Notes/Disclaimers: Robin Hood is up for grabs for any writer who wants to mess around with the characters. Thank god I'm spared all that legal stuff.
Tonight We Are Dancing
by Maki
I almost love the scratch of brambles at my ankles for it. Trooping through the forests since childhood has adapted me to the odd scuffing of my limbs, but it is only at times like this that I find the sensation if not synonymous to, then at least as a necessary vessel for, happiness.
We are dancing.
It is not oft the Merry Men of Sherwood are able to throw care to the wind and let loose an unhindered shout of laughter. And it would be lying to say that it has been often that more than a soft tune from Alan's lute has made melody of their careful lives. They are outlaws, yes, but they are so because they love good life, and so they soon learnt the value of quiet in the haven of Greentree. Or so Robin has persuaded them.
We laughed in childhood together, I remember. How could I not? Our trio was all I knew of fun, and indeed, we probably had a good deal more than my father could ever have tolerated, had he but known. But he didn't, and to this day I am blessed with memories of skipping stones in too-rough water, my gown hefted sloppily to my thighs. I remember playing at knights and invaders, climbing upon Much's back and having him gallop, or lurch dangerously at Robin, who never let me win even though I always did. Much was a good lurcher. And who would I be now if I hadn't followed a smooth-faced Robin into the glen near his father's hold, to loose a few arrows with his alien weapon?
His father's issues with the Chief Forester had been a quiet weight upon his shoulders. And after his death, a painfully secret one. Having a price on his head has carved lines so deeply into his young face and given his dancing eyes such solemnity that sometimes I think the day will come when he will never laugh again.
But tonight we are dancing, and he is laughing.
He has strong arms now. His body moves with smooth, firm motions as he leads me about the fire. Tonight, the lines are erased in the hot glow, and the sparkle in his eyes has chased away the grimness. He is laughing.
And who has dared to bring out the drum? Who has taken his lips to the flute? Who knew the Merry Men of Sherwood, who live by stealth and bird calls and reading the fall of the branches, who knew them to have such loud and joyous music within them?
Who knew Robin could still laugh?