Young Writers Society

A/N: A fantasy writer I spoke to once said always err on the side of not enough information instead of too much. I am hoping I've hit the amount of dots to join quite well here, but if a few more dots would be helpful, let me know :)

----

Even in Robin's dreams he felt the sun. He had gone so long with its cruel, heavy beams making his skin sizzle. The strength seeped out of him in beads of sweat as he stared across the battlefield. Somewhere in there was the border he had been sent to protect, but between his own men's tents and the enemies' barely three hundred yards away, it was impossible to find.

In this particular dream Robin was barefoot, and the sandy dirt crunched between his toes. His legs were bare too, and on closer inspection he was wearing only a small tunic and undergarments. He glanced around, but there were none of his men in sight.

He grabbed a fistful of his tent's thin linen door and shoved it out the way. He had no idea why he wasn't wearing his clothes but he'd soon rectify the situation.

But he didn't enter his tent. His dream took him back to that caver where it all began. He gasped, hurriedly scanning the dark, stony walls for that watery little figure, but it was nowhere to be seen. For a moment, he forced his pulse to calm and took a few deep breaths. He tried to focus on the feeling of the water energy powering around his body, that bright, electric feeling that meant so much more to him than a pulse.

Nothing. He was as ordinary a soldier as he had been before that day.

"Sir?"

He whirled around, and suddenly he was outside again, facing Gordon Graham, a middle aged soldier who had never made it past Footman rank. He was too nice, everyone knew, never thrashing the enemy into the dirt unless he absolutely had to. That was not the sort of heroism the palace looked to for promotion.

It killed Robin even as he dreamed to remember that this flea had saved his life.

"Sir!" Graham screamed.

Graham melted away, replaced by the black-robed figure of the assassin. The face was nothing but a shadow, even more obscured than it actually had been. Robin's arms raised themselves casually in front of him, easily going through the motions of combat that they had become so used to. He would concentrate the energy of the water into his palms, then out would fly the cold, powerful tendrils of water. He could wrap them around his enemy's neck, thrust the water down their throat until they drowned, it didn't really matter. He could handle this so easily.

But not on that day. Graham popped back into existence with his dagger in the assassin's neck, his eyes wide at the sight of his powerless Senior Lead. Robin remembered shrugging him off, pretending that he'd stumbled on the guy rope of his tent, but that quiet, gaping look Graham had given him grew and grew until it filled the entire vision of his dream.

There was a knock at Robin's door.

The first few times Robin had had the nightmare he'd shot bolt upright in bed at the slightest bird chirp outside his window. Now, even through the persistent rapping on his door, he could summon only the strength only to drag himself sideways off the bed. It took most of his remaining willpower to push himself into a standing position, instead of just falling into a crouch.

His room at the palace was enormous, an opulent endorsement of the queen's faith in him. But at that moment he'd have rathered his kingsize bed with its gold frame be crammed in much closer to the door. He crosses the cold, darkly tiled floor, past his small wooden desk and beautiful leather couch, then finally reached his door.

He grabbed his deep red silk robe off the back of the door, as the knocking got louder and louder, and tied it tightly around himself.

He opened the door, and almost got punched in the face by his father, whose fist was raised ready to knock yet again.

"Bloody hell, father!" Robin exclaimed, "Something had better be on fire."

His father, Lynas, let his hand fall to his side for only a moment, then immediately was pointing a chubby index finger right in Robin's face.

"What in the name of God did you say to Leara?" Lynas was practically growling. Robin rolled his eyes and reluctantly gestured for him to enter his bedroom, then carefully locked the door behind them.

He sighed, and ran his hand down his face. "When I talked to Queen Leara, I put it to her that morale was at an all time low out there. I suggested to her that her drought on rewarding bravery with official royal recognition was maybe stifling desire to give all of oneself to one's comrades."

Lynas took a seat on the leather couch, which stank a little as the early morning sunlight flooded it through the window right above it. He frowned. "And what exactly did she say to that?"

Robin shrugged. "She took a bit of persuading. But it's not like she knows anything about war. I told her if she really wants to extract herself from all the wars her father waged without too much mess, she needed an army as powerful as it could be to defend itself."

Lynas crossed his legs and leaned back, stroking his well-kept grey beard. "And she was convinced by this, presumably above the insistence of both your fellow Senior Leads."

Robin nodded. He bustled around his bedroom, making a big show of getting ready for the day. A little sigh of relief fluttered out of him as he opened his wardrobe and found that there were indeed clothes in there.

He turned back to face his father. "Well, Wailit and Penidar weren't overly enthusiastic that the first honoured soldier in almost five years would come from outwith their ranks, but honestly that actually seemed to sway her more."

Lynas started to chuckle, then stopped himself. "But I read the report! All it said was that your footman put a dagger in an assassin. Sure, it was more flowery language than that, the words 'dazzling glory' popped up a lot, if I remember right. But the soldier did what he was trained to do. What was so spectacular about it? Had he been tied up and trying to escape until the seconds before his act? Was he blindfolded? Were there other assassins that he thwarted the plans of? Why build up such a normal act, a frankly quite boring act?"

Robin slipped quickly into his washroom and shoved his tunic and breeches on. He looked in the mirror, studied its elegant silver frame with its swooping metal curves. Deep brown eyes blinked back at him, deep set in his dark brown skin after another terrible night's sleep. Slowly, carefully, he pushed his weight up from where he had been leaning on the sink, and walked back out into his main bedroom.

He looked down at his father. "I have to go now, Dad. I have to practice."

He stared at the ground as he turned to the right and walked towards his door. His father said something about how he hadn't practiced in years but he didn't bother looking around. He swung the door open, following it out into the wide, well-lit hall. He figured his father might close the door behind himself as he left, but after a moment's thought found he struggled to care either way.

He had to practice.