"Don't pretend you do not love war. I've seen you fight."
-Guy of Gisborne to Robin of Locksley
Most men who'd witnessed battles remembered most clearly the aftermath: the moans of the dying, the desperate calling for loved ones, the sound of flies, and the smell of carnage. But when Guy of Gisborne thought of the Holy Land, he remembered only Robin of Locksley, and fear.
The first time he heard Robin's name in the Holy Land, spoken with such respect and admiration, Guy thought only of the burned-down Gisborne Manor, subsumed into the Locksley estate, and of a spoiled little brat grown into an even more spoiled man. Captain of theKing's Guard and Royal favorite indeed.
The first time he saw Locksley in battle, he was a blur of flashing steel. Blood blossomed wherever he passed and he fought with a deadly mix of wild abandon and controlled grace. In the darkening gloom of the desert night, the white, crusader's tunic lent Locksley a ghostly air as he danced among the darker forms of his enemies. Curved blade after curved blade hit the sands while their owners gurgled and choked on their own lifeblood. Locksley never lingered long enough to see the blood spurt out of his fallen enemy. He always turned to engage another Saracen as soon as he felt the edge of his blade cut flesh.
Guy of Gisborne would have called the grown Robin of Locksley a formidable fighter and left it at that had he not caught a glimpse of the crusader's face at that brief instant just before he dealt a killing blow. The look in Locksley's eyes as he ducked inside one Saracen's over-extended stab and carved the man a scarlet grin from ear to ear was an image Guy could not seem to shake from his memories these days.
It wasn't the quality or the skill that made Locksley such a terrible figure to Guy. It was the way he fought without the caution that any sane man displayed for his own life and limb. It was the sharp focus, the almost euphoric clarity of his eyes, half a heartbeat before he slashed the life out of an enemy, that told Guy that Locksley thought onlyof killing in that moment. Never of being killed. And the very idea that someone could completely forget the instinct of self-preservation that had ruled nearly all of Guy's life was. . . terrifying. The utter lack of that instinct in the eyes of Robin of Locksley, combined with the rare, but not uncommon battle-lust . . .
He knew he would have to face the man sooner or later when he came back to claim his lands. He would have to speak with him, to hold his gaze without flinching and pretend to be as equally dangerous, as equally ruthless, as the man even though he knew he wasn't. Guy could never be the natural predator that Locksley had proven to be, that night in the desert.
If Guy was a natural at anything, it was how to survive by all means possible. He was a predator only if it profited him, but more often than not, Guy found himself playing parasite to survive. And Guy played parasite to stronger predators like the Sheriff long enough that he was beginning to believe that it was in his nature to be one.
So when Locksley turned up at his own village one day, in the midst of an official investigation of a theft no less, and aiming those sharp, predator's eyes on him, he couldn't stop himself from retreating just a little bit, even mounted on his horse as he was.