In waking life, nothing has changed.
The King is in his desert, the Prince is on his thrown. Robin in his woods, and I am in his house.
I wonder to myself, as I lie in what was once his bed, if he sleeps at night. If he can reconcile these things that have happened -- how much they did not change anything. The evident loss with no obvious gain.
Perhaps I could have never been a good man, for I must think in these terms. I step forward only to move forward -- there must be reason, purpose, but more, something to walk away with. Ideals, beliefs... they are not things that will feed and keep me in this life. There must be gain. I have been honest with myself of this, and I felt that those I kept close would understand.
In her absence-- with the absence of distraction, I have thought on what it must mean to be a good man. I have come to the conclusion that I simply lack the cunning to hide my own intentions. I do not hide the monster in me, nor my desires or passions, and it is because of this, I will never be a good man. I could never have been.
This much gives me the peace to continue this waking life.
But in sleep, I find no peace.
There, there is no reasoning or understanding -- all the elements converge, and I see over and over those things I've done that have brought me nothing. It's as though the Holy Land truly is a pure and untouched land: every act is buried in its sands.
I wake as though I never slept. Heart pounding, bruises that I can't explain -- even the servants have begun to feign concern. And then there's the mocking.
"Honestly, Gisbourne. Another rough night?"
"Need a little neck rub? Help you sleep?"
"Gizzy-- maybe if I kiss you goodnight--"
I almost want to laugh. In its own way, this life has been a comedy of errors.
I try to kill the king and he lives as though I never existed. As though the threat of me is no greater than a sand fly. He seeks peace now, for a war he should have never been in. This makes him the true king.
I show Robin Hood for what he is: a small outlaw on a big hill -- who has killed more men than he could ever save in this little shire. This makes him the good man.
This is what the Holy Land has done. It has covered us all in a sheet of sand, each grain reflecting an opposite vision to the simple people of England.
So what was it all for then, eh.
Why wake at all?
This is a dangerous question.