Disclaimer etc.: see Prologue.

Y'know, I think I've gone slightly nuts for whumpage... I think I'm mean. Again, sorry for the delay - I went to New Zealand. I have an excuse. Plus, who's read the new Harry Potter? How amazing is it? It stole my Muse! I'm writing HP fanfic! What?!

Anyway. Thanks to my beloved reviewers: robin and marion forever, scully42, RixxiSpooks, AngelsShadow816, MontyPythonFan, scorpiagirl93, Capt. Cow, DeanParker, love-is-just-a-word, The viEns of hIStorY, funkyfairygirl, Ash Light, , Marjatta, practically nobody (named the penguin yet?) and summersparkle. You all rock my world!

As ever, R&R is blessed to the Muse (hopefully I can stop her feeding off Harry Potter long enough to write for my other fandoms!), and enjoy!

Fevered Dreams

8 - Disbelief

“What d’you mean, ‘she will kill herself’?” Much demanded, his fingers flexing in and out of an angry fist. “She’s not going to kill herself!”

A soft, pained chuckle in the cool air. “She will want to.”

“But what do you mean?” Djaq asked, intently watching their shadowy companion. “What you say, it makes no sense!”

There was a sigh. “She is unconscious, yes?”

Djaq nodded, confused. “Yes, and we cannot wake her.”

“No.”

Djaq blinked in surprise. “What?” she asked, startled and indignant. “Of course we cannot wake her – we have tried everything!”

Much shook his head, so slowly. Understanding was gradually dawning, and it sickened him. “That’s not what he means,” he countered. “He means she’s not unconscious.” He could feel the shadow-man’s unseen eyes upon him as horror began to creep into his heart.

“Much, I do not understand. Of course she is unconscious – what else could it be?”

“Don’t you get it?” Much turned a suddenly-stricken gaze to Marian. “She’s not unconscious. She’s dreaming.”

---------

“Allan…” Robin’s throat burned with the acidic aftertaste of vomit. “My God, Allan.”

Dale’s one remaining eye blinked slowly. “I’m not bein’ funny,” he rasped, “but are you gonna just sit there all day?”

The injured man’s words snapped Robin out of his horrified stupor. “No.” He pulled himself up to his feet, and studied the lock, more as a way to distance himself from the horrific wound on his friend’s face. Short nails dug into palms as fists clenched. He turned. “John!” he called.

The big man briefly glanced away from the dungeon door.

“Key.” Robin indicated the unconscious jailer at the big man’s feet.

John nodded his agreement and, a rustle and a clink later, he tossed the bundle of keys to Robin, who was still trying not to look at Allan. “Hurry,” he cautioned gruffly, before returning to his duty.

Robin found the key that fitted into the lock on Allan’s cell and hauled the door open. He bent down, frantically quelling the protests of his rebellious stomach, and hauled Allan to his feet. “Can you walk?” he asked quietly.

“I can try.”

Robin took at step forward, but Allan pulled him back. He glanced over at the jailer’s bundle of keys, hanging from the door of his cell. “Take ‘em with us,” he advised. “It’s a golden opportunity. We can use ‘em for all sorts of things.” His remaining eye gleamed.

“Allan…”

Allan smiled slightly, understanding Robin’s reluctance. “What’s an eye?” he said softly. “I’ve got another one. I’m still me, Robin. I’m still the same mischief-maker you saved from losin’ his hand.” He studied his leader’s darkened eyes. “So take the damn keys.”

Robin nodded and took the keys.

---------

With a satisfied sigh, Vaizey, swathed in velvet robes, sat down at his desk. He tapped a happy rhythm on the desktop with his blackened nails and he pondered his own extraordinary fortune.

It’s been a good night, he thought happily. An outlaw mutilated always makes me happy.

He paused slightly at that thought, wondered if he should seek mental help, and then dismissed the fanciful notion.

After a moment’s deliberation, he rose from his desk one more. He high-stepped cheerfully across his chambers and bent down beside an old, worn side-cabinet. A flicker of dread slipped across his face as he registered the fact that the cabinet was no longer locked.

Oh…

He yanked the oak door open. The cabinet was empty. His mouth hung open. “It’s gone,” he whispered slowly. The emptiness of the cabinet seemed to be mocking him – he slammed it shut and sprung to his feet.

Hood!

“Gisborne!”

---------

“What do you mean, ‘she is dreaming’?” Djaq demanded.

Much was shaking his head in denial. “I’ve seen this before,” he whispered. “Long ago.”

“Much! Will you talk to me!”

He turned his gaze to her. “It was in the Holy Land,” he managed, sorrow flooding his face. “We saw men, their flesh bruised like this—” He broke off, swallowing. “There was one,” he continued slowly. “He slept in the fever-sleep for days, tossing and turning, moaning as he dreamt. It was agony to watch him…”

Much fell silent, lost in memory. Djaq leant forward and lightly touched his knee. “Much?”

“Then he woke up,” Much continued, apparently unaware of her presence. “He woke up and didn’t speak a word to the two of us—myself and Robin—in the room with him. He just… He just grabbed the knife that lay beside him, and…”

Djaq’s fingers were pressed to her lips – he didn’t need to continue. She understood.

Much shook his head. “We can’t let that happen.” He turned to the shadow-man, still crouched over Marian. “How can we heal her?”

There was a soft swish, almost like that of cloth, and a leather-bound tome appeared in the shadow-man’s hand. The figure almost seemed to weigh the innocuous-looking book before he extended his arm to Much and Djaq, holding the pages out to them.

Glancing to Much, Djaq slowly reached out and took the book, a quizzical frown on her forehead. “What is this?”

“Something that never should have existed,” came the shadow-man’s reply.

---------

It was just as the three of them reached the tree line that angry shouts and the sound of marching feet came from Nottingham town.

Robin and John exchanged a charged look – Allan was busy just trying not to collapse from the pain and the exhaustion. “If they come into the forest we’ll never get away,” John said, voicing the unspoken.

“We’ll just have to hope they don’t come into the forest,” Robin replied.

John snorted. “Hope. If we had a piece of the Sheriff’s silver for every time I’ve heard the word ‘hope’…”

Robin looked at him, and his eyes smiled. “Let’s get moving,” was his only response.

“And let’s get moving fast.”

---------

“Gisborne, find me Robin Hood.”

If Guy didn’t know better, he would have sworn, on his life and lands (not that he cared much about Locksley anyway), that Vaizey was sulking. “And how do you expect me to do that?” he asked. He added a belated, “My lord.”

The Sheriff glared at him. “I don’t know, Gisborne, and I don’t care.” He jumped to his feet and began to stalk angrily around the room. “I just want Robin Hood, tied hand and foot, in my dungeon.”

“With all due respect, my lord, what happened to ‘breaking Hood’s heart’?” Gisborne inquired.

Vaizey rounded on Guy. “That piece of outlaw scum,” he hissed, “has stolen my book. Stolen my book, Gisborne!”

Gisborne blinked slowly. “Stolen your book,” he said.

“Yes, stolen my book!”

“It’s a tragedy.”

“Shut up!”

“Yes, my lord.”

Vaizey began to pace again. “I want him alive, Gisborne,” he hissed. “I want him to suffer. I want to give him a slow death. Slow and painful.” He glanced absently at Gisborne. “And, if you do bring me Hood, I’ll let you keep the girl.” He frowned. “If she’s still alive, that is.”

Guy affected a small bow. “You are most kind, my lord.”

“Whatever.”

---------

“Oh my God, Allan!”

Robin had never quite heard Much sound so horrified. He grinned at Allan’s expressive eye-roll at Much’s well-intentioned exclamation as he and John lowered Allan to the ground. “Djaq!” Robin called, straightening up. “Allan needs…” He trailed off as he saw a familiar shadow bent over Marian.

In a second he was at her side, defensiveness and possessiveness in his every movement. “Get away from her,” he hissed.

The shadow-man shifted slightly, raising his head to Robin’s eye-level. Robin was confronted by a pair of burning eyes, ethereally blue and full of anger. “I am trying to save her,” came the hissed response. “I would have thought you would appreciate that.”

“You killed her father. How do I know what you are trying to do?”

“Robin.” It was Much, and he touched Robin’s shoulder gently. “He’s telling the truth.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he knows what’s happening to her.”

It was the sickened look on Much’s open features that drew Robin’s attention, and he looked up at his friend with a growing sense of fear. “What is happening to her?” he ventured, not entirely sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Much was silent for a second. “Phillip,” he said hoarsely.

“Phillip?”

“Phillip of Gardstone,” Much completed. “In the Holy Land.”

Robin frowned for a second more, and then he remembered.

—the cry of agony as the half-blunted blade stabbed down, again and again, guided by the dying man’s hand—

Horror spread across his face. “That’s not funny, Much,” he whispered.

“That would be why I’m not laughing,” Much answered, and Robin could see the tears in his friend’s eyes. Much knelt down beside Robin and lightly touched Marian’s limp hand, fleshed bruised purple and black. “See? It’s exactly the same.”

“But…” Robin was shaking his head, unwilling to admit it. “No. No, it’s not true.”

“Robin…”

“No!” All eyes were on him now as he screamed his denial. The outlaw was bent over Marian, his eyes full of angry tears. He stroked her hair with shaking fingers. “I will not lose her again,” he whispered.

He leaned down and touched his forehead to hers. I will not lose you now.

---------

“My lord!” The tracker turned around, his fingertips lightly dusted with dirt, and looked up to Gisborne, mounted on his horse. “I believe I have found a trail,” he said.

A smile flickered at the corner of Gisborne’s lips. “The outlaws’ trail?”

The tracker turned back around and crouched beside the same patch of dirt. “They were careless, my lord,” he said distractedly. “Three men – two supporting the other.” His fingers pressed to the dirt, coming up with just the faintest hint of red. “And there is blood.” He looked up, a vaguely owlish expression on his face. “Is that them?”

The smile spread. “I believe so.”

The tracker stood and pointed into the forest. “The trail leads that way. Into Sherwood.”

Guy of Gisborne brought his steed’s head swinging round and spurred the animal on, into the forest. The smile had fully taken hold of his thin lips now, but it wasn’t a happy smile – malice and hate was spread across his face.

You’re done for now, Hood.

---------