Robin aimed his arrow quickly, before firing directly into the center of the tree he used as a target for archery practice. The day had been a slow one at best, and with no word of bountiful carriages laden with money destined for the poor, he had given his men the day off. Robin reached for another blunt arrow, drawing it quickly and shooting it precisely, so it was mere millimeters away from the first. It's not as if he needed the archery practice, Robin just needed something to keep himself occupied, and archery was the best way for him. If he didn't keep himself distracted, he knew he'd think about war, about the holy land. He was aware of the fact he wasn't the only one it tortured though, there was Much too. Although neither of them spoke of it, the nightmares they both endured night after night were enough to make any man question his own sanity. The war wasn't just something one could forget. It twisted old memories, distorted them, even made you forget your own life, who you were, until all that's left is itself. Pure, raw and undying war. Robin had seen many men like this. It was tragic; they couldn't go home to their children, to their wives and be happy. They were war itself, and they could never go back.
Sometimes, at times when he felt most alone, Robin would feel the guilt and pain of all the lives he'd taken, and it was unbearable. Yet he'd known that sacrifices had to be taken in order to win a war of such a size. But it didn't feel right. That excuse shouldn't justify anything.
Robin reached for another arrow, firing off at record speed before reaching for another, and then another, until his supply of target arrows were all embedded in a tight circle on the tree. He let out a small sigh, before placing his bow on the leafy ground and walking to the target in order to retrieve his arrows and restart his training session. At first, he started pulling them out one but one, before grabbing a handful of the wooden shafts in frustration, and near ripping them out of the tree. When he was finished, the arrows littered the ground, apart from one, which he held in his hand. He twirled the wooden beam in his fingers, feeling its familiarity and its shape, before letting it drop to the floor with the others.
He'd given up his old life, and for what? England was corrupt; with people like the Sheriff and Gisborne in charge would there ever really be true justice again? Probably not. But see, there was the sacrifice. His old life for a new one. A one where it was up to him to prove to the people of England that there was justice and peace out there, maybe it just wasn't time to fight that fight yet. But one day. And until then, there was him. After all, he was Robin Hood.