Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
It took three days before Marian could move without wincing; appallingly long by fae standards, but astonishingly quick by mortal measures. The days since the attack have blurred together, a cycle of restless nights and stifling days.
She dreams of hands pinning her, of laughter pressed hot against her skin, of steel dragging across her chest. She wakes tangled in her blanket, drenched in sweat, breath caught halfway between a scream and a sob.
But each morning she rises with a sharper edge, more determined to claw back the sense of safety that was taken from her.
Lox has not visited her.
Not on the first morning, when her bones felt hollow and she moved back to her own room. Not the second, when she sat at the window sketching the knots in the heart tree, to keep from shaking. Not the third, when she managed to wash her own hair and braid it without whimpering.
But she can feel him watching her, caring for her in his own way.
Fresh parchment and charcoal sticks on her windowsill.
A new set of bandages folded neatly beside her washbasin before she even thinks to ask for them.
Each gift accompanied by a tiny fox sculpture made from whatever Sherwood had at hand.
One carved from knotted twigs, another woven from blades of grass, and one shaped out of river clay and dried smooth by sunlight. All of them no larger than her palm.
And every day, without fail, three meals appear outside her door. Knowing he’s still bound to his oath gives her the freedom to eat without worry; still, his absence cuts sharper than she dares to admit. The silence between them feels deliberate; a penance Lox has chosen for both their sakes.
She tells herself it’s better this way, that distance makes things simpler. But the lie sits awkwardly in her chest.
On the fourth morning, his gift arrives with a knock thumping at her door.
When she opens it, Little John fills the frame: broad as a gate, hair braided back, the cut at his thigh bound in fresh linen.
His clear meadow-green eyes tip down to the line of her shoulders, the mark at her chest, then back up.
Allen slips past his elbow, all restless and bright, a lopsided smile that tries to hide concern.
‘We’re here on physicians’ orders,’ he chirps.
Marian chuckles. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The healers said you can move, so long as you don’t try to climb out your window again or punch Will in the mouth. I argued for the second, but alas.’
They push past Marian toward the centre of the room. Little John unrolls a woven mat and gestures to Allen, who pulls out two identical mats from under his arm, unfurling them beside one another.
‘I don’t understand.’
Allen tucks his hands behind his back. ‘Lox tells us that we’re to instruct you in the ways of defence, so that’s what we’re here to do.’
Little John sits on his mat and the floor shudders.
He pats the one beside him and Marian stifles a laugh before joining them.
He taps his own chest with two fingers and breathes in so slowly that his ribs barely shift.
He holds the inhale, lifts one big hand in a counting gesture – one .
. . two . . . three – then opens his fingers to let the breath go in a long, soundless stream.
Marian’s brow furrows as she looks to Allen for guidance.
Allen’s eyes flicker gold; whatever message passes between them is quick.
‘First lesson,’ he tells her, planting himself by the window where a pale square of light spills over the floor.
‘Air is a weapon and a balm. Use it or it will use you.’ He points to Marian’s sternum.
‘Translation: if that is where your panic lives, then we’re going to teach you how to manage it. ’
Little John scoots closer to her, their knees almost touching.
He sets a palm to his own belly and nods for her to mirror him.
Marian does, wincing at the tug beneath the dressing.
He shakes his head gently at her position, then moves her hand lower, with surprising delicacy, until her palm rests where breath should begin.
He inhales again through his nose, slow enough that she can watch the rise begin beneath his wide hand before it expands through his chest. He holds it, eyes never leaving hers, then releases in a stream so measured, it could have been carved into the air itself.
Marian tries to follow. The inhale shudders, then catches halfway up her ribs. Already her shoulders are climbing; quickly her throat feels tight. She exhales too fast and sends herself into a fit of coughing.
Allen clucks his tongue. ‘You’re trying to outpace yourself. Breathe low in your belly. Like you’re drawing air from the roots, not snatching it from the branches.’
She narrows her eyes at him but obeys, hand pressed just above her navel. This time she forces herself to let the air seep into the hollow spaces before expanding. It hurts, pulling at tender flesh beneath her bandage, but when she exhales, it’s steadier.
John’s lips twitch in approval.
‘Good,’ Allen murmurs, flopping onto his back beside her. ‘Pretend your lungs are a wineskin. Fill from the bottom or you’ll only get foam. Again.’
They spend the next hour doing nothing but breathing, holding, releasing. At first Marian resents the simplicity, but slowly she begins to find comfort in the steady rhythm. Each exhale carries a sliver of tension out of her chest. Each inhale reminds her she is alive.
When he feels she’s mastered this first act, Little John shifts them to posture. They stand and he shows her how to stack spine on top of pelvis, so the body becomes a column, not a sail.
Quickly, Marian learns how to read his gestures without a word uttered between them.
He squares her hips with a light press of two fingers, tapping his foot against the backs of her knees until she softens them.
A tilt of his chin tells her to widen her stance.
When she overcorrects, he taps the outside of her ankle and she inches back to centre.
He speaks in a language of small adjustments and patient repetition, his silence a steadier tutor than any barked command.
Allen prowls the room like a cat. ‘Proper balance is key,’ he hums under his breath. ‘If you can’t stand without toppling, then why bother putting a weapon in your hand.’
‘I am standing,’ Marian grumbles.
‘At best, you are wobbling attractively,’ he corrects. ‘The world will shove. Your job is to lean without falling.’
Little John moves first. The great frame that should belong only to a warrior bends with the grace of a tree in the wind – one leg rooted, the other lifted, arms rising slowly until his palms meet above his head.
His balance is astonishing; not a tremor disturbs him, though his bulk could crush the boards.
Then he shifts again, folding downward until his knuckles brush the floor, spine arched like a drawn bow.
‘Show-off,’ Allen grumbles. Then he adds to Marian, ‘He practises every morning. Says if he can balance the body, the heart follows.’
Little John only grins and holds another impossible pose: one arm extended, the other braced behind him, toes barely grazing the mat.
Allen watches the quiet display for a moment before muttering, ‘Lox says it’s his patience that makes John dangerous. That a man who can stand still for an hour without complaint can wait out a storm, or an army.’
Marian raises a brow, glancing between them. ‘You make it sound like he’s some kind of monk,’ she whispers.
Allen laughs. ‘Close enough. Though he’s got a temper when you cross him.
Ask Lox about the time John threw a drunkard halfway across a tavern because the fool called him lumber-brained.
’ He drops easily into a crouch, resting his elbows on his knees.
‘Lox was lucky they didn’t string them both up.
Though, to be fair, Lox could charm a gallows’ rope into loosening if he wanted to.
That’s half the reason the rest of us stick around. ’
Marian attempts to mimic John’s stance, bending one leg and extending the other, but immediately topples sideways. The ache in her chest smarts as her arms flail.
‘How long have you been his . . .’ She hesitates on the word. ‘Merry Men?’
Allen barks a laugh and darts close, catching her elbow.
‘Lox hates that name more than Robin Hood. Says it makes us sound like court jesters rather than thieves and rebels.’ He grins at John, who snorts quietly through his nose.
‘We’re not Lox’s anything, really, and he’d prefer it that way.
But he’s got our love, our loyalty, and our chaos, whether or not he wants it.
A leader who doesn’t want a throne is the only kind worth following. ’
‘Voice of the people,’ Marian murmurs before she can stop herself.
Allen’s mouth tilts. ‘He’d tell you the people already have voices. He just gets loud enough that the ones with crowns can’t pretend they don’t hear them.’
Little John nods once in agreement, folding easily until his arms splay wide, spine twisted in a way that would make a lesser man groan.
Yet his balance doesn’t falter for a breath.
‘Soft knees,’ Allen adds, steadying Marian as she bends forward again.
‘Don’t lock them. You’re not a tree trunk; you’re a willow. Bend, don’t snap.’
They watch Little John hold the pose longer than seems possible, breath deep and unhurried. When he straightens again, there’s a serenity about him that humbles her more than any display of strength could.
‘How did you all find one another?’ Marian grunts through gritted teeth as she struggles against gravity.