Disclaimer: I do not own Robin Hood BBC, nor any recognizable characters (goshdarnit)
A/N : Inspired by the outrageously clumsy guardsmen of the Sheriff that somehow blundered their way through the series without getting hanged.
Every day of his life, Nicholas failed.
Even at night, in his dreams, he could feel it: the cold, roiling feeling of guilt and failure in the pit of his stomach. He was a member of the Sheriff's guard – a man with honor and a purpose. And yet every day, at every turn, he and the rest of the guard were humiliated. He couldn't even begin to describe how many times he'd watched his fellow men fall, clumsy and thick in their armor, and how many times he'd fallen himself, his pride and honor ruined as the Sheriff looked on with heavy disappointment, and even heavier anger.
It had happened today. Again. Nicholas had almost had one of those blasted outlaws … his sword was in his fingers, ready to be thrown, when a familiar arrow pierced his horse and sent Nicholas flying to his face on the ground. Helmet knocked over his eyes, Nicholas scrambled in vain for a sword that was no longer there. And he listened, with burning contempt, to Robin Hood, who was standing by the open portcullis and yelling out cocky humiliations to the Sheriff … as Nicholas' men, wounded, some even dying, moaned in agony.
It was only after Robin and his gang had left the castle that Nicholas realized his brother had been killed, his body sliced open by an outlaw's sword.
"It was Robin Hood," he whispered in the barracks that night, the numb grief clouding even his utter humiliation. All feeling was gone, and he could see nothing but the red of blood. "Robin Hood killed him."
"It actually was the servant that did it," said a fellow soldier, sprawled in his cot, tending a cut on his arm.
"The servant?" Nicholas echoed, turning, torchlight flickering off his face.
"The servant, yes. Hood's servant."
Others nodded. "You know, the stout one."
"The Miller's son."
Nicholas blinked, seeing red. "The Miller's son …"
And then the barracks doors slammed open. Silhouetted against the moonless black sky was a familiar figure, wrapped in a fur robe. Gold sparkled as he bared his teeth, and hissed with a mock and almost volatile affection, "My men." He spread his arms wide, striding into the barracks and looking round at his silent, cowering guards. Behind him was the man named Gisborne, standing with his leather-gloved hands clasped behind him and a wave of black hair shading his face.
"You follow me loyally every day," continued the Sheriff of Nottingham with generous smiles wicked enough to deserve fangs. "You follow me into battle every day." Then he chuckled, hard, almost maniacal … the warning laugh. The guards all knew their master – they knew what always, always came after the laugh.
"And yet … every single time … YOU FAIL ME!" the Sheriff screamed, his face and hairless scalp glimmering scarlet. A knife appeared in his hand, disappeared, and then appeared again in the chest of a soldier, who slumped gracelessly to the straw-covered floor. "You make a fool of me!" the Sheriff's screams became wild and guttural as he booted over a cot. Gisborne stepped back, his eyes wandering everywhere but the Sheriff's face – from the ceiling to the walls to the floor, as he attempted, exasperated, "My lord –"
"Shut up, Gisborne!" hissed the Sheriff, spinning to face his right-hand man. "Do not pretend you have done anything more than these men, you incompetent fool! Does not Robin Hood still live? Does he not still run rampant through Nottingham?"
The Sheriff turned slowly back around and scanned the faces of his men. "You …" his eyes fixed on Nicholas, standing nearest to him, and he walked slowly toward him. "… must not fail me …" his hand struck Nicholas' face with a brain-rattling blow. "… again."
Now Nicholas tasted blood as well as saw it. "I will kill Robin Hood, my lord," he whispered, and watched with a gut-wrenching dread as the wicked smile spread back across the Sheriff's features. "Yes, of course you will," said the Sheriff, laughing again to himself.
"I will kill Robin Hood," repeated Nicholas, slowly and carefully stripping himself of the last of his armor, careful not to excite the Sheriff by any sudden movements. With a clatter he dropped his gauntlets. "Tonight."
"Oh, that's very good," said the Sheriff, turning and walking away with the peculiar bounce in his step that foretold some impending execution. "If you fail –" he snapped his fingers and looked about at his soldiers. "You all die." And with that he disappeared back into the night, followed by his leather-clad shadow.
Nicholas did not bother to face his fellow members of the guard. He ran out of the barracks, nimble in his light, thin clothes … and found himself a horse. As he saddled it, he repeated his promise into the cold night air. "I will kill Robin Hood," he whispered. "And I will kill the Miller's son."
Horse hooves clattered over the cobblestones as he rode through Nottingham. Then grass rustled and twigs snapped as he rode into Sherwood, into the dark nightmare where an even darker nightmare dwelled. He had a one-handed grip on the reins … in the other hand, he held a dagger. It wasn't much, but it was sharp, and his aim was good. He would use the knife, and he would use the sword that hung, deadly, at his hip.
"I see you've wandered too far from home," said a lilting, mocking voice. He reared his horse back and searched the darkness for a face. Two large eyes glittered out at him, and slowly he made out the form of a woman, dark-skinned … a Saracen. She looked at him with mock pity and asked, "Are you lost, boy?"
"I am a member of the Sheriff's guard," he said rigidly.
She laughed, showing teeth even whiter than her eyes. "Then you are more lost than I thought –" his knife silenced her, driven into her belly as she gasped and doubled over.
He jumped off his horse and towered over her slight, kneeling form. "I am a member of the Sheriff's guard," he repeated, and for the first time in his life, he liked the taste of the words in his mouth. He reached down and pulled the knife out, ignoring her muffled cry of pain. Its hilt was warm with blood.
He moved on, abandoning his horse, abandoning the dying outlaw. He had silenced her, but she wasn't the one he wanted. Robin's gang stuck together for the most part; the others had to be around here somewhere.
"Djaq? Djaq, where are you?"
A voice, not far off. Nicholas froze, stood silently. The voice was young, cocky, and sounded for a moment like – do not weaken, he told himself, but when he saw his brother reflected in his bloody eyes, he couldn't help the tears.
And then Robin Hood stepped out of the trees. "Hello?" he said, leaning slightly backward as he assessed Nicholas. "What are you doing in my forest?"
"Robin," the Saracen woman gargled from her prostrate position several yards behind.
Hood's face froze, the cockiness seeped from his eyes like the color surely did from his skin. It was too dark to see. It wasn't, however, too dark to see the sword Nicholas held outward, inches away from Robin's pulsing throat. "What have you done with her?" he whispered.
"I killed her," said Nicholas. "Just like you kill my fellow men, every week, every day. Their bodies fall like rain upon English soil, and their blood upon your head."
"I don't know who you are or what you're talking about," said Hood slowly, his hand slowly sidling to his waist, where in a moment he would grab some dagger he had hidden, some bloodthirsty surprise. "But you will die now."
"No, you will die!" and his sword slashed across Hood's throat, bringing out a flow of blood that didn't need moonlight to sparkle lusciously before Nicholas' eyes. With a strangled cry, Robin staggered and fell on his back.
There was movement in the trees a short ways off. "Master!"
"Go, Much!" Robin screamed. He had the knife, and threw it, but Nicholas batted it away easily with his sword.
Nicholas, a weapon clasped tightly in each hand, eyed the trees in wait of the servant. Now, he was the predator. No longer the victim. He had just proven that legends could bleed, and that Robin Hood was, indeed, just a man.
The servant came blundering out, making no effort to silence his movements. Nicholas recognized him now, with his hat pulled down over light hair, and his soft, confused blue eyes. The eyes immediately found Hood, and the servant shook his head, breathing, "Robin, no, no …"
Nicholas came forward, vengeance driving him forward, the thirst for more blood tangy in his throat. The Miller's son was blind with emotion, and fumbled with murderous rage for his sword, only to lose it at Nicholas' blade. Nicholas grabbed the outlaw by the throat and threw him against a tree. "You," he whispered. "Are. A. Murderer."
But the servant was no longer even looking at him. He was looking at Robin Hood, who was already lying motionless and dead in the grass. The servant didn't even seem to notice the sword that was settled against his chest, and Nicholas finally lost his patience. The sword went all the way through, crunching and slicing through rib and bone, and came out the other side, pinning the dead outlaw to the tree. There was hardly even any blood. Damn. Nicholas had hoped for blood.
The sword he abandoned there. The dagger he used to slice Robin Hood's head from his body, so that he could carry it back to Nottingham with him to show the Sheriff, proving once and for all that he, Nicholas, honored member of the Sheriff's guard, was not a failure; he had done it right.