Condemnation

By: Emmithar

Rating: T

Disclaimer: Sadly I only own characters who you do not recognize

Summary: To betray your king was a grave offense, to try and kill him, even worse. The penalty for treason, he knew, was death. It did not matter that he was free of guilt. Nothing would protect him, unless by chance the king lived, and spoke of the falsehood before the morning hour came.

A/N: Another short story bit I'll post in between updates of my main story. Not sure how many chapters yet. Leave a little note if you enjoy! Thanks goes to Kegel for the beta :)

Chapter One: A Charge

Robin was well aware of just how cold these nights could become, but even the coldest of them could not match the icy chill he felt inside. It was colder than the air that surrounded him, chiller than the sand that supported his weight, and icier than the shackles that bound him by the wrists. And they were cold enough that he could no longer feel his wrists. Or perhaps it was from how tight they were. He had long ago given up trying to decide what the cause was.

His hands were bound in front, given him some mobility, but the shackles were joined by a chain that led to a solid post near him. It ran the height of the tent, the end buried so deeply in the sand that there was no hope of escape. And even if he somehow managed to free himself from this imprisonment, there would be nowhere to run. Not with the whole of the king's private army just beyond the folds of the tent.

Yet Robin knew that even if the opportunity somehow presented itself, he would not run. The sigh was bitter, catching in his throat and he forced himself to swallow as he wrapped his arms about his knees. His head was pressed against them both, trying to banish both ill thoughts and feelings that he had. The strain he was experiencing was starting to become too much, and though he wanted to pretend he no longer cared, Robin knew that it was not true.

When he had first come here with his men, he knew the chances of dying were fair enough. Yet he had expected it in battle, by the hands of his enemies. To hear the king proclaim him a traitor had been hard enough, to be punished by him was even worse. But what had truly hurt was the knowledge that his king had been tricked, and was walking into a trap. To know that they were to die, and accomplish nothing, was more than he could bear. But karma was a strange thing indeed.

A time ago, back when he was still in England, an assassin had attempted to take his life. Robin had the choice to kill the man, to take away what the man had tried to take from him, but something had swayed him, something had held him from doing so. When Carter had confessed his lust for revenge, Robin had known why he hadn't done so. And in sparing Carter's life, something had come from it. Carter had spared theirs.

Riding out to Imuiz, Robin had no qualms in placing himself in danger. The sheriff, he knew, was up to something, and no doubt whatever it was would happen during this exchange. When he had suggested to the king of his plan to impersonate him, the man had been wary. But he had given Robin his trust, had hidden away safely, and had seen as a trap had been laid. Forgiveness had been asked for, but Robin had already given it. He himself knew how well the sheriff could deceive. That was why they had to follow; it was why it all had to end before the sheriff tried again.

But within the city they had been separated. In groups of twos and threes, constantly switching, watching their backs. Carter had been the first to fall, his death swift and sudden. And in the span of a moment, the king had taken an arrow. Marian had protected him, but she too had paid for her courage. Robin had watched from a distance, unable to reach her, to see to the king, and it felt as though no matter how fast he ran, he could not reach them.

Then there had been a commotion, a band of soldiers, riding into the fray. Robin had first thought them coming to help. Vaysey and Gisborne had already fled, two soldiers turning to follow, but the rest coming into the center of the town where both king and maiden lay. Even before Robin could shout, before he had even come near them, he had been apprehended. A sword was laid against the bare skin of his neck, more archers had their arrows on him, and Robin already knew their thoughts.

The king had sentenced all of them to death earlier that day. The last that had been seen of them had been being tied to posts in the desert. And now they were here, free of their confines and the king was unresponsive on the ground, and the only ones to witness what had happened had been those who had first had been condemned. No amount of words would convince them differently, and so Robin gave the order for his men to flee. They had protested at first, but as the soldiers bore down on them they had listened. Separated as they were, it had been easy to do, but Robin could remember well how the crusaders had followed. Even now, he did not know if they were still alive.

Robin had been taken back in chains, and as the day turned to night, he found himself here. He had once stood on the other side of this very tent, keeping guard of prisoners taken during war. Most found their deaths shortly after, and Robin knew it was only a matter of time before he found the same. To betray your king was a grave offense, to try and kill him, even worse. It did not matter that he was free of guilt; what these men had last heard had been accusations of betrayal by the king himself. Now there was the chance the king was dead, or ill enough that he could not speak. For if he had been able to, Robin knew he would no longer be here.

Then there was Marian. He had only been able to watch as she was cut down, the sword passing through her body, the blood coloring the sand below her form. Robin had not been able to reach her, had not been able to see if she still drew breath. It wasn't very probably, not with such a wound, and without anyone to see to her…and if the crusaders thought her to be among them, part of the reason to the king's injuries, there was the chance they had even finished her off.

Robin choked back a sob at the thought. They were trained men, and he was praying with all his might that they had shown mercy. She was a woman, and he knew the men were not cruel, but in war gender and station did not matter when it came to guilt and blame. They were doing as they had been trained, as they had pledged to do, but the thought hurt more than any wound that could be administered.

He heard the shifting, the flap of the tent drawn back, but Robin did not look. The crusaders were only making rounds, making sure he was still confined. Another hour had passed, and his time here was drawing to an end. The penalty for treason, he knew, was death. A most gruesome, brutal death. Nothing would protect him from that, unless by chance the king lived, and spoke of the falsehood before the morning hour came. Possible? Yes, but not very probable. The arrow the man had taken had not killed him outright, but it had been close enough that it could still be fatal. If he had not bled out, infection was the second gravest worry.

No one had answered his questions. They were not obliged to, Robin knew. But having fought with more than half of these men, he had expected them to extend that smallest of courtesies. Silence was the only thing he had received in return. So he had no knowledge as to the king, to Marian, or even his own men. The order had been given to find them, to shoot on sight. In a desert, an open and unfamiliar land to the lads, Robin knew they did not stand much of a chance.

"Robin?"

The voice he recognized, but it took him a moment to place who it was. Even after he knew, Robin still did not move. They would not answer his questions, and so he had no reason to speak with them. Perhaps they did not even care to converse, but rather wanted to check to see that he was still in the land of living. Prisoners here had taken their own life before; Robin had seen it happen more than once.

"I know you can hear me."

Robin lifted his head ever so slightly, eyes peering above his arms to catch the figure in the dark. He had fought alongside the man many times before; they had shared the same amount of trials, spilled the same amount of blood, and faced the same demons. Roger was a good warrior, a strong leader, and had once been a good friend. But now he stood at the front of the tent, watching him with eyes that bore a mixture of emotions. Anger, resentment, betrayal.

Robin could not blame him. Though he was free from guilt, that truth was only known by a few; a few that were either dying, or as good as dead anyway. Roger only had his thoughts, and Robin knew which they were. They were the same ones Robin had felt when he had first learnt of betrayal inside his gang. The same anger he had felt when he had confronted Allan. The only difference now was that one was true, the other, a falsehood.

"Answer me one question. Why?"

He gave no verbal response. His silence worked as well as theirs; if they would not answer him, he would not return the favor. Robin laid his head back down, his thoughts occupying him, the only comfort he held. The other would leave soon enough once he realized this conversation would not take place.

"I thought I knew you," Roger continued. There was something in his voice, perhaps the subtlest hint that there was still disbelief. Robin met his gaze again, but while his voice betrayed his uncertainty, his eyes did not. There was pain there, and the man was struggling to keep himself together.

"You were one of the best warriors, the king's favorite. He loved you more than anyone, and this is how you repay him?"

"I did not do it," Robin spat out the words. It would not help him; he had already claimed innocence, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. It would be no different here.

"Still you deny it?" the man shook his head, letting out a sigh. "We are so close to finding peace. The king was meeting with Saladin today, he was going to make peace, put an end to this bloody war."

"It was not Saladin," he corrected the other. "It was a plot to kill the king."

"Yes," Roger agreed quietly, much to Robin's surprise. He was confused, but the confusion slowly melted into despair at the next words. "A plot by you."

"No-"

"The king already sentenced you, and the others. We have spies everywhere; you know this better than anyone. And the king knew you had come to kill him. He showed you mercy when he shouldn't have."

"The king was deceived-"

"By you," Roger cut him again. "And tomorrow you will pay for it. So answer me now; why?"

Robin shook his head, the utterly helpless feeling growing. Not even an old friend believed his words. "What difference does it make if I am to die in the morning? What will it change?"

"Nothing," came the quiet reply. "Other than the fact you might die free of confession."

A confession. So he wanted to hear a confession. Robin pursed his lips, his voice just a quiet as he answered. "Every word, I have said, has been true. And you will carry that knowledge and guilt with you, long after I am dead."

If his words reached him Robin could not say. The man stood, holding his gaze without so much a waver, before he turned and disappeared. He was alone once more, but Robin knew it would not last long. At morning he would be brought to judgment, his sentence would be given, and he would die. And everything he wanted to know would be lost to him, as well as everything he had ever fought for.

They had been running for most of the evening. The desert was unlike the forest. It was open, it was bare, sparing not even a shadow for them to hide in. Djaq had taken the lead, and they had all followed without question. This was her homeland, and she would know it better than anyone. But that still did not take them away from their pursuers. They could not outrun horses, steeds bred for war. It left them dodging, crossing the land in a jagged pattern, confusing the animals. The tactic had worked, for a time.

Arrows had rained down when the warriors grew frustrated. It gave them time to put some distance between them. The deadly projectiles fell down on them, smacking into the sand with a solid thunk, grazing their skin as their aim improved. Then Allan fell, an arrow taken up high in his thigh. There was a cry from him, and Will turned, reaching out a hand. He was quick in pulling the other up, pulling Allan behind him as he continued to run, his pace never slowing.

This, was madness. Earlier in the day they had arrived here to warn King Richard. As a simple peasant, Will had never thought he would ever meet the king. That was something for the lords, for nobles, not the likes of him. Yet he had traveled thousands of miles with Robin to bring news of the sheriff's betrayal. And for it they had been strung up in the desert and left to die.

Robin's loyalty was infamous. He would not doubt the king, even when facing his own death. Robin had insisted the king had been tricked. Will knew that the man had been, but he also knew the man was foolish to believe such a lie when he had no proof. It was as foolish as claiming innocence from executing them when leaving them to succumb to the heat. If it had not been for Carter, they would have died. Now they still might.

For the first time since taking flight, they were able to rest. And not a moment too soon. They were shambles of a city, one that was perhaps once been proud. Will pressed himself flat against the wall, letting go of Allan as the man collapsed to the ground near him, holding his leg as a groan escaped him. Djaq was quick in warning him, the man biting his lip to try and keep the pain at bay.

There were shouts, orders to find them. The horses were tiring, the sand difficult for them to race in, and the heat not providing any help. Will knew they were just as worn. If they were discovered, they could not keep it up. If these were men fighting for the king, or allaying themselves with the sheriff and Prince John, he did not know. It did not matter, he supposed. They were desperate to see them killed. Will listened with bated breath, letting the air from his lungs in one long sigh when he heard their retreating forms. They had given up, for now.

Djaq had dropped to her knees, hands moving to see to Allan who was still in pain. The arrow was still there, broken off near the skin from the fall he had taken. How severe the wound was, he could not say. It was a bitter thought, and Will knew Allan was not the first to be wounded that day.

First Carter…then the king…and Marian. And when they had last seen Robin, he had been held at sword point, a hostage among the very men who should be his allies. If any of them still lived it would be a miracle. Will had been among one of the few that had argued with Robin's order to retreat. Much had also been adamant about staying. But it had been John who had prompted them to run, pushing them into the alleyways. Even though he knew now they had been right in running, he still felt guilty. They had abandoned their leader, had left him to whatever mercy would befall him. If the King died…Will already knew what fate would greet Robin.

"We have to go back." Much's voice was quiet, but there was strength behind it. Determination. Will felt himself nodding. He had already thought of the same. But could they do it?

Could they manage to track their way back, unnoticed, and slip through a heavily trained regiment? These were not castle guards they would be dealing with. They were the King's Private Guard, many of the men were as skilled as Robin. Will could even imagine that Robin had trained some of them.

"We need somewhere safe first," Djaq spoke, nodding to Allan. Will knew that to be true as well. There was no way to treat the man's wound here. And they all needed substance; they needed preparation, a plan.

"There isn't time!" Much stressed. The man gripped his sword, pulling it free of its scabbard, holding it to one side. Another truth. But they could not do everything at once. If the crusaders had not acted already, then they soon would. They could not afford to wait if there was any hope in rescuing Robin.

"Being honest here," Allan gritted through his teeth as Djaq wove a bit of cloth around the wound, "but Robin was left with the king, right? The king will vouch for him. And when he does, he'll send someone to find us. Right now they're just following orders, thinking we tried to hurt the king and all. They'll find out they're wrong."

"If the king vouches for him," Will pointed out.

"What do you mean if?" Much spouted out. "Of course the king will vouch for him. Robin saved his life, well, tried, at least. So the sheriff shot him, that wasn't our fault, we tried-"

"He may already be dead," Djaq cut off the other man. If she was referring to the king, or Robin, or both even, Will did not know. If the king was still alive, then Robin would be. If the crusaders hadn't killed the man without hesitation, that was. They had certainly seemed keen on killing all of them without waiting for an order.

"They wouldn't," Much began to argue, but he fell silent a moment later. He knew the truth as well as anyone else there. Already they had been sentenced to their deaths; there was no question if it would happen again. "But we can't give up."

The man's voice was nearly breaking, a hidden plea residing in his words. Much would give his life for Robin; but it seemed as though the opposite had happened here. Will felt himself swallow, battling the guilt. Robin always gave too much. They would die, he knew, if they went back. And the chances of finding Robin, of the man still being alive were slim. The only hope was with the king, and even that seemed grim. But Much was right. They couldn't give up. They were already dead men; the very least they could do was try.

"Djaq? Can you and Allan make it back to Bassam's?"

Bassam was a friend of hers. He had given them all shelter the night before. It was his pigeon that had been carried to England, his pigeon that had carried the first note back in order to warn the king about the plot to remove the man from the throne. If they could find shelter anywhere in this foreign land, it was with him.

Allan already looked desperate at that question. It was still a few hours away, perhaps longer with his injury. Will turned to John, the man nodding, already understanding the unasked question. He would help them get there. Will turned to Much then, letting out a sigh.

"We may not like what we find."

"We may not even come back," Much answered. So the risks were known, among all of them. Will turned then to look at Djaq, a feeling of pain coming over him. They had only just confessed their feelings to one another a short time ago. And now they were to part, perhaps to never see each other again. But Will knew there could be no peace, no happiness, until things were sorted out. Djaq, he knew, could understand the same.

He drew her into a hug, holding her as though it would be the last time. He knew with the odds that lay before them that it was more in likely. What was planned was more or less suicide, but there was no arguing among them. They parted with a kiss, hands still touching before drawing away completely.

"Be careful," she whispered, and he nodded, encouraging her to do the same. While he knew that he and Much would meet their maker, he was satisfied with the knowledge that she alone would be safe. Bassam, he knew, would never let any harm come to her. The thought gave him a smile as he turned away, allowing Much to take the lead.

They were weary, tired beyond comprehension, and utterly sick to the pits of their stomachs. But Will knew that no force on this earth would stop Much from going back to Robin. And he was glad to be a part of it. However it might end.

TBC