hi, I'm new and I brought Robin Hood Good Omens headcanon.

[confoundthemighty]

SHERWOOD FOREST, NOTTINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND
SOMETIME IN THE 12TH CENTURY

Being assigned to guard and guide the soul of a human was a far more pleasant prospect when said human was not making you carry him across a river on your shoulders.

Robin of Locksley, as a few astute observers in Heaven had already noticed, was a good man and true; he had the potential to do good that might eventually spread far further than the county where he made his home. Granted, he had chosen banditry to support his charitable efforts, but surely a principality could remind him to be merciful and kind-hearted even in dealing with his enemies. Which was how Aziraphale had ended up in the plain robes and sandals of a holy man [1], walking the road that ran through the forest, in search of the human soul who was to be his charge for the next few years.

And, eventually, how he had ended up to his waist in running water with a full grown man on his back, thwacking him occasionally with his longbow and having an uproarious laugh at his expense.

"What ho, good brother!" Robin shouted, with another sound thwack. "All thy tucking cannot spare thee from a thorough washing, for 'tis a Monday, and did I not hear thee singing that Monday is washing-day with my friend the little old woman?"

Aziraphale had tried his level best to gird up his loins, in the literal sense, for a trek across the river, and had ended up mostly trying to tuck the skirts of his robes into his rope belt. It was not, at the moment, doing him any good.

"Aye, that thou didst, my son." Patience, Aziraphale reminded himself, was perhaps the foremost virtue to practice when dealing with humans. "The lady sings a little innocent merriment before her prayers, like many a joyful soul. 'Tis no sin to join her in her singing."

"Then thou canst not begrudge me my merriment, Brother, for I am myself a joyful soul."

"Aye, that thou art." He tried not to grumble, but it wasn't exactly easy, what with several inches of his robe thoroughly soaked and his sandals full of mud.

"Come, wilt thou not remind me how the song names out the days of the week?" Robin's heels dug into him a little. "Doth not it say Tuesday is for ironing? I'll warrant our friend the merry old woman could use thy broad back for an ironing-board."

Angels are, as a rule, extremely patient creatures [2]. But even an angel might feel a touch out of sorts with this mirth at his expense, especially if he was wet and getting cold and hadn't yet had any breakfast.

"Good young master," said Aziraphale, "thou hast forgot that today's work is not yet done. For how can our friend do the ironing, if the washing be unfinished?"

And, before the man could come back with any sort of quip, Aziraphale threw him off with a huge shrug, sending him tumbling into the water.

Not a moment after the splash and the initial burst of sputtering from Robin, there came a soft sound from the trees either side of the river; when Aziraphale looked up he realized the sound had been thirty or forty men, mostly in green, stepping out of cover to take aim at him with their bows.

Oh, Hell, he thought, trying not to wring his hands. That little lesson in humility backfired, didn't it?

But before a single arrow could be loosed his way, Robin sat up, sloshing quite a bit, and began to laugh. It was the long, loud laugh of a man who indeed had a joyful soul, and could find joy even in being outwitted with this sort of rough sport at his expense.

"Peace, friends," Robin cried, through his giggling. "Thou art a brave man and stout-hearted, Brother Tuck, and I love thee well for it. And I'll love thee better still if thou agree to minister to the souls of my good men here in the greenwood."

There was a murmur of approval among the archers, who began to lower their bows; a handful of them, Aziraphale noticed, were looking at him hopefully.

"That will I, and right gladly," Aziraphale said, and bent forward to offer Robin a hand up--which he took, and clasped as casually as if they were equals. "If the wicked Sheriff and the greedy Bishop love not my work among their people, then let me minister to them away from their displeasure."

"Then make a good start of it by blessing our bread and meat and ale this day," Robin said, clapping him on the shoulder with a wet hand as he staggered upright. "Come, good Brother Tuck, break thy fast with us. Little John, bring him hither, for we have both had our fill of washing."

A ragged cheer went up, and before Aziraphale could correct Robin on the matter of his name, he was being swept up and carried by an absolutely enormous man.



[1] As the term friar did not enter common use in England for another hundred years, many of the commonfolk he ran across referred to him as a monk if they spoke of him, and if they spoke to him, called him Brother, or sometimes Holy Father. The name "Brother Azyrafel" (and half a dozen other variant spellings) shows up in several medieval manuscripts--mostly to remark on his arrival and departure from an abbey or monastery.

[2] The most notable example being Achaiah, sometimes referred to as the angel of Patience, who also has dominion over scientific discoveries. Rumors of Achaiah needing to have a good long scream in a quiet room once every millennium or so remain unsubstantiated [3].

[3] Did this starter post need footnotes? No. Did I do them anyway? You bet, and I'll do them again given the chance.

Comments

shhhhh don't look at the dates

[duckshaveears]

Crowley made an extremely rude noise at the mention of formenting good will. "'Course not, and if you accuse me of that again I'll toss you back in the river. I'm here promoting lawlessness, theft, and the general defiance of rightful authority. Would you like to do your guiding and comforting like this or find something more dry to wear?"