there has been an unexpected delay while Father Christmas was struggling to deliver your gift; henceforth, I, your humble servant, beg your pardon and hope that you will still accept this as it is, and mayhaps even enjoy it. May you have a Happy New Year, filled with everything that your heart might desire, and I also would like to believe that you had a most enchanting Christmas.
And by the by, in the event that you like it, I'll gladly write a sequel.
Title: A Time For Love, And A Time For Hate
Characters/Pairing: Marian. Guy/Marian.
Disclaimer: The Robin Hood, BBC show belongs entirely to its writers and production team; there is no copyright infringement intended, and I am making not money out of writing this. The featured lyrics belong to Sisters of Mercy.
Genre: Angst. Romance.
Rating: R, only to be safe.
Word count: Approximately 1400.
A/N: This fic is a Christmas gift for macphista, with my compliments. She has asked for Guy/Marian angsty, sexy moments. As for timing, it belongs to the first season (I haven't seen the second, yet), and you can consider it an AU since the two characters should have got married.
in the wake of this ship of fools,
i'm falling further down;
if you can see me, marian,
reach out and take me home –
(sisters of mercy – marian)
There are shadows on the wall, moving. They linger in a slow dance; but while the eyes see, the mind denies.
Lying on her bed – austerous, yet comfortable – she deprives herself of sleep. There's too much thinking to be done, and oh! so little time left.
She feels like getting up and pacing the room. Dynamism is her only addiction, apart from freedom; she knows. Without the two of them, there's nothing left buy decay.
"I'd rather die than marry you, Sir Guy", she had told him once, glaring him angrily, her eyes glittering under frowning brows.
He had smirked then – his usual, haughty curling of thin lips; moments after, his hand had slowly raised. It was always his left hand, she knew – A man does not caress the one he loves with fingers callous from sword fighting – she remembered one of his ever sayings.
"Why die, when I can offer you a life of splendour?"
Remembering, she repeats his words; they bring a foul taste on her palate, yet there is something else, too. Out of nowhere, the warmth flows through her veins, and Marian yields, a touch of green eyes on her memories.
Why bother? Petty thefts are so much fascinating, she thinks bitterly, clumsy fingers fidgeting through her hair.
She tries to clasp the veil in place, but it refuses. Chewing her lips, she frowns and tries again, closing her eyes in concentration.
A soothing touch; yet those are strong fingers. The skin feels rough on touch. she dares not turn, she chokes on her words. The skillful fingers finish their surprising job. While they trace downwards, cupping her cheeks in slow motion, the only sound remaining is her heart beat.
I didn't tell him it's ill luck to see the bride before the wedding – there's a riot inside her head, her temples throbbing. Her left cheekbone is still flushed; his rasp kiss has left its seal on it.
One step after the other, she feels like sleepwalking. Her father grasps her arm tighter, but she's already lacking air. When they reach the altar, she's almost breathless; she still dares not look him in the eyes, not even when their hands are forced to clasp. She feels his fingers – always the left hand, he used to say – entwining with hers, a bit sweaty.
The minister starts reading, and there's silence. Marian tries to fall at peace with herself. She can't turn her head, but she knows that Robin won't come. She would have sensed it, if he did.
All his boasts and promises. All vain. An almost smile of deception flashes on her lips, but they are sealed. She chases any other thought out of her mind. Her eyes wander, sometimes focusing on a point far behind the altar: she can still see the sky out there. She can still feel the taste of freedom.
"Do you, Guy of Gisborne" – the words are dancing around her perception, and she tries to remember what they mean.
His hand flinches into hers.
Her head swirling, Marian swallows the sour taste inside her mouth; her stomach aches, and she seems to find no reason for it.
"… to have and to hold", the words come prancing, eager to please while they do nothing but to hurt. She wonders why they stop, then, and it takes her a while until she understands. Parting dry lips, she tries to answer, yet her consent is stuck halfway in her throat.
She can feel the rhythm of his heart beat. Slowly, painfully, she raises her eyes and meets his gaze; nausea grasps her anyway.
"You don't have to do this, if it is not your wish to", he suddenly whispers; there is a certain sorrow in his voice, a tone she has never heard before.
She feels like putting the quill aside, after signing her own death penalty. He leans on. She staggers, planting her nails in the flesh of his arms. Before fainting, she still has time to forgive herself; she will never forgive Robin.
There is no wedding night; she knew that there would never be one.
Guy sits by the fireplace, his head in his hands. His right for sword fighting, his left for touching me, she thinks, watching him furtively; shy, filtered glances are all that she has for him tonight, and he's having the fourth or fifth mug of strong, sweet wine to celebrate. She turns, her look cast once again – it's for the last time, she vows – on the window. Yet there is nothing out there but darkness, still darkness. She feels lost, abandoned; the thin wedding band on her finger prickles, and she toys with it while she fights back angry tears.
"He's not coming" – Guy's voice is hoarse; she turns to him, yet he looks at the dancing flames. They're licking his cheekbones with their cheerful glitter, a playful dance within a room filled with bitterness, upon regretful masks on both their faces.
"I know", she says, though she doesn't know why.
She takes a few hesitant paces, fully acknowledging his presence: his white tunic is undonned, baring his chest – she can see that when she sits by his side; still furtive glances, and she blushes a bit. Just a bit.
"Wine, Milady?" he asks.
The irony in his voice hurts more than a slap across her face. She declines his offer, shaking her head; another quick glance shows his eyes turned upon her. There's something in them that makes her turn her head, to answer. Something unexpected in the way he looks at her tonight.
It's the same, old sadness, she thinks, while they spend their time melting glances; yet there is more, she presumes. And when his gaze becomes almost unbearable, piercing her weak defence, she knows – her pulse has reached her throat, and she swallows, trying to calm down.
She's stuck on the floor when he stands up, only to kneel the next moment. Her mouth half open, a hand rising to her neck, she tries to regain control of her pulse, to command it to slow down; she fails graciously. The arch of his shoulders, the way his chest muscles join smoothly, everything makes her feel a sudden urge to reach for it; to feel it. Taste it. Have it all.
He knows, she thinks. The thought is awful. So is the smirk that flowers on his lips, curling their corners upwards as both his hands reach for her shoulders. Minutes pass by, and nothing happens: there's a rush of blood to her head, and she can't prevent it. Her chest rises and descends in an almost harsh breathing, until his left hand brushes her cheek. His thumb on her lips, she parts them, forgetting how to breathe.
And then his right hand; his sword hand, with callous, rough fingers – it falls upon her neck so smoothly, it feels like half a tickle, half a light caress. She almost finds her breath again, when he reaches for her breast, softly rubbing her nipple through the thin gown. His eyes have never left hers, and they burn. There's a fire igniting inside her, as well, and she can't prevent a gasp when his lips find hers, his tongue slowly teasing them, persuasive, commanding.
She opens up for him. I'm losing it, she can still think, her fingers fumbling through his hair, wondering at the smoothness of it. He follows the length of her neck, covering every inch in kisses, his tongue skilful against her flushed skin.
"I'll stop if you command me", he breathes against her hair; she finds no strength to speak, but her hands have their own language. She flinches when he moans under her touch – I've never had him in my power like I do now, she thinks. But then, he has you, too, the flame inside her echoes.
"I command you!"
Time stops; her heart stops too, while she keeps her eyes closed against the strength and warmth of his chest, still baring the marks her teeth have left there.
Why, Robin? she dares thinking, at a moment when thinking was the last thing she needed. That, and Robin.
- Current Mood: anxious