SHORT FIC- (Soon) An Army, Against One - 1x12 Missing moment
Title: [Soon] An Army, Against One [plus three, plus two more]
Author: Nettlestone Nell
Word Count: 1036
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Marian, Robin; Marian/Robin
Spoilers/Warnings: Up to quite late in 1x12 "The Return of the King".
Summary: Missing moment. Because Xena's One Against An Army taught us nothing if not that deathbeds on action/adventure shows make for the best, and most truthful scenes. And because I might (of late and for entirely other reasons) have been meditating on and studying a particularly beloved scene in a poxy, poxy cave.
Disclaimer: No one can truly own the legend of Robin Hood, but BBC/Tiger Aspect seem to hold rights to this particular iteration.
Category: Drama; Missing Moment/Short Fic
[Soon] An Army, Against One [plus three, plus two more]
Once upon a time, Marian thought, once upon a time there were two--perhaps mis-matched (at least at the time)--young lovers. He longed for glory on distant battlefields. She, for the chance to help those less fortunate in the light of day.
So the young lord followed his King into battle, distinguishing himself.
And the lady passionately embroidered by day, and offered the poor succor by cover of night.
And then--without the aid of fairy godmothers, or wily trolls, enchantments or potions, in fact, seemingly without otherworldly assistance of any kind, they were reunited.
And here, the tale took a clumsy turn. Instead of making the most of this gift of further time together, of laying bare their emotions, transparent and visible to all, they would spat, and quarrel. They would allow pride and something else--arrogance? fear? to come between them.
And now the lady lay--not on a bower of beautiful flowers in a forest meadow in a glass coffin; not floating down to Camelot in a boat similarly decorated; not within an enchanted castle surrounded by thorn bushes grown over one-hundred years--nor even within something as everyday as the Sheriff of Nottingham's notorious dungeon. No, she lay, unceremoniously within a shire cavern on cold, unforgiving stone hastily covered over in several animal skins to try and keep out the unavoidable chill.
Lay there, recalling her last words to the man she found now sleeping, seated on the cavern floor beside her makeshift bed, not unlike (in the very best way) the most faithful of dogs.
"Even my father, who is old and infirm supports me more than you do!"
Well, her father was not here, now. And though he had not tried to prevent her from stealing Gisborne's gold as the Nightwatchman, he had unequivocally let her know that, come Saturday, she would be meeting Guy at the altar alone--Sir Edward of Knighton's responsibility--his fealty and loyalty tied to the King he served by an unbreakable vow. Not to the daughter he had merely sired, to whom he had not given (nor was required to give) any such binding oath.
It had instead been Robin who had come after her during her bungled attempt at robbing Gisborne's chest. Robin who had let her put her boot into Gisborne on the stair, stilling his own rage at the off-color commentary Guy chose to taunt him with of his (and her) forthcoming wedding night. Robin who had scattered--but with her--into the woods. Robin who had carried her over branch and stream and perilously uneven ground to get her here, to cover and safety. Robin who cared enough, still, to fight with her, when many would no doubt have either walked away, or simply kept their mouths shut.
Grow up, she looked down and thought, wondering if he had ever realized that with every breath she used to tell him that she was nearly always saying, 'I love you, you idiot. How can you doubt it?'
Had he understood this foreign language of hers? This all-important substitution?
Breaking up their rowing, Djaq had interrupted them moments before, telling her she needed to sleep. Moments before what? They had been arguing. Marian wondered, had Robin been meaning to say it--to ever say it? To really say it aloud? Perhaps the arguing, the hot words thrown at her were some foreign language of his own making.
She would not hear him even if he did declare himself, Marian suddenly believed. She could feel she was about to drift off. Whatever words he might have for her when he awoke she was about to miss.
She wondered that he had never said it before. Surely (she imagined) he had employed such rhetoric on other girls (if his reputation was to be believed). Why he had not, most-importantly, offered it to her as she practiced with her sword, trying so hard to be valiant in the face of her fears and reservations about going through with marrying Gisborne?
He had made many valid arguments, delivered them most passionately, but certainly none would have proven as compelling or effective as his simply telling her that she couldn't marry Gisborne because he, Robin of Locksley, rightful Earl of Huntingdon, loved her. Perhaps wished to marry her.
And if not then--later, when he visited her in the early evening still hot with outrage, but now controlled. She had waited for it, half-certain it was why he had returned.
It was a reason (his claim upon her heart) against which she had prepared no case.
"You ridiculous man," she slurred out, in the direction of his hair, thinking, 'very well. She would take the lead, then'--tell him first. Tell him in actual, decipherable, unable-to-be-translated-in-any-other-way English words that she loved him. She attempted to lift and move her left hand over to wake him.
It proved a more difficult task for her quickly clouding mind than she would have expected.
She looked about to see if anyone were around, through which she might relay the message--the message her mind was quickly occluding from what was left of her accessible, non-drowsy intellect.
No, they were alone.
She managed to lift her hand one more time, managed to settle in on his shoulder, her wrist to the warmth of the back of his neck. She knew (despite the haze settling upon her) that she wanted him to wake up. Perhaps it was his eyes she wished to see. She could no longer recall. But they were such precious eyes to her, so full of mischief and even happiness, and deeper in stacked with feelings and memories of sights she still knew so little of, but would like to know more. She wished to trace her fingertips along the grooves and lines edging his eyes that had grown there since he had last lived in Locksley's Manor, to read them like a fortuneteller might decipher a palm, revealing a life both past and future.
Open your eyes, you silly man, she thought, the hairs on his neck prickling against her smooth wrist. This is no time to slumber. No time to waste, to...
And she was out.
...the end...
Author: Nettlestone Nell
Word Count: 1036
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Marian, Robin; Marian/Robin
Spoilers/Warnings: Up to quite late in 1x12 "The Return of the King".
Summary: Missing moment. Because Xena's One Against An Army taught us nothing if not that deathbeds on action/adventure shows make for the best, and most truthful scenes. And because I might (of late and for entirely other reasons) have been meditating on and studying a particularly beloved scene in a poxy, poxy cave.
Disclaimer: No one can truly own the legend of Robin Hood, but BBC/Tiger Aspect seem to hold rights to this particular iteration.
Category: Drama; Missing Moment/Short Fic
[Soon] An Army, Against One [plus three, plus two more]
Once upon a time, Marian thought, once upon a time there were two--perhaps mis-matched (at least at the time)--young lovers. He longed for glory on distant battlefields. She, for the chance to help those less fortunate in the light of day.
So the young lord followed his King into battle, distinguishing himself.
And the lady passionately embroidered by day, and offered the poor succor by cover of night.
And then--without the aid of fairy godmothers, or wily trolls, enchantments or potions, in fact, seemingly without otherworldly assistance of any kind, they were reunited.
And here, the tale took a clumsy turn. Instead of making the most of this gift of further time together, of laying bare their emotions, transparent and visible to all, they would spat, and quarrel. They would allow pride and something else--arrogance? fear? to come between them.
And now the lady lay--not on a bower of beautiful flowers in a forest meadow in a glass coffin; not floating down to Camelot in a boat similarly decorated; not within an enchanted castle surrounded by thorn bushes grown over one-hundred years--nor even within something as everyday as the Sheriff of Nottingham's notorious dungeon. No, she lay, unceremoniously within a shire cavern on cold, unforgiving stone hastily covered over in several animal skins to try and keep out the unavoidable chill.
Lay there, recalling her last words to the man she found now sleeping, seated on the cavern floor beside her makeshift bed, not unlike (in the very best way) the most faithful of dogs.
"Even my father, who is old and infirm supports me more than you do!"
Well, her father was not here, now. And though he had not tried to prevent her from stealing Gisborne's gold as the Nightwatchman, he had unequivocally let her know that, come Saturday, she would be meeting Guy at the altar alone--Sir Edward of Knighton's responsibility--his fealty and loyalty tied to the King he served by an unbreakable vow. Not to the daughter he had merely sired, to whom he had not given (nor was required to give) any such binding oath.
It had instead been Robin who had come after her during her bungled attempt at robbing Gisborne's chest. Robin who had let her put her boot into Gisborne on the stair, stilling his own rage at the off-color commentary Guy chose to taunt him with of his (and her) forthcoming wedding night. Robin who had scattered--but with her--into the woods. Robin who had carried her over branch and stream and perilously uneven ground to get her here, to cover and safety. Robin who cared enough, still, to fight with her, when many would no doubt have either walked away, or simply kept their mouths shut.
Grow up, she looked down and thought, wondering if he had ever realized that with every breath she used to tell him that she was nearly always saying, 'I love you, you idiot. How can you doubt it?'
Had he understood this foreign language of hers? This all-important substitution?
Breaking up their rowing, Djaq had interrupted them moments before, telling her she needed to sleep. Moments before what? They had been arguing. Marian wondered, had Robin been meaning to say it--to ever say it? To really say it aloud? Perhaps the arguing, the hot words thrown at her were some foreign language of his own making.
She would not hear him even if he did declare himself, Marian suddenly believed. She could feel she was about to drift off. Whatever words he might have for her when he awoke she was about to miss.
She wondered that he had never said it before. Surely (she imagined) he had employed such rhetoric on other girls (if his reputation was to be believed). Why he had not, most-importantly, offered it to her as she practiced with her sword, trying so hard to be valiant in the face of her fears and reservations about going through with marrying Gisborne?
He had made many valid arguments, delivered them most passionately, but certainly none would have proven as compelling or effective as his simply telling her that she couldn't marry Gisborne because he, Robin of Locksley, rightful Earl of Huntingdon, loved her. Perhaps wished to marry her.
And if not then--later, when he visited her in the early evening still hot with outrage, but now controlled. She had waited for it, half-certain it was why he had returned.
It was a reason (his claim upon her heart) against which she had prepared no case.
"You ridiculous man," she slurred out, in the direction of his hair, thinking, 'very well. She would take the lead, then'--tell him first. Tell him in actual, decipherable, unable-to-be-translated-in-any-other-way English words that she loved him. She attempted to lift and move her left hand over to wake him.
It proved a more difficult task for her quickly clouding mind than she would have expected.
She looked about to see if anyone were around, through which she might relay the message--the message her mind was quickly occluding from what was left of her accessible, non-drowsy intellect.
No, they were alone.
She managed to lift her hand one more time, managed to settle in on his shoulder, her wrist to the warmth of the back of his neck. She knew (despite the haze settling upon her) that she wanted him to wake up. Perhaps it was his eyes she wished to see. She could no longer recall. But they were such precious eyes to her, so full of mischief and even happiness, and deeper in stacked with feelings and memories of sights she still knew so little of, but would like to know more. She wished to trace her fingertips along the grooves and lines edging his eyes that had grown there since he had last lived in Locksley's Manor, to read them like a fortuneteller might decipher a palm, revealing a life both past and future.
Open your eyes, you silly man, she thought, the hairs on his neck prickling against her smooth wrist. This is no time to slumber. No time to waste, to...
And she was out.
...the end...