RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

PART III - GUY

'I am bound upon a wheel of fire
That mine own tears do scald like molten lead.'

"Rise and shine, Gisborne."

Another dull, thudding pain coursed through his side. He groaned, feeling the slickness of moisture trickling from his dark hair across his brow. Fingers probed slowly and came away, wet with (sweat? blood?) -

"Gisborne!"

This time, the Sherriff's voice was sharp enough to cut through the fog of confusion that clouded his mind, and slowly, Guy opened his eyes. The grey stone walls of the cell in Acre swam into focus, and closer still, Vaisey's familiar and loathed face, hooded eyes alight with madness and intent… Guy felt his blood turn to ice as a low dread settled in his gut. He knew that look. Something has happened.

Before his ribs could face his master's further displeasure, Guy eased his stiff body upright with a grimace of pain as he looked around the barren cell, straining for clarity. Over the dark shadow of Vaisey's hunched shoulders, bars of pale moonlight illumined the flagstones and the discarded pair of manacles that trailed from the wall. A stream of wine coursed like a tributary of blood across the floor, and his uncertain gaze followed its path to where the door was thrown wide open -

Marian.

He started towards the door at once, the sudden movement almost causing another groan to escape his lips as blinding pain lanced through his temples (oh, do stop whining, Gisborne. A little pain never hurt anyone. Get it?… a little pain.. oh, nevermind).

He stared down the torchlit corridor, his heart thudding. Marian - where was she -?

"She's not here," Vaisey said quietly, examining his reflection idly in the goblet he had picked up from the floor. A shadow stirred in Guy's memory, but he fought it down, refusing to believe -

"Then where -?"

"Our little bird, it seems, has flown the nest."

Guy felt the darkness rushing in once more and had to grip the edges of the table to steady himself. His head swam. There was a roaring in his ears as he dragged in one unsteady breath after another. Feeling himself teetering on the precipice of madness -

"No," he said, when he could finally trust himself to speak. He clung stubbornly to denial, the hard line of his jaw tensing. "She can't have." The words left him, harsh and grating. "Where would she go?"

"Oh, it gets better." Vaisey's voice was still deceptively soft, and Guy was attuned to the Sherriff's mercurial nature well enough by now to recognise that forewarning of danger - the one that usually precluded an outburst of violent rage. "Our meddling Marian has gone straight to Robin Hood with all our plans for King Richard."

"Robin Hood is dead," said Guy bluntly. His temples throbbed again and his skin was burning with a dry, feverish fire. Was this some new game Vaisey was playing with him, a final test of his loyalty?

"Oh, no. Our band of mercenaries we sent to take care of him didn't quite finish the job. While you were playing kiss and tell with the Lady Marian, our spies discovered their camp a couple of miles outside of Acre." He leaned forward, each word punctuated with deliberate intent. "Hood is back in the Holy Land."

Vaisey sighed deeply, and if Guy had believed the Sherriff capable of any humanity, he might have thought the sympathy and regret in his voice was genuine. "She's abandoned you again, Guy. Just like she did when her Daddy died."

A violent shudder passed through his body. Impossible - she wouldn't - not after what has passed between us -

"No." Guy despised himself for the note of pleading that crept into his low voice. "She felt something for me. I know she did."

"And yet the first chance she gets, she runs off to your sworn enemy." Vaisey clicked his tongue, tutting softly.

He couldn't listen to this. It had to be a trick, a lie, some awful misunderstanding. Yet the open door yawned wide, the deserted corridor a testament to every terrible word that Vaisey uttered. Guy stared at him, uncomprehending. Where was the eruption of anger, the withering accusations of incompetence, the vicious crack of a backhand? How could he stand there, so maddeningly calm, while he was both burning and freezing?

The Sherriff extinguished the last of the candles between a thumb and forefinger, and the acrid tang of smoke filled the nocturnal air. "Did she try to sweet-talk you, hmm? Did she promise to be a good girl?"

Guy felt as though he had been flayed. The Sherriff's cruel words were stripping away his flesh, piece by piece. He pressed his head against his burning hands, fingers branding deep lines between his brows. A cry was rising inside him, wild and bestial, that of a wounded animal with a spear in its side. The close, suffocating air closed around him and he could not breathe -

A consolatory murmur. "All those times you protected her and she stabs you in the back..."

"Enough!" Guy wrenched himself away, hand flying to the hilt of his sword as a wild, maddening fury filled him. He was a creature trapped in a snare, savage and snarling. The blood was beating in his ears in a frenzy as he saw it all with devastating clarity. Unchaining her hands, the goblet of wine, leaving the door open… everything he'd done had played into her hands. She must have planned this from the first. Why else choose this night of all nights to make her plea when for weeks now she had greeted him only with cold looks and sullen indifference?

"Do you really think it was just secrets she was sharing with Hood? Grow up, Gisborne."

He twisted away from the sly implication of Vaisey's words, but unbidden, tormenting images rose to his mind. Her coy smiles that hinted at unspoken promises, the teasing lightness in her voice, the soft touch of a hand on his arm, and - the memory slid like a knife's blade between his ribs - decked in scarlet feathers and furs as the vile Bavarian Count whispered sweet nothings in her ear while Guy had smouldered in steadily gathering fury - and Hood, Hood with his audacious looks and the mockery in his voice... all this time he must have known and been laughing all the while -

Had he really been such a fool to believe that her smiles and touches had been for him alone? Deceit dripped from her every word, each seemingly innocent action a calculated move to mislead him further. Behind those guileless blue eyes and earnest entreaties, she had simply been waiting, biding her time.

He closed his eyes against the flash of raw pain. Just when he had thought... when he'd dared to believe there was finally a chance for them… it had all been a lie. Betrayed, yet again. He had thought there was no more agony Marian could possibly inflict on him, but this last betrayal cut deeper than anything he had yet suffered at her hands. His breaths came fast and strong as he clenched his fists, slowly flexing his fingers that still burned with the sanctity of her touch. The taste of her was branded on his lips. So soft, so sweet and yielding. So different from the stubbornness and rigid steel that was the Marian he knew. He had fortified himself against the heat of her anger and her cold disdain, but her submission had utterly unmanned him. The Night Watchman she might be, but she had never needed blows or weapons to break through his defences. It was her softness that destroyed him, those moments - just glimmers - when her icy facade faltered and she let him in. Blinded by love, he had convinced himself of the pure sincerity of her desire, stunned by the bliss of having her so close, the fierce press of her lips and fevered tenderness of her body entwining so effortlessly with his… he almost groaned aloud. God help him, had there ever been a moment more perfect? All that passion and fire and willfulness, for once, had been for him, and only for him.

How is it possible - in my arms - that she felt nothing -

She had offered him a glimpse of heaven, but he might have known it was all a mockery in the end. Everything had gone to hell the moment she had been mad enough to try and kill the Sherriff. What bitter folly and delusion had made him believe that things could be different? And yet that treacherous hope had stirred within him, drawn out by her appealing glances and professions of his goodness. He had wanted to be the knight in shining armour, the one to rescue her from the cruel confines of her prison. And she, the damsel in distress… She would save him in return, cleanse him of his past sins with her love and the shining gratitude in her eyes. Of course, being Marian, she would have made a show of resistance, playing coy and maddeningly aloof at first, but she would love him in the end. He would be rewarded with her heart and her hand. Even in the weeks of the long, agonising journey to Acre he had clung to that belief, clung to it with a delirious fervency. His nights had been plagued with visions of her coming to him, whispering words of penitence and promise. Blue eyes wide and soulful as she kissed away the wounds of their past. How often he had envisioned her body, pale in the moonlight, as she sighed under his caresses, and it was always his name on her lips. Guy. Guy. At last, utterly open and unguarded, no shadow of another man between them.

But it was Hood she had wanted all along, Hood to whom she had fled and his arms in which she sought solace. His heart twisted. And God knows what else.

Once more, he recalled the proud carelessness in her voice, the wilful toss of her head. Trust me, I haven't given myself to anybody... not yet.

He would have given his soul to believe her, and just a few short hours ago, he would have sworn blind that she was telling the truth. She had played the part of the maiden too well; her uncertainty as he approached, the tentativeness in her touches. In their prior encounters, he had always sensed the nervous inexperience behind her wall of frosty dignity, yet he had felt the tension in her body, the shaky, unsteady breaths that betrayed her desire... no. Not desire. Fear. Revulsion. He had deceived himself, too willing to believe the old lie: she has come to me at last. There had been no love there. She had simply offered herself up as a martyr for her beloved cause. The only heat and passion in her heart were for throwing herself onto the pyre. The pyre which she saw as marriage to him. A fate worse than death.

His humiliation was complete. In that last, contemptible moment of weakness, he could have clung to Vaisey and wept like a child had all the tears not been burned out of him. He bowed his head, damp strands of black hair falling over his brow, and gave himself up to despair.

Lost in the depths of corroding envy, bitter disillusion, and the ruination of all his hopes, Vaisey's soft voice called to him like the flicker of a dying candle. "I have a mission for you."

With nothing else left, Guy stirred himself from his own black thoughts. With the fur-lined shadowy cloak swathed around his shoulders, eyes glinting with malice in the darkness of the cell, the Sherriff looked like the devil himself.

"What mission?" Guy asked wearily. What did it matter anymore? King Richard, the Black Knights, it all meant nothing. Power seemed a hollow thing now, a poor consolation for what had once been within his grasp.

"Oh, you'll like it. I have a contingent of men, ready to attack Hood's camp. Why don't you go along with them and pay our Lady Leper friend a visit?"

His heart gave a sickening lurch. Vaisey had chosen his moment well. The Sherriff had always seen Marian far more clearly than he ever had, that diabolical, ruthless mind unclouded by any sentiment. How long had he foreseen this precise outcome, calculating the right time to strike? Everything had been leading to this final choice. This, then, was the true test of his loyalty, the price he must pay for ultimate power. Steel glimmered in the darkness as the Sherriff drew out a dagger, laying it deliberately on the table between them. Guy dared not move, dared not speak. The room felt closer, suffocating, airless.

"A little something for the Lady Marian. A token of my regard."

Slowly, Guy raised his head and stared at Vaisey with burning eyes. Dimly, from some far away place, a part of him reflected on the bitter irony that only an hour before, Marian had stood before him, offering the same impossible proposition. Kill the Sherriff. Save the King. Marian might dress her words up with pretty ideas of honour and justice, yet in the end, she was still using him as a tool for her own ends, wielding him as a weapon of destruction to bring her enemy down. His lips curled back from his teeth in a contemptuous sneer. Had he been so easily led? Is this what they both thought of him? A whipped cur, only capable of following the orders of its master with no mind or will of his own?

Some last flickering embers of resistance stirred in the ashes of his heart. "No," said Guy with grim determination, "I'll find her, bring her back here -"

"Enough!" roared Vaisey, and Guy flinched at the deranged fury in his voice. "I want her dead! Dead, do you hear me? Women! I'll give you a hundred if that's what you want!" He slammed a fist down on the table and Guy cringed, awaiting the inevitable blow that would follow. He had learned over the years to endure Vaisey's wrath, the bruises and the burns suffered in silence, each mark of violence a reminder that conscience and compassion would not be tolerated. He braced himself for any one of the thousand possible forms of punishment to fall. Strike me then. Nothing would come close to the pain he already felt beneath the skin.

But just as swiftly, the violent burst of anger passed with that deadly unpredictability of the truly mad. Instead, the Sherriff leaned in, all softness and smiles, his closeness both disorientating and perversely comforting. Guy swallowed hard, the air dusty and bone-dry.

"You've done it before, haven't you, Guy?" he murmured. That drawl curled in all the old, familiar places, seeking out the blackest corners of his soul and settling there comfortably. "The Night Watchman? With your own dagger. I think it's time to finish what you started."

Guy shuddered at the memory. He still remembered the raw, savage elation he had felt when he plunged his dagger into the Night Watchman's side. Then how that moment of vindication had turned to sickness and horror a year later when Marian had shown him the curved scar on her smooth, unblemished skin; her perfection tainted by his vile handiwork...

And still, Vaisey prodded, inflicting newer, deeper wounds with every honeyed phrase. "Tell me: are you a Black Knight? Or a lovesick fool? Which is it, Gisborne?"

"I am… yours to command."

The Sherriff reached out and Guy instinctively flinched, fearing some new onslaught of violence, but the hand on his cheek was gentle and fatherly, the shadow of a caress in those ringed fingers resurrecting the ghost of a familial love almost too long gone to remember. Guy shuddered with revulsion, yet deeper still there stirred the old ache, more fierce than life itself, for acceptance, to be valued and seen and understood completely. Vaisey bent closer, his voice as soft and sweet as a lover's. "Tell me, Guy. Who is it that has never betrayed you, hmm? Never abandoned you? Who has always stood by your side, rewarding you for your loyalty?"

"You," whispered Guy hoarsely.

Vaisey smiled, beatifically. "Me," he repeated softly.

It was done. There was no turning back now. Stripped of all control, he felt himself being compelled onward by a will stronger than his own; he had put it beyond his own power to stop.

He tried to turn away, but Vaisey's hold was too strong, cupping his cheek with troubling familiarity. The lines around his eyes deepened as his smile turned vulpine, full of satisfaction and knowing. It's better this way. Just us. "There's a good boy," he said.

Guy stared unwillingly into the face of the man he hated, the man to whom he owed everything, the sole god and master of his existence. The man that, just a short time ago, he would have killed for Marian's sake. He closed his eyes, blackening despair rushing over him. Vaisey had been right all along; humanity was meaningless, hell was on earth, and nothing mattered except power.

There was nothing in his heart now but murderous rage, the burning desire for reprisal and hellfire. Hood would die first. Slow, agonising, painful. He would have the grim satisfaction of looking upon his foe face to face before driving his sword deep in his chest, Hood's bleeding heart stopped once and for all. After all, he was the one to blame for all this. Had the Lord of Locksley never returned from the Holy Land, there was no doubt in Guy's heart that Marian would have been his wife by now. He could have courted and won her honourably, with no deceptions or threats or lies between them. But Hood had poisoned their chance of happiness, turning her against him almost the very moment he had begun to seek her hand in earnest. How clear it all was now… her evasiveness, the way she held him at arm's length, that distance between them that he could never quite cross… his breathing accelerated in his anger... Robin too would know how it felt to have his still-beating heart torn from his chest.

His hand closed around the hilt of the knife, the lust for vengeance hardening into cold certainty. Let Marian see her lover's heart cast at her feet and then she would see he was not a man who would harbour slights lightly. Knighton Hall had been a warning, one she had not heeded. She had always underestimated the darkness in him. Once more, he heard Vaisey's voice at his shoulder, whispering in his ear. I think it's time to finish what you started. He could feel the cold perspiration on his brow. Would he? Could he?

That question had always haunted him, lingering uncomfortably at the back of his mind. Did he have the power to hurt her? Marian had always thought him too weak. Even when lying at his feet, utterly defeated, his blood had boiled at the contempt that laced her voice. Taunting and provocative as she goaded him ever closer into madness. Don't you have the courage to finish this yourself? After all my so-called betrayals? You should be glad to do it.

He would show no mercy. Not this time. He had entered her cell this evening prepared to dominate her with sneers and scornful words. Yet somehow, he had fallen a penitent on his knees, shed of all pride, ready to sacrifice his dreams of power and position that had sustained him through the long years and beg for her hand. He was the true prisoner, and she the jailor who could save or damn him with a mere word. The injustice of it fueled the resentment simmering beneath his skin. What was the use of having a heart when it rendered him so contemptibly weak and helpless? She had crushed it without a moment's thought. All the while convinced of her own superiority, wielding her morality over him like a sword of judgement.

He had always begrudgingly admired her unshakeable confidence in herself, her power and her principles, even as he resented her for it. She wore her privilege as though it were the lightest of silks, while he had walked through blood and fire to grasp at just a fraction of what had been hers by birthright. Was she really so naive to the reality that before he could marry her, he must make something of himself first, to be utterly secure in fortune and favour? That only then could he truly protect her? Well, if she would not allow him to protect her, then she must accept him punishing her instead. He had never wanted her to fear him. Given the chance, he could have loved her more gently and tenderly than any man ever loved a woman. The shadows beneath his eyes deepened as his brows drew together with darkening anger. You are nothing to me now.

The soft tapping at the door startled him, and Guy turned in an instant, knife half-raised against the dark-swathed figure who emerged from the shadows of the corridor. Then he caught the gleam of cunning in the Vaisey's eyes as the two men exchanged a look and understood that this had been a pre-arranged signal. Yet nothing of the sort betrayed itself in the Sherriff's hearty voice as he threw out his black-clad arms in welcome.

"Ah! Nasir, my dear boy. Is everything ready?"

The Saracen nodded. "All ready, my lord. My men await your instructions."

Guy stared at him in distrust. A sly, sneaking contemptible creature, he thought disdainfully. Slippery as black pitch, like all these Saracens. And these were the Turks that King Richard sought to make peace with? His lip curled with contempt. He knew what treachery looked like and this one would turn on them in a moment for a bag of gold, for all he might wear the Sherriff's insignia.

Vaisey however, only leaned forward eagerly. "And if Hood's camp is guarded? They raise the alarm?"

Nasir only smiled and held out a small gold phial. The Sherriff's eyes gleamed with that curious fascination that was always aroused whenever he saw a new means to cause pain or torture. He reached out a hand greedily, his face lit with unhealthy passion.

However, Nasir's fist closed around the vial and he smiled enigmatically. "Not too close, my Lord. One inhalation of this and a man will sleep like the dead."

Vaisey gave a terrible rictus of a smile. A gleam of gold flashed where his tooth had once been. "Oh, very good. And if things don't go to plan? You have our… additional message for the King?"

He nodded and bowed his head, retreating from the room silently as a shadow. Vaisey watched his departure approvingly.

"You see that, Gisborne? That's what I like about these Saracens. Pure, ruthless efficiency."

"Indeed," murmured Guy, understanding Vaisey well enough to know that the Sherriff's seemingly innocuous words carried a note of warning with them: Do not fail me again.

He would not. He could not. Without Vaisey, he would have nothing. After he had lost everything, he had sworn to hold lands in his name again, to reclaim his status and standing. That desire, burning bright and fierce, had sustained him through the long nights when he had brooded over his past wrongs in silent bitterness. Vowing with grim resolution that nothing would turn him aside from his goal. He had sold his own sister. He had killed men beyond the counting. Year after year, step by brutal step, one heinous crime after another; now everything he had sought for was within his grasp. Was he to stumble at the final hurdle? His position was already precarious. Not too long ago, Vaisey's knife had been held to his throat, teeth bared in a contemptuous snarl. Last chance, Gisborne.

"Come along then. Oh, and - bring me back a souvenir, will you? We are on holiday, after all." He chuckled at his own black humour.

Guy tried to smirk in the old, habitual manner, but could only manage a grimace. It was not only Marian that was lost to him. In this small, darkened cell, something had irrevocably altered between the Sherriff and himself. He had been asked to do the vilest, most contemptible thing he could ever imagine, and for that, he would despise Vaisey forever. I will have power, and position. And one day, when you think yourself secure, when you are not watching, I will make you pay for this. But Guy buried that thought, concealed it deep in his heart and thought only of the target for his revenge within his reach: Hood. Beyond that, he dared not venture.

He pulled his black gloves on, noting with a detached surprise how steady his hands were. But then, why should he be afraid? There was nothing left to feel. The situation was beyond his control. Vaisey could not be fought. He could never be fought. The Sherriff was too strong and he was too weak. He had never been able to resist him. Not with Lambert, not with Winchester. That dominating presence was a force of nature, burning hotter than metal. I may not like him. But I need him.

There was no Marian here to appeal to his better nature, no Allan to cool his wrath. His jaw tightened. Allan, another cruel twist of the knife. If Hood had survived - and Allan was with him - well, that would be another reckoning. On the road to Portsmouth, fool that he was, he had started to believe there had been something - not a friendship, but an affinity, perhaps, a certain understanding. More smooth lies from a silver tongue… how Vaisey must have laughed to see him duped, yet again…

Rage almost blinded him then, and had Allan stood before him, Guy could have killed him with his bare hands. Hate had eclipsed his grief and he needed only an outlet to unleash his ferocious howling rage. A memory stirred in him then, a burning brand held in his hand and Marian's face, pale and terrified as she begged, pleaded - not for herself, she would never stoop to that - but for her home, her beloved father, while the furnace of his own anger roared brighter, fiercer, and all mercy in his heart withered and died.

She's made her choice.


They rode in silence, passing out of the town unhindered until the crumbling white white walls gave way to endless sand and solitude. The desert night had cooled, though the air remained dry and parched, dust swirling in faint clouds around the tracks left by the horses. He had never been able to breathe in this accursed place, hating the unforgivingly hot days and the sultry nights. Yet this was the closest to freedom he had felt in weeks, finally liberated from the confines of barred doors and shuttered windows, away from Vaisey's close watchful eye. Yet Guy was not so naive as to be unaware that while his leash had been loosened, it was by no means removed. This was a test, and his first mission to the Holy Land had already failed. Had he succeeded all those years ago, how different things might have been now… the titles and riches bestowed upon him, a loving Marian at his side and lands in his name...

He realised how much he missed Locksley, though when he had been there, he resented how much the presence of Hood still pervaded the estate, seeming to breathe in the very walls. But now he longed for it. The wide, open green spaces, the warmth of a hearth to melt away the night's chill. How many evenings had he stared into the fire, goblet in hand, reflecting that there had been only one more thing needed to make the homestead complete… he shook away the image in anger, dismissing the dream that was forever lost to him.

And yet… doubts had crept in now that the first fit of madness had passed, filling him with uncertainty. How could Marian have known that Hood was alive when her every movement had been watched from Nottingham to Portsmouth to the Holy Land? Why had she simply fled, instead of trying to kill the Sherriff as she had so clearly desired? Why had she deserted him at the precise moment he had agreed to do all she asked? He even found himself wondering whether Hood himself had broken in and taken her against her will, before scornfully dismissing such wild fantasies. When had Marian's actions ever made sense to him? What did it all matter in the end? She had betrayed him and there could be no forgiveness. He would not give her the chance to deceive him again.

The vast shelf of land began to dip slightly in a gently rolling descent and it was only at a murmured word from one of his companions that Guy finally saw what it was that he had been seeking. A makeshift campsite, nestled in among the dunes, invisible to all but the closest approach. The dying remnants of a fire had smouldered to embers, casting faint, flickering shadows on the sole tent that stood upon a rocky outcrop. Dark shadows that may have been sleeping figures were huddled outside, and there was the soft whinnying of horses. Even this far outside of Acre, Hood had not been remiss, for one of the men was seated at the edge of the promontory, serving as a guard. With a sudden flash of anger, Guy recalled all the intricate stratagems he had devised to come upon the outlaws in the woods by stealth and how each time he had been forced to crawl back to Vaisey empty-handed, to be greeted by contemptuous sneers and bruising fists. Well, this was to be his day of reckoning for every failure and damning humiliation Hood had heaped upon him. This time, he had surprise on his side and Locksley was out of his element.

He dismounted in one swift motion, booted feet passing silently across the sands as he dared to move closer, beckoning his companions forward with a swift jerk of the head. In spite of the darkness, the open expanse of desert provided little cover, yet his approach remained unhindered. The horses did not so much as stir at the strangers' approach. His hand crept towards his belt, ready to draw Vaisey's knife at a moment's notice, but there was still no sign of movement from the sentry. He was close enough now to recognise the figure. Hood's man-servant. His head was bowed in his hunched sitting position, ridiculous cap slipping low over his forehead. Guy allowed himself a malevolent smile at this easy beginning. The fool was asleep.

"Kill him," said Guy shortly.

He imagined Hood's face on seeing the death of his most loyal servant. It dulled the ache a little. The Saracen at his side - Nasir, he realised at a sidelong glance - raised a curved scimitar -

That clattered to the ground as the Saracen gave a low cry and pulled sharply back, a feathered shaft sticking out of his arm. Guy released a slow breath. "Hood," he muttered.

He cast his gaze around wildly and there they were, dark figures in desert garb, running towards them. Hood's man-servant - Bonchurch, Guy thought contemptuously - was already crawling away, crying out, "I wasn't asleep! I wasn't -"

He drew his sword with a sharp ringing of metal, the blood pounding in his temples as he braced himself for the onslaught. The time for stealth had passed. This was to be brutal and bloody. With half a dozen men at his side, they were fairly evenly matched, though he knew that Hood had faced worse odds than this and emerged victorious -

That all-familiar whistling twang hummed through the air. Guy threw himself to one side, the leather pad of his shoulder bearing the brunt of his fall, rolling over as an arrow thudded harmlessly into the ground. He inhaled a mouthful of dust, coughing as he got to his feet with a curse. More cries, closer now. He was glowering, seething with energy. Alright, Hood, he thought. I'm ready for you. A twisted sneer distorted his features as his leathern fingers tightened on the hilt of his broadsword. Killing you once won't be enough.

But it was not Hood that came for him, but one of his companions, a great bear of a man. Guy ducked the first violent blow of the staff - a swing so brutal it would have broken his neck had he reacted less quickly - and drove the hilt of his sword into his attacker's legs with a strength born of fury. Impossibly, he felt the man's knees buckle, like the felling of a great oak, and pushed his advantage further, not daring to give his opponent the opportunity to use his superior size and strength. He grabbed the man's shoulders, leather fingers digging into hard muscle, and his booted foot collided with the massive chest and he felt a dark burst of satisfaction at the grunt of pain that elicited.

He was panting for breath, perspiration running down from his hairline. He clenched his fists in frustration. Hood's men were nothing to him, too insignificant to be worthy of his notice, though he might have relished a confrontation with Allan. The anodyne to grief he had sought through bloodshed and violence eluded him. One thing alone could satisfy him. He needed to find Marian. Nothing else mattered.

The desert night was cool, yet he could feel himself sweating beneath the leathers. There was no sign of the Night Watchman - of Marian. His gaze fell again on the solitary tent, deceptively silent and still amid the surrounding chaos. Some instinct filled him and he knew. Hood could wait. Stealthily, he made his way forward, the Sherriff's dagger held tight in his hand.

No one hindered him as he pushed aside the tent flap and stepped in, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the intense gloom. The air was closer here, musty. Gradually, shapes started to gather form. Saddlebags, a pair of boots, a makeshift bed with the blankets hastily thrown back... Guy turned away, sickened, the implication more than he could stand. Then he tensed as he became painfully aware of another presence within the confined space. His light eyes narrowed. There. A movement of white in the tent's shadowy interior.

Marian expressed no surprise or dismay to see him. Her expression only flickered momentarily (guilt?) and she stood steadfast and proud, not a hint of fear in her pale face. Azure eyes met his with startling directness, wide and clear.

"Do it then," she said.

Her voice - God, just her voice - threatened to undo him. Those delicate, precise tones, clear as a bell. The challenge in her unspoken words resounded in the silence between them. If you can. His face darkened with anger. Even now, she was mocking him.

Again, he sought to harden his heart, to hold onto the flame of rage that still burned lowly within him. Reminded himself of every betrayal, every lie and broken promise. He was indifferent to her now, locked away in stone and steel, untouchable to all pleas (or soft placating words). Only his path to power mattered. Everything else was a shadow to him. His grip on the knife-hilt tightened. You are dead to me.

He covered the space between them in a couple of swift steps, cutting off her line of escape. Yet she made no move to run. Her chin raised, bold - challenging him -

The cold within him erupted with new fire. Alone, unarmed, utterly in his power, yet she still defied him. Even when afraid, she would not be daunted. Guy found himself caught between the conflicting desires of unleashing all his fury and pent-up bitterness or kissing her until she no longer had the breath left in her body to resist. He wavered, trapped in the agony of indecision. His searing gaze lowered and he saw the pulse beating hard in her marble throat.

That one glimpse and he was done. The hot blood was coursing through his veins, boiling to a fever pitch. Once again, he felt that rush of fierce conviction. There is something between us. Desire or fear, he affected her. That irresistible pull between them, impossible to deny. When he was away from her, he could be resolute, iron-willed and ruthless. But one moment in her presence and all the tenderness and longing came rushing back. Desperation galvanised his body. He knew then that he needed her; more than power, more than Vaisey, more than life itself. He could not lose her. Not to Hood, not to the Sherriff. Not knowing whether it was weakness, foolishness or just plain madness, he slid Vaisey's knife back into his belt with shaking fingers.

Her eyes were very bright. "Guy -"

"Ssshh."

He raised a gloved hand to touch her face. Traced the rounded line of her cheek and her firm jaw. She looked up at him then, questioning, uncertain. That infinite space seemed to hover between them, tense and expectant. Waiting to be filled. A heartbeat pounded in the darkness. His breathing had become harsh and ragged. He need only have lowered his head slightly and -

Then his mouth thinned with cold determination as he pressed the soaked cloth to her face, feeling a brief sense of vindication at the shocked betrayal in her eyes, the momentary sensation of having her entirely in his power as his large hand covered her mouth, gripping her jaw without tenderness. A bizarre reversal of the moment he had discovered her as the Night Watchman -

The Night Watchman who immediately leapt into action. She shoved at his chest with a strength that startled him, sending him stumbling back a few steps as the vial fell from his clenched fingers. But the damage had already been done. Her fist flew wide as she faltered forward. He was before her at once, ready to catch her when she fell, leather-clad hands curled around her shoulders. Stubbornly, he fought down the pang of conscience as a desperate sigh fell from her lips and she slid down the length of his body, eyelids fluttering, for all the world like a fainting maiden of the courtly ballads. He braced her fall with his arms, supporting her limp weight. Her journey to oblivion had at least been kinder than his, Guy reflected darkly, marvelling that even now he could not bring himself to outright cruelty. She had shown him no such compassion, leaving him to the mercy of Vaisey's wrath. But he could not think about Vaisey. Not when -

The sound of shouts and clashing steel from outside alerted him to the urgency of speed. Laying Marian's unconscious form gently on the blankets, he satisfied himself that she was breathing softly before he began to rifle through the meagre supplies in the tent, cursing the darkness as he strained his eyes to discern anything that might be of service. A woollen cloak, food enough to last a couple of days, skins of water. It would have to suffice.

Then he picked her up, marvelling at how her slim body could feel so firm and solid in his arms. Once he might have dreamed of carrying her in such a manner as his bride over the threshold of Locksley Manor; not like this, in the hostile darkness of a strange land, surrounded by enemies on all sides. Guy dragged in a breath, holding himself tense, his dark form concealed by the fall of heavy canvas as he looked out the entrance of the tent for any sign of resistance. Hood and his companions were locked in combat, occupied by the Sherriff's hired knives. He shifted her weight in his arms as his fingers brushed against the hilt of his sword. Marian's head fell back at the movement and he could feel her breath against his lips, warm and close enough that his entire body ached raw with it. That alone was worth risking death for, he decided, and stepped out of the sanctuary of the tent and into the night.

He stepped over the body of one of the Saracen fighters that lay at his feet, sword drawn as he made his way to the horses that were rearing and snorting in agitation. At any moment he expected to feel a hand fall on his shoulder and his sword hand trembled, ready to cut down anyone that stood in his path. No power in heaven or hell could wrest his prize from him now. His hand was clumsy as he grasped the reins, a last, wary look over his shoulder -

He caught a fleeting glimpse of Hood upon the ground, only a thin knife resisting the press of a scimitar against his neck as a Saracen knelt over him. The temptation to linger and see if these would be his last moments was almost overwhelming, but Guy turned his attention to the matter at hand, mounting awkwardly as he settled Marian against his chest, his arm wrapped possessively around her, a closeness never dreamed of.

The horse reared back momentarily, then it was swirling dust, the rhythmic thud of hoofbeats, the desert wind whipping wildly in his grim and set face. Careless of Hood, careless of the Sherriff and his mission, careless of everything but the woman in his arms. Riding, riding God knows where, lost to the darkness.