Outlaw Queen Shorts

The Rarest of Sparks in the Snow

Outlaw Bandit

The chill in the air sent a shiver running down Robin's spine. A week until the new year, and he knew the worst of the snow still hadn't fallen - even though there was already more than a foot blanketing the least travelled paths of the forest. Every year he forgot about the cold which seeped into his bones (through layers of sheepskin and rabbit fur he slung over his back each winter) and every year was shocked at just how much it affected him. There was little shelter offered from the trees, their leaves which served as a canopy in the summer months long gone, and replaced with nothing but exposed, bare branches - no match for the unrelenting flurries that fell nearly the whole season through.

His men stayed back at camp (some more reluctantly than others) probably wondering why he hadn't returned three nights ago from his impromptu journey to the mountain foothills a few miles from their not-so-temporary temporary pitch. Although now Robin thinks about it, judging by the size of the ale barrel Little John had sat at the edge of the tent circle before he'd left, it was more likely they hadn't even given him a second thought.

Truth be told, he was relishing this time alone. Enjoying the sound of wind swooping past the bark of tree trunks, his own footsteps crunching through the untouched snow, all of it undisturbed by the rowdy shouts of a rabble of thieves and bandits usually following at his heels. His men were his best friends, his allies and his support system, invaluable in their loyalty. But every now and then, Robin felt a break was necessary.

He plodded on through the snow, suddenly becoming aware of the loud exhales of his breath while watching the air puff out in a cloud of vapour that swirled like the smoke from a dragon before him.

"The infamous Robin Hood."

Robin stopped in his tracks, turning his head to the left in search of the voice's owner. Beyond the trees, there was nothing but white.

"What a treat," a flash of red peeked out from behind a tree and then the wisps of purple smoke, before she was in front of him, eyes narrowed and hand raised in expectation, in readiness of a fight. The Queen, her spiked hair a stark contrast to her round face, was staring him dead in the eyes. He wouldn't run. He wasn't a fool. Running would get him nowhere, and he wasn't a coward, if this was his fate then he would face it.

"Your majesty," he swallowed thickly, thanking the gods for not having a waver in his voice.

---

Regina was brave. Borderline stupid, sometimes, but she liked to think of herself as a risk taker. There weren't many things she was afraid of, mainly because in her line of work, she couldn't afford the luxury of fear. She was not even fazed by the queens guard anymore, brushing their attempts to capture her off with a smug grin as she fled. The queen herself, however, was somewhat of a different story. It was a fear stemmed from knowing what the queen was capable of, and knowing she wouldn't hesitate to kill Regina where she stood if the opportunity presented itself.

Which was why Regina felt so conflicted as she stood watching the scene unfold in the valley below her.

She'd seen his face on wanted posters, always side by side with hers, and it almost felt like she knew him. The vague familiarity that came from knowing of someone without ever having met them.

Robin Hood. Prince of Thieves, leader of the Merry Men.

They were too far away for her to hear the conversation - the icy wind blew the words into the distance rather than towards her - but she saw his wide eyes and the tense set of his shoulders from her perch.

Her quiver was slung across her back and she gripped the supple willow bow she'd made last spring in her hand, tightening her fingers around the wood absent-mindedly. She had two options: let the thief - her competition at that - die, or save him, and risk her own cover. With a sigh and a hesitant grasp, she pulled an arrow from over her shoulder, running her fingers over the feathers of the flight and testing the tip with her index finger before slotting it into the notch and pulling the string taught.