Okay, I seriously just churned this out, without stopping or retracing, or editing. I kind of have to take a break from it. It's all yours now.
"Oh I have been hurt."
Tell me. That was like saying take all the sand in Palestine and put it in a palm-sized box. Camels could fit through the eyes of needles, but tell me was impossible. The very idea made Robin drop his head. So he was almost glad that day when he was being so cavalier to show off for Marian and to make every villager thank him, that he was shot uselessly in the arm with an arrow fired from some nameless guard whose ability at the bow so paled to his that the guard might as well have been plucking chickens. But it meant that she could see it.
It was a monster. A web of scarred flesh that ran down his entire side. That first day back in Locksley, Robin didn't bathe like Much because he was still not used to that scar. And to see it, to run his fingers over its eerily smooth finish was to trap his mind in nightmares, binding him up in those memories. But today it was on display. And all he had to say was the bare facts about how it occurred. Saracen attack on the King. And he didn't have to say another word, because written on that scar was metal piercing through flesh, ripping, ripping, ripping away that coating that makes us human and hides what really matters—blood. To make a man bleed was to cut at the very vessels that held him together and to let that red, red life stream out into a world it was never supposed to encounter.. But this scar wasn't just a story of a slice or a stab, it was a story of a horrendous tear in the fabric of Robin. Misplaced, that scar would have taken off his head. It was a decapitation, it was a desecration, it was a monster. And it had gotten infected. As if it wasn't enough. And there was Marian stitching up a wound that made him laugh, made him tease her, a wound that might as well not even exist. It was a papercut. But he let her stitch it anyway.
So when Robin found that scar on Gisborne's tattoo, a scar that was a crack in dried dirt to his canyon, he lost it. Not like when people lost their train of thought, or lose a sock. He lost it. His scar animated itself. It fueled every muscle in his body to destroy Gisborne. The abuse the rest of him took in that fight was plain across his face when Marian finally calmed him. It disturbed her to see that Robin didn't even know that the rest of him was hurt. She saw that scar through his clothes and turned away.
Robin recovered. And he kept fighting, but it was pillow fighting. Shooting arrows was fun, sometimes he didn't even think about it. He could hit anything. It made him daring, it made him enjoy his life as an outlaw, because his life was never really at risk. There was nothing he couldn't survive.
Until Gisborne stabbed her. Marian had a wound, she had that awful preface to a—scar. The idea that he could live with the monster, but Marian was lost to a cut from a dagger—a dagger—a miniature sword like the miniature bow and quiver they gave to that baby—a dagger. And she was lost. And his scar bound with the place on Marian where a scar would never form because the tissue was dead, it would always remain open, through the afterlife for evermore Marian was torn open and not sealed back up. The woman he loved, the woman he lived would never get a scar. Marian and Robin were both stabbed by Gisborne. Robin lived with a monster and Marian—suddenly Robin lost it again.
Robin recovered. Marian recovered. And they never said another word about their scars. But they were there. And one day, one day those matching scars, Robin's the lion, hers the lamb, they would touch each other, flesh to flesh and it would be healed.