Epic Short Fic: The Devil You Know (Part 3)
Title: "The Devil You Know
Author: ladyarcherfan3
Word Count: 11,335 total, 3,393 this part
Rating: PG-13 to be safe
Characters/Pairings: Robin, the gang, Gisborne, the Sheriff, Robin/Marian, OC
Spoilers/Warnings: Drug induced hallucinations; set between S1 and S2
Summary: A confrontation with a revengeful element of his past sends Robin into a world where nightmares and memories blend into something far more terrifying than either.
Disclaimer: Robin Hood and related characters are not mine, I'm making no money from this.
Thanks to my beta auroracat65
Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5
Part 3 - Smoke
There was a certain sense of irony that did not escape Robin as he and the gang crept into Locksley. The day was ending and they sky was the same blood red color that it had been when he had first spotted the wagon. Now, the wagon was sitting serene and apparently harmless next to Locksley church. Robin frowned. The benign setting was nothing but a façade.
The day had been spent doing more investigation on the Hospitaller. Several people in Clun had decided to chance what the man had to offer, and had been given herbs to help with muscle pain and sleeping potions. However, their unfortunate relatives claimed that the medicines had caused more harm than good. The wives and mothers of the victims tearfully told of fits and night terrors that could not be calmed; even now, the poor people were still too ill to get out of bed.
Such mistreatment of the people under his watch only steeled Robin’s determination to confront the Hospitaller. He needed to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding the man and why he dredged up fever twisted memories of the Holy Land. He could not say with any certainty that the man might be working for or with the Sheriff, but he knew the wagon was on the road that led to Nottingham the first night he saw it. The people in the shire were suffering needlessly; chances were good that Vaisey was behind it.
A few words with the villagers of Locksley informed Robin and the gang that the Hospitaller was inside the church. He had set up his head quarters there to perhaps convince the villagers to trust him. They also discovered that Gisborne was still at the castle, which explained the lack of organized guards in the village. A plan quickly formed in Robin’s mind. He would disguise himself as a villager with an ailment and confront the Hospitaller in the church; it provided a confined area in case things went badly, and was also something of a neutral ground. Though Robin did not hold strongly to religion - the Holy Land and the Holy War had stripped him of much of that - he still respected the power it represented to the people.
“Remember lads,” Robin said as he adjusted his disguise; a worn cloak covered his hunched shoulders and a severe limp distorted his familiar figure. “Don’t interrupt unless you have to. Keep watch on the doors and an eye on the windows in case he tries to get out. And be careful of the guards; Gisborne’s not here, so they might not be so eager to confront us. But I need to sort this - for the villagers of Clun -” he hesitated and added, “and for myself. Got it?”
The gang nodded wordlessly. Much sighed, apparently his normal frustrated self when Robin had foolish plans. Inwardly, though he was more worried than usual. Robin should have remembered Lucian, but either his memory had been damaged by the fever more than Much felt it ought to have been, or he was purposefully forgetting it. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he readied himself for the task at hand.
Flitting from shadow to shadow, the gang arranged themselves around the church. Allan, Will and John settled near the front doors, able to see what was happening in the village as well as covering the exit from the church. Much and Djaq were further away, keeping one eye out towards the manor and possible guards and one eye back towards the church.
“I just don’t like this!” Much declared in a stage whisper.
“When do you ever like Robin’s plans, Much?” Djaq asked. She settled her weapon within easy reach and kept up a constant scan of the surrounding area. “Try to relax a little and focus on the task at hand.”
“It’s just that,” Much growled in frustration. “He should remember!” Unconsciously, he reached up and ran his thumb along the thin scar across his jaw, just above his beard.
Djaq looked at him curiously. “What should he remember?”
“The Hospitaller, Lucian, or whoever he is!”
“If he is a Hospitaller.”
“What do you mean?” Much was pulled out of his own spiral of worry at the dark tone of Djaq’s voice.
Djaq frowned. “Yes, the Hospitallers are healers and knights, but they are focused on guarding and caring for pilgrims to and from the Holy Land. It makes no sense for one to come back to England . . . and Robin was right about the symbol not being correct - it is tainted. I am wondering if this man is tainted himself.”
“I would think he is,” Much muttered.
Just then, Robin limped up to the church doors and opened them slowly.
“Just . . . stay focused, Much,” Djaq said in her gentle but firm manner. The man nodded, tightening his grip on his sword.
The church doors swung inwards with a low groan. Inside, the faint dusky light of candles and retreating red sunlight tangled with dust and smoke, smearing light and darkness together. A hooded and robed figure sat at a small table in the center aisle; the altar and large cross behind it rose out of the shadows, lofty but dark. Two large candles flanked the seated man, and a small bruiser pulsing with red coals sat in front of him; smoke and guttering candle light swirled and ebbed around him. Robin repressed a shudder as he shuffled forward; it was eerily reminiscent of the Sheriff’s guise when he was taking “French evidence” from the nobles, but far more sinister. It was more like a fever dream or nightmare than anything.
Slowly, the hooded head of the Hospitaller lifted to watch Robin as he entered the church. The dim light prevented the outlaw from seeing much, but he hoped this would also work in his favor and prevent any recognition the man might have of him. The Sheriff must have a hand in this, and Robin’s description could have very well been provided.
“How may I help you, my son?” the Hospitaller asked in the tone that doctors and priests used when they wanted to be reassuring.
Robin limped right up to the table, keeping his head down. “If you would, sir,” he began, disguising his voice with an accent similar to Allan’s. The Hospitaller cut him off.
“Just Lucian will suffice, my son.”
“Lucian,” Robin agreed with a head bob. “If you would, I ‘ave this limp. An old ‘urt, broke it when I was a lad, acts up quite a lot. I was ‘opin’ you’d ‘ave something for the pain and to ‘elp me sleep.”
A dangerous smile crossed the Hospitaller’s face. “You have come to the right place, lad. I can help you.” He leaned to one side and opened the wooden medicine chest at his right hand. “Is there anything else you require?”
“Yes.” Robin dropped the accent, threw back his hood and drew his dagger before Lucian could turn from the box. “I want to know why you are pretending to heal innocent villagers only to harm them.” His voice was a low growl, and he threatened Lucian’s throat with the knife.
Lucian chuckled. The unexpected reaction almost caused Robin to step back, but he recovered and steadied himself.
“Robin of Locksley,” Lucian said, the dark laughter still clinging to his voice. “We meet again.”
“Again?”
Lucian began laughing in earnest. “You do not remember? How could you not? Your came to me for help, I gave it. You then came and attacked me. You broke my leg so thoroughly that it could not be set straight and I will walk with a limp for the rest of my days. You then went and ruined my reputation with the other knights, so I could hardly show my face around the Hospitallers!”
Robin shook his head, in denial and in an attempt to make sense of what the other man was saying. “No. I have no memory of doing anything like that! Who are you and how do you know me? Are you working for the Sheriff?”
Lucian lurched to his feet, ignoring Robin’s knife. “No, perhaps you would not have remembered what you did, and would have strove to forget it.” He smirked bitterly. “Robin of Locksley, so brave, so righteous, captain of the King’s guards, wounded in a confused night raid of Saracens attempting to kill the King. Such a man could never do something like this,” Lucian gestured to his leg, “to a simple healer and fellow knight!”
“Who are you working for?” Robin demanded again. Fear was beginning to show in his eyes; his control over the situation was slipping and he knew it.
“The Sheriff and I have common interests. One of which at the moment is seeing you dead or completely ruined. Vaisey wants you and your petty, righteous outlawry out of the way, and I want revenge.”
“Revenge for what?” Robin nearly screamed.
Lucian bellowed, “I told you! You ruined me, Locksley! My herbs help people sleep, to forget their nightmares and demons - but sometimes they have a bad reaction. Sometimes the demons leave the dreams and invade the very room. I cannot help when that happens, but I have helped others. I was about to be accepted into the Order of the Knights Hospitaller, where I could have learned more! Now I never can! I had to turn to offering my services where I could - the Sheriff and his allies are quite willing to pay.”
“Look at you,” Robin sneered. “Offering hope and an escape while pretending to be something you’re not, all to line your pockets with gold. If I did ruin you, it was for the better. Devils like you don’t deserve to walk the earth without some pain.”
“And you do? You are the devil of the sort that causes pain to those close to you, and you don’t even realize it.” Smoke eddied thick around Lucian, shrouding his face.
In that instant, memory and dream separated themselves as the curl of another plume of smoke was remembered, and Robin staggered back in shock.
“Master, please let me get you something from the healers. You are not sleeping because of nightmares, and I can tell your wound is still bothering you. Please!”
Robin nodded wearily. “Fine! Just . . . do what you will.”
Much bobbed his head eagerly and headed towards the door. “There is a Hospitaller, I think, who is nearby. I’ve heard around the market that he has herbs that help people sleep, forget . . .”
It had been close to dusk when Much left, so night had fallen before he returned with a small pouch. “He said to burn the leaves and breathe in the smoke before you go to bed. They should help you sleep.”
“Thank you,” Robin said simply as he took the pouch and went to his room. “Sleep well, Much.”
“I hope you do, at least, Master.”
Robin threw the leaves onto the coals of a small brazier he had located. They curled and smoked, but burned slowly. The smoke was thick and pungent, but not entirely unpleasant. He felt himself slipping away into a dark dense fog. Something warned him that not all was right, but he was so tired, he ignored it until it was too late. He could not find his way out of the fog.
He struggled, fighting towards the surface. But hands grabbed at him, shook him, shouted. He fought back, screaming in anger and fear. Somehow his fingers found the familiar hilt of his dagger and he drew it, slashing out in front of him at the monster that clung to him. A startlingly familiar voice, crying in pain, cut through the fog.
“Master!”
Robin gasped for breath like a drowning man and the fog slowly dissipated. Greyness lingered around the edges of his vision, tipping and swirling the room around him. Slowing his breathing helped. Blinking, Robin saw a familiar form crouched against the wall, curled up defensively.
Much.
It was Much, with one hand pressed against his right check, blood streaming down his face. Robin looked down at his hand; he still clutched the dagger, spots of blood marring the blade. He dropped the weapon as if it burned him.
“Master?” Much said hesitantly.
Robin looked up, seeing his own shock and horror mirrored in Much’s face; but he saw concern and hurt there as well. Blood was trickling past his fingers to clot in his beard and in the scarves swathed around his neck.
“I,” Robin began; his voice strange and rough in his ears, “I did that . . .” The world swayed threateningly as he stood. “Much, I . . .” He took a deep breath and caught the scent and taste of the smoke again.
Staggering, he picked up the brazier and somehow managed to throw it out of a window. The room cleared and the world steadied. Much was still hunched against the wall; his face was no longer bleeding but the drying blood left a macabre mask.
“The herbs,” Robin asked slowly, “where did you get them?”
Much blinked and slowly sat up. “Lucian, the Hospitaller. At least I think he was. The symbol on his door was a bit off, but I thought that maybe he wasn’t that great of a painter. But the there aren't any other Hospitallers in the area, and he didn’t really seem like the others we’ve met. But there were so many people in the market talking about his herbs that could help with nightmares and pain and - I’ll shut up now,” he finished, realizing he was babbling.
Thoughts whirled Robin’s head. If this man was not a Hospitaller, but was pretending to be one, he could easily be injuring more people with his proclaimed medicines and herbs. The people looked to the Hospitallers for protection, and this trust was being violated. Robin could not stand for it. “Lucian. Where does he live?”
Much hesitated. “Near the market; you can’t miss his house. The door is black with a white cross.”
Robin stepped deliberately towards the door of the room, focusing on keeping his gait steady.
“Please, Master, do not do anything reckless.”
“Much, this man is lying to people. You are injured! It is my fault!” A flood gate of emotion opened. “I should have never come to the Holy Land! I certainly should not have brought you, loyal Much! It was my mistakes that brought this about!” He turned and left the room. “I need to speak to this Lucian.”
Much’s protests faded behind him. Somehow through the fog that lingered in his head he found his way to the market.
The images came in flashes and spurts and Robin could not stop or control them.
The black door with the skewed white cross loomed before his eyes. He pushed it open and found himself face to face with a robed man. A very faint pall of smoke hung in the air, and every breath brought back the fog. He fought it, but it still crept in, pulling at the edges of his vision.
Robin said his name, made his accusations. The man, Lucian, denied them but could not prove he was a Hospitaller. Lucian made to throw Robin out. Reacting with battlefield instinct, Robin fought back.
They grappled, tumbling over furniture and knocking over shelves. Lucian pulled away and sprinted for the door. Robin leapt after him and tackled him. They landed hard, awkward, and there was a loud crack. Lucian screamed. Robin stood up. The fog still filled his head, making it hard to think, to act.
“If I hear of you tricking and harming innocent people and I can do anything to stop you, then rest assured, I will.”
The other man, writhing on the floor in pain, did not answer. Robin stumbled out of the house and back through the market.
Robin released a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. The world was unsteady as it had been in the dream, and the stench of the smoke lingered in his nostrils. Or was that smoke that hovered about the church not incense has he had believed, but something more sinister?
“Ah, now you remember.” Lucian’s eyes were red, the light from the braizer reflecting there. He raised his hand and power fell from his fist as he slowly opened it over the brazier. Smoke curled upwards. “The devils that you meet walking this world - as you call me - are hardly like the devils you carry around in your mind, Locksley. And I shall make sure those devils that you know will destroy you.”
With the quickness of a striking snake, Lucian picked up the brazier and threw the contents at Robin’s face.
Still reeling from the memories, Robin did not react fast enough. Hot coals skittered across his face and neck and ash filled his gaping mouth. He gasped and choked, breathing in more smoke. Pin points of pain sparked across his face as the embers burned his skin. With a snarl of frustration and pain, Robin pawed at his face and chest, knocking away the embers that burned his skin and singed his clothing. Ash gritted between his teeth and stuck to his tongue. He spat but he could still taste it, bitter and dry. Staggering and panting for breath, he looked around for Lucian. The man seemed to have disappeared into the smoke he created. Robin shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes shut against the wisps of greyness; the smoke wouldn't affect him yet, and he was determined not to let it.
“Don’t fight it Locksley! Accept your fate!” Lucian’s voice seemed to throb out of the very air itself.
“Face me!” Robin picked a direction and took a step. The world lurched around him and faded to grey. The next moment, he found himself on his knees, blinking in confusion and pain. “No,” he whispered. “No!” He pulled himself off the ground, and the greyness faded a bit. “Get up,” he ordered himself in a whisper, “get a hold of yourself!”
He stood and looked around. “Show yourself!” he bellowed at Lucian.
His only answer was a deep laugh, rolling around the walls of the church like the tolling of a funeral bell. Robin shook his head. No, it wasn’t the church. Or if it was, he did not know it. The walls had retreated away into the fog, and he heard sounds of voices, shouting in the distance.
Flickers of movement drew his eye, but when he looked at them head on, they disappeared. The grey of the fog changed to a red, ebbed to dun and back to red. The shadows were always black, forms bulky and yet quick, with curving lengths of steel at their sides. He began to see them more and more, as they did not fade when he focused on them. Suddenly, they began darting at him, rushing by with a breath of hot air, leaving behind the smell of blood.
War cries rolled through the darkness, dim at first but building to a deafening crescendo. He staggered, hands pressed to his ears when the shadows charged again.
“Saracen attack!” he bellowed, the words spilled out of his mouth before his mind knew he'd formed them.
Raised voices broke through the tumult, speaking in a language he did not understand. Hands grabbed for him, weapons stabbed at him, but he tore away. A small shadow darted towards him; it was not robed as the others had seemed to be, but a sword was at its side, its featureless face dusky and dangerous. He could not move away fast enough, but suddenly remembered the dagger clutched in his hand.
As the shadow touched him, he reached for it, and suddenly spun the figure about, an arm locking around the narrow shoulders across the chest, and the knife blade going to the throat.
“Don’t move,” he hissed. “Order your comrades to leave and I’ll release you. Otherwise, I’ll cut your throat.”
The captive shadow trembled but must have obeyed. A string of incomprehensible words floated out into the air, and the other shadows retreated. Yet, they hovered nearby, barely visable through the fog. So he did not release his captive.
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