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Chapter Text

Every year during the time of the summer solstice - when the Saxon peasants celebrated their midsummer festival while awaiting the time of the blessing - Gisburne relived the terror of Sherwood to which he had been subjected when he had attempted - with the help of de Nivelle - to dissuade the inhabitants of Wickham from their erroneous path.

Since then, the same nightmare plagued him every year anew, and it had lost none of its intensity in all these years. Much to his chagrin. The knight could not say he had gotten used to it either, even though he had dreamed of it so many times by now. It also made no difference whatsoever to keep reminding himself that in reality he had escaped the forest.

Every year on the morning of Midsummer's Day, he woke up drenched in sweat, with the distinct impression that he had only narrowly escaped madness - or even death. Each time he felt as if he had just escaped Sherwood, Herne, Loxley, and the trees, and as if none of this had taken place years before. The time that had passed had in no way changed how he was feeling. He was simply miserable. Most of all, he would prefer not to leave his bed on that day.

But of course he could not do that, for the Sheriff would never tolerate such a behavior. Not even if he had learned for what reason his deputy did not want to get up on that day. Gisburne, however, had never brought himself to tell him anything about it and, strangely enough, de Rainault had never approached him of his own accord about the matter, although the knight could be certain that his brother had told him about it. At least, what he had put together from the incoherent scraps of words that Gisburne had been able to produce upon his arrival at the Abbey.

No one else had ever talked about the events of that day either. It almost seemed as if it had never happened. One could even assume that Gisburne had never had the awful idea of bringing in mercenaries to deal with Hood and his gang for him. Even the fact that their commander had been killed in the process - de Nivelle's death was not a great loss in Gisburne's opinion, although Guy certainly regretted the death of his old friend Bertrand, but had not really recognized him in this mercenary - did not seem worth mentioning in retrospect.

The rest is silence, the knight would tell himself and keep his mouth shut as well. But every year anew he suffered the dread of the forest and all alone. Just as he had always suffered alone.

This year Sherwood had again tried to drive him mad in his dreams, yet not everything was the same as in previous years. With the year slowly coming to an end, Gisburne was able to enjoy the fact that Loxley could no longer ambush him in the forest. It was true that his band had escaped the hunters, but their leader had met the end he had earned by his deeds. And in the meantime, his men had already scattered to the winds - hopelessly at odds, if the knight was to believe the rumors - while Lady Marion had secretly returned to her father - it was, in Gisburne's opinion, more than just a rumor, that Leaford was working on his daughter's undeserved pardon - and the villagers - even those in Wickham - bowed their heads and no longer dared to stir when the Sheriff's men came to collect taxes, levies and fines, even though they probably still believed they were being wronged.

But despite everything, the knight was not thrilled when shortly before the onset of winter the Sheriff sent him on an extended tour of the northern part of the two shires for which he was responsible. Gisburne was supposed to check on the villages and towns on behalf of de Rainault, since the settlements in the Pennines were used to being left alone - and thus being able to do what they wanted - as soon as the weather turned for the worse. And it was a fact that winter came earlier in the mountains than in Nottingham and the lowlands of the Trent.

The Sheriff, however, obviously could not bear the thought that the people would turn away from the laws he represented - to the outside world - as soon as they considered themselves to be no longer under observation. Gisburne was also to keep an eye on whether everyone was really prepared to take their livestock out of the forest, since they would soon not be allowed to use Sherwood and the other royal forests in this manner for a while. The knight should also ascertain whether the people had already stocked up sufficiently on firewood, otherwise it could be assumed that they would go into the forest for it when they were not permitted to do so.

But that was not all. De Rainault did not want people to be forewarned, so Gisburne had to go on his own. Inconspicuous and fast was what the Sheriff called this, and he actually seemed to believe this would work. The knight, however, knew better, for he had often noticed how quickly news were passed from village to village. Sometimes the notion of witchcraft had crossed his mind, especially when he considered that most of the villagers were traveling on foot. But he had also not forgotten that one should never underestimate this Saxon rabble.

This was a mistake the knight had not made at this point and so he had actually uncovered quite a bit. In part he had been able to immediately take action against it and on the rest he would report to the Sheriff. And soon, because he was already on his way back. If everything went smoothly - and the probability of that was definitely higher than in the past - then he only had to look for a place to spend one night - which was no problem for him, since there were enough monasteries and manor houses in this area that would take him in when night fell. So he could already look forward to Nottingham, at least to the comfort of an extended hot bath. He also hoped the Sheriff would not think of sending him off again.

But it was such a thing with luck and Gisburne. The two could not really find their way to each other and this time should be no different than any other.

He had not been able to avoid the thought that not everything would go smoothly this time either, but he would never have guessed that it could be his faithful companion Fury, who would cause him problems. Unfortunately, however, it was to turn out just the same.

In the meantime, it was early afternoon and quite unpleasant, which was mainly due to the fact that a cold - and forceful - wind blew between the mountains, which rendered the ride under the gray, cloudy sky an uncomfortable affair, which even Gisburne - who otherwise enjoyed being on horseback - could not appreciate. The knight would have preferred to turn in somewhere right away, yet he was well aware that he should still take advantage of the remaining daylight, so he pulled himself together and stayed in the saddle - shivering.

All of a sudden, though, he had to notice that the stallion was slowing down its pace and was also no longer moving smoothly. As soon as this had registered in his awareness, the knight reined in, brought the beast to a complete stop, and then dismounted - although not very quickly, for he was tired - so that he could find out what was going on.

Although he already had a suspicion, he actually swore when he realized that Fury had indeed lost one of his horseshoes. He was all too aware that the trail through the mountains was not one he could expect the horse to take with a rider in its state, if he did not want to risk serious damage to the hoof. This was not what he would do to any horse, and certainly not to his faithful companion.

Gisburne realized that he had no choice but to seek a farrier who could fix the mishap. He sighed, for that meant he would have to go back, since in the direction he was heading, the nearest village that boasted a farrier’s workshop was quite far away. The knight was completely confident in this regard, since he had visited these villages only a few days ago.

After reassuring himself once again of the exact state of his faithful companion, the knight seized the reins of the horse and set about redirecting his steps back along the path on which he had been heading south for the past few hours. He was still hoping that the matter of getting a new horseshoe could be settled quickly enough to allow him to approach Nottingham once again. In fact, that very day.

But when he arrived at the nearest village, where there was a farrier’s workshop, he learned - to his chagrin and annoyance - that the man was not there. He must have been visiting a sick kinsman in another village - not that Gisburne would have cared in the least, and not that this would have stopped the villagers from telling him everything in great detail - and would not be back for several days. Nor, for that matter, would any of the other men be able to shoe a horse. 'We're very sorry, My Lord.' As if he would take that from them.

But it was of no use. Since he did not intend to spend several days in this village, he was forced to set out for the next farrier. But even as he was leaving, it was already evident to him that there was no way he would get there before nightfall. After all, the days were already quite short at this time of year. Nor would he let the farrier give Fury a new horseshoe as long as it was dark. He shuddered at the thought of what could go wrong in such a case. Therefore, he had no choice but to request quarters in the village, even though that did not appeal to him in the least. But here in the mountains there was no other option left for him to spend the night.

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As the knight had already suspected earlier, night had fallen - quite some time ago - when he finally approached the village that was his destination. This was also due to the fact that he had actually managed to get lost a few times along the way, although he had ridden along it in the opposite direction only a few hours before. That had cost him quite a bit of time. Of course, he had been immensely annoyed - but he was also quite puzzled - that he was apparently unable to follow a road and take the right turns at the forks in the trail. Eventually, however, it occurred to him that the reason he had made such a mistake was that he had only ever traveled this road on horseback and had failed to take into account how much slower he was traveling on foot, and then with a lame horse. After he had understood this, it was no longer a problem for him to take the right path, but by then it had already become dark.

Having finally reached his destination had filled him with confidence once again, however, so he was all the more amazed - but also quite confused - when the village presented itself to him in a completely different setting than he had expected. The contrast was so great that he stopped, dumbfounded, to stare at the scene before him.

At first he was sure he was lost yet again, but then it gradually dawned on him that this was not true and that this was indeed the village he had wanted to get to. However, he had at most expected a small fire in the village square and maybe one or two men looking after things during the night, and he had assumed that he would have to get the village headman out of his hut - and his sleep - to express his request. Instead, the village was lit by countless fires and torches, and its residents seemed all to be still up and about, even though it had not only been dark for some time, but was also uncomfortably cold, for winter had already set in here, even though there was no snow yet. But this did not seem to bother anyone.

A second glance revealed to the knight that the fires were not limited to the village itself, but had also been lit in the fields, which were devoid of crops at this time of year. Involuntarily, he frowned at this madness.

He wondered if it really was wise to approach the village any further, since the residents had obviously lost their minds. For a moment, he had forgotten that he had no other option if he did not want to spend the cold night without some kind of protection. Then, all at once, rage seized him as he realized how much firewood the village was squandering. When he had checked their supplies a few hours ago, he had thought them to be sufficient, but there had been no talk of turning night into day. As it looked now, the villagers would have no choice but to go into the forest on the morrow to gather new brushwood.

Gisburne frowned once again as he tried to figure out what day it was. While traveling, he had not found it necessary to keep track of this, so it took him a moment to be convinced that, as of tomorrow, no more wood was to be gathered. As soon as he had come so far with his considerations, rage overcame him anew.

But his intense pondering had led him to another realization as well, for he had likewise recalled that the Saxons were celebrating the onset of winter on that day - or rather, on that night. How anyone could come up with the idea of celebrating such a thing was beyond Gisburne's comprehension, but this peasantry just thought in this way. He also remembered that tomorrow was All Saints' Day and that he would have wanted to be back in Nottingham by then. However, since he would not have arrived there until the evening of the next day even without Fury's misfortune, he must have lost a day - or perhaps more than one - on his travels, even if he could not understand this.

Again, Gisburne frowned in confusion.

Then, however, he pulled himself together. Whether the Saxon rabble celebrated one of its pagan festivals or not, it did not change the fact that they had to give him lodging. And they had to treat him with the respect he deserved.

But it was probably best if he refrained from commenting on the waste of firewood - and the resulting transgression of the forest laws - for the time being. But once he returned to Nottingham, he would have a detailed report written about that village.

No sooner had the knight reached this decision than he grabbed the reins of the stallion and started moving once again. At this point, his thoughts were mainly centered on the hope of finding lodging and a warm meal as soon as possible. He would not mind warming up by a fire, preferably in his quarters, for it seemed to him that it had once again become quite a bit colder. In any case, he was freezing.

Now that he had finally managed to step out of the darkness of the night, it did not take very long for the villagers to notice that he was approaching. But instead of hurrying to meet him - as he had expected - and inquiring how they could be of help to a traveler who arrived at such a late hour, they remained standing between the huts at the edge of the village. Nor did they stir until Gisburne had come a good deal nearer to them. They remained in place as if they had taken root.

The Saxons' outrageous behavior caused the knight to get angry again, but he wanted to reserve his words for the moment when he faced them head-on. He knew from experience that it was much more effective to yell at someone when you were not too far away from them.

But the manner in which the villagers were waiting on the path also evoked a certain uneasiness on the part of the knight, which, however, he did not want to indulge. 'They're probably grinning at the idiot who's out so late at night,' he continued to rage, though he was unable to make out the expression on their faces. Even though there were countless fires burning in the village, they were all located at the back of the men and he could not make out more than the dark outlines of them. This caused his mood to turn even worse. In any case, it would be better for this bunch if they treated him with the respect he deserved as quickly as possible, it crossed his mind just at the very moment when he realized that the situation was even more nasty than he had already assumed.

He was only a few steps away from them when the peasants finally felt obliged to speak to him. But instead of the expected - servile - welcome and the - required - question about his intention, he got to hear something completely different.

"You'd better not be here, My Lord," remarked the one in the middle of the group, a step ahead of his companions.

"This is truly a misfortune for you, My Lord," added a second in an ominous-sounding voice.

The Saxons' tone and words took Gisburne so much aback that he halted in mid-step. It actually took him a moment to realize that he had just - quite obviously - been threatened. But then, without giving it a second thought, he let go of his horse's reins, while at the same time drawing his sword with his other hand. He was about to lunge at the men standing in front of him, when a noise behind his back made him aware that someone - or something - was also standing there, and this made him to turn around.

An instant later, he found himself standing stock-still, for behind him loomed a man on horseback. Of him, too, nothing more could be made out than a dark silhouette, and Gisburne squinted his eyes in puzzlement, for the rider should actually have been illuminated by the fires in the village. But the next moment he realized that the other one seemed to be enveloped in a kind of dark haze that hid most of him.

Gisburne did not even have time to worry about who this could be, for he was immediately addressed by the stranger and the few words that the latter uttered were quite sufficient to make the knight understand who he was dealing with. But this did not improve his situation, on the contrary, for this man should not be here for the simple reason that he ...

... was dead.

"You really are in dire need of a blessing, Guy," Loxley repeated what he had just voiced.

"You're dead!" the knight brought out, whereupon the other man burst into a roar of laughter.

"You weren't even there when the Sheriff made the final kill in his hunt, Guy. How can you be sure I'm actually dead?" The outlaw seemed to be amused, but there was also a threat in his words that caused the knight to remain motionless, still holding the sword, but unable to do anything but stare at the man on the horse. It was as if the other had cast a spell over him.

Although Gisburne was sure that the villagers had not moved from the spot, nothing could be heard from them, so it seemed to the knight that there was only the - dead - leader of the outlaws and himself. He had the impression that the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

"Are you afraid of me, Guy?" the other one suddenly wanted to know from him and then, between one moment and the next, the impudent grin on Loxley's face was clearly evident, for suddenly the glow of the numerous fires that the villagers had lit had reached all the way to the outlaw. So now it was also impossible to miss the fact that neither he nor the huge black monstrosity of a horse on which he was sitting gave the impression of being ghosts. They looked - on the contrary - extremely alive.

"Not giving me an answer is very rude of you, though, Guy," Hood carried on, having probably realized that the knight was not going to say anything in response to his question.

But even if he had been able to utter something - which he was not - he would not have replied. In that case he would have had to tell a lie - he would never admit to the outlaw that he was afraid of him - but the thought of speaking a lie here and now scared him even more - rather inexplicably.

"You won't have to put up with me for long, Guy, since you don't have long to live. But unlike you, I will be able to witness the death of my foe."

This remark finally jolted the knight out of his stupor and made it possible for him to speak up at last. "You wouldn't dare," he objected to the other one, too angry at that very moment to notice his despair about the situation. "You know very well what will happen to the village and to this rabble if I were to die here."

His words caused Hood to laugh uproariously once again. "Oh, Guy," he retorted, after he had calmed down some. "How mistaken you are." Then he let his horse take a few steps toward the knight and eventually leaned forward a bit as well.

At that instant a cold shiver ran down Gisburne's spine, for now he could see very clearly that the eyes of the beast on which Hood was sitting were as red as if they were pieces of burning coal. With difficulty he raised his eyes once more and looked into the face of Loxley. Now he also noticed that the latter's eyes were likewise glowing in the reflection of the fires, but in an intense green. Never before had he noticed that about the other man. Without intending to do so, the knight took a few steps away from him.

"You are indeed afraid of me, Guy." Again it was impossible not to notice how much the other man was amused about the situation. "I can only congratulate you on not letting yourself be carried away into telling a lie just now. That wouldn't have done you any good at all." The other one paused for a moment before carrying on. "You weren't wrong about me, Guy. I'm really dead. Today, however, is Samhain and the gates to the Otherworld are thrown wide open. This is a night when only those who believe in me should be out and about. In me and in the Wild Hunt. You, however, are truly not one of these, but your presence here enables me to lay claim to you. Here and now!" The laughter, which he let out that moment, was not in the least kind.

Although the knight was quite afraid, these words - and the other's behavior - caused his anger to be rekindled. Apart from that, he had never been able to keep his mouth shut when it had been appropriate and necessary. That had always gotten him into quite a bit of trouble.

"Who do you think you are to threaten me?" was then coming from his lips.

"Who I believe I am?" the other replied to him in a voice that seemed to come from the grave, being so icy. "Who I am? I am the leader of the Wild Hunt, and for that I owe the Sheriff my thanks. Without his intervention, I would not have been able to take my rightful place so soon. But now I am able to do with my foes as I please. And I'll start with you, Guy."

Maybe Gisburne should have given these words some thought before he launched into a reply, but he did not give himself time to do so. "You've tried to finish me off a few times already, Outlaw," was his defiant retort. He was too angry now to continue being afraid. "Come on and try one more time, filthy Saxon."

"I do not need your consent, Norman, to seal your fate. You are mine and I will take what is mine this very night. But do turn and behold what your end will turn out to be. This much l'm willing to grant thee."

These words had been spoken in a tone of voice that proved so compelling that the knight reacted to them as if they were - yet another - spell that Loxley had cast over him. His body moved without him being able to exert any control over it. Already he had turned around and was now looking at the village.

"Look closely! Behold your fate!"

Now the knight had the impression that he was in the village square, standing right next to the largest of the fires. The entire village community seemed to have gathered there, and they did not look the least bit submissive, as the Saxons in most of the villages usually did. They seemed more like ferocious - or rabid - beasts, with ghastly distorted faces, and what they uttered resembled more sinister howls than human speech.

But this was not what Loxley had called his attention to. While the knight was still trying to comprehend what was going on in this place, he witnessed the mob of villagers dragging someone to the fire, in whom he could - without any problems - recognize himself. He stared at the incredulous scene unfolding in front of him and had to watch helplessly as the peasants tore off the armor of their captive - Gisburne could not help but use this term - and immediately after the rest of his clothes as well, although he struggled fiercely. The knight was sure that in such a situation he would have reacted that way. But the resistance was of no use to him, for there were simply too many people pouncing on the man - pouncing on him! - and therefore it was not long before he lay naked and bleeding on the ground, unable to do more than curl up to protect vital parts of his body.

But he was not to lie there for too long. Within a few moments he was tied up hand and foot - Gisburne actually imagined he could feel the coarse ropes on his skin - and then he was lifted up by the men and - completely unexpected for the knight - thrown into the center of the blazing fire.

If Gisburne had been able to move, he would have used his hands to cover his ears, for the screams emitted by the victim caught in the fire were horrible to listen to. There was nothing human about them either. But he would also have liked to cover his nose, for a terrible stench of burnt flesh reached him, which made him gag, knowing exactly what was the cause of this scent, so confusingly similar to that of a roasted pig presented to the guests at a feast.

Fortunately, the terrible spectacle - his own death in the flames into which he had been thrown while fully conscious - did not last too long. In no time at all, the screams had died away and nothing could be seen of the body in the fire.

But the horror did not end there, for the village - those beasts the peasants had turned into - dragged in yet another captive.

Fury.

With eyes widened in horror, Gisburne had to witness his faithful companion being killed with numerous stabs by knives, then torn to pieces and devoured on the spot.

This was finally too much and a darkness came over the knight. This last atrocity had deprived him of all his strength and he was no longer able to remain conscious. Darkness enveloped him in its comforting embrace and he yielded to it willingly.

Loxley, however, did not allow him to linger long in this merciful state. Again he uttered words that had the effect of a spell, bringing Gisburne ruthlessly back to reality. When he opened his eyes, he found that he had not moved, but was still standing in the same place, staring out at the village.

Now, however, there was nothing more to see of the gruesome spectacle that had just played out before his eyes. There were no more screams to hear and the stench of burnt flesh was also missing. At that moment, the knight realized that none of what he had seen had happened yet. He was also still alive. The outlaw had "just" let him see a vision, but one so convincing that Gisburne had forgotten this for a moment.

"Behold your fate, Norman!" the other one reiterated next.

"No," Gisburne muttered, though he had not intended to react to those words.

"No?" laughed Loxley with a ghastly tone. "You brought your fate upon yourself, Norman. Once already you had been warned, yet you would not listen. You didn't change your behavior one bit. Now your time is up, it's too late. You dared to defy the Lord of the Trees and now you have to face the Hunter. You are dealing with me now and I am not lenient. You have to expect no mercy from me. You are mine and I will take what is rightfully mine. There is nothing you can do about it. You will be mine..." he paused once again, which the knight used to turn around to face his nemesis. "... Either now, or at a time when your need and despair are at their greatest."

The last sentence actually caused Gisburne to snort in amusement, though he did not actually feel like it. 'When my need and despair is great?' he thought. 'Isn't the situation you just showed me already such a moment? Can it actually get any worse?'

He naturally refrained from expressing this thought aloud, but immediately realized that this was not even necessary. Loxley, who was no longer leading a band of outlaws, but the Wild Hunt - Guy had never wanted to believe in such a thing and now did not doubt that it actually existed - knew exactly what had gone through his mind.

"If you become mine at this time, your dying will be horrible, but your death will come quickly. Your life will be over. No more Sheriff, no more King, no more Nottingham, no more Sherwood, no more outlaws, no more Hood, no more humiliations, insults, defeats. Resist me no longer and you will find peace in death."

Gisburne had to admit that the idea that all the suffering and pain that had defined his life could now come to an end was very tempting. So tempting, in fact, that he was about to open his mouth to tell Loxley that he agreed, when ...

... he saw before his eyes once again what the other had just shown to him. In that moment it became very clear to him what price he would have to pay for this peace after death - and for his death during this night. He would meet his end in those flames, just as he had seen - and listened to. But Fury, too, would have to pay for his peace.

Gisburne shut his mouth again.

"I can see that doesn't appeal to you, Guy," Loxley noted. "But the other option comes at a cost as well." That was all he apparently wanted to say.

‘What do you want from me, Outlaw?’ Gisburne exclaimed in his mind, although it was already obvious to him what he had to do. But he still did not want to admit that, for he was not yet sure whether he could actually do what would be asked of him.

But then, all at once, he realized that his need and despair were indeed not yet so great as to be a willing sacrifice on that night. Even though he had been promised peace after his death if he chose to die right now, but nothing had been said about what it would be like if he chose to die later, he had already made up his mind. And if he had to, he was even willing to change his ways. But even if his life kept turning out to be miserable, he did not want to depart from this world just yet.

Once again, Loxley knew exactly what had been going through Gisburne's mind. "It's too late to change, Guy. Save yourself the trouble, for you have missed this opportunity. In the place I have set aside for you, I will accept you as you are."

He had a place set aside for him? This came out like something the Sheriff would say, with no promise of peace after death.

To Hell with it, though, peace was boring.

Gisburne opened his hand and let his sword drop to the ground.

Then he sank to his knees in front of Loxley and bowed his head.

Before yet again darkness mercifully enclosed him, a whisper reached his ears, "Don't worry, Guy. Only you and I will remember any of this."

Chapter Text

The guards called him mockingly Sir Apocalypse when no one was present except for them and the prisoner. In other cases, he had to be satisfied with a 'Hey, you there!' or 'scoundrel' - the latter sounding almost appreciative by now. And yet this designation was completely ignored by the one for whom it was meant.

Most of the time, however, the guards did not speak to him at all, but simply led - or rather dragged - him without a word to where he was wanted. On some days they simply hauled him between them along the corridors, especially when, after an interrogation, he was brought back to the hole in which he resided and which was by now as familiar to him as his chamber in Nottingham Castle. But also just as hated as this.

On the days when he could no longer walk on his own two feet, he was usually also in a state where he could not even recall who he was, but also not where he was and for what reason he was here.

However, this never lasted for very long. If there was one trait he possessed in abundance, it was his will to endure, and it was this that brought him back to reality time and again, even if he would have been only too happy to avoid it. Moreover, when he was questioned, great care was taken not to cause him permanent damage, for the King had decreed that he must be able to proceed to his execution on his own. In any case, he should not give such an impression to anyone that the idea could arise to regard the last Knight of the Apocalypse - on English soil - with pity.

This was all very well for Gisburne, as the King's attitude enabled him to take his last walk with his head held high. Though he had been defeated by Hood and deprived of his freedom by John - not to mention that the Sheriff had once again laughed in his face - he had not been crushed. He just wished it would not take so damn long for him to finally meet his end. How this end would look, he did not really care.

As a knight - as a person of noble rank, albeit the lowest - it was actually his privilege to be allowed to lay his head on the executioner's block and wait for his axe to do its work. But he expected the King to strip him of his spurs and gold chain prior to his execution, and then it would be the rope for him. Even if he were to swing on the gallows like a common felon - as the outlaws from Sherwood were supposed to do - it would still be an end that - if he had anything to say in the matter - should come sooner rather than later. However, the King had not yet been able to bring himself to sit in judgment on him, even though he had threatened to do so many times. What might prevent him from doing so? Was he afraid that his Barons might be inspired by the example of the Order and rebel against him? Should this actually occur, then there was nothing - in Gisburne's opinion - that John could do about it. Above all, he should not dither any longer, for the knight could not bear the thought of having to linger any longer in this hole.

When the day of judgment finally arrived, the knight was aware of it even before the guards took him out of the stinking hole in which he had to spend the last part of his life - though he could not tell how much time had actually passed since he had fallen into the hands of the King - for he had dreamed of Loxley and the night of Samhain when he had bent the knee before the leader of the Wild Hunt and bowed his head while swearing his oath of allegiance to him.

As a matter of course, after returning to Nottingham, he had made every effort to forget the whole bloody incident - or at least pretended that he could not ascribe any significance to it. Then, as the years passed, he thought less and less about what seemed to have happened to him that night. Yes, he remembered to have sworn an oath, but what was the problem in not honoring it. After all, it would not be the first oath he was going to break, though perhaps the first of which he had no intention of honoring even a part of it. But why should he not act like that, since the other people were not keeping what they had promised him either.

Now that his dream had brought everything back to his mind, however, Gisburne realized that the oath he had given Loxley back then - even if he had never spoken the words aloud - would be the only one he intended to - and truly was going to - keep in its entirety. In doing so, he only hoped the other one - Hood, Herne's Son, a dead outlaw, the leader of the Wild Hunt, THE HUNTER - would hold up his end of the bargain as well. If the time of his greatest need and despair had not come now, it never would, so it was up to Loxley this time to claim what he had then called his own. The knight, though, had not the slightest idea how this could be done. He could not imagine, however, that the other would come charging into the castle to save him from the gallows.

So would he have to die to begin with? Probably yes. But he could accept that, for he was sure that the former Robin Hood - unlike King, Sheriff or Grand Master - would not renege on his word. Only now did he realize how much that meant to him.

Since he had been forewarned by his dream - or should he call it a recollection? - it was no surprise to him that this time there was no questioning when he was taken out of his cell. Instead, he was taken to the Great Hall of the castle, which the King had made his courtroom. John slouched on his throne like an impostor who had snuck in to impersonate the King, exuding the grace of a ... cockroach that really deserved nothing more than to be squashed. Once again, Gisburne could not help but notice that the ruler of all the English - there was not much more left of the realm, after all - had nothing of the presence of his brother Richard, nor of his self-confidence. The knight was not able to deny this, although Lionheart was no more agreeable to him than Lackland. In matters of power, Henry's brood did not differ from each other in the slightest.

John grimaced in disgust as the prisoner was led in, and Gisburne had to grin involuntarily, for he could well imagine that his appearance did not please the King. And his stench even less so. But the man, who was more lying on the throne than sitting on it, had just stuck his nose into a large - probably perfumed - kerchief and therefore did not notice how the knight - he was still allowed to call himself that - had reacted to him. Had it been otherwise, he might have had him killed on the spot. But Gisburne was not so lucky.

"Sir Guy of Gisburne, you are charged with high treason. You have conspired to kill your King and plunge the realm into chaos. For this you will pay with your life," John's shrill voice rang out rather abruptly, "for you are guilty without any doubt." Apparently, the sovereign did not intend to give the defendant a chance to answer to the charges.

But if Gisburne had been given the opportunity to testify, it would not have changed the outcome of the trial, in his opinion. Apart from the fact that he could not - or would not - deny having actually done what he was accused of. The Order had made no secret of their goals when they thought victory was theirs. With bitterness, the knight recalled how the Grand Master had dismissed his concerns regarding Hood as irrelevant and brushed them aside. For this arrogance they had all paid with their lives, the knight would follow the rest only a little later. And would not go to the same place as them. At least, that's what he assumed. But maybe the Wild Hunt was just a part of Hell.

"Guilty!" repeated John at that very moment. "For this you will go to your death, and you will die like the vile wretch you have turned out to be. You have forfeited the privilege of being called Sir Guy and dying by the executioner's axe. You will swing." The King paused for a moment and looked up at the window slits, beyond which, however, only darkness was to be seen. "This will be the last night of your miserable life, Traitor. You will not see another morning."

                                                               ********************************

"Must the execution be on this very day?" the former knight heard one of the guards mutter. The man who uttered these words was one of those who spoke with a strong Saxon accent when none of his superiors were around and who was happy about Gisburne's execution for different reasons than the Normans.

"But that's why it takes place before sunrise," replied another, who - as far as the prisoner could tell - was not of Saxon origin.

"But the darkness makes it worse," the first countered, his words carrying more than a little concern.

"What's the matter with ya?" a third now interjected. "Are ya scared of de night?"

"You ain't knowin' what you're sayin'." The Saxon was now definitely angry. "I couldn't care less 'bout this All Saints' Day. As far as I'm bother'd, there could be hundreds of executions takin' place. But this night ..." He fell silent.

The men had lowered their voices a bit, but they had not done this so that the prisoner would not overhear. He, in turn, was only able to suppress a grin, as it pained him to screw up his face in any way. This conversation had made him realize what day - or better - what night it was and he could only say - or rather think - that there was probably no better time for him to leave the world of the living.

He was aware that the King had intended it as another act of humiliation not to let him experience another dawn. Obviously, the sovereign shared the opinion of many of his subjects that the moment when the sun crossed the horizon was one of hope, although he believed in quite little else. But Gisburne had already noticed some years ago - even if he had long refused to admit it - that he took more comfort in the night, in the darkness that used to embrace him like a beloved person. He had no need for any further dawns.

He had already made up his mind some time ago not to cause any trouble for the guards on the day of his execution and when they took him out of his cell, he did not intend to change that. After all, he had resigned himself to being executed long before the verdict was passed. This fate had been looming over him like a storm cloud since the beginning of his service with de Rainault - and this did not refer to the Sheriff - even if he had not wanted to see it for a long time. In the meantime, this idea was already very familiar to him and no longer scared him in the slightest.

While the soldiers led him through the corridors, he had to stop himself one more time in order not to grin. Loxley had probably always believed that his foe was in dire need of a blessing, but in this respect he had been mistaken - Herne apparently not - for no blessing from any god could have saved Gisburne from his fate. Only he himself would have been able to do so. Even after his death, Hood had not understood this, or perhaps he himself looked at it in a wrong way? Perhaps he could hope for new insights after all. Who would have thought he would look forward to learning something after his death? This time he did not manage to avoid a grin and immediately his face turned into a grimace of pain. But no one cared, least of all himself.

When they finally reached the bailey - in the past, the corridors had never seemed so endless to him - he noticed that the King had done everything he could to make those in attendance forget that morning was still far away. Gisburne could not avoid wondering when he had started to bring in torches, so many had the English ruler ordered to be distributed. And yet no one could miss the night-black sky, where only a few stars twinkled between clouds, driven by a strong wind past the castle.

As the former knight looked at the silvery disc of the moon - which showed herself in gaps in the clouds to the west - it occurred to him that the last full moon could probably not even have been a week ago, for she had not yet lost very much of her splendor. But neither had she remained perfectly round. Nevertheless, every time she appeared, it was as if the numerous torches were extinguished for the blink of an eye, while at the same time the murmur of those in attendance fell silent for the instant of a breath, as if the people were listening fearfully into the dark night. Then, when another cloud obscured the light, everything went on as before.

Gisburne was aware, however, that the rest had not realized at all that they had fallen silent for a single moment. None of them had noticed the pauses caused by the appearance of the moon. None of them had any awareness of the night, not even the soldier who had earlier complained about the fact that the execution was to take place at that hour of all times. Probably he had still grown up with the old tales and had even internalized the concerns of his elders, but he no longer believed in them. It was all a sham.

The prisoner had to laugh and this time it was caught by someone.

"It is so typical of you to make a laughing stock of yourself, Gisburne," the Sheriff - who was just passing the group of soldiers with the prisoner - could not refrain from a remark.

Again Gisburne had to laugh and it took him a moment to be able to respond to the man's interjection. It did not escape him that de Rainault had stayed close to him, as if he did not want to miss the expected words in any case.

"In the old days, you would never have gotten up at such an early hour for my sake, de Rainault," he finally gave back.

"You will soon cease to laugh, Traitor," sneered the King, who had approached undetected by everyone out of the darkness, but his words could not worry Gisburne, for John made a rather agitated impression on that night. This was mainly due to the manner in which he glanced at the sky every few moments, as if he was afraid that an attack might come from there. Did he perhaps believe in the Wild Hunt? This was not as unlikely as it seemed at first, for the former knight had not forgotten how easily Edgar of Huntingdon had reeled John in with the tale of the witch back in the day. Not believing in the teachings of the Church was obviously not difficult for this repulsive man, but not believing at all was apparently not an option. Serves him right to be scared, since he had to set the time of the execution for that particular night.

After this short - and from Gisburne's point of view quite amusing - exchange of words, the prisoner now turned his gaze to the gallows, which had been erected at one side of the bailey. He was a little surprised to realize that the sight of it did not scare him, but this was probably due to the fact that his path had been leading him to this very spot for many years. In fact, he had already determined that he had had ample time to get used to this idea.

There was no way he would make a fool of himself in front of the King and de Rainault, nor would he be able to change anything by doing so. If he were to cause problems for the soldiers at this point, he would only make his situation more miserable, and he had no intention of doing that.

Instead, he climbed the few steps to the scaffold with a sure step, despite the shackles that restricted his movement - and regardless of the fact that his whole body ached, but pain has always been a faithful companion to him - and stopped just in front of the noose that would be pulled over his head in a few moments. For an instant he seriously considered whether now would be the right time to take a look at the King, but then he decided rather to gaze once more into the night sky and at the massive clouds, which were so dark that even now they were clearly discernible. A strong wind was hounding them from the North and only in the far West was the sky free of them, allowing the moon to look down on the people in the bailey without any obstruction.

Meanwhile, the executioner had also appeared on the platform. Gisburne snorted in amusement when he saw the man using a hood to hide his face. Did he think the prisoner would not know who was hidden under it? Gisburne had never had a problem telling who was under the hood of Herne's Son - or who was not. Now the former knight felt it somehow fitting that it was now again someone with a hood who threatened his life. But unlike Hood, this man would succeed.

Perhaps there was another reason why the man did not want to show his face, although everyone knew who filled this position. It was also possible that he wanted to protect himself in this way from being cursed by the condemned. Now the prisoner recalled that the executioner had once before expressed himself accordingly. Had he ever thought about what would enable a condemned man to do such a thing, unless he had practiced magic in the past? Or perhaps he believed that anyone would be able to cast a curse? Gisburne thought it was a pity that he had no more time to think more intensely about this, even if he himself considered this idea pointless. But if he was wrong, then the King and the Sheriff would have to be careful.

This thought gave him an idea and he turned his gaze to the dais on which the high-ranking onlookers were located. "You will not have done this in vain!" he exclaimed and had to stop himself from laughing out loud, for this would have ruined the desired effect. Promptly he was rewarded with the men flinching in fright. This then he could probably call a satisfactory finish.

But then he remembered something else and he turned to the executioner standing next to him. "I forgive you," he murmured to him and was again rewarded with having made someone wince, for the other person had clearly not expected these words. In any case, these confused him, for he paused for a moment, although he had already extended his hand to the noose.

The man remained standing motionless for another instant - his hand still in the air - but then he seemed to have decided to proceed. Again, however, he could not finish his movement, for he and all the others around - Gisburne included - were once again disturbed. This time it was an infernal noise, apparently coming from the direction of the stables. Before anyone had a chance to react to this intrusion, a loud neighing was heard, which the prisoner recognized immediately.

Fury.

He had believed that his stallion had long since been relocated somewhere else. He had assumed that the Sheriff had wanted to get rid of the beast as quickly as possible, for it had always seemed creepy to him. But obviously he had been wrong about that. And now his faithful companion was right there in front of the scaffold. This was a splendid parting gift.

"You had given me your word to have this devilish creature removed, de Rainault," the King hissed. Although he certainly had not intended this, his words were well understood, for at that very moment the bailey had become completely quiet. It was not surprising that the Sheriff refrained from answering under these circumstances, but perhaps something else was to blame for this. It was strange, though, for de Rainault was never one to be at a loss for words. Gisburne considered it another parting gift. Someone really meant well for him.

"Go on!" commanded an enraged King, causing the executioner to cringe again at these words.

Even though the man was certainly making an effort to finally get his work done, he was not going to get around to it now either, and this time it was not something as harmless as a stallion, even if it had been called fiendish many times in the past and had just forcibly freed itself from the stables.

All at once a strong gust of wind swept across the bailey and tore the noose off the beam. The wind even managed to push the executioner a few steps away from the condemned - the man was by no means a feeble dwarf - and it took with it the headdresses - and in some cases the cloaks - of the men who came to watch the execution from the dais.

But this was to be only the first - and only the least - of the horrors that would befall the castle during that night. The next one was heralded by a loud laugh that seemed to come from the top of the northern walls.

Gisburne knew immediately who had laughed, and from the reaction of the Sheriff - to whom he had looked just at that moment - he recognized that the latter also knew who it was, for he had turned as white as a freshly bleached sheet and his face now shone almost as bright as the moon herself. But that was not surprising, since he had for years believed that Loxley was dead. After all, he had seen with his own eyes that he had died. Now this laughter rang out, yet he obviously could not believe it. Even though the Baron de Belleme had already shown him that a deceased did not necessarily have to remain dead.

"How nice that you haven't forgotten me, Sheriff," the outlaw called out to de Rainault, and this time his voice no longer came from above. From one moment to the next, he suddenly was down in the bailey, as if he had leapt from the walls. Or rather, not him, but the creature he was sitting on, which bore a certain resemblance to a horse. To a black stallion, as Fury was one. But that was already the end of the similarities. And woe betide anyone who called his stallion devilish again, as his eyes did not glow red and his hooves did not throw sparks when hitting a stone. No smoke came out of his nostrils either.

"Your Majesty, we have not yet met," the former Son of Herne - or was he still? - now addressed the King. "If I may introduce myself, I am Robin of Loxley." He laughed again.

John, however, apparently knew exactly who Loxley was, for he was now turning pale as well. Or rather: he became even paler.

"But I'm not here for you, Your Majesty, so you don't have to piss your pants." He seemed to be having a good time. "And neither do you, Sheriff." He paused. "But I see my words come too late." The whole situation seemed to amuse him immensely. Gisburne could well relate to that.

However, he would also like to know what Loxley was up to now, having disrupted his execution in such a spectacular fashion. How was he going to proceed, what did he have planned? There was no question that he had a plan, for he had been very good at that in the past.

The dead outlaw made a casual gesture with his hand, but in doing so he kept his gaze - and his insolent grin - fixed on the onlookers, all of whom had probably pissed their pants by now.

With a loud thud, Gisburne's shackles fell onto the scaffold, causing those in attendance to flinch. However, the condemned had not expected this either.

Then a heavy dark cloud suddenly moved in front of the moon and another strong gust of wind extinguished all the torches in the bailey. From one moment to the next, the night had turned pitch black, and after the wind had subsided, it was now completely silent, except for a quiet sobbing that seemed to be coming from the King.

It did not stay quiet for very long, however, for suddenly an infernal howl came from the direction of the scaffold.

The clouds parted again and the moon shone down on the world with an unimaginably intense silvery light. And on the huge wolf, which was right there where the prisoner had just been standing. It was this wolf, which raised its muzzle to the sky and gave off this eerie howl, before it turned its bright - blue - eyes on those around and showed them its long, sharp fangs at the same time.

A number of the men then lost their senses, and some of them had the misfortune to fall from the dais, sustaining injuries, of course - one of them even broke his neck. The King was slumped on his throne, also unconscious, while the Sheriff was still conscious, but whether he was still in his right mind could not be determined beyond a doubt at that point. In any case, he had his eyes widened in terror at the creature into which his former deputy had been transformed. Perhaps de Rainault was just remembering that this time again he had denounced him. His mouth also stood wide open and he resembled a fish out of water. Otherwise, only his chest was still moving.

The wolf howled once more, Loxley laughed, and his steed let out a loud snort. Fury added his neigh. This promptly caused more people to faint. De Rainault, however, was not among them.

"At least we still have some people watching," the Hunter stated with a laugh that sounded no less eerie than the wolf's howling.

"And not just down here," he then noted, looking up at the walls.

The wolf that Gisburne had turned into - a shape he liked immensely - followed his gaze. And indeed, at the top of the battlements, he could make out a pale face. With one leap he went up there to see who it is.

Hood.

The second Son of Herne, although pressing himself against the wall and looking pale, was otherwise holding his own. And he was not alone, but his companion had managed not to be seen from below.

The Wolf eyed Loxley's successor curiously, for it had not escaped his notice that the outlaw had put an arrow to his bow. However, he aimed it neither at his predecessor nor at the Wolf. Gisburne wondered what the two men were doing here. Had they given in to the temptation to witness the execution of their foe. Or had they wanted to make sure that Gisburne actually met his death?

"You're doing them an injustice," rang out Loxley's voice, who - still perched on his infernal steed - was now back up here on the walls as well.

"It is true that the arrow was meant for you, Guy, but only since Hood wanted to spare you a long suffering," continued Herne's first son, and then turned to his successor. "But now you can choose another target for that arrow, Brother," he informed him.

Hood nodded. But before he found the strength and courage to reply, the other one had already turned to his companion. "Greetings, dear friend," were his words to Nasir, who made the calmest impression of all the people who had been confronted with this nocturnal terror here and now. He bowed to his former leader with a crisp movement, as if it was nothing special to hail him in this situation.

His demeanor had apparently made it obvious to Hood who he was actually dealing with here - if the words spoken earlier had not already alerted him to that fact. "So you are indeed Loxley and not an evil spirit, come to scare King and Sheriff on this night. Or should I say rather, you were once Loxley? For I am not sure who you are now, but certainly no longer Robin Hood."

Loxley laughed, but unlike just a moment ago, this just came out in a friendly manner. "Guy here could tell you exactly who I am now, but I don't think he's in a position to talk to you at the moment. But don't worry about your brother, Robin, for it has always been his fate to be a companion to the Hunter. And should you wonder if his current form is a punishment for his transgressions, I must tell you that this is between him and me."

'Brother,' Gisburne thought, only to discover that this realization did not really surprise him, for suddenly many things fell into place to form a more coherent picture. 'That's why you've often acted so strangely.' But actually, that was something he was not particularly interested in now.

And thinking about the other point Loxley had raised, the Wolf was sure he had been rewarded. Even if he did not know what he had done to deserve it.

"We will meet again, Brother," Loxley had just announced. "Your fate has also already been written, Hood. Until that time comes, however, I beg you to look after my brother. I'll take care of yours in return."

Then the Hunter turned once again to the Saracen. "And I beg you to keep an eye on Herne's Son. I don't want the same thing to happen to him as happened to me." Again Nasir answered only with a bow, but Loxley seemed to understand him anyway.

The Hunter did not wait to see if Robin Hood wanted to add anything, but instead spurred his steed on abruptly, which took off into the dark sky with a mighty leap. Gisburne did not think long about what he should do now, but simply followed him.

But he took another look back, for there was someone he wanted to say farewell to, and that was when he caught sight of something that filled his heart with immense joy.

Fury, in fact, had no problem keeping up with the Hunter and his Wolf.

The howl that the Wolf now emitted expressed all his joy at not having lost his faithful companion.

Gisburne did not know what he had done to deserve this fate, but for the first time in his life he was truly happy.