Disclaimer: I do not own Rowan Hood in any sphere of the imagination.
A/N: And we're back! More serious whump this chapter, but I promise it has purpose in the story arc! Hopefully enjoy, and please read and review.
Rook marched forward, driven by the dagger pressed to his back. The Sheriff forced him to lead, like a dog, the rope from his bound hands serving as a leash. Through the forest they traveled. All the while, Rook said a silent prayer to the lady for any opportunity to escape before they reached their destination. He could not lead them astray as he had planned, for the Sheriff knew of the camp they were looking for. He was caught, and had no choice but to venture towards Robin's oak- and towards certain death. Once led to the outlaw's camp, Rook reasoned, he would be of no more use to the Sheriff. He would be killed.
Rook moved only as slowly as he dared. Though his wounds ached , the Sheriff drove a pace fit to exhaust him. At every rest or hesitation in his direction, the knife bore further into Rook's back. But he refused to show more than a wince, and bit his lip against the pain. As they sloshed through the creek not but a little ways from the Rowan Hollow, Rook fell. He slipped along the rocks and cried out as the stone engraved a jagged cut along his forearm. His blood mixed with the water, water he knew to have its source at the Hollow's spring. In that moment he felt a pang of loneliness. What he would give to have his friends with him now…Perhaps it was better this way. No one else would have to get hurt.
He was driven from his revelry as the Sheriff pulled him upright and urged him onward. They continued, Rook growing more desperate as the foliage thickened: a telling sign of the camp's disguise. Would Robin be there? Rook panicked at the thought. If he were to betray Robin to his death…It was unlikely the outlaw would have returned already, but that knowledge did not ease Rook's racing mind. Either way, a grim fate awaited him at the end of the road.
Rook passed through the close branches of maple, ducking his head to avoid them. Beyond lay the camp. Rook's heart skipped: it was deserted. The remnants of a fire were scattered about, an empty cook pot strung over the ashes. The pile of deerskins sat untouched at the head of a low wooden table. Not a soul could be seen, not even by the oak that marked the center of the camp.
The Sheriff appeared beside Rook, his eyes searching the camp for a moment before his eyebrows arched downward in anger. The man strode to the left, than the right, coming to stand by the empty cook pot. In one swift motion he sent the pot and its rigging into the ashes with a crash. Rook jumped at the sound, anticipating in fear the wrath that was about to be expelled by the man before him.
"Where is he!" The Sheriff roared. The man rounded on him and came at the outlaw in a fury. He seized Rook by the hair and pulled him close to his face. He seethed,
"Where IS he?" Rook gazed into the man's eyes, using all of his control to keep steady and show no emotion. He would not let him see that he was afraid. The Sheriff shook him by the shoulders.
"Well? Answer me, you outlaw rat! Where is he?"
Upon receiving no answer, the Sheriff drew back a fist and slammed it into Rook's face. The boy saw stars. Before he could regain his bearings, the Sheriff lashed out at him with a manner of blows, attacking his chest, stomach, head, and face. Rook could do nothing to shield himself. He took the beating with his teeth clenched, grunts of pain accompanying the sound of fist on flesh. One hard punch to the jaw and Rook crumpled to the earth. The Sheriff kicked him between the ribs, causing him to sputter and gasp for breath. The Sheriff bore down on him, wrapping his hands around the boy's throat and squeezing firmly. He choked the life from him and exclaimed harshly,
"You've crossed me too many times!" Rook writhed where he lay, eyes wide in terror, knowing in that moment that his death was upon him.
"Mercy," He gasped. "Please, mercy!"
"You are of no more use to me. You die here and now, outlaw." The Sheriff hissed. He tightened his grip, and Rook could see black spots moving in around the corners of his vision.
"Sir?" Came the voice of one of the Sheriff's men.
"Not now!" The Sheriff growled.
"It's Hood, sir. He's been sighted."
Instantly, the pressure on Rook's windpipe lifted, and he coughed heavily, desperate for breath. For the moment the Sheriff's attention was diverted.
"Where?" He questioned, scathingly.
"The North Road. He's been spotted heading around the bend, coming this way." The Sheriff appeared thoughtful as he considered the new information. Rook took the opportunity to gulp in deep breaths, now that his death sentence seemed temporarily revoked.
"Shall we position for a surprise capture, my lord?" Another of the guards asked.
"No. He will be cautious in returning. We shall head him off." The Sheriff's eyes drifted to Rook with glistening malice.
"Perhaps this boy has one last use for my cause. Tell me, is there a mantrap by the North Road?"