There were so many corpses that it was difficult to find a path through the bodies without stepping on someone. Robin looked upon the sight and realized for the first time how hot and sweaty he was. He turned away and bit the back of his hand hard enough to draw blood in order to prevent himself from being sick. He inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to shake the feeling of a thousand ghosts following him. Something had happened to him; he had almost no memory of shooting anyone, yet the marksmanship on the bodies was so precise that he had no doubt of the hand that killed them.
He trudged away, slowly at first, then breaking into a run, trying desperately to escape the masses of ghosts he was sure were pursuing him. Just as thought he had outrun them, he looked back to find someone he was sure didn't belong there.
"Marian?" he whispered, shocked. He stood there, shaking as her ethereal form reached out a hand to him. She was wearing something white and flowing, and she appeared to be glowing.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, an arrow pierced her chest and she fell, her serene features contorting.
"Marian!" Robin screamed.
His eyes flew open and he awoke to find himself in his tent, tangled in the sheets, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin.
"Master?" Much asked, looking into Robin's eyes. Robin looked at him for a moment, before realizing that what he had just witnessed was a dream.
"Only a dream, Much," Robin muttered, flinging the covers away and rubbing his neck before leaving tent.
"Where are you going?" Much demanded, following his master.
"To get some air. Alone."
"I hope he gets slaughtered!" Marian said forcefully as she brushed out an especially difficult tangle. "Arrogant bastard thinks he can get away with anything…" she muttered. Robin had been gone over half a year, and she was still ranting about his leaving.
As she was pulling the brush though another lock of hair, it got caught in another tangle, and as she pulled, the handle snapped off the brush. The bristles and the head of the brush were still in her hair as she collapsed into a chair, her eyes watery. She was so foolish, so stupid, to think that he would stay for her. Of course he would leave and make her feel ashamed; she didn't know why she expected otherwise. Yet she could not stop the words that left her lips. "Please, come back to me."
She hated not knowing if he was dead or alive. She had promised herself long ago that she would cease all thought related to Robin of Locksley, but her thoughts kept returning to him. If only he had stayed… she thought.
She had penned several letters to him, but had failed to send any. She didn't know what she should say and she doubted very much that he would receive them. She had tried to find something in which to throw herself: a cause to fight for, but there was nothing she could do in England. She spent her days much as she had before she knew him. She woke late in an effort to make the days shorter and did almost nothing. The only time she felt like she was somehow connected to him was when she rode out on her mare, sometimes up to twenty miles away from Knighton Hall. Her father was too busy to notice her long absences and her maid rarely bothered to tell her what she thought.
Despite everything, she wished him home safely. She sometimes felt as if her thoughts would keep him safe, though she knew the idea was ludicrous. She wondered often if thoughts of her kept him up half the night, as they did her.
Robin wandered away from the camp until he found a quiet, dark spot that seemed to be deserted. He sat in the sand and cradled his head in his hands. His intention was never this. He wasn't meant to go mad, he was meant to fight for England! And for her. She was always on his mind, to the point that he found himself distracted several times a day.
He wished for leave so that he could see her, but as the flow of young soldiers had started to trickle, he doubted he would be going home anytime soon. Regardless, his thoughts strayed to her. He wondered if she thought of him often. Probably not at this point. It had been over six months, and he doubted she even remembered his face. It was probably easier to forget the face of one who had lied to you the night before he left for war, he mused.
The cool night air released the pent up tension in his muscles, and he slowly extended his limbs and lay on his back, his hands folded under his head. He closed his eyes and traced the contours of her face with his mind. He wondered if she had ever been driven sleepless by thoughts of him, as he had of her.
Thanks for reading! Bisous ~ the shattered star
