Hello. I'm sorry for the delay, really. My computer was stolen -I mean borrowed- by my dad and I really didn't feel like editing this from my phone. I hope you stop being angry at me when you realize whose point of view this chapter is written in. I know most of you will appreciate it.
I'm going to change the status of this story to "complete" because it kinda is. I'm still working on chapter 3 and I've made more progress with it than I did with the other stories I sort of promised all of you -namely, Robin's deathbed scene for "We are Robin Hood". But I don't want anyone to get their hopes up, because it might still take me a while. Still, keep this story in your alerts if you have it because there is going to be a third chapter.
As usual, a very big thanks to each and everyone who's taken the time to read and review this. You can't even begin to imagine what it feels like for me to have people make a fuss about my stories, because the feeling is so foreign to me. I love this fandom, and I love all of you. Honestly.
COME HOME
Chapter II.
He had written to her. Of course he had.
He had written to tell her he had arrived. He told her the journey had been terrible, but that he took great pride in the fact that he hadn't gotten sea-sick. He told her about the heat and the sand -he didn't like it, it got everywhere and he was positive he would never be comfortable again. He told her about the first man he had had to kill, and all that came after him. He told her about the time that Much got food poisoning and about how closed he was getting to the King. He told her he'd been made Captain of the King's very own Private Guards and that people were actually starting to respect him -not just for his birth, but for him, for whom he really was.
He also told her how much he missed her and what an utter fool he had been for leaving her. He told her he loved her -time and time again he told her and he begged for her forgiveness, if not her love back.
He wrote and wrote and wrote. He knew parchment was scarce, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He needed her to know.
He never sent any of his letters, though. Every so often a messenger would come and ask around the camp if there was anything anyone wished to send back to England, but he would always shake his head. After a few times, Much could take no more and asked him about it.
"She said she didn't want me to," he replied calmly. "I'm just doing what she told me to."
"But you do write to her," Much pressed, confused.
"Yes, I do." Noticing his friend perplexity, he went on. "I write to her because I need to write to her -I need to pretend that I haven't royally screwed my one chance at happiness. When I write to her I can pretend that she is still a part of my life and I need that -I need her in my life, Much."
"And why don't you send her your letters? I'm sure, in spite of everything, she'd be glad to know you're okay-"
"Would she?" he asked sardonically. He could clearly remember her face when he told her he was leaving -she had looked as if she could kill him herself and save him the trouble of having to go to the other side of the word. He had no reason to believe she was any less angry at him now than she was then. "It doesn't matter, Much. She said I wasn't a part of her life anymore and the fact remains that I have no right to force myself on her. Just because I need her, it doesn't mean she needs me, and that's... Okay."
"Okay?"
No, of course it wasn't okay. But there was little he could do at this point.
"It has to be. I made my choice." The wrong one, he thought bitterly, but it had been his. No one but his pride had forced him to come to this god-forsaken land. No one but him who had chosen to turn his back on the one person he had ever hoped of loving.
It had been an ill-conceived idea from the start -he could see it clearly now. Some old noble made a snide remark about his way of handling things at his state and suddenly he was enrolling to fight in the Holy Land to prove his worth. No wonder her very first reaction when he told her had been laughing –it seemed utterly ridiculous now. But he had made his bed, and now he would have to sleep on it.
She had even offered him a way out -later, when he went to say goodbye. He had told her that he would only be gone for a while -that he would return and they would pick up where they had left off. He had been trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince her. He had been terrified, but determined not to show it. He needed to go and prove everyone that he was not a kid anymore, that he was more than capable of filling his father's shoes. He needed to prove he was worthy of the role he had in society –worthy of her.
He had seen her pain –a pain she had been desperately trying to hide from him–, but he hadn't care. He had told himself that his leaving would ultimately be beneficial for the both of them –that she would come to see his point in the end. He had been delusional, clearly, but at the time it had made perfect sense.
He had made to kiss her goodbye, but she had taken a step back.
She had given him an ultimatum then: stay and be with her or go and lose her forever.
He could have done it –he should have done it.
He should have stayed for her.
He wanted to too. Even his body had reacted instinctively to her plead and had relaxed slightly. It would have been the perfect excuse: he had promised himself to her and he couldn't go back on his promise –it wouldn't be honourable. He could have stayed; he could have married her –become one with her body and soul. She could have had his babies and they could have lived happily in Locksley. They could have been a family –one large, happy, loving family. He could have had that.
If he had stayed.
But he hadn't.
He was proud and childish and stupid and completely undeserving of the wonderful creature that was offering herself to him.
And so he had gone, without as much as a backwards glance.
It had taken him all of five minutes to realize what a colossal mistake he had made. As soon as she was out of sight he had started to miss her and it took all of him not to go back to her. But he didn't. He couldn't.
"I think she would appreciate it," Much said confidently. "Hearing from you. She'd be... Relieved."
Of course Much thought like that –he was an optimist, even in the worse of circumstances. He always thought that things would work out in the end, if only one was strong enough to hold on for a little while longer. But Robin was different; Robin knew better. Still, sometimes he wished he could be more like his friend. He wished he could believe for a second that she was still there, still waiting for him. Still loving him. That she would be there when –if– he returned and that they could still have the life he had passed on when he left. However, he wasn't a fool –he knew she had probably moved on, and so should he.
But he couldn't.
That was one of the few times Robin allowed himself to talk about her out loud. She was constantly on his mind, but he had never shared her memory with anyone -the other soldiers had asked him if there was anyone waiting for him at home and he had just shaken his head in denial. Even Much stopped bringing her up after a while, noting how dark Robin's expression became when he heard her name.
And so time passed. The war continued raging on. Soldiers came and went -some back home, some to a better place. Robin continued to fight, continued to kill in the name of a god he wasn't entirely certain he still believed in. He rose in ranks quickly and he became indispensable to the King. He made a name for himself -no one could doubt his abilities now; he was no longer a kid who had had to hastily fill in his father's place. He was Robin of Locksley, earl of Huntingdon and Captain of the King's Private Guy.
And yet, if he could give it all back for a chance to look into her bright blue eyes one more time he would do it in a heartbeat.
He missed her.
He kept going. For years and years he fought for his king and his god. And he also fought for her –he fought because no matter how much he tried, a little part of him kept clinging to the idea that she might have been lying when she told him she wouldn't wait for him. A little part of him refused to let her go. It was the image of her, sitting by her bedroom window waiting for him that gave him the strength to keep going –to keep fighting when all he wanted to do was give up already.
He didn't usually allow himself to think of her like that –she had every right to move on; he actually hoped she had–, but he couldn't quite ban it from his mind either.
He still wrote to her regularly -at night, when everyone else had gone to bed-, but he never intended to send any of his letters. Instead he stashed them inside his quiver, and it was as if she was with him when he needed her the most.
And then, one day, an old knight was come from England and everything changed.
He wasn't even paying attention to the others, not really. He appreciated what the King was trying to do, but he didn't want nor need to be reminded that there was a life outside the warzone. He had spent almost every waking moment of the last four years trying not to think about life back at home. But then he had heard something about a goat and the forest and the dangers of chasing animals after dark and everything stopped. The arrow he had been working on fell to the sand before him and he was suddenly incredibly grateful that Much was still busy in the kitchen and couldn't see him right now.
He argued with himself for about an hour after the man was done with his story. On the one hand, there was every chance that it wasn't even the same story he had been told as a kid. Surely there were plenty of people who had gotten lost in forests chasing after goats. And besides -even if it was, what did it mean for him? Probably nothing. It wasn't as if he was bringing him a message from her, right?
And yet he couldn't just ignore this. It might not be anything, but at the same time it was everything. This man probably knew her, and it had been years since he had last talked to someone who did. (He could never confide in Much, knowing it would only pain him to learn how utterly affected he still was by her).
He waited until Sir William was left alone and approached him.
"Hi," he said a little uncertainly. He suddenly felt very reticent, something he wasn't used to feeling. "We met before? My name's Robin."
The man eyed him for a moment.
"Locksley, right?" Robin nodded. "Yeah, I know who you are. I've heard nothing but good things about you. Please, take a sit."
If Robin's heart hadn't been filled by the image of the girl whose father had gotten lost chasing a goat, he might have felt really proud for the compliment. As it was, he couldn't care less.
"What can I do for you?"
"It's about the story you told. The one with the goat?"
The man smiled.
"Oh, yeah. One of my best, if I may say so myself. Edward would disagree, of course, but he's not here, is he? What about that story?"
"You see, the thing is -I think I heard it before. And I was wondering if it would be at all possible that your friend happened to be my friend, you know?"
God did he feel stupid! What could have possibly posses him to do this? What was he expecting? What was he trying to accomplish? Clearly all the fighting and the death and the heat were starting to take its toll on him. He was losing his mind. (He wondered idly what Much would have to say on the matter, if he were ever to learn what he had just done –not that Robin was planning on telling him, though).
"Maybe," William replied politely. "But if it's news from him that you're looking for, I'm afraid I can't help you. I haven't seen Edward in almost 20 years."
Robin nodded. Of course he didn't know -Edward had never mentioned him in fifteen years; why oh why did he think this man would know anything he didn't already know? Idiot!
"However," William continued before Robin could think of an excuse to leave. "I'm very curious as to what happened to him –he wasn't in a very good shape when I last saw him–, so perhaps it could be you that can help me out. First of all tell me, what makes you think we're talking about the same man?"
"Well, other than how similar both stories sound, and the fact my friend's name was also Edward, I really couldn't tell. It's just that everything sounded eerily familiar, you know? It's probably nothing, though. I just got excited thinking about home -that's all. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."
He made it to leave, but William kept him in his place. He was no stranger to what the young man was going through: he too knew that there comes a point in every soldier's life that the absence from home becomes too much to bare. In his experience, talking about it usually helped. Also, all this talk about his old friend had left him feeling genuinely curious, and if there was a chance Robin knew him, he wasn't about to pass on the opportunity to hear a little about him.
"Nonsense! Tell me something: this friend of yours -he must be about my age, is he not? Or else my story wouldn't have made you think of him."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"Good. Now, I've told you already that Edward ended up marrying the girls whose goat he rescued. Was your friend married to someone named Kate?"
"He was a widower. I think his wife's name was Katherine, but she died before they moved to Nottingham. Childbirth, I think. The baby was stillborn."
William considered this information for a while.
"That sounds like Edward," he agreed. "He lost his wife and son in childbirth and moved away shortly after that. But my friend had a daughter, too. I can't remember her name right now, but if you give me a minute I may–"
"Marian," Robin supplied, and he was momentarily distracted by the sound of her name from his lips. It had been a while since he had last allowed himself to think of it, let alone voice it.
"Marian, yes! That was her name." He paused for a moment. "Well, look at that. It would appear as if you were right all along."
"It would appear so," Robin agreed, slightly surprised at this. Maybe his mind wasn't completely gone, then.
"So, what can you tell me about my old friend? Like I said, it's been many years since our paths crossed."
"Well, like I said, he moved to Nottinghamshire and he was made sheriff. He raised his daughter alone and the two of them came to be very respected among their people –or at least they were, four years ago. I really couldn't tell you what became of them after I came here."
"That's okay, you've been more than helpful. You've told me more than I had ever thought of learning from him. We were very close growing up, and I've often regretted not keeping in touch when I had a chance."
A sudden idea popped into Robin's mind. Maybe William's visit hadn't provided him with the information he so anxiously craved, but that didn't mean that it would be a total waste. He could still use him to his advantage, he thought.
"You should go then –to Nottingham."
"What?"
"Edward would love to see you; he's always talked most kindly of you," he lied with ease.
"Really?"
"Yes. I know for a fact that he would be very pleased if you were to visit him. It's been so long since any of his old mates did and I'm certain seeing you would be a most welcomed surprise."
The man considered this for a moment longer. Robin held his gaze, his expression betraying nothing.
The truth was that Edward had never mentioned a Sir William –even when he told his story, he had always talked about "my friend", but Robin had no doubt that he would still be happy to have his friend at his house. Besides, he wasn't doing this for Edward –or William.
This was for her.
It was an impulsive decision –he wasn't even trying to deny it. He had heard her name and suddenly he knew he had to do it, he had to contact her –whichever way he could. It was too late to send his letters now. After being gone for four years, he could hardly tell her about his journey over. Besides, a letter she could burn –a letter she could ignore. He had to make sure she got his message –the only message he was really interested in sending her.
"You should go, and you should tell him that Robin sent you with his deepest regards."
Tell him I'm still alive, he finished in his mind.
"I don't know... I'm not certain my wife would approve –I told her I would get straight back."
"And you will, don't worry. If you take the North Road, it will take you straight through Nottingham. I'm sure your wife wouldn't mind if you took one more day to come home to her, especially if she knew it was for a good cause. She must have heard the story about the goat and I bet she's grown quite fond of Edward, am I wrong?"
There was something about the way he talked that made him absolutely irresistible. William was usually a strong-tempered man –once his mind was set on something, it was set. He had come to the Holy Land with a purpose and he had decided he would go straight back home. If it had been anyone else who asked him, he would have probably waved them off. But this wasn't anyone else.
This was Robin.
Besides, was what he was asking so unreasonable? Visiting Edward would probably set him back one day –two at the most. Mary would probably not even notice. And he couldn't deny that he had missed his old friend. Perhaps not enough that he had gone out of his way trying to contact him for the past 20 years, but now that he knew for sure where he was, he couldn't deny that the whole thing sounded... appealing.
"You know, I think I might. Nottingham is only slightly out of my way –I think I could do it. Mary doesn't even need to know..."
Robin breathed a sigh of relief. There. It was done.
William would go to Nottingham and he would tell Edward that Robin was still alive and he in turn would –sooner or later, accidently or on purpose, joyfully or reluctantly– tell Marian. And she would know. She would know he was alive. And that he intended to make his way back to her.
It was with some surprise that he realized this –that by sending William to her he was actually sending her a promise: I've made it this far, I'll keep going for a while and then I'll go back to you.
He had never really thought about going back –at least not until the war was over and he could ride into Nottingham next to the King himself. He had always been afraid of what he would find if he did, so he had decided not to think about it until the time came. But he had had enough, apparently. All the fighting and the dead... He was tired and he wanted out. He wanted to go home.
It wasn't even a conscious decision –his heart had made it a long time ago and it was only now that his mind was catching up to him.
He was telling Marian that he wanted to go home –he always told her everything.
With William's promise that he would send his message, Robin felt more at ease than he had felt in years. And he continued to feel like that for many weeks –until he collapsed in the King's tent, clutching his left side where the Saracen had pierced his flesh. His last conscious thought was that it was really rotten luck that he had survived for four years only to die when he was so close to home...
In his dream she was waiting for him. Sitting in her bedroom, gazing out her window. Missing him. She would see him walking to her house and she would run out to meet him, bow in hand. She would be angry at him, she would try to push him away, but he would fall to his knees in front of her, hold her by the waist and told her how incredibly sorry he was for what he had done. She would eventually wrap her arms around his shoulders, press her cheek against the top of his head and she would tell him that he had been an idiot, but that she still loved him nonetheless.
"I've been a fool, Much," he said on one of the rare moments he could stay awake through the fever.
"Yes, you were," his friend replied, pressing a drenched cloth against his forehead. "You should have watched your back –or had someone watch it for you. If you had, then that Saracen wouldn't have caught you off guard and we wouldn't be here right now."
Robin waved an incredibly heavy arm dismissively.
"It's not that. Marian. I shouldn't have told her I was still alive –I should have left her alone."
The cloth slid from his head because Much was suddenly too stunned to keep it in place.
"You wrote to her?" he asked in disbelief, eying his master's quiver wearily.
Robin shook his head. "No. I told William to go to Nottingham. I sent him to her."
"Oh," his friend replied, not knowing what else to say. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I was afraid you wouldn't approve," he said, smiling sheepishly.
Much had learned early on that the fever usually brought out Robin's most honest side –the side he had always tried to keep hidden from the world. So, even though his heart ached for his friend, he decided to make the best of a terrible situation and asked a question that had been plaguing at his mind for years.
"You miss her?"
If he were conscious, Robin would probably deny it, but under the present circumstances, he just sighed.
"Yes. I never should have left her. I never should have come here."
It broke Much's heart to hear his master like this. It wasn't as if what he was telling him was exactly news –Much wasn't an idiot, and after almost 10 years he knew Robin better than he even realized. He had known from the get go that he would come to regret his decision –he had still gone with him, because it was his duty to do so, but deep down he had known that sooner rather than later Robin would have to deal with the mess he had gotten himself into and it would be him –Much– who would have to pick up the pieces.
That was why he had tried to get him to write to her at first –in the vague hopes that he could salvage some of his relationship with Marian. But he had given up once he realized that Robin was too proud to even admit how much he missed her.
There had been moments when he had actually believed that perhaps he had been wrong –that Robin could and had redone his life. But then he would hear him calling her name in his sleep and Much knew how wrong he was. They had never talked about this, though; he had never had the heart to confess to his master that he knew he still dreamt of her and Robin had never voluntarily talked about it.
Until now.
"Then you must get better," Much said softly, repositioning the cloth on his master's forehead. "For her. So you can go and tell her yourself that you're fine."
Robin laughed –or at least he tried to laugh; it sounded pained and strangled.
"I think it's a little too late for that, Much."
There was a quiet resignation behind his green eyes and Much suddenly knew what was going on in his friend's mind.
"No," he said resolutely, getting to his feet and taking a step back, horrified. Robin could not do this now –not after all this time, not when they were so close to going back.
He was giving up.
"But you can," he continued, struggling into a sitting position. "You can go back to England and tell her that–"
"No," Much said again. "No, stop this –now. I'm not going back to England without you. I'm not telling Marian that –that you– I'm not telling her anything!"
"She needs to know."
"Then you will have to tell her!"
Robin collapsed back on his bunk and Much moved closer to him out of instinct.
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that –you can't do this to me, Robin! You can't die right now –not after everything we both went through. I need you to keep holding on for a little while longer." He could see that he was slipping, so he tried another avenue. "Marian needs you to hold on."
It worked. Robin opened his eyes and focused his tortured gaze on his friend.
"I'm just so... tired," he explained. "All the fighting, the death... I can't do it anymore, Much."
"I know you can't –I can't either. That's why you need to get through this –so we can go back home. You want to go home, don't you? To Locksley, to Sherwood... Everyone will be so happy that you're back, Robin! I bet Thornton will have a feast in your honour and there will be pork, and venison, and beef... Oh, what I wouldn't give for some beef right now..." He ventured a glance in his friend's direction and he noticed with some alarm that his eyes were closed again, and his breathing was more laboured. Choking down a sob, he went on. "I'm sure Marian will be there too –even if, you know... She'll want to know you're alright."
He had thought long and hard about the day when he would finally return home. He had played many different scenarios in his mind: most of the time it would be both Robin and him returning together, like they were supposed to. But, occasionally, he would try to imagine what it would be like returning alone, with only the memory of his former master to keep him company. What he would find in Locksley would also change from time to time, but there was one thing that had remained the same in each of his fantasies: Marian would be there –always.
He had thought a lot about her too –tried to imagine what it had become of her life. He had tried to imagine her married to someone else, lady of another manor, but for some reason he couldn't reconcile the image he had of her as a little girl with that of someone else's wife. After all, he had been there through it all: he knew Marian enough to be certain that she would never be happier than she was with Robin.
She was every bit as stubborn as Robin, though, so he was fairly certain she would never admit to missing him –especially when it had been solely his fault that they had spent so much time apart. She would be angry, rightfully so, but most of all she would be relieved. Married or not, she would not rest until she knew her friend was safely home. And if she had gotten Robin's message, then Much was sure that she would be expecting good news and he was certainly not looking forward to being the one who had to tell her that Robin was gone.
"To be perfectly honest," he continued conversationally. "She quite scares me sometimes. She plays the part of innocent, but I know how deadly she can be. That's why I need you to come with me, Robin," he added more seriously. "You're the only one who can stop her when she gets in one of her –murderous moods."
He thought he saw a tiny smile across Robin's face, but he couldn't be sure. When he tried asking him about it, he didn't respond. He was unconscious.
And he continued to be for three whole days. The physician that treated him told Much to prepare himself for the worst.
She was still in his dreams, but he could never reach her, surrounded as he was by fire. The flames were consuming him and every time he tried to take a step towards her, they pushed him back. He tried calling her name, but either she couldn't hear him or she didn't care. He tried to tell her he was sorry, but still she didn't move.
Time passed –how much he couldn't tell. Slowly –oh, so very slowly. If it hadn't been for her presence, he would have imagined he was dead already and this was his own personal hell. But she was there, so he knew he was still alive. She had no place in hell.
But then, suddenly, it got marginally better. It was still hot, but not dreadfully so. He still couldn't get closer to her, but at the very least she could hear her.
Come home, she was telling him.
He tried to tell her that he couldn't move, but she didn't care.
Come home to me, she said again.
It was hard to tell who looked more surprised when he opened his eyes: Much, at seeing that he had made a full recovery against all odds; or himself, at finding out that the King had gone south and left orders for him to return to England.
"But we don't need to leave right away," the man explained hastily. "We can stay for a few weeks, until we're sure you are alright."
"A few days," he corrected him, smiling in a way Much hadn't seen him do in a while. "And then we're going."
"We are?" he was confused; he would have expected more of a fight –he had even spent the last three days compelling a list of reasons why they could not go after the King, thinking that was what Robin would want to do once he woke up.
"We are," he agreed. "To England."
"Really?"
"Yes, Much. We are going home."