Marian: 12 years and three months old.

Marian sat at the base of a large oak tree, huddled underneath its protective branches, knees drawn up close and pressed to her chest, arms loosely wrapped around her knees, staring resolutely ahead at the item propped up against the tree opposite her, laying there innocently, innocuously, focused on the little carving of a robin on it's curving arm. She didn't know how long she had been there, sitting underneath the oak tree, as if its fallen foliage could somehow protect her, camouflage her from the outside world, somehow bring her the peace she so readily needed but could never find. The frigid frost dusting the forest floor had gotten thicker as night began to fall, but she doubted time mattered any more, not to her or her rambling mind.

Mayhaps, if she stayed as still as she could, the frost would eat away at her too, swallow her, make her a part of the forest she so dearly loved and away from the burdens of the real world. She often found herself spending days upon days in Loxley's forest, climbing tree's and sleeping in their rough but sweet embrace, high above the unmoving and unforgiving ground, scavenging, hunting, learning to fight under little John's tutelage, rather than actually in Loxley, where she was meant to be… Where Robin would want her to be.

Marian cringed, her freckled nose crinkling in distaste or pain, perhaps a dash of both, still feeling the stinging flare of the ache of the bruise blossoming on the bottom half of her jaw. This morning, she had not ducked in time and gotten clocked by little Johns thick fist for her mindlessness. Of course, that was the last thing she remembered of their spar that day, a worrying revelation that was as just as concerning to little John himself. Although he said nothing, she could still see the worry in his eyes that never really made contact with her own. Rage, when fighting, was meant to give you the drive to carry on, the determination, it wasn't meant to snatch your own mind away from you, leaving you nothing but a husk of fury that kept on swinging no matter how many blows you took. The only reason she had snapped out of it, coming back to herself like someone had drop-kicked her soul back into her body, she was sure, was little John's gasping shouting of Robin's name.

It had all been John's idea, funnily enough, to teach the little, wraith-like Marian to give, and subsequently, be able to take a punch. When he had first dragged her into the forest on the cusp of twilight, telling her to dodge as he swung, no other warning granted, she had questioned what he was doing as she jumped, ducked, rolled and tried to evade the lumbering, punching and kicking form of little John, as well as question his bloody sanity. All she got for her incessant questioning was a gruff 'it's for your own good' and her favourite 'I can't be around all day and every night, better you be able to protect yourself than lean on someone else to do it for her.' Fortunately for both, that last one she had agreed with and so, the sparring lessons had begun.

At first she had hated it, loathed it. Not the fighting, never the fighting, the fighting for those blissful moments they lasted helped ease her mind, drum her world down to the simplest of questions. Fight or get hit? No, she hated it because of the reasoning it came from. She knew the real reason little John had been teaching her to fight, even if he would not admit it, even on his death bed she feared. The reason was simple, her hatred for it was anything but. He had promised Robin to look after her.

Still, bitterness twisted and gnawed on her gut like a hundred angry little mice, even if it was nice to have someone out there looking out for you, wanting nothing in return for that favour. Little John wouldn't have to teach her, protect her, live with his promise if her brother had not gone and died on her. Little John was here because Robin wasn't, and as convoluted and silly as it sounded, she, a little, minuscule part of her hated little John for it. Some childish, daydreaming, illogical part of her whispered to her that if little John went away, Robin would come back. But that was an impossibility. Robin was dead and he would forever stay dead, no matter what she prayed, did or thought. Robin was dead. If she kept telling herself that, perhaps one day she would believe it.

She knew it was petty, her anger misplaced, to push the blame on a dead man and the only person looking out for her, but that didn't stop her from doing so, especially in the middle of the night, when the silence of the house, no snores from Robin or his pottering steps to keep the silence at bay, licked and sizzled at her blood. That was when she felt truly and wholly alone. King Aelle wasn't here. The man who had killed Robin wasn't here. Little John was here. However, Marian was haunted by Robin's ghost, his memory, the agonizing loss of him and so, it would have to bare her ill-placed anger, otherwise, she was terrified the emotion would eat her whole, chew and chew until she was nothing but a mush of jellied bone, torn muscle and weeping wounds. Maybe that was why she blacked out sometimes, when the rage took over her like she was nothing but a mere puppet, a conduit for it, because that was one of the only things Robin had left her, the absolute anger.

Robin had been gone for around four full moons now. The king and his men were growing anxious for answers and yet, she and little John remand adamant and steadfast in their bare-faced lies. Robin was alive, he just had not returned yet. It was easy to tell that lie, too easy, especially when, even after seeing Robin's lifeless corpse, she still felt that way. By god almighty did she feel that way. Each morning, she found herself looking towards his bedroom door, breakfast cooling at the table, waiting for him to come out with his hair a mess and sleep crusting on his eyelashes, only to come to and face the brutal reality in a slam of clarity that shook her being at their very foundation. He would never leave that bedroom again, never greet her with a snarky comment or a hair ruffle, never to sit with her and eat breakfast.

Nevertheless, with each passing week, trying to gain the money rightly owed to her from the king, for Robin's unwavering servitude under him, was getting harder and harder and all too soon she was afraid it would stop altogether. It was not only her that relied on this money, as measly of a sum as it was, but so did the inhabitants of Loxley. Just last week, with the winter being as harsh and its complete lack of all mercy, as it was, they had run out of grain just one month into winter and she had to spend the last of her money to ride to the next village, a grueling three-day hike on horseback one way, to buy said grain to get them through this hellish season intact and whole.

The elders of Loxley were frail and weak, the young too small and thin, the men narrow, bony towers that a good wind could knock over and the women gaunt and sallow, wrinkles and grey hair decorating people too young to be painted in such grim colours. It didn't sit right with Marian, it hurt to see her people so downtrodden, so hungry, so beaten down by the world that a supposed god had gifted them. Well, fuck the world, fuck starvation and fuck god too while she was at it. If they would do nothing, she would. So she did what she had to. She lied to the king's men, she spent her money on things Loxley needed and she hunted and scavenged for herself and each day, that rage grew, fed by the circumstances she had no control over.

After being awarded ward-ship over her, little John had stayed with her in Robin's… No, she supposed it was hers now, her house to look after her. However, after the first month he had been called back to duty on the words of a scruffy messenger boy bearing the king's seal who came knocking in the middle of the night, like some demon come to steal another loved one from her. That was how she felt, demons were everywhere, only they weren't inhumane, animistic devils the churchmen spoke of, but people, real with flesh and blood and thoughts and even more dangerous than what the bible spoke of.

Little John had left that following day, leaving her alone in a shell of a happy home, now nothing more than a house made of cold, taunting brick and thatch, no longer a home. Robin's death had taught her that life lesson at least, the difference between a house and home. Little John visited as often as he could, and when he did, Marian tried to ease all his worries with pleasant smiles and rebuffs, but both knew they were as empty as could be. Marian was not alright, she was not okay, she was alone and as grievous as she was to admit it, she was scared, terrified of what was to come once the money stopped, for herself and for the people of Loxley. She couldn't and wouldn't sit by and watch them die and starve. She couldn't. She wouldn't.

Mayhaps that is why he took her to the woods to fight in the first place, something to ease her anger and emptiness, something other than Robin's bereavement to focus on. It had worked, partially, it took away time to think and stew over Robin's death, but it also gave little crumbs and titbit's to that anger little John had wanted squished out of her. In short, Marian felt like little John was feeding the caged wolf, helping it to grow stronger each lesson. She only prayed he, or maybe more importantly, she was dead before it could break its cage.

Little John had only been back a week before another messenger boy came, this time, however, he had taken her to the woods for one last lesson, the lesson that had left her reeling and hiding under the oak tree. This one had been different somehow, some unnameable look and feel to little John and his actions that pulled on Marian's heart. Most surprisingly, Marian had actually been able to land a hit, a solid one unlike her other skimming of knuckles and near misses, clocking little John in his broad nose. Marian had apologized profusely, especially when the blood began to trickle down his beard, but he had brushed it all off with a hearty laugh and carried on. That was when he had hit her jaw and she had blacked out, only to come to with her hands around his neck, both tangled up on the forest floor, squeezing with all her might, snarling like some wild beast as little John batted at her hands, rasping something about Robin.

Marian had let go, of course, and with disjointed breath and shaking limbs, stood and staggered away, shocked and stunned by what had happened… What she had done. Little John wouldn't meet her eyes, wouldn't really look at her, but he glazed over what had happened, pretending it hadn't, the same course of action she had been doing with Robin's death, clambered up, dusted himself off and clapped her on the back with a boisterous 'well done Marley!". Finally, he had to leave but before he did, out of his pack, he pulled out the item she was currently staring at and placed it against the tree next to him, one last parting shot thrown over his shoulder as he bumbled back to Loxley and then back off to the king's army to fight another war that was not his own.

"Perhaps it's time for you to pick your bow back up. He didn't mean to leave you behind Marian, he really didn't. Robin may be gone but Loxley is still here and they need you… They need you badly."

And so, once little John had disappeared from view, Marian had broken down, crying and shouting, kicking and punching the trees in her little sanctuary of Loxley forest, lashing out in anger at anything that stood in her path. It was the first time someone had brought Robin up to her. She couldn't stay angry, not at Robin, he had not planned on dying and even in life, she could never stay angry at him. Little John was the least person to deserve her anger too. It was time she let that rage go, or at least, aim it at something deserving of that bottomless fury… Like the king's men and King Aelle himself. Tear tracks long dry and sticky on her face, eyes no longer puffy and red, Marian scowled as she stood, strolled over to Robin's Bow, plucked it up with sure hands and marched back to Loxley. Robin's ghost did not need her, he was at peace. However, the people of Loxley did and she would not fail them like she had Robin.

Marian: Thirteen years and two months old.

Crackle, crunch, snap. Marian stilled all movement, freezing in place, muscles locked and tense, breathe even but muted through the long wrap of green fabric she had enclosed around her neck and bottom half of her face, keeping the chill at bay, wild abundance of vivid red curls kept out of the way by a string of cotton. Her thumb curled around the string of her bow, the arrow knocked and ready for the final pull and whistling journey through the foggy air. Marian's target, a healthy, meaty stag feet in front of her, grazing, unaware of her crouched figure in the bush by an evergreen, the noise of her stepping on a twig and some leaves completely overlooked, stayed exactly where she wanted it to.

Winter had hit once again, seemingly more brutal each passing year and Marian had been left to go hunting for the last animals that travelled through Loxley's barren forest. Being in the thick of winter, the precipice, it was tremendously difficult to even pass by a squirrel, let alone a grazing stag. However, given the dire circumstances, Marian was not one to look at her surprise fortune and scoff in its face.

If the savage and cruel winters that kept battering Loxley full force did not send the villagers, herself included, to an early grave, the great fat king would. Loxley was starving once more, they had just enough food and supplies stored from summer to get them through to spring when the kings men had arrived in full force, dishing out shoves, punches and slashing swords to any who stood in their way, barging into their barns, houses and farms and took nearly everything but the cows and a few old goats. Even the sheep had been taken.

Normally, this would be worrying but not completely life threatening. Surrounding villages would normally pull together and trade or share together to pull through. However, King Aelle had cut those trades off completely too, snatching all rations and resources for his bloody army that never stopped battling. The Northumbrian army was like a great, albino leach, a ghostly phantom with rows of sharp teeth, sucking Northumbria and it's country folk dry of everything that would give them life.

Marian had tried to do the best she could, Little John too with the small amount of money he had left over from the last battle he had fought in, but she was one person, a youngling at that who may have been a good hunter, but one could not hunt when the forests were stripped bare and naked by mother nature herself. Waking up in the morning, now completely bypassing Robin's door, no longer expecting him to appear, Marian saw the faces of the villagers, thinner and thinner each sunrise, dark bags hanging from sore and drooping eyes, bones becoming prominent and so she would travel into the woods, hunt and scavenge what she could, mostly squirrels, mayhaps a slumbering badger if she was lucky, scavenged some mushrooms or edible moss and came back to Loxley, cooking a watery, thin broth she would hand out to as many people as she could once finished. It wasn't much, it was no stew or nice, filling root vegetables, but it was something to fill the stomachs of her people.

Marian breathed in deeply through her nose, her bow raised inch by inch, slowly, cautiously, praying not to alert the stag to her presence. If she killed the stag and dragged it home, it could fill the villagers and herself fully. Real meat, not the stringy slithers of squirrel meat, to give them energy, to give fat to their faces and just maybe they would be able to sleep peacefully tonight. Her fingers slipped into the right position on instinct, her breath puffing out her chest, creating a small cloud of smoke that danced upwards in curls and spirals, as the draw string of her bow began to pull back, and just as she was about to send her arrow flying into the wide eye of the stag, a noise thundered out from behind her. The stag jerked up, looking in her direction for a split second before it took off in bounds and leaps she had no hope of keeping up with.

Grrrrrrrrrrr.

Marian went rigid, her heart frantically beating in her ribcage, her arrow still knocked on her bow, her breath stalling as the sound rang out behind her, too close for any comfort, a sound she knew, had heard before but had never come face to face with the animal. She heard it's thudding steps, each one louder than the previous and the huffing noise of its sniffing before the trembling growl split the air in two again. Shit. What the hell was a bear doing awake and out during the stranglehold of winter? Marian didn't know, but she did know if she didn't do something soon, no matter what that something was, she would be dead very, very quickly and it would not be a pleasant death.

On the mental count of three, Marian swerved around and shot her arrow, not looking at the great, brown bear, missing how her arrow lodge itself home in its shoulder, before she took off running to a near by tree, scrambling up its knots and little branches, a few breaking underfoot, leaving her clawing and clinging to the tree, trying to get off the ground and away from the bear currently blundering and tearing after her in slobbery mess and terrifying growls. It looked like she wasn't the only hunter in the forest that had been tracking the stag, and unfortunately for her, the other hunter was bigger, stronger and more vicious than she could ever hope to be. She managed to get halfway up the tree before a paw the size of her chest swooped at her, shiny, onyx claws embedding into the soft flesh of her calf, tearing and ripping her flesh and muscle, flinging her off the tree and to the ground in one fell swoop.

Pain seized her being, over-riding the torrential fear that had previously taken root deep within her and worst of all, on her harsh fall, she had landed on her bow, the distinct sound of the polished and well loved wood snapping breaking something inside of her, something deep, profound, a barrier that held back all the pent up rage she had buried within herself since Robin's death. The rage that only came out when sparring with little John. Her bow, the one Robin had made for her, the last thing she had left from her brother, apart from the fury, lay broken and splintered underneath her. The bear reared up, paw arching wide, going in for the killing blow and she got angry.

She became incensed.

Marian had always been known for her temper, but this, this was something different, something deeper… Something worse and under the tidal wave of anger that crashed through her entire being, Marian blacked out once more. Once she came too, she was crouched over the prone form of the bear, the spare dagger she kept in her boot clasped tightly in her hand, her arm raising and stabbing repeatedly into the bears already mangled neck, one of its eyes already a mess of ribboned fur and muscle, even as she came back to herself. Her skin felt tight, sticky, the taste of poignant copper and dirt crusting on her tongue. Her clothes were smothered in blood and smears of dirt, her shirt and breeches in tatters, her wild hair undone, but the bear was dead and she was alive.

It had taken Marian a long while to calm down, having collapsed near the bears carcass, staring, blinking rapidly at her blood coated hands, tufts of bear fur glued to her skin from the blood. If… If little John had not snapped her out of it with Robin's name, could she have done the same to him? She felt sick, violently sick at the unwanted thought. No. No, she couldn't possibly of done that to little John. She would never. She wasn't a monster! It was the rage that made her do these things, not her. The bear was an animal, little John was her closest friend, she wouldn't have… Then why did she feel like she was lying to herself once more? Marian curled up and wrenched, vomited beside herself and the bear. Still, the sick feeling never left.

It took even longer to quell the panic that jarred through her when she had realized she had blacked out in unadulterated rage again, but when she had, she got to work. There was no point in hovering over what ifs. She had not done that to little John, she had snapped out of it in time, but she had to the bear and If that stag could have fed her village for a day, this bear could feed it for a week. Positives. If she focused on the positives, the negatives didn't seem so ominous or dark. Night had fallen briskly by the time Marian had dragged the bear far enough to Loxley to get help in bringing it into the village, her leg slowing her journey, bleeding and beyond sore, limping, the sheer size of the bear just too much to move by herself, having spent most of the time simply rolling the furry mass down the rocky hill of the forest she had climbed to get to the stag.

But as the bear was carried back through the village by the men who had come to help her when she had asked, as the people saw the promise of food and cheered, as Marian lumbered, injured and sore to a worried little John with Robin's broken bow strapped to her back, him promising to fix it for her, Marian, despite her own anger that had scared her so, smiled and felt joyful. They had food now... At least for the next few days. That was what mattered, wasn't it? It was why she had set out into the forest in the first place. She was alive and they had food. That was what she would focus on, all she would focus on, she didn't want to think of the anger that kept washing over her, taking over.

The next full moon, as a gift and a get well soon offer due to her injured leg, for all she had done and kept on doing for the people of Loxley without so much as asking anything in return, one family used the hide of the bear she had valiantly slayed, well, that was what the towns people told her she had done, to make a hooded cloak for Marian, a thick cloak of decadent fur that promised to banish all cold for the one to wear it. A reminder for her that she had fought and survived. That she had fed Loxley when no one else had. A reminder that even though there was very little to go around, the villagers of Loxley pulled together when it mattered. A treasure she had greatly appreciated, not just for the fur but for what it meant.

A thank you.

If only Marian could, at that point in time, at that cross-road in her life, understand the consequences of her adorning that hood… Nevertheless she did not, and adorn it she did and the consequences of such a small action would come. Oh, it would come indeed.

Marian: Fourteen years and six months old.

Marian strolled down the well warn path towards Brambly's farm, an empty bucket idly swinging at her side at the bounce of her steps, nodding and smiling to those who crossed her path friendly, an action they returned without hesitation. For once, instead of a haggard shirt and dirt and grass stained breeches she normally wore, despite all the odd glances she got from outsiders of Loxley who had come to trade, summer being the season of the merchants after all, the locals now long since used to Marian's lack of propriety and sense of appropriateness, Marian was dressed in one of the few gowns she had, a dress from her mother she was finally able to fit into. It was nothing special, Cotton, emerald green that clashed with the fire of her hair.

The year had been a good one indeed. Little John had not been called to war for six moon cycles now, there were no more bears or black-outs and Marian herself had gone through a growth spurt seemingly over night, a fact that little John had grumbled about and swore quietly as he shook his head and growled at boys who wandered too close to her as they made their way through the village doing odd tasks here and there. Why he did so, Marian had no idea. Boys weren't interested in her, they never had been. She was always too tall, too rough around the edges, too boisterous, more likely to hit someone than to kiss them. Boys, well, the ones she had encountered, didn't want that. They wanted delicate, bird-boned women, quiet and soft, ones that touched them gently and spoke nice words, not ones that put you into a headlock and swore at you for throwing mud at them.

It was summer, the sky was blue and there had been no trouble for over a year now. Marian should have known it wouldn't last long. Nevertheless, as she made her way to old man Brambly's farm to ask for some milk for this morns supper, her world was once again a bright place, tranquil, not a single cloud in the periwinkle sky. However, like all good things, all things it general actually, that little shining slice of peace Marian had found had an end and that end was that very day. It was when she rounded the last curving corner, just a few feet from the farm, that she heard the cry of pain and the obnoxious laughter.

From her view point, just on the other side of the wooden fence that kept Brambly's cows and goats inside, she could see Brambly cowering on the floor, a thin, wiry man whose beard was as long and thick as he. Another man stood towering over him, leg swung back in the act of kicking, vicious smile on his face, the boiled leathers and chain-mailed armour told her all she needed to know. He was one of the king's men. Just as he kicked, eliciting an humph and broken cry from Brambly, Marian dropped her bucket, the bucket rolling down and away from her feet, stopping when it bumped into a protruding rock, morning milk long forgotten as she rushed over, hopping over the fence in a leaping jump, shouting as she dashed over to the two men.

"Get away from him!"

The king's man had barley enough time to look in her direction before she barrelled into him, knocking the man over, just managing to keep her own balance and dignity in tact with a few stumbled steps. The kings man crashed to the floor in a flurry of tangled limbs, spittle flying from his mouth as he struggled to get back up. Marian skidded to a stop in front of Brambly's huddled form, joints locking, placing herself between him and the threat. When the king's man did eventually come to a stand, heavy scowl puckering at his equally heavy brows, blackened teeth on show from his snarled words, Marian braced for the worse.

"Do you know who I am?!"

Marian rose her nose up slightly, her eyes locked onto the murky depths of the man in front of her pointedly. He did and would not intimidate her.

"I don't care who you are, you're hurting him!"

And the king's man really had. Shooting a glance at old man Brambly before securing it back on the rat-faced man in front of her, Marian had seen the blood and bruises marring Brambly's form. God knows how long Brambly had been taken a beating for, but now she was here it would stop. She had seen the product of the beatings before, just a few bruises here and there, nothing ever more to boil her blood or get her questioning, bruises and marks the villagers would explain away from accidents to drunken brawls, but she had never played witness before either. Now she had played witness, seen with her own eyes the injustice and brutality of it all, the truth of what was taking place in her own village, Brambly, a man who would not hurt a spider, being beaten and kicked like some rabid dog, she wasn't willing to stand by and watch it happen, no matter what they might do to her.

"King's orders girl. You can't meet the quota, you pay either way."

Marian scoffed at the man, distracting him from the hand that slithered to her back, digging into her belt, having left her bow back home naively thinking she would not need it that day, fingers wrapping around the small dagger she kept there. One wrong move, she swore it, this man made one more wrong choice and it would be his last choice all together.

"With blood? Who will farm the bloody king's lands then, huh?"

Marian felt a tugging on her skirt, momentarily garnering her gaze from the king's man. Brambly was huddled at her feet, hand wrapped in the hem of her long skirt, one eye wide and pleading, the other swollen shut, his nose grotesquely skewed on his wrinkled face. Marian choked back a sob at the sight, it broke her heart. Robin, if he was here would protect Brambly, he would protect them all, the king's men wouldn't be doing this at all if Robin had been here… But he wasn't. And even if Marian was late in acting, she was acting now. That had to count for something, surely? She would protect Brambly, she would protect them all. It's what Robin would do, what he would want her to do.

"Lass, it's okay-"

"No! It's not! If he has nothing to give you it's because we have nothing! Have a look around you, do you see us hiding anything? There is nothing more here to take! Get away from him and leave."

The kings man had evidently had enough as he stalked forward, hands held out as if to push her over and get to Brambly. Over her dead body would he lay another hand on this man. She swore it!

"Get out of my way you simple girl."

The fool of a man took one more step forward and Marian reacted, pulling her dagger free at the same time as snatching up the front of the kings man shirt. She yanked him forward, his face close to hers as she pressed the sharp edge of the blade deep into his neck, right over his jugular.

"I told you to leave. Leave now and keep your throat in one piece or take one more step forward and you shall see what a simple girl can do when pushed."

The kings man swallowed, looked deep into her eyes, clearly seeing the truth behind her threat and nodded. Marian pushed him away and with more satisfaction than she should have, watched as he practically ran away with his tail between his legs. Only once he was gone, out of sight and sound, did Marian dare move, crumbling to her knees beside Brambly, her skirts getting covered in muck and dirt, not that she cared at that moment. She tried to hoist him up as gently as she could, but even as she did so, one arm wrapped around bony shoulder, the other holding wrinkled but warm, mole-marked hand, he groaned deeply.

"Is there really no milk Brambly?"

Brambly looked at her with his one good eye before looking back at the ground, now sitting, his face screaming of shame, refusing to meet her eye. Shame. Brambly felt shame for something he could not control… Marian's heart gave another aching lurch in her chest, the sick feeling in her gut bubbling up her throat. Brambly had nothing to be ashamed of, the king and the king's men did, not Brambly.

"No, the cows and goats really have gone dry."

Marian bit her lip and looked skyward, wandering if Robin was up there and if he had any advice… If he was proud of what she had done today. She hoped so, because right now, she felt anything but proud. She was angry, livid. She was scared of the future. She felt the hurt for Brambly and all the others that had faced this. But most of all, she wanted to get even. Marian mumbled calmly, despite the whirlwind she felt raging inside her, to Brambly, rubbing smooth circles on his back.

"Don't worry, I'll… I'll go to the other village and buy some. Everything will be fine."

But it wasn't and it wouldn't be, not as long as the king and the king's men thought they could do as they wished.

Marian:Fifteen years and ten months old.

Marian wrung the clothe out and dipped it back into the bowl, soaking up the mixture of water, garlic, white willow, yarrow and peppermint before gently wiping the child's sweaty and flustered forehead, the mixture she had been studiously giving the sick men, woman and children she currently had fitfully sleeping on the floor of her house. First King Aelle and his endless demands for food and supplies the people of Loxley could not hope to meet, the troops having taken the last of their food and were, no doubt, on Widow's road right then, about to set off. Now the villagers were too malnourished and tired from the constant work to fight off a sickness that was sweeping through Loxley unlike anything she, or the elders, had ever seen before. They were all dying around her and there was nothing she could do but play nurse maid.

Marian was good at fighting, little John could attest to that fact after she had nearly broken his arm in their last spar in a fit of blind rage, their lessons now taking a turn for trying to teach Marian how to control her seemingly uncontrollable anger when fighting, something that even scared little John when it came about. Marian was brilliant at hunting, her countless kills and stews she cooked for everyone shouted of that fact. Marian was excellent at arguing until she was blue in the face, ask the merchants down in the village just passed the river if they ever won an argument or bargaining with her, they would tell you the same, no. However, with illness, you couldn't physically fight it off the poor sufferers, you couldn't hunt and kill it, you couldn't argue or bargain with it and that left Marian with the foul taste of failure clogging her throat when faced with what she was faced with, the growing number of very sick, ashen faced friends and villagers piling into her house, or other houses that had begun offering a warm hearth and a place to rest. She felt useless… There was nothing she could do.

The child she was at present attending to fell to a racking fit of coughing, the sound moist, chunky and painful and Marian was hit with that putrid taste of incompetence again. Once the coughing finished, Marian did the only thing she could, bend down, place a soft, nimble kiss to the child's glistening forehead and tuck her into the make-shift bed-roll the four-year-old slumbered on. Marian stood up and began to pace in the dim light of twilight. They needed meadowsweet to break the fever… Only the kings men had taken their store of dried meadowsweet along with the food they had taken. Marian couldn't go out and gather more as the plant only bloomed in late summer and it was the end of autumn now, nearly winter, she wouldn't find any in the meadow even if she tried her hardest.

Marian began to pace back and forth, quiet and cautious of waking the people sleeping on her floor and her own bed, trying her best to think of a solution, but nothing came. That was when a glimmer of wood by her front door, reflecting in the candlelight caught her gaze. Robin's bow… No. Her bow. It had taken her months to fix it after it broke during her fall in the fight with the bear, yet, with splinters and cuts on her fingers, finish it she did. If Robin was here, she knew what he would do, and just how Robin's bow was no longer his bow any more but hers, she knew what she would do.

Robin would fight and so would she. Dashing over to her chest, pausing at the entry way to shuffle her boots on, Marian ruffled around in its depths before pulling out her bear fur cloak, swooping the cloak on with a swing of her arms, the green scarf she promptly wrapped around her neck and bottom half of her face and finally, she flicked her hood up and over her hair partially controlled into a long braid, hiding the distinctive colour from view. The troop of the king's men had not left with the rations yet, there was still time to get the food and meadowsweet they so needed.

In that small house, surrounded by the sick and dying, Marian made a choice that would forever divert the course of her life. Standing tall once more, she marched over to her bow, plucked it up along with a quiver of arrows she stashed next to it, slung them over her back and left through the door with one long, hard look at the people behind her, the door closing with a hushed thud and click. She knew the road the king's men would take, the Widow's road, and she would cut them off, after all, she knew Loxley's forest like the back of her hand. She was Loxley's forest.

King Aelle had taken and not given back for far too long… It was time they had something in return, even if she had to kill for it. The people of Loxley were counting on her and she would not let that faith go unanswered.

Marian: Fifteen years and ten months old

Aiken had done this job of transporting goods to and mainly from Loxley many times. Nothing changed, nothing came up and nothing ever happened on the long journey by cart back to heartland Northumbria. It was almost routine now, nearly ingrained in his blood with how predictable it all was. So at ease with the transaction by now, Aiken didn't even bother to climb down from his horse and keep watch over the men who loaded up the large cart behind him, nor did he bother with counting the barrels or contents. If there was a problem, King Aelle would send more men to fix it, he was simply the rider, nothing more and nothing less.

Growing restless, perched on top of his stallion, reigns loosely wrapped in his fingers, Aiken growled underneath his breath, re-shuffling on his horse to get comfortable. The longer the men took, the more his thighs chaffed and the more his thighs chaffed, the less comfortable he would be riding the seven day journey back. How hard could loading up a cart be? Thud. Aiken rolled his eyes at the booming noise that echoed from the back. Apparently it was of the up most difficulty by the sound of it, one of the men or boys must have dropped a barrel or crate.

From his seat at the very front, Aiken could hear the men behind him begin to make a fuss, a low murmur of confusion making a wave through their ranks. Aiken blinked owlishly at the strange turn of events before scoffing at himself. If the men behind him had half their minds right, mayhaps the war with Wessex would be long over, alas they did not and it looked like Aiken would have to wait. Agitated and with his limited patience waning faster than a rock pool in summer, Aiken glowered at the young man that had tottered to the front, bold enough to grab onto the leather of Aiken's breeches to grab his attention, mouth opening to say something, words never to be spoken as a grating whistle broke through the air.

Before Aiken could blink, or really take in a breath, an arrow, long and partridge feathered, wedged itself through the young man's neck, blood squirting in a wide arch as the boy grew wide-eyed, a splatter of thick, crimson blood splattering across Aiken's own stunned face. Unfortunately, the man didn't let go of Aiken's breeches, on contrary, in his frantic panic, the man's grip grew tighter, even as he flailed and fell to the ground, subsequently taking Aiken down with him in a stunned silence, leaving no time for Aiken to brace himself for the fall, his head hitting off the rocky path discordantly.

The world swam around him, pulsing, flaring and dimming in a beat that eerily copied his heartbeat. The sound of the men shouting, whistling and bangs jarred Aiken's senses, the mud squelching underneath his hands and knees, slippery and cold, made it hard to stand and he felt something warm trickle down the side of his head, dripping off his chin. His ears rang, from the shouting itself blocking out all other noise, or the silence slowly but surely dousing each shout out, he didn't know but his heart picked up its pace between his lungs. Dazed, cold and hurt, scrambling to his knees, Aiken had barely made it to a squat before an arrow zoomed passed his own head, missing by nothing more than a lock of hair. Luckily for him, that was enough to jump him from his stupor.

"Shit!"

Clambering to a stand, Aiken wrenched his short sword free from his belt, the weight and feel of the pommel and handle foreign in his hands. The sword had been used for decoration before then, a warning to those who thought they could steal from the carts he road around, however, grimly, he realized he may have to use it for real this time. Limping around his neighing horse, his leg twisted and twinging in pain from the fall, Aiken made his way to the back of the cart to see what sort of ambush they were under and how many men they would face only to come up short once more.

The ten men who had been assigned to load the cart and see to his safe journey lay limp on the dewy floor, arrows protruding almost proudly from their bodies, feathered tips to the starry sky. No, not ten, nine. One last man was standing, dagger shaking in his lack grip, sword left fallen at his feet, likely due to the arrow that had pierced his other hand, forcing him to drop it. A hooded figure, an indistinguishable lump in the low lighting, stood on the back of the cart, wrapped head to toe in a fur rimmed cloak, cotton wrapped around their face, their green eyes and slip of skin between the two the only source of flesh on display.

Aiken, still stunned, could only watch as the man charged at the figure before they could knock another arrow onto their bow, the two grappling in a flurry of movement that was hard to keep track off, especially when the world still shrank and grew at stomach churning intervals like it did for Aiken. Although, he had a distinct impression the man had got a good shot in with his dagger, the sound of a cry, high-pitched, unmanly, yet terrifyingly like a war shout rang out. Regrettably, it was not enough to keep the archer down, not when the person drew another arrow free but instead of docking it on the bow, used it as a dagger themselves, catching the man unaware as they grabbed the back of his head and planted the tip home… Through his eye. Till his dying day, Aiken would never forget the pop of the eye, nor the death rattle of the man as he too fell to the floor, dead like the rest of them. Dead as he would be if he did nothing.

Aiken swallowed deeply as he stepped forth, his sword wavering, using both hands to balance the weight as best as he could, but he feared nothing would stop the trembling as the hooded figure turned to him, unhurriedly, as if they felt not an inch of the fear he did. They pulled an arrow free and place the cursed thing on their bow, raising it to meet Aiken's head. Their voice was gruff, a bark, an order.

"Leave."

Aiken's, against his own minds chant of fight, fight, fight, eyes travelled to the dead littered at his feet, than to his own shaking sword before falling back on the hooded figure. He was only meant to ride the cart, he was never meant to fight… He was no fighter. God's forgiveness, he had never drawn blood before, that was why the men were sent with him, to protect him and the goods. If they could not do that, what hope did he have? None. He wasn't a coward… He just wanted to live. Surely king Aelle would understand? Aiken, mind made up, went to go for the horse, his limbs jerky and uncoordinated in his rush, nearly tripping once or twice in his dash. However, before he could disappear from view, never taking his eyes from the hooded figure in fear of being shot in the back, the arrow on the bow was drawn back fully with a finality that spoke of his own blood spilling onto the floor. Once again they spoke in harsh, keen consonants, their words as final as the arrow he was staring down at.

"You're taking your life with you and you have a long journey ahead, you have no room to carry the food too. Now, leave."

Aiken didn't risk his life twice and made for the woods as fast as his limping and aching leg could take him. There was nothing he could do, the men were dead already, he was no fighter. At least, that is what he kept telling himself, his pride screaming in his mind, wailing at the blow it took by running away. His own voice as he shouted back was pathetic, weak and as rushed as his retreat.

"The king will demand your head for this!"

NEXT CHAPTER: Marian is injured, we meet Friar Tuck, Alan-a-Dale and Will Scarlet. The sheriff and Guy of Gisbourne make their appearance and the birth of a legend takes place!

A.N: I know for such a long wait between chapters, (Hopefully it won't happen again, I'm aiming to post at least one chapter a week!) most of you would likely be hoping for the Vikings to show face, but not just yet. I really want Marian to have strong foundations before she comes face to face with them, something that explains what she does and why she does it, the whole 'steal from the rich and give to the poor'. So, this chapter and the one next will be explaining that journey, how she becomes Robin hood and the consequences of that. As for incorporating the old lore and tales of Robin hood, they are actually kinda of light hearted, Vikings isn't, so I wanted to make the tale of Robin hood a bit more nitty-gritty, a bit more human instead of cartoonish feats of wonder. This way, it gels better to the plot of Vikings rather than a mish-mash of two very different feels and narratives. So, if the tale of Robin hood seems a bit more darker in this fic than you anticipated, it's purposefully done.

After next chapter, there will be a two year time skip, just to keep some mystery to Marian's past. However, I can say the chapter after next one, so chapter Three, the Vikings do come and they come in style! So, please bare with it, the dashing Vikings are on their way!

As for this chapter, this is really just set up for the action that comes next chapter, the reasoning that pushes Marian to do what she's doing as well as showing some of her moral dilemmas and unflinching need to see justice come. It also helps you guys get a feel of Marian before shit literally hits the fan. Things do pick up pace next chapter, even if the northmen aren't here right now. As for Marian blacking out when she gets too angry, the killing of a bear and subsequent wearing of that fur, fear not, this does have a reason that comes into play later on, it also gives her a bit of a tie to Viking culture (Most of you likely already know where I'm taking this XD), something that gives both sides a bit of a 'hold on, wait, is that what I think it is?' sort of moment.

I know most of you will want to skip these two chapters, this one and next, but I promise it's to give hints of what's coming and to set things up, in short, they are needed and not just fillers.

POLL:

Ragnar/Marian- 23

Floki/Marian-7

Athelstan/Marian-2

Floki/Marian/Ragnar-2

Ivar/Marian- 1

So, that is what Voting looks like so far, Ragnar's in the lead by a long shot. However, as I said, if you want a certain pairing, make sure to vote, all votes will be counted. P.M me them, leave them in a review, even send it by long ship or raven! (Okay, maybe not the last two, but make sure to vote.) As for voting, it closes a few days after next chapter, so a week and a halves time… The 5th February (Yes, I had to check my calendar for that date XD, math is not my strong point), so please make sure you've voted by then.

Last Word: Important, Please Read:

As always, I wouldn't keep writing if it weren't for you lovely reviewers, you are the people who give reason to my madness, so a huge thank you to all of you. I would also like to thank everyone who favourited and followed, I hope you're all enjoying this so far and looking forward to the next chapter. The next chapter should be out next week, Thursday to be exact, I'm just getting over an illness, so hopefully I can carry on without any more delays, (I'm so sorry for the long wait between last chapter and this one).

If you have a spare moment, please leave a review, I love hearing of your thoughts and feelings about this fic. :)

Until next Thursday, keep being beautiful human beings!~ GoWithTheFlo20