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Fic: Attempts to Atone
Title: Attempts to Atone
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
novindalf
Fandom: Robin Hood BBC
Characters/Pairings: Guy, mentions Marian, Sheriff, Robin & gang
Word count: 1,193 words
Rating: T
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for S2 finale, fairly dark themes
Summary: Prompt for RHFC's gift exchance ficathon - Guy becomes the Nightwatchman.
It was cold in the chamber, and by the window colder still. Icily cold winds circled the stones walls and pierced every gap in the mortar, buffeting and biting at the skin of the man who stood before the window, staring blankly out into the night. The bitter chill held no concern for him, nor the lashing of rain from the gale outside. It was the howling wind that held the threat – or rather the words tormenting his mind that no wind could subdue.
I’m going to marry Robin Hood. I love Robin Hood. I LOVE ROBIN HOOD.
The wind screamed it at him ever as he screamed back for her to stop, to take back the words that had pierced his heart like a twisting knife and still, even now, remained embedded in his very core.
The door behind him opened to a hesitant servant and he barked out a warning before the man had even crossed the threshold. He snapped himself away from the window and crossed the freezing flagstones, slamming the heavy door in the face of he who had dared presume to enter this room.
Her room.
He shook as he slammed the heavy bolt in place, and shuddered as sobs racked his body. Images sprang up, unbidden, of her: in the Holy Land, certainly, but in England too. The first time he saw her, their almost-wedding, her face when he came back to her when Nottingham was to be burned. And he had destroyed her, as surely as he had destroyed her home when he burned it to the ground. The wind had blown away the ashes then, but no amount of storm could ever wash her blood off his hands. Like every shred of goodness that braved its way to him, he had destroyed her.
Hot, angry tears pricked at his eyes and he wiped them away before they could fall. The moisture clung to his fingertips and he eyed it in curiosity. He could not remember the last time he had cried, but it was surely many years ago, when he had still been just a boy, probably at the funeral of his mother, or perhaps his father. Now his tears were not of sorrow, but of fury – fury at himself for what he had done – and of shame. She had lied to him and betrayed him and used him, and it still hurt him to think of it, but she hadn’t deserved his gratitude of a sword in her belly. And he hadn’t been worthy of her kindness and her friendship. Of late she had shown more faith in him than even he had himself, and it was certainly more than he deserved. But then, faith and kindness had been in her nature. She may not have had a pure heart, but she had had a good one.
A cry from the town below roused him from his reverie. He rubbed the last remnants of moisture from his eyes and ducked into the shadows, lest anyone in the town should glance up at the castle and see him through the slit window and pouring rain. A child was wailing, from lack of food or so it sounded, so shrill and piercing that it could even penetrate even the sounds of the storm. Time was, Hood would have seen that a babe was fed, or Marian would have donned her Nightwatchman garb and foolishly headed into the lower town. Hood had not been seen since he followed them to the Holy Land – nor his gang of bandits – and Marian... Marian would give the peasants no help now, thanks to him.
A fist clenched around his gullet and a rock lodged itself in his throat. He tore himself away from the window, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it of that self-destructive line of thought. He failed, and wave after wave of guilt washed over him, bringing up endless images of that fateful day in the Holy Land. He felt the sand shifting under-foot, he blinked at the brightness of the desert sun, and he flinched at the contrast of the midday heart with the icy dread in his heart as she fell to the ground, his blade embedded in her.
“No!” he cried, forcing himself away from her inert body and falling, trembling, against the rough stone wall. He sank to the ground, his erratic breaths and pounding heart thunder to his ears, as grief and guilt and despair swept over him.
Dawn was approaching when he emerged, exhausted, from his bitter trance, his face stiff with torrents of dried tears. He stared blankly at the lightening sky for a moment, then heaved himself up from the floor, and left.
---
It was more than a week before he could bring himself to enter her room again. The key was stiff in the lock: proof that no-one but him had entered the room since he had demanded it locked when they returned from the Holy Land. The sheriff had ordered him to undertake some task or another, and he had complied vacantly for a while before aimlessly wandering away, and eventually winding up outside the door of her chamber.
He stepped in the room and locked the door behind him. It had the same musty smell as before, but now sunlight streamed into the room, illuminating the dust motes in the air as they rose and fell. He paced around the edge of the room, absently running his fingers over stone and wood and cloth as he went.
Halfway around the room, he felt a different material under his fingers. Lodged in a crevice between a washstand and the wall a small corner of leather stuck out. He felt it again just to be certain, and then worked it out from its hiding place, and stopped dead.
In his hands he held the scuffed leather mask of the Nightwatchman. This was the very symbol of Marian’s betrayal – the supple leather held all lies to him, her association with the outlaws, and with Hood especially. Why then was he running his thumb over the supple leather and clutching it tightly as if his life depended on it?
Once more he was disturbed by a ruckus in the town below, and he crossed to the window to see what was amiss. At one of the market stalls, some guards were restraining a woman as she pleaded with the stall owner. A young boy clung to her skirts, crying, while the merchant shook his fist at them emphatically and shouted. Together, mother and child where thrown unceremoniously to the ground.
Guy brought his gaze back down to the mask his hand and, with a sense of purpose for the first time in so long, strode across and out the room.
---
It starts in the darkness, spreads on the night. A whisper of kindness: the Nightwatchman has returned. A parcel of food on a table, a purse on a windowsill, some medicines on a door-step. Murmurs are spoken, rumours spread. Words of gratitude go unheard.
Outlaws wonder, peasants marvel, the sheriff fumes.
Sir Guy of Gisborne attempts to atone.
Author:
novindalfFandom: Robin Hood BBC
Characters/Pairings: Guy, mentions Marian, Sheriff, Robin & gang
Word count: 1,193 words
Rating: T
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for S2 finale, fairly dark themes
Summary: Prompt for RHFC's gift exchance ficathon - Guy becomes the Nightwatchman.
It was cold in the chamber, and by the window colder still. Icily cold winds circled the stones walls and pierced every gap in the mortar, buffeting and biting at the skin of the man who stood before the window, staring blankly out into the night. The bitter chill held no concern for him, nor the lashing of rain from the gale outside. It was the howling wind that held the threat – or rather the words tormenting his mind that no wind could subdue.
I’m going to marry Robin Hood. I love Robin Hood. I LOVE ROBIN HOOD.
The wind screamed it at him ever as he screamed back for her to stop, to take back the words that had pierced his heart like a twisting knife and still, even now, remained embedded in his very core.
The door behind him opened to a hesitant servant and he barked out a warning before the man had even crossed the threshold. He snapped himself away from the window and crossed the freezing flagstones, slamming the heavy door in the face of he who had dared presume to enter this room.
Her room.
He shook as he slammed the heavy bolt in place, and shuddered as sobs racked his body. Images sprang up, unbidden, of her: in the Holy Land, certainly, but in England too. The first time he saw her, their almost-wedding, her face when he came back to her when Nottingham was to be burned. And he had destroyed her, as surely as he had destroyed her home when he burned it to the ground. The wind had blown away the ashes then, but no amount of storm could ever wash her blood off his hands. Like every shred of goodness that braved its way to him, he had destroyed her.
Hot, angry tears pricked at his eyes and he wiped them away before they could fall. The moisture clung to his fingertips and he eyed it in curiosity. He could not remember the last time he had cried, but it was surely many years ago, when he had still been just a boy, probably at the funeral of his mother, or perhaps his father. Now his tears were not of sorrow, but of fury – fury at himself for what he had done – and of shame. She had lied to him and betrayed him and used him, and it still hurt him to think of it, but she hadn’t deserved his gratitude of a sword in her belly. And he hadn’t been worthy of her kindness and her friendship. Of late she had shown more faith in him than even he had himself, and it was certainly more than he deserved. But then, faith and kindness had been in her nature. She may not have had a pure heart, but she had had a good one.
A cry from the town below roused him from his reverie. He rubbed the last remnants of moisture from his eyes and ducked into the shadows, lest anyone in the town should glance up at the castle and see him through the slit window and pouring rain. A child was wailing, from lack of food or so it sounded, so shrill and piercing that it could even penetrate even the sounds of the storm. Time was, Hood would have seen that a babe was fed, or Marian would have donned her Nightwatchman garb and foolishly headed into the lower town. Hood had not been seen since he followed them to the Holy Land – nor his gang of bandits – and Marian... Marian would give the peasants no help now, thanks to him.
A fist clenched around his gullet and a rock lodged itself in his throat. He tore himself away from the window, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it of that self-destructive line of thought. He failed, and wave after wave of guilt washed over him, bringing up endless images of that fateful day in the Holy Land. He felt the sand shifting under-foot, he blinked at the brightness of the desert sun, and he flinched at the contrast of the midday heart with the icy dread in his heart as she fell to the ground, his blade embedded in her.
“No!” he cried, forcing himself away from her inert body and falling, trembling, against the rough stone wall. He sank to the ground, his erratic breaths and pounding heart thunder to his ears, as grief and guilt and despair swept over him.
Dawn was approaching when he emerged, exhausted, from his bitter trance, his face stiff with torrents of dried tears. He stared blankly at the lightening sky for a moment, then heaved himself up from the floor, and left.
---
It was more than a week before he could bring himself to enter her room again. The key was stiff in the lock: proof that no-one but him had entered the room since he had demanded it locked when they returned from the Holy Land. The sheriff had ordered him to undertake some task or another, and he had complied vacantly for a while before aimlessly wandering away, and eventually winding up outside the door of her chamber.
He stepped in the room and locked the door behind him. It had the same musty smell as before, but now sunlight streamed into the room, illuminating the dust motes in the air as they rose and fell. He paced around the edge of the room, absently running his fingers over stone and wood and cloth as he went.
Halfway around the room, he felt a different material under his fingers. Lodged in a crevice between a washstand and the wall a small corner of leather stuck out. He felt it again just to be certain, and then worked it out from its hiding place, and stopped dead.
In his hands he held the scuffed leather mask of the Nightwatchman. This was the very symbol of Marian’s betrayal – the supple leather held all lies to him, her association with the outlaws, and with Hood especially. Why then was he running his thumb over the supple leather and clutching it tightly as if his life depended on it?
Once more he was disturbed by a ruckus in the town below, and he crossed to the window to see what was amiss. At one of the market stalls, some guards were restraining a woman as she pleaded with the stall owner. A young boy clung to her skirts, crying, while the merchant shook his fist at them emphatically and shouted. Together, mother and child where thrown unceremoniously to the ground.
Guy brought his gaze back down to the mask his hand and, with a sense of purpose for the first time in so long, strode across and out the room.
---
It starts in the darkness, spreads on the night. A whisper of kindness: the Nightwatchman has returned. A parcel of food on a table, a purse on a windowsill, some medicines on a door-step. Murmurs are spoken, rumours spread. Words of gratitude go unheard.
Outlaws wonder, peasants marvel, the sheriff fumes.
Sir Guy of Gisborne attempts to atone.