Disclaimer: I do not own Robin Hood. I do not own Inuyasha. End of story. Or, actually, beginning...anyways, enjoy.

This story is not about Robin Hood. We all know who he is, what he did. No, this story is not so much about him as it is about his companions. Two, in particular – The Friar Tuck and Little John (or Jenn, as she was christened).

Now let us give our outlaws new birth. New names, new lives, in a new reality not so different from the one before…where the hanyou Inuyasha is being pursued as a suspect in the death of the human Izayoi. Where the monk Miroku gives sanctuary to this suspect, and the huntswoman Sango finds an odd creature in her forest…the Tatterdemalion.

---

Blood.

It was everywhere. Hers, mostly, but his was also present. The floor was slick with it, his hands were stained with it, and cuts bled it sluggishly down his arm. She lay on the floor, chest having ceased to rise long ago. The greatest contrast in the two – aside from the obvious – was the lack of injury on her body. A single cut marred her skin, though that one cut had been enough to drain her lifeblood. Her stomach was the source of the injury, a long cut, dragging from left to right and nearly slicing her in half.

He, however, was injured in a far more…erratic manner. The worst of the cuts had begun to heal, the wound on his arm already beginning to close. A fresh line of pink skin was visible across his own stomach, and a gash on his leg was clotting fast. A multitude of bruises flickered over his skin in various stages of healing, and he winced as he felt a broken nose shift itself into place.

What had happened? He couldn't remember. A face…black in shadow. Breath smelling of ale and moldy bread. Long hair, dark as well, greasy, stringy, falling all around his face. It choked him. Metal glimmering, a sword, a knife in the cloud of his mind.

Haze permeated most of his memory. Where was his mother? His mind flickered to this, a more important question. He didn't care for faces he didn't remember and couldn't see. Sharp gold eyes surveyed the room, and for the first time, he became aware of his surroundings.

"Mother."

Her face was pale, tending toward a bluish hue. Her spark was gone and a bruise darkened her left eye, but her beauty was palpable despite her death. The darkened blood around her served only to magnify the paleness of her face, of the bathing robe she had worn when she stepped into her home not long before her death. Looking longer than a moment, one could see dark strands tangled into the blood. Black tresses, stained dull with blood, had been cropped harshly and close to her head. The rest was everywhere. Tangled on the ground, twisted underneath her where it had been caught when she struggled, in his hands as he fell to his knees and balled those hands into fists.

Tears he could not shed, and would have been hidden by long hair. Silver was not the dominant color now, the mass being darkened by blood, dirt, and oil. Tears were weakness. His father had been strong. His mother had said he was like his father. He had to be strong. His mother wanted him to be strong. She wouldn't want him to cry. He wanted to, though, so badly. Something was terribly wrong here, that his mother should be so…

"Miss Izayoi!" a cheerful voice interrupted his reverie. "Miss Izayoi!"

A new scent curled under his nose, cutting through blood, salt water, and a male scent he didn't recognize. The scent of a young woman. Hana. Pale haired, blue eyed, cheerful and youthful Hana, the young woman two huts from theirs. The scent brought to mind fresh water, a calm day, but the feeling the scent created were anything but peaceful. His mother was dead, and he didn't know why, or how, or who. And this woman was so alive, so cheerful…she expected his mother to be alive and happy. Well, she was in for a shock.

"Miss Izayoi," Hana said cheerfully as she poked her head in the door, "The men are finished at the bath house now – did you want to…"

The reason for her sudden silence was obvious. As was the reason for the scream that rose from the home that Izayoi and her son Inuyasha had once shared.

---

"Be good now, son," he tells me. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Be a good boy for Father Mushin."

I don't remember what his face looks like.

I remember that he wore nice clothes. They smelt like the spicy things he sold. I remember he wouldn't wear shoes because they didn't feel as nice as dirt under his feet. I remember he had big hands. His hands like to carry me on his shoulders when I was tired, and they liked to ruffle my hair. They liked wrapping around Akane's waist, and Suzumi's, and Etsu's. I don't know the rest of their names. They liked dropping two farthings every fortnight into my hand so I could buy sweetmeats from the markets. There were lots of markets, and once I even saved twelve farthings – a whole shilling! – and got a little twirl-top. We lost it when we left again. I remember he never yelled, never got cross. I remember he smiled when he left.

"I'll be good," I promise seriously. He always said you could tell what sort of bloke someone was by whether or not they kept their promises. I used to be a good man. Father Mushin stands right behind me, watching us. He's fat 'round the middle, and likes his ale more than a priest probably should. I don't suppose I can say much about it no more.

I watch as my father turns around from the abbey, and goes off towards the road. I watch as something long sprouts out of his neck. I watch as he falls down but doesn't get back up. I'm trying to run now, trying to get to him before the bandit does. I don't, because Father Mushin grabs me and keeps ahold of me real good. He tells me we can't go, since the bandit would get us too.

I watch as the bandit grabs the bag of money where my two farthing every fortnight came from, and a couple of other things. I watch as he runs laughing away from us, until he's just a little speck in the distance. I can't squish him, he's not close enough – I wish he was that small and that close.

I watch as Father Mushin gets my father behind the abbey. I watch as he puts my father on a funeral pile. I don't understand, but I will soon. I remember when I understood.

I watch as the last traces of Miroku Takeshi, the son of the 'barefoot merchant', burn with my father on the pile.

Dark hair tumbled into his face as he sat up on his cot. A pair of gold rings in one of his ears clinked together at the sharp movement, the lone earring on the opposite ear swinging but silent. They weren't big earrings, only tiny hoops no more than the width of your tiniest finger.

He rubbed eyes so dark a blue as to be mistaken for violet. Dreams again. Dreaming as an adult in a child's body, with a child's mind and his memories. It was always confusing. Not only that, but the nightmare, the memory of his father's death, disconcerted him.

His hut was deep in the forest, far away from prying eyes and curious animals. A cliff with a rough, jutting shelf served as the plot of land for the hovel that Miroku lived in. He hadn't been there long, maybe a month or so. Long enough to know that while the odd beetle may crawl over his head in search of a burrow it misplaced, it was a place he liked. A lake not far from where he now lived served as his bath, keeping him free of bugs that would choose him as a burrow.

His cot was at the back of the modest home, pressed against the rock. A loose root lay in front of the 'door', and Miroku had tripped over it more than once. A rickety table and three chairs – the other two for no particular reason except the homey feeling – was set closer to the door. A dirt pit lay to the left of the table, currently used as a firepit. Set into the spare wood that formed his left wall was also a larder of sorts. Dried meats, what little bread kept well, and some cheese wrapped in leaves and cloth filled the space.

Now he got up, slipping on a pair of sandals a little worse for the wear and picking up his staff. He picked up the twine that lay on the table and tied his messy hair in a tiny ponytail at the base of his neck. An armful of fruit lay on the table – Father Mushin had been here while he slept. He picked up a piece, biting into it. A jug of ale also sat on the table – only three quarters full upon inspection, but a nice thought.

Aside from his awakening, Miroku had an average day. He begged the tiny garden in front of his home to grow, so that he might have fresh vegetables and herbs. He destroyed the scraggly weeds that tried to steal light and life from his own precious plants. He traveled into the village, visiting the market. Miroku had only a few precious pounds saved up, but he often made a few shillings on exorcisms (some of which were real). Today, he had two houses to visit, and made close to five shillings.

However, his day was not to keep to the tradition. For when the monk Miroku returned home, he was to discover that someone got there before him.

---

He wasn't stupid – just one of the arrows they were firing at him could kill him. His healing only did so much, and a shaft of wood through one's heart was a little hard to fix. They were far behind, being human and slow, but the longbows they used made up for it. If he could make it to the deeper woods…

It had happened fairly quickly once Hana found them. Several men, including the hunter's son Raidon, had been quick to follow her screams and the scene they found spoke volumes. A hanyou covered in blood, a woman lying dead on the floor.

The pandemonium started when Hana hit the floor in a dead faint. For once, it had not been his fault. Raidon had been the first to speak.

"Look at that…" he said, with a shake of his head. "Didn't I tell you? Blood means little to a hanyou if it's not spilled. Comes from the demon in him."

His words shook her badly, and she had fallen to the floor. The wooden basin she held made a clattering noise in the silence that held only a moment under the tension. Only a moment, and then it broke, letting the wild cries of the villagers begin.

There was a hole in the roof of the hut where he had jumped through, over the village. He knew what would come now. An unfair trial, a fast, dishonorable death. Neither of these things appealed to him. To the villagers, the fact that he ran only served to prove their point. Only the guilty ran. They had rushed to their homes, grabbed the longbows normally used for hunting, and given chase.

It wasn't much farther to the deepest part of the woods, where trees were hit more often than prey. When an arrow came too close to his head for comfort, he took to the branches, the fabric of his breeches snagging and tearing as he went. He hadn't noticed that his shirt was gone, but what was left of his breeches would serve well enough for the moment. After all, he couldn't hop down and say:

'I'm sorry, but I've just noticed that I've left my shirt at home. Can I have a moment to get it before you resume trying to kill me?'

Though maybe they'd be laughing so hard that they'd forget about killing him. If they didn't shoot him before he spoke, that was.

Not entirely certain why he was even considering this a choice, he pushed himself harder. Inuyasha's breath came heavily, and he felt his muscles scream for him to stop. Just a little farther…

He ran until the sun set, not noticing when the arrows ceased to fly. It was at sunset that he missed his jump and fell heavily. It was at sunset that he tripped over a loose root, hit a table, and fell asleep in the hovel he had stumbled into.

It was not long after sunset that Miroku returned home to find someone passed out on his table.

---

When Inuyasha came to, he was warm. Funny – he remembered falling asleep outside. Or was it inside? His memory was still fuzzy. That seemed to be happening a lot.

"Oh, good. You are alive. I wasn't so certain when I came home and found you on my table. You bruised the fruit, you know," a voice said dryly. Inuyasha opened his eyes.

He was lying on a cot of some sort, a large woolen blanket tossed over him. His wounds were healed – as was to be expected. And yet…he still hurt everywhere. Especially his chest. Apparently the man sitting on a chair beside the cot was the owner of this place. The hanyou sat up. The blanket fell from him, and he realized part of his problem. A large, linear bruise stretched over his chest, and apparently he had broken a few ribs. They hadn't yet begun to set, but he was dreading when they did.

"I'm not so certain I'm alive myself. Where the hell am I?" he asked. The man grinned, gesturing with a staff.

"In my home," he said cheerfully. "Now if you don't mind I'd like your name."

"Name?" he said, as if it was a foreign word. The man nodded, and Inuyasha gave his name blankly, taking in the appearance of his companion. Black hair was tied in a small ponytail at the back of his head, two earrings in one ear, and on in the other. Tattered robes that had once been a sort of maroon tending to purple (he supposed) fit loosely. The staff cinched the idea that he was a monk – something that hadn't occurred easily for some reason.

"My name is Miroku," the monk said, breaking into Inuyasha's thoughts. "You're welcome as long as you're not a nuisance – or a bigger one than you already are. Considering that you're probably in trouble, I'd like to know just what you did. After all, I can't house a murderer, can I?"

It had been meant as a joke, but the barb had Inuyasha up in a flash. His hand closed around the man's throat and he shoved him against the wall.

"I killed no one!" he growled, before releasing him. Miroku put a hand to his throat, breathing hard. He looked a little shaken, but after a moment, he stood. Inuyasha sat down on the cot, glaring up at the man for a moment before he spoke.

"I did nothing."

Miroku nodded slowly, before sitting where he had been before.

"So I gathered," he replied. After a careful moment of word choice, he asked:

"What are you accused of?"

Inuyasha also thought before he spoke. Deciding that he was already hellbound, and that sparing the monk's life if he spoke to anyone of this wasn't going to change that, he sighed. He told the man of his awakening, of finding his mother's body, of Hana finding them and the chase that followed. Through this, Miroku listened carefully, weighing what he heard.

"It would seem," he said after Inuyasha finished. "That you are in need of sanctuary."

"Seems so," the hanyou snapped. His companion held up a hand.

"I am a monk. This is my abbey, my monastery, and my church. As such, it can be offered as sanctuary from the pursuit of the law, and it is that sanctuary I offer."

It took Inuyasha less than a minute to agree. He had his pride, but he wasn't stupid. It would be difficult to find his mother's killer from jail, and even more difficult to plot revenge on the man. He had the scent, and that scent he would never forget. It was everywhere, in every breath he had taken in that home.

Miroku tapped him on the head with his staff. The other man looked at him crossly.

"What?" he snapped.

"As part of that agreement, you have to help me keep this place together. This is a small space, so it's not hard. However," he paused and wrinkled his nose, "sounds and smells travel easily. You stink. The first thing you can do to help is take a bath."

The sound of displaced water was followed by a string of curses that sent the birds from their trees.