Mira-and-Allan: why thank you, I love you for loving it. lol.
Zetta: Yeah I hate all the fuss around logging in and stuff. Great long review though, I love those. Angry, grieving Robin is one of the reasons to why it takes some time for maz and him to reunite in this fic. It is interesting to explore Robin when he is not the perfect leader, when he is in a position to be irrational and make mistakes. (Also, when they finally meet again it will be fabulous :D)
DeanParker: hehe, yeah I know. But they WILL end up together. In fact, almost everyone in this fic will eventually end up in Sherwood. There is just some traveling first.
Gatewatcher: Erm, well I seem to be saying this a lot, but it will take some time before the happy reunion, although there will be one. About Much thinking Carter was dead-- lol well it wasn't exactly planned like that. When I wrote the chapter before (chapter 4 that is) I was planning on killing Carter. Then I changed my mind, but then Much had already told Robin that Carter was dead, so I had to twist the story a bit you know. yada yada yada
Mizco: Yeah poor Allan-- I love him though so he will have a happy ending as well. Lots of stuff happening there. Poor Robs as well oc, but he will be fine eventually.
Spinningisfun: Yes, Marian is going to see ze count at one point in the future :D (I'm bringing back all the stuff I liked with s2, and I loved the count)
LoonyLover: lol yeah I love writing Allan, it's so much fun. lol.
Kates Master: I will not reveal my plan for Will and Djaq but let's just say I won't leave them out of the story. ;) Indeed, I think Robin will do more for England than God, but that might have to do with me not being the most pious of humans. lol.
x-Kate-x: You will catch up with Marian in this chapter. Writing Allan was great fun, I adore him.
LadyElsii: Aw thank you. :D I try to make the story as vivid as possible to the readers.

Finally-- Thanx for all the comments!!! You people are GOLD. I adore you all.

Chapter 6: Times of calm and times of storm

-In which Robin is a crap archer and Marian takes a bold decision

Every life has periods of calm and periods of storm, and the journey back to England was period of calm for Robin Hood. It was not a good kind of calm - rather the kind of thick, stifling serenity that precedes an electrical storm; suffocating and heavy as if the air resented being breathed and fought back. On this day nearly a month after Marian's death nature seemed to mimic that false serenity. The outlaws had stopped to camp in a forest in southern France, where the air was warm and sticky in spite of the approaching autumn. Robin often disappeared in search of solitude when they stopped walking and this day was not different; he took his bow and his thoughts and let the foliage close behind him.

Robin had an archer's fingers. They were calloused; the skin hard where the thick silk string had scuffed against it so many times that there was a constant notch from the pressure. He had an archer's hands and an archer's arms; strong, steady and controlled from the drawing of the arrow to the final shot. The art of archery was almost hypnotic to him; the scratching sound of the arrow against the quiver; the creaking of the string as he pulled it back; the twang followed by a low thud. Focus, release and score. The feeling was satisfying, addictive, even slightly arousing.

Before the Holy Land the archery had been a perfect refuge, a place where reality, however complicated, seemed simple. Yet between those bloodstained sand dunes his art had failed him for the first time. It was not so much the horror of war as the pleasure that had eventually tainted it and made the sanctuary foul. The satisfaction from the shot was followed by guilt and regret, but even when the brutality tore him apart the shot never failed to satisfy him. Robin did not know himself in that brutality, since, in the end, he had not been born a man of war.

Knowing that his pleasure derived from the pain of other people made it harder and harder to release the bow. He became someone else during the battles; fell into a berserker's rage that scared him senseless when it faded from him. Right and wrong had seemed so simple when he left England behind in his quest for glory, but when his dream became reality he felt disillusioned and lost. It was the faces of those he killed that slowly wore him out. Thus when he was sent home to recover from his wound it was not the scar in his side that that needed healing; it was his mind. On the way through Europe he realised that he had been given a second chance and he would not waste it. The berserker's rage that kept him alive through the war became his enemy; a side of himself that he buried deep inside.

It worked. He became Robin Hood and only killed when he was cornered. Yet since the day he heard of Marian's death he felt his art fail him yet again.

Robin had an archer's body, and now he sat crouched down by his quiver and examined every single arrow before he cautiously put it down. It was nothing wrong with them. They were all straight, well-balanced and perfectly fletched. He continued by examining the bow, let his fingers graze the smooth wood that had been worn by his firm grip, and gently pushed the silk string to try the bounce. Only the best materials; the sting was not too tight or too loose and the bow was in perfect condition. He sighed and rubbed his brow wearily, rose and took aim once more.

The shot was disrupted by the sound of branches shifting behind Robin. Instantly he felt himself tense and lowered the bow. For a while he was reluctant to turn, his heart bounced in his chest and there was a tingle of anticipation that refused to be cowed. It was so irrational, yet he still hoped to find Marian behind him. Every time he turned a corner, every morning when he opened his eyes, the image of her was imprinted on his eyes. An apparition that seemed so real up until the point he actually turned around and found that she was not there. He took a deep breath and turned towards the shrubbery where Much was walking towards him with hesitant steps. Not Marian. He knew the hope was irrational, every time he knew it to be foolish and vain and that she wouldn't be there. Yet when reality proved him right his heart always sunk down into disappointment all the same. He blinked at Much and forced a smile that was so tense that it hurt.

"Much," he greeted his friend; cheerful and gallant like the man he thought Much wished him to be. Do not let them see how much it hurts. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Nothing," Much responded with a worried frown. "Just—wanted to see how you are holding up. Is it—you know—any easier yet?" Much strolled over and watched the target Robin had set up by the far end of the glen.

Robin felt his lips pull into a wry smile and snorted. How long had it been?Twenty-seven days, his mind responded swiftly. And you knew her to be dead by midday so that makes it twenty-seven days and a quarter of a day. In what world would less than a month be enough to get over the love of a lifetime? Did they truly expect that of him?

"I mean," Much continued rapidly as if he had read Robin's thoughts. "Not—easier as such. But you know."

"No, Much. I don't know. Why don't you enlighten me?" Robin answered is a silky sarcasm that he cursed himself for as soon as the words escaped him. Grief made him defensive; hard, thorny and callous.

Much looked nervous, let his eyes dart between Robin and the target as he scrambled for a response. Finally he gave up and decided to change the subject.

"Target practicing?" he asked rather unnecessarily.

"Apparently."

"Ah. Well, I for one have never understood why you feel the need for—you know. All that practice," Much started to ramble. "I mean obviously you have to keep it up. But you do know that you are the best archer in England? I mean it seems rather—Well. Unnecessary."

Robin felt the wry smile on his lips pull into a full grin, splitting his face into two halves. There was such an irony that Much would utter these words to him now, such an ultimate irony. He turned to his friend and cocked his eyebrows.

"Look at this Much," he said. "Do not talk before I finish. I will put every arrow in my quiver right in the middle of that target."

Much looked a bit puzzled but nodded in agreement. He had seen Robin target practicing before. His arrows never missed. Still, he would watch Robin shoot a thousand arrows if it humoured his grieving friend.

Robin had an archer's fingers. Now he put them cautiously against the string with an arrow resting in his hand, steadied the bow and lay aim. He did it with every inch of his attention, focused in a way that confused Much. The target was 30 feet away. Robin wouldn't have any problem to set this arrow right square in the middle, and yet he treated it like the challenge of a lifetime. He focused, breathed heavily took one deep breath before his fingers let go of the string.

The arrow never even reached the target. There was a tremble, so swift and short-lived that Much did not see it, but Robin knew it would be fatal for the shot. The force of the string went into Robin's hand and left the arrow flying unsteadily in a wobbling arch before it fell down to the ground. It didn't even bury its head in the soft forest soil; the projectile lay useless and pathetic as if it had simply given up and died.

Robin shot Much a sharp look before he could say anything. Then he took the next arrow out of the quiver, repeated the procedure and missed the target by going nearly two feet too far to the left. Arrow after arrow was fired with Robin's skilful archer's hands and arrow after arrow failed. Some hit the target others missed it with several feet. It was a terrible session. Much could have done better and Robin could feel his friend's gaping mouth and dumbstruck expression even though he kept his eyes on the target. After a while he started to fire the arrows as he used to do in battle; one single movement that came so naturally to him, as if the instinct would succeed where his focus failed. Yet it made no difference.

When every arrow was fired robin put down one end on the bow to the ground and leaned casually against the weapon, watching the pathetic result. He had been here all day shooting arrows, trying to empty his mind of all the buzzing sorrow because he knew that it must be Marian that made his bow tremble. Some shots had succeeded, in average one in ten if he had counted correctly. One in ten. Robin had an archer's fingers; an archer's hands and arms, an archer's body and mind. Yet he couldn't properly fire an arrow.

"Is there something wrong with the bow?" Much finally said, staring at the scattered arrows.

"No," Robin snorted. "Nothing wrong with the bow. Nothing wrong with the arrows or the quiver or the target. There is nothing wrong with my body either. I just can't shoot Much."

"But—did you—Is it—I mean the things you said in the barn, when we had that—whatever Djaq called it?"

"No," Robin sighed. "This is different. When I raged—as long as there was nothing but hate and the heat of the battle my arrows travelled with the same precision as they always have. But when that faded from me I failed. I have been target practicing all day, Much, and it doesn't get any better."

"But surely a day is not enough? It will get better!"

Robin watched the arrows that lay spread around the target and shook his head. Archery had been his sanctuary but a month ago he had lost it. This was worse than the Holy Land. This time he just couldn't find his refuge at all. When his arrows hit the target he didn't feel the rush of satisfaction that he had known all his life; he only felt hollow.

"For twenty-seven days the only arrows I have managed to fire was fired in rage," Robin mumbled. "It will not change."

"Then—what do we do?"

Robin shrugged and started to walk back to the arrows; picking them up one by one and sticking them back down into the quiver for another round. "We do what we do," he responded flatly. "We go back. We fight. We are Robin Hood."

We are Robin Hood. Never had those words been uttered with less passion. They were worn out and uninspired; a statement rather than a battle scream. He started to fire arrows again, half-heartedly as if he didn't care that they bounced off in different versions of failure. Why did he bother? He felt the silk string press against his fingers again, heard the twang and thud as one of the arrows managed to reach the target. I do it because if I do not shoot I do not live.

One day this bow would be aimed at Guy of Gisborne and Sheriff Vaysey and when that day came he still needed to have an archer's fingers. His heart started to beat faster at the thought, the muscles in his body tensed. After the Holy Land he had feared this feeling, the rush of fury that made his arrows precise and deadly but fired without heart. Now he had to call that berserker's rage forward to be able to shoot at all. His breathing became fast and thick, his mind dulled and focused on the hate that started to grow inside him. They stole her from me. In the end Guy and the Sheriff had murdered Marian. They left her on that sinking ship in the middle of the storm, left her behind to perish in the waves. She never stood a chance.

An image of Marian at sea, struggling in the waves as the ship was smashed into rubble, burned inside Robin as he let go of the first arrow. Then Guy smirked at him and dropped the engagement ring into the sand as the second and third arrow left the string. He noticed absently that they landed in the middle of the target, fought for room as the centre got crowded. One by one Robin fired the arrows and he didn't let go of the fury until the quiver was empty. Then he fell down on his knees in the grass; so heavy was the air on his shoulders when the rage faded and left his trembling body exhausted. She had been his strength. Now there was nothing but revenge to keep him struggling; the will to fight was born from grief instead of hope. This was the other side of the coin. When the hate faded there was only pain, and his soul lay exposed to the vultures. He had fired every arrow of his quiver into the imaginary torso of Guy of Gisborn yet it made no difference. Vengeance didn't bring her back; the battles, as they were, would always end unrewarded.

"You—" Much swallowed and watched the target; then glanced down at Robin who sat pressing an arm to his stomach. "You did it Robin. How are you? Robin? You did it; they are right in the middle, every one. You see? You can shoot again. Can't you?"

"Only when—" Robin hindered himself before he finished the sentence:Only when I hate. He couldn't tell Much that. "It is so fickle," he said instead. "My archery has never been unpredictable before." His voice was hoarse and strained as he took the bow and used it as support when he rose. "Come," he continued. "You came here to take me back to camp did you not?"

"Yes—As a matter of fact. Supper is ready," Much answered absently. There was a wall between Robin's thoughts and the world and it made him seem so faint, even though he tried to smile and lead his men as if nothing had changed. The problem was that things had changed, and refusing to acknowledge that fact wouldn't make it magically disappear. It couldn't be good for Robin to keep it all inside. How could Much know what damage the loss of Marian did to him if he wouldn't talk about it? He felt like he was loosing his best friend and the only thing he could do was watch it happen. "You—miss her?" he said in a new attempt to open the locked shrine that was Robin's heart.

Robin froze as he bent to tug out another one of the arrows from the target. "I do not whish to talk about it," he mumbled in an annoyed tone. 'Miss her' were such simple words. How could two words be so unbearable and fatal? How could they steal his archery from him? How could they steal his heart? He pressed an arrowhead into his palm so hard it broke through the tough skin, and a single drop of blood moistened the metal. It didn't hurt nearly as much as those two words did. Yes. He did miss her.

---

Every life has periods of calm and periods of storm, and the journey back to England was a period of storm for Marian Fitzwalter. It was not a constant storm, but one that came and went and grew slowly towards its peak. Nearly one month after she had left the village it still hadn't reached its full strength. Balthazar the Merchant had taken her to a small town, situated in a bushy gouge between gray, rocky cliffs. The German crusaders used it as a natural stop on the way to the Holy Land and the local population that lived there thrived off strangers and didn't resent them. There were two inns and twice a week the main street became a buzzing marketplace where merchants shouted out their wares in the language of their choice.

"I wish I knew German," Marian mumbled to Balthazar as they put up the stand for the Wednesday market. They had been in this town for a fortnight and seen crusaders and pilgrims pass through, but so far the retinues refused to take Marian with them. She was English and it had become increasingly apparent that King Richard wasn't particularly popular abroad. She was a woman, a stranger and an Englishman; all these things were burdens for her now. It was a new sensation for Marian to be the subject of national prejudices and the kind of impersonal hate that people can harbour against strangers. The things they called her—well it was all spoken in German or some rare Nordic tongue, but she could hear from their tone that they didn't give her any compliments.

Balthazar put up the sheltering cloth over the stand and secured it to the ground with thick hemp ropes. He puffed and grunted as he worked; his stout body sweaty in a thin linen shirt that was yellow and stiff under the armpits. "No German," he panted. "You should marry nice Greek man."

Marian rolled her eyes and helped him secure the roof. A few early shoppers smirked at the odd couple as they strolled by; he small and fat and she half a head higher and slender like a spinning wheel. Some of them greeted Balthazar and he wheezed a jovial response. Marian kept herself turned away, intensely occupied with the stall that had to be prepared before the first wave of customers arrived. Balthazar had a way to presenting her to his bachelor friends that made her feel a little bit like one of his wares. Even though she knew he did it from tenderness and not out of malice it made her feel uncomfortable. She would eventually refuse any offer if it came to that and she didn't wish to disappoint him. How could it be that her father was dead but men still did their best to marry her off!?

"I cannot marry a Greek man," she sighed. "I need to get home—I do not belong here."

"You very pretty. I will get you good husband. Young and rich, no bad second son. First son, only the best for my girl, ey?" Balthazar laughed and straightened up, splashed some water in his face and rubbed aromatic herbs against the shirt to dampen the smell of sweat. Then he pulled a colourful tunic over his head and pinned a broach to the collar. Marian frowned as she watched him and absently arranged the items on the stall. How fast life became a habit. A month she lived with this man and already there were routines. If she gave it time, learned the language better than the few words she had snapped up—well. She could have a family and friends here; it was not a bad place. A practical woman would take this offer of a new life like the blessing that it was. Yet the idea of getting married to a man, be it a Greek man or even a crusader, made her feel sick. It was not that she resented the dark people of this country but getting married was a point of no return. It was the same as accepting that Robin would never be hers, and however faint her hope was she could not bare giving it up and live her life not ever knowing. What if he was waiting for her?

The thought of Robin sent a shudder down Marian's spine and she leaned on the stall to take a deep breath. She dreamt of him during the nights, woke up longing for his touch and bit down into the pillow in a silent cry; screamed and screamed until her face was red and she had to gasp for air. What if this impossible journey ended in nothing but loneliness? What if she struggled to get home only to find that nothing awaited her there?

Yet then again, she had listened to logic all her life but where had that brought her? It was time her heart did the talking for once; it may be a foolish heart but it was beating for Robin and Nottingham. The northern road was the only one that felt worth walking.

"I will not marry," she mumbled stubbornly as she fixed the last finishing touches to the stall. "I know it would be wise to stay—But a pretty dress that doesn't fit is still no use, is it? I do not belong here—"

"But no one takes you," Balthazar sighed. "No put the bracelets over there—"

"The bracelets are better over here with the cloth. If a woman comes for the cloth she might spot the bracelets—" Marian insisted. "I now that no one takes me. It is because I am English I am sure of it—"

"Maybe we tell them you French? Bracelets go with trinkets, look, this is how I always do, yes!"

"It is better this way," Marian tugged the silver bracelets from Balthazar's hand and stubbornly arranged them next to the cloth. He exclaimed something in Greek and gave in to her will, his arms flew out in a resigned gesture that reminded Marian of Allan. "No not French," she mumbled. "They might hear that my accent is northern, it will do me no good—I really wish I could speak German!" She bit her lip as she contemplated the situation. "Maybe we could say that I am mute?" she finally said. "A mute woman who was—washed ashore. You found me and I have not spoken a word since. Will that work?"

Balthazar shrugged. "Work—work not. How do I know? I'm just the merchant yes?"

"A mute woman is harmless," Marian continued. "And you can sell anything. Surely you can sell a dumb castaway?"

"Ah you flatter!" the merchant laughed. "Maybe I can try."

Marian smiled tenderly and bent down to give the fat little man a peck on his cheek. "Thank you--" she murmured, with hope fluttering like a trapped butterfly in her chest.

"Yes, yes. Still think it better you marry a nice Greek man. Stubborn woman—"

The marketplace filled with people and Marian scanned the crowd after crusaders or pilgrims. Finally her eye caught two men dressed in white cloaks with the cross like an open wound across the white cloth. She watched them cautiously. One of them was muscular with gray streaks in the dark hair and an old scar that cut like a gouge across his cheek; his features grim and bitter but neat in a way that made her think he was a vain man. His companion was younger; his hair sun bleached into a nuance several tones lighter than his skin, his body lanky and the back a bit hunched. He had nearly white eyebrows that gave the icy blue eyes a naked appearance and Marian felt a shudder run down her spine. There was something about him; his eyes stared rather than watched, just a little bit too wide and blue, and the mouth was pressed together to a tense line of discontent.

The two crusaders walked closer ad she could hear the dark man talk in German. She noticed that the blonde man spoke very rarely, only shot in a word here and there and kept moving his left hand to the rosary that hung around his neck. Horrible hands, she thought. Long, spiderlike fingers that was impossible to look away from. They were at the stall beside Balthazar's now and shifted through the items. The dark man treated them roughly, picked them up and tossed them down again almost savagely and every now and then picking one up to spit some scornful comments at it. The light man was different; touched the things with his long fingers—

Marian stared.

No! It could not be?! She swallowed and turned away, drawing a sharp breath before she moved her eyes to his right hand again. That ring! Her heart bounced against her chest as she studied the only piece of adornment, save the rosary, that the blonde man carried. Even on this distance she recognised Vaysey's seal.

"Oh good lord!" she breathed and grabbed on to Balthazar's arm.

"What!?" the merchant exclaimed and met her wildly staring eyes. "You problem?"

"No," she drew a trembling breath and lowered her voice to a whisper. "The crusaders in the next stall—I need to leave with them! It is important—do you understand? We do the mute story now- they have not heard me speak. Please!"

"Now? Those men?" Balthazar gave the two men a sceptical look. "I do not like, we do better than them!"

"No, I—I need them—hush they are coming!"

Marian drew another shivering breath and lowered her eyes to the wares. The dark man started to shift through them and she noticed that he wore Vaysey's seal as well. Oh good God! It could not be good that Vaysey had recruited German crusaders! Why would he need them?! Balthazar was talking German now, first generally about the wares and then the attention was shifted to her. She felt the eyes of the blonde man fall on her, unyielding and staring with pupils that were tiny spots surrounded by a watery blue colour. The dark man's eyes were different. He looked her up and down as if he was merely studying a pound of meat or a few feet of silken cloth. Suddenly he reached out a hand to grip around her chin, tilting her head so that she faced him. His fingers were coarse against cheek, his touch rough, and she got a feeling that he might have been 'buying' people before. Finally he grunted and banged his palm against the stall as if closing a deal; gesturing for her to come forward. She lowered her head again and let the dark man study her, tugging and squeezing her limbs until the blonde man said a few snappy words in German. The dark man grunted and moved away from her.

"Fräulein, mein Name ist Bruder Lukas," the blonde man presented himself, saying the name twice to get the point across. Bruder, Marian repeated to herself. That meant that he had taken the cloth and belonged to some order, by the look of it most likely the Knights Templar. Then he nodded at his friend and added: "Dies ist Ritter Johann. Du arbeitest ab jetzt für uns. Hast du verstanden? Hm?" Marian frowned slightly. There were too many words in this strange hard tongue! What was he saying? Bruder Lukas studied her for any sign of understanding, and then repeated the last line in a number of languages. She could make out Latin, French and Greek, and finally he spat the words out a bit mockingly in English. Marian's native tongue was not one that people used on the continent, and it surprised her that he could speak it at all. She chewed on her lip and gave him half a nod, vague enough not to give away which of the languages she understood. You work for us now. Do you understand? Yes, that much she understood. But why or where they would take her, or even what kind of work they expected her to do for them, was still in a blur. The blonde man seemed like a pious soul, so they probably took her with them as a servant and nothing that would jeopardise her honour. The thought made her feel sick, as if she only now realised that she had been half a step from falling down a ravine. She had not even considered that option before, but it was a fact that they might just as well have taken her for a prostitute.

Marian gave the dark man a glance that she hoped looked coy even though she was tense with anxious curiosity. He had been presented as Ritter Johann. A 'Ritter' was a knight if she remembered correctly. But why were these people wearing Vaysey's seal?! She bit down the fear that seemed to clog her throat and focused on her role. She was a castaway; a mute and probably slightly backward girl of unknown origin, meek and bashful. As she moved away with the two German men she allowed herself a final glance at Balthazar the Merchant and formed a silent 'thank you' with her lips. He seemed sad to let her go, his eyes worried and the usually so jolly features distressed. Marian felt her lip tremble as she turned her face forward again, sensing the cold loneliness of isolation close around her. It might be a long, long time until she saw a friendly face again.

NEXT: Things happen in some sort of sequential order, after which other things occur, some of which may be of some importance.