I'm not sure where this came from, but I wrote it anyway x I hope you like it xx Please read and review x :)

Sometimes, when things get really bad, he closes his eyes and pretends that he is just a child again. He is playing in the woods with Much, with Marian, with the other village children, and there are no cares in the world.

There are no worries besides what tree to climb, no hurts beyond a scraped knee.

He has not seen death, not yet, and he does not know the pain of suffering and of war. He doesn't know what it is like to be alone, to be abandoned, to be an outcast.

He doesn't yet know how to survive in the forest because he's never yet had to, and every meal has been lovingly prepared. He does not know how to scrounge the forest for food or how to make a proper shelter beyond the dens of children. He doesn't know what it's like to miss Marian so much that it hurts, like a deep ache that never goes away, except for when she's in his arms (not that that's often, especially anymore).

He is innocent, playful.

He is a child.

And then one of his gang, no matter how much he adores them, moves towards him, startling him out of his daydream.

When he opens his eyes again he is in Sherwood Forest, hidden deep within the trees as in his memory, only this time the consequences are far more serious than a scolding if he gets caught.

He thinks of all the people he's seen hanged and imagines them swinging from the trees of Sherwood.

Sometimes he imagines himself.

Sometimes it's the gang.

Most of the time it's Marian (after all, she's the one most likely to get caught, isn't she?)