The Prince's Brother
A.N.: I've read many a PoT fic where Will is the love interest. All of these have his flame as some noble, rich lady, who can handle a sword better than he can and who has to earn his respect through various tests of character. You know, just to make sure she's not going to be one of these awful stuck-up rich types that Will so evidently hates? Well, the inspiration for my fics usually comes from two parts. a) there's some gorgeous young man with angst potential who is unattatched and b) the fandom is in great need of an original story. So here I am, writing Will Scarlet angst and finding myself offended by the Blackadder quote: "And we all know Will Scarlet was just a poof in tights," which so amused me before I'd seen Christian Slater whinge his way through Medieval England. How DID it come to this...? (By the way, Gwen is actually a character mentioned in the film: DUNCAN: Not now! MAN: Help me, my Lord! DUNCAN: You should have waited. I'm sorry you were disturbed, master. LORD LOCKSLEY: Duncan, it's all right. Let him go... MAN: They have taken my Gwen. My daughter... LORD LOCKSLEY: Who has taken her? MAN: Men on horses, in masks. We tried to stop them, but...My son is dead. He's dead!) *************** *************** Chapter 1 – "I need to see you more often"
"Oh! Oh and then—and then did you see his face? I mean he just—"
"It was as though King Richard had appeared back before him at that very moment!"
There was raucous laughter throughout the hall at the rebuilt Locksley castle. The moments of last year were relived often enough, but the completion of repairs on Robin's old home had given way to a fresh wave of gleeful remembrance. The former band of Robin of the Hood, all the men who had lived in the forest together, and their families, were assembled at the castle for a night of celebration and drinking. While adults laughed too loudly, drank too swiftly, the children crawled under the table, playing hiding games and sneaking a goblet off the table when they could. Occasionally one would get caught and dragged up above the edge of the table by the ear, grimacing and flailing wildly. The parent would laugh deeply, hand the child another goblet to down, then ignore them once more.
Robin and Marion's six-month-old child was safely tucked away upstairs with Sarah looking over him, far away from the revelry below.
The rebuilt castle was grander than before, the hall loftier, the tapestries more elaborate (one even coming as a silken, high-quality gift from Azeem). The candlelight made the room glow, brought out highlights on the sweating faces of the crowd (Friar Tuck's cheeks shone almost as brightly as the candles themselves). The wooden table was wet with spilled drink, and the smell of cold meat came from the leftovers strewn about the place. Will Scarlet couldn't take it anymore. He thought about making his point with a grand exit, by slamming his hands down on the table to make the crockery rattle, glaring down the rows at all the shocked faces, then storming from the room. He could imagine the noise his boots would make on the stone floor in the silence, the click of the heavy door handle as he turned it, and the satisfying slam it would make behind him. But then the too-loud, too-emphasised laughter of drink would commence once more. And in the morning no one would remember his exit. Slipping smoothly from his seat and through the big wooden door, he breathed no easier once he was out of that room. He had to get out of the castle, of this damned building where he'd been loathed, and where his own father had hidden from him. It didn't matter that the old stone was mostly new stone now, nor that Robin had held him as a brother, nor that a year had passed and he'd not said anything to anyone. The feeling of suffocation in the Locksley family home was too much. The cold night air was a welcome slap from the heavy, muggy atmosphere inside. Will looked up at the stars, his eyes watering (it was the wind causing that, he told himself). Not in that whole year had Robin tried to talk to him about their father, or the reasons he'd had for splitting Will's family. He could speculate of course. He could make reasonable speculations – jealousy, indignation. But just as easily he could come up with ridiculous ideas that would seem at the time just as valid as the more likely ones – selfishness, spite. And he would not be the one to bring it up. It was down to Robin to apologise. ********
"Gwen! Gwen, are you there?" the insistent whisper came from outside the rooms allotted to servants of Nottingham castle. Gwen pressed her hands to the slightly slimy stone wall and stood on the tips of her toes to see through the small window. The figure outside was a familiar one, one who had been coming to her on irregular occasions for almost a year now. She cringed a little at the sight of him, fearing him more than she would admit. Just over a year ago the Sheriff of Nottingham had taken her from her family for 'service' in his castle. Once he'd been killed and King Richard's new Sheriff was in place she had declined the opportunity to leave the serving duties she performed during daylight hours. Her family was gone, her brother killed by the Sheriff when he'd come for her, and her father killed later during a fight with renegade Northern warriors. Her mother had been long dead, never recovering from a problem she'd had during the birth of Gwen's brother. Gwen did not want to leave the security provided by the menial duties she performed. Besides, some duties were not required by this new Sheriff that had been greatly desired by the last. And that made life a lot more pleasant in Gwen's eyes. The man standing outside in the cold light of the moon had met her for the first time when he was imprisoned in the dungeons of Nottingham castle. The Sheriff had been interrupted during a private time with Gwen by news that the prisoners had come in. Barely allowing her to pull her dignity together he had merely caught her by the wrist and hauled her down the dark stairwells and corridors after him. The previously (almost) empty dungeons were filled with new moans of pain, defiant insults, and even a few wolf whistles as the Sheriff pulled Gwen in after him, tripping over her numb toes on the stony floor. There had been a few old men, a few young men and one boy. The Sheriff had surveyed them all with his arrogant eyes and given instructions that they be made to talk. If they had nothing to say, they should be given something to say. Was Locksley here? No? Well, then he would return soon enough with new orders depending on what reports he received from his other men. All the while Gwen had felt the eyes of someone upon her and it had made her flesh shiver, made her feel dirty. It was like the feeling of liquid mud running down her body, the feel of this gaze. The prisoner looking at her was one of the young men, and she felt that that look was highly inappropriate for a man in his situation to be making. Perhaps this was a naive thought – men facing death are apt to experience cravings for anything full of life. Now, creeping through the sleeping forms of the other servants, Gwen slipped down the familiar corridors to the small, rotting wooden door used by the kitchen staff on their way to market. He was already there, having left the window at the same time as she had. She was sure he didn't realise that the way he treated her was no better than the way drunken bachelors treated the whores in the local cathouse. He had a good heart really, but there was something there that wasn't interested in her, which she knew only came to her when a distraction from the troubles of life was needed. "It's good to see you again," he said between urgent breaths as he laid hands on familiar territory. Gwen just smiled sickly, leaning her face away from him a little. One thing she didn't allow was kissing when he treated her the way he did. It was disappointing to her at times like this, because really she would quite like to have kissed him. He was a handsome man; intelligent and deep brown eyes; surprisingly soft blond hair that fell in straight cascades around his face. But that aloof, distracted quality that gave the impression that some part of him was suppressing itself, and was not present at this moment in time. "Will, not here, in the street." She spoke quietly but steadily and it served well enough. He picked her up, sweeping her feet off the ground in a gesture that should have been romantic, but lost that attribute when he began to rush speedily down the street, searching for an empty barn or shed.
**************
Gwen reached an arm behind her to brush away an irritating piece of straw that was tickling her skin. Instead of straw, however, her fingers encountered another's fingers, and she froze at this unexpected touch. He took her hand gently in his, the warmth coming as a shock to her cold skin.
"How have you been...since I last saw you?"
The question seemed utterly ridiculous. He hadn't even asked her how she'd been the last time, so how could he mention that? Besides, he never said anything to her. She must be dreaming. Gwen remained silent, her back to him.
"Talk to me, Gwen."
An order? She still didn't turn, but said, "we never talk." It came out in a more bitter tone than she'd expected or wanted.
The straw behind her rustled as he propped himself up on one arm. The other reached over so that he could stroke her long hair off her neck to see her face. He sighed, but seemed unable to reply. A little disappointed that he wasn't going to press the matter, she sat up, her back to him, and pulled her itchy woollen overdress on over her faded and tired-looking corset and petticoats. As she reached the barn door his call stopped her.
"Wait. I need to see you more often."
She paused, gulped before answering; "you know where I'll be."
A.N.: I've read many a PoT fic where Will is the love interest. All of these have his flame as some noble, rich lady, who can handle a sword better than he can and who has to earn his respect through various tests of character. You know, just to make sure she's not going to be one of these awful stuck-up rich types that Will so evidently hates? Well, the inspiration for my fics usually comes from two parts. a) there's some gorgeous young man with angst potential who is unattatched and b) the fandom is in great need of an original story. So here I am, writing Will Scarlet angst and finding myself offended by the Blackadder quote: "And we all know Will Scarlet was just a poof in tights," which so amused me before I'd seen Christian Slater whinge his way through Medieval England. How DID it come to this...? (By the way, Gwen is actually a character mentioned in the film: DUNCAN: Not now! MAN: Help me, my Lord! DUNCAN: You should have waited. I'm sorry you were disturbed, master. LORD LOCKSLEY: Duncan, it's all right. Let him go... MAN: They have taken my Gwen. My daughter... LORD LOCKSLEY: Who has taken her? MAN: Men on horses, in masks. We tried to stop them, but...My son is dead. He's dead!) *************** *************** Chapter 1 – "I need to see you more often"
"Oh! Oh and then—and then did you see his face? I mean he just—"
"It was as though King Richard had appeared back before him at that very moment!"
There was raucous laughter throughout the hall at the rebuilt Locksley castle. The moments of last year were relived often enough, but the completion of repairs on Robin's old home had given way to a fresh wave of gleeful remembrance. The former band of Robin of the Hood, all the men who had lived in the forest together, and their families, were assembled at the castle for a night of celebration and drinking. While adults laughed too loudly, drank too swiftly, the children crawled under the table, playing hiding games and sneaking a goblet off the table when they could. Occasionally one would get caught and dragged up above the edge of the table by the ear, grimacing and flailing wildly. The parent would laugh deeply, hand the child another goblet to down, then ignore them once more.
Robin and Marion's six-month-old child was safely tucked away upstairs with Sarah looking over him, far away from the revelry below.
The rebuilt castle was grander than before, the hall loftier, the tapestries more elaborate (one even coming as a silken, high-quality gift from Azeem). The candlelight made the room glow, brought out highlights on the sweating faces of the crowd (Friar Tuck's cheeks shone almost as brightly as the candles themselves). The wooden table was wet with spilled drink, and the smell of cold meat came from the leftovers strewn about the place. Will Scarlet couldn't take it anymore. He thought about making his point with a grand exit, by slamming his hands down on the table to make the crockery rattle, glaring down the rows at all the shocked faces, then storming from the room. He could imagine the noise his boots would make on the stone floor in the silence, the click of the heavy door handle as he turned it, and the satisfying slam it would make behind him. But then the too-loud, too-emphasised laughter of drink would commence once more. And in the morning no one would remember his exit. Slipping smoothly from his seat and through the big wooden door, he breathed no easier once he was out of that room. He had to get out of the castle, of this damned building where he'd been loathed, and where his own father had hidden from him. It didn't matter that the old stone was mostly new stone now, nor that Robin had held him as a brother, nor that a year had passed and he'd not said anything to anyone. The feeling of suffocation in the Locksley family home was too much. The cold night air was a welcome slap from the heavy, muggy atmosphere inside. Will looked up at the stars, his eyes watering (it was the wind causing that, he told himself). Not in that whole year had Robin tried to talk to him about their father, or the reasons he'd had for splitting Will's family. He could speculate of course. He could make reasonable speculations – jealousy, indignation. But just as easily he could come up with ridiculous ideas that would seem at the time just as valid as the more likely ones – selfishness, spite. And he would not be the one to bring it up. It was down to Robin to apologise. ********
"Gwen! Gwen, are you there?" the insistent whisper came from outside the rooms allotted to servants of Nottingham castle. Gwen pressed her hands to the slightly slimy stone wall and stood on the tips of her toes to see through the small window. The figure outside was a familiar one, one who had been coming to her on irregular occasions for almost a year now. She cringed a little at the sight of him, fearing him more than she would admit. Just over a year ago the Sheriff of Nottingham had taken her from her family for 'service' in his castle. Once he'd been killed and King Richard's new Sheriff was in place she had declined the opportunity to leave the serving duties she performed during daylight hours. Her family was gone, her brother killed by the Sheriff when he'd come for her, and her father killed later during a fight with renegade Northern warriors. Her mother had been long dead, never recovering from a problem she'd had during the birth of Gwen's brother. Gwen did not want to leave the security provided by the menial duties she performed. Besides, some duties were not required by this new Sheriff that had been greatly desired by the last. And that made life a lot more pleasant in Gwen's eyes. The man standing outside in the cold light of the moon had met her for the first time when he was imprisoned in the dungeons of Nottingham castle. The Sheriff had been interrupted during a private time with Gwen by news that the prisoners had come in. Barely allowing her to pull her dignity together he had merely caught her by the wrist and hauled her down the dark stairwells and corridors after him. The previously (almost) empty dungeons were filled with new moans of pain, defiant insults, and even a few wolf whistles as the Sheriff pulled Gwen in after him, tripping over her numb toes on the stony floor. There had been a few old men, a few young men and one boy. The Sheriff had surveyed them all with his arrogant eyes and given instructions that they be made to talk. If they had nothing to say, they should be given something to say. Was Locksley here? No? Well, then he would return soon enough with new orders depending on what reports he received from his other men. All the while Gwen had felt the eyes of someone upon her and it had made her flesh shiver, made her feel dirty. It was like the feeling of liquid mud running down her body, the feel of this gaze. The prisoner looking at her was one of the young men, and she felt that that look was highly inappropriate for a man in his situation to be making. Perhaps this was a naive thought – men facing death are apt to experience cravings for anything full of life. Now, creeping through the sleeping forms of the other servants, Gwen slipped down the familiar corridors to the small, rotting wooden door used by the kitchen staff on their way to market. He was already there, having left the window at the same time as she had. She was sure he didn't realise that the way he treated her was no better than the way drunken bachelors treated the whores in the local cathouse. He had a good heart really, but there was something there that wasn't interested in her, which she knew only came to her when a distraction from the troubles of life was needed. "It's good to see you again," he said between urgent breaths as he laid hands on familiar territory. Gwen just smiled sickly, leaning her face away from him a little. One thing she didn't allow was kissing when he treated her the way he did. It was disappointing to her at times like this, because really she would quite like to have kissed him. He was a handsome man; intelligent and deep brown eyes; surprisingly soft blond hair that fell in straight cascades around his face. But that aloof, distracted quality that gave the impression that some part of him was suppressing itself, and was not present at this moment in time. "Will, not here, in the street." She spoke quietly but steadily and it served well enough. He picked her up, sweeping her feet off the ground in a gesture that should have been romantic, but lost that attribute when he began to rush speedily down the street, searching for an empty barn or shed.
**************
Gwen reached an arm behind her to brush away an irritating piece of straw that was tickling her skin. Instead of straw, however, her fingers encountered another's fingers, and she froze at this unexpected touch. He took her hand gently in his, the warmth coming as a shock to her cold skin.
"How have you been...since I last saw you?"
The question seemed utterly ridiculous. He hadn't even asked her how she'd been the last time, so how could he mention that? Besides, he never said anything to her. She must be dreaming. Gwen remained silent, her back to him.
"Talk to me, Gwen."
An order? She still didn't turn, but said, "we never talk." It came out in a more bitter tone than she'd expected or wanted.
The straw behind her rustled as he propped himself up on one arm. The other reached over so that he could stroke her long hair off her neck to see her face. He sighed, but seemed unable to reply. A little disappointed that he wasn't going to press the matter, she sat up, her back to him, and pulled her itchy woollen overdress on over her faded and tired-looking corset and petticoats. As she reached the barn door his call stopped her.
"Wait. I need to see you more often."
She paused, gulped before answering; "you know where I'll be."