The heat was startling. Yellow light reflecting off of yellow walls, scorching the frantic runners, gasping in the thick air. Had they stopped to look they would have seen the brittle remains of life; torn canopies, woven baskets, broken tools lying indistinguishable from broken toys.
But they didn't look.
They couldn't look.
Their eyes and minds focused on one thought only, one thought repeated over and over in time with their frantic heartbeats.
Save the king.
How many times had they saved the life of a fellow man? How many times had they ambushed death and told him to turn his cart around? And how many more times would they do so? At that moment in time it didn't matter. Perhaps if their leader has paused he would have contemplated the sanctity of life. For as long as he could remember he had been an advocate of equality, claiming that peasants and nobles alike were all valued the same. Yet here he was, running through an abandoned Saracen town, prepared to place lives on death's cart for the sake of one man's life. Had these thoughts ever entered his head he would have argued that his actions were for the greater good; By saving the king he would be saving England, and by saving England he would be saving more people than he was killing. However, like the observations of the town around him, he never thought these things.
Save the king.
There was only one thought that would break through his trance every now and again. One face. A face so beautiful angels would stop and stare. Porcelain skin highlighted and framed by dark hair as soft as silk, guarded celt blue eyes that made any onlooker want to dive deep into them and discover her secrets. He had dived deeper than any other person, seen more secrets than any other, and yet it only made her more intriguing. Behind her stubborn mind and rolling eyes he had found something hidden away from others.
Fear.
He knew she was strong and brave, something he loved her for. Unlike other women of her status she refused to be a pretty ornament rotting away in her chamber, squealing whenever pricked with her embroidery needle. No, she fought hard for what she believed and cared deeply for others, it was as if she had been made specifically for him. The only woman in England who could stand against his arrogant swaggering with a raise of an eyebrow, who could return his witty lines with its perfect mate. Yes, she was definitely made for him, or perhaps even him for her.
Yet his adoration did not peak until he found that trembling little girl holding a shaking dagger in her hand. For within his heart, locked away with heavy keys and rusting locks, was a little boy in a state of shambles unable to nock his arrow.
Fear. As much as they had rebelled it still resided deep within both of them. And although the subject had never graced their lips they were both aware of its existence within the other one.
"Master!"
A cry from Much brought Robin back into reality and he pushed all thoughts to the back of his mind. A glint of metal in the corner of his eye and his mind switched to one of a mechanized soldier.
Block. Parry. Block. Swing. Turn. Roll. Block. Duck. Swing. Parry. Spear. Kill.
Save the king.