Robin Hood

The forest was unusually quiet that morning, as if Sherwood itself held its breath. Mist clung to the trees like a secret, and every bird's song seemed half-sung. In a clearing by the old oak — known as the Greenwood Throne — Robin Hood knelt, tightening the string on his longbow.

“Are you sure this is wise?” asked Marian, her voice low.

Robin didn’t look up. “He’s taxing the farmers again. A third of their harvest, taken by force. I can’t let that pass.”

From the edge of the clearing, Little John stepped forward, leaning on his staff. “Word is, the Sheriff’s got ten men for every one of us today. Even the crows are afraid to land in Nottingham.”

Robin stood, eyes burning with determination. “Let them come. We’re not just fighting with swords. We’ve got truth. And truth flies faster than any arrow.”

Marian touched his arm. “And sometimes it burns, too.”

By noon, Robin and his band — no more than thirty — had positioned themselves along the road that led to the village of Clun. It was harvest day, and they knew the Sheriff’s convoy would arrive to collect the tithe.

Right on time, the first horse crested the hill, its rider in crimson and black. Behind him, wagons creaked under the weight of wheat, barley, and stolen hope. Men with crossbows walked alongside, their eyes scanning the trees.

Robin waited.

The Sheriff himself was there, smug and well-fed, riding a black gelding. He had no fear. Why would he? Every outlaw in Nottinghamshire had a price on his head, and Robin’s was the highest.

“Now,” Robin whispered.

A single arrow hissed from the treetops, slicing the air like a blade. It struck the bolt on a wagon’s wheel, splintering it in a loud crack. The cart tipped, spilling golden grain across the road like spilled treasure.

The convoy halted in chaos.

From the forest, men in green cloaks emerged — silent, swift, and certain. Little John swung his staff like a war drum. Will Scarlet disarmed a soldier before he could cry out. Marian loosed arrows from a high perch, every shot a whisper of justice.

Robin moved through it all like fire, his bow singing with each draw. “Leave the wagons,” he shouted to the Sheriff. “Go back to your stone halls and tell Prince John the people have their own king now!”

The Sheriff glared, surrounded, but not cowed. “You think you’re a hero, Hood? A thief dressed in myth?”

“I steal only what was stolen,” Robin replied. “And I give it back.”

“You’ll hang for this.”

“Then I’ll swing with honor.”

There was a standoff. The Sheriff raised his hand, but before he could signal a retreat — or an attack — Marian’s arrow struck the crest on his saddle. Not him, just close enough to make the point clear.

He paled. Then turned his horse.

One by one, the soldiers followed, leaving the wagons behind.

As they disappeared into the mist, the villagers of Clun emerged, wide-eyed. Robin gestured to the grain. “Take what you need. Feed your children. And remember — the forest watches.”

Later, as dusk settled over Sherwood, Robin sat with Marian by the Greenwood Throne.

“You risked your life again,” she said quietly.

He smiled, tired but resolute. “As long as injustice rides in broad daylight, so will I. The Sheriff has armies. But we have stories.”

“And arrows.”

Robin laughed. “Those too.”