So what? I'm in a bad mood. I produce angsty stuff when I'm in a bad mood. Live with it. Otherwise, enjoy! :)


The End.
A Robin Hood BBC FanFiction
By Musings of a Shaken Mind


It's been a year.

Did you notice? It doesn't feel like it. You've lost all track of the number of days. They don't matter. Day merges into night merges into day. On and on. An endless cycle of grey that has nothing to do with the cold, stone cell in which you now find yourself, and everything to do with the fact that she's gone. Your wife… she's gone. Buried deep under the hot sand of a land that you have come to loathe.

Time has ceased to hold any meaning for you. It has lost all significance. You're past living through a week, or even a day at a time. You're struggling to live through an hour of this existence.

How did you get here? You can't remember the details, but you remember the emotions. You remember the coldness of steel slicing through soft flesh. You remember the utter certainty that you are going to die. The hopelessness, the driving hatred.

The pain.

Ah, now it comes back to you.

You remember the one thing that sustained you for nearly a year. The hatred and rage that kept you going, as your world disintegrated around you. You remember, too, the way that Gisbourne died. You remember the way that his decapitated body slumped to the ground. But it's odd; you don't remember the satisfaction you'd been craving. You remember the grimness as the blood of your enemy coated your hands, but you felt no satisfaction.

And you remember the guards. They caught you, kneeling, your sword discarded on the ground beside you, his body in front of you. Your eyes leaked tears, though your tears had not fallen since… since…

Your tears had not fallen since your most recent trip to the Holy Land.

You remember being taken away, but there, the memories stop. A haze of pain surrounds those weeks. Torture, you assume, though you cannot be sure.

And now… what? What will you do? Will you die?

You have nothing left, after all. The gang came, didn't they? They came to get you. They came to rescue you, but you sent them away, didn't you? You told them to go home. To continue the fight, if they willed. To feed the poor, if they wanted. To go their separate ways, if they desired. But you told them not to come back. Not now, not ever. You told them not to come to your hanging, either, because you want to be alone.

And they agreed.

You don't know where they are, now. You hope Much has found his Eve, and is in Bonchurch, happily married. You hope John has found his wife and his little Little John, and that they are happy. You hope that Will and Djaq are happy in Scarborough, as they set about the difficult task of making a life for themselves. You hope that Djaq's baby is delivered safely. You hope that Allan is in some tavern somewhere, drinking, and gambling, and being Allan. You hope they're happy. Because god knows, they deserve happiness. Probably more than any others he knows.

You tried to convince yourself, once before, that they were reason enough to keep on living. That England itself was enough to ensure your survival. Who were you kidding? You know that the only one capable of holding you here is Marian and, consequently, avenging her passing. But you always knew that your time on earth depended on how long it would be before you caught him, and killed him like the dog that he was.

You hope that this won't all have been for nothing, of course. You hope that the King returns, and that England is restored to rightness, and that the Sheriff of Nottingham gets what he deserves. You hope that justice is restored, and that peace is regained, and that your former friends live long and happy lives.

You know that that will be after your time, of course. Even now, you hear the gaoler as her makes his way gleefully to your cell. You can practically hear what he's thinking. He thinks he'll be famous, because he's the one that finally killed Robin Hood.

But he won't be. He won't have killed you, not really, because Robin Hood will live on in spirit. Robin Hood will live on, in the hearts of Will and Djaq and Much and Allan and John. Robin Hood will live on in the heart of King Richard and, thus, Robin Hood will live on in the heart of the nation.

Robin of Locksley is already dead, anyway. He died the moment he buried her. In the past year, this form you've taken is nothing but a false embodiment, driven to hatred and revenge, with no further meaning.

You remember the shackles, as they clamp around your wrists for the last time. You remember the angry cries of the crowd, silenced only as you are brought forward, and that gives you hope. Robin Hood will not die today. You are certain of that fact.

You remember the welcome feeling of the rope as it ensnares your neck. You remember the sound of the drums, a rhythm that counts down to your death. You remember the climax that they reach, and you remember finally realising that the all-consuming, excruciating pain will end soon. You remember the solitary female cry, as the noose tightens and the floor drops and the air is dragged from your lungs. You remember the bitter recognition, as your heart stumbles in your chest. You remember wishing that Djaq hadn't come, and hadn't cried out, because you never wanted her to see this. You remember imagining that Will is there with her, holding her tightly. It's a hopeful image. It's your last.

You remember no more.

"Marian..."


On the 13th February, 1193, Robin of Locksley was sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. Thousands attended the execution. Among the crowd were said to be some of his oldest friends, and former gang members.

They were never caught.

Robin's gang continued their fight against the Sheriff of Nottingham. After the death of his right-hand-man, Vasey was said to have taken his anger out even more so on his villagers, causing much suffering and death. It was through the efforts of Little John, Much, Allan A Dale and Will and Djaq Scarlett alone that the citizens of Nottingham and the outlying villages survived.

On the 13th February, 1194, exactly one year after the death of Robin of Locksley, King Richard the Lionheart returned to England, and resumed his throne. The Sheriff and his Black Knights were caught and killed, and England was restored to rightness, at long last.