Okay, so this will be an Alex/Olivia love story but it will be slow, the first few chapters are needed to set everything up. I've used the legend of Robin Hood as my framework, simply borrowing the characters and setting. Olivia is Robin Hood, Elliot is Little John ect ect... Later chapters will contain mature themes and sometimes triggering content so be forewarned. I will write individual warnings on chapters if people ask me in a PM or review to do so, if not read at your own discretion.

Basically it's an Olivia comforting Alex story and they fall in love along the way.

This is my first fanfiction submission so sorry if there are any formatting issues.

I am English so any spellings will be British not American.

All known characters belong to Dick Wolf.

Thanks for reading and please do review.

It was a bitterly cold night and the men were riding fast to escape the wind. The Sherriff of Nottingham was a young man with a sparse beard that barely covered his weak chin. Tall but thin he sat the highest in his saddle, bony shoulders hidden by a thick woollen cloak. He rode with his two companions, men he'd known since birth, who'd sworn to protect him. Friends themselves they decided, twenty years before, at the birth of the new sheriff that they would attach their fortunes to his. Always at his side they heaped him with praise and put down his enemies with a harsh boot. It was not then surprising that the young man grew to understand that his word was law, his word was always right and any who dared oppose him were better pulverised by the heel of his shoe.

They had been riding for hours, the sun setting slowly around them till they had only the stars and the thin sliver of moon to light their way. The message didn't reach him till early that morning but before the parchment had floated to the floor he was having his belongings packed and the horses readied. At the tender age of eleven, when as a boy he was only concerned with the burning of ants and the picking off of legs of any fly stupid enough to buzz too close, he was sent away to the borders of Wales. As is the custom for noble boys he was taught under the tutelage of another man, a man more interested in the bottom of his glass than of his new ward but all the same he learnt all he needed to learn to become his father's successor. He didn't bother to ask permission to leave when the news of his father's death reached him, just mounted his saddle and with his two loyal companions rode hard from the castle.

That is how the three men came to be riding through the forest in the dead of night. The Sherriff of Nottingham was dead, the new Sherriff was coming to home to claim what was his.

The men had ceased to talk miles before and the only noise in the stillness of the night was the creaking of their saddles and rustling of leaves. When a cry pieced the darkness, however, that stillness was shattered. Rearing the Sherriff's horse almost threw him from the saddle and after hitting the animal hard on its neck the young man twisted this way and that to find the source of the cries. Panicked and angry he dismounted, his cloak wrapping round his legs, and drew his sword to destroy that which had dared disrupt his journey. His companions made no move to stop him, one dismounting with him and drawing his own sword.

The two walked slowly forward, the continuing wail guiding their steps. In the roots of an oak they found the source of the noise. A buddle of cloth had been placed, wedged between the wood, and from it the face of baby emerged. Scrunched and red from crying it made a pitiful sight, abandoned by parents that either didn't want it just couldn't feed it. The companion stepped forward, raising his sword as he went to end quickly what the cold would take its time over, but the Sherriff stopped him. A pondering look was upon his face and his grey eyes seemed to shine; grey eyes that matched the baby's. He picked up the bundle and remounted his horse without saying a word, but the two men knew better than to question anything he did. They continued on their journey through the forest arriving just as the sun fed colour into the sky.

He told his new subjects that the baby was his, the product of some whore not worth remembering. He gave it to a nurse maid and cleared one wing of the castle, giving it over to the baby to grow and learn and become everything he wanted it to be. His servants would notice that over the years he would spends weeks alone in that wing of the castle, the child itself never allowed to leave, and when he emerged it would be as if he had gained a new life, the smile taking days to fade from his face.

It was twenty five years later that the child, a child no more, was seen again. Clothed in a breast plate of silver and black leather breeches he stood tall, with a broad sword hanging off his hip. The boots on his feet always shined, never seeming to catch any dust from the floor, and the leather of his gloves creaking every time he rolled his hands into fists. Though now allowed to leave the wing of castle his helmet never left his face and he never uttered a word to anyone, the rumour being that the Sherriff had removed his tongue. He became known by the wool that hung long off his shoulders, known only as the black cloak.