Marian kept up her little running steps, trying to keep pace with Little John's long lumbering strides, as he led her out of the forest.

"Thank you so much for guiding me, Little John," she said. "I can find my own way, once you lead me to something more familiar."

The giant only grunted in response.

The dancing slippers Marian had worn for the party were not the correct shoes to wear tramping through bracken and over fallen logs, trying to dodge massive unearthed tree roots. Their soles were vellum thin, and Marian could feel every rock and twig under her feet. Soon, she realized, her shoes wouldn't have any soles at all! Her stockings were sure to be ruined as well, silk stockings from the East that had cost more than she ought to have paid, just so she could have the pleasure of wearing them.

Robin! This was all his fault! If he hadn't carried her here, against her will...Why exactly had he done that, anyway?

She pictured again how he had looked when holding her by her wrists, backing her up against the treetrunk, and her heart pounded harder in her chest.

"You've changed, too," he had told her, sounding immensely hurt and frustrated.

Good! Let him hurt! He had no remorse at all for how he had hurt her when he had traipsed off to war, seeking Glory! Let him warm himself at night with his precious Glory then. Marian would not...she would not...

All of a sudden, she felt overwhelmingly sad again. Tears poured from her eyes, and she brushed them angrily away, praying Little John would not see them.

His broad back was to her, and the man barely spoke, let alone looked in her direction. She was thankful for those small mercies, anyway. Her tears stopped, as suddenly as they had begun.

"John!" Marian cried suddenly. "Stop!"

The giant wheeled around, a questioning look in his kindly brown eyes.

Kindly? Marian hadn't noticed before how gentle the big man's eyes could be. She always believed him naught but a grumbling, brutal beast of a man. Perhaps there was more to him than she realized.

Marian looked again at the sight that had literally stopped her in her tracks.

"John," she said, finding it difficult to speak, "look at that!"

Little John stared where the noblewoman was pointing, then looked at her as if she had gone daft.

"It's a tree," he bellowed.

"Yes, it's a tree. But look at its trunk!"

"Bark," he muttered impatiently. "Moss on the north side."

"No, no! Look on the south side!"

"Lover's nonsense," he complained, impatient to be on their way.

His leader shouldn't have worried that the noble lassie was in any bother about Gisbourne's fate. She seemed in no hurry to return to Nottingham, preferring to dawdle here and look at trees, with long forgotten nonsense carved into their trunks. From the look on her face as she stared at the treetrunk, you'd think she'd found the Holy Grail!

"We go, now," John urged.

"Not just let," Marian pleaded. "Just let me look, a moment longer, please."

John huffed, and planted his buttocks on a fallen log. A rest wouldn't hurt. He drew out his flask and drank a large swig of water, then thought to offer some to the lassie.

She refused, shaking her head briskly, transfixed on the nonsense on the bark of the tree.

Years and years ago, it would seem, someone had carved letters and enclosed them with a heart. The tree had grown and split the bark, but Marian could still make them out, even if Little John could not read and couldn't guess their significance.

"R F of L + M F of K." Marian's heart sang within her chest. "Robin Fitzooth of Locksley loves Marian Fitzwalter of Knighton." She sighed, and twirled once, as though she were back at the sheriff's party, still dancing.

When had he carved that? She'd never seen it before! By the look of it, certainly not recently! Perhaps Little John could hazard a guess. He seemed full to the brink with woodsman's knowledge.

"Little John," she asked, "can you tell when this might have been carved? Five years ago? Ten? More?"

She was sure it was more than five. She couldn't visualize Robin doing such a thing at age nineteen. Their relationship by that time had well passed the stage when he would need to carve their initials onto a treetrunk.

Little John heaved deeply, rose to his feet, and trod to view the tree upclose. He shoved a huge finger against the carving on the trunk, judging its depth, then tasted the tip of his finger.

"More," he answered at last.

Marian couldn't explain why her heart was skipping so, nor why knowing when was so important to her. And yet, she did know, she realized.

This was proof, a declaration of love. A declaration he had never made to her, at least not in words.

At one time in his young life, he had loved her, and admitted it to himself, and to the forest.

She gasped as she remembered. What birthday had it been, when he had wanted a hunting knife so desperately? He had ruined his old one. How, she had never known until today. She smiled slowly.

"Alright," she told John at last. "I'm ready now."

Little John continued to lead her toward Nottingham. And for the rest of the miles they covered, Marian didn't feel a single rock or twig poking through the tattered soles of her dancing slippers, for now, she was walking on air.