And another depressing chapter...it was supposed to be edgy, but I think the mood mostly came out as morose. Oh, well! Review it, please?
The cloth was damp in his fingers, cool on his skin and Marian's, likely. He ran it slowly across her pale cheek, wiping away the small drops of beaded red blood. His fingers fumbled slightly as they brushed her warm, soft skin, seemingly unable to function quite properly afterward.
The firelight from across the room played against them both, and the whole room, he supposed, but he mainly only noticed on her. Her skin seemed to turn golden like honey in the dim orange light and her hair changed from the normal brown to red copper. And her eyes, her beautiful, beautiful eyes, catching his own even as he concentrated on the blood. They were surprisingly soft and solemn in the dim lighting, gazing upward at his own face, which seemed unnervingly close to hers. He could feel her warm breath blowing softly against his skin.
He dropped the rag. Feeling more foolish than ever, he bent to pick it off the earthen floor, expecting to hear some jab at his clumsiness, or at least catch a hint of laughter on her lips.
Her expression remained unchanged, however, still regarding him solemnly, with those eyes like she was taking in everything about him, and he was falling into her gaze and unsure of whether he could pull himself out again.
The moment was...perfect. He was comfortable in the quiet of the room, away from the rest of his louder, rowdy men, and yet he was entirely uncomfortable at the same. He was out in the open with Marian, feeling like she could see everything about him, but perhaps that was alright, because he could see her, too, and she was...beautiful.
He felt like he ought to say something to complete the moment, but he wasn't sure what, so he simply applied himself even more diligently to cleaning the cut on her cheek, just under her eye. He squeezed the water out gently, letting it seep into the opening, to clean it and guard it from infection.
"It's only a scratch, Robin," she spoke at last in a soft voice, barely above a whisper.
Starting slightly, with a once again fumbling hand, he looked at her, taking a step back. She was right, truly. It was hardly more than a red mark, and if it had been on him, he wouldn't have taken another glance at it. But it was Marian, and Marian wasn't supposed to ever get hurt. He was supposed to be protect her.
"A scratch maybe, but a scratch you didn't have before you came fighting with us, and one you wouldn't have if you had stayed home. I told you it would be dangerous. What will you tell your father?"
Immediately after he had got done speaking, he had the feeling it was the wrong thing to say. He'd spoken to loud, shattered the comfort in quiet, and Marian's eyes flashed away from him, turning to the fire and then back, but now with a harder bite to them, an almost challenging intensity.
"I'll tell him my horse went wild, galloping into the tree branches before I fell off and was lost in the forest. It's near enough to the truth."
"It's not, though," he replied, clenching his jaw. Sometimes he wished their relationship wasn't built entirely upon lies and deceit. He wished he could meet her properly, out in the open, rather than see her sneak away to meet him, lying to her father all the while. He wished he could...marry her, properly, with her father's approval. That would never happen.
Marian looked at him for a moment, regarding him thoughtfully, but not the same type of thoughtful as before. She didn't seem...content with the moment any longer, instead weighing him in mind. "Do you wish I hadn't come?" she asked, as pleasantly as if she were asking about the weather, with light tones lilting upward conversationally, but with an underlying bitterness which he caught onto quickly.
"Marian, I..." he paused, pursing his lips. He supposed it did sound that way when he threw all of the negatives aspects in her face like that, but...it wasn't what he meant; it just came out wrong. He did like having her around. Liked it, for pity's sake, every minute with her was heaven for him!
But he couldn't tell her that. He couldn't let her know. He didn't deserve her, and she...she didn't deserve the life of an outlaw. He couldn't ask her to abandon luxury and take up that sort of life just for him.
She was still staring at him, eyebrows slightly raised, waiting for an answer.
"Marian, I just don't want you to get hurt," he spoke at last, tiredly. "You're a lady of the court, and you shouldn't—it's not fair for you—it's my duty to protect you. I—"
"I don't need your protection, Robin," she cut in icily, sliding off the edge of the table so that she stood facing him, nearly matching him in height. Her jaw was squared away, chin held high in defiance.
She looked...angry. He couldn't think what he'd done. True, they weren't having the pleasantest of discussions, but he didn't understand why she seemed so determined to oppose him.
"I can take care of myself," she added loudly, resolutely, "and...it's not like you're ever around anyway." She said the last more quietly, dropping her proud demeanor along with her eyes, turning to the orange fire across the room, locking her eyes on the flames as her head bowed low.
He stared at her, astonished. Never around? He—he was always in Sherwood, and she could come anytime she wanted. He'd always be there for her; didn't she know that? It was true that he wasn't around her all that much, surely not as much as he'd like, but that couldn't be helped. He couldn't go to see her at her estate, and she couldn't get away to see him all the time, but...they did see each other. He was around.
"Marian, that's not—I don't know what you mean," he said at last, stumbling over the words.
She raised her eyes from the fire, meeting his own. "You wouldn't," she said simply, quietly.
He sighed and raised a hand to run it through his hair, mussed from the fight and the swift ride home, through dark trees and sharp wind. Truthfully, maybe he did know what she meant, but he couldn't change anything. He tried to be there at every turn he could, but...there were his men and the poor, starving people and all of England and...her. He was caught in the middle of it all, wishing for something he couldn't have. It wasn't his place to be more than a friend for her; he couldn't cross that line. It would only hurt her more in the long run, and he wouldn't ever want to hurt her.
"Marian, I have to fight for England. I'm an outlaw, but I do what I can to be more than that. I'm sorry if that doesn't meet your expectations."
She looked at him without saying anything, then seemed to wince slightly, scrunching her face into wrinkles and releasing it again. He noticed that the bottom of her lip shook slightly, in quiet tremors. "Robin, I want to go home," she said in a whisper. "Will you take me home, please?"
He sighed again. He wished he could take her in his arms and hold her tight and kiss her and tell how much he loved her, how he'd be there forever with her, but he couldn't; that was the plain, simple truth of the matter. Another day maybe, when all Englishmen were freemen. For now, he only nodded. "It's probably best, this late at night. Your father will be worried. Come on."
They walked together out of the lodge and into the forest, where the branches spread high above them like a blanket and a few bright stars shone high above them, and he wondered if that day would ever come for them.