Marion

Night fell before she finally found the strength to stand, to shred the stained blanket on which she'd lain into rags, to find water and wincingly begin the process of cleaning herself. She tidied her clothing as best she could, substituting what was no doubt Maude's best set of underclothing for her own and pulling her torn and mangled tunic over her head. Then she left the hut, bow and arrows in hand, and made her plodding way back to the outlaw camp without bothering to look for the missing charcoaler and his wife. If they were dead, as she suspected they were, then there was nothing she could do to help them. And if they'd fled, well, there wasn't much she could do about that, either.

When she limped back into camp an hour or so later, she was met with mingled cries of relief and distress. Robin took one look at her tightly pressed lips and bruised face and managed to herd the others away from her as she bee-lined for her small lean-to.

"Marion, what's happened?" he asked, blue eyes flashing with concern as she reached the entrance to that haven. The entrance faced away at an angle, enough to allow her privacy but not so much that she could, for example, be dragged out of it in the middle of the night with no one noticing.

Robin was waiting for an answer, and Marion studied her feet as she quickly went over the story she'd concocted during the long walk home. She couldn't bear to look into those eyes so like and yet so unlike those of his bastard half-brother. "I fell," she lied. "On the rocks coming back from Maude. A stupid mistake." She shook her head as if in rueful chagrin at her own clumsiness. "I'm fine." How many times, she wondered distantly, could she lie to her Robin in a single night?

Robin would know the rocks she referred to, a series of boulders and outcroppings of bedrock that littered the swiftest path to the charcoal burner's hut. A small stream ran through part of it, and she knew he'd assumed it was on those slippery boulders she'd taken her tumble.

He took her chin gently in his hand, and she forced herself not to flinch away from his touch. "You don't look fine," he chided her, his thumb barely skimming the gash in her swollen lower lip.

"Well, I did land on my face," she replied, striving to keep her tone light. "And twisted my ankle," she remembered to add, to explain her limp. She managed a flash of a smile as she forced herself to look directly at his worried face. "Right now I'm just tired and a little embarrassed. I'd like to wash up, then get some sleep, if you don't mind."

He gave her a piercing look, while she stared blankly back at him, willing him to believe her. Then, reluctantly, he stepped out of her way, only pausing to ask about Maude's condition.

"She's fine," Marion said. Another lie, and one more easily disproven than her claims to a fall as explanation for her injuries. "The herbs helped, and I left enough for the next time she might need them as well."

Robin accepted her words; why shouldn't he? She'd never lied to him before, certainly not about something so seemingly innocuous. And if their bodies were ever found? She would simply pretend to be as shocked as anyone else. Never, never would she reveal what Gisburne had done to her. Not just out of shame, but because of the threats he'd made, right before that disgusting kiss. She nearly retched at the thought of his lips on hers, but forced her stomach to behave itself as she settled into her shelter. She would never, ever be the reason Robin would face capture or death. She still carried a load of guilt for how her husband, her first Robin, had died, and now that her feelings toward Robert of Huntington, her new Robin, had grown into love, she would cast herself into hellfire before being forced to watch him die.

She would die herself, first, exile herself from all she knew and loved, flee to the farthest ends of the Earth if she had to.

Never again.

Two Months Later

Marion

Marion lay sobbing over Robin's body, blue eyes closed to the sun forever, blonde hair already seeming duller to her eyes, his skin ashen. She'd sworn never to witness anything like this again, and yet, here she was, history repeating itself, and she couldn't bear it.

"Robin, I can't take this anymore," she whispered as the tears began to subside. "I can't do this again, I can't. How could you let this happen, how could I?"

Even after she discovered that it wasn't truly Robert of Huntington who lay there, that it was some hideous simulacrum, the pain and despair didn't fade. Indeed, it grew, and she knew she had to do something to save herself. Especially since she'd proven woefully inadequate at saving anyone else she loved.

The moment she made her decision to leave the outlaws, to leave him, she knew it was selfish, but she couldn't bear the anguish a second longer, couldn't bear the idea of living a life that would inevitably lead to further loss.

And once she fled to Halstead Abbey, she realized just how important a decision that was, that she had further reason to distance herself from Robin. She hadn't noticed, hadn't allowed herself to realize, that her monthlies hadn't come since before Gisburne assaulted her, but one month into her stay at Halstead, she could no longer ignore the facts of her changing body.

If she'd remained in Sherwood, Robin would have eventually recognized her condition, and questions would have been asked she had no desire to answer. Either she would have had to lie about having a secret tryst with some other man, or she'd have been forced to tell the truth about what Gisburne had done to her.

She was with child, and Robin had never been her lover, no matter what Gisburne assumed. She was no man's harlot; when and if Robin had ever asked her to marry him, she would have done so and gladly, would have given herself to him on their wedding night without hesitation, but never before that moment.

Now, that moment would never come.

When Robin came after her, as she knew inevitably would, she prayed he would be convinced by her words, that he would stay away so she wouldn't have to make the decision to either hurt him more than she already had, or condemn him to death at Gisburne's hand by speaking the truth, knowing full well that he'd react exactly as their enemy predicted he would. Neither option held any appeal, so instead, when he inevitably made his way to the Abbey to beg her to return only days after her arrival, she spoke only of her original reasons for staying away, and sent him on his way without a clue as to the truth of the matter.

A truth that quickly made itself known, at least to the more worldly of the sisters, and from them quickly to the Abbess. And once she knew, she wasted no time in summoning Marion to her private rooms for an explanation.

She told the older woman everything, leaving out nothing, unflinching in her description of how Gisburne had used her, and adamant in her denial of knowing or even suspecting her condition before taking the vows of a novice at the abbey. When she finished speaking, she bowed her head and awaited judgement. "I'll leave if you wish it of me."

A long pause followed her words, then the rustle of cloth as the Abbess approached and took Marion's hands in hers. "Child, think you you're the first woman to seek the solace of the veil after being so cruelly used? Or the first to enter the convent with a babe in your belly?" She tipped Marion's face up to meet hers, smiling gently. "Of course you may stay. And the secret of your child's parentage shall remain between us. I know of Gisburne; were he to discover the truth, he would stop at nothing to force you to marry him and allow him to raise the child, as is his right," she added, but not in condemnation of Marion's decision not to let him know the truth. "If any were to discover the truth, he would have the law on his side and every right to carry you away from here. Neither he nor anyone else will ever learn that truth from my lips, on that you have my promise and sacred vow."

Marion felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, tears of gratitude and humility. She'd been terrified of this meeting, afraid that the Abbess would turn her out or even, as she had every right to do, summon Gisburne as soon as the truth was out. But in spite of those fears she'd been determined not to lie, not to start her new life with another sin on her conscience.

"However," the Abbess added with a hint of sternness, "you cannot wear the veil of novice unless you determine to give up the babe after it's born."

That brought Marion up short; how could she not have considered such a possibility? Although she loathed her child's father and how the babe had been conceived, she hadn't thought about the consequences of keeping the child after it was born. Or the possibility of giving it up to someone else to raise. "I…I'll have to think about it," she stuttered. "I hadn't…I haven't…"

"No need to worry on it now," the Abbess soothed. "When you're ready, you'll make the right decision, whatever it turns out to be. For now you may remain here as a lay helper, with work assigned to you to help earn your keep as if you were still a novitiate. And if you do decide to give up the child and take the veil as your vocation, then you will be more than welcome to stay."

"Thank you," Marion said, knowing a dismissal when she heard one, no matter how kindly stated. "I would like to go to chapel and pray for guidance before dinner."

The Abbess nodded her permission and Marion took her leave, head reeling from the choices she suddenly had before her. Choices she hadn't even thought to consider until the Abbess pointed them out to her.

Ah, but she had some time before those decisions had to be made, and now that Robin understood that she refused to return to Sherwood with him, she'd have the peace she needed to make those decisions with a calm heart and rational mind.