The day is long, and he spends it alone, in the forest, on the hillside, feeling the warmth of the sun and the tickling of the tall grass and wondering how they can ever draw out the venom that is sickening him. His hatred of Gisborne flared earlier, making everything brilliant and immediate, but as the day wears on, the anger leaves him, little by little, until there is nothing certain that he can take hold of. He wanders with no purpose, feeling sick to his very soul; feeling useless, helpless.
It's so sudden, this wedding, this return of the king. He hadn't been expecting it, had convinced himself that it would be months, perhaps years before Richard's return. In that time he would have found a way to keep his promise to Marian, would have been able to save her and to rid the world of Gisborne.
Now he finds he must do both before the week runs out, and it is too much; too much. His restless feet carry him along old paths, by a running stream, over a hillside and, as the purple of the evening sets around him, he comes to Knighton Hall, where the clack of metal against wood tells him that Marian, too, is uneasy in mind.
He does not bother to hide himself this time, as he comes to her, arms crossing and then falling to his sides. After a moment, he bends to pick up a long stick, and settles it across his shoulders, jsut so there might be something to do with his hands.
"I would prefer," he says, and his voice is still low, still that strange calm tone, "if you did not visit my house." He lets his eyes move to her face, and wonders what she might be able to see in them, even here in this half-dusk.
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The day is long, and he spends it alone, in the forest, on the hillside, feeling the warmth of the sun and the tickling of the tall grass and wondering how they can ever draw out the venom that is sickening him. His hatred of Gisborne flared earlier, making everything brilliant and immediate, but as the day wears on, the anger leaves him, little by little, until there is nothing certain that he can take hold of. He wanders with no purpose, feeling sick to his very soul; feeling useless, helpless.
It's so sudden, this wedding, this return of the king. He hadn't been expecting it, had convinced himself that it would be months, perhaps years before Richard's return. In that time he would have found a way to keep his promise to Marian, would have been able to save her and to rid the world of Gisborne.
Now he finds he must do both before the week runs out, and it is too much; too much. His restless feet carry him along old paths, by a running stream, over a hillside and, as the purple of the evening sets around him, he comes to Knighton Hall, where the clack of metal against wood tells him that Marian, too, is uneasy in mind.
He does not bother to hide himself this time, as he comes to her, arms crossing and then falling to his sides. After a moment, he bends to pick up a long stick, and settles it across his shoulders, jsut so there might be something to do with his hands.
"I would prefer," he says, and his voice is still low, still that strange calm tone, "if you did not visit my house." He lets his eyes move to her face, and wonders what she might be able to see in them, even here in this half-dusk.
"Until it is mine again."