Chapter Text
The rain fell in thin threads from the sky, drumming softly against the canopy of leaves above Robin’s head as he stood at the edge of the forest.
Moisture crept under his collar, but he didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on a small horseman’s banner cutting through the fog
in the distance —red and gold, adorned with a lion.
A symbol he despised.
A symbol of everything that had broken him.
“He’s actually coming,” murmured Tuck beside him.
“What do you think he wants this time? Gold? Treason? Your head in a box?”
Robin didn’t answer.
He already knew who was coming. And he knew that no gold, no power play, no royal decree could unsettle him
more than the mere announcement of a visit from Prince John.
The prince approached with only two guards.
Unusually unprotected.
Almost... provocative.
He wore no crown—only a dark robe, soaked from the rain.
And his gaze?
Cold as steel. Sharp as a blade.
“Robin Hood,” he said.
His voice was tired. But the contempt buried within it? Unbroken.
Robin crossed his arms.
“I’m surprised you dare to show up here without an army. Or is this a new ploy? ‘Arouse pity through loneliness’?”
John raised a single brow.
“I knew you wouldn’t receive me politely. But I didn’t know you’d grown so... childish.”
Robin stepped forward—much too close.
His voice was low. Steady. Sharp.
“I’m not a child, John.
I’m the reason your tax collectors never return with gold.”
There was the faintest twitch at the corner of John’s mouth.
Not a smile.
A spasm.
“That’s why I’m here,” he replied.
The forest fell silent as John delivered his message:
"The king is missing. England is on the verge of collapse. And I... I need you, Robin."
A laugh shook Robin's chest, but it was bitter. Hard. Doubtful.
"What? You need me? The man you wanted to hunt down, imprison, and publicly humiliate?"
"You're the only one who has the loyalty of free men. Only you can teach me how to be a better person—and save England."
"It's because I fight for something. Not for gold, not for power."
John stepped closer. His gaze pierced Robin's facade.
"Maybe I want to fight for something else, too."
"You're lying."
"Maybe."
Silence.
For two heartbeats. Maybe three.
Then Robin turned away.
“You're not getting a yes. But you're getting a hut. One week. That's all.”
“And then what?” John asked.
Robin glanced back over his shoulder.
“Then prove that you're more than the bastard I know.”
It’s getting colder. Rougher.
The glances sharper.
The mistrust thicker than the fog in Sherwood.
And somewhere, deep inside—something begins to flicker.
Not yet warmth.
Not yet light.
But… the beginning.
The hut was small. Old. Damp.
A place for firewood and silence.
Not for a prince.
John stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, as if that alone would keep the filth from touching him.
“Welcome to your palace,” said Robin from behind, leaning in the doorway. His arms crossed in the same way—but with a grin that had nothing to do with kindness.
“I’ve slept on battlefields, Robin,” John replied, turning slowly. “I’ll manage.”
Robin looked him up and down.
Dark, plain robes.
Dirt beneath his nails from riding.
Deep shadows under his eyes that no royal makeup could hide.
“You look like shit, John.”
A twitch tugged at the corner of John’s mouth.
But no reply.
Robin wanted to keep taunting him.
But something in John's face held him back.
Not weakness.
Not arrogance.
Something else.
Unclear. Dangerous.
He turned away.
“Have fun. The door isn’t locked. But everyone here knows your face.”
John simply nodded.
He locked the door when Robin left.
Then stood there.
Alone.
With the cold, and the silence, and the words echoing inside his mind:
“You look like shit.”
No one had ever said that to him before.
And certainly not in a tone that sounded—almost—honest.
Three days passed.
Robin left him alone.
Mostly.
He sent Tuck with food. Marian, with documents.
But Robin? He didn’t come.
And John waited.
Watched.
Listened.
At night, he heard them laughing by the fire.
How free they sounded.
How light.
And something nagged at him inside.
Not envy.
Not quite.
More like… a hollow.
Where no laughter could live.
On the fourth day, Robin burst into the hut.
Soaked in rain.
Angry.
Eyes blazing like burning coals.
“Was that your idea?!”
He slammed a parchment onto the table. A letter.
With a royal seal.
“What is this?” John asked, calm as stone.
“An order to the army to attack our camp. It was issued two weeks ago.
John looked at him.
Long. Silent.
Then said, “I didn’t give that order.”
“Of course not,” Robin snapped. “And I’m the Bishop of Canterbury.”
John’s voice stayed quiet.
But something behind his eyes began to crack.
“You want reasons to hate me. I understand.
But at least accuse me of something I’ve actually done.”
Robin laughed.
Hard.
Without humor.
“You really think I believe a word you say?”
John stepped forward. Slowly.
“No.
But I wish you would.”
Silence.
Robin turned. Hand on the door.
John’s voice stopped him.
“I’m not the man I used to be, Robin.”
Robin didn’t look back.
Didn’t blink.
He just said:
“I know.
The one I hated back then at least had backbone.”
And then he left.
Again.
Robin didn’t sleep that night.
He was lying under the roof of his shelter, the fire had long since gone out, eyes wide open.
Somewhere in the forest, a man is lying awake in a hut.
Not knowing if he would ever find his way out of this story.
The door had closed—and with it, something in John’s chest.
Robin was gone.
Again.
With his accusations.
With words that hit like arrows:
“The one I hated at least had backbone.”
John stood still.
Then slowly collapsed onto the bench beside the table, like a man who had just been struck.
He stared at the parchment.
The order.
Real.
But not from him.
Robin didn’t believe him.
Would never believe him.
And why should he?
What had John ever done to deserve trust?
Nothing.
Except…
he was here.
Alone.
Unarmed.
Without a crown.
Only with the hope that, one day, his name might no longer sound like a curse.
He buried his face in his hands.
And for a breath—
he was not the prince.
Not the cold strategist.
Not the chess master of a torn kingdom.
Just a man.
Exhausted.
Lost.
And suddenly, unbearably tired of being himself.
He thought of Robin.
Of the sound of his voice when he was furious.
Of his quick, sharp movements—like a gust of wind with a blade.
But also…
of the look he sometimes gave him.
Not quite hate.
More like pain.
Loss.
John had learned to read people.
A necessity of the crown. And in Robin…
there was a crack.
Not wide. Not open.
But there.
And that crack—
that kept John awake at night.
Not out of guilt.
Not out of fear.
But out of a feeling he dared not name.
Something that tasted like hope—
and smelled like danger.Outside, the rain started again.
Slow. Steady.
John laid down on the bench.
No fire.
No light.
Only darkness.
And the soft whisper of raindrops—
like thoughts falling onto his heart.
And as his eyes grew heavy, he whispered into the stillness:
“I don’t know who I am anymore.
But I know who I don’t want to be.”