Disclaimer etc.: see Prologue.
-headdesk- Damn it! I am trying to update regularly, but my brain will not co-operate! Argh! I'm so annoyed with myself for leaving it this long - I'm so cruel to you guys. I really am sorry.
Goddamn Scotland. And exams. And the X-Files. Grrr.
Anyway. Thank you to all my blessed reviewers: robin and marion forever, Ash Light, RixxiSpooks, scorpiagirl93, Nicki1147, MontyPythonFan, lucytiger, domslove, butterflygoodbye, Dr. Nat, pixiespryte, anonymous, LialaSword, flame rising hater, leeleigh, Starzangel, herbblade, Dyrne-Faemne, sam, The Strange and Anonymous, --friendly-lunatic-- and dette528. I love you all! And thank you for reviewing (again), despite my lousy update speed!
Enjoy!
Fevered Dreams
6 - Terror
Much had known Robin of Locksley for a long time—years even—and he'd done a lot of terrifying things with his one-time master in those long years. They'd fought together, laughed together, grieved together… All the things that friends do – together.
But never had Much seen such panic on Robin's face as he did right at that moment, as Robin stared down at Lady Marian, crumpled in a broken heap at his feet.
And then, a fraction of a second later, Robin was on his knees beside her, pulling her into his arms, feral terror scrawled through his gaze. There was no scream of her name on his lips – no cry of anguish at why she had just collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap.
Just one outlaw, on his knees, crushing his love to his chest with naked terror in his eyes.
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The shadow-man had barely been sneaking around the Sheriff's chambers for two minutes when he found it – a fat, worn, leather-bound tome, tucked in haste into a side cabinet.
He chucked as he fished it out of its dark enclosure – to an onlooker, it would look as though the book had just lifted itself out and vanished, cloaked in shadow. You don't look after your toys very well, do you Vaizey? he mused to himself. He smirked, the expression hidden from the world behind his mask. All the better for me and mine.
A strange shiver ran up his spine as he considered both the metaphorical treasure-chest of secrets under his arm, and his next move in the delicate chess-match that was his life. Leather-clad fingers flexed around leather-bound pages, and he pounced up silently to the open window, leaning out into the autumn air, considering.
And leaped.
He hung in the air for the briefest of seconds, before gracefully slipping through the atmosphere to land—and roll—onto the stone-strewn ground. He winced as a particularly obnoxious specimen of rock poked him in the calf as he slipped back to the shadows.
I'm getting old, he mused as the final twinges of sudden pain chased each other from his surprised muscle. And careless.
He dismissed the thought and slipped away.
Minutes later he was seated in the dark corner of a store-room, door closed and bolted, with a hemp cloth thrown across the only window – shadow or not, he was no sloppy worker. The shadow-man rested the book on his knees, and studied the cover intently: it was his first chance to do so. His fingers gently traced strange figures that were pressed into the leather, just beside the spine. They were subtle markings, and someone who didn't know what they were looking for—like Vaizey—would have dismissed them as mere pressure marks in the hide.
But the shadow-man did know what he was looking for.
There'd been rumours abounding through the countryside of this book – a book that contained secrets that could not possibly be the work of man. It had been passed from noble to noble for a year now, with death following in its wake. Rumour had it, this book was from the Holy Land, sent back by the King.
He touched the figures once more. "Arabic." The word fell from his lips in a whisper, defying the cautions of his mind to break the stillness of this air.
—there's blood on his hands and in his head and they're coming at him and oh god oh god why won't it just stop he wants to go home—
The shadow-man blinked away the memories and gently opened the cover of the book.
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"What do you mean, they got away?!" The Sheriff was livid.
"My lord, if you would let me explain—" Gisborne's protests were cut off as Vaizey continued to talk right across him.
"We had three of Hood's merry little band—including Hood himself!—locked up in the castle dungeons, one of whom was quite badly injured, and one who had just ingested a substance that I am very eager to see the affect of, and they just walked out?! With two of my best horses! And no! I will not let you explain!" Vaizey finally ran out of puff, and settled for just glaring furiously at Guy. "Pah!"
Despite the Sheriff's outrage, Gisborne could not quite suppress a tiny smirk. "My lord, they did not all get away."
Vaizey's ears pricked up. "What?"
Gisborne jerked his head at one of the mailed guards who lurked by the door. The guard nodded his understanding and disappeared out into the corridor. "My men caught this one, while the others… escaped." His voice dropped on that last word, but fortunately Vaizey didn't seem to notice.
On the other hand, he looked quite gleeful. "Bring him in!"
Right on cue, the guard reappeared, dragging a shackled captive behind him. A firm shove between the outlaw's shoulderblades sent him stumbling forward and crashing to his knees between Guy and the Sheriff.
The aforementioned pair exchanged a look over their prisoner's head. "Well, Gisborne," the Sheriff said tartly, "you might not have completely messed this up after all."
Guy offered a grimace that was supposed to be a smile.
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Allan shifted uncomfortably. The stone-flagged floor was murder on his knees, but he couldn't very well just get up, plonk himself down in that comfortable-looking chair just over beside the desk and make himself at home. This was Nottingham Castle, not Sherwood Forest.
And the man stood before him was certainly no Robin Hood.
"What do we have here then?" the Sheriff murmured, beginning to stalk in a tight circle around Dale.
Allan studied his captor, considering what approach to take. This was a sticky situation alright, and he figured that the only reason he wasn't food for the crows right now was that he'd come with Robin Hood – the bad guys wanted information. His fists clenched behind his back as he replayed in his head the briefest glance he'd got of Will, sitting limp between Robin's arms as the outlaw sent a very fine horse soaring over the guards' pathetic barricade.
His best friend had looked like hell.
Right then, with that memory still in hand, Allan decided the best approach would be to irritate the Sheriff to insanity. The DaleSmirk made a reappearance. Good thing I'm here then, he thought wryly.
Ignoring Vaizey's query, he studied the Sheriff's feet, and made a succinct observation.
"What sort of a man wears silk slippers?"
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The stunned quiet of a moment ago had passed, and had left a maelstrom in its wake.
Djaq scrambled away from Will, leaving John the only one beside the young outlaw, and pulled Marian from Robin, lying her down on her patchy grass. With deft fingers—a physician's fingers—she ran her gaze over Marian, and fear was kindled in her gaze.
"Djaq?" Much asked, his voice half an octave higher than normal.
Djaq gently pulled Marian's eyelids open, and studied the unconscious woman's eyes. She muttered something in her native tongue that was barely audible and definitely obscene. Her fingers sought Marian's hand, pulling it from Robin's tight grasp, and the Saracen woman's mouth tightened into a thin line.
Robin finally managed to pull himself together enough to get a coherent sentence out. "What is it?"
Djaq wordlessly turned Marian's hand over to him, and Robin's eyes widened as he saw it too – an unhealthy-looking darkening of the soft flesh at Marian's fingertips. "It will be the same in her feet," Djaq informed him, her voice clinical. "And unless we can find something to stop this, it will spread."
Robin's fingers once more tightened around Marian's hand, and he drew it up to his lips. "What can we do?" he asked tightly.
Djaq shook her head slowly. "I do not know," she admitted. "Keep her warm, and comfortable. And pray."
Robin closed his eyes tightly, pressing a last, fierce kiss to the back of Marian's hand before letting it slip from his grasp. He stood. "But we have to go back to Nottingham," he husked. "We have to find Allan."
Much started. "Robin… Stay here."
Robin shook his head tightly. "No. I have to go."
John rose from his place at Will's side. "Much is right," he said to Robin. "You're not thinking straight."
"No," Robin admitted, his gaze fixed on Marian. "I'm not."
"Stay here, and her Djaq look after them," Much urged.
"No." Their leader tore his eyes away from Marian, and turned his fierce gaze onto Much. "I have to do something."
Djaq, Much and John exchanged a charged look.
"You're a liability," John said finally.
"I know." And he was gone, an avenging spirit slipping off into the darkening forest.
John sighed. "Stay here," he said to Much. "Help Djaq. I'll go with him."
Much nodded, and quickly moved over to where Robin's possessions lay, in a heap beside Marian's and the fire. He rapidly extricated their leader's weapons, bound together with thin cord. John took them from him, and shot Much and brief quizzical look. Much shrugged. "They were undercover. No weapons."
John nodded in acceptance, and took off after Robin, into the dark.
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"And then I said to him, 'I'm not bein' funny, but that ain't no dame', and he just looked at me, as if he was thinkin', 'What the…' " A chortle of laughter. "It was the funniest thing I ever seen!"
Vaizey just stared at the happily blabbering outlaw. Sensing a break in the captive's chatter, he turned to Gisborne. Guy had the same bleak expression in his eyes. "Please kill me," he murmured, a stricken look plastered across his face.
The only thing Gisborne managed was a faint, "Guh."
Vaizey felt close to tears as the damn outlaw started up again.
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It was dark the next time the shadow-man looked up.
He had been so thoroughly absorbed—sickeningly absorbed—in what he'd been perusing that he'd completely lost track of time. He winced. I am getting old.
The door he'd been sat behind was quietly unlocked, and he slipped out, leaving the hemp hanging across the window. He needed to get out and into the forest before Hood and his friends did anything foolish.
They can't know, he reasoned with himself. They don't know what this thing is – what it can do.
But the only image in his mind was that of Lady Marian's face—terror written in her eyes—as the Sheriff and Gisborne forced that concoction down her throat, and blood faintly reddened her lips.
The shadow-man slipped out of the city walls and fled into the trees, leather-bound tome once more under his arm. There was only one thought running through his mind – an almost-afraid one at that: What have they done to her? He had not been scared for a long time—he had simply not cared, for a very long time—but this was as near as he had got since…
Well, since he'd managed to lose his soul.
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