedchamber floor.
“Why?” He croaked out, his lips dry.
“He brought me along for the journey. Did not think he would have the guts to deliver the fatal blow himself, but wanted it to be done. I was only too happy to oblige.”
He question remained unanswered. Much saw his eyes silently demanding an explanation until he diverted his eyes to the floorboards.
Robin tried to make another sound, to warn Marian, alert the kitchen-boys. But then, what if they are in on the plot too? Robin had never felt so alone and unloved, burning hot on that stone floor.
As if reading his mind, Guy answered the silence “Don’t worry it’s just us. And we are not here to burn and pillage. I just want what is rightly mine.”
“Mar-“ His chest was on fire, and he clutched at his breast.
“Correct.” Robin could barely tilt his head to see Guy’s smug grin, and immediately wished he had not.
Again his eyes swivel to Much’s face, hoping for the loyalty he had trusted for so many years to still be there. He could not die knowing she was not safe.
Much gave a swift nod, “I’ll look after her”.
“Not that she’ll need it as my bride.”
“Much...please...”
“Stop, Robin. It’s too late for apologies.”
Robin’s mind raced. Apologies? What injustice had he done to Much to deserve his life slowly bleeding out of him?
He had barely given notice to him after he was settled, he no longer ordered him around...it must have seen that he no longer cared for he had barely given notice to him. Oh, what a fool I have been!
This was the revenge for his thoughtless behaviour on the hill in Locksley, watching over the church. That and the million other small barbs that must have ate away at Much everyday. The tiny attacks meant as light jokes but perhaps taken seriously after years of them.
So they were both dying here, although Much had been carrying his injuries for longer.
How did this happen? How did I take him for granted? That I never let him know what he meant to me, how much I needed him.
Oh Lord, when I prayed for humility, if only you had also given me awareness. I have been a truly rotten selfish creature.
Watch over my babe and his mother; let them not fall into cruel hands, dear Father.
Forgive Much, My Lord, for I take all the blame with his guilt. He is a lamb.
He continued to murmur for minutes, half-dazed snatches of conversation could be made out from his feverish prayers. He never once shed a tear or groaned from the pain.
Much stood over his crumpled body until the last breath escaped, weeping over his master. His regret was only matched by Marian’s grief when she came in to see the two of them in her room and Robin on the floor.
V.
“It was a peaceful end for the Earl of Huntington, our dear Lord of Locksley.
In his bed, surrounded by his family and friends he passed into the Lord’s open arms from old age. His last words to his daughters were to tell them of their beauty and strength, a trait they inherited from their mother, God rest her soul. His last words to his eldest child, his son, were words of courage and intelligence, things he learnt from his companions. His last words to his friends were ones of mercy and kindness, lessons they had all learned long ago, and he only repeated to further enforce his personal moral code.
Beloved by all who knew him, he was known to be a fair man. When he first returned to England, it was as an outlaw. Fighting a corrupt system, he battled for the common family, who continue to be indebted to him. However, he never asked for favours in return.
Respected by his elders for his cool head and by his subordinates for his ability to make quick decisions, he created a team of supporters so loyal they would follow him anywhere.
But today, as we bury Robin of Locksley, he goes alone to Heaven.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
When the Friar had finished his sermon, there was not a dry eye in the small cemetery as they watched Robin’s oak coffin laid into the ground next to his wife.