He had, for too brief a moment, allowed himself to hope that perhaps Much was wrong. That he had misread something. His friend was learning, but it would not be the first time. Though it had not taken long for him to see that it was fact, himself. He died. At the hands of Isabella Gisborne, and in the same battle in which Gisborne himself was killed. And not even a quick death. His life was not to be taken in the way he had always imagined it would. By a blade, or by an arrow. No, it was to be the slow, insidious work of poison.
It wasn't fair. And he felt ridiculous at that mere thought. Selfish beyond belief. And yet it would not leave him. Because damn it, it wasn't. He wasn't done yet. He wasn't ready to leave the world behind, nor the fight. Not Nottingham or Locksley and its people. Not his gang. And yet he knew if he was sent back, that was to be his fate. To have given up everything, from his lands to his title, to the woman he loved more than England itself, only to lose his own life at the hands of a woman who had come to be where she was by acts so treacherous they might well put Vaizey to shame.
He knew Marian worried about him. How could he miss it? And yet he was at a loss as to what he could do about it. He struggled to find contentment in this life, and that was not her doing. She always would, and always had, brought him happiness. Brought him peace. But that didn't mean he could turn his back on that life, and come to this so easily. This idle life where being of any use meant killing a creature which should not have even been real. What did that say of him? He had returned from war determined to put his fighting days behind him. He had seen enough bloodshed to last more than one lifetime. And yet he had returned to another war. One that in so many ways was even more costly.
And still, despite his want, his hope to return to his home and find peace, he had once again raised his bow. Once again stepped in to a fight when he knew there would be no way to turn his back on it. Had sacrificed all he had, and for what? Since coming here he was learning it was not for nearly as much as he had hoped.
Coming to the roof that first night had been a distraction from tumultous thoughts, and he had found comfort in the company of his new found friends. Tonight, he sought peace. Though he held doubts that it would be so simple as that. When he got there, though, he found he was not the only one who'd had the idea. Peter was sitting against the low wall adjacent to him, and appeared to have made some progress in what would appear to be his only plans for the night.
Robin was not opposed to Peter's company. He thought of him as a friend now. And yet at the moment? He could not be anyones friend. He could not be anyones ear to listen, or shoulder to lean on. He could not be the hero everyone thought him to be. Could not be Robin Hood. Tonight he was just Robin. Selfish, angry and without a kind word for anyone. Even his original idea to come here and drink seemed pointless.
without sparing Peter a glance he moved to the wall opposite the door, slumping down to sit with his back against it. With his hood pulled up, his face was largely hidden by shadow, his expression unreadable. He sat with his gaze fixed on his hands and wondered how a man who sought atonement for all the unspeakable things he had done could ever truly find solace in either a world in which his life was cut short, or in a place where had no means to provide what he so desperately wished he could.