Don't run in a straight line, Robin reminded himself as he dashed away from Gisbourne and his guards, who were armed with bows to bring him down and swords to finish him off. Men can't hit an unpredictably moving target. Well, other men can't.
His pride in his skill with the bow only served to heighten the struggle going on within him. Stop running. Stop being hunted, like an animal. Turn, and shoot. Kill him. He deserves to die.
The consuming hatred he'd felt toward Gisbourne when he discovered he was the traitor responsible for trying to kill the king, thereby ending the Peace Pact being negotiated in the Holy Land, came flooding back in waves. How many more men will die, on both sides, because of your cowardly act of Treason, Traitor? On top of that, images of Locksley's kind, hardworking, once happy people, now crushed, terrified, brutalized by their tall, sneering, monstrous master tortured Robin's thoughts, along with the conflicting, equally heart wrenching image of that same monster wooing and winning Marian's heart, mind, and body.
You smiled at him! Really smiled, and held out your hand! You believed him!
Turn, and shoot. One arrow, and it's done. Consider it self-defense. After all, he's trying to kill me.
No. He wouldn't kill, wouldn't spill Gisbourne's vile blood, when it wasn't absolutely necessary. He was not God, to decide who should live and who should die. But it took all his will not to stop, turn, and do it.
Sucking air into his near bursting lungs, Robin tumbled purposely into one of the many hiding places his gang had fashioned in the forest, disappearing from Gisbourne and his guards in an instant.
"Where is he?" Gisbourne quietly snarled, reining his lathered horse to a stop. "Where did he go?"
His guards sat upon their exhausted mounts, eyes wide with fear. "My lord," the boldest of them ventured, "we need to turn back. We've never been this deep, off the roads, into the forest. It's said these woods are filled with fey folk, who can snatch a grown man away, in an instant!"
Furious, Gisbourne roared out an oath. "Fools!" he then bellowed. "Find Hood, now! Search every inch of this forest! We don't leave this place, until we drag Hood's broken, bleeding body out of here! He dies, today."
A white feathered arrow hissed by Gisbourne's nose, nearly giving him a scar to match the one Robin's arrow had previously seared on his cheek.
"His men!" Gisbourne breathed, gulping back fear.
Gisbourne's men froze, terrified that none of them would make it out of the forest alive.
A second arrow, sizzling far too close for comfort, decided their master. "Retreat!" Gisbourne ordered, steering his horse around to lead the way home.
Once their horse's thundering hoofbeats could no longer be heard, Robin threw back his cover of leaves, and emerged from his hiding hole. Much, panting with anxiety, ran forward to greet him.
"Thank you, my friend," Robin told him, seriously.
"Are you alright?" Much asked.
Rather than answering with his customary brisk nod of his head, Robin surprised Much by blinking back tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.
"Master?" Much asked.
Robin didn't seem able to answer, or even move. He merely stood, helplessly looking at Much, his eyes pleading, the picture of despair.
In two steps, Much closed the gap between them and held his friend in a brotherly embrace, letting him silently cry out the anguish grieving his broken heart.