Chapter Text
A man with cloak of green
Strikes out into the gloaming grey,
With a goal held true and dear
But sought in strange and fearsome way.
On it he stakes his soul,
And seeks a vicious enemy,
Yet he brings not sharp sword
To strike, nor dauntless steed to flee.
Bold rider of the March,
He goes soft on foot o’er the moss,
And no living thing with eyes
Sees him arrive at Mile’s Cross.
He comes on Hallow’s Eve
And awaits the midnight hour,
For wicked creatures soon
Will ride and serve an evil power.
He abides no decree of Crown,
He heeds no edict of the Fey,
For he is none else than reiver Robert Gadling,
Come now to win his greatest prize away:
Tam Lin, O, Tam Lin, once man, and still fair,
In these woods accursed to dwell;
For the Faerie Queen, she stole him first,
And tonight she makes her tithe to Hell.
Hob tipped his face up to the sun and shut his eyes. He breathed in deep, and let the smoke from the burning heather sting the back of his throat. He was going to get piss drunk tonight. He’d earned it.
He heard Sande riding up the hill toward him, giving instructions on dividing the beasts and coin as he went. By nightfall, some two hundred sheep and cow would be gone into the bastle houses of Selkirkshire as rain into the moss. Today, it was not an urgent task. There would be no pursuit, not until the trail was days cold. They had lingered into the dawn because all the Hall men who had stood against them lay dead in the glen.
It was not the first blood spilled between them; Hob remembered well when it started. He’d been too young to ride out. But it was the first time he’d been old enough to hear the dry fury in Sande’s voice, to feel it, and he’d rushed out after them and begged to be allowed along. The riders had all laughed and Hob hadn’t understood why, face burning, until Sande got back off his horse to ruffle his hair and say, “Not today, brave lad,” and, feeling like the child he was, hot tears of frustration had started rolling down his cheeks the moment they left. His older cousin Thomas, who was too young then as well, but not near as stupid, had only gotten him to eat his supper by promising him there would be more great rides, and they would go out together one day.
Hob hadn’t believed him then, and had stayed awake all night with the inconsolable grief of missing out on something so important.
Six years later, when he was allowed to ride the marches for the first time, he’d thought he was right to cry for being left behind, because nothing could be so great as this, galloping out into the black mouth of night, heart thudding alongside the hoofbeats of his horse, following his cousins and uncles, all of them fast and daring and brave, to provide for the rest of their family, and protect what no laws would.
A year after that, fourteen whole winters on him, wiping off his blooded dagger in the heather with trembling hands, he’d thought, no, actually, he should have wept that day instead for how Thomas was able to so confidently promise there would be more of this.
It was a childish sentiment in its own right, and his hands no longer shook.
The trick of it had been accepting that some things existed only in stories. It was stories that had gone and made promises to him which life could not keep.
There were no rewards for goodness. No times of lasting peace that made the great battle worthwhile. No way to save your family or your friends or yourself from whatever the world had in store for you. There was only surviving, and whatever else you could find and hold onto in between.
Like friends, and drink; like swallows darting through the sky and the way the mist burnt off the Ettrick on a summer morning; like shutting his eyes beneath a sun that still kissed his brow and warmed his cheeks, even though he’d just killed four men under her brother moon.
“A fine torch we’ve lit in Kielder today,” said Sande, drawing up alongside Hob.
“Aye, plenty bright enough for the rest of the Halls to see,” he said, although his eyes stayed shut a moment longer.
“And what are you dreaming of now, Hob?” asked Sande. Hob could hear a little affection in it, although no one else around would, which was rather how Sande liked it.
“A good drink,” he said, more or less honestly, smiling at his uncle.
They turned and made for home.