#I’m so sorry if anyone is a Nottingham forest fan

[mirkwoodshewolf]

Robin and Gale Hood; Ben Hardy x reader Chap. 4

*Author’s note*

After thinking about how in some versions of Robin Hood they expand more on the Merry Man and how Disney’s only version doesn’t (just has Robin hood and little John) so I’ve decided to rectify that and add more members of the Merry Men.  Now these names are actually the names of other members (well except for one name I had along with keeping the original name) so here’s the final cast list of what I have in store for you all.

Cast list:

The Scotsman: Richard Madden

David of Doncaster: Jamie Bell

Gilbert Whitehand: Taron Egerton

Friar Tuck: Brian May (think early 1990′s Bri)

Chapter 4,

Sherwood forest

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things​

@waddles03​

@psychosupernatural​

@ixchel-9275​

@simonedk​

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels​

@queensdivas​

@queendeakyy​

@wormzteef​

@geek-and-proud​

@queen-paladin​

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Gale Hood was riding along back to Sherwood forest to meet up with her brother and Little John, and along the way three more lovely chaps came riding up behind her and called out to her.

“Oi Gale!” cried out a handsome dark haired, blue eyed Scotsman riding a pure black stallion.  She turned and smiled and said.

“I see you gentlemen have returned from your voyage. Tell me how were the other towns?” she asked the men.

“About the same as Nottingham is. I fear that if Prince John isn’t stopped he’ll suck the taxes out of not just Nottingham but all of England.” Said a young Welsh man with a tuff of brown hair riding a white horse.

“We’ll find a way Gilbert. One way or another. So how were the Sharpe’s Gale?” said the third gentleman with long shoulder length brown hair riding a brown horse.

“Veronica will soon be feeling better thanks to the medicine you helped me find David.”

Guess I should explain to you gentle readers.  These three dashing young men are also apart of Robin and Gale’s Merry men.  Sure there have been many tales of just Robin and Little John, but in this story we’re going to shed some light on some more members of the Hood sibling’s gang.

The Scotsman, well that’s really his name in the gang.  He was wanted for such crimes back in his Scotland home, that he rid his real name forever and just went by ‘The Scot’.  But every now and then he would be called ‘Kit’ by our gang of outlaws.  

At first he wasn’t even permitted to join the group (mostly because the Scots and the English didn’t really like each other) less he bested Robin Hood in fair combat (to which he did).

The second chap on the white horse is known as Gilbert Whitehand. He is really the only person (besides Gale) that is up to Robin’s skill with a bow and arrow.  He has a keen eye and it is said he can even shoot an arrow without even looking at the target.

He can be quick and rash at times, especially when it’s about protecting the poor people but when need to he can be reasoned with and is above all else loyal to a fault.

The third gentleman with the long brown hair is David of Doncaster.  He’s more like the voice of reason of the band.  Whenever tempers fly or someone’s about to get killed (and it has happened before on an occasion or ten) David is the one there to make the peace.  He and Gale were especially close since they both had a similar experience on how their mother’s were killed when they were kids.

He’s also been her confidant (basically he’s her Little John in a way) especially when James left for London and she was heartbroken.

“That’s good.” There was silence through the air, an awkward silence.  So much so that Gale stopped her khaki colored mare and turned towards the three men whose horses stopped and let out a few nickers and neighs at the sudden stop.

“I know what you three are thinking. And believe me I already know.”

“Know what?” asked David.

“Yeah we-we-we don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gilbert tried to play off.

“Don’t lie to me boys. I know that James and Marian are back.”

“What?!” they all faux out innocently.  They then each began to say how they didn’t hear about it.

But one look from Gale and they broke down and all said that they knew and heard about it from the town’s over.

“You lot are so adorable.”

“Well it’s just that…..we look at you as our own little sister and well—when James left never did I want to beat the shit out of royalty before.” Gilbert said.

“Yeah and that would’ve gotten you a front row seat to the hangman’s noose.” David said.

“Look we know how happy he made you and—how miserable you were the first few months lassie. So we—but secretly we’ve been thinking that maybe with him back in Nottingham you both could……”

“I’ll stop you right there Kit. It’s been over 6 years since he left. And in that time with him being the next in line he’s destined to find a woman of royalty to marry and support an heir. There’s no future for us anymore.”

“Gale…….”

“You know as well as I do David. Besides he’s probably forgotten all about me.”

“If he had Gale, then why would he give you his family’s ring?” Gilbert asked.  Gale clenched the ring around her neck into her fist.

“Robin and Little John are waiting for us. We can’t keep them waiting.” She urged her mare onward.

The three gents looked at one another sympathetically for their female leader but urged their horses onward.

When they got back to the entrance of Sherwood forest. Which lay right by a medium sized water fall.  They got off their horses and took the saddles off before sending them off back into the woods.

One by one they walked across the stone-cobbled path that stood over the water before entering behind the waterfall and walked through a tight cave entrance.

And there in the middle of the vast extension of the forest was a campsite with laundry hanging to dry, a few tables and chairs, and a large fireplace surrounded by stones and rocks to keep the flames from spreading.

“YOU’RE BURNING THE FOOD!!” Little John’s voice exclaimed.

“Uh-oh. He’s at it again.” Kit muttered.  The four of them walked around a large tree and there was Little John fanning a smoking pot with one of his newly washed clothes.

“Sorry Johnny. Guess I was thinking about Maid Marian again.” Robin said as he wiped his shirt of the soot and ash from the burned dinner. “I can’t help it……I love her John.”

“So you’ve heard too brother?” Gale’s voice soon spoke up. Robin and Little John turned and when they saw the rest of their gang and family arrive, Robin nodded.

“Yeah. And I assume you—”

“Please not—I don’t want to hear another word of it.”

“Look why don’t you two stop pining and moaning about just marry those two already will yah?” Little John said as he tried to cool down and save the burnt food.

“Marry them?!” the siblings exclaimed.

“You don’t just walk up to a girl, hand her a bouquet and say ‘hey remember me? We were kids together will you marry me?’ No. It just isn’t done that way.” Robin said as he mimed out his first statement before turning away solemnly and going to check the laundry.

“Oh c’mon Rob, climb the castle walls. Sweep her off her feet. Carry her off in style.” Gilbert said.

“It’s no use Gilbert, I’ve thought it all out and it just wouldn’t work. Besides what have I got to offer her?” Robin sighed.

“Well for one thing you can’t cook.” Little John said as he sniffed the food before trying to save the taste by dumping some water into it.

“I’m serious lads, she’s a high born lady of quality.”

“So the lass has class. So what?” Kit said.

“I’m an outlaw that’s what!” Robin shouted as he hung the shirt Little John used to fan the food back over a tree branch. “That’s no life for a lovely lady always on the run. What kind of future is that anyways?”

Gale looked at her brother solemnly before looking down at Prince James’ ring and clenched it in her palm.

“Oh for heaven’s sake son!” a voice suddenly cried out. Robin fell into the laundry basket and when he looked up he saw standing before him was the good Friar of Nottingham, Friar Tuck.

He was a middle aged man that stood about 6’2. Surprisingly for a Friar, he had wild curly dark hair.  He was a kind hearted soul who not only gave his life into helping the poor people of Nottingham in this time of crisis, but he also was a father figure to our gang of outlaws.

In fact Robin and Gale’s mother had asked the Friar to watch over her two children before she died and he kept that word like it was the word of God.

“You and your sister aren’t outlaws. Why someday you both will be called great heroes.”

“A hero?” laughed Robin. “You hear that sister? We’ve just been pardoned.”

“Well that’s a gag. We hadn’t even been arrested yet.” Gale said releasing the ring from her grip.  Friar Tuck walked up to her and gently ruffled her hair as he said.

“Alright laugh and doubt an old Friar you young rouges. But I swear to you there’s going to be a big to-do in Nottingham.” He then walked over to the stewpot, took the spoon that Little John was using and took a small sip of it.

Before anyone could have a chance to warn him that the stew was beyond repair, he started coughing and tears began to stream down his face.

“Well done ain’t it?” he croaked out.  David quickly prepped a cup of water and handed it to the good Friar who took it and rinsed out the bad after taste of the burnt stew.

“You’re lucky your cooking didn’t kill him.” Gale hissed lowly to her brother.

“Like you’re any better at cooking than I am.” Robin sneered back.

“No need for arguments children.” Friar Tuck gently scolded as he cleared his throat.

“Sorry Friar.” The two rebels said solemnly like two children being caught doing something naughty.

“Anyway. I bring news from the minstrel.”

“Ahh. And what does ol Alan O’Dale sing about these days?” asked Gilbert as he perched up along his favorite tree branch.

“Tomorrow, Prince John is hosting a championship archery tournament.”

“Archery tournament. Ha! Robin, Gale and I could win that standing on our heads with our eyes closed.” Boasted Gilbert as he fiddled with one of his black tipped arrows and gave a wink at the siblings.

“Oh Gilbert you flatterer. But I’m sure we’re not invited.” Gale said.

“No. But there will be a couple people who’ll be disappointed if you don’t come.” Friar Tuck said as he took another sip of the water.

“Oh yeah. Like ol bushel britches the ‘honorable Sheriff of Nottingham’.” Little John mimicked the Sheriff’s deep monotoned voice.

“And of course let’s not forget the ruler of this land Prince John. ‘Mummy!’” Kit mimicked as he began to suck his thumb.

“No……Maid Marian and Prince James.”

“Marian?” Robin said in shock.

“And James?” Gale whispered in the same tone.

“Yes. The prize along with a golden arrow is that she’ll also be giving a kiss to the winner.” Friar Tuck winked at the rest of the band before softly chuckling.

“A kiss to the winner?” Robin gasped happily. “Oo-de-lally! C’mon you lot what are we waiting for!?” Robin cheered ecstatically.

“Wait a minute now Robin! What if this is a trap? You know how both Prince John and the Sheriff both want your head for different reasons. What if this is some plot to lure you out?” David warned.

“You underestimate me my dear David. Besides, faint hearts never won fair lady. So fear not my friend, this will be my greatest performance!”

“Where’s Gale?” Little John soon spoke up.  As the six men looked around, they did notice that their only female rouge was in fact missing.

“I’ll go find her.” Robin said.

“Pardon me Robin, but allow me to go find your sister.” Friar Tuck offered.  Robin, secretly knowing that his own sister probably didn’t want to talk to him, allowed Friar Tuck to go search for his sister.

Further down the trail that Friar Tuck used to enter Sherwood Forest, he found Gale sitting among a field of veronica flowers.  Friar Tuck smiled solemnly and walked up towards her and said.

“It is said that the Veronica flower symbolizes fidelity and love. I even saw Prince James pick up a few of these flowers when he and Marian first arrived back to Nottingham. And I could tell that he was thinking of you.” Gale continued to look down at the flowers, fiddling with the purple buds within. “You doubt my words my dear?”

“No. I believe it.” She muttered.  Friar Tuck looked at her with soft eyes. “Friar Tuck……was it my fault for loving him?”

“Love is not a fault. Nor is it a flaw.” She looked at him confused.  He did sometimes like to talk in strange riddles and tongues and it sometimes did get annoying to her when he did that, especially to her. “I also seem to recall seeing the scar on his chin from when you first met and you knocked that rock against his handsome face.”

That at least got a smile out of Gale.  A real smile to which the good Friar softly chuckled.

“Listen my child;” he placed his arm over her shoulders and the two looked at each other as he continued, “Love is a deep magic that is the most powerful thing the good Lord has given us. It helps us define right from wrong. And governs all of our destines. Yours, mine, your brother’s, as well as Marian and James.”

“But what if he’s forgotten about me?”

“If he had then he never would’ve come back with Marian.”

“And what about forgiveness?” she said sadly as she looked down, tears filling her eyes.  Friar Tuck gently wiped a hidden tear from the corner of her eye and he said.

“My sweet Gale. I understand your fear about meeting James after what happened between the two of you. But I need you to also consider of what James has gone through. My good friend King Richard has told me of how depressed his son has become since that day.”

“You really think I should go see him, don’t you?” she asked after a long silence between the two of you.

“It’s not my place to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do. You are a mature, beautiful young woman. All I ask is that you make the choice that you won’t regret making.” He tucked a strand of her wild black hair behind her ear before placing his hand against her cheek.

She nuzzled against his warm palm before Friar Tuck placed his forehead against hers.

The two of them remained in that position.  Gale Hood drawing strength and love from the good Friar who had been the only father figure she had ever known in her whole life.

He gave her a gentle and loving kiss to her forehead before standing back up and left her to return to the church.  Gale looked down at the ring and unhooked the chain from her neck.  She let it drop down to her palm and she looked down to admire the family crest.

The proud lion staring right into her very soul.  As tears poured down her face, she placed the ring to her lips before finally for the first time in years, placing the ring back onto her left thumb (since it was the only finger it would fit on her).

When she returned back to her camp, her brother was the first to look up at her.  The others soon followed and the men waited patiently for her to speak.

“Whatever you lot have hatched up—I want in.” Robin walked up to his sister and asked her.

“You sure?”

“I’ve been wallowing in self-pity and guilt for years. I—I want to finally clear my conscious and finally face my past head on.” Robin smiled at his little sister and pressed his forehead against hers, their noses grazing one another’s.

“I’m proud of you sister. We’ll get through this together.” Gale nodded and repeated.

“Together forever.”

“Never apart.” Robin whispered.  He then came around to her side, slinging his arm over Gale and he said. “Gents, slight change to the plan now. We’ve got ourselves a new actor in our midst. Here’s what will happen now.”

Throughout the night, our band of rouges rehearsed and rehearsed their upcoming performance and this time both Robin and Gale would get the closure they needed.  

Finally reuniting with their childhood lovers and hopefully rekindle the flames that they feared were long extinguished.

[weloseeveryweek]

My Favourite Game

It’s so broad, isn’t, it, something like this? A favourite game might be the best performance you remember (8-1 Nottingham Forest), or the first time you ever watched your team live (1-0 Crystal Palace), or something of such importance it still gets talked about today (Ryan Giggs’s chest sorry, 2-1 Arsenal). I think of petty games like 3-0 Liverpool and 4-2 City. I even think of the guaranteed-a-mention-in-almost-every-match 0-4 MK Dons which, while perhaps not my favourite, was certainly one of the most formative in teaching me that Jonny Evans getting his arse handed to him was still something I would wake up at 3am to watch. And that, regardless, I’d do it all again the same time next week.

I’m someone who sets a lot of store by history. (You’d expect that from a history student.) I suppose that’s one of the reasons I fell in love with United in the first place; the vast landscape of moments that we have reason to be proud of. The lore that every United fan seems to know, like magic, the moment they become one. Everyone says that United live in the past. If that is true I don’t begrudge them, for what a past to live in. When I got off the tram in Manchester on the fourteenth of June two years ago and saw the LEGENDS ARE BACK banners hanging outside Old Trafford it was this that confronted me. I was struck, suddenly, by the enormity of what I was going to watch: Yorke and Cole playing together again! The treble-winning back line of Stam and Johnsen (and the wrong Neville)! Cult favourites no one but a United fan would know in van der Gouw and Blomqvist! 

And. Of course.

My love for history seems to extend to my inordinate determination to see all of my favourite players retired. Amongst the ones right now are Michael Carrick, who is probably going to ride into the sunset soon, and Xabi Alonso, who already is. But as everyone knows the lights of my life are the Class of ‘92, the last of whom retired in my first full season of football, which was why I was unable to respond to the questions of bemused forty-year-olds who asked how do you even know them? But I do know them. I do love them. And while Gary Neville will probably always be my favourite person, my favourite player in the whole wide world will probably always be Paul Scholes.

Scholesy was the reason I bought a ticket as soon as the game went on sale and if he had been the only legend playing amongst a group of pot-bellied fans and 12-year-olds I would still have paid every penny. The thing that sucks about your favourite players being retired is that you’ve just about missed every chance to watch them play live, so thank fuck for charity games. It was the one thing that kept me going through the whole entire year, to be honest, ever since it was announced in 2014. It’d been difficult, moving on my own to a whole new country where I struggled to make new friends and found that all of my old ones were busy doing fine without me. And in all that mess and loneliness and fear of what if I can’t do this there was - United. Every week. Giving some stability to my life. Telling me that here, at least, was one thing that would always stay the same. 

I counted down the days to Scholesy, I really did. Put it in my calendar: I’m going to see Paul Scholes play today. I told myself that every time something awful happened (and there were many awful things): don’t give up, yet. You’re going to see Paul Scholes play this June. You’re going to see him play in a United shirt. In Old Trafford. Exactly why favourite players are our favourites is a discussion for another time, but that thought steeled me more than anything. 

To be honest with you, I don’t remember all too much of what happened during the game itself. I just remember not being able to breathe for nearly all of it. When Scholesy walked out, when he touched the ball for the first time, when he pinged one of his favourite long diagonal passes - man. I can’t even begin to tell you what that felt like. It was exactly like those grainy youtube videos, exactly like everything anyone important had ever said about him - ‘a spectacular player who has everything’, ‘the way he changes the game’, ‘the complete midfielder’. They had not been selling me short. He was forty years old then and still looked like he would have strolled into our first team. (The last game I’d been up for was the 0-1 loss to West Brom, so I suppose that isn’t saying much.) It was an education. You cannot understand the beauty of Paul Scholes until you watch all ninety minutes of the entire pitch, the way you do live - I saw how he constantly flicked his head back and forth, how he thought about the game, how he was mapping everything out like, to borrow Rio’s joke, a sat nav. I cried - not just because I was watching him play, but because I was watching him play. 

In Old Trafford. Wearing a United shirt. Almost like he’d never left.

I had a torrid time in Manchester, besides the game. I was flying back to Singapore the day after and all of my luggage/accommodation/tickets were a mess. My friend, who I was due to have met after the game, couldn’t make it, which meant that for two horrifying hours I was wandering around in a city where I had no place to sleep. I almost lost my match ticket, and I’m the sort who hoards everything. I cried again, a different kind of crying, stumbling blindly down unfamiliar streets and feeling hopelessly wretched by the time I dragged myself into a hotel. I cursed football for being so awfully important that I had had to come all the way here for no good reason but the game. Somehow days that are supposed to be dreams always turn out to be horrendous. (It happened, again, the next year when I nearly froze to death standing in the rain for three hours waiting for Scholesy and Becks, but there you go.) At that moment I remember hating everything - United, Scholesy, Manchester, trains, hotels, myself.

Then I undressed and took a shower and when I stepped out again, the first thing I saw was my United jersey hanging off the chair where I’d left it. SCHOLES 18 stamped onto the back. And I don’t know why, but that’s the image that sticks with me of the day. Not one of his passes, not any of the goals, not the red seats buzzing with nostalgia. Just my shirt with his name on it, stark in a grey-and-orange hotel room with England playing on telly in the background. Still there, after all the trouble I’d been through. Something that would always stay the same. 

People always ask me why I put myself through so much for football. It is because of that, I think. It’s the way you can go through absolute hell (and, very often, it is football that makes you go through it) and still feel like you could burst when you see your team. No matter what you’re going through. No matter what they’re going through. At the end of the day I’d seen Scholesy play, hadn’t I? I’d seen my player play for my club and that was all that mattered. Everything was worth it, at that point, looking at his jersey. And everything continues to be worth it. Yes, they’ll make you cry, they’ll make you so angry you want to die, they’ll make you not talk to your best friends for days (I know an unfortunate number of Scousers), but most importantly, they’re there to make you. Everything is worth it so long as you know they are there. It is a contract you signed the first day you fell in love. In that way, I suppose, it’s the one thing that you can genuinely always trust. 

I’m going to see Paul Scholes play (again) this June, so I’m not giving up just yet. I’m going to see him play in a United shirt. Gary’s going to be there. Giggsy’s going to be there. Old Trafford’s going to be there, as it has for a hundred years, for every Manc a religion. 

I’m already counting down the days.