The young girl, no older than eleven, twelve at a very generous push, stood tall and straight despite her young age and the horror laid bare before her, for her eyes to eat and her soul to wail at. She had always been tall for her age, always a head and shoulder and upper torso above the other girls her mother pushed her towards, or the local farming boys who would throw mud at her.

Of course, this was well before her mother's untimely death, back when the skies were blue, the land peaceful and all was well in her small, enclosed, innocent world. Now, however... Now she felt no taller than a mouse, no stronger than a newborn kitten, as fierce as a roaring toad. How could she? How could she be that same girl she was that morning, bright eyes, rosy-cheeked and copper curled when faced with the indisputable proof that she was well and truly alone in this godforsaken world?

Her family was not the wealthiest, nor the poorest, but they got by, and if they couldn't? Well, the families of Loxley in the mighty kingdom of Northumbria stuck together, they stood as one. Her mother used to say that a lone brick hardly had any useful purpose, but together, brick by brick, if together, unified, you would have the grandest, strongest castle. That was Loxley, farmers, paupers, tailors, potters, different, poor and alone in singularity, but together, they made a home, they made warmth and goodness, they made Loxley... They were Loxley.

When one fell down on hard times, another family was there to reach a hand down and pull them tall again. A united front against the harsh winds of the tough world they lived in, that imaginary castle that stood strong on the hill, proud, despite the raiding party trying to tear it down. But that was before, before today, before her mother died of an illness that was as painful as it was swift. Before her father died in battle for a king who wrung their people dry... Before her only family she had left, her older brother, died too in a battle not of his making, but that of their fat, spoiled, selfish king. All before those terrible winds took everything from her. Before reality breached the castle and the little girl was left to the bereft and cold real world.

Her father died before she was born, still warm and round in her mother's stomach. The loss had not hurt, for to the girl, you could not miss what you never had. She pictured him sometimes, rarely, but she would picture him all the same. Imagine what he would say or do, imagine comforting embraces, in her mind, he would look just like her older brother. Strong, broad-shouldered, older but still with those sharp cheekbones and curls of sunbeam gold, a lone dimple on his right cheek that showed his mirth, just like her brother.

Her mother, well, all she had of the red-haired, lithe and smiling woman was a few hazy memories to bless herself with at night. She remembered a tune hummed to her, fuzzy and distant, but there all the same, like a heart beat out of tune. She remembered grey eyes, eyes her brother had, unlike her own green. She remembered calloused hands, hard working hands, that would rub her back so gently. She remembered cotton pressed to her cheek as her mother held her... She remembered the dark circles and the clamminess and sheen of sweat to her mother's form. She remembered the blood stained lips.

Her brother, her precious, lively, too bright of a star brother, however, was a matter all on his own. He had always been like that, and even now, faced with what she was, she thought... No, she knew he would forever be that way. With him, she remembered everything. Every lesson, every game, every laugh, every cry, every story, every hug and skinned knee. It hurt that much more, it was a searing dagger planted in her belly, turning and turning and never ending. He was all she ever had, her stone, her shooting star, her sky and sea and air. He had been her everything, her family, her home. He was her mother, her father, her brother... Her dearest and truest friend. And now he was gone, scattered in the wind on the whim of a greed filled man.

So here she stood, shaking, cold, numb, in front of her brothers already bloating body. All she could do was stand there, like her feet had grown roots splintering into the earth, pinning her there, staring at what used to be her brother, mentally begging for her eyes to turn away, to look away, to see anything but what she was seeing, but move they would not. Her brother's friend, John, a soldier in arms, had brought him back home from the battlefield in hopes and respect of burying him where he belonged, with his family, on home soil. The girl didn't know whether this was an act of mercy and love or pure spite.

Staring at her brother's face, forced to look at the blankness, the abyss, John towering over her form, inches behind her, armour still strapped on tight, the girl gravitated more to spite than any other explanation. Why else would she be faced with this? Why else would god do this? Why else would this inescapable rage be crawling up her marrow, poisoning her blood and bones with licking fire?

"He died a good death little one. Quick, honourable and with soul. No man can ask much more of god than that."

The girl trembled further, anger and sadness mixing into one torrent inside of her, swirling, angry, gnawing at her like a slobbering dog would to a lamb bone, chipping away at her resolve, clink by clink. Her eyes slammed shut, staying so, as she tried to block out the gruff voice of John, who was standing just behind her, his shadow from the candlelight casting over her and her own shadow, eating it in the inky blackness, leaving her shadowless like a wraith. Another thing taken away from her this day and, in the pit of her stomach, she was sure it would not be the last. Her voice was broken when she spoke, sharp edges of glass that could cut tingeing her tone with the rage she felt burning in her lungs, strangling her throat, imprinting red on the back of her closed eyelids.

"Is god a man John?"

She could hear John shuffle behind her, one foot, two foot, his cloak, dirty and torn from the battlefield he had ridden away from flapping slightly as his hand rested on the hilt of his broadsword. Then, all was silent once more, John likely bewildered by her question and trying to come up with an answer to quell whatever that was brewing in the air around them. John, bless his soul, was as smart as he was small... And that didn't say much in his favour. She could hear the pop of his jaw as it opened, likely due from an injury he had acquired from the war... A war that had taken her brother from her.

"I believe so..."

Sharply, as if finally back in control of her body, the young girl twirled around, hands clenched at her side, nostrils flared, teeth ground and bitten together as she forced the words passed them, barking at the taller man. She wanted to kick, scream, cry, bite, claw and tear at the man, but all she could do was shout and tremble, like a lost lamb. Shame bubbled up in her, nearly buckling her legs from underneath her. Her brother had fought to get home, he had fought for her, he had fought to get back to her and Loxley and what? In face of his death, all she could do was watch as tears built up in her eyes, ones that refused to fall and blurred her vision into coloured splodges, shake like a leaf caught in an autumn breeze and shout at his dearest friend? She was weak. Weak!

"Then maybe god should be the one to have a quick, honourable death! If that is all he is willing to give us! His own children! I hate him John! I hate him and I hate the king!"

Her fingers clenched and unclenched at her side, tears finally making trails down her cheeks, hot and burning as she stumbled slightly, the hem of her own dress snagging on the table corner... The table where her prone and lifeless brother was laid like an offering to a god that only answered in blood. John, who had to slightly hunch over to fit into their modest home due to his immense size, grimaced hard, his hand falling from his sword as he took a step towards her, hands reaching for her, grasping for her, only to falter as she backed further away from him, skirting around the table to get away, shoulders shaking with the held back sobs.

"Mar-... Little one. This... This isn't easy for anyone. You know how much he was loved around here, he will be missed as much as the sun is in the dark of the night when the town finds out. We will carry on, we have to. That is how life works."

The girl's eyes clenched shut one more time, only to blink rapidly as she opened them, fighting the tears, the anger, the sorrow that was quaking through her. John was right... Too right. Her brother would be missed horribly, terribly, irrevocably. He only got paid little for his job, a member of King Aelle's army, but what he didn't spend on him and her, he gave to the lesser families, the ones who had even less than they. Now there would be no more help. They were on their own as much as she was. Loxley was not a rich town, not decadent or filled with lords and ladies, they struggled to get by as it were, without her brother to stipend that finance and food influx, families would whither, maybe even die in the fallout of one fat king's choice.

She had lost so much already, too much for someone her age, she could not lose her home, her town too. Not while she could do something, anything about it. And so, for the first time since John had stumbled into her home, she dressed in nothing but her night shift and a fur wrap, flickering candle clasped in both hands like she was walking to mass, body draped over his barrelled arms, head bowed as he lowered the body to the unstable table, the little girl could think clearly, like the clouds in her mind had dissipated for a few blissful moments. John had said when the town found out... Which meant they did not know a thing at this very moment in time. Nothing. Nada. They were thankful ignorant of all this. She was talking before she could catch her thoughts, begging before she could even formulate a plan.

"Does the king know? does he know about Ro-... My brothers dea-... That he is gone?"

John, in all his greatness and size, blabbered like a fish out of water. Her brother was the hope in this small town, the oddity that showed that even the smallest man from the most impoverished settlement could make it big, could make it out there, could thrive. When they found out, that hope would be extinguished like a puff of air to a candle's wick and darkness would fall. Life without hope was no life at all... Her brother had told her that, right before he left for battle. It was the last thing he had said to her, the last thing he would ever say to her.

"The loss of men in the battle with Wessex was a large one, I highly doubt that the king would take any note of one man's death, no matter the merit of said man-"

"Good."

John floundered once more, almost comically if the circumstances were not so dire. But the girl was in movement, pacing the length of the table, eyes determinedly staying far away from the body upon it. The candlelight flickered in her green eyes, furthering her red hair to look like a crown of flames that trailed down her back like a veil, her voice and frantic eyes taking on the feverish delirium of madness.

"Don't you see John? This could be it for Loxley, for all of us. So, we don't inform the king or the town. We say nothing. Ro-... My brother, we'll bury him in the woods. We say nothing. The king will carry on his payments to my brother for his service, and we'll... We'll just say he is on a family errand for a month or two..."

This time, it was John's turn to cut off the girl, his voice full of disbelief. It did not halt her pacing nor her frantic mind. She half feared her mind would never slow again, never once know that calm it once had. Was this the life she was destined for?

"This is madness. Complete madness. They will find out when he doesn't come back, then what? They will still starve, you're only postponing the inevitable. No. We tell them now, and maybe the king will grant us a sum to carry us through the winter-"

The sound of the large water pot smashing into the wall of the girl's house was ear splitting, the fragments of the pottery flailing around, falling to the ground in a great heap. She hadn't meant to do it, but the anger, that blistering heat had scorched her and before she could reconcile her body with her mind, her hand had already picked up the pot and threw it at the wall, a cry of anger following it as her unsettling eyes focused in on the larger man.

"The king? That is your answer? The fat bastard who cares not for anyone but his treasury? He would sooner burn this city down then send a single gold coin! You know this as much as I do! No! We lie for a while. And then... Then I will steal if I have to, to keep this place alive! He has taken everything from me John! Everything! my brother... He's dead. He died alone in a war not his own...I should have... John... He's dead and I-..."

The walls finally fell, the emotions cascading over them as if a giant tsunami had breached the cracks and obliterated it, and finally... Finally, the girl cried, sobbed, falling into the dusty floor in a flurry of skirts and racking shoulders, one hand reaching up from her crumpled form near the table to grasp and wring at her dead brother's cloak. Between the sobs, she spoke, using the nickname for the man her brother had bequeathed him with, using the only thing she thought might get him to see it her way.

"This town meant everything to Robin. Everything. If I can't have my brother, if god has taken him away, then I shall not let him take what my brother fought so hard for... Little John... Please..."

The man broke, tears in his own large brown eyes as he stumbled over to the girl, crashed to the floor beside her and scooped her into his massive arms, trying to stem the sobbing and fight his own torn and weeping emotions from loss.

"Fine. We lie. The king should be bought for three months... Four at a push. After that, God in all his wisdom is the only one I believe to know what will happen. Stop crying now little one, come on, get up. You're coming with me."

His embrace was too strong, his hands too large, his hand stroking her back moving too fast. Nothing like what Robin's hugs were like...

"Coming with you? I can't leave Loxley-"

"You can and you will. The king may be convinced with this lie, but others knew Robin. They know... Knew of his little sister he never stopped speaking about. They will never believe he left you alone in Loxley, unguarded. So, he has warded you with me until he comes back. That is what we will tell them. Hurry, we do not have much time, word will spread about my appearance and people will come to see if Robin has returned."

The girl wasted no more time, dashing about the house to collect only her keepsakes and those she would need to carry on with, some spare clothes and a satchel of food, just some goats cheese and half stale bread. The tear tracks on her face were sticky, drying on the apples and swoop of her jaw, but she could not bring herself to wipe them away. They felt right there as if her body could finally show what turmoil she felt inside. Her outside finally reflecting her insides.

A warm hand on her shoulder pulled her back down to earth, making her jerkily swivel her head and crane it upwards to stare at John. Her eyes only flickered down to his free hand when the candlelight flickered against something long, wooden and polished with the attentiveness and care of a well-loved item. Her bow.

"Here, Robin told me about his lessons with you, no point in that stopping. God knows Robin was an awful archer, no, only built for swords that one. We'll make a marksman out of you yet."

Shakily, the girl reached out for it and grasped the string, tugging it free from John's hold. Her thumb slowly but lovingly ran over the wood, before she ducked into it and strapped the bow across her back, the string tapering at her front, holding the bow in place. Even then, her fingers never quite came away from the bow. Robin had made it for her, years ago, when he first started to go on the king's conquests. He had taught her to use it, despite his ineptness at the weapon himself, so she could go hunt if the need called for such an activity, so she would never go hungry or completely unprotected.

"Thank you John. For... Everything."

"Don't thank me yet. We have an uphill battle to fight still and many to convince. Now go, there's a cart just outside, wait for me. I'll hide... I'll bury Robin."

The girl gave a sharp nod, her neck twinging in protest against the rough treatment, but she scuttled towards the door anyhow, tugging her satchel against the floor as she shouldered the wooden door open, readying to step into the bleak night. Only, just as she was about to fade into the darkness, John's voice stalled her, freezing her halfway between night and day, moon and candlelight, sorrow and new beginning. Between life and death.

"What was that nickname Robin used to call you? Began with an M didn't it? I can never remember..."

The question brought up an old memory, and subsequently a smile too, one she hadn't thought of in years. Robin, tousled hair like a golden crown, breeches dirty from the forest floor, dimpled smile shining in the light as he asked for her hanky for good look, twig, which in her childish mind had been a broadsword, held up to the heaven. The days of summer games and childhood dreams... Gone, just as Robin was. Her voice croaked as she answered.

"Maid... Robin used to call me Maid Marian when we used to play knights and princess's."

Marian wanted for no answer, did not stay long enough to see the same melancholy smile on John's face that mirrored her own, as she slipped into the night and into a life she had no idea she had created for herself. That one choice, at such a tender age, that one lie, that one huddled sorrow filled moment in a small house birthed a legend time would not forget, but over time had misconstrued and shaded in the wrong colours.

The legend of Robin Hood, just not as anyone knew it to be anymore.

So, yes no? Should I continue or are you thinking what the hell did I just read?

So, here is chapter one of this weird story that has taken form in my mind. I'm not sure whether I should continue or not, but I do have the basic's laid down and anyone who has come here from my Black Sail's fic, well, this is what you asked for and I hope you are happy with what I've come up with.

The basic's is this is, very, very, very (Can't state that enough) loosely based on the legend of Robin hood, but as you've already read, my own very twisted and odd version of it... That includes Vikings and a dead Robin XD. As for pairings, I am in a bit of a muddle with it. From what my other readers said, I've whittled it down to three options, although of course, Ragnar/Oc is the most popular at the moment.

Ragnar/Oc

Athelstan/Oc

Floki/Oc

So, if you do want this to continue, as mad as it is, and you would prefer one pairing over the other, please drop it in a review or P.M.

Obviously, this is going to have the whole cast of the Vikings involved (Alsaug is still debatable) and these are the characters from the Robin hood legend that will be making an appearance if it continues. Little John, Marian, Guy of Gisborne, Friar Tuck, Sheriff of Nottingham (Though not Sheriff per-say), Alan-a-Dale and Will Scarlet.

For those who read Metamorphosis, do not worry, I know it's been a while since I've updated, but it is coming. Life got in the way and it's been a hard chapter to iron out, some bits I like, others I don't but I can't keep the bits I do like without the bits I don't if that makes sense, so trying to find a way around that has been hell. Pure hell. But it's nearly finished now and should be out within a weak, the same with the promised Rackham/Oc fic (Which will likely be out sooner than the next chapter of Metamorphosis.)

To my new and old readers, I hoped you enjoyed it and please don't forget to drop a review, they leave me all warm and fuzzy inside.

Until next time- GoWithTheFlo20