Rating: T for mentions of violence and attempted rape, nudity, and mild sexual situations.
Warning: FLUFF everywhere.
Acknowledgement: This is one of my less original pieces, as some lines and situations were taken from Elliott Silver's Robin Hood fanfics, no matter how hard I tried to exorcise them. To the story "Featherweight," I owe: "I'll need some help with the plate armor" and "Why did you come?" To the story "The Verge of the World," I owe: "I want to marry you."
Disclaimer: I am not affiliated in any way with the 2010 film Robin Hood, Universal Pictures, Imagine Entertainment, Relativity Media, Scott Free Productions, or Elliott Silver.
He carries her to his horse, unseeing of the hundreds of men cheering his name. When he reaches his mount he eases Marion to her feet, putting her hand on the horse's flank for support.
"Marion, can you ride?" he asks.
His blood is drying on her cheek, and her face is tired, though her eyes are warm. "I suppose I will manage it," she says, "with a strong man like you to help me."
Robin is relieved to hear her sharp tongue. It tells him her hurt is not grave, and that makes him smile. "With your permission, milady," he says, moving to grasp her by the waist. She raises her arms, and his hands settle around her waist and lift her onto the horse's back.
He looks up at her. "How does that feel?"
Marion scoots to the back of the saddle, granting him room. "Well enough," she says.
"Any dizziness?"
"Some," she acknowledges.
Robin puts his foot in the stirrup and swings himself up to sit in front of her. "Hold on tightly to me, then," he says. "Tell me if it worsens."
"Certainly, Robin Longstride," she says, in a tone that makes it clear she thinks he is coddling her. But though her words are strong, her body is not, and in the long ride to Peper Harow, her hands come to grip the stomach of his armour.
"Has it worsened?" he asks her, making to pull up the horse.
"For heaven's sake, Robin, less talking and more riding!" She strives to sound light, but there is pain lacing her voice. Robin urges the horse forward.
When they reach Peper Harow, he slides down first and turns to lift her down. Marion collapses into his arms, and he has to hold her up. The sound of her heavy breathing fills the courtyard. "Mother of God, woman! You're ready to faint!"
She lifts her head but still has to lean against him. "No such thing," she says stiffly. "I've never fainted in my life, and I'm not about to start now."
A manservant approaches. "Sir Robert?"
"Tend to the horse," Robin says, gesturing toward it. "And tell a maid to heat the water for the bath."
"Yes, sir," says the servant, hurrying away.
"You've taken well to being lord of the house," Marion comments faintly.
"Not to being lord of my lady, though," he says, scooping her up even as she protests. "Though with her spirit, I doubt that such a thing is possible."
"Robin!" she scolds, but slips her arm behind his neck. He makes his way into the house, finding the bathing room. Two maids are filling the bath with heated water. Marion addresses one of them, asking her to fetch healing salve and bandages. The maid curtsies and turns.
When the bath is filled, the salve and bandages laid out, and the maids gone, Marion turns to Robin. "Will you help me with the armour?" she asks, tone tentative. Her eyes find his questioning ones and hold.
Robin steps forward and carefully undoes the clasp at the neck. She holds still, barely breathing, as he looses the clasps and laces, gently stripping off the layers of armour until all that's left is her linen undergarments, stained with blood and sweat. Marion breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you."
She reaches forward to remove his armour without his asking. He does not have to direct her as he did the first time. She is now acquainted with armour and battle as she was not before. She removes his undertunic and steps back. Her breathing is strained from the effort of her labour. "Well," she says.
He suddenly feels out of place. "Should I call a maid to assist you?" he says.
She watches him. "If it is amenable to you, I'd rather you didn't. My husband can help me himself, don't you think?"
He swallows. "If you're certain, Marion."
"I am," she says, and draws off her undertunic. Her skin is milky pale, with great purple bruises blooming out across her ribs and chest. There's blood on her neck and stomach. He glimpses a pattern of bruises on her neck that immediately twist his stomach, and he crosses closer to see them better.
The bruises are strangulation marks. Robin's eyes roam her body, searching. They settle on her wrists, dark with bruises the size of a man's fingers. He carefully takes her forearm in one hand, lifting it up.
"These aren't from the battle," he says, frowning. "Your armour would have protected you from them."
"No," Marion agrees, "they're not."
He raises his eyes to search her face. "What happened, Marion? They're on your neck as well."
"It's nothing," she says. "It's over now."
His grip on her is still gentle, but his voice is insistent. "I want to know."
"Godfrey's man," she says. "Earlier, when they invaded the town. He fancied the idea of having the lady of the manor."
"And?" presses Robin, feeling his stomach twist tighter in desperate anger.
She meets his gaze full-on. "I stabbed him in the back of the neck."
He is surprised into a smile and leans forward to kiss her forehead, feeling incredibly proud but also regretful. "There never was a woman your equal." Then, "I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you."
She shrugs her slim shoulders. "I was without a man to protect me for ten years, Robin. I learned to protect myself." She puts her hands on his shoulders and her voice softens. "Though there are times when I need to be helped, and today was one of those days. Thank you."
Then they are kissing, clinging to each other and savouring the comfort of one another. Robin's arms wrap around Marion and pull her closer. He is satisfied. This is what he has wanted since she first told him, in a flat voice, that she had been Robert's wife. She is the strongest woman he has ever known, but still she needs him. And he needs her. It is a wondrous thing to ponder.
Her breath hitches as his hand brushes a tender spot, and he pulls back, regarding her carefully. She smiles tiredly. "Isn't it a silly thing, that we both want each other and are too battle-weary to do anything about it?"
He kisses her again, once. "Another day, Marion," he promises. "Now let's get you clean so you can rest."
She removes her trousers, and he helps her into the tub. She sits while he washes her hair, marvelling at the long tangles of russet brown. He tries to be careful in smoothing the knots out, but this is new work for him. Marion makes no comment, not even when Robin feels the tangles catch on his calloused fingers. She then cleans herself, with him washing her back, and he helps her out of the tub. In the moment before he wraps her in a warm cloth, he marvels at her body, the lines both soft and strong, perfectly imperfect. "You are a very beautiful woman, Marion Loxley," he says, and a memory presses him to add impishly, "in the way ladies sometimes are when they've gone to battle."
She gives a startled choke of laughter, and then he's wrapped her in the cloth and she's leaning against him. They stand still, breathing for a moment, until she wrinkles her nose and pulls back. "Robin, you stink. Bathe yourself so we can go to bed."
It's his turn to laugh, amused by her boldness, but he obeys his lady's order. She sits in a chair by the fireplace and applies the salve to her wounds while he cleans himself. The room is quiet but for the crackling of the fire and lap of the water, and this is perhaps the most peaceful he has felt in ten years' time. The grime and striving of the day wash away, leaving him to start anew. He catches Marion watching him, but for the first time, she doesn't look away. She meets his eyes, only a little bashful, and he relishes in her forwardness. It's the first time she's felt comfortable enough to openly look at him this way, and he thinks it must be because they now know what they mean to each other.
He loves her. He loves her as he has not loved a woman in all his days. He has known her only a fortnight, but it is enough to know he will love her a little more every day for the rest of his life. It matters not that she has not made a similar confession. She is a woman of few words, but she made herself clear enough by asking him to return to her.
He carries her up the stairs, half because she needs the help, half because he wants to. He loves that he can touch her now, that she is not holding herself back from him in formality. He lays her down gently on the bed and stands back, letting her make the next decision. She reaches for his arm, her long fingers wrapping insistently around his wrist. "Stay," she says.
Robin climbs in beside her and pulls her into his arms, pressing his lips to her temple. "Didn't think this would be happening so soon."
Marion lays her hands on top of his and looks at him sideways. "But you thought it would happen?"
He grins. "I hoped so."
She smiles a little, seeming satisfied, and doesn't press the matter.
He leans his head closer to her so he can bury his nose in her hair. She smells of mint and yarrow, and he breathes in deeply. He finds it easier to ask her like this. "Why did you come today?"
Marion's spine straightens against him. "England is my country just as much as it is yours."
He doesn't want to argue with her; he simply wants to know. "Is that why you came?" he asks quietly.
She seems to sense his genuine curiosity and turns to face him. "I told you, I'm used to caring for myself and mine. If England were to fall to France, Peper Harow would belong to the French, and they would likely take it from me." She sees him about to open his mouth and plunges forward. "But I also wanted to make sure you came back to me. You never did give a definitive answer to my request."
He laughs and leans forward to kiss her. It is breath-taking, as he has always known it would be. He pulls back to meet her eyes. "I will always come back to you, Marion."
She flattens her hands against his chest. "That is all I ask."
In the morning, he wakens to honeyed light warming his cheek and russet hair on his shoulder. Marion is breathing peacefully beside him, still twined in his arms. He hears the cows bawling to be milked, the horses whinnying for their breakfast, servants crossing the courtyard, and maids bustling about the kitchen. For the first time in a very long time, there are no pressing matters to attend to. There is a charter to be drawn up, but Robin will have very little to do with that. His father has done most of the work, and the barons will do the rest.
Marion wakes to find his eyes on her. "Good morning, my lady," he says, liking the taste of the words on his tongue.
She looks more comfortable and at home than he has yet seen her. She lifts herself on elbows and leans over to kiss him. "Good morning, my lord."
"Ah, that is the way a husband should be addressed," he says, splaying his hands across her waist.
She rolls away from him and out of bed. "There are matters for my husband to attend to."
He is disappointed but doesn't show it. It is best to tread lightly with Marion. "What are these matters?"
She is dressing, heedless of his eyes. "Eating breakfast with his lady and then surveying the damage in the village. The villagers will need medical care and new shelter, and we need to see that they are being attended to."
That is something he loves about her: her commitment to her people, poor or unimportant as they may be. "Your villagers are blessed to have you for their lady."
"And you for their lord," she says, coming over and reaching for his hand. "Come, we shall see if we can find some time alone after our duties have been seen to."
He pulls her closer to him when she makes to get away. She snorts, but leans into him. "Marion, I want to marry you," he says.
She starts in surprise and looks up into his eyes. "What brings this on?"
He runs his fingers up her arms to push her hair from her face. "When a man loves a woman, that is generally the next step."
"Not when that man is already considered to be the woman's husband," she says practically.
"Marion," he says, cupping her face, "I am not Robert Loxley. I am not a knight, nor shall I ever be. I am but the humble Robin Longstride."
"Not-so-humble Robin Longstride, as I recall it," she grumbles.
He ignores her. "And since we love one other, I think it a practical arrangement, do you not agree?"
"Whoever said I loved you?" she says, cheek dimpling.
He pulls her forward and kisses her soundly. "I did," he says, when they've pulled apart.
"Then I suppose the friar had better arrange something," Marion says. She leans against him a moment more before slipping out from under his arm and running to the door, eluding his attempts to pull her back. "Come, your breakfast will be cold."