The trail was gentle and winding, littered with autumn leaves in browns and golds that crunched underfoot as they walked. The distant sound of burbling water hinted at the presence of a stream nearby, and the occasional twitter of birds settling to roost floated down from the trees. Will tilted his head back to take in the softly rustling canopy.
"Forest stories," he mused. "I ever tell you how I met Johnny? S'pose it's not much of a story, really, they all happened the same way. Robin goes off on his merry wanderings, decides to pick a fight with some unsuspecting fellow and gets his own arse handed to him."
Chances were his story had been something similar. If there had been a story to begin with; maybe there hadn't. As far as Will knew, there had been nothing before the greenwood. He had strode into the world full-formed, walking at Robin's left hand, in a place not unlike this. Maybe, as some thought, he was simply an accident born of misunderstanding: an obscure version of Will Scarlet's name spun into a whole new character.
Perhaps that was why he couldn't keep himself together by himself, when none of the others seemed to have any such trouble keeping their heads straight. He'd never had any story of his own. He wrenched himself from that thought, forced himself instead to think of Robin, drenched and sputtering as he'd dragged himself from the river, John staring down from the bridge in bemusement.
"It was quite the sight," he said, with a small quirk of the mouth. "John, seven foot tall and wide as a bloody ox, and Robin might as well have been a gnat beside him. By the time we all arrive on the scene, Robin's flailing about in the river, soaked to the skin, and he says, 'Hold up, lads, I've got him right where I want him now!'" He chuckled. "Had a proper piss-up that night. At some point I upended a full pot of ale on Johnny's head and christened him Little John. We've been mates ever since."