Ave, shipmates! This update wasn't supposed to take this long, I promise you. Technology was unkind to me for a while and life happened, but at least I'll have managed to have this out by OUAT Sunday in the let's-keep-our-ship-alive spirit. Thank you so much for the warm welcome chapter one has received; I only hope you'll find the new one worth the wait. Our favourite soulmates even get to interact at last. ;)
A couple of notes before we begin. First, Zelena does feature in this story, but nothing of the gross rape storyline of S4 ever will. Second, I expect my take on Hades will differ from the show's, as I've not seen much of S5b, so I may not have his character down all that well - I hope you can overlook this.
Happy reading!
Life at the ludus follows a prescribed pattern, and a simple one at that. Morning meals doled out at the crack of dawn are followed by hours of strenuous training, a brief respite granted them for a midday meal when the sun climbs to its celestial peak before they throws themselves into yet more training under the crack of the whip. At the end of the day, the gladiators and the trainees gather in the large with their rations to sup on, then eventually retire to their tiny excuses for cells for the night. It's monotone though hardly boring, and so any and all diversions are met with cautious curiosity, if not excitement or outright anxiety in the case of those particularly reckless or particularly cautious. Today is one of those days that provide a distraction.
The doctore's whip stills the clatter of the men's practice swords; its next swish through the air sends them rushing into formation. Robin leaves the sidelines he was watching from and moves to join their ranks, gritting his teeth as each step sends a minuscule jolt of pain through his side. He stands between Alan, a slender, dreamy lad from somewhere in the Po Valley up north, and a man known as Grumpy, whose real name remains a mystery to all but most likely his actual brothers by blood, all seven of them similarly nicknamed.
Heads turn in unison to the balcony overlooking the training grounds just as Hades steps out to address the gathering. Tall and greying, with a penchant for tunics of heavy, dark materials regardless of weather or occasion, he towers over them with a grim expression befitting the lord of the underworld.
"Gladiators," he bellows without ceremony, "your ranks have swelled in recent weeks with men of all backgrounds and merits. But not everyone is worthy to bleed and die for the glory of this house. To preserve the good name of this ludus and of this family, it is my duty to purge the brotherhood of those that are too weak, be it in physique or character, to further its fame. Dwarfs, step forward."
The surly man on Robin's left breaks rank and moves forward, and so do six others. Robin only notices now that one is missing—there were eight.
No one knows whence these short fellows come or how they'd found themselves in the house of Hades—just that they'd been born slaves someplace other than Capua, for they're all branded with another master's mark. Their short stature is the only similarity that sets them apart as relations; their characters could hardly be more diverse. Except, that is, for one thing—their diligence. They're the first to start training and the last to finish, often carrying on with practice in the cell while others choose to play dice or simply rest. Yet no matter how many weapons or techniques they try or how hard they work, they've been lagging behind. There's been progress, yes, but they're not warriors. Even Alan, the bard-turned-gladiator, is ahead of them. Perhaps with enough time and the right approach, they would make good soldiers, Robin thinks—but the arena is a special kind of battlefield. Raw strength is not enough to become a legend; the crowd demands skill, prowess, showmanship.
True, the dwarfs would be a welcome curiosity in the arena even without considerable fighting skills, but Hades wants them to be more than comic relief—quite the contrary in fact. He wants them to win matches against all expectation, to leave the crowd in awe of their battlemastership.
And they're not doing that. Not fast enough anyway.
"Your hard work has not gone unnoticed," Hades says, a sardonic little smile playing on his lips. "And you will now be relocated where you can truly serve me best."
"Gods damn you to Tartarus," Grumpy spits, only loud enough for Robin to hear.
A simple gesture, and the guards seize the seven brothers, herding them to the exit in chains. Heavy manacles chafe at legs that will only kick up noxious dust instead of sacred sand, bind hands that will heretofore swing pickaxes instead of swords.
Where is the glory now, where is the fame?
It is disgusting, absolutely infuriating, the way Hades makes himself out as the benefactor of these people he's just condemned to an atrocious, inevitably short life in the mines. His mines—the mines that have made him rich through sweat and blood and countless lives puttering out before their time.
Where's the justice in that? Where's the honour?
The chain-gang moves amid chinking metal and shuffling feet—but not a word of protest uttered or even so much as a sneeze—as the seven are led to a slow, anonymous death.
A punishment if ever there was one, and they all know it. A warning to them all as they stand on the blood-washed sands; twisted motivation to push themselves harder, to rise to fame faster—or suffer the consequences.
"Serve your dominus and live," Hades speaks from his position of power. "Question your dominus, however…" He trails off, his lips curling, turns on his heel, and retires to the house.
The assembled men's heads turn once more as the guards drag a body out of the barracks. It's short and mangled almost beyond recognition, leaving a trail of blood on the hot sand.
The eighth brother, Stealthy, gambled with his life and lost it in an attempt to negotiate a better one.
###
Robin is summoned before Hades just as he's queueing for the evening meal (barley porridge again, and perhaps he's not missing out on much in the culinary department, but still he needs all the nourishment he can get), and he wonders inevitably if this is the end for him, too.
Stomach aching with hunger and his mind reeling, he walks up the stairs heavily, pressing a palm to his throbbing wound, then dropping his arm again. He mustn't show himself vulnerable before them, especially not before Hades, and certainly not today, after the spectacle staged for the gladiators' edification and warning. The last steps prove a challenge though as the world tilts and blurs, and Robin seeks brief leverage against the wall. Hunger, he thinks, it's just the lack of food in his belly causing the alarming reaction. Surely his dizziness has nothing to do with the persisting injury, surely it doesn't herald the return of fever.
Hades is sat behind his desk, a pile of coin towering before him, when Robin is led into the spacious room. He looks up at Robin with a malevolent glint in his eyes, and waits.
Robin stares back at him in silent defiance—insolence from a slave, he knows, and a luxury he can't afford if he's ever to buy back his life.
"Dominus," Robin grits through his teeth.
Hades smirks—that's one victory for him, then, and may he choke on it.
"Do you know why I summoned you?"
Robin has a shrewd idea, but deems it wiser to feign ignorance.
"Not quite, dominus."
"You were among the assembled this morning."
"I was," Robin says, amends, "dominus."
"Well in that case I'd expect you to have more than a shrewd idea. You were a citizen of Rome once after all—a free man, educated." The sheer mockery in his tone sets Robin's guts twisting, and he bites his tongue—he mustn't do anything foolish, mustn't show emotion at all. A task by no means easy, for Hades has more to say, his face hardening as he growls: "Yet you're no better now than the rest of your kind. This ludus breeds only the best. Anything less, and I have no use for you. I've been keeping you on as a favour to my brother-in-law, but my charity has limits."
Charity? Well that's rich. Hades hasn't even provided a medicus; if it hadn't been for Regina, Robin would be a bodiless soul wandering the depths of the underworld.
Hades turns his back on him, his words clipped and his hair taking on a peculiar bluish tint as he looks out upon the darkening sky.
"I expect you to join your brothers for training tomorrow. It's either the arena or the mines—gladiator."
The scorching heat has drained her of every last vestige of energy, and Regina is gulping down the third cup of water when her sister emerges from the villa's shaded portico.
"Regina! You weren't supposed to come," Zelena exclaims, wide-eyed and slack-jawed and, frankly, slightly comical with her over-the-top reaction.
"Thank you so much," Regina smirks at her sister's typical tactless self, "for the hearty welcome."
Zelena just rolls her eyes.
"Oh please, you know what I mean, sis."
"I believe that would be 'you weren't supposed to come because I had plans to visit you instead'," Regina teases, though with a grain of seriousness as she admonishes lightly. "Plans you never shared, might I add."
"You know me," shrugs Zelena, toying with her hair to let a bit of air under the thick red curls. "I always have plans to visit Rome. It's so exhilarating. The bustle, the intrigue, the power-play… All the things you despise so much. Sometimes I think you should have been the one to settle down in the countryside. Leave the urban pleasures to me."
"So do I," Regina says quietly, looking away as a twinge of old pain tugs at her heart.
Zelena sighs, her face twisting into a mask of exasperation. "That was a silly thing to say, Regina. Come now, let's get some refreshments to quell your hunger—and shut my big mouth."
There's juicy fruit and tasty fish and wine produced at the estate itself, strong and heady on its own but pleasantly refreshing when watered down. Regina settles back down on the dining couch, sighing in relief at having her travel-rattled limbs resting against soft cushions. The urge to ask about him, about Robin, immediately, is overwhelming, but Tinkerbell's words—your thief—ring like warning bells in Regina's head, prompting her to proceed with caution. She will at least suffer through the small talk first.
"Did you have a terrible journey?"
"It was all right, considering. Henry spent most of it poring over his arithmetics, and Roland kept drifting off only to wake up with all the renewed energy of a little boy on an adventure. They're both asleep now."
The afternoon siesta has put the household into a hushed slumber, and even the training grounds are free of the usual clamour of combat for a blessed hour or two.
"You brought the boy, then," Zelena states cautiously.
A tinge of tension percolates the stifling air.
Regina meets her eyes with a hint of defiance: "Both of them, yes."
She's had enough to contend with—judgement and concern both real and fake—since she took the child in, and she'd really rather not have to fight Zelena on this as well, but she will do so if need be.
Zelena chooses to skirt over the issue for now, even though they're both perfectly aware the matter will need to be addressed soon enough. She pops a grape into her month and frowns—not at the bitter taste of it, Regina can tell at once, for Zelena likes her fruit slightly on the tart side.
"I'm surprised you left Rome so soon after Leopold's departure. It will have tongues wagging, I'm sure."
"You sound just like Mother. Except she speaks to me through Daddy these days. I wish she stopped using him as a messenger. I can tell it plagues him to have to say the awful things he hardly means himself."
Too soft of heart to defy Cora, too meek, Regina's father is. It's been a source of frustration to her, Daddy's incapability to stand up to Cora—to stand up for Regina. It's been constantly nagging at her for as long as she remembers, adding a pinch of bitterness into their otherwise affectionate relationship. Zelena's been vocal about this fault of his before, angry on Regina's behalf on the few occasions Regina had voiced, with no small amount of guilt, the pang of hurt Daddy's failure to protect her leaves eating away at her. Zelena has questioned and criticised where Regina just suffers quietly, and Regina appreciates the sentiment, she really does, but she also loves her father, loves him dearly, and so she's forever torn between that love and the disappointment. She doesn't want to revisit that murky well of conflicting emotions, so she's beyond grateful when Zelena doesn't go down that particular path.
"Funny he should still write to me sometimes," Zelena wonders instead with a touch of wistfulness about her eyes, "and I'm not even his. Our dear mother, on the other hand… Well, she's certainly making good on her threats. I really am as good as dead to her."
Regina bites her tongue as her thoughts race, her very first one being lucky you, and perhaps it's better this way, traitorous things that invoke yet more of that guilt Cora knows so well how to turn to her benefit. Regina reminds herself she can't let her. She is entitled to her feelings, and they are what they are for a reason. Cora has hurt her, hurt her in ways far more horrible than even Zelena is fully aware, and so she pushes the guilt away and reminds Zelena of something else she has that Regina doesn't.
"You have your husband," she says, that old wound smarting again as Daniel's face swims before her eyes briefly. The rest remains unsaid but implied clearly enough that Zelena understands regardless—you have a husband of your own choosing, one you love and who loves you back. Zelena's brow pinches in sympathy, and Regina doesn't want that, not now anyway, because she's tired and anxious and what's the point of picking at old scars? So she adds, laying sarcasm on thickly: "As questionable as your taste may be."
"Now you sound like mother," Zelena groans.
"No, I don't," comes Regina's vehement protest—being compared to Cora, even teasingly, fills her with dread and has her stomach twisting uncomfortably. "I dislike Hades for him, not his social status."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Zelena pins Regina with a pronounced stare. They know each other and their shared proclivity for drama as a coping mechanism well enough to understand they're walking the tightrope with this conversation once again, that Regina and Hades remain as hostile to each other as ever, and that their adversity pains Zelena no matter how many layers of sarcasm they coat the matter in.
A thick, heavy silence stretches between them in the already stuffy summer heat, all the more pronounced due to the distant cacophony of gladiators back at training once again. Why must everything be so convoluted, a confusing maze of sentiments crossing and tangling, embroiling their family in a veritable Gordic knot—the many strands and conflicts just as impossible to unravel as its proverbial counterpart? That the two of them have retained their sisterly bond to this day is nothing short of a miracle. But Regina knows the gods have little credit to claim for this particular feat, that it's a testament to their stubbornness and their deep-seated craving for affection. Yet every moment spent together puts all of that at risk.
Suddenly Regina is tired. Well, that's not quite true, she was tired before, but now she's downright exhausted—too weary to do anything but throw caution to the wind and address the true reason of her visit directly.
"How is he?" Remembering Zelena's vague and evasive letters, she presses: "How is he really?"
Zelena looks at her askance and rises from the dining couch with a sigh. Regina follows suit, her eyes trained on Zelena's averted face—deliberate avoidance on her sister's part, and that does absolutely nothing to alleviate her rising anxiety.
"He's—he's alive, isn't he?"
Because if he's not, if he's died from his injuries, then it's her fault. It would be Regina's fault just as much as that damned Gaul who wielded the trident, if not more so. Robin has no place in the arena, and she'd put him there, thinking she was doing him a favour, saving him from death, from exile, from leaving his son an orphan to starve. How stupid of her, how terribly cruel. He doesn't belong in this world, doesn't have the killer instinct or the ambition to spur him on on this precarious career path. If he's dead, if she's killed him—
Regina barely notices her arm hooked in Zelena's as she's being led upstairs, barely registers her surroundings until they step out on the balcony overlooking the training grounds, and Zelena finally answers Regina's question.
"See for yourself."
Regina blinks and directs her gaze down onto the jumble of bodies, sweat-slicked from exertion and glistening in the blazing sun. They shift and squirm, charge and dodge, sink onto the sand groaning only to rise again, and she finds it nigh impossible to distinguish a single man in the tangle of bodies ever on the move. She catches herself looking out for a golden speck of sunshine against fair hair, or tickling that stubble that sets him apart—she's actually seeking Robin among the gladiators' number. A foolish endeavour, surely, for his injuries are no trifle and wouldn't allow for that early a return to training, much less the arena.
Just as soon as she dismisses the idea, she spots him.
Regina's heart stutters on a gasp, then drums wildly against her chest.
It is truly Robin, without a doubt, sparring with a wooden sword he's barely strong enough to wield. She recognises that face, now twisted in a grimace that is hard to read but distinctly unpleasant, even recognises his voice when he yelps in agony as his adversary's sword, merciless, prods him in the side, right in the wound that renders him much too easy a prey.
"Remove him!"
The words could have been her own, but Regina is still dumbstruck by sheer shock, and the voice issuing the order belongs to another.
Two men prop Robin up as they help him—drag him—into the barracks.
Regina spins around only to see Hades' retreating back, and follows him into the house with Zelena trailing behind them both.
"How dare you—?"
But her angry—frightened, so frightened—tirade is nipped in the bud by Hades' indulgent sneer.
"Daring is essential in this line of business," he cuts in.
"He's injured!" Regina spits. "He needs treatment and time to heal, to grow strong again before you toss him back into the arena!"
"He hasn't yet earned the right to weeks of idling. Besides," Hades adds, an oily smile stretching his mouth, "I never gave order for him to return. The man asked himself. It would almost seem even a thief can have honour."
Regina's nostrils flare. The vein in her forehead is pulsing angrily, she can feel it throbbing, threatening to burst. Hades meets the sparks flying from her eyes unflinchingly, cold and amused— a silent declaration of war if there ever was one.
"There's food and wine in the triclinium," Zelena deflects, her cheery tone hardly covering her irritation at having to constantly mediate between her sister and her husband. "Let's give Regina a chance to retire to her bedroom and recover from the long journey."
Zelena takes Hades' arm and nudges him towards the stairs with a flirtatious smile and a hint of promise that would make Regina nauseous if it didn't actually play right into her cards.
Regina's plan may involve a bedroom of sorts—but not the kind designated for house guests, and certainly not an abundance of sleeping.
It was all for nothing, all his efforts and pain in vain.
He'd taken Hades' ultimatum to heart, and instead of retiring to the fringe of the training grounds as he had done since that damnable first appearance in the arena, Robin went that morning to pick up a weapon for practice. The wooden gladius, twice as heavy as its regular counterpart, had never weighed so heavy upon him before. Every laborious movement of his arm would have ripped, unhealed muscles contracting in response, and for the first few swings, Robin would clutch at his side as if the mere pressure of his hand could keep the stitches intact. Every charge and every dodge sent spasms of pain to his wound, and Robin would grit his teeth in an effort not to cry out. His sparring partners spared him not in the least—had they had any such inclination, they wouldn't have been allowed to show lenience anyway. Robin was managing quite well despite all this, despite the cold beads of sweat trickling down his face in the scorching heat and the disturbing black spots that would now and again hinder his vision. And then—agony, pure and debilitating.
The last thing Robin saw was the tip of Little John's sword dyed crimson with his blood, and next thing he knew, he was being deposited on the sickbed of the infirmary cell.
Robin fumbles with the shabby bandages, used and washed to excess, and works to stem the flow of fresh blood now oozing from his reopened wound. Once again, he's left to his own devices—no medicus and no medicine to help. Not even a drop of wine to pour into the gaping gash, nor a piece of iron to heat over the flickering flames and press against it. It will require nothing short of a miracle for his wound not to fester and flood his blood with renewed fever.
Well accustomed by now to aches and sores, Robin's eyes may swim with tears of pain, but his mind is occupied by other concerns, his heart brimming with darker impulses. At his ruthless master's behest, he'd launched himself into a fierce effort to claim a place among the best gladiators, but it was too much too soon, and now he's even further from his goal than before, treated once again to solitary confinement instead of medical care.
Freedom seems a faraway fantasy now, less real than the mirages that had once plagued him and his brothers in arms in the deserts of Africa. A dream entirely impossible when even saving his skin seems beyond his control. He's done all he possibly can with what meagre means he has at hand, and the rest, he realises with a touch of desperation and dismay, is in the hands of the Fates.
A click of the lock and a creak of the door rouse him from a restless slumber. The hour is late, if the entirely cold ashes in the fireplace are any indication, and Robin has no more reason to expect visitors at nighttime than he has in the light of day. A presence lingers by the door and doesn't lock it—not that Robin could reasonably escape in his present state, or that such a thing would do him much good overall. Light steps approach. Robin's spine straightens as he pushes himself up on the bed, stiff muscles revolting furiously against his efforts to sit, much less stand.
"Lie down," says a low voice, firm but warm. A voice he recognises at once.
He breathes her name—even though he shouldn't really, nothing but a deferential title having any business whatsoever crossing the lips of a slave—and sinks back down onto the blanket with not a sliver of resistance left in him.
And how is she even here?
"Are you—real?" he whispers as she stands over him in what appears to his sleep- and fever-addled mind a light nightdress, with her long hair tumbling freely down her shoulders and to her waist.
"As real as you are," Regina returns—softly, so softly, her voice just as soft as her fingers when she begins to unravel the filthy bandages he wrapped around the burning area in a shoddy attempt at treatment. "Stay still," she instructs, and: "This is going to hurt."
And gods, does it ever. It burns, burns like wildfire in his side, radiates all the way to his chest, knocking the breath out of him as she pours and pours generous amounts of whatever the blasted liquid is over the throbbing wound. Robin is hissing and cursing, couldn't help it if he tried, but he fights the instinct to move his limbs, remains mostly still as she requested of him.
It takes ages, but the burn is replaced eventually by a sting, which in turn gives way to a dull numbness.
An orange glow pushes against the lids of his tightly shut eyes, and Robin chances a glance sideways.
Regina is hovering over the now crackling fire, holding over it a thin, long object with a pointy end.
He braces himself, prays that she hurry before he regains all feeling in his side. As if on cue, she turns and reappears by his side again, needle and thread in one hand, and a piece of wood for him to bite on in the other—and oh but what a fool he is to have doubted her. She knows what she's doing, Regina, has demonstrated her skill as healer on him before.
Neither speaks as she works away at the deep cut with sure hands, nimble fingers stitching his flesh together for the second time. His skin tingles where hers brushes it, an odd sort of sensation he knows not what to make of. Not quite pleasant, but not quite pain either.
"You'll be on bedrest for the week," Regina states flatly once she's finished. "You can start exercising after to slowly regain strength, but nothing outrageous or terribly taxing. Certainly no weight-lifting for a while. And no fighting."
"I've got to," he huffs with perhaps an undue amount of injured pride at the insinuation that he's somehow not aware of what's wise or sustainable in his condition. He wants to say more, wants to keep them talking, so he swallows and grates through a desperately arid throat: "I've no interest in being relegated to the mines to die a miserable wretch."
The only answer comes in the form of a skein filled with a blessedly balanced blend of watered-down wine and something else he doesn't recognise. Healing herbs of some kind, surely. He gulps and gulps mouthfuls of it, draining the skein of every last drop. Gods, but he was thirsty, parched after he'd used his humble water ration to somewhat clean the raw cut.
The cut that is no more, replaced again by a neat row of stitches.
"Is that what he threatened you with? The mines?"
"It's what they threaten us all with. They had us watch those dwarfs be dragged away in chains, the last of them dead because he'd dared defy such an end. And just in case I hadn't caught on, Hades made it clear in no uncertain terms that I would follow if I didn't deliver—and soon. Tossed into the arena for a certain death in my condition, or flung into the mines for much the same. I won't let that be my fate."
"No," Regina breathes on a sharp exhale, "neither will I."
A foul stench fills the already dank, noxious cell as she lifts the lid of a square container.
"You've gone to all this trouble," Robin grins weakly, wrinkling his nose at the godawful smell, "only to smother me now?"
Regina cocks an eyebrow at him, taken aback by the unexpected introduction of humour into the bleak situation, but by no means opposed to it if the quirk of her lips is to be believed.
"Delicate, aren't we?" she teases back as she slathers a generous amount of the smelly salve over the tender spot.
"Clearly," he groans at the cool sensation.
Her face is scrunched up in concentration, the dark veil of her hair partially hiding it from sight. Still he catches the way her brow creases with his sharp intake of breath as she scrapes a nail over sensitive skin, catches the flicker of guilt in her dark eyes as she mutters an apology he's quick to dismiss. How could he hold such a trifle against her when all she's done is go out of her way to aid him?
"I'll leave the rest with you. Apply it every night." She places the lid back, then picks up the bottle next to it for him to see. "You must take a spoonful of this every morning. It tastes quite horrible without the wine and water, but it'll help. A spoonful every morning—no more, no less. Understood?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
It's meant as a joke, something to lighten the mood, but that's not what she hears—at least not at first. There are others who use the moniker, people who mean to mock and wound, and they must succeed to some extent, for Regina winces. And no, by the gods, that was never his intention, he should have known better. The apology doesn't make it past the tip of his tongue as she sets about to make the final touches, having dressed his wound in clean strips of linen so deftly he barely noticed when it happened.
"I prefer Regina," she says simply. Not angry, but distant.
"Thank you, Regina." He's not sure what possesses him to grab her hand; he only knows he hates the idea of all that space between them, and his heart is so very full of feeling. And she doesn't withdraw the hand now clutched in his, only lets her gaze flicker between his face and their joined fingers as he professes: "I am forever in your debt."
Their eyes lock then, hers boring into his with unforeseen intensity. Robin watches her eagerly, watches her cheeks growing pinker, the corners of her mouth tipping up slightly. It suits her. And yet, as much as he wants to stay in this moment, singularly peaceful yet charged with something…more, another fierce longing long brewing takes over in his heart.
"And yet you're about to ask another favour."
Robin blinks at her words, prophetic as they seem, only to realise in the very next moment that it takes no Sybil to guess his wish. Not between parents anyway.
"My boy," he voices the plea they both understand all too clearly anyway.
The looks she gives him is full of compassion.
"He's here. I brought Roland with me."
Robin's chest constricts with longing, then expands with sheer love.
"When can I—?"
"Robin," she sighs, shaking her head slightly, and his stomach drops. "I can't make any promises. It's hard enough for me to sneak in here in the dead of night without getting caught. Bringing a toddler along would be beyond reckless."
A lick of shame joins the bubbling desperation—he never once considered how great a risk she's running for him, for them, by coming here. His only excuse remains his son. Regina has a boy, too, so he only hopes she can find it in her heart to understand. And not refuse him.
"I can't promise you," she repeats, her next words, however, propelling Robin's heart towards hope again, "but I will try to make it happen. He misses you, you know. I have one condition though," she adds, her jaw set and eyes hard all of a sudden. "This," she makes a sweeping gesture that Robin understands to mean more than his injury—his sentence, Hades, the miseries of the ludus and the dangers of the arena, as well as the separation from the one person dearest to him, "is not going to stop you."
No, he thinks, he mustn't let this get to him. He mustn't let them break his spirit. He's cheated death countless times now, lived through vicious wars and tedious campaigns, survived his own execution, and defied the odds in the bloodbath of the arena.
Robin won't be daunted in his quest for a brighter future.
And he tells her just that, looks into those dark, bottomless eyes, his own look no less sincere than hers, and vows:
"This is not going to stop me."
Thumbs up? Thumbs down? This bard awaits your verdict with a poised quill. ;)