The Drink of Death: Part 1/2
Original Post
Word Count: 2575 in this part (5731 total)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Robin, a version of Marian
Genre: General; horror elements
Spoilers: Set between 2x01 and 2x02; not AU, but kind of an extreme missing adventure between episodes.
Warnings: A bit of claustrophobia at the outset. Fairly grotesque description of a corpse.
Disclaimer: I claim no rights toward the show Robin Hood or the characters portrayed therein, make nothing from this, and mean no infringement by my little tale.
Notes: HUGE, GIGANTIC thanks to mylogiceatsyou for the awesome brainstorming session!! This might have remained stalled out indefinitely without her fantastic suggestions and help, as well as beta'ing. For robinsociety in rh_intercomm.
He was in a box.
That was not the first thing Robin noticed when he regained consciousness-- his initial realizations were of a blinding pain in his head and the fact that he could not see,-- but it was simple to deduce. He was unable to move much; however, the small area that he was able to reach confirmed that he was surrounded by wood. Judging from the man-sized dimensions, and supported by the fact that he was on his back, it was possible that he was in a coffin-- but he preferred to think of it simply as a "box." That word was less likely to inspire panic.
The throbbing in his skull that he'd been ignoring thus far attacked him with a vengeance, and his instinctive attempt to grab his head was thwarted by the close confines of the space. He had no idea of how he had wound up here; his last memory was of making a delivery in Nettlestone. Obviously, an enemy had awaited him there; else he would not be waking up in a damned crate. What had happened there, he wished he knew. Either way, he needed to get out of here.
When the pain subsided, he managed to raise his arms somewhat by crossing them over his chest, one at a time. With that accomplished, he pushed against the wood opposite his face, but to no avail; it would not budge. There was no space to allow for proper leverage, nor could he try with his knees. He noticed that the air was a little stuffy, and suddenly became aware that the lack of light could indicate a lack of air, which instilled a whole new immediacy to the situation. Forcing himself to remain calm, he reached out with his toes, to see if his feet were near a side of the box. It happened that there was one right beneath them, and he wriggled his way as far down as he could go. Then, pulling his legs up the inch or so available, he kicked against the end. He was unable to get much force that way, but he was hoping he might be able to knock it loose-- or even better, off.
No such luck.
Feeling anxiety start to rise again, he closed his eyes and concentrated on relaxing. That did not work as well as he'd hoped, but when he had a hold on himself once more, he methodically pushed against each side of the crate. He met with no success, and weighed his options. He could try pounding on it or shouting, but someone had put him here very deliberately; and if they were still nearby, they might decide to shut him up permanently. Maybe he could wedge his sword between two of the sides and somehow pry them apart? He was unsure if there was enough room to allow him to apply sufficient force, but it was worth a shot. It was actually going to be rather a feat removing the blade from its scabbard, but he was hardly going anywhere soon, so he had the time.
What he did not have, he discovered, was his sword. Nor, for that matter, were his bow or quiver here. Cursing under his breath, he acknowledged that he should have expected that. Even if whoever had imprisoned him expected that he would not escape, the weapons were of high quality, and could be used... or kept as trophies.
Think! he commanded himself, wracking his aching brain for another idea. However, the desperation of his situation was starting to weigh down on him, and with it, the sense of being closed-in. Normally, Robin was fine in small spaces. Knowing that he had no potential means of getting out was definitely taking a toll, though. He could not be still, and squirmed around.
The movement brought his head into contact with the wood above him, causing not only a fresh wave of pain, but also making that board move. Having been unable to think very clearly or see that area, he had neglected to test it; now, it appeared to be his salvation. There was no way to get his hands up there, so he merely gritted his teeth against the agony to come, and maneuvered a bit higher, pushing his head against the loose board. It took longer than he'd hoped, and he was queasy by the time the thing fell off, but he sucked in the wave of fresh air that washed over him, which helped to settle his stomach somewhat.
He tilted his head back, looking out of the open space as much as he could; if he pushed his way out of the box, only to fall on his skull, he would be in even more trouble than he already faced. Finally, it seemed Lady Luck was on his side; he was on a dirt floor, apparently in a barn or similar building. Bracing his heels on the bottom of the box, and his hands along the sides, he slowly inched his way up, his muscles protesting the unusual demands he was making of them. After what felt like an eternity, he had managed to move far enough that he could get his arms out, which enabled him to quickly finish the job.
Once he was finally free, he jumped to his feet-- only to nearly fall over sideways when his vision swam. Managing to avoid that, he eased to the floor, leaning against another crate that was beside the one from which he had just freed himself. He closed his eyes, resting back for a moment. The dizziness would not pass, and the nausea had returned, but he did not have time to be ill; he had to escape, had to find out what was going on.
Thump.
His eyes flew open as the knock reverberated through the wood he was leaning on and into his body. He scooted forward so that he could turn and look at it; it had not really registered to him that if he was leaning against a different box, that that could mean someone was inside of it, as he had been. Then, he realized that there were more. He slowly looked to his left, not from an attempt to minimize his disorientation, since that appeared to be impossible; but out of shock. When he saw more boxes laid out that way, he swung his head to the right, barely managing to maintain his sitting position with the harsh movement-- but he could not believe that there were even more in that direction. And that was not all; the way they were laid out--
He scooted back a bit further, and then somehow managed to get to his feet. He turned around, staggering as he did so, but he had to see it.
He was, indeed, in a barn. The floor was sprinkled here and there with sparse pieces of stale hay, now the hue of the dirt below them. There was barely any roof left, and weirdly, sunlight shone through, setting alight the myriad dust motes dancing through the air. The walls, on the other hand, appeared solid, allowing him to see nothing through them which would permit him to get his bearings. There was the box he had been in, the wide board clinging stubbornly to one side, despite being pushed out to nearly a right angle.
Beside his box was the one he had leaned on, and beside it was another, and another... Ten in all, laid out in a perfect circle, like spokes. And, in the middle, stood Robin.
Why? What could possibly possess somebody to take the time to so carefully arrange boxes full of people?
People! That "thump"! The haze in his brain was making him cling to each idea as it occurred to him, the rest drifting past like a murky breeze. He had not thought of the implications of the sound. Well, he had, but then he'd been distracted again--
--just as he was doing now. "Concentrate," he growled to himself, and did so both mentally and visually as he made his way over to the box. Dropping to his knees beside it, he tried to pry up the board nearest him, but it would not budge. Pausing to look at the top, he noted that it consisted of three long, wide boards. Were there indeed a person within, the boards would be running from head to foot. He had been giving one of the edge pieces a go, but perhaps the middle one, with less places to secure it, would be easier to loosen.
Moving around to get a decent grip on that plank, he pulled. Within seconds, the thing popped up. With one more, quick yank, he had it completely free, and tossed it to the ground beside him before looking inside.
When he did, the urge to scream was only trumped by being so frozen in horror, not even his vocal cords could function. Shaking himself free of the paralysis, he braced himself on the remaining boards, leaning in to make sure he was not mistaken. He was not.
It was Marian, and she had been dead for some time. The creamy warmth of her skin now resembled curdled milk, blue veins crisscrossing her face, with bruising here and there where her blood had pooled. Her eyes were starting to sink behind her lids, and her hair had matted where it rested on a veil that had slid backward from her head, the circlet meant to keep it in place sticking out at an odd angle above her, like a demented halo. She wore an intricately embroidered gown of white on white, bespeaking her station in life and the purity she had worn into death, but the garment was not at all beautiful as it clashed with the new color of her flesh. Her hands, in much the same state as her face, rested on her chest, clutching a withered, blackened thing that may have once been a lily. She should have appeared at peace in her rest; instead, she just looked... dead.
Something plunked against her wrist, and then again; and it was not until the third droplet hit that Robin realized he was crying. "No," he whispered, shaking his head in denial, not even aware to wonder if his mind had finally cleared. It could not be. Granted, he had not been able to see her for over a week, but surely that was not enough time, surely he would have heard--
Thump.
His gaze tore away from the terrible sight, and settled on the box directly across the circle from Mari-- from that one. (It could not be Marian; it could not be...)
He would figure this out later. He would come back to this when he could see straight, and then he would show himself that he had been mistaken. For now, there might be a person in that other crate who needed help. Forcing himself not to glance at the open box again, he stood, tripping slightly as the dizziness returned with a vengeance, somehow worse now than it had been before. He fell twice on his way over, but pulled himself upright both times, repeating his mantra: "Concentrate. Concentrate." Anything to keep from revisiting that image in his mind.
When he got to the other box, he immediately grasped the center board and jerked it off, tipping sideways in the process and managing to bash himself in the shoulder with the wood. Pushing off the ground, he decided crawling was his best bet, and approached the breached crate on his hands and knees. With extreme reluctance, he peered inside.
This time, when he froze, it was out of the most profound confusion he had ever experienced. Seeing Marian in the first box, in the state she was in, had felt impossible; however, that was only because he could not accept that she could be dead, and long enough for her to be in such a condition. But, no matter whether or not he was able to face that prospect, it truly was impossible for her to also be in this box. Her dress was the same, she was positioned the same-- she was exactly the same.
His vision was still blurry, but the extremeness of the situation created a point of sharp focus, right at the middle, and he trained it on the first Marian-box. Indeed, when he looked back inside, she was still there. And also with the second Marian-box.
The point of focus vanished as he lost all coherent thought. There were more boxes, lots of them, and he had to know what was in each one. He went into a frenzy, so unmindful of his own presence that he no longer succumbed to his lack of balance, set only on one thing: discovering what was in each box. The barn became a mass of streaking color as he flew about, ripping apart crate after crate after crate, kicking to pieces those that would not cooperate, only noticing on the very edges of his consciousness that the impossibility of the situation increased with each box he destroyed.
It was not until he had finished, collapsing on his back in the center of the once-perfect circle as he gasped for air, that the realization crept from those edges and into his mind.
She was in all of them. Out of ten boxes, one had contained him; the rest held Marian.
Was he dead?
Was this Hell?
There could be no better Hell.
But, this was just one room, one building. What might await him outside?
He had never taken to procrastination, and he was hardly going to start now. If this was his eternity, he may as well learn what it entailed.
Rising once more, he started toward the barn doors, when a voice came from behind him.
"Robin."
His eyes drifted shut, causing him to weave against the fog in his head without a visual reference. It was Marian's voice, and yet, it was not; and he was not sure he wanted to turn around.
"Robin."
She was closer now, but her voice sounded further away at the same time. If he had not already been so disoriented, that would have done it; in his present state, he had to open his eyes, or risk another fall.
"Robin."
She was right behind him. Bracing himself, he turned around, and came face-to-face with a beloved nightmare. It was Marian, and it was not. Without the pressure of her skull on part of the circlet, the delicate ring hung off of the veil, where it had gotten snagged in the silk. Otherwise, she was just as she had been laying down... except for her eyes. They were open, from where they rested deeper in their sockets than they ever could in life; but besides that, they were normal, wide and blue and healthy. She stared at him expectantly, and he had no clue what she wanted.
If she had hoped to send him reeling in terror, she would be disappointed. Even in this abhorrent form, she was still Marian, and he would always love her, even if he could not say the words. "How did this happen? This cannot be; you must live. You must!"
She frowned, tilting her head to the side, and reached out for him.
When she touched his shoulder, it was as if he had been struck by lightning. He convulsed, and everything went white--
--and then black, and he was falling...
Part Two
*
Word Count: 2575 in this part (5731 total)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Robin, a version of Marian
Genre: General; horror elements
Spoilers: Set between 2x01 and 2x02; not AU, but kind of an extreme missing adventure between episodes.
Warnings: A bit of claustrophobia at the outset. Fairly grotesque description of a corpse.
Disclaimer: I claim no rights toward the show Robin Hood or the characters portrayed therein, make nothing from this, and mean no infringement by my little tale.
Notes: HUGE, GIGANTIC thanks to mylogiceatsyou for the awesome brainstorming session!! This might have remained stalled out indefinitely without her fantastic suggestions and help, as well as beta'ing. For robinsociety in rh_intercomm.
He was in a box.
That was not the first thing Robin noticed when he regained consciousness-- his initial realizations were of a blinding pain in his head and the fact that he could not see,-- but it was simple to deduce. He was unable to move much; however, the small area that he was able to reach confirmed that he was surrounded by wood. Judging from the man-sized dimensions, and supported by the fact that he was on his back, it was possible that he was in a coffin-- but he preferred to think of it simply as a "box." That word was less likely to inspire panic.
The throbbing in his skull that he'd been ignoring thus far attacked him with a vengeance, and his instinctive attempt to grab his head was thwarted by the close confines of the space. He had no idea of how he had wound up here; his last memory was of making a delivery in Nettlestone. Obviously, an enemy had awaited him there; else he would not be waking up in a damned crate. What had happened there, he wished he knew. Either way, he needed to get out of here.
When the pain subsided, he managed to raise his arms somewhat by crossing them over his chest, one at a time. With that accomplished, he pushed against the wood opposite his face, but to no avail; it would not budge. There was no space to allow for proper leverage, nor could he try with his knees. He noticed that the air was a little stuffy, and suddenly became aware that the lack of light could indicate a lack of air, which instilled a whole new immediacy to the situation. Forcing himself to remain calm, he reached out with his toes, to see if his feet were near a side of the box. It happened that there was one right beneath them, and he wriggled his way as far down as he could go. Then, pulling his legs up the inch or so available, he kicked against the end. He was unable to get much force that way, but he was hoping he might be able to knock it loose-- or even better, off.
No such luck.
Feeling anxiety start to rise again, he closed his eyes and concentrated on relaxing. That did not work as well as he'd hoped, but when he had a hold on himself once more, he methodically pushed against each side of the crate. He met with no success, and weighed his options. He could try pounding on it or shouting, but someone had put him here very deliberately; and if they were still nearby, they might decide to shut him up permanently. Maybe he could wedge his sword between two of the sides and somehow pry them apart? He was unsure if there was enough room to allow him to apply sufficient force, but it was worth a shot. It was actually going to be rather a feat removing the blade from its scabbard, but he was hardly going anywhere soon, so he had the time.
What he did not have, he discovered, was his sword. Nor, for that matter, were his bow or quiver here. Cursing under his breath, he acknowledged that he should have expected that. Even if whoever had imprisoned him expected that he would not escape, the weapons were of high quality, and could be used... or kept as trophies.
Think! he commanded himself, wracking his aching brain for another idea. However, the desperation of his situation was starting to weigh down on him, and with it, the sense of being closed-in. Normally, Robin was fine in small spaces. Knowing that he had no potential means of getting out was definitely taking a toll, though. He could not be still, and squirmed around.
The movement brought his head into contact with the wood above him, causing not only a fresh wave of pain, but also making that board move. Having been unable to think very clearly or see that area, he had neglected to test it; now, it appeared to be his salvation. There was no way to get his hands up there, so he merely gritted his teeth against the agony to come, and maneuvered a bit higher, pushing his head against the loose board. It took longer than he'd hoped, and he was queasy by the time the thing fell off, but he sucked in the wave of fresh air that washed over him, which helped to settle his stomach somewhat.
He tilted his head back, looking out of the open space as much as he could; if he pushed his way out of the box, only to fall on his skull, he would be in even more trouble than he already faced. Finally, it seemed Lady Luck was on his side; he was on a dirt floor, apparently in a barn or similar building. Bracing his heels on the bottom of the box, and his hands along the sides, he slowly inched his way up, his muscles protesting the unusual demands he was making of them. After what felt like an eternity, he had managed to move far enough that he could get his arms out, which enabled him to quickly finish the job.
Once he was finally free, he jumped to his feet-- only to nearly fall over sideways when his vision swam. Managing to avoid that, he eased to the floor, leaning against another crate that was beside the one from which he had just freed himself. He closed his eyes, resting back for a moment. The dizziness would not pass, and the nausea had returned, but he did not have time to be ill; he had to escape, had to find out what was going on.
Thump.
His eyes flew open as the knock reverberated through the wood he was leaning on and into his body. He scooted forward so that he could turn and look at it; it had not really registered to him that if he was leaning against a different box, that that could mean someone was inside of it, as he had been. Then, he realized that there were more. He slowly looked to his left, not from an attempt to minimize his disorientation, since that appeared to be impossible; but out of shock. When he saw more boxes laid out that way, he swung his head to the right, barely managing to maintain his sitting position with the harsh movement-- but he could not believe that there were even more in that direction. And that was not all; the way they were laid out--
He scooted back a bit further, and then somehow managed to get to his feet. He turned around, staggering as he did so, but he had to see it.
He was, indeed, in a barn. The floor was sprinkled here and there with sparse pieces of stale hay, now the hue of the dirt below them. There was barely any roof left, and weirdly, sunlight shone through, setting alight the myriad dust motes dancing through the air. The walls, on the other hand, appeared solid, allowing him to see nothing through them which would permit him to get his bearings. There was the box he had been in, the wide board clinging stubbornly to one side, despite being pushed out to nearly a right angle.
Beside his box was the one he had leaned on, and beside it was another, and another... Ten in all, laid out in a perfect circle, like spokes. And, in the middle, stood Robin.
Why? What could possibly possess somebody to take the time to so carefully arrange boxes full of people?
People! That "thump"! The haze in his brain was making him cling to each idea as it occurred to him, the rest drifting past like a murky breeze. He had not thought of the implications of the sound. Well, he had, but then he'd been distracted again--
--just as he was doing now. "Concentrate," he growled to himself, and did so both mentally and visually as he made his way over to the box. Dropping to his knees beside it, he tried to pry up the board nearest him, but it would not budge. Pausing to look at the top, he noted that it consisted of three long, wide boards. Were there indeed a person within, the boards would be running from head to foot. He had been giving one of the edge pieces a go, but perhaps the middle one, with less places to secure it, would be easier to loosen.
Moving around to get a decent grip on that plank, he pulled. Within seconds, the thing popped up. With one more, quick yank, he had it completely free, and tossed it to the ground beside him before looking inside.
When he did, the urge to scream was only trumped by being so frozen in horror, not even his vocal cords could function. Shaking himself free of the paralysis, he braced himself on the remaining boards, leaning in to make sure he was not mistaken. He was not.
It was Marian, and she had been dead for some time. The creamy warmth of her skin now resembled curdled milk, blue veins crisscrossing her face, with bruising here and there where her blood had pooled. Her eyes were starting to sink behind her lids, and her hair had matted where it rested on a veil that had slid backward from her head, the circlet meant to keep it in place sticking out at an odd angle above her, like a demented halo. She wore an intricately embroidered gown of white on white, bespeaking her station in life and the purity she had worn into death, but the garment was not at all beautiful as it clashed with the new color of her flesh. Her hands, in much the same state as her face, rested on her chest, clutching a withered, blackened thing that may have once been a lily. She should have appeared at peace in her rest; instead, she just looked... dead.
Something plunked against her wrist, and then again; and it was not until the third droplet hit that Robin realized he was crying. "No," he whispered, shaking his head in denial, not even aware to wonder if his mind had finally cleared. It could not be. Granted, he had not been able to see her for over a week, but surely that was not enough time, surely he would have heard--
Thump.
His gaze tore away from the terrible sight, and settled on the box directly across the circle from Mari-- from that one. (It could not be Marian; it could not be...)
He would figure this out later. He would come back to this when he could see straight, and then he would show himself that he had been mistaken. For now, there might be a person in that other crate who needed help. Forcing himself not to glance at the open box again, he stood, tripping slightly as the dizziness returned with a vengeance, somehow worse now than it had been before. He fell twice on his way over, but pulled himself upright both times, repeating his mantra: "Concentrate. Concentrate." Anything to keep from revisiting that image in his mind.
When he got to the other box, he immediately grasped the center board and jerked it off, tipping sideways in the process and managing to bash himself in the shoulder with the wood. Pushing off the ground, he decided crawling was his best bet, and approached the breached crate on his hands and knees. With extreme reluctance, he peered inside.
This time, when he froze, it was out of the most profound confusion he had ever experienced. Seeing Marian in the first box, in the state she was in, had felt impossible; however, that was only because he could not accept that she could be dead, and long enough for her to be in such a condition. But, no matter whether or not he was able to face that prospect, it truly was impossible for her to also be in this box. Her dress was the same, she was positioned the same-- she was exactly the same.
His vision was still blurry, but the extremeness of the situation created a point of sharp focus, right at the middle, and he trained it on the first Marian-box. Indeed, when he looked back inside, she was still there. And also with the second Marian-box.
The point of focus vanished as he lost all coherent thought. There were more boxes, lots of them, and he had to know what was in each one. He went into a frenzy, so unmindful of his own presence that he no longer succumbed to his lack of balance, set only on one thing: discovering what was in each box. The barn became a mass of streaking color as he flew about, ripping apart crate after crate after crate, kicking to pieces those that would not cooperate, only noticing on the very edges of his consciousness that the impossibility of the situation increased with each box he destroyed.
It was not until he had finished, collapsing on his back in the center of the once-perfect circle as he gasped for air, that the realization crept from those edges and into his mind.
She was in all of them. Out of ten boxes, one had contained him; the rest held Marian.
Was he dead?
Was this Hell?
There could be no better Hell.
But, this was just one room, one building. What might await him outside?
He had never taken to procrastination, and he was hardly going to start now. If this was his eternity, he may as well learn what it entailed.
Rising once more, he started toward the barn doors, when a voice came from behind him.
"Robin."
His eyes drifted shut, causing him to weave against the fog in his head without a visual reference. It was Marian's voice, and yet, it was not; and he was not sure he wanted to turn around.
"Robin."
She was closer now, but her voice sounded further away at the same time. If he had not already been so disoriented, that would have done it; in his present state, he had to open his eyes, or risk another fall.
"Robin."
She was right behind him. Bracing himself, he turned around, and came face-to-face with a beloved nightmare. It was Marian, and it was not. Without the pressure of her skull on part of the circlet, the delicate ring hung off of the veil, where it had gotten snagged in the silk. Otherwise, she was just as she had been laying down... except for her eyes. They were open, from where they rested deeper in their sockets than they ever could in life; but besides that, they were normal, wide and blue and healthy. She stared at him expectantly, and he had no clue what she wanted.
If she had hoped to send him reeling in terror, she would be disappointed. Even in this abhorrent form, she was still Marian, and he would always love her, even if he could not say the words. "How did this happen? This cannot be; you must live. You must!"
She frowned, tilting her head to the side, and reached out for him.
When she touched his shoulder, it was as if he had been struck by lightning. He convulsed, and everything went white--
--and then black, and he was falling...
Part Two
*