A/N: Ok, the one you've all been waiting for! I really hope it lives up to everybody's expectations…it's nice and long for sure :-)

I really appreciate all the reviews, the favorites, the follows, and even just the views. It's so lovely to read your kind words. ThreeHundredStarsAbove, when you said that you wanted this story to go on forever—wow, that made me feel really great! Thanks for that! UKReader, I love that you PM me about this story every now and then! It's awesome! All my other reviewers are awesome too. Every time somebody reviews for the first time, it makes my day ten times over!
Guest Kerstin from Germany—thanks for reviewing, and if you or anybody would like to translate this into a different language, that would be amazing! Thank you!

Ok, so without further ado…the chapter…

Chapter Thirty-Six—Guy

The hollow sound of his own footsteps rang in his ears as he strode down the hallway. Solitude was his, but for a few moments only—the Sheriff would shortly be joining him.

Guy felt the ghost of a sigh escape his lips. He had no desire to gloat over the yet-uncounted tax collection—Vassey had chosen an inconvenient time for the demise of his accountant. Gold could bring Guy no contentment. It reminded him too much of memories that pricked him as acerbically as a rose's unexpected thorn. Gold was wedding rings, dowries, and a gaudy, desperate wedding gift that lay yet untouched, hidden impotently in a locked room in Locksley Manor.

To cut to the chase of the matter—of his heart—gold reminded him of Marian. As did everything—like or unlike, she drew comparisons to all that he encountered.

She was always all around him.

His footsteps grew quieter, slower, under the weight of his musings. He wondered how long it would be thus—that in every moment (waking, sleeping, dreaming) he was reminded of her innocent eyes and secretive smile, haunted by his yearning to hold her in his arms—and crushed by the knowledge that it was never to be, that he had pierced those hopes—every hope—with a single thrust of his sword.

But no, there were never any hopes, he told himself, the memories blackened with a sudden surge of bitterness. There had always been Robin. It was always going to be Robin. She would never have cared for you…you, the cruel coward, who is afraid to look at his own shadow…

"Marian…" the name fell from his lips like a prayer. And indeed it was—she was the only deity he had ever worshiped, the only angel for whom his adoration had approached some semblance of sanctity.

He was not a religious man. A vague respect for the cloth was all that lingered of the pious lessons of his youth. The last time he had darkened the door of a church had been for his wedding, a day which he had pushed to the farthest recesses of his mind.

He had once doubted if even Marian could save his soul. Now he was certain she could not. He was a man who had learned his many vices as diligently as children studied their virtues.

A sound—of metal—reached his ears, and he stiffened. It was coming from the strong-room, and now that he had determined its location, he easily recognized it as the clink of coins.

Every carefully concealed thought of tender remorse dissipated, and he felt the felt the ferocity of the beast rising in his veins, the burning desire to punish and destroy, to make something bleed…other than his heart.

He drew his sword in a fluid motion, ready to attack. At best, it would be a light-fingered guard who could be summarily dealt with. At worst, it might be an outlaw raid…though they were supposedly having an unpleasant surprise with the weapons convoy.

He flung open the door.

The shock of it stunned him. Here was no guard, no outlaw—but instead, a slender figure who had, of late, occupied his mind second only to Marian.

Rose.

She looked more horrified than he felt.

Conflicting impulses converged upon his mind, howling with all the might of his inner demons. You've caught her…she's a common thief…you have the upper hand now, she doesn't have an escape—she no longer holds the moral high-ground, you can do with her what you will…

She is frightened…she needs someone to protect her…protect her from the Sheriff…

There was only one thought that stood uncontested—inexorable, and terrible.

The Sheriff will kill her.

The Sheriff—Vassey would be here at any moment—

He had no time to think, but Rose's frightened eyes—ringed with clear, stormy gray around her dilated pupils—confirmed a single sure decision despite his inner turmoil. He did not know what he would do with her—how, if, he would punish her for her lies and thieving.

But he would not let her die.

The nasal, impetuous, imperious voice that might be the master of both their fates was heard in the hall. Guy, without even permitting himself to acknowledge that what he was doing was tantamount to betrayal—just as it always was with Marian, you fool—he jerked his head in the direction of an alcove in the wall and hissed "Hide!"

Rose obeyed him—for what was probably the first time in the history of their acquaintance, he observed wryly—and scrambled quickly into the shadows.

Vassey shuffled into the room, his sandals flapping. He stopped short, his too-sharp eyes darting around, and raised his hands in a gesture that was, to Guy's nervous gaze, momentarily unreadable. Then the Sheriff sighed with ecstasy. "Look at it. Gold, Gisborne! Glittering! Do you not see how it glitters?"

"I see it." Guy ground his teeth. The sound of his heart pounding filled his ears; it seemed more than likely that Vassey would hear it too.

The Sheriff did seem to sense something amiss in the demeanor of his Master-at-Arms, for he spun round abruptly, twiddling a goldpiece thoughtfully between his stubby fingers. "You seem…out of sorts, Gisborne. Of course, you've never been one for smiles—for schoolgirl giggles or boyish charm—but I do expect a little more…excitement over the prospect of riches. Wealth is power." He paused, flicking the coin carelessly to the ground, and beginning to circle like a greedy vulture, his intense gaze making Guy's skin crawl. "But maybe that's just it. Maybe the riches…maybe they're not enough. I feel it too, Gisborne. I look around at the wealth and think, why isn't there more?"

"We will collect more taxes, my lord, we always do."

"So you say. Perhaps you would like to explain how effective you've been in collecting more to Prince John when he arrives. The search, GIsborne, will wait for no one." The Sheriff's hand gripped his arm insistently. "It's time you put these muscles of yours to good work. I want this doubled—and if you have to beat it out of those plump, pampered peasants, all the better."

Guy nodded, forcing himself to school his features into a combination of attentive composure and frosty deference. Behind the façade, a thousand thoughts were raging—and was it possible, or was he only imagining that he could hear Rose's rapid pulse mingling with his own?

When did you become her compatriot and defender? a voice mocked in his mind. When you found her breaking into the castle's treasury, doubtless pilfering as much as her pockets can carry? Was it only when you found that she was a liar and a thief that your weaknesses were played on? Is it because she reminds you of Marian?

I am not her protector or ally, he argued defiantly—defiance directed at his own thoughts (there was irony). I will deal with her—I will punish her as I see fit, perhaps all the more harshly than the Sheriff would. But—

But. There was the catch. When before had he ever denied the Sheriff knowledge of a trespasser, traitor, or threat? There was only one occasion…one occasion that he had sworn on a hundred sleepless nights to never, ever repeat.

Vassey was still talking, and he realized with a jolt that he had not been listening. "Don't you agree, Gisborne?"

"Of course, my lord."

The Sheriff rolled his eyes, and Guy knew that he knew that he hadn't been listening. "You're so vacant. Such an idiot. It's a wonder that I don't have you replaced." He kicked thoughtfully at an overflowing chest, and Guy strained behind his mask of complacency, wondering how much longer he would have to bear the suspense.

To his relief, more footsteps were heard, and a guard appeared in the doorway, keeping a respectful distance…some people, it seemed, knew better than to enter the strong-room. "My lord, a messenger has just returned from the convoy. Robin Hood and his men attacked it, but they were defeated."

The Sheriff's face contorted with delight. "Yes! Good! Good, good, good! Brilliant!" He probably would have thrown his arms about the guard, but the man was already gone—probably, Guy thought, to avoid just such an occurrence. Vassey clapped his hands ecstatically. "Gisborne, for once one of your ideas—if one can call them ideas—has paid off. Give the pretty little bird a kissy-kiss from me…or maybe I'll give her one myself."

Step right round the corner, Guy thought. If Vassey started pacing again in his glee, all might be lost. "This is good news."

"Hood, foiled! I can hardly believe it!" Vassey picked up a handful of coins and tossed them in the air. He rubbed his hands together. "Ah, this is wonderful. I just—come along, Gisborne. I feel the need to…oh, you know, change a tooth. It's such a celebratory occasion."

He was leaving. Not yet permitting himself a sigh of relief, Guy lingered for a moment. "I will be along in a few moments, my lord. I—a few of the pieces here have caught my eye. I…beg leave to select my monthly share."

"Of course." The Sheriff watched him shrewdly—but, Guy noticed gratefully—no more shrewdly than usual.

As his padding footsteps died away down the hall, Guy breathed again. He shut the door and bolted it, then turned. "Come out. He's gone."

Rose came forth from the shadows. She was trembling, and clearly trying not to.

The sight of her waifish beauty and memory of her indefinable spirit filled him with sudden and inexplicable fury. She had broken into the strong-room and rifled through its contents (no doubt taking her fair share, too), an act of such insolence that he was almost in awe of it. Then again, she had cost him a very uncomfortable ten minutes, and once again awakened in him that hateful weakness that caused him to protect with no reasonable cause—

"Thank you," she began, in a whisper that nearly softened him, but he let the already seething rage overtake him and strode forward, capturing her wrist in his fingers—as was rather his wont—and dragging her nearly against him.

"You," he growled, "Have a very detailed explanation to make."

"It's not what you think," she began, but her voice was shaking. Her eyes were fixed unwaveringly on his, but it seemed that she could no longer keep the fear from her voice. He remembered that Marian's voice had never lost its smoothness, even when it was sharpened by an edge…she had never visibly lacked confidence in her abilities to cajole and convince him, not even when that meant meeting his sword—

Self-hatred fueled his anger. "Oh? Do you take me for a complete fool? That is a mistake which you seem to insist on making. I would advise against making it again."

"I don't take you for a fool. But—"

"What did you take?"

She flinched at the question; it was answer enough. "Nothing."

His eyes fixed on something, a bulge against the slim line of her waist.

"Nothing?" Just as he had intended, the words slipped out softly, an intimate threat. He knew that that—just as with Marian (Marian had been more refined in her tactics, but they were not so very different in their lies)—would disarm and discomfit her more than anything else. "What is that?"

"What is what?" Belying her words, a faint blush—as rosy as her name, he thought, and then pushed away the poetic comparison with revulsion—showed against her pale cheeks.

He pulled her closer, more tantalized than he would admit by the rush of her anxious breath against his cheek. "Show me."

"It is nothing. Why are you even looking at me in such a way?" Her attempt at righteous indignation was rather weaker than usual.

"I'll do much more than look, if you don't give it to me." He let a cruel smile slice across his features. "I'm no gentleman—aren't we agreed on this? I'll take it myself." She was so close to him now that she had turned her face away from his. He pressed his lips against her ear to finish the threat, trying to forget that it hurt him to feel her cringe away. "And I won't be delicate."

With her free hand, she fumbled in her sash. "Here." She took the opportunity to wrench her wrist free and step back. Her cheeks were burning, but the rest of her face was deathly white. In her hand—long-fingered and unusually calloused for a woman's (but then, she was a serving maid—no lady, like Marian), was an exquisite ring. Gold and silver and amethyst.

He lifted his eyebrows. "Hardly a trinket. Is there more?"

"No."

"What if I don't believe you?"

She flung back her hair—which he longed to tangle his fingers too much to admit…damn it, you fool, this all over again—and said, with a shred of defiance, "If you try to touch me, I'll…" the words trailed away.

He folded his arms nonchalantly across his chest, a show of patience. "You'll what?"

A flicker of fear showed in her eyes. "I'll…"

But there was nothing she could do, and they both knew it. Screaming for help would hardly aid her, under the present circumstances, and she had not the advantage of surprise—either by dagger or by fine words—this time.

This time. Are you doing this again?

A sick feeling swirled suddenly through him, a feeling of disgust that he could have felt the pain and chagrin of doing such a thing once, and yet now allow himself to slip into it once more—

Would you stab Marian again?

No! The thought was horrific.

But how can you know? Circles…always in circles. There is not one thing you have ever changed about yourself, at least not for the better…

To forget such qualms—for the present—he pierced her with a gaze and asked again, mockingly, "What will you do?"

There was a flash of silver, and once more, he saw her slender dagger clasped in her hand. It surprised him—did she really think that she could best him? He was armed with a sword, and even without, was many times stronger—

His astonishment, though, paled in comparison with her next words.

With a stilled hand, she turned the dagger inwards. "I'll kill myself."

Her face twisted at the words—all the proud innocence gone, replaced by despair. That crime too, rested on his shoulders, and it was though he had killed something within her.

Just as you always do.

Aloud, he said, cruelly, knowing that it would play on her sensibilities without touching his—"You'll go to Hell. Isn't suicide a mortal sin?"

Her teeth pressed against her lower lip in a moment of terrible realization. Just as he had thought, that was not a consequence she was willing to face. The dagger clattered to the floor. He thought he saw tears gleaming in her eyes, but they did not fall.

"Why must you do this?"

The question halted him. He had vowed to let her words have no power over him, and yet there was something…compelling about the way she questioned, challenged, dared. "I don't answer to anyone."

She smiled—a sad, twisted smile. There was still despair in her eyes. She still thought that he would hurt her…and perhaps he would. "But that's just it. You answer to everyone. To the highest bidder, whoever promises gold or pleasure or power. But don't you ever answer to yourself? Don't you ever think of how much happier you would be if you just did what was right?"

She intrigued and infuriated him all at once. Was he really considering being swayed by her again? Were you really considering nearly attacking her again? That's a more just question…

I don't know…He realized, then, that he also didn't know if he acted as he always did to feel again, or to stop feeling altogether.

"I was only taking it because…because I know the Sheriff will not pay me for pains. Is it…is it so much to ask, that I not be reimbursed for my services? Raised from the miserable station of made?"

He saw that she could sense his disbelief. "You expect me to accept that as reason enough? We both know that your moral code is far above such petty dealings. You did all of this for your friend. Is the ring another desperate attempt to pay Aileen's passage out of the castle?"

Rose's eyes snapped. "Will you leave her out of this? If you had not treated her as you did, I'd have no reason to resort to these tactics!"

"So it is for Aileen."

She was silent.

"I thought as much," he said, with a condescending glance. "Women."

"No, honor." The bold spirit had returned, though he wondered upon what grounds—she was by no means safe. "Not that you would know about that any more than you know about women."

He ground his teeth, unable to completely conceal how the shot had struck home. "Watch your words, serving maid. Whether or not you choose to accept it, I saved your life. Weren't you thanking me a moment ago?"

"Yes, I was. Before you showed once again what you really are, a—" she stopped short.

A monster. For some reason—some masochistic purpose—he needed to hear her say it. "What am I, really?"

To his surprise, she looked suddenly miserable. "I don't know what you are. I don't know—if you're monster. Sometimes you are, and then at other times…"

He tried to act as though he did not desperately wish to know what she saw at those other times. But her lips were closed—she would not say it, whatever it was.

"Whether you choose it to be owed to man or monster, you are indebted to me." How could it be that his words came out so cold and calculating, when inside he felt as mired in misery as she was?

"Yes, I am." Her eyes, for the first time, were downcast—her arms were wrapped about her chest, and her shoulders were bent almost hopelessly. It was…fascinating, how her bursts of bravado so quickly faded into vulnerability. After a moment, she raised her eyes to his. "What's the price, then?" the words were hollow.

In that moment, he was torn. One part of him wanted nothing more than to imprison her in his arms, to crush her lips against his, to kiss away her independence and her dignity and the moral superiority she, a lowly servant, held untouchably above him—just like Marian.

But in the end, even Marian had sacrificed that, bit by bit, through kisses and promises and lie upon lie…and though he had been the cause and catalyst of the sacrifice, nothing had hurt him more than to see her fall from on high…

Take her. There's nothing she can do. The desire burned in the shadows of his mind, in the shadows of the room, all among the glittering piles of stolen gold…

Shadows…they were closing in all about him, but her clear eyes and flaming hair broke through, a shaft of unexpected—and sometimes unwelcome—light. It was light, all the same…the only hope against being suffocated by darkness.

You don't have to be cruel, a new voice suggested. It was true. There was, at the moment, no Vassey to goad him on, no Robin to oppose. There was only…a secret, between the two of them, between her and him and his ghosts. It was not as though anyone else needed to know that he had given in, just once, to the lonely humanity that still lingered somewhere deep within him.

Only Rose would know, and he was sure of her silence.

He shifted uncertainly, and then met her gaze. "I would ask that…"

The fear had faded from her eyes at the change in his tone, but she listened without interrupting him.

"I would ask that—you talk to me, sometimes." How pitiful it sounded, out in the open! No one need know…

"Talk to you?" she was confused, but not derisive. It was not, he realized, in her nature to mock.

"Yes." He bit the inside of lip till the coppery taste of blood came.

She ran a hand down her arm. "Just talking? Nothing more?"

"Nothing more."

She mused on this for a moment. Then she looked perceptively at him. Her eyes seemed grayer each time they met his. "Because you are lonely?"

He swallowed his pride. "Yes." No one need know…

She nodded slowly, taking it in. "Very well. I agree to it."

He concealed, with effort, the stupid, impractical hope—the light—that suddenly filled him. This can only lead to disappointment….To reassure himself that all was still as it ought to be (no one need know, he repeated to himself again), he growled, "If I catch you in here again, I shall not be so merciful."

Disconcertingly, she looked more amused than alarmed by this. Was it even possible to frighten her for more than five minutes?

"I understand," she agreed. "May I…may I go, now?"

He nodded, not as curtly as he would have liked to. "I will…call on you when…"

"When you want to talk."

"Yes."

"Very well."

She slipped past him, gone before he could speak again. Had she really promised—

He stood in incredulous silence for a few moments. Something hard was pressing against his clenched fingers. He uncurled his fist, and the ring gleamed up against the black leather of his glove.

"Do you not see how it glitters?" Vassey had said.

He cast the ring aside, unexpectedly chilled by its alluring glint.

Too much beauty could only be the harbinger of tragedy—this he knew from long experience.

But she had agreed to talk with him, and so he paid no heed to the ring's warning.

A/N: Ok, what did you think? I wanted to get to this place all along, but I hope that it came across well to everybody! Just remember, if you're the hundredth reviewer, you get a free Robin Hood one-shot! Thanks for reading and for all the love!