So this is a double whammy for me. My first slash (okay not really slash, its more of a Rob/Ishiah friendship, maybe a precursor to it), my first Cal Leandros fic.

But I love Robin/ Ishiah, especially in the more recent books.

So I wanted to look at their earlier relationship. This has spoilers (kinda) for info in the recent books but since it takes place WAY in the past, its nothing huge. Also this is seriously in the past so Robin and Ishiah haven't had time to *ahem* affect each other. We've got over 1,000 years between this story and the current timeline. So keep that in mind.

Here's the story!


There was nothing extraordinary about the man who entered the gates of Jerusalem with his head bowed and his face hidden.

Sand stained his cloak, blending him seamlessly with the rest of the crowd. No-one would notice that his cloak had been the best made among them anymore than they would see the fine make of his sandals or the fact his robe was fastened with a pure gold setting that had once housed an equally fine sapphire. That was the peculiar thing about sand, it was a great equalizer. It covered and tore and warped until all you saw was the peculiar shade fabric took on when it had been beaten and broken and covered by sand. All who came to Jerusalem looked that way, torn and stained and dirty--broken even. That was why they came to the City. If you were whole, there was no reason to travel across the desert. Jerusalem was a city of purposes. Everyone came there with a reason, including the non extraordinary traveler who walked through the gates with his head bowed.

As they were filtered through the Gates, the travelers dispersed. All were exhausted by their journey but while some headed to inns or places of rest, the others pushed on. He was among them. All were driven by something, be it faith or a lack thereof. The ones that pressed on to the holy sites until only the dusty traveler remained to press on. And press on he did. With steps that echoed of weariness, weariness that was anything but physical. This was the kind of weariness that drove men mad--certainly mad enough to cross oceans and deserts to reach a place where God supposedly still had his hand. Last the traveler had heard, Angels were appearing in the Holy Land. But that was not why he had come--not entirely anyway. He did have a purpose here, a purpose he did not even feel bad about. Not when the pain was still so fresh, pain he was anything but accustom to feeling. He walked until the edge of the city before he began to walk around it. He would have walked until the end of the earth if he thought it would have helped the rawness he felt inside.

He circumnavigated the city three times before his knees decided that it was too much. He might not have been as weak as the rest of the people he'd traveled with but even his perfect physical form had its limits. Limits that were reached just outside a decrepit looking structure hardly fit to be called a place of worship. But as it stood it didn't matter. Not anymore anyway. Brushing a hand across his shoulder, he forced his foot forward until he stood in front of the doors. Inside he could see candles flickering despite the late hour--icons too. All relics to a God he had never seen the sense of believing in. It seemed like only yesterday that the world had believed in entire parthenons--though, to be fair, he'd never quite believed in that either. The idea of God was preposterous and yet people willingly did the stupidest things for it--him--her--whatever the hell it liked to be called these days. He stepped towards the doorway, half expecting to be struck down as he crossed the threshold but if there was ever any proof that God had left the building, his safe entry into the sanctuary was it. Yes, people did stupid things for a God. Like circumnavigating a huge city. Or dying senselessly because they had to worship their Gods--like everyone else in their same stupid city--and couldn't get out of the temple in time.

There was sand on the floor here too.

If he'd been a bit less bitter or exhausted, he'd have laughed outright at that. He'd lived a long time and he'd live longer still but he had a feeling he would never ever get rid of the sand. The moment these 'people' found a way to build out of the damn stuff he was going to find the highest, tallest building a barricade himself in it until he forgot what the stuff looked like. Stepping forward, his feet were silenced by the stuff despite him making no conscious effort to be silent. The room had a focal point in the small alter set up. Covered with coins and trinkets, the alter did not seem to lend itself to a single faith, rather serving as a worship place for them all. With a faint smirk, he looked around. It was rather egalitarian of whoever ran the place. Smart guy, but pointless considering there'd probably be a war over this place in the next couple of years or so. But the place would serve its purpose--his purpose in coming here.

And so in the run down house of a God he did not believe in, Robin Goodfellow pushed his hood back and approached the altar.

Ash and dust still clung to his hair and, had he been human, he probably would have had cuts. Hell if he'd been human he probably would be dead. But he was not human and in spite of wearing the evidence of a volcanic explosion, he was still alive. He did not believe in such things as a God, belief was for humans and human he was not. But Cyrillia had believed. Believed enough that she had gone to the Temple to offer a sacrifice despite his attempts to convince her that she could miss one day and spend it with her soon to be husband. But she'd been insistent and the mountain had gone off and now he was standing in a temple in Jerusalem and she was buried under miles of ash and dust. He imagined there was somewhere closer, more convenient, but she had talked about this place and so here he was.

Stopping in front of the altar, Robin reached into his pack and pulled out the offering. She was always giving the best to the Gods, best of the food, best of the wine--best of everything. She saw it as selflessness, as her duty. Robin saw it as a damn waste. But this was not about him or for his own desires. this was about doing what she would have wanted. Because if she hadn't died, they would have been married by now and she would still be going o the temple and giving those stupid non-existant Gods all the best stuff. The necklace he held was spectacular, all fire opals and dark sapphires set in a weave of silver and platinum. It could have bought Pompeii twice over but the moment he'd seen her he knew it was meant for her. But now there was nothing. Cyrilla and Pompeii were both lost to the ash of the volcano. The necklace was heavy in his hand but it was still hard to set down on the altar. But once he did, nothing truly incredible happened.

It was rather anticlimactic.

Stepping back, Robin frowned at the necklace and the alter on which it rested. He had thought that it would be a release, that something would magically fill the hollowness inside him. But nothing happened. He still felt hollow, like a an empty wineskin waiting to be refilled. Walking backwards, Robin sat down heavily on the narrow bench. Reaching behind him, he yanked the wine gourd forward, uncorking it and taking a big mouthful. It slipped easily down his throat as only good wine could. Funny, if things had been a little different he would have been drinking it at his wedding. Now no-one would be drinking it--all the guests were dead of course. All except him. The thought brought a bitter smile to his lips as he quickly drank half the gourd in a failed effort to drown the feelings. All it did, however, was make his head spin a bit faster. Robin lowered the gourd, resting it on his knee as he looked at the necklace. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, the Puck who fell in love raised the gourd.

Only to find it was no longer there.

And he was n longer alone.

Robin felt his jaw drop.

Just slightly but it seemed as though the week of surprises was not yet done. Standing in front of him was an Angel. Beautiful in a way that only Cyrilla had seemed, with features that looked as though they belonged on the monuments that people kept putting up for the new religions. Blond hair artfully framed those perfect features, long enough to add to the mystique of the Angel. That, if nothing else, Robin could appreciate. So few understood the importance of good hair. But it was his eyes that caught him. Robin had trespassed enough that he knew the look very very well. Though he usually only got it in between being caught and starting an orgy to get out of it. But from the steely look in the man's eyes, Robin had a feeling that an orgy wasn't quite going to get him out of it. A part of him pitied that. He'd never had the opportunity to have sex with something that had wings before. Especially not bright gold and white ones that seemed to glow in the candlelight. Without much ceremony, the Angel held out the jug that Robin had been swigging from and opened his hand, letting it shatter on the ground. Robin's eyes went from the jug to the Angel and back again.

"You're angry for an Angel," he said finally.

"And you're disgusting, even for a Puck," came the sharp reply, accented by the disapproving slant of dark brow, "drinking in a place of worship."

"Clearly you've never been to a Dionysian temple," Robin said spreading his arms and leaning his head back to offer his best grin up at the Angel, "you should get out more."

The blue grey eyes narrowed furiously in some combination of outrage and disgust. Robin grinned up at him. This was almost too good to be true. Either this thing wasn't used to dealing with Pucks or it was far more used to people building things for it. It almost didn't seem to matter. It wasn't all knowing or a follower of something that was. It was alive, sentient and pissed off. Whatever this thing was, it wasn't an Angel. Not really. No Angel stared someone down with such a disapproving look in their eye. Oh the wings and the blond hair, those were plenty angelic. But the disapproval, the disdain--hell the emotion written so plainly on his face, that was anything but Angelic. His eyes swept over to the coins that littered the altar, to the necklace that he had lain there for the fiance that could not have. Slowly he nodded before his eyes went back to the not-Angel standing there.

"I see what you've got going on," he said, "this is a pretty sweet set up. So what, you flash those wings and sorry saps just give you stuff?"

For a moment the creature seemed at a loss for words. His eyes were wide with anger and disbelief as though Robin had just said the most terrible thing to him in the world. The outrage that had shown in his steely blue grey eyes was nothing compared to what swam there now. Robin felt his grin widen at the blatant emotion in his face. Looking at him he decided that outrage was his favorite emotion to see on the creatures face. It turned those perfect, angelic features into something harsher, something real. Robin Goodfellow might never have had an appreciation for the supernatural or the divine--if there was in fact a difference between the two--but he had always held an appreciation for the finer points of humanity. The emotion, the passion, everything that a degree of immortality seemed to steal from those 'fortunate' enough to possess it. Finally the creature was able to make his mouth work.

"I am not swindling people!" he practically shouted, his voice revealing further how upset he was at the accusation.

"Yeah, okay," Robin snorted, "and I'm not 'drinking' in a 'temple'."

"Yes you are!"

"Not right now I'm not," Robin swung the second wineskin around, uncorked it and poured a liberal amount down his throat, "and now I am," he grinned at the not-Angel, "you gonna stand there and hurl insults at me or are you gonna join me for a drink?"

Part of Robin was itching for a fight. Walking hadn't helped, the drinking had, somewhat, maybe getting into an actual fist fight would be the thing to snap him around. Nothing made you feel better than a good fight--or a good orgy but considering there was only the not-Angel around, Robin had a feeling that orgies were out for the moment. Although, now that he considered it, a round of temple sex might actually not be a bad thing. His eyes moved from the not-Angel's face to the body half hidden by the loose robes he wore. Loose or no, the body they clad was certainly angelic, though it only brought to mind sinful things. Lean muscle, born of need for fight andflight if the wings were any indication, shown in the openings of the fabric. Robin had no doubt he'd put up a half decent fight. But he was also thinking the non-Angel might actually be good at some other kinds of physical activity.

"I don't drink," came the terse reply, though the raw outrage in his voice had ebbed somewhat.

"Don't drink, don't swindle, you know for a not-Angel you really are holier-than-thou," Robin said taking a long drink from the wineskin before looking at the not-Angel, "and you know this attitude of yours isn't gonna make people want to do shit for you--" he motioned around to the decrepit structure, "you were a little nicer and you'd have a better place to live."

"I don't live here."

"Christ. How about you tell me what you do do and we take it from there?" Robin suggested looking at the glimmer of uncertainty in the creature's eyes.

Uncertainty might have been the wrong term, Robin wasn't sure what to make of the look in the not-Angel's eyes. Usually by now he'd have any opponent drunk or in the middle of an orgy. But the not-Angel seemed intent on maintaining some kind of distance between them. His righteous anger had dissolved into something far more akin to curiosity. His head slowly tilted to the side, so subtly that he almost missed it. But between the wings, the wide eyes and the slight tilt of his head, the not-Angel did not even look remotely like an Angel. He looked like a bird. For some reason that made him grin a bit wider. Purposefully Robin slid to the side, making room for the cautious not quite bird but not-Angel--who made absolutely no move to close the distance between them, seemingly content to maintain the distance.

"Oh come on, you know you're intrigued," Robin said raising his eyebrows as he drained the rest of the wineskin.

"Hardly," the not-Angel said, slight curiosity shifting seamlessly to disdain, "you're a Puck," he said, accenting the last word, "there is nothing intriguing about you," he added looking purposefully at the broken wine gourd.

"Oh now that's just not true," Robin said, "i have untold depths," he grinned offhandedly, "care to explore?"

"I most certainly do not!"

"Well then, how about we start with your name and we take it from there?" Robin suggested quirking an eyebrow up in the direction of the not-Angel. He continued to stare, "so you're not an Angel. What are you, non-Angel?"

Robin thought the non-Angel was going to tell him to shove it and throw him out. But after a silent, pensive moment, he shifted his weight. The wings that graced his back flickered for a moment before they disappeared entirely. Without the extra appendages, the cloth he wore slipped to reveal more of his skin. Robin struggled not to leer outright. This thing had just given him a huge piece of information: the wings could disappear. They seemed to do it when he was relaxed, as in not in the direct mood to kill someone. Knowing that someone was him, Robin decided not to push his luck--for the moment anyway. With a final weight shift and tilt of his head, the non-Angel spoke.

"Ishiah," he said, "i am Ishiah--and I am a Peri."

"Peri, huh?" Robin said, "I thought i knew everything out there."

"I find that hard to believe," the Peri snapped, "and not all of us enjoy parading around and making spectacles of ourselves."

"Well I'm--"

"I know what--and who--you are Robin Goodfellow," Ishiah cut him off.

"You see this is what I'm talking about. You do better with those manners and you could have people building monuments to you--like they do for me!" Ishiah opened his mouth, "out of marble, great, glorious, hard marbl--"

Suddenly the Peri was a lot closer. And pissed off--again, which Robin was beginning to think was his default setting. But now that he was better lubricated with alcohol, Robin couldn't help but think the Peri was actually kind of cute when he was mad. Especially when he wasn't mad enough to make those wings of his show. Though the wings were kind of cool, even by Robin's standards. Now though with the Peri so close, he could smell the faint scent of incense and beeswax that clung to Ishiah's cloths. More than that he could smell something else--something that, if he was feeling poetic, he would have called freedom. Freedom from flying up in the sky. He could smell it on the Peri's breath, breath that thanks to their proximity, Robin could feel on his unshaven cheek.

"Continue that sentence," the Peri began, "and I will make sure the last hard, marble thing you see is the wall I smash your head into."

"And that, my friend, is why you're in this place."

"So are you," Ishiah pointed out, "and I don't see any palaces belonging to you around here."

"My palace is still there," Robin said, stretching out further, "but now there's about two tons of volcanic ash between me and it."

Ishiah looked down.

He had known something was off since the Puck staggered into the small temple. He'd let him have his privacy, as he let all those who made pilgrimages have. Sometimes they saw him with his wings out and made their own conclusions. Sometimes he let them see. But when the Puck had come in he'd been perfectly content to let the creature do whatever it was he was there to do. He had been surprised to see a Puck in the house of worship to a God other than himself but he had not questioned. It was not his place to question what brought creatures to this place. Only when the Puck had taken out the jug of wine and began to drink in the middle of the temple did he intervene. Now he realized he should have been more concerned with what had driven a creature such as Robin Goodfellow here rather than letting him drown his sorrows.

"My apologies--" he began.

"Oh don't go getting all soft on me, Ishiah," Robin said with a snort, "you're the first decent conversation I've had in days, Mortals," he shook his head, "can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em," Ishiah opened his mouth, "one more burst of wisdom and I swear you're going down there with them."

"Then stop moping and stop drinking in this place of worship," Ishiah snapped.

When Robin offered no reply, Ishiah reached down and yanked him to his feet. It was probably Robin's weakness and drunkenness that made him capable of doing it so easily--though that in itself was an important lesson. Drunk, exhausted, heartsick people were easier to pick up and throw out of places. Robin staggered once but easily righted himself. Ishiah sidestepped him, leaving the Puck to drunkenly right himself. He did not live in the temple, Peri's preferred to sleep outdoors and he was tired. More than that, he had a feeling Robin Goodfellow was a lot of trouble--even moreso than the rumors had suggested. Ishiah had never been very good with tolerating trouble makers anyway. So he turned and headed down the street.

Standing in front of the temple, Robin looked back at the altar where Cyrilla's necklace sparkled softly in the dying candles. He had never seen the sense in Gods or the afterlife or any of the nonsense she had subscribed to. But looking at the sapphire necklace, sitting in the little place he had only gone to because of her, for the briefest of moments Robin Goodfellow thought that maybe, just maybe, there was something to his late fiance's beliefs. It was only for a moment, a fleeting moment, and then he shook himself and turned towards the irritable Peri stalking down the street. Pushing away from the doors, Robin jogged down the street until he got to the Peri. Slinging his arm around the other creature's shoulders, he took unabashed delight in the startled jump and inhale from the other. The dirty look he got only made him grin wider.

"Hey I got an idea," Robin said, "you should open a place where people could drink all the time. You could call it the Ninth Circle!"

"The Ninth what?"

"Circle. Deepest ring in Hell--" Robin snorted at the blank look, "its an idea I've got for a book. I just need to find the perfect author--"

"Why don't you write it yourself?"

"Me?" Robin laughed, "I inspire, my dear Ishiah, and I let others toil. Its a good system. I'm telling you, stick with me and you'll have people building monuments to you in no time."

And that's it!

I wanted to show their relationship at the beginning. I'm toying with the idea of doing a followup to this later on the road. But I don't know.

Anyway please review! I know this isn't the biggest fandom out there but hey, the Cal Leandros books are awesome and I like 'em. So if you enjoyed, please review!