I've been rewatching the second Season of Robin Hood and once again have become totally drawn in by the darkly intense relationship between Guy and Marian. I don't want to root for them but I can't help it. The passion and obsessive longing and subtle manipulation makes them an utterly fascinating pairing in comparison to the sweet (but rather bland) Robin/Marian. This is set around mid-Season 2, pre Edward's death. Guy obsesses.
Dangerous Game
She's using him.
Guy of Gisborne knows this. He is no fool.
(Fool for love, perhaps).
Oh, she's clever. He'll grant her that. She'll hide behind a mask of deceptive innocence, just the right amount of puzzled curiosity in her voice to almost convince him he's being overly suspicious. Even when she's honest, she's still playing with him. But she is playing with fire. He is a dangerous man and he will not be toyed with. Guy assures himself of this, time and time again as he imperiously stalks the corridors of Nottingham castle, his expression thunderous, leather-clad fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. Subordinates back away just by seeing the fury glinting his eyes and set around his firm mouth. He doesn't even need to resort to harsh words or physical violence to have them cowed and obedient. With such power in his grasp, he vows that the Lady Marian will not defeat him.
Then his resolve falters the moment he sees her again. Scented dark hair, alabaster skin, cerulean eyes. A word, a lingering touch, then she has him once more. He wants to laugh at her, or tell her she can take her favours and requests to hell, but he doesn't. Instead, he finds himself accommodating her, risking life and limb and everything he's worked for just to make her existence run more smoothly. He does everything he can to persuade her she's misjudged him, that there is a good man somewhere within the blackened heart he's spent so long trying to deny the existence of, but to no end.
It's pathetic, really. He knows it. Vaizey certainly knows it. Even Allan knows it. This last causes Guy's teeth to grind together as a growl of frustration escapes his burning throat. He can see Allan laughing at him behind those deceptively innocent blue eyes. Allan's too damn smart for his own good, and one day that cocksure attitude is going to get him killed. Once he's outlived his usefulness. But in the meanwhile, he's somehow slithered his way into the Sheriff's good graces and this annoys Guy more than he can express. After all, Allan was his informant, and Guy does not like his possessions to be shared.
And Marian was a possession at first. A pretty, expensive possession, but a possession nevertheless. Nothing more than a prize to be won. As the daughter of the former Sheriff, of inherent noble blood, she was a symbol of everything Guy coveted most. But now he realises that he would love her without those things. It's not her wealth or her title or her status that interests him any more. It's her spirit, her passion and integrity that draws him. He no longer regards her as a defiant nuisance who deserves putting in her place, but wants her at his side, in his hall, and in his bed. He wants to strip away every inch of her defiance and pride and outspoken rebelliousness just as much as he wants to divest her of her costly trappings of silk and velvet that cage her body in such perfect untouchability.
It has not always been this way. He had everything. Still does. After all, nothing has changed, other than gaining the allegiance of Allan which can only be an advantage. Marian is still under house arrest. He can still make her life a heaven or a hell at a mere whim and there is nothing she can do to stop him.
Yet somewhere along the way, the tables have been turned, and he's lost the upper hand.
She resists all his attempts to intimidate her. That in itself is a novelty. Even as he holds her tightly with possessive hands, uses his superior height and powerful presence to dominate her, she merely smiles that sweetly innocent smile and looks up at him through a fringe of dark lashes, effortlessly melting away his anger and taming the aggressive beast into pliant submission.
Only she has come so close. To all others, the inner workings of his mind and heart are shielded behind leather armour and a fearsome scowl. But not to her.
When did things start to change?
No longer does Guy try to persuade himself he is indifferent to her. He cannot fool himself, though he has certainly tried for long enough (every night). She's possessed him, enveloped him in her sweet voice and persuasive words.
God, how he wants her.
How can she be so obedient, yet still defy him at every turn? She utterly refuses to be cowed. Not by her father's imprisonment, not by her home being reduced to a smouldering ruin, not by being held under house arrest with her every movement closely watched.
Passion. Passion is what drives her, inflames her with righteous indignation at injustice and cruelty, all things that the world turns on and she has not yet realised in her laughable naivety. He wants that passion, yes, but directed only at him. Sometimes, he almost believes it is.
She trembles when he comes near. Which Guy does, often. He can't help himself. And something tells him those tremors are not from revulsion. Neither are the unsteady breaths. He does it on purpose now, to see how close Marian will allow him and he longs to see something that proves she is not indifferent to him. He no longer disguises his hunger, ever seeking to burrow his way beneath her skin and into her heart and soul. He touches her without invitation, his seeking lips sample her hair, the milk-rose skin of her cheek… daring to come ever closer, but not quite. And she lets him.
She allows him to touch her. She claims she wants to spend time with him.
And yet she saved Robin's life. She flirted with Count Friedrich while Guy watched in steadily growing rage, murder gathering in the dark shadows of his eyes. Count Friedrich still does not know how close he came to having his brains splattered across the polished stone floor of the castle vestibule. The memory even now fills Guy with ravaging fury. Marian had taken his curt order and turned it against him, while the loathsome Bavarian nobleman had the audacity to kiss her for all the world to see.
It drives him wild. Dark shivers course through his body and he wants her, wants her, wants her. He craves her as he once craved power (still craves).
Guy is no stranger to conflict. Whether it is with Hood, the ever-persistent thorn in his side, or the hopeless pursuit of the Night Watchman, staying in Vaizey's good graces or keeping Allan in check, he's fought many battles, both in and outside the castle. And between Marian and Vaizey, he's being played like a puppet, made to dance to two conflicting tunes, and either way, he's hopelessly trapped, a caged animal that alternately snaps at the fingers that feed him through the bars and greedily swallows down the scant morsels offered.
But this is different.
One appealing look from those guileless blue eyes and she has him. Holds him in the palm of her slender white hand and she knows it, damn her.
A word, a look, a mere moment of physical contact and the blood rages in his veins. He's haunted by the memory of her coming to see him at Locksley Manor, her delicate fingers entwined with his, warmed by the fire, mere inches from his naked torso. The softness of her gold-hued skin beneath his calloused hands, his thumb almost brushing her full lips, the way she had breathed - almost moaned - his name… What restraint it had cost him not to throw her to the floor and take her with raw, animal passion. Oh, the pure and noble Lady Marian has no idea of what she had awoken that night.
Or, more recently, her riding behind him after they had saved her from Winchester's vile clutches. The entire return journey had been a silent agony for Guy, the feel of her thighs warm against his own even through her voluminous skirts, her arms tight around his waist, her soft, steady breaths on the back of his neck, stirring his dark hair. He had barely spoken two words to her in spite of how she must have felt after the ordeal; he was too busy forcing himself to concentrate on the ride back and ignore the fact that his entire body was aflame, aching for her. Marian had thanked him, told him she was grateful, something that minutes before he would have given anything to hear, but by this time was beyond caring.
And she offered him friendship.
Sometimes he thinks she purposely riles him just to goad him into a response. At other times, she seems genuinely upset whenever there's animosity between them and seizes the first opportunity to set things right between them. And occasionally, he glimpses something in her eyes that is gone a moment later. It is almost like… guilt. But that cannot be the case. She lives to torment him.
They provoke each other, a tempestuous circle of aggravation and capitulation, of dominance and submission. His weapons are swords and daggers and sneers. Hers are smiles and scents and sweet words. She is delectable. There is something sultry and sensual about her, for all her innocence. She knows it too, Guy is certain of that. The way she looks up at him, impenetrable azure eyes daring him into the dance, the ivory column of her neck arched back just so…
He's coated in leather and blood and darkness and she…
Just when he thinks he's finally understanding her, she does something to overturn all his assumptions. She's blunt and direct, yet evasive and aloof. But then Guy has his own silences, sins of omission he dare not speak aloud. Marian has no sins he knows of. But there's a world of hidden meanings beneath her smiles, whether they be entreating, grateful or curving with triumph as she relishes yet another small victory.
It infuriates him.
She infuriates him. All his life, Guy has fought and struggled and done unspeakable things in his unceasing quest to gain power and position, things Marian wears oh-so-lightly. Worse, she's outspoken, tactless, never knows when to keep her mouth shut and seems to know just what to say to rile the Sheriff most. She's recklessly vocal in her assertions about helping the poor and her idealistic notions of justice. Her concern over those so far beneath her bewilders him. She foolishly risks her life for the sake of nameless villagers, yet she had left him at the altar, struck him, humiliated him. Is that her idea of moral superiority? Doesn't she realise that were she to accept his hand, he would in time gain riches and wealth beyond all imagining and she could help the poor to her heart's content?
He could kill her sometimes. Put his large hands around her pretty white throat and strangle the life out of her. Free himself of her that way. Or even put a word in the Sheriff's ear and fling her in the dungeons to rot alongside her useless father. That would knock some of the pride out of her. The thought turns his skin cold. He could do it.
But he doesn't.
Instead, Guy watches her. Follows her with narrowed eyes. He stalks her as a predator might, lurking in the shadows of darkened corridors and following the whisper of skirts along flagstone floors. He hungers and thirsts and rages for her. He wants to see her surrender to him entirely, to give herself to him, mind, body and heart. His beautiful, magnetic, maddening Marian.
They're playing a dangerous game and the stakes keep getting higher. It's almost ritual now. Circling each other warily, it is a dance they've become drawn into in spite of their better judgment. Pushing, pulling, an endless tug of war between power and powerlessness, winning and losing. There's something deliciously addictive in the struggle and Guy knows she feels it too. There's challenge and defiance in those blue eyes that gaze up at him as he silently vows this time, this time he'll not allow her to win.
It's fascinating to watch as her soft features harden with stubborn resolve, her figure upright and resolute, her chin thrust forward. Eyes sharp and glittering as drawn knives. It cannot help but incite him to respond, the fire smouldering beneath his skin, his voice a low growl as he fights down the urge to shake her into submission or kiss her until every last defiant breath is robbed from her body.
But she is not always aggressive. At times she is kind, tender almost. Then her eyes and lips are soft, her words gentle and she seems to see something in him that Guy doubts is there at all; certainly, no one else has noticed it. What was it she had said? Compassion.
Well, he had not murdered those children. Their blood at least was not on his hands, a small mercy he is pathetically grateful for. He wonders if she would admire him for that. He wants her to admire him. Because, in spite of everything, Guy does admire her. Her beauty, her stubbornness, her fire and yes, her kindness.
He loathes that part of himself. The weak, trembling, hopeful self that she has awakened and coaxes out of his defensive body with ever more proficiency. Yet however much those dregs of flickering humanity and compassion humiliate him, it is in those times when Marian is at her kindest and most responsive, far more willing to do as he requests than all those times he has used threats and force. He sees it in her blue eyes, limpid and brilliant, not cold and stormy like his own. Sometimes, when he's near her, the world seems a brighter place. Less hard and cold and full of hatred, which is what he has been surrounded by for so many years. He has survived on darkness and blood for so long he's choking on it.
He regrets burning Knighton Hall now. Even though it had been sweet - so deliciously sweet - to listen to her beg and plead with him, oh she would have done anything to protect her beloved home and father. But Guy had persuaded himself he didn't want her (more fool you) and set the place alight anyway. But the victory felt hollow. Felt hollow even as he stood in the ashes of Knighton Hall. Fire. Death. Destruction. These things we do in the name of love.
Bless me father, for I have sinned… Anger. Greed. Lust. Oh, he is guilty of so many sins. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. But she can be his solemn penitence, the sacramental wine staining his lips, his holy name. Turning him either into a saint or a fool. He could be a good man, if she would only allow him the chance. He can be tender, loving. For her, oh anything for her. The darkness can be a lonely place and offers a way out, faint though it may seem. The appeal is there, unspoken, ever present between them but she can't (won't) acknowledge it.
Yet they are in each other's debt. That is something she cannot deny. She saved him from fire and water and it is him she has to thank for the fact that her father has not starved to death in the dungeons beneath Nottingham Castle. They are obligated to each other, however reluctantly each have admitted it. Now he would walk through fire for her, and sometimes, sometimes he can believe she would do the same for him.
She has a hold over him, far more even than Vaizey, who dangles power and position in front of him, temptingly close, giving him just enough to keep him loyal, while necessitating that he still needs him, needs more money, more status, endlessly wanting and seeking and overreaching himself. He will never be satisfied. But Guy is content to wait, relishing the day he can step out from Vaizey's shadow and claim the power and glory and the girl, forever and ever, amen.
At night, Guy dreams of her dark hair spilling across his pillow. Crimson waves of desire pulse beneath his skin as he lies in the darkness, both fighting against sleep and yearning for it. He wants to see her pale figure, all feminine curves laid out naked beneath him, writhing in response to his touch, submitting only to him, as he takes her entirely. The fact that she's still a maiden makes it all the sweeter. There are some things Marian is still woefully ignorant of, in spite of her superior attitude. Oh, he could show her things. To know that he would be her first, her only. To hear her cry out his name in wanting, in need as he gives her body so much pleasure that she forgets a man named Robin of Locksley ever existed. Then to see her exhausted and sated, those azure eyes dark with passion. Then to have her curl up in his arms with loving affection.
And that, perhaps, would be the greatest victory of all.