A/N

This is loosely based on Age of the Tempest, though as I could only research the setting through tertiary sources, expect canonical errors. That said, hopefully the story can still be enjoyed.

Red Robin

"Red Robin! Red Robin!"

May Thatcher sat on her mother's shoulders the people of Githamnon cheered for their saviours. The Sparrows – a trio of outlaws who had led the revolt against the city-state of Bralon, and its sheriffs. Long had they been a thorn in Lord de Laci's side – a thorn that more often than not took the form of well-aimed arrows.

"Red Robin!"

And to the victors went the spoils. Copper, silver, and even gold flew through the air into the cheering crowd, thrown from their horse-riding saviours. May watched as the townsfolk scrambled to retrieve the loot, reminded for a moment of the previous winter, where the people had scavenged and scrounged for scraps of food, she and her mother among them. But there was no desperation here this time. Only joy.

"Go on May," her mother said. "Join in."

Her mother helped her down to the ground and May ran forward. Her tiny hands picked up the coins. By this stage the Sparrows were further down the main street that ran through Githamnon, still doing what they'd done for years – giving money to the poor that they stole from the rich.

"Red Robin!"

The people swarmed around them, and May did her best to watch, clutching the coins tight to her chest. They remained there as her mother walked by and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Here mummy."

Her mother took the coins with a smile on her face. The same kind of smile she'd given her when her father had been hung in the town square for stealing a loaf of bread, when she'd told her that everything would be alright. Silently, May looked back at the Sparrows – Mary Day, Red Robin's beloved, as fair as any lady, and as skilled with a sword as any man. Brother Turner – a servant of Tellust, the Forest God, and the moral compass of the trio. And finally, Red Robin himself – black-haired, bushy bearded, and never without his bow and red cap. The greatest archer in the land. The people's hero. Her, hero.

"One day I'll be like him," May said, watching as the Sparrows rode on. "One day, I'll find someone like Lord de Laci. And I'll be a hero too."

"I hope not my dear," her mother said. "If the world needs heroes, that's not a world I'd like you to live in."

"But…but heroes are…"

"Hush, now," her mother said. "Just enjoy what our heroes have done for us before wanting to be one yourself."

May didn't understand – what was wrong with being a hero? Heroes were people like Red Robin – they always won, and always beat the bad guys. Like de Laci and his knights. Heroes robbed from the rich and gave to the poor.

What was he like? She wondered. Before he was a hero?

No-one knew where Red Robin had come from. But one day, she would.

One day, she'd be just like him.

And so she cheered as the Sparrows rode off. Knowing that she would be a hero one day.

And that he would see her as one as well.

"Winter did a number on our peas. We've lost about half of them."

"Still enough to eat, right?"

"For the monks? Of course. Ourselves? I can't say."

"Well, the Field God is nothing if not merciful."

As they worked in the chapel's garden, May admired Dale Gardener's optimism. Perhaps he wanted to live up to his namesake – like her, he was a gardener for Brightfield Chapel. She'd known him for as long as she'd been raised there herself. But unlike her, he was quite happy to get his hands dirty in the literal sense.

"You know," Dale began. "If you're still planning to go on the trip into Smokeywood…"

"What trip?" May asked airily. She put the remaining peas into her basket.

"You know, the trip," he said, smiling. "The little expedition that I found out about."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Red Robin," he said. "The maps, the notes…"

"I told you before Dale, I don't know how to teach you to read."

"Damn it, I don't care about reading. And all the monks here care about reading is The Sewn Seed. But, Red Robin. I can read maps, even when you scatter them over your bed."

May winced – Dale had found them when he'd entered her room a few months ago. Why he was there, she didn't know. But it had led her to divulging her plans regardless, in exchange for his silence.

"You were there though," Dale continued. "The last time anyone saw the Sparrows?"

May brushed some hair aside as she averted her friend's gaze. Red Robin. It had been summer back then. It was the first and only time that she'd ever seen the man. It was one of the last times she'd seen her mother alive.

"That was twelve years ago," she said. "I can barely remember."

"Liar," he said, still smiling like a stray puppy. He gave her a nudge. "Come on. We're friends, right? If you've found Red Robin's secret lair…"

May didn't return his smile. But she did nod. "Alright. After we serve the monks lunch, we can head to Smokeywood."

"Really?" Dale asked. "Honest to the Field God, truly?"

"Forest God, actually," May answered. "But, fine."

"Blessings upon me," he said, before hugging her. Gingerly, she returned it. The monks did not enforce chastity, for Bandal, the Field God was a bountiful deity, after all. They had made it clear that at the age of sixteen, she should be wary of false temptation.

Like the Forest God? Or greed? Curiosity?

She patted Dale on the back as they made their way into the chapel. As Brother John greeted them, and did his best to look pleased with what few peas they had brought in.

She smiled back at him. Even as her mind took her back to where it had all begun. After she had lost everything.

"She is with the Sky Goddess now. Beyond the reach of the earth. At peace from its woes."

"I don't care! I want mummy back! I want her back!"

May's fists banged against Brother John's legs. He just stood there, and let her.

"Give her back!" she yelled. "I want her back!"

"The plague took many, my child," the monk said. "And I am not a child of the Sky Goddess. I cannot speak for her, even if she heard your cries."

"Give her back!"

May collapsed, sobbing. A plague. Her mother had told her that a plague was a form of disease, like a cold, and nothing to worry about. But then her mother had lost her appetite, her strength, and even her wits. As did so many others. Lord de Laci himself had been struck down, according to rumour – a punishment from the gods, and a blessing – he could never take their village now, with Bralon itself devastated. May barely understood what was going on, bar that this plague had taken her mother. And that Brother John had taken her to the village's chapel, like so many other children. Had carried her over his shoulder as she'd screamed while the town guard burnt her home to the ground. And now, as she sat there in his quarters, he reached out to her.

"Don't touch me!"

She swatted his hand aside, and glared at him through tear-filled eyes. She hated him. He…he was connected. If she killed him, maybe her mother would come back. Maybe…maybe…

"We were free…" she sobbed. "Red Robin saved us. And now…" She sniffed again – the window was open. Outside was the smell of burning wood and flesh.

"Men free themselves," John said. "Sometimes the gods free us from this-"

"Shut up!" May yelled. "I hate you! I hate all of you! I want her back!"

John remained silent as he took a seat. Behind him was a stained-glass window, and the setting sun. Its light reflected on the glass. Mocking her with its warmth.

"You may remain here, if you choose," John said. "Warmth, food, and faith, is what we can offer you. I won't lie and say we can provide you all of what your home and family once gave you. But it is my word that we can provide more than what the outside world can."

May sniffed. The outside world. Her mother had told her about it. About lands beyond Githamnon. It had seemed like a dream then. And now, within these walls, no more than a fairy story.

"I shall let you think," John said, rising to his feet. "And grieve, for as long as your heart needs."

May remained silent as she watched him walk over to a bookcase. He picked out one of the works – some kind of symbol was displayed on its cover, along with words below.

"Brother John?" she asked.

He looked at her.

"While I'm here…" she whispered, "could you teach me how to read?"

"To read?" he asked. "I…well, yes. I must say, few children are interested in the written word, but-"

"Mummy read to me," May whispered. "Mummy read to me a lot."

"So that's it huh? Brother John taught you to read?"

"Well, yes. Mostly The Sown Seed, but the chapel had its share of other works as well."

"So how'd you end up a gardener?"

"I don't follow Tellust. But as long as I earn my keep, the brothers let me stay on. For now, at least. Besides, the gods of field and forest are not so different."

"Figures you'd come here then."

"Oh no. You have Red Robin's lair to thank for that."

The pair made their way through Smokywood, the summer sun shining through gaps in the forest canopy. Its name was said to be derived from the time the settlers first arrived to the region and found the forest smouldering from fire. But whatever the truth of that tale, there was no sign of it now. Not in the trees, and not in the forest floor that the pair made their way across.

"So the lair of Red Robin," Dale said. "We'll know it when we see it, right?"

"No. All I can do is follow the directions."

May waved a piece of parchment she was carrying in Dale's face. He squinted at it, before frowning.

"You know I can't read this nonsense."

"Don't fret – few can read this anyway." May glanced at the parchment again. "It's written in Myrskyn."

"Myrskyn? Isn't that a dead language?"

"Dead for centuries." May let out a laugh, and pulled out another parchment from her satchel. One written in their native tongue. "Took me a year to cobble the translation together, along with obtaining maps of Smokywood. And when the text consists of things like 'one-hundred steps from the heartwood tree, well, you better make sure it's accurate."

"And couldn't the brothers have helped you?" May looked at him. "Yes, you didn't want them knowing, but hey, use what leverage you can."

May glared at him. And his step became slower.

"The brothers," she said. "They're of the Field God. Smokywood is the domain of Forest." She let out a sniff, the cool air entering her nostrils. "Besides, I was one of the people who saw Red Robin the last time." She patted her friend on the shoulder. "Everyone said the Sparrows made their home in Smokywood – certainly the knights they kept ambushing claimed that. And just think, if we find it…"

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to. Dale hadn't been in Githamnon that day. He'd been found on the side of the road as an infant, lying next to his pox-ridden mother. He'd been brought into the chapel like her, and had been raised by the brothers as well. Given the surname of "Gardener," as his mother's body had been cremated before it could be identified. As an infant, the word "Dale" was one of the few he could utter. They'd grown up together, May's pity turning to friendship. She, at least, had known her mother until the age of four, and her father until the age of two. And Dale had grown up in the aftermath of the world that had existed. A world where heroes like Red Robin roamed, and tyrants like Lord de Laci existed, to prove the saying that every hero needed a villain. A cruel world in many ways, but one of adventure as well. Not one where the people of Githamnon were content to simply exist in their poverty.

And I'll find you, Red Robin, May thought to herself. Wherever you are. You saved us from tyranny. And for some of us, poverty as well.

Or at least, she hoped so. Because Dale had only asked once how she got the list of directions they were following. And she'd made it clear at the time that she had no intention of giving up that little secret to him. Or to anyone else for that matter.

Not given the circumstances of its procurement.

"You're Brother Turner?!"

"That is my name."

"Oh my gods."

"Gods. Oh so many of them. You are a follower of Bandal, are you not?"

"No, Tellust is my…" May shook her head. "Just hold on. The gods can't help either of us right now."

"So true." Turner looked up at the canopy of Smokeywood. "So very true."

She continued to press her hands against Turner's wound, while continuing to stare at his face. Eleven years had passed since she, or anyone else for that matter, has seen the Sparrows. In those eleven years, Brother Turner had aged terribly. Wispy white hair, replacing his former brown. A thin, skeletal frame that spoke the words "starvation." And a satchel by his side out of which there was a single scroll poking out.

"Let me take you to the village," May said. "I-"

"No," Turner said.

"Then I can get help. Send the priests to-"

"No!" he rasped. "Leave me be. Please."

"But…" She continued to press down on the wound – she'd removed the arrow head, but the weapon had done its work. "You'll bleed out. If I-"

"Never speak of this," he rasped. "Not to anyone. You never saw me."

"But-"

"The Sparrows are gone," he whispered. "Let the people remember us as we were. Never let anyone know that I died like this."

"What you were?" May asked. "But…but you're a hero. All of you were heroes." A tear fell down her cheek. "Where were you? All these years?"

Turner laughed. It was an old laugh – the laugh of a dying man. The laugh of regret. Laughs May had heard so often. "You are a good girl," he said. "Different, from those who thought I had some coin. Weep not. The legend ends, as do its lies." He coughed again. "Lies…I am glad to be rid of." He coughed once more. "And I am free."

His head rolled aside. His eyes blank. His breathing stopped.

"Brother Turner?" May whispered.

There was no answer. Only the elegy of birds and wind. And her own stifled sobs. She gingerly reached forward and cradled the medallion around his neck – the World Tree. The sign of Tellust. She had come into Smokywood by herself. To be at home, even while she called Brightfield Chapel by the same name. For a moment, she wondered if Tellust himself had guided her hand. To bring comfort to one of his followers.

And to not let anyone know of his passing.

She had stayed true to Turner's wish. She had buried him, and spoken no word to anyone. Even now, a year later, she couldn't make sense of his actions. Why had he not wanted aid? Why had he wanted his death left a secret? Why…She bit her lip. "Why?" was the question that had been on her mind for a year. And including her own actions, as she had taken the only scroll he had left. As she had hidden it from the brothers and translated it to the best of her abilities. Dale had found out. He always found out these things. And it was at that point that she wondered what she was doing. She had committed his body to the earth. Granted him his dying wish, even if she couldn't comprehend it. Why do this, she so often asked. Why steal from the dead?

"May?"

She knew the answer as the translation began to make sense – it was a guide to the Sparrows' hideout. And then, she knew why. She had to know. Know why the Sparrows had disappeared all those years ago. Why Turner had wanted no-one to know of his passing. Why…She bit tighter. "Why?" was a question she'd asked the gods ever since her mother had died.

"May?"

"Hmm?"

"Just wondering where to next."

"Oh." She looked at the parchments she held. "Just up here."

'Up here' was a rise in front of them. Trees, leaves, and rocks flanked their passage. One that did not last long as they came to one of the rocks on the hill. Too large to be carried, yet small enough to be moved if one put their back into it.

"And here we are," May said. She looked at the parchment for what she hoped was the final time. "And to the rock, where the five bars lie."

Dale snorted. "A rock. Right. Only rock I see is-"

May coughed, and pointed to indentations in the boulder. Four vertical ones, carved into its surface, all of them scratched over. The symbol for five. And not something that the natural world could create.

"Five bars," she said. "A reminder of what the Sparrows fought against."

"How do you know that?"

"I just do," she lied. She returned the parchment to her satchel. "Now come on and help me."

She could tell Dale doubted her. The look in his eyes, the slouch in his back, the sigh he let out as they began pushing along the side of the hill.

"Can't we just push it down the hill?" Dale asked between breaths.

"No. Not when-"

He pushed the boulder down the hill. Letting out a yelp, May jumped aside and watched it tear through the undergrowth. A flock of birds soared up into the air.

"Dale, I told you-"

She didn't finish the sentence. Later, she'd get round to it. But she couldn't be angry right now. Not when she saw what the parchment had promised. A hole in the ground, with iron runs built into the lower strata. The Sparrows' hideout.

"…not to do that," she said.

She figured she'd get beratements out of the way now. And with that said…well, actions spoke louder than words. Actions such as crawling down.

"May, are you sure this is safe?"

"What?" she asked, climbing down into the gloom.

"What if there's a cave-in? Or rats? Or plague? Or-"

"Dale, shut up and get down here."

She'd reached the bottom of the ladder. Turning away from the rungs, she beheld the sight before her. In all its adequate, normal, not so special not-quite wonder.

"Huh."

It was an underground hovel. Not "cave," that was too generous. Not "hole," because that was disingenuous. And yet too homely to be a tunnel. Barrels and chests were spread up against the walls. And two wooden boxes in its centre, side by side. Laid out like coffins. Like when people were buried en masse in Githamnon back when the plague struck. Beyond them was a wooden door, its wood rotting. The entrance to another part of the hideout.

"So then," Dale said. "This is their lair, eh?"

"Was their lair," May said. She walked over to the boxes, and began removing one of the lids. She'd soon got it open. And screamed immediately afterwards before falling down.

"May?"

Dale ran over to her. With a shaking arm, she pointed to the open coffin, and Dale followed. Moments later, he had a hand to his mouth, and May knew that he'd seen what she had – a skeleton. One dressed in the green tunic, red hat, and brown boots of Red Robin.

"It can't be him," May whispered. "It just can't."

"May…"

"Don't," she snapped. "I don't care what you have to say, Dale." She got to her feet. "That isn't Red Robin. Anyone can wear those clothes, anyone could choose to be buried here, but that is not Red Robin."

"May, I know you-"

"Enough!" She rose to her feet and slammed down the lid. "I won't believe it. I can't. He can't be dead!" She walked over to the door and fiddled with the knob. Growling, she began slamming her body against it.

"May, I never saw Red Robin," Dale began. "But-"

May grunted and continued slamming her body against the door loudly. But not loud enough to drown out the words of her friend.

"But there's a man in that coffin," Dale continued. "Right here in the Sparrows' lair. There's no reason for anyone else to be in it."

May burst through into the next room. A pair of beds lay there along with a desk with drawers, and a replica of the World Tree mounted on it – a shrine to Tellust.

"Brother Turner must have prayed here," May whispered. She walked over to the beds, their wool sheets torn and frayed. "The Sparrows were said to always have one on guard. Two slept here, while the other remained awake."

"May," Dale began. He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shoved him off. Unperturbed, he continued to talk. "There's a man in that coffin. It stands to reason that the other is either-"

"Mary Day," May whispered. "And it's not her."

"Why? Why can't it be Brother Turner?"

May bit her lip and walked over to the desk, opening the drawers. To her relief, they weren't locked.

"May?"

She found only parchments. All of them dated.

"Logs," she whispered. She picked one out. "The twentieth of Sankarit, 1014. That…" She took a breath. "That was the day that the Sparrows were last seen." She skimmed over the text – written in Myrskyn. She couldn't translate it right now, but could pick out a few words – "victory." "De Laci." "Riches."

"May, answer me," Dale said. "Why can't the other coffin be Brother Turner?"

"Dale-"

"May, we need-"

"Because Brother Turner died one year ago!" She glared at him. "I found his body in this forest. I stole the scroll from him. I buried him, and told no-one." She rummaged through the parchments – they were old, but still readable, the language barrier notwithstanding.

"Why?" Dale whispered. "May, why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Because he asked me not to." She glanced back at him. "You ever been with a dying man Dale? Would you ignore their dying wish?" She snorted. "No. Of course not. You've never had to watch someone die."

She returned to the parchments. They went from 1014, to 1015.

"I saw my mother die," Dale murmured. "I remember her last words, you know. On the road, as she reached out to me. Then retracted her arm, because her hands were covered in sores." He took a breath. "Do you have any idea what it's like when your own mother can't hold you because she's dying?"

May winced. It felt like something was inside her chest. A snake, crawling around. Injecting her with its venom. And that the only way she could get it out was to lash out at other victims.

"Dale…"

He didn't answer. He just walked back into the main chamber. And May took a breath of her own. She hadn't seen her own mother die. She'd witnessed how the plague had ravaged her mother, but it was the brothers of the chapel that had found her body first and taken her away. By the time she saw her body, she had no desire to touch her. Trying to concentrate, she reached for another parchment. And stared at it. Not at the date – they'd all been written in Johla, even if the text was in Myrskyn. But the writing here was in Johla itself. And she began to read. And felt the snake inside her begin to constrict.

Rafe and Mary finally passed today.

Rafe, May wondered? Could that be Red Robin? She supposed "Red" wasn't' a common name, but…She continued reading. Names did not define a person. Their actions did.

The plague that has taken the lives of so many has finally added two more bodies to its list. Rafe, wanting to be laid to rest where he lived for so long, bid me that our treasure remain here, and their bodies as well – I think now, at the end of all things, he felt guilt for the lies we told through our escapades. I would say I am grateful, yet I am equally at fault. I let the lie fester. I played the saint while my role was the sinner. Did the gods spare me to give them their final blessings? Or is this my penance?

They have been buried here, among the treasures they sought. Stolen from the rich and given to the poor. If only the people knew the truth – the coin we gave them was but a fraction of our plunder. Enough to make the people love us, not so much that we could not live as kings. We people say we led them to victory, but it is a lie they tell themselves – Githamnon would have seized freedom eventually regardless of our efforts. If anything, letting de Laci rule longer would have benefitted us even further. But we let it happen. I think we all knew deep down that we had to bring his tyranny to an end sooner, rather than later.

"May?" she heard Dale's voice from the adjacent chamber. But she continued reading.

And so this is my confession. I will take nothing but the memories of this place. None of these ill-gotten gains will be used by myself. I will let the legend endure, lie as it is. The people of this land have suffered and gained so much. Rafe is dead, but his legend lives on. And, gods willing, will continue to do so long after I have returned to the earth that bore me.

"May?" It was Dale again. Louder than before.

Signed,

Stutely Turner,

The 13th day of Andlaf, 1015.

"May!"

She grabbed the parchment and walked back into the first chamber. And was not surprise to see a trio of the barrels opened. All of them containing coins, jewellery – anything that "the rich" had possessed. Everything the Sparrows had hoarded, as if magpies.

"They…they had this," Dale said, letting a necklace dangle through his fingers. "All this wealth." He dropped the jewellery. "Didn't the people say that they gave everything to those less fortunate? The downtrodden? The dispossessed?"

"It was a lie," May said. She looked at the coffins – the body of her heroes were in them. Their bodies buried, the truth long buried as well. "All of it. Stealing from the rich, giving to the poor…a façade, to make us love them. Support them." She took a breath, remembering Turner's writings, and words, before handing Dale the parchment. She knew he couldn't read it. But if actions spoke louder than words, she hoped he understood. "Turner never wanted the truth known. Not when he wrote that, not when I found him. He wanted the legend to live on." She laughed bitterly, picking up a single gold coin. The head of Lord de Laci was on one side. A stag on the other. Both spun as she tossed the coin into the air. "And who can blame him? Who could possibly love Red Robin after discovering this?"

The coin landed with a "heads." Lord de Laci's. Not even looking at her. His laughter echoing from beyond the grave.

"Here." She tossed it to Dale. "To the victor, the spoils."

He caught it and she lay down against one of the chamber walls. The story of Red Robin. Mary Day. Brother Turner. A lie. One that she'd finally uncovered. Proof that ignorance was bless, fate was fickle, and the gods…She sighed. Gods. Plagues. The lies of men. She couldn't assign blame to any one being. She didn't even know if there was blame in this at all. Because surrounded by all this wealth…could she have played the saint? Could she have really given away all of it as she was on the run?

Not on the run now though.

"So what now?" Dale asked. He sat down beside her.

"What now," she repeated. "Why don't you tell me?"

"May…you brought me here. And whatever your choice, I'll follow it."

"Why?"

"Because I know you'll do the right thing."

"Right thing." She snorted. "I stole a parchment from a dying man. I used the brothers' own books on my own translation. I lived, when my mother died." She sighed. "I don't even know what the right thing is anymore."

Among all the lies, and legends, those words, she knew, were the truth. The Legend of Red Robin had given the people hope. But it was a legend that was a lie. Turner had asked her to let the lie endure. Yet Turner had been just as culpable in maintaining the original lie. And even then, the Sparrows had helped the people. Helped them for their own motives, but helped them nonetheless. They hadn't started the plague after all. And all the gold in the world couldn't protect one from its ravages.

So is it true? She wondered. Actions speaking louder than words?

She got up and opened another barrel. More jewels. More than any she'd ever seen in her life. Stolen by a man who was scoundrel, saint, and sinner. Her hero, and idol. Now false.

"Well?" Dale asked. "What now?"

She looked at him. A few years younger. Born in a time after the legend. And she smiled sadly, clutching a coin close. Remembering how she could clutch her mother's hand. Remembering that day, all those years ago, when she'd taken a coin from Red Robin on the last day she saw him. When she could be a child still.

"We're among the bodies of the rich," she whispered. She closed the lid, and closed her eyes. "So we do what the Sparrows would have done."

"Hide it?"

"No," she smiled, turning to face her friend. Reflecting on the legend, and the stories, and all she had once known. Of the waste of years, and flesh, and the turning of the world. "We take it with us. And we give it to the poor."

She smiled, and returned to the barrel. To memory, of times long gone. Of a promise she had made as a child, that she would be a hero, and that Red Robin would see her as one.

A promise she could never keep.

But being a hero. Following the Sparrows' example, even if it was based on a lie.

Maybe that was a promise she could keep.