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There's a fine white line across Marian's left forearm. It's barely visible on the alabaster skin, but when she reaches out and grasps his hand during the dance, Guy notices the scar. He can't help but wonder how she got it, but he doesn't ask. While he does not consider the mark a flaw in her beauty – paradoxically, the small imperfection makes her more perfect in his eyes, not less – he knows that to speak of it would insult her, and he has no desire to do so. His curiosity lingers, though.
There's something about the scar that seems almost familiar, but the connection slips away whenever he reaches for it.
"You seem distracted tonight," Marian says, later, when he accompanies her to her chambers.
She's always polite, almost formal in her respectfulness. Since her promise to marry him, she seems to have grown even more distant. He detests it; a promise like this should tie people closer together, not drive them further apart. It frustrates him to know that she's hiding from him, her true emotions walled up behind the unwavering curve of a smile and eyes he cannot read.
He, in turn, finds himself keeping more and more to himself.
"I'm sorry. I'm merely worried about the meat delivery that went missing today. The Sheriff has been talking of it all day. I apologize if I didn't pay you the attention you deserve." Yet another lie. He doesn't give a damn if some pounds of veal have disappeared, the main irritation is that the Sheriff is even less agreeable if he isn't properly fed.
The explanation seems to be good enough for Marian, though. Or maybe not – he never knows what she's truly thinking.
"I did not mean to complain, Sir Guy," is what she says. "I was merely worried."
They exchange a matched set of fake smiles. Guy takes her left hand and lifts it to his mouth. "Goodnight, milady."
As his lips brush her knuckles, his fingertips ghost over the scar tissue on the underside of her wrist. She shivers – but whether it's from the cold or a reaction to his caress, he doesn't know.
There's very little about Marian that he does know, he realizes – not for the first time, but that doesn't make the realization any less bitter.
* * *
The Sheriff is in a bad mood. And, by association, he seems to be inclined to make everyone else miserable as well – even more so than usually.
Guy leans back and only half-listens to the Sheriff's rant. He has long since learned to make all the right comments and appear to be an attentive listener when if fact he is anything but. He smiles grimly and nods a lot, and he only rolls his eyes when the Sheriff is not looking.
"It's bad enough that we have Robin Hood stealing tax money –"
Dear God, not another rant about Hood. Guy sometimes wonders if they shouldn't just give Locksley back to Robin and let him do whatever the hell he wants there – if it were enough to make him never hear the name Robin Hood again, it might actually be worth it.
But the Sheriff is on a roll, preaching how Hood must be stopped; and Guy almost drifts off, until he hears the Sheriff say, "… and now there's this Nighthawk, Night Owl, Night Watchman… whatever, stealing from us and giving to the oh-so-poor, which makes him the hero of the day and a bloody nuisance. I won't stand for it! It can't be that difficult to get hold of the guy. Even you almost had him once."
Guy frowns, remembering the confrontation with the Watchman: the lack of an actual fight, the Watchman's stoic silence even as Guy's sword sliced-- He all but stumbles when his brain makes the connection. He wishes he could discard the idea on account of it being utterly unthinkable, but the discomforting thing is that it does make sense. It's as if all the pieces that are Marian suddenly fall into place, and he sees her more clearly than he ever has before.
Beside him, the Sheriff continues his tirade about the Watchman, Robin Hood, and the ragged state of a country that hails common thieves as heroes, but Guy has stopped listening.
The anger that grips him is red-hot and ugly, washing over him like a tidal wave and burying him underneath. He remembers the necklace that mysteriously wound up back in the peasant girl's possession, remembers his fury then, thinking that Marian could have betrayed him like that – but compared to this, that was nothing, merely a pale shadow of the rage that sweeps him away now. To think that all this time she's lied to him, with her words and her eyes and that smile of hers. Her promise of marriage… a promise of loyalty – nothing but a means to an end. She's been using him, lulling him into a sense of false security, and he's been falling for her wide-eyed innocence routine. He can just imagine her and Hood having a hearty laugh at his expense.
His fist clenches at his side. He will make her pay, he promises himself. The Sheriff's voice stops him mid-stride, when he's almost at the door: "And just where do you think you're going?"
There's no time for explanations. "I'm sorry, I have business to attend to," is all he manages to grind out.
He rushes off without waiting for permission, the Sheriff's angry shouts fading as the heavy door falls shut after him.
The cool morning air slams into his face like a wall. He's suddenly nauseous, his memory presenting a slideshow of moments with Marian. The soft brush of her hand again his. A smile during one of the Sheriff's festivities. Her assurance of friendship. The smell of her hair. "I despise Robin Hood." Lies. Every word she ever had for him was a lie, every smile, every touch.
On the way to Knighton Hall, brutally pushing his horse to go faster, he thinks about what he's going to do to her. He knows that every accusation he will throw at her will inevitably result in denial. More lies, then. They've been there before. "I thought we were friends." He doesn't want to hear her feeble protests and claims of innocence again. He'd rather cut out her tongue than hear one more lie fall from her lips.
It is Marian herself who opens the door, dressed in a simple gown of pale blue, her short dark curls framing her face.
The surprise flashing over her features is quickly replaced by a polite smile. "Sir Guy! I didn't expect you today." She steps aside to let him inside. The room is empty, her father nowhere to be seen. He's grateful for that small blessing, at least; he doesn't have the patience to deal with the old man today.
A grim smile on his face, he enters the room. "No, you didn't, did you?"
It's as if she senses his intentions, because she retracts and almost flinches away. "Is there something wrong?" she asks, and her tone is as uncertain as the eyes flickering over his face.
The fake innocence of her question makes his anger boil and his hands clench into fists. For an instant, he wants nothing more than to slap her and tell her what exactly is wrong. He wants to call her a liar, a traitor and a thief, and he wants to hear her deny it and then hit her until she's finally willing to admit the truth. He takes one, two, three quick steps towards her, too fast for her to evade him, and grabs her. His fingers clench around the soft flesh of her arms.
"You're hurting me," she whispers; and he wants to tell her that she will soon be hurting a lot more. You'll hang for this, he thinks, and the thought brings along the realization that this might very well be his last time alone with her, before the Sheriff and his torturers get their hands on her.
He claims her lips in a punishing kiss, without tenderness. Maybe she's too surprised or too frightened to resist, or perhaps she hopes to be able to placate him, but she offers no resistance. Her lips are pliant and soft, almost instantly opening under his. But she tastes bitter, like a road not taken, a chance long gone, the ashes of a future that will never happen.
He lets go of her quickly, and steps away. Still catching her breath, Marian looks as frightened as she did when he confronted her about the necklace, if not more so. – And she has every reason to. He knows that this time, she will not come out of it unscathed and pretend that she had nothing to do with it.
Except she might.
The thought stops him cold. A scar on the arm is hardly solid proof that she's a traitor. And even if no one's going to ask for proof, even if his word is good enough and he's certain without a single doubt that she is the Night Watchman, he needs that proof. He steps back and forces his features into what he hopes resembles a contrite smile. "Pardon me, Lady Marian. I… I needed to see you."
Flustered and confused as she is, it seems the best reply she can manage is a small wavering smile.
He slips out without further attempt at conversation. Being around her has suddenly become sickening.
Waiting for the Night Watchman to ride out of the stables of Knighton Hall is an exercise in patience – a quality Guy knows he cannot pride himself with. He entertains himself by conjuring up images of what Marian's face will look like in the moment of discovery, fear widening her eyes, pointless pleas tumbling from those lying lips. He rants at the trees that Guy of Gisborne will not be made a fool by a treacherous woman. He pulls his sword and chops the underwood to pieces.
And then, finally, there she is – as he knew she would be, given that the Sheriff expects a replacement meat delivery today – coming out of the stables in the Night Watchman's plain brown rags. There's nothing feminine or ladylike about her appearance now, but as much as he tries to set the Watchman apart from the woman he cared about, the eyes looking out from behind the mask are still Marian's.
She takes a cautious look around. "Won't do you any good," he mutters under his breath, smiling without humour. She doesn't linger, taking off into the forest.
She's a good rider, dashing through the trees, smoothly ducking under low branches and directing her horse through the narrow paths. It's not easy to follow her and stay undetected – Guy knows that if he lets the distance between them get too large, he might lose her trail, but if he gets too close, she'll notice him.
She rides down a steep hill and stops in the middle of one of the roads that lead to Nottingham, right in front of an approaching carriage. Guy pulls the reigns and lingers behind, hidden from sight by the trees. He thinks Marian and the coachman actually exchange a few words, but it's too far from where he's standing and he cannot make out what they are saying. It's inconsequential. He cares very little for the safety of the delivery, wishing that they'd get it over with already. He doesn't want any witnesses when he apprehends her, just her and him, nothing between them anymore but the ugly, undeniable truth.
He's still thinking about the moment of triumph he will soon enjoy – and he will enjoy it, even if it's a pyrrhic victory – when out of nowhere, two of the Sheriff's men storm out of the forest. Because of course this is a trap. The Sheriff would not let another of his deliveries be stolen so soon; and Guy curses himself for not thinking of it before and, even more bitterly, curses Marian for falling for the ploy. When one of the guards draws his sword, Guy almost storms forward out of his hiding place, all rational thought abandoned because this is Marian – his beautiful, delicate Marian – and she's in danger. His hand instinctively shoots to his sword before he has time to consider what he's doing.
A well-aimed kick against the guard's chin sees him stumbling and taking a fall, though, and Guy forces his body into stillness, watching the events unfold. The hand wrapped around the reins of his horse clenches uncomfortably. Sitting back and watching has never been his forte.
Marian jumps off her horse and grabs the sword from the ground at the same time the fallen guard reaches for it. She's quicker, but barely, blocking the attack from the second guard just in time before spinning and sending him staggering backwards as the heel of her boot slams into his kneecap.
Guy has watched many people fight before, but not like this. There is grace in the way she moves. He's never cared much for poetry, the beauty of rhyme and meter never fazing him, but there is a certain kind of poetry in the rhythm of her blocks and kicks and attacks. He stands, transfixed, and follows her every movement with his eyes; and suddenly he realizes – stronger than ever – that this woman will never be the dutiful wife and mother of his children, who spends her days doing needlework and waits anxiously at home as men fight wars – not for Hood, not for anyone, and certainly not for him. A sharp pang of disappointment accompanies the thought, mixed with an odd new kind of appreciation. He's surprised to find the earlier anger absent, and only now recognizes that it has been gone for a while, instantly vanishing the moment he saw her under attack and felt instinctively moved to protect her.
Not that she needs his protection. Not in this fight, anyway.
Down on the road, Marian knocks the sword handle over one of her attackers' head, and he goes down in a heap. The other guard approaches, but his right arm is already hanging limply at his side and he seems to be no match for Marian.
Guy has seen enough.
He turns his horse around to ride off before Marian spots him – and stops cold when his eyes fall upon Robin Hood, who's almost casually leaning against a nearby tree, arms crossed, watching him.
Absurdly, he feels as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He literally bites his tongue to refrain from stammering an explanation for his presence here. A surge of anger follows the initial embarrassment. Hood's smirk and the cocky raise of an eyebrow makes Guy's hand itch towards his sword once again.
"Fancy meeting you here," Robin says, the simple phrase laden with implications.
Guy grinds his teeth. "Well, you know how I always love to watch a good fight. Shouldn't you be out there with your friend?"
"Oh, don't worry, the Night Watchman doesn't need my help." Hood smirks as a deft foot meets one of the guards in the groin. "Your men on the other hand… Well, they certainly look like they could use a hand."
"They are not my men. They're the Sheriff's," Guy all but growls.
Hood raises an eyebrow at him. "Since when does that make a difference?" His tone is light, but underneath the nonchalance there are layers of curiosity.
Since when, indeed. Hood is right, Guy realizes. He should be out there with the guards, arresting the Night Watchman: tearing off the piece of cloth that hides Marian's face and killing her on the spot, or better even, taking her to the Sheriff. Making her betrayal public. This is why he came here. The proof he's been looking for is right before his eyes, his to take.
Now that the rush of rage has faded away, though, it seems to be enough to know. He doesn't feel any need for retribution anymore, and whatever desire he had to hurt Marian is gone, leaving only a jaded sense of weariness. Part of him wishes that she'd had enough trust in him to tell him the truth, but even he knows how irrational that idea is. He suddenly remembers her words, right before she showed the necklace to him. "The truth is this country is being choked to death. The truth is, honest people are being forced to lie and cheat and steal; and if you really want to know the truth, then you should know that I—" He remembers the urgency in her voice, the intensity of emotions. He's never heard that particular tone of voice from her, before or afterwards. It is only now that he understands that at that moment, for a short moment, she was honest with him. For a split second, she might even have entertained the idea of telling him. He wonders what changed her mind… But it doesn't matter now.
Guy runs a weary hand over his face and looks at Hood, who's still waiting for an answer Guy isn't prepared to give. He looks over his shoulder down to the road, where the remaining guard hastily scrambles back to his horse; and Guy knows he needs to leave. He almost says 'Make sure she's okay,' but he holds the words back before they make it over his lips. It would be too honest; and he cannot afford revealing this kind of vulnerability to Robin Hood.
Instead, he says, "You better check up on your friend."
He doesn't look at the other man, nor wait for an answer; but he feels Hood's eyes on his back as he rides off.
* * *
There's a dark, ugly bruise on Marian's neck that her dress cannot quite conceal. The Sheriff's hands brush over it in what appears to be something akin to appreciation, and Guy feels the bile rise in his stomach. He can't stand to see those hands touch something that's supposed to be his – even if it isn't.
"That looks quite painful, my dear. What happened to you?" the Sheriff asks, his voice thickly sweet, too intrigued, too hungry for any tale that might feed his sadistic urges.
Guy steps between them before he has time to think. His voice is smooth and unwavering. "We had a disagreement over which dress she was supposed to wear. I thought the one she chose was too revealing. I might have been overtly… emphatic in pointing out my disapproval. I can but hope that Lady Marian accepts my apologies."
He knows that the Sheriff will swallow the lie easily, like it even. Unprovoked violence is something he understands only too well.
The wolfish smile turns on Guy. "Ah, well, I'm sure she will. These things happen to the best of us." He pats Guy's shoulder and goes his way, his guardsmen following suit.
Guy feels Marian's eyes on him even before he turns around to face her.
"Why did you say that? You never touched me."
"Didn't I?" he asks, and reaches for her arm to trace the thin scar with his fingers.
Marian jerks away as if his fingers were a blade, but he holds onto the arm until she finally stops struggling and goes limp in his grip. "Robin warned me that you might know, but I didn't believe him," she whispers.
Possessive anger over how familiar Hood's name sounds on her lips struggles with pleasant surprise that she doesn't bother with denial; and his hand tightens around her delicate wrist. When she winces in pain, it's enough to ease his grip. "I saw you fight," he says in a low voice, watching her intently. For once, her face is an open book – fear and defiance clearly written all over it; and he wonders how he ever could have found it difficult to read her. Wonders if it's her who's changed, abandoning the mask she hid behind because she knows she is exposed, or whether she always wore her emotions openly and he was merely unable to decipher them.
"I'm not going to apologize for what I'm doing, no matter what you do to me." She raises her head just a bit higher, tipping her chin up in a typical gesture of stubbornness.
He smiles faintly.
"Don't you dare mock me," she warns him.
It surprises him how much that new boldness appeals to him, how much he prefers her defiance over the almost meek show of politeness she met him with before. She only flinches a little when his free hand comes up to caress her cheek. He wants to kiss her, but he doesn't, the memory of the angry kiss the previous day still bitter on his lips. Instead, he leans closer and quietly says, "Don't ever lie to me again."
He knows she will take it for what it is – absolution and warning, rolled into one.
There's surprise on her face, for just a split second. The idea that he doesn't fit her image of him is pleasing, and his smile returns. He takes a step backwards and brings her wrist to his lips, his mouth brushing over the scar.
She doesn't say anything, but neither does she try to draw her arm back, and her eyes hold his. For now, that's answer enough for him.
End.