Robin stretched out in a tree branch. Home. Sweet concept. Sometimes it meant a house, a roof, a bed and a fire. He'd been invited for so many meals with so many families through the years. Community, warmth, discussion. So much to learn, to share, to laugh about. He used to dream about having such a home with Marian. Constant presence, constant trust. Marriage, binding safety. There was something to be said for danger - the extra sweetness to each farewell, the extra blitheness at seeing her again. Perhaps he was not meant to marry, not destined to have anything more than the measure of happiness he earned each day, living by his wits and his bow. Continual fear of capture kept him sharp; continual safety might make him fat and complacent. Being married to Marian... who knew what that would make him?

He shook his head, pushed aside a twig poking his side, and finally decided to escape his thoughts by joining the others of his merry band at the fire. Silly to even be thinking of marriage. He and Marian hadn't spoken in a long time. She'd moved to London for a time, to undergo training as a lady of the court. Her father - ambitious and landed- had used his connections to secure her a place. It would be good for Marian, agreed everyone. Finally their beautiful lady would have a chance to make something of herself, out of the backwoods. In London, she would find the scintillating discussions and wealth of libraries she so sadly missed in Nottingham. In London she could be herself- clever, strong, unique. No more tiresome haggling with clumsy houseservants, no more lack of educated and lively acquaintances, no more enforced maturity as unwilling mistress of an old manor. Not that she hadn't enjoyed it at times, but it was much better for her to be somewhere where she could shine.

Robin was proud of himself for being able to be heartily glad for her, and not selfishly pine over her absence. He strolled up to the warmth of the flames, and wondered aloud if the warm weather was just as fine in London. Allan looked up innocently and remarked, tongue in cheek, that, "in any case, the spring's stormy weather seemed to have left with a certain person's carriage." Shaken out of his calm attitude, Robin turned on him with a scowl. Allan held up his hands in self defense (and only moved a little closer to the hulking figure of Little John.) "We all know you love her. But at least this way, what's done is done." Robin simply looked at him. By the look on Allan's face, he was trying to collect his thoughts in a tactful way, when Little John interrupted. "You oppose the Sheriff, you come home, you talk, you go to sleep. The next day the same." Robin wrinkled his brow. "I always do that. What does that have to do with Marian?"

Cecily moved quietly out of the shadows. He hadn't even known she was listening. She tucked her hand into Little John's, which gently encased hers. "You don't trust her thoughts for you," she said quietly. Robin wished she hadn't said anything, and tried not to lose his temper at her unerring insight. She gestured to his face with its warring emotions. "Is that not so?" Allan frowned at her, but the damage was done. "There he goes," he mumbled.

"I don't *know* her thoughts for me!" Robin exclaimed, and kicked a log. "You used to kick that log nearly every night in January," observed Much helpfully. "Then you stopped." "I stopped because it did no good! It never does any good to argue with her!" Little John gave a quiet growl of agreement, and Cecily pushed his shoulder, with no visible effect whatsoever. "Marian is a wise woman, not to answer you when you argue." "But why?" asked Robin, trying not to sound like a five year old. "Would it do any good?" Allan asked cheerfully, picking up his lyre.

"Maybe not, but at least I'd know what she thought." Robin subsided, and sat on a log to stare unhappily into the fire. "Maybe what she thinks hasn't changed, Robin," said Cecily gently. Robin mulled this over. "Then why doesn't she say so?" "Maybe she has. She doesn't need words like you do." Little John pulled Cecily close to him. "My excellent- and loquacious- wife has the right of it." He looked at Cecily, who finished his thought for him. "Some people can say five words a week and it is enough. As I found to my dismay during my induction into the band. He considered a nod appropriate praise for five hours of staffwork and a correction on my archery stance just merit for nine of ten bullseyes." "Some days you still stand as if your feet are planted," Little John chuckled, "but I have also learned to say, 'Well done.'"

Cecily added, "And I have learned to be grateful for his presence, with or without words, and to remember that he treasures mine. And you, Marian's presence?" Robin stood. "No," he said shortly. "There is never enough time to savour it. And I doubt that she enjoys mine. Before, it was different. Before, we shared life. Now she only looks at me and sees a runaway, and rightly misdoubts to trust me again."

"You have not run so much of late," observed Marjorie, making her way gracefully through the band to the spot saved for her by Allan. Robin sighed. Since when had his private turmoil become a campfire discussion? "No," he said, hoping only to bring an end to the talk. "I do not run so much of late from problems. But I am also unwilling to run into problems. I will be here when she returns, and I will not run from trust. But I will also not force it or demand from her what she will not give me. As Allan so pleasantly observed, when a certain carriage left, the storms subsided. She is all that is beautiful and good. I lay no blame at her feet, only at mine."

"You always do that!" cried Cecily. "Whether it is your fault or not, you grasp for blame." Robin hardly looked at her. "I grasp for answers, Cecily. I know she would not willingly hurt me. So any hurt or storms must come through my ways." He turned to go, but Friar Tuck stood in his way. "Have you prayed about this?" he asked, searching Robin's face. "I have. Often. God has given me a peace that, no matter from whence the storms arrived, I cannot hold onto them. I have confessed, over and over, that I have been proud, and needy, grasping and despairing. That I am one small human who takes too much on himself and indeed needs to learn to savour presence, with God and with my fellow man." He inclined his head before Tuck, or anyone else could ask, "Aye, and with Marian. When I see her, I will be content with what she offers, be that much time or little time, many words or no words."

"What will you offer in return?" Robin did not turn back to the fire to see who had spoken. It could be any, or all of them. They knew their leader too well to allow him to turn a phrase and then leave.

He sighed, and walked out of the circle of light. "I will offer who I am. A friend."