Robin was scared. He was always scared, but he would never admit it. Even much and Marian didn’t know just how afraid he was.

He wasn’t afraid of the sheriff, or Gisbourne, or prince john, or …… death.

He was afraid of disappointing people. He was afraid of showing that he was scared. He was afraid of life.

Every minute he wondered what would happen to him, or Marian, or any of the gang. Who would be hurt because of him, who would die, who would suffer.

That’s why he hated to kill. It wasn’t that it was hard to do. It was because this person could be him. They could be leaving behind a life, a family, a friend.

He didn’t have a life. He didn’t have any family. He didn’t even know if he had friends. He was always worried that they might turn out like Allan and trick him or sell him to the sheriff.

He lived a sad life. He was scared to trust, he was scared to kill, and he was scared to hurt, he was scared of his dreams, he was scared of the war, he was scared to speak his mind.

He was scared to be happy, as it could all be snatched away from him in an instant, like it had been before, and leave him with nothing.

So he would hold on to all he had. And pray to god that his fears would be forgotten...one day.