Marian didn't remember much after the re-taking of the supplies the king's men had tried to steal away down Widow's road like the rats they were. She remembered stumbling to a near by tree after the last man had run away into the night like some vagabond, ghosting away on the words of her threat that still singed her tongue. She remembered her shoulder crashing into the harsh bark of the tree, the bite of frigid air to her skin as she swooped her cloak out of the way and saw the stab wound to her side, a lucky shot by dagger given by the last man she had downed, crimson blossoming on her starched shirt like a grotesque ink blot. In that moment, for some other-worldly or strange reason, she had truly thought the sight beautiful.

She remembered wandering through the forest, hand pressed into her side trying to stem the flow, fingers and wrist sticky from her own blood. For days, hours, seconds, she could not tell how long it was before she crashed to the floor, breath staggered, an airy sense of calm filling her up, brimming at the top of her very being when she thought this could quite possibly be it. She was going to die on the forest floor, alone, cold, but having done the right thing... She had done the right thing, hadn't she?

Pain had the odd habit of rendering time useless and unfathomable, but as she stared up at the sky through the breaks in sparse leaves and branches, from her sprawled position in the muck and broken twigs of the forest floor, she thought the sky had been blue, clear, endless and tranquil. She remembered, in that little capsule of missing time, what little John had told her all those years back, as If he was there with her, whispering in her ear, his words lulling her to an eternal sleep. 'He had died a good death little one. Quick, honourable and with soul. No man can ask much more from god than that.'

Had Robin felt this way as he died? Had he look up to the vast blue sky, the very same she stared into, like she had and felt that calmness settle all worries and woes away? Perhaps, if he had, Marian found she suddenly agreed with little John there in the dirt while she had so vehemently disagreed in her candlelit house those years ago. It was a good way to die. A true and honest way to leave this world. She couldn't remember how long she laid on the forest floor, bleeding out, coming in and out of consciousness to be continually greeted with that blue sky that wiped away her fears like a mothers feathering kiss against forehead, but she did remember the far off shout of little John, disembodied, distorted, warbling through the air like a birds morning song, ushering in a new day.

"Marian! Where are you lass? Marian! Marian! Can you hear me? Marian!"

Yes, that had definitely been little John searching for her, but no matter how much she had begged her body to move, her legs to stand, her throat to shout, nothing came but those puffs of breath that grew further and further apart. Days, weeks, seconds later, all three for all that time mattered to Marian in that moment, little John came stumbling through the brush, the sound of more feet moving behind him, a gathering of men… A search party.

When he spotted her, she remembered him falling to her side, on his knees, with a great crash and thud. She remembered his large hands tugging her onto his lap, his wide hazel eyes as he saw the stab wound, the frantic muttering of words she could not distinguish filtering passed his lips. Was he speaking at all? Or was that her own thoughts muttering in her mind? A low hum of beats and spikes in air that could sound like words if you concentrated enough? Mother nature talking to you herself through the rustle and screech of trees dancing in the wind?

"Marian, what the hell have you done lass?"

Little John? Had he always been here or had he just arrived? She couldn't remember. She couldn't remember much at all. Was she dead, or for the first time in her short life, was she really alive? No… That didn't sound right, it didn't fit. For Marian, up was down and down was up but somehow, some way, it was comforting, this disorienting mess of sensory overload and snapping synapses. In a weird way, stuck between life and death, the world finally made sense.

"Have you ever seen the sky so blue John? I haven't. Perhaps, if we spent more time looking up, to the sky, nothing would seem so down, grim and dirty…"

Was that her voice, John's or god's? Did it matter whose voice it was when she agreed with the statement as whole-heartedly as she did? She didn't think so. However, that bubbling bliss of floating and transcendence finally popped when she felt little John's hand, meaty, fleshy fingers that ended in stubs of grubby, blunt finger nails dig and twist into the wound on her side. The flare of pain was indescribable, but it did do the job she had trouble doing herself. Pulling her back down to earth and the waking world in a violent tug that left her gut churning and gargling like a knocked over butter churn. Her own hands, nimble fingered and callused in places from years of bow-use, jerked up, grappling with little John's tunic's, eye's wide and voice overwrought when the memories crashed upon her mind like waves to a shore.

"They were taking the last of our food... The meadowsweet for the fever… I had to do something... John... John, you need to get the meadowsweet... The Widow's road…By the Brook… You need to take it back to Loxley..."

Little John scoffed and Marian winced as he shook his head at her ramblings. Didn't he see? The sooner the meadowsweet got back to Loxley, the more people there would be that survived the fever ravishing their village. In the grand scheme of things, Marian and her subsequent bleeding out on the floor mattered not. The people of Loxley mattered, the meadowsweet mattered, her death didn't fraction into that equation of importance. At least, not to herself.

"Not before I get you the help you surely and desperately need. You're not dying on my watch Marian. Men! Over Here-"

Marian snapped at him, cutting him off with bared teeth and pain-filled words that oozed the agony she felt blazing in her side. Her feet and legs felt numb, like phantoms, and that ghostly feeling was slowly creeping up to the rest of her with spindly vines of translucent death. She didn't have the time for this, neither did the people of Loxley and when push came to shove, the villagers would always come first, even in the light of her immanent death.

"No! Please, they can't know it was me, if the king finds out… Loxley will be punished for my mistakes... You know they will… John, you need to get the meadowsweet... Take it to Loxley... Use it... And hide it from the kings men... They will simply believe it was a robbery..."

The rush and foot-fall of little John's search party rang bright and clear through the woods, like little deep church bells ringing out for mass… Or her own death and the punishment Loxley would fall to if it was ever discovered it was her that had taken out the king's men, and in King Aelle's eyes, stolen from him. Oh, king Aelle, that proud, bloated lump of a man would not let that slide, not when his own ego and pride were at stake when it came out a young girl had gotten one over on him.

Little John's gaze locked with hers, both eyes resolute in their own decisions, the thudding of the men's boots growing louder the closer they got, Marian's own heart beat picking up pace with each new crunch and thud. Little John wouldn't risk Loxley for her, he just couldn't, and if he did he was not the man she had believed him to be. Thankfully, as if this was her dying wish, which it very likely could be, little John caved and swivelled around to shout over his shoulder, even more luckily, he was diverting the men's course before they could spot her and see the truth themselves.

"The Widow's road! There's some cargo there... Food and herbs for Loxley, go get it!"

The sound of the men shouting out their agreement and their retreating footsteps ushered a harsh cough from Marian, as well as her following dip and bow out of consciousness as she passed out in little John's arms. Little John, in turn, let loose a torrent of swears that would make even the most foul-mouthed fisher-man blush like a maiden caught with her skirts hiked.

"Shit, you never make anything easy do ya, lass?"

Of course, he got no answer but the sweet tweet of a bird upon high. Seeing Marian's chest rise and fall, as stilted as it was, gave little John that little shard of hope he needed to get him to leap into action. Wrangling her small form into his arms, squishing her to his barrelled chest as if he could physically hold her life in her body and keep it there, little John made into the woods, head darting left and right, mumbling to himself as he scrambled through the trees.

"Fuck... Loxley's too far... Let's hope the good friar's in."

That had been two months ago, now Marian had been sequestered away in a run down church that sat in the middle of Sherwood forest, a woods that connected to Loxley's own just off the eastern border by a narrow planked bridge over a small bubbling stream. The memories of that day had been foggy at best, a downright mess at worst with each passing day, but her healing and rest in the dusty, half dilapidated church was anything but. Little John would visit sometimes, when he wasn't in Loxley, helping banish the fever or answering curious village-folk about her whereabouts. Apparently, according to little John, she was on a pilgrimage, praying for the souls and quick healing of the village of Loxley in grand churches across Northumbria.

Marian had scoffed at that, sure the people of Loxley would see through it. Her… Praying? Anyone who knew her would call bullshit on that. Evidently, even after all she had done for the villagers, they did not know her and had lapped up that excuse like a hound parched of water. She didn't know whether to settle on being thankful the villagers had bought it and would not know any better, leading to king Aelle not knowing any better, or upset they did not know her like she knew them. Perhaps she could feel both and not have to secularize her own feelings. People, herself included, were complex things, maybe the most complex thing ever created.

Still, a bright star in the abyss that was her tiring, painful and extremely boring stay in the old, run down church as she healed and came back to full health had been the other occupant… The only other occupant if she was being truthful. She didn't know whether she liked the man so much because of who he was, or because he was the only other person around day in, day out for two very long and tedious months. He was a… Character. Yes, that would be the politest way she could describe him.

He went by the name of Friar Tuck, and god forbid you either shorten it to either Friar or Tuck, Marian had earned a clap up her ear for that one when she had slipped, she still remembered the ring in her eardrum from the sound hit. No, that wasn't a mistake she would make again. Friar Tuck was a tall man, six-foot at least, although his height was nothing compared to little John's own seven-foot one frame, but then again, no one would ever be as tall and grand as little John, his nickname only a ironic joke that shocked and beguiled new-comers when they finally met little John and saw he was anything but little.

However, where little John was thick with ropey muscle and barrelled chest, Friar Tuck was thick in a very different way. She swore, even as he waddled about in his sandals and monks cowl, a circlet of hair adorning his head, bald in the middle, she could quite comfortably and safely sit on his rounded, wobbling belly and not fall off, and she herself was neither short, standing at nearly five foot nine, a nearly unheard of height for a man, let alone a lady, and as thin as she used to be, her breast and hips seemingly soaking up all fat she ever ate and swelling pleasantly over night, her weight now would be nothing but that of a flies if Friar Tuck was to carry her. In short, Friar Tuck was a large man in all aspects.

Although, where little John had a gruff beard, scars from battles and wars, dirty, blood stained leathers and cotton, the Friar could be nothing but more different in this comparison. Clean shaven at all times, clean clothes, though the clothes had seen better days but had been lovingly stitched back together when the holes became too prominent, the biggest difference were their faces. Where little John would scowl with deep dark eyes that haunted and taunted, Friar Tuck's eyes were always owlishly big, wide and watery, slightly glazed as if his eyes were made from polished glass. Where little John would grin with all his teeth bared like a wolf, Friar Tucks smile was more lopsided, just a peek of teeth, wonky and easy going… Calming.

While little John was almost always grubby and had smears of dirt crossed and etched into his skin, Friar Tuck was nearly permanently red in the face, his nose and cheeks a blistering pink that stood out starkly against his pale skin, from the cold, the food he ate or some other reason Marian had not seen yet, she did not know but the redness always drew your eye. In the end, while they were both big men,eccentric, opinionated and larger than life, both couldn't be more opposite if they had tried to more worrying, especially for someone who did not make human connections and relationships as well as to be expected for someone her age, Marian found herself liking the Friar more and more she was in his presence, as he tenderly healed her wound and spoke softly about Sherwood forest, almost liking him as much as she did little John.

The reason she had never met him before, something that had bugged her incessantly, she had, after all, prided herself on knowing the villagers of Loxley was one simple factor. Friar Tuck was a complete hermit. He stayed in his abandon church, kept and tended to bee colonies out back that he would dither and worry over and would make food and drink from his own resources or what he could scavenge from Sherwood forest, water from the little stream, honey from the bee's, milk from a lone dairy goat he kept, who he had affectionately called Doris and food from the woods, only ever venturing into the market in Loxley when the need was dire and forced him to. Even then, he went so early in the morning and was back out of Loxley before many of the villagers were even awake, herself included.

Yet, despite all the oddness that surrounded the unique man, Marian would never forget he had accepted her into his home and hearth when little John had blundered in, her bleeding and limp in his arms, no questions asked as he led them to a room, a room he would later designate as hers, as he healed her. His idiosyncratic and unflinching ability to give without expecting anything in return, without wanting anything in return, was a breath of fresh air to Marian, mainly because Marian had grown used to dealing with the kings men, who took and took and took and it was… Nice? Warming? Filled her with hope to see someone out there who was so completely different to those damned men. Perhaps there was hope for Loxley, for the villagers, for herself if people like Friar Tuck lived.

Having had enough of wallowing in her own mind's musings, slumped on the small bed in nothing but a pair of loose breeches and a thin cotton shirt, her ribs and torso bandaged from the stab wound although it had long since stopped bleeding, Marian slipped her bare feet onto the cobbled flooring, hissing under her breath as the cold stone seeped into the soft skin of her toes and sole. It was in the middle of the night, well passed the time she should have gone to sleep, her dancing thoughts making that impossible, her lone candle that kept the room lit in a cosy orange fuzz had long since sizzled to nothing but a short, waxy stump on the bed side table, leaving the room to the hungry jaws of darkness.

It didn't take her long to find the door to the room in the darkness, pausing at the door to groan and idly rub at her side, the skin having knotted back together for some time now, still, when she stretched it still felt open and weeping, and proceeded to exit into the squat hallway and make her way down the tapering staircase to the main sanctity of the tilting husk of a church, most windows long gone, plants and vines invading through the brickwork and flooring, blooming and growing without restraint. She found Friar Tuck where she thought he would be, in the cavernous room in the very front of the church, broken pews lining each side, the room that would normally hold mass each morn and eve.

He, himself, was sat on one of the lesser broken pews at the very front of the room, an old alter enshrined at the farthest wall, a simple wooden cross, the only decoration, perched proudly front and centre. As Marian padded closer, hand still rubbing her side mindlessly, she could pick up the faint sound of mutterings, she also spotted his clasped hands over his shoulder as she peered and instead of interrupting his obvious prayers, decided to sit next to him, the broken bench groaning in protest of her added weight. Against her will, her gaze strayed to the cross, such a simple symbol, yet, miraculously, something that held so much power over so many. Power that people lied for, stole for, killed for… All for two pieces of wood struck together. Even if Marian was religious, she thought she could never understand how people could give such power to such an innocuous and innocent object. Friar Tuck's pleasant voice snapped her gaze away from the cross and to his reddened face.

"You should be resting in bed, Marian. It was only two full moons ago I held you bleeding in my arms."

Marian couldn't tamper the scoff that drifted from her lips. Weakness, in any form or shape, in the brutal life Marian led, could not be shown, not for a moment, even if it was to someone like Friar Tuck. It made her feel pathetic, low, useless. Here she was, squirrelled away in a church in Sherwood forest, eating, healing, drinking to her hearts content and the villagers back in Loxley were most likely baring the brunt force of the king's men alone, taking the punches, having their food, money and drink stolen from them. What right to peace did she have when her people did not have that same right? Brambly's swollen, blue and purple face flashed before her eye lids as she blinked, reminding her of why she did what she did and how utterly pointless she was hidden away here.

"It seems sleep does not help when it's ones soul that is tired Friar Tuck, and I'm afraid mine is thoroughly exhausted. "

How true that one sentence was. She had been stabbed, nearly died to retrieve the meadowsweet, what would happen next time Loxley needed something? What more could she give but her own life? She didn't regret her decision, not one bit, but next time, for there will be a next, there always was, Marian was lost on what price she would have to pay as for if the next time being as irrefutable as it was, so would be the price paid for that next time. It was a cycle, inescapable, one that had locked its tight, bony grip around Marian and refused to let go.

"Such old words for a young face to burden, but not a burden to carry alone. Remember that Marian. What the god takes, he gives back to us."

Just as his words had begun to give her strength, hope, something to cling onto, he had lost her at the mention of god. God, to Marian, was as greedy and duplicitous as the king's men. Another thing that took and gave back poison. He took her father and king Aelle had risen. He took her mother and Loxley was bombarded with taxes and crop strain. God took her sun-ray brother and gave her the responsibility of carrying the whole of Loxley on her thin, young shoulders. Marian knew, whatever god wanted to give her , she didn't want it, not if she went by his track record.

"Will he give me my brother back then? I thought not. Me and him… Me and god, we do not get along. I fear we never will."

She must have struck a cord in Friar Tuck, the bitterness laced in her voice echoing the same bitterness she had caught glimpses of that he felt too, only little shots of it , hidden in the creases of his face when he thought no one was looking, as he chuckled at her. What that bitterness was, what he had lived through to end up here, what he had seen or done to find himself safer or better to become the hermit he was, she didn't know, but it had left him almost as bitter and twisted as she was, if not for his copious amounts of optimism and his reliance on the god Marian felt only distaste for. To each his own she supposed. Nevertheless, Marian would choose neurotic and pessimism over optimism and outlandish claims of 'god will fix all' any day of the week. At least, this way, she felt like she was the one living in the real world.

"No, I don't suppose you would like to think you and god would get along, but the fact remains the same, god has given you a new life. A token, I am sure, for the many lives you have saved by taking back the meadowsweet from the king's men."

Marian grew dim at the reminder of that day, the reminder of exactly what she had done, what lengths she would go to for the villagers, for her friends and family, for that was what Loxley was, her family. She would kill for her family… She had killed for her family. As if feeling her own distress roll of her in waves, Friar Tuck looked upon her with kind eyes, sympathetic, pitying. It was sickening. He shouldn't pity her, he should pity the families of the men she had slayed. Their wives… Their mothers… Their fathers… Their brothers… Their sisters… Sisters like her who would weep and scream and rage like she had when she had learned of Robin's death. She, in the end, was no better than the man who had skewered her brother with a broad sword. Nauseousness ate away at her from the inside out upon this revelation.

"I... I killed men that day. I would not think god, if he does exist, would reward me for that. Isn't that what the bible says? Turn the other cheek? I don't think your holy book has anything about putting arrows through cheeks, eyes or throats, and if it does, I am sure it is not in a favourable light."

Friar Tuck chuckled once more, this one warmer, more lively. It took the self deprecation bite right out of her train of thought.

"I have been a man of the lord since I was a small lad and I'm afraid even I can not predict what god does or doesn't want, only guess. However, they are dead and you are here, breathing against all odds. The reasoning of your actions were just, your heart in the right place. You may not believe in the lord, but to me? That means something, you being here, conversing with me this very evening, it must mean something. However, that something is where the guess work comes into play."

Friar Tuck drew deep within himself again, misty eyes trained and locked on the cross. However, after a long boat of silence that Marian found she could not break, her lips seemingly sown shut, her body frozen solid to the pew, despite how she wanted to break that silence and stamp on its remains, Friar Tuck gave an almighty slap to his knees and stood in a swish of his monk cowl , reached beside his seat of the bench and pulled out a couple of frothing wooden tankards, handing one of the beverages to a comically wide eyed Marian. With caution, as if waiting for the Friar to all of a sudden sprout wings and a snout and fly off through the broken ceiling, wings that remaindered her of the bees he kept, she took the drink and stared at its amber fluid, glancing between him and the brimming tankard.

"Now, how about some ale? Made by your's truly, from the finest honey Loxley has to offer. Go on now, take a big chug!"

With a quick sniff, the assault of smells, barley, honey and hops, warmed her up from the inside, cosy and pleasant smells to be sure that reminded her of a lit hearth and a fur blanket. Marian glanced up at the Friar, already seeing him downing his own drink in one swift go. Throwing caution to the wind, Marian shrugged her shoulders, wincing at the slight tinge of pain at her side, lifted the tankard to her lips and took a sizeable gulp… Only to start spluttering, thumping her chest with a closed fist as her face became red.

"Ach, that's strong! What in god's name have you put in it? That could quite possibly knock little John on his arse, and that's saying something!"

Friar Tuck let loose a rock-shaking, bone-rattling, ceiling crashing, wobbly bellied laugh. Marian, who was still having trouble from catching her breath and calming the trail of fire the drink had left behind to the pit of her gut, did not find the whole ordeal humorous. When he caught wind of her glare aimed at his skull, Friar Tuck's grin only grew wider, a finger coming up to point at his red cheeks and nose.

"What? You do not think my face is permanently red from the cold do you? No. Strong ale makes strong men… Or woman in your peculiar case! I've always like that word, peculiar. It just rolls off the tongue doesn't it? Pe-Cu-Li-Ar."

Marian, against all the odds, all the worries, the strain, the pain, the loss and anguish, found herself laughing truly for the first time since Robins death. That was Friar Tuck's strength, his charm and wit, his ability to be a bright light in the darkest of moments. However, now she knew why his cheeks and nose were always red, and perhaps why he was always so optimistic…

"You're drunk! You are always drunk!"

Friar Tuck winked at her and for that one moment, all was right in the world.

NEXT CHAPTER: Alan-A-Dale comes into town, an evil bishop, wedding crashing and the start of the merry men.

A.N: I know this is late, and only a tiny bit of what I promised for this chapter, partially because I'm still ill, but all together without making the chapter monstrously long (I'm talking 50,000 words here) I just couldn't get through all the characters, keep the plot interesting and at the same time, give flavour and life to each Robin Hood character without having to split it up. So, I decided to give a chapter to each character. It also gives you lovely readers time to digest and understand each character and how they come to be part of the merry men (Robin Hood's group of criminals for the ones who don't know anything of the tale.)

On the down side, this means there will be seven more chapters (Maybe just four if I decide to join a few together) until the Vikings show up. But hold on! Wait! Don't throw the rotten fruit or veg yet! The chapters, because I feel more comfortable writing them this way instead of one large blob of endless words and cardboard cut outs of the characters I actually want in my story, and instead of dreading writing (Which slows the process astronomically) I should be shedding them out faster, meaning two updates a week, or more. The chapters may be shorter than normal (Normal for me, the endless rambler) But, that is how I like it, little snap shots of life before the Vikings turn up, something to give you a feel of Marian and the people who have large parts in the plot, but not give everything away. However, once the Vikings come into it, trust me, the chapters do get longer.

Why do I want to make the merry men so important? Simple, these are Marian's friends, her family, the reason she does what she does. It would be like having Ragnar without any Vikings, Floki, Helga, Rollo, Lagertha, Siggy, Torstein, gone, just Ragnar and that wouldn't be a story. Plus, without giving way to spoilers, when the Vikings do arrive, some of the merry men are in danger and Marian does something that would not make a lick of sense as to why she would do it without fleshing out the merry men first, because it falls onto one of the merry men's back stories I have conjured up (Much the miller's son).

So, please, bare with me, the Vikings will be here before you know it! Promise!

As I've said, writing for me is relaxing, it's a hobby I so heartedly enjoy and this way I enjoy it instead of dreading sitting at my laptop to type away on something I'm just not feeling the soul of. And while I hope (Really do hope) you guys enjoy my works, I want to enjoy writing them too. Trust me, we'll both benefit from it. Writing is better when you put heart to it!

VOTING:

Ragnar/Marian/Floki- 23

Ragnar/Marian- 21

Floki/Marian- 11

Ivar/Marian- 3

Athelstan/Marian- 3

Bjorn/Marian- 1

Ragnar/Marian/Floki Wins! This fic is now officially a Ragnar/Marian/Floki fic, are you guys as excited as I am about this? This is going to be so much fun to write. I'm already doodling ideas and conversations down for when they finally meet!

As always, THANK YOU SO MUCH to all the lovely reviewers, this chapter is for you! May you all find a drunken friar to get wasted with at least once in your life! Thank you to all those who favourited and followed, I hope you're enjoying the ride!

As always, please leave a review in this poor fanfic authors upturned hat, it will get me typing faster ;) Until next time, stay beautiful!~GoWithTheFlo20