I originally posted this fic in January. But it was atrociously bad. So I killed it by leaving it out to dry for like three months...

And now I'm editing and reposting it all!!!!

NOTICE: MAJOR PLOT CHANGES.

Much no longer is a witty, handsome, intelligent boy with good grammar. Robin no longer is a noble and true outlaw. Marian no longer is a kind, honest woman. Bess no longer is a feisty, sarcastic beauty. These characters have major flaws now. So read, review, criticize... And long live King Richard!

Much the Miller's Son
Chapter One: The Crippled Simpleton
The cripple stumbled away from the burning carcass of his childhood home. He ran as best he could with his bad leg, his deerskin boots scraping through the February snow. The road away from the mill soon ended, and he wondered where to go. Should he go west, and to Nottingham, or east, into the depths of Sherwood?

Everyone knew outlaws lived in Sherwood, and in abundance. The boy knew his father had had dealings with some of the outlaws who lived in Sherwood; indeed, he himself had carried out simple errands for him into the greenwood. But could he trust them? He didn't know. He knew that he needed somewhere to sleep, something to eat, and someone to talk to.

An idea filled his mind.

He would go to Robin.

The trail to the outlaw's lair had been hidden well by a large boulder. He scrambled over it with difficulty, his mousy hair getting into his eyes, wet patches growing under his armpits. The path was obstructed by the snow and he was tired, but the boy forced himself to keep running, to keep dragging his left leg, to keep from falling or looking at his hands just collapsing onto the ground with exhaustion.

"Who's there?" came the voice of Will Scarlet from the lookout tree. He looked up and saw the man had an arrow cocked and was ready to shoot.

"Tis I!" he cried, "Tis I, The Miller's son, and I'd be very much obliged to yer if you didn't shoot, f'r the time being!"

"Alhric's son?" he cried, "the crippled one who used to bring us flour?"

"Aye." The boy called up to him.

"What is you doin in Sherwood, then." The tall attractive man in red leggings swung himself from the tree down to the lad's feet, the gleam in his eyes urging the miller's son to get to the point.

His ugly face crumpled. "The... sheriff... 'e came when I was in the forest, 'huntin', and... and..."

"And what?" the eyes showed some concern.

"And when I was comin' back, the mill were..." he swallowed, "It were just gone, like. All full o' fire."

"Good God!"

"And I went inter it, and then... and then..." The boy kept trying not to cry. His father always told him that big boys didn't cry, especially boys who were turning sixteen on Tuesday. 'Come now,' he would say, 'Great strappin' lads like you don't blub like girlies!'

He wanted to cry. He wanted to throw himself onto the floor of the forest and sob until his hands stopped hurting and the images of his little sister's deaths fled from his mind and he was safe in his own bed with the smell of mother's cooking throughout the house.

Will clapped the young cripple on the back. "You don't need ter tell me any more, m'lad. We'll just get you inter camp, and Robin'll sort it out."

The boy nodded. He followed him through the footpath to a blazing fire, where a brooding man stood, his red hair glinting in the blaze.

"Will?" he asked, his voice cold and intense, "Why have you left your post?"

The peasant felt inclined to kneel. Robin sounded so regal, so powerful, so intelligent. And as he was a lord, he ought to sound like that. Rumor had passed over the villages of serfs that he had even met King Richard, the saint-like king off fighting in the holy lands now.

He began to bow, trying to balance with his mismatched legs, but managing to fall over, causing his hands to burn and sting and cause him to cry out.

"Who is this dolt?" came Robin's voice.

"The miller's simpleton son."

"Ah..." Robin helped the miller's son up, then stared at him, fixing him with his intense blue eyes. "What's wrong with you, boy? Why're you here?"

"Me 'ands!" he cried in pain, "I has burnt me 'ands trying ter save me sisters."

"What happened?" asked Robin, quietly.

"The mill was burned by the sheriff's men this afternoon." said Little John, stepping into the firelight after coming along the path.

"Everything gone?"

"Aye."

"How many dead?"

"Everyone..." murmured the boy, still unable to cry, "Everyone but fer me."

"Lets take a look at those hands," said Will, gently tugging at the peasant boy's wrists.

The fingers on his hand had swollen up to the size of sausages, bright red and still growing.

"'Ere." said Little John, passing him two handfuls of snow.

"Looks like we'll have another mouth to feed," said Robin disdainfully. "I suppose we can give him your job, though, Will. Even a simpleton cripple can have his uses."

"I isn't a simpleton." Said the boy, narrowing his eyes.

"No?" asked Robin, examining his nails, "Alright then, sir, what would you have me call you?"

"I would have yer call me..." he thought out for a moment. Somehow, he couldn't remember his name... he had never been good at remembering things like that. Simple details slipped his mind, yet he could remember the face of any customer his father had ever given flour, even when he was the tiniest baby. He could draw a map of any place in Sherwood, carve an otter out of a piece of wood so good you might think it would come alive, but he couldn't remember his sister's names, or even his own.

"He's not worth much, is he?" asked Robin, scornfully. "Can't even remember his own name."

"I is worth much!" exclaimed Much, "I is worth wonderous much! I would have you call me... Much! I is Much, and I is worth as much as..." he broke off, "as much as a jewel on the king's crown!!"

Robin threw his head back and laughed, "So you are!" he chortled, "you are indeed, Much." he laughed again, "He may be plenty of use, if even he's only entertainment!"

Much smiled good naturedly at the laughter. "I'll be of use to yer, Robin Hood," he said, "I promise."