He doesn't like to think about the Holy Land, but sometimes it comes back to him in flashes. Shreds and tatters of a life that seems so foreign now, but was so devastatingly real. The entire experience was just a mess: death and killing followed by strategizing, misery, and more killing. If Much wasn't there, he's not sure he would've escaped sane. There's a dark part of his soul that he doesn't like to think about, doesn't like to acknowledge, but even he knows that dark part was the controlling impulse in the Holy Land.
Fighting for King and country seemed glorious and heroic to him at the time.
One night, ambushed by Turk soldiers, he had attacked without thought; striking back and saving his men was all he could think about. When the skirmish had ended, he noticed one of the soldiers he had killed lying in the sand. Just a boy, around twelve. The eyes, lying open, were brown and hardened by war, but the face was young.
Falling to his knees, he heaved; his stomach churned and his mind raced. Much, the faithful friend that he was, rushed over immediately. "Master, are you unwell?" Reaching for his hand, Robin clambered quickly to his feet with a few murmured assurances of his well-being.
He grew uncomfortable with death that day.
No matter what he said, what he told her, how he acted—she had always been his saving grace. Even as a boy, she served as a great friend until he grew up one day and noticed that maybe his friendship toward her extended into something else.
She had always been there for him. Soothing words, a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on. And then everything changed. They had gotten engaged and several weeks after that, he decided to go to war.
The last time he saw her before he left, she had handed him back the engagement ring. Pressed it into his palm so hard it left an imprint. She smiled at him (though he did not see it in her eyes) and whispered, "You would be a fool if you think I'll wait for you." He had expected nothing less. He leaned in, kissed her cheek. There were no other words; they didn't need them. So he turned his back and walked away.
She didn't cry until she got to her bedroom; she would never let him see her cry.
He had come back from the war changed. He was the same Robin on the outside—he made sure of that—but another war raged on inside. Nightmares plagued him constantly—images of battle mixed with his own insecurities about his loved ones to grant him a new hell. He dreamt of sands that shifted in the wind. Soldiers charged at him from all directions and, overwhelmed, he reached for his sword and plunged it into the heart of the nearest one. As the soldier collapsed, the uniform fell away and it was Marian, his beloved Marian. Her blood oozed onto him, covered his hands until it dried and cracked and left him feeling raw.
"Robin," she had groaned. "You—how could you?" And he was left kneeling in the vastness of the desert, the sound of her cracking voice looping through his head, her blood dry on his hands and her skin cold.
Everything is a choice.
Hadn't he said that? Sitting in a corner pew of the church, he realized that he should listen to himself sometimes. He decided to go to war, he decided to make himself an outlaw, decided to make enemies of these people. Now Marian depended on them for her father's sake and he was left sitting in a corner, head held low, wearing a cloak, fists clenched.
The heavy oak doors opened with a loud groan and the organist began to play. His eyes floated over her form angrily, enviously; she was beautiful, as expected, in a wedding dress, swathed in white lace and pearl. Her dark hair stood out in contrast to the brightness of the dress and he watched as she ambled down the aisle towards him, who stood there eyeing his prize lustfully. He knew he won.
Marian, for her part, knew how to muster a smile. But he knew her, almost as well as he knew himself. He caught the faintest sign of a tremor in her hands; the skin near her eyes didn't crinkle with her smile. He gripped the paneling of the pew in front of him until his knuckles turned white.
He caught the slightest quiver in her voice when she started her vows. He barely paid attention to the words of the ceremony himself. Just watched as Sir Guy had hands on his Marian, watched as Sir Guy's hands skimmed up Marian's forearms to catch the ends of the veil and lift it, watched as he leaned in and kissed her.
The churchgoers cheered and she caught a slight flash of green in the corner of her eye. She clasped Guy's hand in her own, though it felt entirely too alien, and when he leaned in to kiss her again, she stood still and tried not to think about how foreign the lips felt, how unlike Robin's they were. But Robin was no longer part of her future, nor was she to be part of his; she was married to Guy now, and there was no avoiding the plain truth of that.
Guy leaned down, his lips skirting down her neck, and whispered, "You are mine now." If Robin had said that, she could've hit him—would have hit him, could've said that she didn't belong to anyone but herself.
She just turned to him with an obliging smile that he took for happiness. This was for her father. She blinked back tears and bit her lip sharply. This was for her father.
That night, lying with her, Guy tried to be gentle. He kissed her neck, whispered all the appropriate things, told her that he loved her. When he pushed into her, she had thrown her head back against the pillow, inhaling sharply. He had kissed her neck, apologized. But she merely ground herself against him. She needed it. The pain reminded her of where she was, of how she got here. The blood that stained the linen seemed oddly fitting.
Robin was not the only masochist.
The following day, when Guy had gone to the castle, Robin had appeared at her window. She had turned away from him, refused to listen to him. His eyes flashed with barely concealed anger. "Is the Lady of Gisbourne too important to meet with Robin Hood now?" he had hissed at her.
"Robin, you must leave. If he sees you—"
"He won't. He's at the castle."
"This is so incredibly reckless of you. I had always thought you were foolish, but honestly, Robin."
"Why?" he asked, clenching his jaw. "Are you going to call the Sheriff now? Show where your true allegiances lie?" She punched him.
"How many times have I defended you, Robin? How many times did I have to use myself to save you from certain death?" She shook with fury. "How dare you ask me that."
"You got married, Marian. To my worst enemy. What am I supposed to think? That now that you're...husband and wife…you'll convince him to have me 'round for dinner?"
"Not everything is about you, Robin. You know why I had to do it. It was for my father!"
"Was it worth it? Did you enjoy yourself?" She pulled herself away from him in disgust only to have him reach for her, pull her towards him. He kissed her, but this was not the Robin she knew. The kiss was violent, angry, bruising. His lips plied hers open and he thrust his tongue into her mouth, his fingers gripping her arm tightly.
She struggled against him, but when his lips pressed insistently against hers again, she responded. This was the man she had loved—still loved, if she let herself think about it. This was how it should have been. He should have been her husband, not Guy. She kissed him back, thoughts skimming past memories of their betrothal. And what if Guy were to suddenly return? What if one of the servants caught them and told the Sheriff? They would surely hang, but—oh, the way his hands skimmed up her forearms, his fingers twined in her hair, his lips moved against her own—at least she could've been happy once before death. Her hands wrapped around his waist, drawing him closer. He hurriedly began to undo her gown.
"Robin," she whispered. She had never meant to hurt him. He should understand, of all people. She had to think of her father first. He needed her. Everyone has parts to play, and she needed to play hers to ensure the livelihood of her father and his safety as well. But Robin was always thinking of the sentiment, always thinking of the personal vendetta. He had gone to the Holy Land to fight a war for a king he supported, never thinking of the consequences. Prince John? The Sheriff? No, Robin lived in the present, by a code that he knew she could never honor, but expected her to abide by anyway.
"Does he kiss you like this?" he angrily ground out, punctuating his sentence with a harsh kiss. His lips and teeth skidded down the plane of her neck, biting here and kissing there. He bit particularly hard at the spot where her neck met her shoulder and she recoiled. He didn't apologize, didn't whisper anything.
She wanted to hit him, to push him off of her and tell him that she didn't love him anymore. Tell him that he was hurting her. But she could never lie to him. Not to her Robin. He would know.
He laid her down on the bed, brushed a thumb across her breast. Watched as she arched into his touch, gasped his name. Leaning down, he took it in his mouth, swiped his tongue across it roughly, and bit it lightly. Her hands fisted in the sheets.
Desire, passion. All of the things missing from her wedding night were here now, and as he kissed her neck, she wondered if he could feel her heartbeat. Feel her pulse point, beating like a hummingbird's wings as it flew towards sweet nectar.
With a grim smile that spoke of sadness, his hand stole down to her legs and felt her wetness tentatively. They lingered, tracing gentle circles against her soft flesh. She whimpered and shifted herself, trying to force his fingers where she wanted. But he merely clicked his tongue. "Patience is a virtue, Lady Gisbourne."
"Robin," she groaned. "Please. I'm a very patient girl." She tried a coaxing smile, but her eyes gave away her need.
"And where was your patience," he began, voice tempered with restrained anger, "when I left for the Holy Land? You could have waited."
She shifted herself up onto her elbows, anger and desire flickering back and forth on her face. "I wasn't going to wait for you, Robin. Not when you barely cared what I thought." His face gave away his indignation, but as his fingers flicked against her clit, she groaned, attempting to move against his fingers again and find relief.
"I barely cared what you thought? Marian, all I ever thought was for you!"
"You were only thinking of yourself," she said, as she took the advantage and wrestled him beneath her. She rocked herself against his arousal, eyes fluttering closed. "You were only thinking of--oh, oh Robin, yes--of your--your glory and heroism. I'm sure the King loved you for volunteering so readily."
"Marian!" He forced her back beneath him, and despite her struggles, exhibited a strength that she had not expected to keep her pinned.
She bit her lip and took the cheap shot. "That's Lady Gisbourne to you." He gritted his teeth before roughly plunging in two of his fingers and biting the skin at her shoulder.
She groaned, still sore from the ministrations of last night, but he forged on mercilessly, bringing the butt of his hand to swipe roughly against her clit. "Marian, I loved you. I still love you. How could you?"
She whimpered but ground against his hand wantonly. "Please," she whimpered. "Please, please, please." She threw her head back, eyes closed in ecstasy. His motions slowed, and she inhaled sharply, uttering a frustrated cry. "Robin! You have to know that I'm thinking of my father. You know that I—you know where my allegiances lie." She tried moving her hips again. Her eyes, darkened with arousal, looked up into his. "Please."
As he began his ministrations again, he whispered, "I don't know you anymore." She felt angry and crushed—much like she did when he first left—but she couldn't help herself. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feelings that he evoked within her. His calloused fingers played her so well. She rocked against him with a breathy moan. His jealousy crept up to the surface again. "Does he make you feel like this, Marian?" he continued bitterly. "Does he see this side of you? Or is it just me?" He twisted his fingers inside her and her mouth fell open. She arched against him, muttering, hands pulling him closer, head thrashing from side to side. "Maybe you were only ever playing with me." He slammed the butt of his hand against her clit unexpectedly and, digging her nails into his arm as hard as she could, she came against his fingers.
He quickly shed his clothes and pushed into her. She sighed and instinctually arched against him, allowing him access to her neck. She hooked her leg behind his thigh and as he moved, she forced him further and deeper. She was still so new to this and she clung to him, hot and tight. Her nerve endings felt as if they were on fire.
He bit his lip at the feeling of moving within her. He had waited so long for this, had always expected to be married to her when it happened, always expected some long-awaited happiness. As he thrust into her, he ground his hips against hers and she winced, but urged him on. Her hands dug into his back and she gasped hotly into his ear, murmuring his name along with various statements to God.
As he sped up, his fingers gripped her hips roughly, and she was sure marks would appear tomorrow. He moved faster and his hands moved down to rub at her clit. She felt heady from all the sensations and she could barely remember her name when she clenched around him. He continued to speed up until he finally came, mouth falling against her shoulder, fingers digging into her hips.
As she lay there, panting, eyes turned towards the ceiling, he gave her a resolute look and began to get dressed.
"Robin." He turned as if he didn't hear her and headed towards the window. "Robin."
As he stepped out onto the ledge, he thought of everything they had been through. He clenched his fists. He would not lose her. Not when she was so close. Not when he could touch her like this. He closed his eyes and hoped he could memorize her like how she was just minutes ago, flushed and writhing in pleasure. Because of him.
"Don't forget me," she half-whispered. He looked back, caught sight of her naked form and the vulnerability in her eyes. He closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging with his sigh.
"I could never."
"Robin, I—"
"I know, Marian. Me too." A deep silence fell and she heard the faintest sound of hoofbeats. She quickly began to get dressed.
"Life is pain."
He headed back towards her, knowing the recklessness of his deeds. Guy was riding back now. He ran a hand through her dark curls and kissed her. Softly. Gently. He tried to memorize the softness of her lips, the warmth of her skin, the way she smiled against him.
"I will see you again."
She quickly tied up her dress. "You know I have to scream."
"Marian, I…"
"Robin, go." She turned her back on him, took a deep breath, and shrieked for help.
As he mounted his horse and raced towards the forest, he couldn't help but think that this was his war now. Nothing that King Richard could do would stop him from wanting to kill Gisbourne or the Sheriff.
This was his war. And he was going to win.