1. Thirsty for Oblivion

Hell. It was definitely hell. He moaned softly and gripped his half-empty bottle of wine with slippery, sweaty fingers. Those damned musicians just started another merry tune – he was pretty sure it was for nothing else but to mock his pain. He tried to stare them down as offensively as he could, but they did not even notice him. Well, no one gave a shit about him any more. He gulped his remaining wine at once then just stared at his shaking hands with a glassy glance. Blood... He could clearly see the dark red spots on them even if everything else blurred around him. He suddenly felt sick and wanted to jump up from the bench but he found his members heavy and numb. He giddily held himself steady with his elbow on the heavy oak table and bowed his head. He wanted to cry but tears did not, could not come to him. Never again.

He raised his hanging head and looked around with bloodshot eyes. His glance found the little servant girl running around the tables, so he waved her to come to him at once. He almost lost his balance at the wide movement and had to grip the edge of the table. Damn. He knew he was really, truly drunk. In all his life he despised the drunken fools drowning in their miserable, pitiful, petty life. Surely he cannot be compared to them. It was just a few bottles of wine; yes, that was it, the tavern sold him the worst, cheapest, low-grade wine they dared to serve. No wonder he felt sick and dizzy.

„Sir? Sir!"

He realized with a sudden start that the girl had been standing in front of him for a while, calling him to pay attention. She was a pretty lass, with soft, dark brown locks of hair and big, blue eyes. He tried to focus on her even if her kind, innocent face turned to someone else's ...

„ Wine!" he growled. „One more!"

Hell. That was it. Every moment of his ghostly life. He snarled on the thought which came back to him over and over again. Nothing had any meaning any more. He gripped the new bottle and drank desperately, deeply, hoping to find oblivion. But it never came. Even in his most drunken state he could see those begging, unbelieving eyes in the agony of death... Oh god! How effortlessly his sword run through her soft body... Fractures of memories flashed through his mind, without rhyme or reason, her face, the cruel heat of the sun, the agonizing cry what left his ragged throat when he realized what he had done... He drank again although he hardly knew any more where he was.

His hand dropped from the neck of the bottle; he vaguely sensed that the wine was spilled from it. The blood-red pool was slowly growing in front of him, as he watched with sickening terror, trying to cry again, but nothing came, not even a sob, just the terrible coldness, the emptiness inside that was his personal hell. With a final, desperate rage he started to howl like a wounded animal.

The music stopped at once. Good. He was dimly aware that he was now lying on the floor – lying? – and hands tried to lift him up. He heard angry shouting around him and attempted to move, but strangely enough he was helpless and sluggish, his heavy eyelids did not want to obey him any more.

„Fetch someone from the castle to take him home!" He started to laugh frantically, madly. Home? There was no home to him any more, except hell. He fell back with a woeful groan and let his consciousness slip far away from him.

Afraid to move his head, Guy of Gisborne stared at the ceiling of his room. He was not sure what time of the day it was, but from the lights he guessed it was around midday. He was always an early bird, usually woke up before everybody else and went to practise with his sword in the yard until the sun climbed up over the hills. But that was before. Now he felt he did not want to leave his bed ever again.

He growled and tried to sit up but the room turned around him. God! He felt miserable. No wonder, how much you had last night, he told himself sourly. He stayed where he was, staring at the empty ceiling. Even the pale half-light hurt him.

Few hazy months passed since they had returned from the Holy Land. He dimly remembered the endless riding. His obsessive nightmares had already begun during their journey. Every night he woke up screaming, bathing in sweat, panting for breath. Every single night he saw the eyes of Marian, when life slowly faded away in them.

The pain was unbearable. He visited every pub and tavern on the way, ignoring all swearing and cursing from Sheriff Vaisey. He wanted to forget – but no oblivion came. And he experienced something he never felt before – regret. But no one left on the world to offer him forgiveness. He has never been particularly religious, now even the thought of asking forgiveness from God scared him. Marian was dead, Robin – his personal Nemesis – craved for sweet revenge. And Vaisey? The only „comfort" the Sheriff offered was to call him a weak, miserable creature. Maybe, he was exactly that.

„Gisborne!"

Heavens. The irritating roar sent agonizing waves of sharp pain to his head.

„GISBORNE!" He won't stop until he kills me. The thought made him snarl. He was about to move when the heavy oak door burst open and Vaisey stormed into his room. The Sheriff was in bad mood, he could tell.

„You miserable, useless, drunken bastard!"

„My lord." His voice was harsh. A flash of anger ran through him and he finally sat up, grabbing the edge of the bed which was dangerously moving below him like a tossing ship on the stormy sea.

The Sheriff stopped at the middle of the room, eyeing him with mad rage.

„What do you think you are doing? You want to stay in bad all day like a sick dog now?"

Guy shrugged. He felt sour taste in his mouth. The Sheriff did not even wait for a reply.

„You have work to do. Get out of the bed, now!"

With a growl, he climbed out from his bed. His whole body ached and his head wanted to explode. He went to the washbowl, turning his back to the Sheriff. He wet his face with shaking hands and tried to stand upright. Even in his deepest despair he did not want Vaisey to see his pain. He changed his shirt and put his black leather jacket on. No need to bother with boots; he slept with them on.

„I want you to go to Locksley and Edwinstowe to collect my taxes. There you are, now. Do not try to stare me down! I have no clue why I still keep you, really. You are nothing but a mess. Gisborne, my dear Gisborne, have I not told you a thousand times that women are lepers?" The Sheriff giggled. „Get a hold on yourself, man! Duty awaits."

Guy put on his gloves as he was going. He did not bother to shave or to brush his hair. He, who was always neat and clean, now let his black hair grow in unkempt, disheveled curls. Who cares? He passed next to the guards who stirred uncomfortably at his sight though he barely noticed.

Was this castle always so quiet? It felt chilly and dark. Without the touch of the hands of an attentive woman, it was certainly an unfriendly place. No fragrant flowers, no colorful tapestry, the smell of old dust lingered on the dimmish corridors. He headed to the stairs of the cellar. Halfway down he had to stop, panting, grasping for air. He laughed bitterly at how weak and sick he was. Now, let's do something about it. He quickly picked up a bottle of red wine from the stock then hurried away to fetch some guards to escort him to the villages.

Late evening found Guy in the tavern again. The Trip was a very old pub, its wall was carved into the castle rock itself. He did not even know why or when he got there, or when he sent the guards away, but he was alone, with a fat purse of gold in his pocket. The tavern was half empty when he entered, frightened faces stared at him from the corners. Good. Let them be afraid of me. I am cursed. He grinned nastily and went to elbow on the counter. His head was already heavy from the wine he secretly took from the cellar.

„Anything to eat, sir?" asked the girl behind the counter, her voice was slightly trembling. Oh, she might have not seen the worse of me yet. He grinned again, then shrugged. He was not hungry at all. Just very thirsty. Thirsty for oblivion.