My loyal readers, I apologize for the long wait in an update. I'm afraid school kept me away for a period of time and continues to do so, but I am determined to bring you this story despite its delight in delaying me. Never fear, I am not one to abandon a story, and this story-as with all the fics I write-has been entirely outlined. That means that it has been planned completely. All I require is the time to see the outline turned into chapters. I thank-you all for your patience and hope you enjoy the following chapter enough to both satiate and whet your appetite for more!
There was much wrong in Robin's life, but recently—with the exception of what happened to Marian—things seemed to be looking up. At least in regards to his relationship with Regina. They talked briefly since their last lip-lock in the library, but the affection remained . . . the closeness he felt with her. They'd kept from sleeping together again, but they were not as successful in turning their hearts away from each other. Selfish though it was—and he knew how much it was—he woke that morning feeling . . . happy. The day seemed to match his happiness. The sun rose bright and cheery, breaking through most of the chill that clung to the morning hours.
As Robin crawled out of his tent to greet this bright morning, he breathed in and smiled in contentment. It almost seemed as though the very air had a freshness about it—as if the forest surrounding his little Merry Men camp was experiencing the same form of rebirth that he was. Or, perhaps, he was just seeing everything through the rosy-tinted eyes of a silly man in love.
Roland, who was still a little sleepy-eyed, crawled out behind him, yawning and rubbing his left eye. Dressed in his pajamas—something called a 'onesie' that resembled a fox, complete with tail and pointy-eared hood—he stumbled out after his father and licked his lips, indicating his thirst. Robin grabbed hold of a water bottle and poured it into a glass for his son. "Drink it slow, Roland," he told him lightly, and then pulled him back into the tent, so he could dress him.
Putting on a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt himself, Robin left the tent once more and walked over to the main campfire where Little John—who was on breakfast duty—was flipping freshly fried eggs onto plates to be served. "Good morning," John greeted him, handing him a plate. "Alan mentioned an odd disturbance during his watch," he reported.
Robin lifted an eyebrow, taking another plate for Roland. The little boy came running up, all energy now that he'd gotten over his morning slump. "Eat slowly," Robin reminded him, handing him the plate and a fork. Roland nodded and ran off for a stump, sitting on it and awkwardly cutting into his egg with the fork a tad too large for his small hand. Robin looked back at John, his brow furrowed curiously. "Something causing concern?" he inquired.
Little John shrugged. "He said something about a dark cloud on the horizon. We may be in store for a bit of violent weather. I was thinking of popping over at Granny's and seeing what those Weather Wizards were saying about it."
Robin nodded. "If it's a nasty one, we may find ourselves relocating into proper shelters for the evening. Granny's has some rooms for rent." And he certainly didn't mind rooming in Regina's to avoid the storm . . . provided she was willing, of course. "Head over now. I'll take over breakfast. Check in with me as soon as you know the report." Little John nodded, stealing an extra slice of bacon with a mischievous grin and popping it into his mouth before heading out of camp.
A few hours later, Robin had yet to hear from him. But since the sun continued to shine down through the trees, his worries were easy. Only his son was his focus. "Now, what do we call this?" Robin asked, holding up a fletching he had made a few days ago.
"A feather!" Roland exclaimed, his fingers running over the soft edge.
"Indeed," Robin nodded. "And we use these to stabilize . . . what was this?" he asked, picking up one of his arrows.
"An arrow!" Roland recited proudly, scooching himself closer on Robin's lap, so he could take the long shaft of wood into his own hands.
"That's my clever boy," Robin hummed, stroking his hand through his soft curls. "But remember, you must never play with Papa's arrows. Not until you're older and understand the weight of them."
"But Papa, they're not heavy!" Roland declared, showing him by holding the arrow up over his head.
Robin allowed a small smile to touch his lips. "And that is precisely why you mustn't play with them. Only when they're heavy, are you ready to handle them." Roland looked confused, but he nodded and handed the arrow back over to his father. Robin leaned over and placed it back into his quiver before resting his hands at his son's back, supporting him. "We must use our hearts before our weapons, right?" Roland nodded, nothing but smiles and wide-eyes. Robin felt his heart swell in no small amount of absolute love for his son. The lessons he tried to impart were ones he didn't even necessarily follow . . . but he wanted Roland to be better than himself. It had taken a long journey for Robin to understand what path he should walk, and how he should walk it. He was taking this chance to start Roland on the better path from the very beginning.
"Robin!" he heard a small call, and he looked up to find Will nodding to . . . Regina and Henry. Delighted surprise appeared on his face, and he picked Roland up, standing in the process.
"I need to speak with you," Regina said, and there was such a frightened urgency in her eyes that Robin immediately set Roland down.
"Is everything alright?" Robin asked, walking towards the two. He lightly touched Henry's shoulder in greeting, offering the young man—for 'boy' could hardly be used to describe Henry anymore—a warm smile. Henry returned it before making his way to Roland. Robin heard an excited cry of 'Henry!' from Roland behind him, and he glanced over briefly to see Henry kneel and pull out some comics from his bag, showing Roland. Turning back to Regina, the smile froze on his lips at the utter apprehension he saw in her eyes. "What is it?" he asked her softly, taking her hand in his.
Regina drew in a breath. "The Snow Queen. She's unleashed the spell. By sundown, it will cover all of Storybrooke. You and your men need to separate yourselves. Get rid of all the weapons, or else you'll be slaughtering each other."
Dread filled him immediately. So, they had been too late to find some way to stop the Snow Queen. Taking a step back, he turned towards his encampment and gave a sharp whistle. "Break camp!" he called out to them. The Merry Men looked at each other in confusion but began to pack up and take down their tents. Robin looked back at Regina, squeezing her hand in the process. "What will happen?"
"Well," Regina cleared her throat, "based on what we've seen . . . We'll all turn on each other. We . . . become our worst selves. Emma and Elsa are sure they're going to be immune to it though. They'll be trying to find a way to end the curse. We just . . . need to survive until then."
Robin smiled lightly. "I meant to you."
Regina paused, a momentary look of surprise crossing her face, as if she was actually surprised that someone was concerned for her. "I mean . . . I know what I'll become. Which is exactly why I'm going to be locking myself away. If I get out," she shook her head, her gaze lowering in guilt, "I'll do terrible things," she finished in a whisper. Robin took her other hand in his as well, his thumb lightly brushing over hers. She was concerned about returning to her darker ways . . . having that forced onto her. Robin understood. She had come so far to put that woman behind her—to walk a different path. He had to admit, he wasn't particularly looking forward to seeing what the worst version of himself was like . . . After all, he had done rather terrible things once upon a time.
Lightly, he brought her hand to his cheek, and he nuzzled his face into her palm. "She was you. She isn't the woman who stands before me now. Whatever this curse unleashes in you . . . it doesn't make up the whole." Regina's gaze softened, and she seemed to examine him. In fact, her gaze was so direct, he couldn't help but inquire, "what is it?"
"I'm just . . . trying to remember you this way," she admitted quietly.
"What? Alarmed?" Robin chuckled, bringing her palm away from his cheek.
"With love still in your eyes," Regina whispered, and he felt her trembling slightly. Her gaze dropped, as if unable to meet his own at this admission. "I don't think I can bear to see them filled with hate."
He ached at that. Robin drew her closer, resting his forehead against hers. "We're here now. And this is true," he reminded her gently. She closed her eyes, and so he did the same, listening to her breathing. Eventually, his hands released hers in order to wrap around her waist and pull her against him, embracing her tightly. Regina nuzzled herself into his neck, burrowing there, and he lifted a hand to lightly stroke through her hair. He wished he could comfort her . . . tell her nothing was going to happen. But he had seen some of the Evil Queen's work—secondhand mostly—and knew what she was capable of. He just hoped nothing did happen. Not for other's sake, but for her own. It'd only be another dark deed to weigh down her soul.
In unison, they parted, but only enough to share a kiss. Robin felt the bliss her kisses brought tickle up from his toes until it tingled through his entire body. Lightly, he cupped her head and kept them together for as long as fate would allow. Then, with a reluctant breath, they stepped back. "Be careful," she whispered to him, their hands slowly sliding against each other's until only their fingertips touched.
"You as well," he replied, longing to protect her filling him. They separated entirely, and he had to fight not to go after her. When darkness fell, he knew she wouldn't need protecting. Robin turned to Roland, who was looking at the hurried packing with slight nervousness. Robin moved to him, picking him up and distracting him from the anxious aura clinging to the camp. "Never you worry, little lion. Papa's here to keep you safe."
Exhaustion clung to his very bones. His boots barely held together, one of the soles flopping with every step he took. Robin of Locksley's gaze was lowered to the ground, barely managing enough strength to lift it high enough to watch the road. He could feel the weight of exhaustion underneath his eyes. The past few weeks he had simply fallen on the side of the road when he could walk no further and sleep there until his body recovered enough for further walking yet.
There was no great ceremony to greet a soldier home from the Crusades. True, some might brand him a deserter. But his unit believed he was dead. And that war? What he had seen? What he had been subjected to? The Robin of Locksley that had first sailed to the Holy Land to fight alongside Richard the Lionhearted had, indeed, died. This new one was a stranger, even yet to him.
His stomach had long ago stopped giving him pain. It seemed it had finally received the message that there was no food to eat. Oh, there was the occasional herb or vegetable he found growing on the side of the road. He would eat it raw, his step never slowing on the road. He had been particularly lucky the day it had rained. Water had been provided for him for days. If not from the clouds themselves, then from the puddles that remained in the road a few days after.
A single thought kept propelling him forward—even when his legs shook and threatened to collapse underneath him—why hadn't his family been there to greet him? His departure from Jerusalem had been quick, true, but he had managed to release a pigeon before he was smuggled onto a ship bound for England. They should have been there. The one thing he had wanted to see more than anything . . . was his mother's smile.
An answer was just over the next hill. Or so he kept repeating to himself as he made his way through England to the territory owned by his family. Close to Nottingham—and indeed, his family ruled over the small village—his family's castle was a simple enough estate. They protected the village of Nottingham and provided for the farmers which worked their lands. It was a simple holding, really nothing of note when it came to the nobility, but Nottingham produced a great deal of wealth due to the rich farmland. Simple though the castle was, the Locksleys sat upon a figurative gold mine. His father, harsh and hard though he was, had kept the family under a simple lifestyle. Nothing of extravagance. God, he even missed that old codger.
When he finally found the will to lift his chin, he saw that the next hill . . . was indeed the next hill in truth. He remembered this slope—had rode it often as a boy. Renewed energy filled his gaunt and dirty frame, and he hurried his step down the muddy road. The forest receded and open farmland accepted him into its familiar expanse. Robin's heart filled with quiet joy at being back home. Each patterned pasture or field held a fond memory to him. There he had played with the farmer's boys, running in and out of the crops much to the annoyance of the farmer. There he had shared his first kiss with a girl from Nottingham—she had fallen to consumption two years later.
At last, his heart full of joy and hope, he made it to the top of the rise . . . only to feel everything crash down. Where once his family's castle had stood humbly—but proudly—now only smoked stone and a broken tower remained. Weariness forgotten, Robin lurched forward and ran down the remainder of the path to his home. It seemed that the castle had fallen to trebuchet and catapult. Though whoever had ordered the attack did not seem content until the castle had been practically demolished entirely.
The large doors that had led to the entrance hall rested on the ground, weeds already growing over them. He stepped over the door and walked through the crumbling entrance. Nothing remained of his family's possessions. The furniture was either smashed or stolen. The ancient tapestries of the Locksley family emblem were either burned or missing. Armor that had belonged to their ancestors were missing along with swords. But it was not the possessions that worried Robin . . . where was his family!?
"Mother!?" he called. "Father!?" His voice echoed against the smoking stones, returning to him desperate and hoarse. There was no need to climb up to the rooms that had belonged to them. The staircase had been destroyed, and much of the upper landing had fallen under the flames. Robin stumbled through the wreckage, occasionally tripping on a broken piece of railing or floor or even a headboard.
Confusion clouded his mind, dampening the panic only slightly. What had happened to them? Had England been invaded by another force whilst the majority of the army lay siege to the Turks? A thudding noise from the back of the castle kept interrupting his racing thoughts. Robin walked over to the remaining tower that was essentially the only full-structure left of the castle. A few holes had removed chunks of it, but it stood. Grabbing onto the clasp to open the door, he pulled, but the door remained firmly shut.
Pulling, Robin grit his teeth together and yanked harder, but the door remained shut. The tower gave an ominous crumbling sound, as if it was leaving against the door. Robin stepped back immediately, not wanting to cause the tower to fall—especially on top of him. Stepping away, he stared up at the tower. That had led to his mother's 'hovel' as she called it. She did most of her sewing and reading there. Robin had often played there as a child, and eventually made it up to the top of the tower on the battlements when he was older, pretending to be a knight against a siege of enemies.
Where had he been then? When the actual enemies had come to . . . to do what? What had happened? Where were his parents? The thudding continued, and the noise only fueled his irritation and panic. Robin marched out the back gate—which was essentially a gape of a hole—and searched for the source of the incessant noise. Stumbling over a few stones, he walked out from behind the remains of another tower that had been toppled to the ground . . . and felt his heart drop.
Two bodies swayed in the wind, ropes around their necks, the breeze causing their feet to hit back against the wooden beam from which they were hanging. Ravens and crows had long since feasted upon them, but he would know them anywhere . . . "M-Mama," he managed to choke, tears blinding his eyes and obscuring them from view. Raw pain ached in his throat and chest. How could this be? It couldn't be. Surely, this was a nightmare. He had just fallen asleep on the side of the road again.
Tears ran down his face, making clean tracks on his skin in their march. Noises hardly human escaped his lips—the sound of grief. Robin made his way—almost blind—to the platform and found the knot. Carefully, he undid it and lowered their bodies to the ground. Stumbling down with them, he took them both in his arms and released a few sharp sobs, rocking back and forth. Their flesh was sticky and baked under the sun. Through his tears, he saw that his father's skull was showing from a hole pecked clean by some bird. His mother . . . oh, his mother . . . her lips had been eaten, a permanent smile to greet her son with now in place.
The smell was horrid, but Robin only clung to them harder, the grief slowly becoming rage as his sobs turned to wails of anger. Minutes passed, and as he grew silent, exhaustion returned to him in full. But there was work to be done. Tenderly, he set them down and dug them both graves. Robin dropped a few stones down into the dirt to act as a slab, then lowered their bodies into it together. His parents weren't perfect . . . but they had loved one another.
Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he looked down at their skeletal frames—flesh yet clinging to them. "I'll make it right," he vowed to them. Gently, he laid stones over them as well, and then buried them. For awhile, he sat beside the fresh grave, trying to collect his thoughts. Who had attacked his family? Who had hung them? For what purpose? There was only one place he'd find answers—his gaze lifted, and he centered it on the smoke lazily rising above the treetops—Nottingham.
The streets of Storybrooke were vacant. Robin had long since learned that when that happened, something terrible was brewing. The lights were out in Granny's, and he felt a chill at its dark windows. The simple diner had always been a symbol of community and extended family and love . . . to see it locked up was . . . ominous. His gaze was drawn skyward as he made his trek to the Mayor's Office—where he expected to find Regina. The sky was darkening, made all the darker by the cloud that traveled over Storybrooke.
Robin could see flashes of light within, as if lightning struck or shards of glass caught the reflection of a light. It loomed over him, and he felt it like a heavy weight pressing on his shoulders and chest. Dragging his gaze away, he focused back on Town Hall. It was silly, perhaps, to try and find her this close to the striking hour, but . . . he needed to see her. One more time.
A part of him even hoped they might lock themselves together. He trusted her. He didn't think whatever evil that remained inside of her would hurt him. Just as he didn't think whatever evil inside of him would hurt her. But that was a foolish hope, he knew. Regina would place herself in a separate continent altogether if she could. Walking into Town Hall, he took the stairs to the Mayor's Office.
Regina was just exiting when he arrived. She looked surprised—and alarmed—to see him. "Robin," she said, giving her office a nervous look. "What are you doing here?"
"I just needed to see you," he said with an almost embarrassed smile. She smiled for a brief moment, but then the anxious look returned to her eyes.
"Is everything taken care of?" she asked him.
"Indeed. My men have scattered, and Marian and Roland have been placed somewhere even I don't know," he told her. "Honestly, I rather pity the bloke who volunteered to look after my little lion. He can be quite the handful when he wants to be," he smirked lightly. "I'll be chaining myself to a tree in a bit, but . . . where are you going?" he asked her, reaching for her to cheek and lightly stroking along the bone with his thumb.
"My Vault," she admitted. "I'm . . . going to put a spell on it. I shouldn't be able to get out until Emma lets me." Yet still, she looked as though this wouldn't be enough. Was she truly so afraid of what she might do? Robin kissed her forehead, trying to soothe the rampant thoughts that no doubt were running wild in there.
Robin bit his lip, studying her, "do you want me to come with you?" he asked her, a slight hopeful look in his eye. He wasn't entirely sure if it was the wisest thing, but . . . he wanted to be there for her. It seemed Regina, however, was quite alarmed by the idea.
"No-no-no-no," she said quickly, stepping back from him. "You need to stay as far from me as possible. It isn't even safe for us to be around each other now," she said, just as the lights started to flicker. Robin glanced at them, frowning. The weight on his chest seemed to become heavier. "We're minutes away now." Regina was backing away from me, and it broke his heart to see her so frightened . . . like a caged animal. "I need to lock myself away."
Robin's brow furrowed. "To keep people out?"
She smiled then, sadly, at him. "To keep me in."
He stepped towards her again, trying to touch her, to reassure her. "Regina, I'm not afraid of you," he told her, taking hold of her hand with both of his. He refused to believe that they would harm one another. Perhaps that was folly, but it was what he felt.
Her light pushing him back told him she did not seem to think the same. "But you really, really should be," she whispered, and then broke away, hurrying out of the Hall. Robin stared after her, his heart hurting for her. Some day, perhaps, he could make her see what he saw. The lights flickered once more, and he drew in a breath, rushing off. Right. It was time to find himself a tree.
Leaving Town Hall, he glanced skyward once more. The cloud—shimmering purple—now engulfed the entire sky. The wind had picked up as well, making the streetlights shake and buildings groan around him. Robin clutched his jacket tighter to his body and hurried off towards the forest. Locating the handcuffs he had picked up from the Sheriff's office, he clicked one into place, and then sat himself down against a tree. With some difficulty, he handcuffed his other wrist . . . and then waited.
There was a groan above him, as if the very sky had grown weary of holding the weight of that cloud . . . and then it seemed to shatter above him. Twinkling shards rained down, and he ducked his head, expecting to be pierced by the glass. Instead it seemed to dissolve before it reached him. Lifting his head in confusion, he looked up at the sky. He didn't feel any different at all. Blinking in confusion, he looked down at his wrists. Except he really, really needed to get out of these cuffs. With everyone locked away, it was the perfect opportunity to steal that stash of gems he knew the dwarves had been mining during their time here.
Those would fetch quite the pretty price. Robin smirked and looked for a way to pick the locks on the handcuffs. The twigs weren't sturdy enough. Then he recalled . . . he always kept a lockpick in the heel of his boot. Robin twisted his body, grunting in discomfort as he contorted, so he could reach the heel of his boot and lift up on it to remove the pick from the self-made secret compartment. "Hnnggg," he groaned, squeezing his eyes in slight pain. Just as he felt he was about to dislocate his shoulder, he finally pulled the pick out of the heel and went to work on picking the lock.
This was child's play. He'd picked enough locks to be able to do it blindfolded . . . which he supposed he was doing in a form now, since he couldn't exactly see what he was doing. Patience . . . patience . . . patience . . . there was a click, and one of his hands was free. With a sigh of comfort, he was able to turn and pick the other lock even easier. Free, he rubbed his wrists and rotated his shoulders to ease some of the strain he had put on them. Now then. Time to do a little treasure hunting . . .
The village of Nottingham was not the cheery place he remembered. In fact, his bedraggled, dirty appearance fit in rather well among the village folk. Their clothes were in tatters, and they looked just as hungry as himself. What happened to them? They stared right through him whenever they had enough gumption to actually look at him. Otherwise, they averted their gazes almost fearfully, as if he might strike them.
Robin made his way to the principal place of justice in the village—the Sheriff's Office. Two large guards stood on either side of the door. Just as he was about to enter, they crossed their swords across the door. "What business do you have with the Sheriff of Nottingham?" one of the guards asked.
Clenching his jaw, Robin lifted his chin, and with whatever dignity his upbringing had given him was mustered, he declared, "Robin, Earl of Locksley, orders that the Sheriff has an audience with him."
The guards looked surprised to hear this name. They glanced at each other nervously for a moment, then nodded to Robin and allowed him entry. The office was small. Two cells stood on the opposite side of the room. A lone desk sat to Robin's right, and behind that desk sat the Sheriff of Nottingham. But this was not the old Sheriff that Robin knew growing up. This was a man near to his own age. Confusion furrowed on his brow, and he cleared his throat. The Sheriff, who had been counting a bag of gold, gave an irritated sigh and looked up. "What do you want?" he asked, sneering at the sight of him.
"I'd like to know what happened to my family," Robin stated coolly, eyeing the pile of gold coins before settling his gaze on the Sheriff's. "Lord and Lady Locksley. The owners of this village and this land. Why did I find them hanging and their castle blown apart?" he asked, his voice tight, words cut crisply.
The Sheriff looked surprised, sitting up straighter in his chair. "You must be their son . . . I was told they had one serving in the Crusades . . . that he likely died." He ran a dubious look over him. "I don't see a Lord's son before me now. More of a farmer's boy . . . come to claim what isn't rightfully his."
Robin's lips pressed together. "I assure you, sir," he spoke the word disdainfully, "I served alongside King Richard the Lionhearted. Once his campaign is over, he'll be more than happy to ride down here and authenticate my identity. And restore justice to my fallen family."
The Sheriff smirked wider at that, his feet moving up to rest on his desk. "Careful of those words. You've been out of the country for some time. Things have changed. King Richard doesn't rule here any longer. His brother, Prince John, has resumed rule of England. Speak otherwise, and I'm afraid you'll find yourself following the same fate as your parents . . . and all of the other traitors out there who are unwilling to accept fealty to their new King."
Robin's hands curled into fists. Traitors!? TRAITORS!? "You mean they refused to back the legitimacy of a false King?" he said through grit teeth. "It was for their honor that they were hung?"
The Sheriff seemed to delight in Robin's growing rage and dismay. "Simple boy. The world has changed. Allow me to teach you a lesson. Swear promises where one must, and one might find oneself in a place of power . . . and wealth," he gestured to the gold coins on his desk. "Or play the part of the fool and follow the others to an early grave. Castles can be rebuilt. I'm sure if Prince John heard from his most loyal of Sheriffs that the new Earl of Locksley was keen to defend his throne . . . you would be rewarded richly. Reinstated as Earl, even. We could rule this little village together. Nottingham already gives the Prince . . . excuse me . . . King the most taxes. As such, this has become his favorite village. And I his favorite subject. We can rise high together, you and I." The Sheriff stood then, extending his hand to Robin. "Brother."
He stared at the outstretched hand. Dirt clung under the Sheriff's nails. That hand had ordered the death of his parents. With a deep-rooted hatred he had never thought himself possible of feeling, he glared up at the Sheriff. "Never."
A sigh left the Sheriff's lips. "Then I'm afraid I have to arrest you. Traitor's blood runs in the family, after all. And by the state of your clothes, something tells me your beloved King Richard didn't allow you to leave the war voluntarily . . . and that makes you a deserter. And deserters . . . are punished by execution." His head lifted, and Robin realized the two guards from outside had at some point entered in behind him. "Seize him."
Before the guards could grab his arms, Robin dropped low and took the daggers from their waist. Slicing the back of their legs, they cried out and fell to the floor as blood gushed forward. The Sheriff shouted for help, but Robin was already running out of the building, the bloody daggers in his hands. He ran through the crowd and slipped into the forest, not stopping until his body felt as though it was about to give out. Shaking, he fell to the ground and coughed, trying to get enough oxygen to his lungs. His skin felt cold despite the hard running he had put himself through.
Rolling onto his back, he stared up through the canopy of trees to the sky above. His parents had been murdered. They had refused to bend the knee to this Prince John and had paid for it. Disgust filled him . . . and betrayal. He had bled—nearly died—for this country, and it repaid him by killing his parents? By making a mockery of the King he had served? The King he had charged into battle with? Where was the justice in that?
No. There wasn't any. He'd keep his promise to his parents, but he was going to do it his way. Softness only made one weak in this world. Slowly, he pushed himself up, and he stared down at the blood-encrusted daggers. Those men could very well have been dead. He'd cut them deep, and he had seen the way the blood had sprayed. A part of him wanted to feel guilty, but he clamped down on it. He didn't owe them anything. He didn't owe anyone anything. If he wanted vengeance, he had to take it.
And he'd take everything else while he was at it, too.
Storybrooke was alive! Robin had found himself a nice little perch on top of Granny's. With his bow and quiver equipped, he had found a bit of fun in firing down on the cars that lined the streets. Each one had a flat tire or two. Some were missing windows. One was even leaking gas onto the street. Now and then, when two people started fighting in the street—mainly dwarves—he fired an arrow at their feet to scare them. That had been quite amusing.
But, Robin was growing tired of his game, so he climbed down and joined the frenzy on the streets. People were fighting everywhere. Sometimes they crashed through windows during their brawls, but that didn't stop their fighting. If anything, it intensified it. Robin managed to keep to the shadows for the most part, though he was approached by Archie . . . who he simply punched in the nose and kept on walking. That's what he deserved for trying to bill Robin for that sorry excuse of a therapy session.
His prowling bore fruit. One of the softer dwarves—Happy—came to his attention. With a simple arrow to the knee, Robin stopped him in his tracks. "OW! WHY!?" Happy shouted, falling to the ground and clutching his leg. Robin hurried forward to the middle of the street and set his foot on Happy's chest, keeping him pressed firmly to the ground. "Locksley," Happy grunted, glaring up at him, his eyes filled with pain. "What do you want?"
"One simple thing really," Robin said, his hand reaching down to lightly play with the arrow stuck through Happy's knee. "The location of your chest of gems. Give it to me . . . and I'll let you walk away."
"What!?" Happy sputtered. "The guys will kill me if I told you—GAHHH!" he shouted in renewed pain as Robin twisted the arrow in his knee.
"Don't try my patience," Robin said lightly with a calm smile. "I know a thing or two about torture. If you think you hurt now . . . just wait until I've finished with you," he finished in a whisper.
Happy's eyes widened. "F-Fine! In our den. B-Behind the grandfather clock. Fake wall. It's in there! I swear!"
"Thank-you," Robin said and quickly nocked an arrow. He was about to release it through Happy's skull when peals of screaming caught his attention. Turning his head, he saw people running from . . . Regina! Robin's foot slacked, and Happy managed to roll away, dragging himself across the street. Robin paid him no mind. Instead, he looked at the fine shape of his love clad in dark leather with a billowing cape behind her. The Evil Queen return-eth.
She was crossing the street towards the Sheriff's office, but she took notice of him. Stopping, she set her hand on her hip and looked him up and down. Robin lifted his bow, aiming his arrow at her heart. Her dark eyes glimmered maliciously, and the tone that slipped from those voluptuous lips almost made the word sound sinful. "Thief."