On the Razor's Edge
*
The dogs are behind her, just behind her, tracking the stench of her fear. She is no longer trying to hide her scent. She's long since learned that is impossible. She is no longer trying to outsmart them. She is trying not to think at all. She's only running. She's only trying, with every bit of strength she yet possesses, not to stop. She knows this race is futile. There is no hope. She knows how it ends. The baying is constant. Inescapable. She is drowning in the sound, submerged beneath it. She knows that running is only delaying the inevitable. And she is tired. Her chest aches, her lungs burn, her legs and arms are leaden. She could stop. This pain could end. But she fears what she runs from too much. She fears that pain more. It is gaining, but she continues to lift her feet, to draw gasping breaths. To run.
"Perhaps a ride," her father says. "Fresh air will bring color to those pale cheeks." He smiles at her, and she sees the worry hidden behind it.
"Of course," she says. "A ride."
She is nothing if not obedient now. Always aware of what her father has given up to buy her pardon. Always aware that she causes him worry. That she is not who he hoped she would be. She rides and spends time tending the bees as she used to. She does not cry. Not since the day the sky turned red. But her cheeks remain pale.
"Perhaps some music," her father says. "Music always brought a smile to your lips."
"Of course," she says. "Music."
A harpist is sent for, and dutifully listened to. She makes a note to smile more, for what is a smile? A simple movement of the face that can be easily faked if it will bring him peace.
"Perhaps a visit," her father says. "The Earl has invited us to Huntingdon. It will do you good to dance. I fear you grow lonesome here with only myself for company."
"Of course," she says. "A visit."
She would rather be alone than in the company of those who will be at Huntingdon. And she thinks that no amount of dancing, riding or music will ever make her who he wants her to be. At best she can only play the part. A pale imitation of the girl she used to be, the girl he knew. But she will go through the motions for him. If she didn't have these motions to follow, this girl to imitate, there would be nothing.
The whispers are never truly whispers. The disdain is barely hidden if at all.
"So that's Marion of Leaford."
They manage somehow to turn the name into an insult in itself. Everything is implied in the way they shape the word, covering it with giddy horror. Nothing else is necessary, she knows what they mean. Outlaw's wife. Traitor. Criminal. Whore. She wonders what it would feel like to tear her name from her and stomp it into the ground until there was nothing left. If she were called by another name would that help? Would it be easier if she were called nothing at all? If each time they twisted her name with contempt, she didn't have to hear the echo of her name inside Robin's mouth, cradled by his tongue or lashed by his impatience. Would it free her if she didn't have to remember that name being given life by his lips?
"Some things are better forgotten."
Ah, but Earl, some things cannot be forgotten. It used to sound like hope when Robin said it, like a promise. There is no hope in it anymore, only the promise of pain. Some things cannot be forgotten, no matter how much relief forgetting would bring. No matter how hard she's tried. No matter how long she runs. Nothing's forgotten.
"Did you dance in Sherwood, Lady Wolfshead?"
She circles Owen of Clun warily in the motions of the dance. There is something dangerous in his eyes. Something unpredictable and not quite sane. Something dark and impatient and wanting. She allows herself the comfort of the thought that she will be gone from this place and his attention tomorrow morning. That she need only endure, and is that not her only purpose already? Only survive.
His hands on her are not gentle. Robin's hands were rough, but graceful, his fingers long, slender, almost delicate. Not like these thick clumsy fingers. And then Owen's lips are on hers. She could try to laugh it off. She could return to her father and allow him to shield her. She could pretend it didn't matter. After all, her virtue cannot be further besmirched. The Lady Wolfshead. She can endure this indignity too. But she hears Robin calling after her with a laugh. "Come along, Lady Wolfshead. These fish won't catch themselves."
Her fist connects with Owen's mouth. The hard smack, the shock of pain jarring her knuckles, sends the crisp, agonizing tingle of life up her spine as she comes briefly awake.
No, she will not suffer this. She will not endure this. Robin once attempted to goad her to courage by reminding her that she is a crusader's daughter. She goads herself by remembering that she is an outlaw's wife. Still. For his sake, because she is Robin Hood's wife, she will not endure it. Instead she will ride the pain of awakening. Just for this moment.
She tries to run, pants with the strain, but she cannot move. She is caught as she knew she would be, cornered. The dogs are on her, sharp teeth striking true, tearing through carefully constructed defenses, revealing them to be nothing more than fragile parchment. The memories rush in through the holes, dissolving the ice that protects her. And she dreams of a man with dark hair and eyes as green as the forest he ruled. She dreams of kisses in the warm grass and the solid weight of his body on top of her. She dreams of a life where fear was kept at bay by laughter. She dreams of blood-red sky, and a quiver empty of arrows. She dreams of a broken body she knew by heart, now unrecognizable.
She wakes up alone, in Owen of Clun's castle, with tears on her cheeks. And she cannot stop crying.
Owen's hands are not gentle. She enjoys the scrape of his beard against her chin, the crush of his kiss, his hands on her waist raising bruises. There is no tenderness between them, and she is not sure why, but she is grateful for it. She bites his neck, and rakes her fingers down his back. She does not have a name. She does not have a past. She is only right now. She is only burning. Want.
And then a boy with golden hair enters the arena. He seems familiar. She can't remember why. But she hears the distant baying of the dogs. Things she has forgotten crowding at the edges of the potion's warmth. And she is afraid.
She regains consciousness on a horse, her face rubs against leather, and arms surround her on either side, keeping her balanced between them. She opens her eyes, and sees the golden-headed boy. He pushes back the hood covering his hair, and smiles down at her.
"Good morning, my lady."
She squints at him. He is familiar, but she still cannot remember why. She remains silent, cranes her neck to see past him to the other riders with them. Much waves to her from a cart, grinning to split his face. Will raises a slow eyebrow. They're all there. John, his hair shorn close. Nasir, still in the fighting leathers Owen forced on him. Tuck, Tuck is the same as always. She knows them all. Large parts of her past are still wrapped in the potion's fog, but she can feel it slipping away like the tide, revealing the jagged bits of herself that have been submerged. She can feel the tattered edges of drugged peace shredding. Her head aches. She closes her eyes and prays for unconsciousness to return.
"For the sake of all we've meant to each other, you must care."
Easy enough for him to say it. He's not the one who was left behind. His was the easy part. Easy enough to leave. Easy enough to tell her to care when she cares so much letting herself fee it could drive her mad.
And here this upstart in his place. Insisting that she live. That she give up the nothingness of drugged captivity for the pain of being. What if she doesn't want to be? What if she doesn't want to care?
What right have they, either of them to ask it of her. Has she not given enough? Does she not deserve peace?
They camp in the forest, allowing her rest on Tuck's suggestion. She is surrounded by them here in his place. So familiar. So almost familiar. So unfamiliar. So much the same, forever changed.
She will return to her father's the next day. To playing a part. To duty and obedience. She would be welcomed here, should she choose to stay. Robert looks at her with something like hope. Something like pleading. He is so young. Can he not see that she is old and empty? She sits apart while the others feast on venison, freedom alive in their veins again. Still, there is a strain in the old laughter. They are not comfortable with their new leader yet.
But they will be.
Nothing's forgotten, but jagged edges are worn away by time. He will fade.
She does not know if this brings her hope or despair.
The water runs over the rocks in the stream where she cools her feet. She gathers up each of the slowly loosed memories as the potion releases them, each one razor-edged, a new cut, fresh pain. She is no longer running. And she finds as she feels the agony of awakening, like circulation returning to a dead limb, that she is not so sorry to be alive.
The pain is bone deep, but she finds she is strong enough to hold it in her hand and close her fist over the bladed edges. Memory is clear and sharp and cutting, like living, like caring. There is no peace in it. But neither is there peace in running. She squeezes her fist around the past, tighter.
One day she will ease her hand open and let it go. Let the wounds begin to scar.
Today she holds on.
end