Disclaimer: I own no plotlines or characters of BBC's Robin Hood. I do, however, own my own characters and my topographically-altered universe, and I don't think either of us can really claim to own Nottingham, or the legend of Hood itself.
OK. Here goes. It's my first fic and I'm very nervous.
But before I move aside and allow the curtain to rise, I need to say one or two things.
Firstly, this is AU. I didn't have a map with me at two-thirty AM a fortnight ago when this idea first gripped me, but I do know my geography is a bit off: Sherwood Forest is quite some way from Nottingham.
But in MY, or rather, my story's universe, Sherwood Forest was always much bigger than the one in our world, and an act passed in 1902 in the interest of woodland preservation prohibited the destruction of the Forest for city building. Grumblingly, the city used all the space it was allowed, which is why this Nottingham City ends fairly abruptly at the Forest boundary defined at the beginning of the 20th century.
Secondly, I'm sorry if I accidentally slip up with grammar, spelling etc, or anachronisms. Please, point them out to me: I'd like to correct them.
Thirdly: this isn't going to be a Jack-Rabbit flash of a fic. I couldn't make it quick or concise if I tried because I'm not that kind of writer; I like to take my time to say things. You might wonder where these opening chapters are slowly going, but please, bear with me. Hopefully you'll find it worth it.
Also I'd like to say thanks to Zaedah. I think I've had a review before my first chapter is even up! I pray I don't disappoint.
Oh, gosh. I'm so nervous. Here goes!
Her footsteps were brisk and purposeful, sensible heels clopping along the grimy pavement and making her sound like a particularly prim pony trotting the streets of Nottingham. With a faint grimace, the girl tilted her head from left to right, trying to ease some of the ache that had accumulated in her neck after a day sat at her drab desk.
Someone with a tightly drawn face and an aggressive, imposing briefcase hurried past her, case swinging like a leathery modern-day answer to a battle-axe. It caught her painfully on the knee and she stopped short, clamping a pale hand over the joint and cursing under her breath. She turned back, but her unconcerned assailant had strode on without apology and been lost to the sea of identical, grim-faced men and women, thronging the streets. The oncoming currents of them, streaming in their hundreds now Rush Hour had officially begun, parted around her automatically; she earned not one glance of sympathy yet did not let it trouble her at all – she herself knew the emotion-numbing effects of a monotonous day of listless paper-pushing.
Straightening up, she pressed on. However much she tried to convince herself otherwise, there was no longer any escape from the fact that she was one of these people; Nottingham City Council had her tied to a desk and computer, her foreseeable future split into endless slots of nine-to-five. She had given up on being different, dressing rebelliously over a year ago; she had dropped the banner of her one-woman-protest and ducked her head to join the rest of them. Time had, in all its horrible irony, brought her to be the one thing her childhood self had sworn she would never be: just like everyone else, an anonymous clone of a young secretary, as unchanging and dull a part of the landscape as the grey concrete tower blocks.
Journeying home, she took a leaf-strewn woodland path that meandered through Sherwood Forest, providing a scenic but altogether lengthier passage home that she vastly preferred to the bus and train routes. And in any case, she had nothing to hurry home to.
She breathed in deeply, inhaling the earthy smell and revelling in the serene quiet of the woodland after the horrid bustle of the city. Closing her eyes, a smile spread across her face but it was tinged with melancholy: her time spent in the forest was a good deal more than most people's, but she never felt it enough. Indeed, the fact she was there that evening meant she was soon to be home, a prospect that dramatically failed to please her.
Opening her eyes again, she continued picking her way along the uneven path automatically while her thoughts collapsed into the usual plummeting spiral. 'What kind of 19-year-old prefers to spend time in the woods than to shopping?' she wondered angrily, stepping neatly over a fallen branch. 'What kind of teenager was she, to prefer the company of these trees to that of the people she saw everyday?' And it seemed to her as if the warm wind was whispering, repeating the taunts of her childhood bullies which had never fazed her then but, somehow, stupidly, bothered her now. "Freak," hissed the wind, rasping over the rough boughs and stirring the summer leaves. "Freak…"
Some time later, whilst following the path through a part of the forest she wasn't so familiar with, something flashed brightly in the corner of her vision, making her stop and turn, looking for the source. For several seconds nothing else happened, but just as she began to walk on a leaf shifted, allowing a beam of sunlight through the canopy to strike the mystery object and set it alight with incandescent brilliance.
Curiosity kindled, the girl stepped from the path and headed off towards the glaring spot quite some way off in the forest. As she walked through the carpet of foliage – there was a permanent leaf litter in the forest, even in high summer – she made a mental note of the route she took and the things she passed so as to be able to find her way back easily – a skill she had honed to second-nature perfection years back. She was a fair way into the woods and the path was barely visible behind her by the time she was close to the shiny articles, and upon reaching them she snorted in disgust. It was litter, nothing but a silvery crisp packet and a scattering of glass fragments from a vodka bottle of some sort.
"Urgh!" The noise of distaste rattled wetly in her throat as she picked up the abandoned plastic bag that the offending items had probably been carried in and delicately loaded the rubbish into it to take home and throw away. There was anger in her eyes: she loathed disrespectful attitudes to nature. Although she had lived in the city all of her life, she had also spent much time in Sherwood Forest since a young age. It had been her peaceful refuge, a place to run to when she wanted to escape everything, or everyone.
Commencing her journey back to the path, it was as she passed one of the enormous trees that the sound burst suddenly on her ears. Loud, but seeming somehow far away, it sounded like a gale in a forest; the rushing roars of roiling wind mixed with the hissing crashes of angered trees. And stirred in, voice: snatches of conversation tossed like rags in the tempest. The girl stopped as abruptly as if she'd been slapped, but already the strange noise had faded to a barely audible rumble.
"Hello?" It came out more timid-sounding and quieter than she intended but it was loud enough to blow away the last cobweb vestiges of the odd murmuring; save the birdsong, the forest was once again entirely quiet. She looked around uneasily. The trees were all still – the little breeze had moved off elsewhere sometime ago. Her eyes sharpened for any sign of company, she slowly made a full turn on the spot. There was no-one else in the forest around her. Feeling distinctly unsettled, she set off for the path again and carried on her way home, narrow eyes sweeping the forest with a ray of disquieted wariness.
Pchick. A second of dark delay, than a burst of even artificial light illuminated the studio. Stooping to pick up the post which had arrived after she had left that morning, she swept over to the plain table in the centre of the flat and laid the letters and her bag onto its shiny surface, dropping her keys into the glass ashtray-turned-dish with a 'chink'. The two letters stared up at her, demanding attention: a pale yellow one addressed to "Rose Brenton" and a stark white envelope from the bank with "Miss R. O. Brenton" printed on the front. Recognising the rounded script on the primrose envelope, Rose snorted. One of her old foster-mother's regular and unwanted communications. Her foster mother didn't enjoy writing them but for some reason felt obliged, and Rose detested reading them but hadn't yet had the courage to just throw the dull, halting, impersonal things away unopened. Much like those bank statements, she mused, leaving both envelopes intact on the tabletop and striding over to the kitchen, uncorking a bottle of cheap wine and her thoughts already chewing over how best to go about finishing her work that evening.
The second hand jumped into place, triumphant. But the clock was an inexpensive, plastic thing, reminiscent of those joyless timekeepers that watched over school halls and classrooms, and nine o'clock passed without chime or ceremony. Rose lay on the hard, navy sofa, her wineglass in hand, regarding the noisy television with disinterest. A small African child flickered onscreen. With Rose's help, pleaded the box, that child could enjoy food, water and education – all the things he had a right but no access to. Rose sighed, and her mind drifted.
Faintly often, she would send a sum of her spare money to a charitable organisation; more out of guilt than goodwill, but she figured that if the funding got there, the reasons for its donation held little significance. And it was all very well giving to these charities, she mused, watching the light sparkle in her weak-coloured wine, but you never felt it did any real good. It was nothing but a figure, perhaps for social climbers to drop into conversation. It didn't, in her mind, translate into basic necessities for underprivileged children: it remained the chunk missing from your pay-packet, sent off the great, mysterious entity of the Good Cause.
The television growled irritatingly at her, an advert done by a man with a voice that Rose was sure it wasn't possible to have naturally. The boys were probably chosen at birth decided the by-then tipsy girl, taught to speak in emphatic, dramatic and yet utterly serious gravelly tones from a young age. Against her better judgement, she found herself watching the commercial; it turned out the mystery man had been gushing, in his deathly-grave way, about a razor. Rose thought she might scream at the ridiculousness of it all.
Next, it was DVDs. So the Disney Classics had been digitally remastered, had they? Enthralling. Rose managed to yawn with derisive bitterness, which was no mean feat, and threw the rest of her wine into her mouth, swallowing it in one gulp. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that one of the titles dancing emphatically on the screen was Robin Hood. That's the kind of charity that would really inspire her, she thought, stand up a little unsteadily and walking over to the television. Grassroots stuff – really doing good things, and seeing their effects. Dropping everything, putting your life on hold to help sort out other people'. Her unsteady finger connected with the button second attempt. The enthusiastic teenager advertising foundation was abruptly removed from sight and sound with a clunk, as if Rose had taken a cricket bat to her flawless face. For a few seconds more, she stared into the black depths of the box.
She'd thought about it seriously, once or twice before: abandoning her job and home to go and do good in the world. What benefit was she giving to the impoverished, the oppressed, the needy of the world, holed up in an ugly office day after day, pointlessly bashing at a keyboard? She could just stop, sell the studio, sell everything; clear out her bank account and join some organisation, far away.
It really was that simple, wasn't it?
But then there would always pipe up the shrill voice of rationality – of course she couldn't do that. She had responsibilities; to others, to herself. The rules were unwritten but stood strong as iron: it was in no way a simple or indeed acceptable practice. And so on.
Rose sighed. How she longed she could listen to the quiet, hopeful voice in the corner that whispered, gently, "Yes."
Well, there it is. Why am I so scared?!
Reviews are much appreciated, including constructive criticism, and especially overly-florid, long-winded ones like I keep besieging some of you others with. ;D
Much, Much Love,
A Very Nervous Pig.