A/N: Platonic VLD Week Prompt 7: Free/AU

Summary: Robin Hood AU. After months of recovery, Shiro is ready to try the bow again.


"How do you fare?"

Shiro looked up from where he sat on a fallen log, thoughtfully flexing his right arm up and down, feeling the give and pull of every muscle, every sinew. "It feels well. Back to full strength, I think."

"Are you sure? Your injuries were extensive." Keith sat down next to him, staring unabashedly. Shiro resisted the urge to roll down his tunic sleeve and hide the scars away. Keith had seen them already; he'd already seen everything. So had the rest of Shiro's band. It didn't make it any easier, sometimes. When he spent too much time thinking about it, when everything felt fresh again.

But right now, Shiro was sure. "Come along, Keith O'Scarlet." He stood up and clapped his young kinsman heartily on the shoulder. "I want to try the bow again."

Keith grumbled, but he hopped lightly to his feet and followed Shiro back to the main camp.

It was the middle of the day, deep in the middle of Sherwood, and most of the camp was drowsing. Little Hunk sat by the cookfire and stirred a simmering pot, and Lance-a-Dale rested against a trunk nearby, idly strumming his lute and humming tunefully to himself while Hunk bobbed his head in appreciation. When they saw Shiro striding determinedly across the camp toward the area that had been set up as a target range, both stopped what they were doing and jumped to their feet to follow.

"Is it happening?" Lance asked, fingers tripping over the lute-strings with less than his usual skill. "You're going to try the bow again?"

Shiro nodded, his eyes focused ahead, though Keith frowned. It was Keith's nature to be protective, so Shiro did not blame him. But it was Shiro's nature to be decisive and firm, and he had made up his mind. He was going to take back what had been stolen from him by the usurpers who currently held this country in thrall.

Some of Shiro's scars had been earned in the Crusades, fighting in Alfor the Lionhearted's army, and Shiro was not ashamed of those. But when he had returned home, only to be immediately taken captive as a trespasser on his own land by Sheriff Sendak... Well. Things had changed.

It burned Shiro's heart to think of the corrupt monsters who had seized his ancient homestead in his absence. Shiro's father had died while he was away at war, which was grief enough, but then the local Sheriff had declared that Shiro was dead, too, and with no legal heir, his property was forfeited to the state. Shiro's mother and sister had been evicted, his loyal servants driven off. Shiro's remaining family was safe in London now, but he hadn't been there to help them find safety. Shiro's hand clenched into a fist as he imagined their panic and grief when they were forced onto the streets like homeless beggars.

When Shiro returned from the long war, knowing nothing of this, and tried to access his home, he was arrested as an imposter and tortured to make him confess to his crime. They had done the worst to his right arm, knowing his fame as an archer. Sendak had thought they could make him break by threatening the most valuable thing left to him. The wicked sheriff had vowed more than once to cut it off, to mangle it and crush it so Shiro would never recover. Somehow, Shiro had avoided that fate. Divine intervention, he could only guess.

Friar Coran had helped him escape more than three months ago. Since then, Shiro had swiftly gained a reputation in Sherwood under a new name, Robin Hood, as he attacked government officials and complacent envoys swathed in a green cloak with a hood drawn tight to hide his face. Soon, other disaffected men wandered in to join him, and now Shiro had quite a merry band.

Till now, he had been forced to fight only with sword, staff, and fist. His wounded right arm was not strong enough to draw a bow, and the recovery process had been long and tedious. The lack of archery from "Robin Hood" had been useful to obscure his identity, since no one connected the new outlaw in Sherwood with the famed archer, Takashi Shirogane. If Shiro needed something attacked from a distance, his men, most notably Lance-a-Dale, handled it with ease.

This wasn't about being effective in combat. Shiro, as Robin Hood, could fight very well in melee and close combat, and he could strike fear into any enemy's heart with the power of his voice and the strength of his convictions. He didn't need to be able to shoot again in order to continue this fight.

But he wanted to. He wanted to draw his old bow, as tall as he was and just as strong. He wanted to hit the target with all of his skill, to split an arrow in twain from fletching to point. This was something he needed to take back from the vicious cur who had dared to try to steal it from him.

At the range, he snatched up his personal longbow, so long ago set aside with no one powerful enough to string it. He took up a waxed string and slipped the loop into the bottom nock, then pressed down with his weight and bent the bow far enough to string the top nock as well. He stood with the bow in his left hand, feeling it sing with tension. It felt right there, the solid wood steady and firm against his palm.

Lance and Little Hunk cheered and clapped from the sidelines, and Keith brought him a handful of arrows, freshly fletched and balanced by Lance's careful hand. Shiro knew the work at the glance, familiar as he was with his men and their abilities. He took the arrows from Keith with a grateful nod, then stuck them point down in the ground at his feet in a clump of grass. He lifted one arrow and nocked it on the string, then stood facing the target, fingers braced on the bowstring, holding the arrow in place.

This was it. The test. Shiro drew a breath, then let it out. He hadn't been able to do any shooting for well over half a year. The last time had been at a resting point somewhere along the road back home, and it had only been for fun. He hadn't done any serious practice for longer than that. The last time he had shot a good hundred arrows, he had been surrounded with dust and sand.

But no more. A new time was beginning now. Shiro felt Keith's tense stance on his right, his fierce concentration, his desire for Shiro to succeed and his determination to be there even if he failed. He felt Lance and Hunk's eager excitement on his left, their easy confidence in their leader, no fear, no doubt, simple certainty that he could do anything he put his mind to. Their simple trust in him made him tremble, at times, with the weight of such responsibility. Now, though, it made him strong.

Slowly, carefully, Shiro drew back the string to his ear. His hands held steady and strong, no wobble in his grip on in the pull. He could feel the remaining weakness down deep in his muscles and knew he didn't have many of these in him, not yet. He needed to do much more exercise with his right arm before he would be able to shoot his old numbers of arrows.

But at least he could pull the bow, even once. A few weeks ago, he hadn't even been able to do that. And the arrow was steady on the string, not even a waver. Shiro focused forward again, his heart beating fast. He looked at the target, seeming so far away, remembered when he had been able to send arrows to whatever distance he chose like birds on the wing.

If he let go of the string, the arrow would fly. Where? Would it go where he told it to? Shiro wasn't sure, though he kept only certainty on his face. Again, he took a moment to listen to Lance and Little Hunk, to feel his new companions' trust and confidence in him. He felt Keith's tension at his side, his unwavering support.

For as long as he held the string at his ear, Shiro could luxuriate in not knowing. He could believe that if he let the arrow go, it would find the target as of old. If he chose, he could relax the pull, set the arrow down, and tell his men that he would try again later. But if he let the arrow go, he would know for sure just how badly his skilled had atrophied. If he missed the target, by inches or by yards, Lance and Hunk and Keith would all see it. They would know how far he'd fallen. Would it affect their faith in him, their ability to obey his orders without hesitation?

No matter. Shiro could no longer stand the uncertainty. He needed to know, one way or the other.

He held still, watched the breeze, waited for his moment. Then he released his breath and at the same time, the bowstring. The arrow flew from his fingers, speeding away like the best messenger in all of God's green earth. And it struck the target.

Not quite a bullseye. Not quite his old level of skill. Shiro still had work to do to regain that, he could see that well. But he'd hit the target. All was not lost.

His shoulders fell down, and he stepped back, relief pouring over him and slumping his shoulders, loosening his grip on the bow at last. Beside him, Lance-a-Dale and Little Hunk were cheering like madmen. They had linked elbows and were skipping around each other in a circle, yelling at the top of their lungs in repeated huzzahs. Much more of this and they would rouse the camp, and Shiro didn't know whether to tell them to be quiet or let them do it.

He looked to the other side and saw Keith watching him still, a small smile on his face.

"You did it." Quiet, proud. Shiro and Keith had only reconnected recently, after a childhood and adolescence of misunderstandings and missed opportunities, but already Keith O'Scarlet, he of the quick temper and the quicker blade, seemed to know Shiro almost better than he knew himself.

Shiro smiled back. "I did."

His skills were returning to him, slow but steady. More men were gathering to their side by the day. After escaping Sendak's prison, Shiro had been almost frantic with despair, unable to see an end to the insurmountable battles that faced him. He had fought anyway, because it was not in him to surrender. But only now, at last, did he see a chance of fighting through to the end of this.

He tightened his grip on his bow, lifted it, looked to the target. He took another arrow from the ground. And he shot again.