Sherwood

Who are you to say that being a lady, in itself, is not its own kind of war.

Grief, thought Marian, was not the melancholy mourning of a loss, not the long and dwindling ache that ballads sang of. It was forgetting, and remembering, again and again, an endless series of slashes, each as violent and sharp as the last. It was execution by a thousand different wounds, it was bleeding to death so slowly that you are certain it will never end, that you will suffer this torture for eternity, long after your natural life has ended. You are Prometheus, and instead of your liver, the eagle is tearing out your heart.

It wasn't Sherwood Forest he haunted, it was Marian. She carried him in her thoughts and she would carry out his will with her own hands.

Surrender. An archer tries to master his bow, to force the arrow where he wants it to go. He tries with strength and focus and discipline to master it. He uses tougher gloves and stronger bowstrings and stiffer limbs, and restraint. But arrows are winged creatures, and will not be restrained. To shoot like that, one must surrender control.

Because the law will never be just. Perhaps it can come close— so close the line is hard to see. But laws are written by men, who are imperfect by nature, and justice belongs to something beyond the power of men.

But arrows are winged creatures.

Such a deadly thing, a feather.

Radical and insurgent and impatient. Those qualities sound more like you, my love.

Flirtation was already outside Marian's expertise, but trying to seem receptive to his advances was all the harder when he made none.

Marian—I meant it.” The words were a desperate torrent, flowing around gasps for breath and cracked lips. “I love you. I thought I loved you, and then you kissed me, and I thought then that I loved you, and then I found out who you were, and I hated you and loved you even more—I’d die for you. I’d die with you.” He pulled her closer, trying to fold her in his arms.

They were always going to hang me, Alan.

But arrows are winged creatures, and will not be restrained.

Whom do you serve, Marian?" I serve everyone.

The law will never be just. Written by men, who are imperfect by nature. Justice belongs to something beyond the power of men.

Because of all the wild stories they tell of Robin Hood, one has always been true.” Gisborne’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, but Marian saw a man searching for support, not readying himself to attack. “He’s in love with the Lady Marian.