Guy and Marian Acrostic Series: 1- "S is for Scars"

TITLE: “S is for Scars” (1st in the Guy/Marian Acrostic Series)

FANDOM: BBC Robin Hood 2006

PAIRING: Guy/ Marian

AUTHOR: lexie aka lillianschild

RATING: PG

A/N: I'd been toying with the idea of writing a multi-chaptered Guy/Marian original fic for sometime but my hectic teaching/tutoring schedule conspired against me. However, my wish to put pen to paper and come up with something altogether new after almost eight months of drought finally won.

Since penning short one-shots in the past helped me keep the creative juices flowing, I've decided to start posting a series of brief acrostic fics revolving around words beginning with the letters used to spell Guy and Marian's full names- Sir Guy (Crispin) of Gisborne and Lady Marian Fitzwalter.

My original plan's to follow a timeline to make the series cohesive, starting with a one-shot set a little before Robin's arrival from the Holy Land.

Special thanks to the lovely yelloweeee for her artwork.

S is for Scars

My soul weaving holds

My blessings and my doom

Both my light and dark,

My love-song and screaming pleas,

Begging for an end.

Each scar shows as

A delicate loving curse

Or a grey shadow

On the stark black and white.

Scars. Indelible marks which bear witness to a painful and shameful past I can't escape from.

Memories that haunt my battered soul. Recollections made real on my sensitive skin, which I wrap in a thick and stifling armour of leather as black as the sins that taint the blood that runs through my veins. An armour which smothers the cry of a teenage boy who was once cruelly uprooted and unjustly scorned, exiled to a life of strife and destitution on a foreign land that looked down on his mother's children and turned its back on them.

Scars. Visible trophies of battles waged by wielding a sword. Invisible injuries inflicted by a bladeless weapon, more lethal and piercing than any ever forged by a skilful armourer. Deep slashes nobody but me can see when the sun comes down and I try to silence the voices in my head with pints of mead or a willing wench.

Permanent reminders of an identity I've been denied, a name that's been soiled and a heritage I was stripped off and yearn to reclaim for my own- an heirloom seized and bestowed on a child whose recklessness deprived me and my sister of a home, a family and a proud name.

These scars that neither time nor man has allowed to scab are the fuel which burns in me and propels me forward, the double-edged weapon that the unprincipled and despicable man I call my master relishes to use against me. The drive which, if God's merciful and my will prevails, will secure my birthright to be handed down to the grandchildren my mother dreamt of when she was alive, when I was cherished and loved.

I slip on my black leather gloves, make sure no patch of pale white skin's left visible before stepping out of the manor which bears the name of the boy who lit the fuse that turned my world and Isabella's to ashes.

I clench both my hands in a fist and feel the constricting material tighten, enwrapping and protecting the treasured memory of the touch of a soft innocent hand much smaller than mine. Beneath the artificial barrier I never fail to wear when the heartless henchman Vasey's helped create is sent to terrorise the villagers into submission, there survives the imprint of a loved hand seeking comfort and strength to survive the crumbling of a world that once cradled and protected her in its loving bosom.

Isabella. My little sister; the wilful and long-limbed elf who followed me around like a loving puppy and idolised me like the knight in shining armour of her favourite fairy tales. My first sacrifice on the road to power. My first self-inflicted scar, one that keeps bleeding and one I wish I could undo if only to live in somebody's heart, an echo of the chivalrous squire, son and brother I once was.

I grab the reins of my proud destrier and mount him with ease. I pat his withers with a gloved hand and smile smugly. Gone are the days when he used to fidget and rebel against his new owner. We're one now; black on black, an indissoluble unity of man and beast. Sitting on this saddle I'm the one in control; he knows who's master and doesn't judge.

Scars crisscross the fragile weaving that is my life, a frayed tapestry jealously guarded against the violent whipping of the fickle and treacherous winds, those which tease me with promises only to snatch them away when the shackles I've willingly put on start to come loose.

Like a prisoner in need of water to quench his thirst, I come to her doorstep. She's my manna in the desert, the light which shows me the way when I get lost in the convoluted labyrinth of my soul, the balm that soothes the scars only she can touch.

“Marian.”

“Sir Guy.”

Three years. Four winters. That's how long it's taken me to lose my heart.

I wonder if she knows how easy it'd be to either make the final thrust or start to heal my scars with just one word, one gesture to show me I'm still worthy in someone's eyes.

Marian. The name rolls out of my mouth like a prayer.

She smiles and for a brief moment I feel again a childish hand holding mine with guileless trust and pure love.

She smiles and for a few stolen moments I can pretend this hellish nightmare's never happened and I'm back home at last.

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A/N: The extract of poetry at the beginning belongs to “Scars of the Soul” by DeathByDegrees.

Coming next: “I is for Innocence”