Chapter Text
Being a huntsman isn't easy, but someone has to do it. The worst part about it is when a trap is full, but the creature inside it isn't quite dead yet—caught by the foot, perhaps, or stuck swinging upside down, or groaning at the bottom of a pit. It's those times the huntsman hates the most, when he has to notch a bolt into his crossbow and take careful aim, eyes staring through his prey, hearing nothing in the heat of the moment but knowing he'll hear them begging for their lives in his nightmares.
He catches sight of himself in a stream on the way back, and he wonders when he started looking just as monstrous as the creatures in his traps.
The village doesn't see it, though. To them, he's the man who brings them their pelts and their meat, who they let keep an eye on their children when they're busy on errands despite his status as an outsider. His smile is friendly and easy; there's no way he could be the criminal who keeps bringing down the wrath of the nobility soundly onto them.
"What's the matter, kid?" he asks one of the children he's been asked to watch today. She's in a bad mood; granted, everyone is these days, but children deserve, at least, to have easy lives.
"When's Robin Hood gonna disappear?" she asks him, pouting.
"Who knows," the huntsman says, sighing. When she looks up to respond to him, he's looking elsewhere.
"Mama and Papa said he used to be a hero."
The huntsman barks out a short laugh. "Nah," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "That guy's always just been a murderer. Only out to prove something, you know?"
"Then why's he gotta drag all of us into it?" she asks.
"That's the question, isn't it," he murmurs.
Why does Robin Hood do what he does? The huntsman himself isn't too sure. It isn't for money, which he always redistributes. It isn't for fame—especially now that the people he decided to protect hate him so much. Is it really worth it to continue? Wouldn't it be better to fade into the darkness, sudden as he came, and stop this cycle of misery?
"Mama and Papa might be a little late today," the girl says, eyes lighting up as she remembers a message she was supposed to deliver an hour or two ago, when they dropped her off. "The king's men took all our crops, so they have to go and barter."
"Is that so."
No matter how many times he thinks about it, he always arrives at the same answer: it's no different than his job. It's not easy, but someone has to do it.
When the child's parents retrieve her, the huntsman slips a small pouch of coin in with the supplies he gave them as they depart. It's not much—it's been harder ever since the village decided to cooperate with sniffing him out. He's stealing less and less every time.
The way he sees it, it's only a matter of time before he's caught. They might even put two and two together as soon as they get home and unbundle their order. He makes his peace with the thought of his death every time he goes out for his extracurricular hunting, hood obscuring his face, only the light of a hastily rolled cigarette illuminating the night sky.
For all the people he's killed with the bow of yew strapped to his arm, there's only one person in the world who knows what it's made of, after all. There's only one person who understands the message Robin Hood is trying to convey.
The day drags on. The last of the children he's in charge of watching for the day go home, and the huntsman carefully folds his pelts. The people of the village bid him a friendly, but distant, farewell, as always.
When he reaches the edges of Sherwood Forest, the huntsman dies for the evening, and Robin Hood lives again. Death, rebirth, repeating endlessly every night, akin to a yew branch drooping to the ground and creating another tree in its wake; he leaves an ever-growing number of them behind every time he puts the cloak on. A veritable forest lies behind him, quiet and still, and a literal forest spreads as far as he can see in front of him, equally silent as the grave.
He hears the telltale snapping branches and startled scream of someone falling into a pitfall. He loads a bolt into his crossbow.
Someday, the yew tree will die before it is able to reach the ground. But tonight, there is justice to be done.