(no subject)
Dear God, how could everything have gone so wrong?
His hands shake as he watches Marian's face below, her features dimmed through a foggy veil, how her eyes flit about in confusion. Her face is so white that all he can make out against her pale pillow is coal-dark hair, bitten lips, and blue, blue eyes that blink up at him, as if to say silly, what are you doing there? His hands shake, and he tells himself it is from the strain of holding himself here amoung the rafters (though the same hands had been strong enough to fire arrows before, and quick enough to aim for the heart.) He longs to drop down to the floor, to rest one his head along hers--and perhaps the beat of her heart might be enough to still the tremble.
But Gisborne is here, the damned wolf himself, prowling about Marian's chamber as though searching for scent or sign, and Robin must keep quiet and still, moving no more than a rafter's shadow might, while Gisborne trails his eyes along Marian's weakened form.
(How they'd cheered when, not so long ago, those same legs and arms and villain's smile of hers had humiliated Gisborne in the house he'd claimed as his own--how he'd laughed to see Guy brought so low by Marian herself. And now it is Marian, and not Guy, who lies unable to rise. He feels very little like laughing, now.)
But Marian's father is quick-witted and soon squires Gisborne, though he looks back with longing (or desire--a similar word with rather different connotations) and Robin finally--as though it has been an age--drops to the floor as silent as a cat, and immediately bends to Marian's side. He says something--it's meant to be reassuring; a promise of I will help you, but all his men are behind him now and the room grows loud. He longs for the silence of the forest, or, if there must be an interruption, that it come from Marian in the form of some tease or jibe...but she remains silent and it is her father whose voice he hears first.
Like his daughter, Sir Edward has little patience for smalltalk or hedging, and his words accost Robin as if the man had grabbed him by the shoulder. "Do you really have another way out?"
It's impossible. There's no way. His mind is whirring, but it like wheels in mud and water, spinning frantically but reaching no solid ground. There is no other, he thinks, and over and over: I've lost her.
What he says, grasping at Edward with eyes and voice, though his still trembling fingers keep to the wall and to his side, is: "I will think of something."
It was wrong. Sir Edward's face hardens in an instant, and for once Robin sees no chance of an escape, no humor to play on, no qualities to flatter, no memories to invoke that will change the man's mind. He is pinned, finally, by someone else's stubbornness.
And yet he tries. "Once she is married," he pleads, "it can never be undone. Edward..." perhaps, perhaps...he looks for a chink in the other man's armor and finds none, "I will think of something."
"No!" It is utter finality, a door shutting, an arrow thudding home, and Robin swallows, blinks back something biting at his eye. It goes on, each word cutting, pushing, landing in his stomach and making him taste metal at the back of his throat. Edward takes a stand, telling him he will raise Marian's hopes only to dash them again and somewhere Robin wonders if this is the speech he ought to have heard in the days before he left for the Holy Land.
(Marian was engaged, then, too.)
But then Edward tells him, asks him, orders him to...what? Do the right thing? It is too much, far too much to bear and Robin lets out a huff of breath as though Edward had struck him in the stomach.
"Do you know something," he asks the trees outside and the wood shutters, and the shadows on the wall. He turns to Edward, and his jaw clenches so tightly that a dull pain begins to throb in each temple. Edward, he sees, is strangely blurry. "I am sick of doing the right thing!" His breath is coming quicker, but it is stilted; his eyes sting and his voice sounds high and miserable and childish in its anger.
Edward stares, his mouth slightly open as though he is about to speak, and Robin can't--can not bear to hear another word about letting her go or doing the right thing. Gisborne is there no longer; he has to hide from no one, and so his boots are loud against the wooden boards as he walks down the stairs. There is no one to disturb, and so he slams the door.
Childish, petulant phrases of won't and can't and no float through his mind, one for each step he takes away from Edward and away from his duty. Let her go? "Impossible," he says, to no one but his own fevered mind. Any other sacrifice? He'd make it, and gladly. Kill for her--he'd done so that very day (his hand shakes violently, and then stills). Steal her away--she'd have a place, and welcome, among his men, he'd told her so many times.
But let her go? After letting Locksley, and his honor, and his health on the battlefield go; after letting his childhood and his youth and heart and compassion go; now he was expected to lose Marian as well?
And yet why can he not think of a solution?
Bark is rough against his back; he slides down to sit at the roots of a great silent oak, and lets his hands hang helplessly between his knees. He can nearly hear a dear and familiar voice teasing him for his lack of insight and imagination, can almost see blue eyes laughing while still berating him for his stubbornness.
"I'll think of something," he promises her, and she raises one coal-black eyebrow in amused and fond disbelief. "I will."
But he doesn't.
His hands shake as he watches Marian's face below, her features dimmed through a foggy veil, how her eyes flit about in confusion. Her face is so white that all he can make out against her pale pillow is coal-dark hair, bitten lips, and blue, blue eyes that blink up at him, as if to say silly, what are you doing there? His hands shake, and he tells himself it is from the strain of holding himself here amoung the rafters (though the same hands had been strong enough to fire arrows before, and quick enough to aim for the heart.) He longs to drop down to the floor, to rest one his head along hers--and perhaps the beat of her heart might be enough to still the tremble.
But Gisborne is here, the damned wolf himself, prowling about Marian's chamber as though searching for scent or sign, and Robin must keep quiet and still, moving no more than a rafter's shadow might, while Gisborne trails his eyes along Marian's weakened form.
(How they'd cheered when, not so long ago, those same legs and arms and villain's smile of hers had humiliated Gisborne in the house he'd claimed as his own--how he'd laughed to see Guy brought so low by Marian herself. And now it is Marian, and not Guy, who lies unable to rise. He feels very little like laughing, now.)
But Marian's father is quick-witted and soon squires Gisborne, though he looks back with longing (or desire--a similar word with rather different connotations) and Robin finally--as though it has been an age--drops to the floor as silent as a cat, and immediately bends to Marian's side. He says something--it's meant to be reassuring; a promise of I will help you, but all his men are behind him now and the room grows loud. He longs for the silence of the forest, or, if there must be an interruption, that it come from Marian in the form of some tease or jibe...but she remains silent and it is her father whose voice he hears first.
Like his daughter, Sir Edward has little patience for smalltalk or hedging, and his words accost Robin as if the man had grabbed him by the shoulder. "Do you really have another way out?"
It's impossible. There's no way. His mind is whirring, but it like wheels in mud and water, spinning frantically but reaching no solid ground. There is no other, he thinks, and over and over: I've lost her.
What he says, grasping at Edward with eyes and voice, though his still trembling fingers keep to the wall and to his side, is: "I will think of something."
It was wrong. Sir Edward's face hardens in an instant, and for once Robin sees no chance of an escape, no humor to play on, no qualities to flatter, no memories to invoke that will change the man's mind. He is pinned, finally, by someone else's stubbornness.
And yet he tries. "Once she is married," he pleads, "it can never be undone. Edward..." perhaps, perhaps...he looks for a chink in the other man's armor and finds none, "I will think of something."
"No!" It is utter finality, a door shutting, an arrow thudding home, and Robin swallows, blinks back something biting at his eye. It goes on, each word cutting, pushing, landing in his stomach and making him taste metal at the back of his throat. Edward takes a stand, telling him he will raise Marian's hopes only to dash them again and somewhere Robin wonders if this is the speech he ought to have heard in the days before he left for the Holy Land.
(Marian was engaged, then, too.)
But then Edward tells him, asks him, orders him to...what? Do the right thing? It is too much, far too much to bear and Robin lets out a huff of breath as though Edward had struck him in the stomach.
"Do you know something," he asks the trees outside and the wood shutters, and the shadows on the wall. He turns to Edward, and his jaw clenches so tightly that a dull pain begins to throb in each temple. Edward, he sees, is strangely blurry. "I am sick of doing the right thing!" His breath is coming quicker, but it is stilted; his eyes sting and his voice sounds high and miserable and childish in its anger.
Edward stares, his mouth slightly open as though he is about to speak, and Robin can't--can not bear to hear another word about letting her go or doing the right thing. Gisborne is there no longer; he has to hide from no one, and so his boots are loud against the wooden boards as he walks down the stairs. There is no one to disturb, and so he slams the door.
Childish, petulant phrases of won't and can't and no float through his mind, one for each step he takes away from Edward and away from his duty. Let her go? "Impossible," he says, to no one but his own fevered mind. Any other sacrifice? He'd make it, and gladly. Kill for her--he'd done so that very day (his hand shakes violently, and then stills). Steal her away--she'd have a place, and welcome, among his men, he'd told her so many times.
But let her go? After letting Locksley, and his honor, and his health on the battlefield go; after letting his childhood and his youth and heart and compassion go; now he was expected to lose Marian as well?
And yet why can he not think of a solution?
Bark is rough against his back; he slides down to sit at the roots of a great silent oak, and lets his hands hang helplessly between his knees. He can nearly hear a dear and familiar voice teasing him for his lack of insight and imagination, can almost see blue eyes laughing while still berating him for his stubbornness.
"I'll think of something," he promises her, and she raises one coal-black eyebrow in amused and fond disbelief. "I will."
But he doesn't.