Hello readers! No, I'm afraid that this isn't the promised OT3 murder-mystery that I've mentioned on my profile, but rest assured, that IS getting written (I'm currently on chapter 8). The reason it's taking so long is because it's a rather complex plot, and I don't want it be filled with inconsistencies if I start posting it before it's complete.

So this five-part (possibly six-part) fic is to help fill in the gap until "Traveller from the West" is ready. This project will be a series of vignettes based around how the rest of the outlaws percieve nand interact with Djaq, as she goes through her development from an aggressive, defensive refugee of S1, to the more mellow and friendly woman we all saw in S2. Each chapter will be from a certain outlaw's POV, in order of their importance to Djaq (so this first chapter is based on Robin, it will be followed by John, then Much, then Allan, and finally Will). If there's room, I'll also try to squeeze a Marian chapter in there somewhere, as I'm interested in their relationship, something that the show (unsurprisingly) ignored.

Hope you enjoy, and please hang in there for "Traveller from the West". I'm trying really hard to make it worth the wait!

Eye of the Beholder: Robin

She'd only been with them for a week, and yet it was already hard to imagine a time in which the strange little boy-girl thing hadn't been stamping around Sherwood with a scowl on her face and a sword in her hand, as though she was angry with the forest itself.

She was as prickly as a hedgehog at first, with a short, derisive laugh and a tendency to roll her eyes at any ignorant comments that the outlaws came out with. But she was as fierce as a tiger during the ambushes, and her quick mind had already uncovered several stashes of concealed goods in passing carriages that the outlaws would have otherwise missed. And if John's mighty bulk didn't scare travellers, then Djaq's bloodthirsty little face certainly would.

Robin was mildly fascinated by it all. Five years in the Holy Land and he'd never once seen a Saracen woman: they were darkly shrouded ghosts in doorways and windows. Watching her, he wondered why the Saracens kept their women under such tight lock and key. If she was any indication as to the rest of them, all Saladin had to do was arm the wives and daughters of his people and they'd have the war won within the week.

The others didn't realise how rare it was to be see the naked face of an Eastern woman, and he wasn't particularly inclined to explain it to them considering it would only embarrass her. Yet looking at her was like having a secret that he couldn't share, a secret that no one else even knew was a secret, and that was frustrating to say the least. The others simply didn't know what to make of her, and Much had begun to complain about her endless calls for contests so that she could test her mettle against the men in anything from play-fighting to foot-racing to spitting competitions.

It took a lot of effort not to laugh at the sight. Didn't she realise how tiny she was? Watching her pit her strength against a group of men twice her size was unintentionally hilarious, and only his innate knowledge that pride was not something to be mocked prevented him from pointing this out to her. So Robin let her get on with it at first, sensing her desperate need to prove herself. It wasn't until after a wrestling competition that had ended with Much's face turning blue (courtesy of an impressive-looking headlock), that he realised that he had to get her something else to focus her energy on.

Archery was the one area in which she had little skill, for she'd never been properly trained in the use of a bow during her time serving in the Saracen army. He'd fetched one for her that was approximately her size and she had accepted the gift with a stoic thank you, one that contained all the dignity of a man receiving a knighthood from the king. In the evenings he often saw her leaving the campsites in order to practice in the forest.

"Thank God for that," Much said, tenderly prodding at a plum-coloured bruise that she'd left on his arm.

Robin had helped her out the first few times, instructing her on how to draw back the bow-string so that it wouldn't slap her forearm on release; on how to wear her quiver so that she could easily grasp the arrows poking from the top; how to fletch one end of an arrow and sharpen the other. Oddly enough, it was in the act of archery that he always caught an accidental glimpse of her true self: in the way she stood, in the way her arms and wrists curved…such mannerisms were obviously female. And he realised it was nice to have a woman around, even one so strange as this. It made him feel closer to Marian somehow.

But her surly demeanour meant that she was black powder just waiting to go off, and go off it did one evening when both she and Allan needed the use of the same knife at the same time. The squabble had quickly deteriorated into a scuffle, all of which was highly amusing since Robin wasn't entirely sure if Allan was even aware yet that Djaq was a female. He'd been high on black root when she'd announced herself to the gang, and since there had been a surprising lack of flirting on Allan's behalf, Robin could only assume no one had bothered to tell him the truth about their latest Saracen acquisition.

"Oy, steady on mate!" Allan cried after the tug-of-war had ended with Djaq attacking his shins with a vicious kick. She wrenched the knife from his grasp and stomped off.

"Yeah, that's all you can reach!" he shouted after her. "Are you going to bite my knees next time?"

He looked around at the sniggering outlaws in confusion.

"What? Daft little bloke nearly broke my hand!"

But Robin had seen her expression as she'd marched away. Her face was red – though with embarrassment or anger he couldn't tell. As Allan continued to yell obscenities to the trees, he'd discreetly trailed her into the forest.

She was whittling fiercely away at the tip of an arrow, her face as stony as the rock she was sitting on.

"Don't worry about Allan…" he began as he approached.

"Allan is the only one of your men I can stand for any length of time," she snapped. "And that is only because he is too stupid to tell that I am a woman."

"I see. You think the others are giving you special treatment."

She dropped her busy hands down into her lap and looked up at him with something akin to despair in her large brown eyes.

"John is too watchful. Much is too helpful. And the boy-"

She self-consciously raised a hand to the clasps on her waistcoat.

"He stares at me."

He looked at her for a moment – she looked so alien sitting there, a tiny patch of desert lost in a forest of towering trees.

"Aren't you happy here? I could arrange passage back-"

"No!" she cried suddenly. "I want to stay here. I can be helpful here. I can keep up. I pull my own weight. I can-"

"Alright, alright!" he cried, trying not to laugh. "It was just a suggestion, I wasn't implying that I wanted you to go!"

She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, clutching the knife in one hand and the half-sharpened arrow in the other, looking thoroughly miserable.

"The lads…they're not doing it on purpose," he told her. "In fact, I don't think they're even doing it because you're a woman."

Her eyes glinted up at him from behind her folded arms as she waited for him to continue.

"Much is a servant. It's his job to be helpful. He's always fetching and offering and asking and doing things for me."

"But that should be only for you though. You're his master. He doesn't listen to the other outlaws. But he keeps…helping me with things. He doesn't think I can do anything by myself."

"He doesn't help me just because I'm his master. It's because I'm a noble, albeit a slightly displaced one. Like you are. He recognises that, so it's in his nature to do what you tell him to, even if he doesn't realise he's doing it."

"How do you know I was a noble?"

"An educated guess. You're…um…kind of bossy."

She was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on her shoes.

"I did not mean to be like that," she said, so quietly that it was probably a comment she was making to herself.

"And John…well, he's just overprotective because of Roy."

"Who is Roy?"

The sense of failure that Robin felt whenever he imagined Roy's face disappearing behind that onslaught of flashing swords welled up in him.

"Roy was part of the gang before you came to us, and an outlaw long before I ever was. He…he didn't make it out Nottingham Castle."

"What happened?"

He hesitated, wondering if he should tell her, and then realised that by remaining mute on the subject, he would be treating her like the woman she clearly didn't want to be.

"He was captured by the guards and tortured. His mother was taken hostage, and he was threatened with her hanging if he didn't return as a spy and kill me in my sleep."

He paused for a moment, remembering.

"He confessed, and we staged a rescue mission. But he didn't make it out. And that's why John may seem too watchful. Roy was like a son to John. John's a father, did you know that? I think that perhaps you remind him of…well…it's just that you're rather…er…small."

She was quiet, her face unreadable, and the silence between them stretched out. Then:

"Did you rescue her successfully?"

"Who? Oh, Roy's mother. Yes, she was taken to a nearby Abbey."

Djaq nodded, and her eyes drifted off into the trees. Robin summoned his courage, felt mildly surprised that courage had to be summoned, and sat next to her on the rock, easing the arrow out of her hand and examining the point.

"Good work," he told her. "And about Will. Well, he's a teenager. What can I say?"

Glancing sideways at her, he thought he saw a ghost of a smile flit across her face. It took him a moment before he was struck by this fact. He'd made a Saracen smile.

It brought him an odd sort of peace; a tiny glimmer of reassurance amidst memory of her homeland. He had done terrible things in the Holy Land, and for a moment he couldn't force back visions of the brutal fighting, the blood splattered in the sand, the terrible war cries of her people, the long curved blades…he closed his eyes and shuddered.

"War," he heard her say.

His eyes popped open.

"How did you know I was thinking that?"

"I have seen that expression too often to not know the root of it. War covers a face – you see it… behind the eyes."

She was grappling with her second language, struggling with the concept she was trying to convey.

He nodded slowly.

"A soldier's face," he said. "You have it too."

The moment he uttered those words he came to an unexpected realisation concerning the bewildering kindred-spirit on the rock next to him. That he trusted her, perhaps even more than he trusted the others. Now that he'd given it some thought, he wasn't surprised to find that he was more like her than any of the other outlaws. She was nobly born, she was educated, she was trained in combat, she possessed a picture of the world that went beyond the dozen or so villages scattered around Nottingham Town. She understood the tough decisions that a leader sometimes had to make, and the burden that went with making them.

"I would like to think that you're happy here," he told her.

"Happiness is fleeting. I have something better than that: a purpose. Work that needs to be done."

He paused, grappling with the advice he wanted to give her.

"That's good. I'm just saying though, that you don't need to be so antagonistic."

"So what?"

"It means you're always picking a fight. The boys – you don't need to prove yourself to them. They'll be your friends if you let them."

"I do not have friends."

"Don't you want to?"

The thought had obviously never occurred to her.

"I…"

"Look, I'm just saying – you're not in the army anymore. You're not even in the East anymore. Here you can relax a bit. Have some fun."

It took every ounce of willpower not to burst out laughing at the look on her face. She looked like he'd just suggested she put on a frilly dress and invite the sheriff into the forest for a picnic luncheon. Then her shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly.

"I suppose I could go easier on them," she mused. "They are only peasants I suppose."

This time he laughed out loud.

"You remind me of Marian sometimes. You're both so…"

He grappled in the air for the appropriate word.

"So…superior."

He turned to face her, hoping she wasn't offended, but she was looking at him with interest.

"You care about Marian."

It was a simple statement, but with the hint of a question concealed within it, and he wasn't quite sure what it was she was asking.

"I…well, I'm fond of her. I mean, we were kids together. And our parents…we ah…" He cleared his throat. "We were betrothed before I went to the Holy Land."

"You chose your duty to your king over your feelings for your fiancée?"

He cleared his throat, now immensely uncomfortable.

"Yeah. Yeah I did. I guess that's why she can't stand the sight of me anymore."

"Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why did you choose war over love?"

He shrugged, kicking at stray stones underfoot.

"I thought it was the right thing to do."

"Was it?"

He looked back at her intense little face, unsure how she had steered the conversation in this direction, and baffled as to what it was she was searching for in his replies. Yup, she was definitely a woman.

He looked up at the canopy, hoping that the leaves would spell out an answer.

"No," he finally sighed. "No it wasn't. There was nothing there for me. And people needed me here."

She held his gaze for a moment, and he felt as though he were on trial, his entire being scrutinised and judged by a pair of dark Saracen eyes. Then she nodded and looked away again, presumably satisfied with his answer. For a moment they sat in companionable silence. Somewhere beyond the quiet of the clearing their countries were at war with one another, but for now, the two of them worked at the simple task of sharpening arrowheads. The peace that she'd unknowingly stirred in him settled and strengthened, lying like a red-cross shield over a guilty wound.

He had a lot to apologise for on behalf of his country, and for all he knew her family members could have been among the dozens he'd cut down on the battlefield. But having her here was like an assurance of redemption. He could make amends with all the world if only he could make things right with her.

"Well, I should head back," he said once the arrows were sharpened and tied together in a neat bundle. On an impulse he leaned forward to ruffle her hair and was rewarded with a sharp glare. But later that night he noticed her crouching next to Much by the campfire, using the knife to cut some mushrooms and plop them in the pot as his manservant stirred it with his ladle.

It got him thinking. Maybe he'd go see Marian tomorrow. Maybe take some flowers with him.