A/N: Yes, this is an extremely short chapter, but I wrote six more during my Lenten absence from fanfiction.net, so no whining. Hehe. Jk jk. And yes, since I know you guys are going to ask I just have to put the finishing touches on my TurnJerkin chapter and then it will be up, I promise. You crack me up. But anyways---
"Robert" is indeed Robin. I just changed his name because it sounds nobler and more like a sot to me. But Marian will call him Robin later, when he starts to talk really fast and sounds like a bird twittering. But that's explained in another chapter. So just enjoy this minor and sad excuse for a chapter as best you can!
Chapter 2
"That boy is going to get the thrashing of his life when he comes home!" the lord of Locksley bellowed, slamming his wine goblet back down on the wooden table. I watched as the fine drink sloshed onto his huge paunch and snorted. Uncouth fop.
"I promise you, James," he continued, leaning back in his chair and addressing my father, "That child's hide will be red as any flayed deer when I'm through with him." I rolled my eyes dismissively, letting out another snort from my corner. When my father met my eyes disapprovingly, I held a delicate fist to my mouth and coughed lightly. As if the lord of Locksley would find the energy to get off his enormous backside to thrash his favorite son. The most Robert would get would be a few nights without supper and some backhanded slaps. That much his father could do without moving.
I went about my embroidery silently, still listening intently to the conversation. I was presently unable to figure out what Robert had done to merit his father's words, but apparently it was pretty bad.
"Has he truly gone outlaw?" my father asked, taking a sip of his own drink, with decidedly more elegance. I almost dropped my embroidery. That stupid little sot and his romantic ideals! I knew he'd been listening to one too many minstrels. An outlaw? He'd be dead in a few days. And the innocent little optimist wouldn't even see it coming.
"Indeed. The little whelp thinks himself some sort of peasant's savior." Locksley belched loudly. "But he'll be home soon." My father shot me a warning glance as I sighed dramatically to myself. Robert was not going to give up this foolish, moronic, pinheaded little venture for a long time. I scowled, plucking resolutely at the fabric, wishing it were Robert's lips. Then I could sew them together in a neat little line, and his prattling would never irritate me again. And I would never make stupid, heedless, temper-driven comments to the babbling sot. And he would never take up the romantic's cross and head off to Sherwood, still in his silk and screaming sapphire hose. I scowled, heaving my shoulders as the two men conversed. However, no matter the anger his self-righteousness provoked in me, it was MY fault that the moron had headed off into the forest. Curse him! Curse him to the realms of Satan! Gargh!
I stabbed the songbird I was embroidering irritably, muttering about morons who understand nothing and nobody but their bloody ideals. There had to be a way to solve this Robert issue of mine. He had listened to me before….Ah, I would simply pay a visit to my forest idealist and talk him out of the childish venture. That was the plan.
I would cling to the plan.
Robert would cling to my every word.
And by noontide tomorrow, the lord of Locksley would be clinging to his son's white neck.
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Ah, but the best-laid plants of mice and men…