Torn
It all came down to this one moment—all the pain, all the rejection, the loneliness, all of it focused in this one pinpoint in time. They had had land once, his family had—property, wealth, power, position. He remembered the time clearly. Born to privilege—the oldest son, the only son, a bitter disappointment to his father because he had adored his mother.
He remembered being four and his father had back-handed him for crying over a scraped knee. "Be a man!" he had shouted angrily at the toddler.
He remembered being six. He treated his mother horribly, yelling at her, slapping her, all to earn his father's respect. He would cry at night silently in guilt over the pain and sadness in his mother's eyes. The fever took her that year. So, too, did his foster-father; in fact, the man had picked him up from his mother's gravesite. His foster-father had been a hard man like his father—cruel and quick with his hands or a mean word.
He remembered being eight and catching a fever himself. It was one of the few times his father had visited and he wished he hadn't. The man had yelled at his son, calling him weak ("I always knew you were just like her—weak and useless! I should've left you out to die when you were born!"). Somehow he had called up reserves of strength he didn't know he had, and he had pulled through, just to spite his father.
He remembered his first love at fifteen, of how he had raped her when his foster-father had called him soft. Her screams, her cries for mercy, had haunted him for years. Of course no one had listened to her—or cared—afterward because she was not of noble blood.
He remembered meeting the woman who would become his wife, getting to know her, even beginning to care for her. Then, one month before the wedding, her father had called it off. He went to find out why and discovered that his own father had been jailed by King Richard and would be hung as a traitor. He had gone to the King, but had been granted no audience. His father was a traitor—his lands would be forfeit, as would his title, and any wealth his father had had. He was alone now, cast out—no home, nothing, until the King had left for his holy war and Vasey had taken over as Sheriff in Nottingham. He knew Vasey had used him, but he didn't care. He knew Vasey didn't respect him and that didn't matter either. He had done horrible, mind-rendingly horrible, things while in the employ of this sheriff of Nottingham—things which gave him nightmares, but in the end, he would win; he would have back his land, his title—all of it would be his again and then no one could mock him anymore.
He had hoped that she would erase all of the hideous things he had done—clean his slate, make him whole again. He had professed his love for her time and again, had laid his heart open to her. She had left him at the altar and he had forgiven her. He had been there for her when her father died—had given her the space she needed to grieve. He had offered to die by her side when Prince John's envoy had planned to raze Nottingham, despite the fact that he would have been allowed to leave and live. He had saved her life when he had found out she was the Nightwatchman. She had seemed skittish with him, faithless as winter, who was cold and biting one day, warm and fun-loving the next, and now he knew why. He still couldn't seem to understand the words coming out of her mouth, though. Why would she say such horrible things? He had to stop her before it was too late—before she said it again and made it real. She couldn't mean it, could she? His mind screamed, "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" He was so close to his goal, so close to killing the man who had taken everything from him, and thereby redeeming himself and his family, and she stood there, spewing filth from her mouth as she placed her body in his way. She loved Robin Hood—his bitter enemy, the embodiment of all he wanted to be and never could be because she wouldn't love him. Rage overtook him, cold and frightening. He had to stop her, had to stop her now.
A moment later, she did shut up. He was so close he could see the surprise in her eyes, saw the pupils dilate, the black overtaking the beautiful blue. He looked further down at where their bodies were joined and recoiled in horror. How had his sword gotten there? How? He turned and ran from what he had done—if he ran far enough, maybe it wouldn't be true; if he ran far enough, maybe he could forget that it was true. She had damned him. He had thought she would save him with her love and instead she had damned him. He ran as if the Devil himself were after him, and indeed, perhaps he was.