~Today, our companion piece shall be "Willow Tree March" by The Paper Kites, a truly taunting, perfectly fit for Guy and this chapter~

You fall through the trees
And you pray with your knees on the ground
For the things that you need
With your lust and your greed weighing down

And you weaken your love
And you hold it above your head
Success is a song of the heart, not a song of your bed

And we all still die
Yeah we all still die
What will you leave behind?
Oh we all still die

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The dinner could be leniently characterised as dreadful. Not only was his place next to Lady Marian denied but also eventually taken by a dastardly, toadyish, old feudal lord named Woodvale. He would gladly fabricate an excuse to get rid of him but he didn't, out of fear and self-awareness. What could a simple, landless knight possibly offer to an honorable, prominent Lady? With a paltry name as his sole heritage, he didn't deserve Marian. He fell silent, abandoned every attempt at rapprochement and pinned himself in his seat sternly, without relinquishing his observations. He noted even her smallest motion almost with sanctimonious reverence, entirely indifferent to the blasphemy of that thought. For him, Marian could easily be compared to a Saint or a holy relic or a curio. He had every intention to worship her as a divinity but no means anymore. And the reason why he was forfeited his chance at happiness, was tenaciously absent. Locksley was vanished and that was the worst of all the odious circumstances of the day. On the one hand, he was glad for not needing to tolerate him. On the other hand, he was sad to have lost the chance of Marian's wonderful company for naught.

"Is it true there are three Locksley peasants held in your dungeons, Sheriff?" Lord Loughborough asked with unmistakable interest, sitting somewhere in his left.

"Of course," the Sheriff activated the plan of Huntington's vilification immediately, while his absence ameliorated and accelerated things to their benefit. "I am sure that's why he didn't come tonight. We are celebrating in his honour and this ungrateful man didn't even grace us with his presence! That arrogance! He certainly returned with his tail between his legs like a chit! If he's so meritorious and valiant, why didn't he stay by the King's side?"

"Rumour has it he returned with commendable honours, after bearing a severe wound to protect the King," Lord Merton dared to add, sitting at Loughborough's right.

"Such comfortable rumours for him," the Sheriff quipped, clicking his tongue. "One would even say that they originated from that dog he drags with him everywhere as a squire. What say you, Gisborne?"

He automatically raised his eyes from his untouched plate with sharpened reflexes, needing a moment to realise what was the current conversation's subject. His nose had found the worst possible time to recall Marian's scent, which he had snatched just the previous month; iris.

"I agree, indeed," he used the exact words his Lord desired to hear.

His own opinion didn't matter or interest anyone. He didn't know whether he remembered how to have one or form it. He couldn't but be grateful, when the Sheriff averted his attention from him and returned to his conversation with Loughborough and Merton, only intending to demean Locksley. He had no appetite to gossip about anyone, not even that scum, he didn't even want to talk. Occasionally, he would drink a substandard mouthful of wine from his goblet, to avoid standing completely still and not an entirely apparent beggar of Marian's mere sight with raw desperation.

As soon as a guard announced De Fortnoy's arrival, while the sky looked pitch black through the open windows, the Sheriff exhaled angrily and signed him to take care of it with his hand, so he could continue his conversation ceaselessly. Guy stood up perfunctorily, though he was glad for the sudden action, hurrying to the castle's courtyard.

"You're late," he greeted him with crossed hands and the same look of conceit which he had received from him just the previous day.

He gave him no answer, but simply tried to shove him out of the way, failing miserably. Guy stood firmly in front of the doors like an immovable rock.

"The Sheriff is furious with you," he informed him, fully coruscating with derision and puffiness in the dark. "Every time your name is referenced, he calls you sluggish, to put it lightly."

"I bring jubilant news," his superior seemed undaunted. "There is not a single noble in Nottingham who supports the Earl of Huntington anymore."

"Don't take me for a fool!" Gisborne didn't relent. "All the nobles are here, eating and drinking in the Great Hall!"

"Unlike their wifes, though," De Fortnoy pointed out conspiratorially. "When you marry one suitable for you, a scullery maid, kitchen girl or laundress, you shall realise that the wife is always the one in charge. Once we secure their support, we will have their husbands' as well."

He was as collected, sober and comprehensive as needed to not respond to his integral insult.

"Go see the Sheriff," he told him curtly and walked away, leaving him alone abruptly, himself not baring the presence of the living anymore. He craved to return to his chamber and sag into the bleak embrace of his ghosts, to mourn his dying future and his refulgent fate, which now looked so ominous and sinister, as if he was that sixteen year old boy again.

He had failed. He had fizzled in the Holy Land, failed at his mission, his predominance over an uncivilized village, even at courting Marian. He was a cypher and so he would stay forever, damned, miserable and unsound, utterly immersed in the mud of a sludge, worse than a hog, more ruined than the Prodigal Son.

His steps led him insensibly to the wooden coping, whose stairs descended to the Great Hall. Standing there, into the shadows, entirely invisible in his dark clothing, in full harmony with the environment, leaning on the wooden balusters, he watched all and naught at all, even the dust that danced around the torches and the chandelier's candles. Whereas, some talk would reach his ears sporadically from the great commotion downstairs, of voices, knives on plates and wine, which flowed into goblets continuously.

His eye caught a glimpse of some movement on his left and the exquisite scent of iris persuaded him that it was Marian. Momentarily, his instinct prevailed and he wished to stop her, to thieve even a minute of discussion, to listen to her voice, about which he'd been long dreaming.

How cautiously she moved, how noiselessly she sidled. He felt unwittingly impressed by her stealth; deadly soundless and undetected even by his trained ear. He didn't talk to her, didn't even show he'd noticed her. He perceived the vast distance that separated them.

Very soon after Marian's disappearance from the hall, perhaps somewhere inmost of the Castle, the Sheriff came and stood next to him, trampling on the wood heavily, hence every attempt at quiescence or concealment was lost, never to return, at least for that night.

"Tomorrow, the four delinquents from Locksley will hang," he announced irrevocably. "It's now or never; the little rebel must be repressed."

"Four?" He raised his left brow in wonder. "I had arrested only three."

"This Allan A'Dale, imprisoned for poaching, seems to be from Locksley too. He'll hang with the others."

Guy shrugged nonchalantly. He'd never liked that sharp-tongued cretin after all.

Speak of the Devil.

Locksley and his underling appeared on the entrance and approached them imperiously, without a sign of respect or fright, which immediately enervated the Sheriff.

"Ah, Huntington, you're missing your own feast. Rumours abound."

"What rumours?" Locksley questioned.

"That you're weak. That you've returned weakened from your exertions in the Holy Land."

Guy was standing next to his Lord and behind, absolutely still, containing his very breath. He feigned listlessness for the discussion, glancing away, with no actual aim. Besides, since Marian had withdrawn, there was nothing interesting for him to look at, for everything paled compared to her.

"My master returns with honours, honours from the King!" The underling intercepted with his irritatingly high-pitched voice. He felt tempted to snort snidely but restrained himself. The role of the bored one suited him marvellously, creating impressions of idiocy and hid his actual sagacity. Yet, the lure was enormous and he gave in; he couldn't keep his eyes off the last hours of Huntington's domination, his swan song, the last gleam before total destruction and obfuscation.

"Hmm, well the greater honour would have been to have stood and fought with him, surely?" The Sheriff insisted on his classic, steady technique of assertive mockery, which could break the nerves of even the most patient of men.

"I have visited my peasants in your dungeons," Locksley declared and Guy believed him, since the fungus had managed to hook itself to their odours. "They have committed grave crimes."

"Master-" the underling next to him looked shocked.

"Which would make all the more compassionate your gesture of pardoning them," Huntington concluded and Gisborne couldn't bear it anymore; he allowed a fragment of a smirk and he relaxed completely, to enjoy it. The Sheriff's replies would be more than entertaining.

"Pardoning them?" The latter was surprised, but his voice's tone didn't rise, making him a thousand times more dangerous. "I will see them hang. In the morning, you yourself said that we risk rebellion. We must have order."

"It is custom for the Sheriff to hear his nobles' requests for clemency."

"La di da, di da," the Sheriff ignored him, so Guy's smirk turned to a fully conceited half smile. That granted him a demonic essence, under the light of the torches. "Oh, by the way, in your absence, we nominated you to oversee tomorrow's entertainment."

"No."

Momentous, laconic and inviolable. Even if it came from God himself, the Sheriff would not stop.

"Oh. You don't want these rumours of weakness to spread, hm? Better scotch then now. Otherwise, we'll all pay."

After saying all he intended and thrown every innuendo he desired, feeling content with himself, he silently retreated, not paying a second look at Guy, which relieved him somehow. However, the fact he'd been left alone with the worst short of company, agitated him. He raised his eyebrows and prepared to withdraw, quite glad there was no need to talk to Locksley once more, though he hadn't calculated the imponderable course, the most ethereal, mesmerising, enchanting surprise.

"Marian!" He exclaimed on impulse, seeing the young woman reappearing to the Hall, clad in her totally white dress of wide sleeves like a true icon or divine statue, abound in purity, immaculateness and nobility. He utterly ignored the two men before him and turned to her altogether, therefore his words flitted uncontrollably. "Might I have the pleasure of your company?"

If they were alone, he wouldn't ask her. But in front of him, in front of the smug Huntington, it seemed absolutely logical. Albeit he was a lackland, quite indigent and a meaningless lieutenant, Marian's company remained an utmost boon.

Everybody knew and himself was informed very early, that she and Locksley were once engaged and intended to marry, although the engagement had been dissolved, before he left with King Richard. And there he came now, seemingly risen from the dead, the decadent Guy of a nonexistent Gisborne, to take everything away, just like he had done once. Locksley would soon be his definitely, and he wholeheartedly meant that for Marian too. For that cause, he wished to mobilise all his determination, patience and perseverance, indeed.

While passing by him, in order to receive her willing arm, he shot Locksley his most derogatory, derisory and putrid look, momentarily intoxicated from the superb taste of triumph. And a triumph it was; for Marian had answered to his suggestion with a lovable, bright smile, full of maidenly shyness, that made even his ebony, deadened heart flutter.

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"Please, call me Lady Marian," she asked him, as they descended the stairs to the dining table.

Surprisingly, he was caught off guard, by surprise. He didn't expect their conversation to begin as such. Spontaneously, his eyes searched for hers but couldn't locate them in the penumbra.

"I thought we had agreed on calling each other our first names, without impersonal titles, to acquaint each other better," he expressed his bewilderment, still maintaining his cool.

"And I thought we had agreed on you improving your ways of conduct," she refuted with her distinctive effrontery, irritating and enthusing him at the same time. "I learned about the blacksmith of Clun," she concluded and the poisonous censure was so thick on her angelic voice, that he felt it lancing him to the heart.

He bent his head, his shoulders slumping, racked by her words. He didn't mind being seen like this, after all he couldn't pretend to be anything greater or different.

They passed through the dining place and found two useless stools, quite nice and elaborate, put there deliberately by the servants, in case of a replacement or more attendants than originally planned. They sat there, for some quiet and quaint privacy. Noticing that Marian wished to sit as farther away from him as possible, overwhelmed him with dispair, even more than Locksley's return.

He didn't want her to know. If it was up to him, that deed of his would never reach her ears; his most recent, hideous, lurid crime of just two days ago. He wanted to see her, accumulating all his courage, staring at her sapphire irises just to find contempt, reproach and repulsion. He felt the urge to fall on her feet like a condemned sinner, like the Tax Collector, and beg forgiveness and purgation from her taintless soul while weeping. Just one smile of acceptance and understanding would redeem him.

"Marian," he started hesitantly but bit his tongue. He must look conciliatory, respective and contrite, therefore he had to obey her previous, stringent order. "Lady Marian," he emphatically corrected himself, "I am unable to contravene my superiors' commands. I am but a simple Lieutenant. I had lucid dictations from the Sheriff about Clun. Those who cannot pay their taxes, must receive exemplary punishment. If I hadn't burned his home, I would have been exposed to his fury!"

He'd spoken to her in all candour, displaying his heart bare in front of her, in order to strive for a single shard of comprehension or lenience from her. He achieved naught. She stood next to him cold, haughty, and accusatory.

"He had five children, which are now orphans," she emphasised, twisting the invisible knife tormentingly upon his wounded, rotten soul.

He recognised choler in her voice, vengefulness and plenteous passion. He couldn't but wonder how fabulous it'd be, if she applied that passion somewhere deeper, more intimate and profound. He ceased his coherence, for he was distracted and left adrift, prone to her venomous looks and morbid words.

She was absolutely right, blaming him. Although driven by the Sheriff's and De Fortnoy's hands, the order was his and only his. He had commanded the burning of the blacksmith's house, leading him and his wife to their deaths. When he'd learned about their five children, the black deed was done,  and all he could do was punish himself.

A whole night in front of the fire, allowing the snake-haired Erinyes to girth and environ him suffocatingly, a night of sanction and admission of his darkness, when he'd wholeheartedly felt everything enfolding him so unhealthily; such a macabre, deathly pale, forlorn feeling had overwhelmed him.

Murderer, corrupt, knavish. All through the night, inside the flames of Locksley's hearth, he'd faced the depravity, prostration and wane of his life. A promising young knight had lapsed into a cruel executioner, a killer of innocents.

Five orphans. Orphans made from a cursed fire, a hellish inferno to their sterling eyes. Those children had been turned into adults with such vehemence in a single day because of him. Spontaneously, he felt the atrocious mirror of memory turning to him with inexorable ferocity.

"I too have been..." He bit his own tongue, before he could continue. He wouldn't reveal anything from his past to her, his possible pride would never permit him so. "Forget it, it cannot be changed anymore!"

He tried to appear authoritative, snobbish and despotic to her, all in vain. Only a sweet look from her could raze him and denying it, was fatuous. After all, he was sure he'd sounded like he begged that occurrence forgotten rather than demand it, as his deadly instinct and the Sheriff's teachings dictated.

"Believe me, I had no other choice," he surrendered himself completely to her bittersweet supremacy, sweet from her sublime form but bitter from the mercilessness her irises reflected.

"Everything is a choice, everything we do," she reprimanded him, using a philosophical expression, simple but meaningful.

His need for demonstration of virility prevented him from hugging her knees, sobbing freely. There was so much scorn on her angelic face, so much repugnance and rejection, as if she'd already doomed him an unsaved sinner, even at the last moment. He was thirty two years old, unable to start again anymore. The boy of ten and six who thirsted to live and endured any privation with clenched teeth and fraudulent hope, was utterly dead. His carrion was decaying inside his soul, as the next sixteen years had inured him so, that he had no desire to keep living. The only reason he was still breathing, his sole anchor in his torturous life, was Marian, with her gorgeous eyes and the face of a Saint. Were he to lose her as well, there would be nothing left of him but a bony carcass.

"Please," was the only word he could utter, extending his hand towards her in despair. He'd taken off his gloves at some point and felt content; the smallest sample of contact would fill him with sturdiness and strength for a week. She stood motionless, like a statue, a soulless corpus, so icy, impassive, waxen, whilst his hand froze in midair. His eyes momentarily betrayed in all their grey elegance, his thirst, hunger and indomitable need for just one soothing word. His entire vulnerable soul disappeared under a torrent of anger, which engulfed him at once. He took a deep breath and crossed his arms magisterially.

"Sir Guy, I know you asked for my father's permission to court me," she revealed and his breathing ceased. He was frightened of her next words. "However, I do not wish it and I beseech you to stop. I cannot accept cordiality and affection from a murderer."

It had taken three years for him to overcome himself and ask this permission from the respectable Sir Edward, as a chivalrous knight with a sincere earnest cause would do. He was bewildered; had Marian not realised his noble intentions yet? He felt something inside him crack, he lowered his eyes sorrowfully and gathered his willpower, in order to not let his voice tremble frantically.

"But I'm not..."
Of course, he was a murderer, there was no other characterisation for his deeds, hence he rectified. "I'm not just that-"

"Maybe. But words are easy," she interrupted him, hardly looking like the twenty year old girl she was. She resembled a wise old woman, with profound knowledge and circumspection. She sighed, before continuing. "Please, if you truly wish to change, prove it to me with your actions only. And should you need help, I'll always be here for you, as a friend."

Friends. This word would appear between them more usual than wanted, each time from her, to insufferably irritate him, for he didn't covet friendship but love, espousal, and her hand adorning his as a precious jewel. Since the very first time he'd laid eyes on her, he was determined to make her his.

After that, he led her, displaying true chivalry, back in her seat, next to her old father and when the feast was adjourned and the nobles made to leave, he saw her out with a curt nod.

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Next day's morrow found him on the sole chair of his chamber in the Castle, his body cramped and stiff and his head throbbing in the temples. He was awaken by some noisy knocks on his heavy door and he rushed to open it, fully dressed all night long and still quite indolent.

"Wake up, you loafer, the Sheriff insists that you accompany him today, on the hangings of the prisoners," De Fortnoy ordered rapidly, appearing truculent on his doorstep.

"That kind of devoir belong to the Master At Arms. Why don't you do it?" He wondered with a raspy voice, a residue of his sleep, never concealing a yawn of boredom rather than tiredness.

"The Sheriff wants you," he curtly replied, though his uncertainty couldn't be hidden. That supplanting sheltered a grave meaning.

"I'm coming shortly," Guy said with a wide, contumelious smirk, slamming the door closed to his face. He had to wash, take up his arms and his overcoat.

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Triumph.

The only word that could sufficiently describe and shorten all the events and their influence on him would be triumph.

He wouldn't even be able to dream about the wonderful turn of the day's occurrences. Much as he expected his forthcoming return to Locksley, he couldn't believe it'd be that soon, not even now!

The Sheriff's scheme involved Huntington's lead in the execution would cause resentment to the people and decrease his popularity, abolishing his reputation of compassion. They thought that would be the beginning of his end, yet his ruination came and was completed in a single moment.

Gisborne himself had commanded his underling be captured and held on the castle's ramparts as a kind of insurance. If Locksley wanted to object to the Sheriff's indications, the dog would be thrown into the void. Therefore, the Earl was forced to read the parchment bearing their conviction loudly, clear and slow, so he'd be heard in all of Nottingham.

The verdict was read, the order was given, a useless delay of some attempt at a rescue intervened -apparently Locksley's idea as well- and finally the levers were drawn, so the four criminals would hang to their deaths; the Scarlett brothers, Benedict Giddens and Allan A'Dale.

As soon as they were hung, Guy had a sense of relief, for that matter had taken over his past three days, becoming extremely strenuous in the process. As they retreated from the courtyard to resume their duties, he shot one last look at Locksley, cold and apathetic, staring right into his eyes for the first time, overwhelmed by contumely.

The same moment he turned his back, chaos began to burst. The veteran had snatched and loaded a bow from a bystander guard, throwing infallible arrows which cut the ropes of the hanged men and addressing the people themselves like a saviour, an invincible avenger and scourger.

"Will you tolerate this injustice? I, for one, will not!"

He watched dazed, his mouth agape and speech lost. How could that be possible? As the Sheriff was barking orders, ablaze with wrath, he just stared, with stolen glances at Marian, who was standing by her father in the wing next to their own and watched just as surprised. They'd arrived at the Castle just a while before the execution and he had no time to talk to her, which he now held as the utmost priority.

The four moribunds were freed and escaped the bemused and benumbed soldiers. Locksley, though, was fighting solo with enviable velocity, prowess and might all those who attacked him, until one managed to restrain him, pointing his bow at him with menace. The Sheriff signed him to fire and get it over with but before he would, a shining dagger sliced the wind, as if sent from Heaven, to rivet itself on the guard's shoulder, neutralising him at once.

Then, they shouted at him to run towards the gates, in order to leave and escape. That was it. His doom was already sealed informally and soon it'd be utterly formal. Gisborne turned to his adjutant, Godfrey of Nettlestone, standing to his right.

"Let's return to Locksley," he proudly declared, without concealing his elation. "This time, for good."

He paid no attention to Huntington's phantasmagoric exit on horseback, he just sent a message to De Fortnoy with a guard to compose the excellent document as soon as possible, the one that would macerate the anarchist stinker forevermore.

The Sheriff disappeared to his quarters in the Castle, seething with rage. He could barely hold himself from leaving for Locksley, mostly to evade his outbursts. If the Master At Arms was the only left to bear them, he'd be overjoyed. However, out of sheer curiosity, whilst servants and guards picked up the wounded ones, he found the bowman who'd been hit by the seemingly providential, radiant blade. Upon seeing the weapon, though, his blood froze.

He'd recognise those special jewels of Marian's anywhere, which adorned her lascivious hair. Of course, he'd never even fathom that underneath the elaborate precious stones of unique beauty lurked deadly blades. He was overcome with terror; if the Sheriff found out about that, he couldn't predict the consequences. In a swift, intuitive motion, he pulled the knife out of the wound, shouting at two servants to take care of the fallen, unconscious man. He was one of the inductees, no more than twenty years of age; he'd definitely survive.

He kept the dagger hidden under his leather overcoat with tremendous care, secretly wiped off the blood and searched for Marian, who'd already prepared to leave with her father. He immediately spotted an identical ornament to the one he'd extracted on her hair. His heart stopped beating.

He called her name as if his life depended on it, breathlessly, hurriedly. She turned and faced him with a bit of quandary, anxiety and disappointment. He didn't care, not even if she considered him her worst enemy.

He pretended he was coming to say farewell, but his true purpose was grander. He grasped her hand in his gloved one with abrasive haste which felt like perfect indelicasy.

"My Lady, would you leave without bidding me farewell?" He asked with all his arrogant sauciness, as if trying to assert himself mercilessly.

Marian seemed astonished. He bent, before she could react and kissed her cheek, so all the bystanders would concentrate on that and not on his other hand delivering her bloody dirk.

"This shall remain between us," he whispered in her ear, smiling, as if they were sharing intimate, amorous secrets. When his eyes found her beauteous face again, he was met with true confusion and his smile couldn't but be genuine. Before departing to find his men and dispatch his leave, he turned to Sir Edward in all mannerism. "I would be more than delighted to welcome you at Locksley, as its Lord from now on."

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The return to the village that had entirely tarnished his life, happened swiftly but meticulously. The soldiers would follow them the next day, for gathering all the arms and furniture demanded time and everything had to be done thoroughly. He didn't wait for them; not only to come through the Sheriff's dander but also because he was anxious to enter that house where he was so unwanted as Master. He would glare at all those humbled looks of once impertinent servants as a triumpher. He'd withstood their scoff for four winters; now, he was ready to strike back.

Most probably, Thornton would expect him on the threshold, the old housekeeper with the stoic expression and absolute discipline. Instead of that, though, at the entrance of the Manor, stood patiently the last person Guy wished to see, the one whose existence he tried to forget or at least her current situation.

"Sir Guy, welcome back," she wholeheartedly said, her eyes gleaming, as he dismounted with precise fineness. "It's a joy for us to have you here."

"Only yours, Annie, for that I'm certain," he dismissed the attempt at a jovial ambiance or an embrace from her. For a moment, she came so near him that her pregnant belly brushed the icy leather of his overcoat. He instinctively retreated. The circumstance required heartlessness, indignation, malignancy, rancour.

He was taken aback, when he found all the servants of the Manor lined up in the hall, all heads bent apart from Thornton, who opened his arms in a hospitable gesture.

"Welcome, Sir Guy. We are very glad you-"

"Just as glad as you were those three years I've been here," he derided them with impudence and his darkest, most venomous stare.

"I reckon we must introduce ourselves to each other again," he said, before Thornton could serve him another word. "All this time I've stayed here, I wasn't but a stranger, we all knew that, which has changed radically and permanently." He revealed the valuable piece of parchment, where the Sheriff's seal still burned fresh. He opened it and handed it to Thornton's shaking hands, to verify his words. "Your good old Master, the Earl of Huntington, after his unprecedented, extremely outrageous, provoking deed of obvious defiance and anarchy to the face of the Sheriff, is today declared an outlaw by an official document and wanted for a reward. Rumour has it he eluded with his fellow fugitive delinquents in Sherwood Forest, the place most infamous of its housing for scoundrels and rogues. As you imagine, I'm not here just to announce you this fair news, that can only be called merry. It's pleasant that that snake demonstrated his poison, before he could stay here for long and corrode our lawful society. Well, as you may read -those of you who can, anyway- in the Sheriff's edict, from now on, Locksley is a part of my property and charge, I shall be its Lord and will soon receive the earldom of Huntington as well. Therefore, you are now my servants, my complete servitors and I will not have any irregularities, mockery or insubordination. The punishment of the offenders, I'll personally see about!"

"Aye, sir," they responded in compliance, which delighted him greatly. Docile obedience was a beautiful contrast and change, given their previous insolence.

"Aye, sir," sounded a jeering voice from Tom, the young stable lad. "When Master Robin left, I was ten-and-four and yet I respected him more than you, worm, 'cause you can only inspire fear!"

He didn't continue. With a cursory movement, Gisborne slapped him with the back of his hand, so that his glove buckles caved into his green skin, marking him grotesquely.

"Next time, you shall be flogged," he warned, with all his macabre earnest. He furiously turned to the others. "Don't try my patience or tolerance. Now go, help transfer my belongings, and prepare a hot bath and the Master chamber for me."

The last order made him shiver. All those years he'd been residing there, he'd not dared even enter that chamber, choosing a simple spare room. With that particular motion, he solidified his dominance and transformed himself entirely to the Lord of Locksley.

"Hannah," he called for the house's oldest servant, a woman in her mid thirties, who was rushing to draw his bath but that could wait.

"Aye," she approached him hurriedly but timidly.

"First, make sure the covers in my chamber will be changed," he commanded peremptorily. "I don't want to be polluted by the outlaw's miasma."

"Of course, sir," she made to leave but he stopped her without much effort.

"How's Annie?" He asked out of obligation.

"She was afraid when you left, my Lord," Hannah revealed honestly. "Those last days have been odd and I carefully kept her away from Master Robin."

"She can't be at the Castle, not in her condition," he pointed out thoughtfully. "Now that I'm here to stay, I want you to lighten her work burden. There's two more months until she gives birth. Afterwards, we'll see."

"What do you intend to do?" The servant had enough spunk to ask and was rewarded with a scowl.

He gave her no answer because firstly, he had no obligation to do so and secondly, he had no actual answer to give.

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"I wish you govern Locksley with justice and loyalty, with the same order you impose upon yourself," Lambert exclaimed jovially, clinking their goblets for the umpteenth time that might. He was Guy's sole guest to celebrate his advancement. In truth, he was the only trusted and authentic friend he had left, more than happy to accept his invitation and almost came flying from his house at Nottingham to Locksley.

"I'll govern according to the Sheriff's will," he was totally candid with him. "Obeying him will only benefit me."

"You know I disagree," the younger man sulked, not approving of his friend's route at all. "Material gain is ephemeral. Your heart must be the benefited one and I'm sure you neglect her."

"Her time's come as well," he replied, without hiding his enthusiasm, quite reinforced by the wine. "Now, I own land and means. Locksley's mine, this Manor, I'm no random fellow. Lady Marian will undoubtably accept me as her husband!"

"Amen to that," Lambert whispered with some coyness. "May this house bring you good luck, no matter how bloodily and dismally it was won over."

"Now that you mentioned the house, I'd like your help to redecorate it," Guy suggested. "With according reward, of course. You're my friend but still a craftsman."

"Chemistry is my art," he admitted somehow shyly. "I do practice forgery, just to make a decent living."

"I'd rather pay you than the Locksley smiths who spit on the ground every time they see me," the knight insisted and Lambert succumbed, seeing his grey blue eyes shining with hope for the first time after so many years. Perhaps that concussive change in his life and the return of Robin of Locksley had really favored him.

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Marching away from the stream
This tree, it will die without leaves
This tree, it will die...

And we all still die
Yeah we all still die
What will you leave behind?
Oh we all still die

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