Musings of a Carpenter

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The brush of moonlight on pale skin, the taste of wood and leave, earthy and enticing for no one, not a soul, smelled, tasted, loved like him.

How could they?

Sometimes he was more than man, more than flesh and blood and bone; sometimes he seemed more a mythical champion. A legend stepped from a story book long ago forgotten along with tales of grandeur and the knight who dared the dragon to save the damsel…when he first saw Robin, this is what he thought.

Sometimes it was easy for them to forget. He was just a man. Rarely is it easy for him to forget anymore, he is just a man.

He felt the slip slide of blade on flesh.

-the slick slide of mingled sweat-

He knew the sting of the cold on frozen skin.

-bodies entwined, tangled, desire chasing out the cold-

He knew the fear of that final breath.

-the eyes that followed him in battle, the arrows flying, distracting, guarding-

Sometimes, often, more than he’d like, they forget Robin Hood wasn’t just a hero, champion of the poor, justice incarnate, sometimes he was just “Robin” a name sighed in the midst of night as skin touched skin. This is a Robin they'll never know. He has a piece of their leader that none else can ever touch...not even Her.

“Robin” a benediction, a desperate plea that doesn’t call for sword and arrow merely a touch, a caress, a kiss to damp the desires but instead ignited the fire that burns in both their bellies.

So simple a thing that wrought much that was not.

He never forgets.

Not when he finds Robin so often alone by the river washing off the nicks and scrapes that have become his life. How could he?

Not when he’s been the one to pick up the shattered pieces left behind when they’ve all gone, even Her. Sometimes, often, more than he should, he hates Her.

But Robin doesn’t, can’t, won’t, so he hates enough for them both.

He never forgets not even when all the night it quite but for the soft breaths of keening pleasure that makes the stars dance and the trees spin, not when they are alone at last and he’s covering him with kisses hard and rough a serious spark igniting those eyes he knows so well they haunt his sleep.

Skin to skin he feels the scars of every battle mapped out on hard, silken skin, as they wind tight and hard with a fevered desire that has yet to wane.

He prayed it would last forever.

Knowing it cannot.

Not in this world, nor this time.

Robin is meant for greater things than to be the lover of a poor carpenter boy with nothing to offer but his heart and soul.

He deserved something grand, something history would remember, that ages on people may say “Robin Hood” synonymous with all that is good and just and heroic.

He may be a man but sometimes, when its quiet and stories are bandied about, he thinks he knows that Robin was never, will never, be just a man.

He’s Robin Hood to the world.

He’s fool and lover to Her he hates.

To him –

– He’s just everything.

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KnightGuardian: This is my first attempt at a BBC Robin Hood one-shot. Please let me know what you think.