Chapter Text
Hob twiddled his fingers as he paced the clearing in the forest that was slowly becoming less like a temporary hideout and more like a home. He was practically twitching out of his skin, the everyday tasks of life not enough to hold his interest.
With a huff, he dressed himself in Lincoln green and brown leather, slung a quiver of arrows over his back, and took his stout longbow in hand. “Lads! He called. The fellows briefly looked up from what they were doing. “I’m off hunting, if you hear me blow my horn three times that means my ass is in trouble and I need your help.” He turned on his heel with a cheery wave, leaving the band’s laughter behind him.
The greenwood was an idyllic paradise that day- the sun was shining, the birds were singing, a crisp breeze ruffled his hair under his cap. He followed the paths to the edge of the forest where they rejoined the main road to Nottingham, where he tarried for a while, politely and kindly greeting everyone he passed- a fair maid who gave him a flirty wink, a monk followed by a laden donkey, a knight in shining armor.
When the sun hit its zenith, he turned back to the forest, heading towards the sounds of a babbling brook. He bumped into Alan a-Dale at the tree line, on his way back from town- he had been bargaining with several farmers and merchants who were sympathetic to their cause. As usual his bright blue cape was about his shoulders, his wooden lute across his back, a small sheaf of parchment bound in leather tucked into his belt. Sherwood Forest was bountiful, and had the resources to serve most of the band’s needs, but there were some things that could only be procured from their fellow man.
As the brook came into view, along with the stout wooden bridge that spanned it, Hob saw another man approaching from the opposite direction. Chuckling to himself, Hob quickened his strides, Alan trailing curiously after him. The other did the same, each thinking they would be the first to cross.
They reached the bridge at the same time.
Hob planted the end of his bow in the ground with a beaming grin. “Stand aside friend,” he called across the bridge, “And let the better man cross first.”
The stranger, who he could now see was a giant of a man with bright red hair and beard, and a sturdy quarterstaff in his hands threw his head back and laughed. “Then you should be the one stepping aside, for I’m the better man by far.” Alan couldn’t help his little snort of laughter. Hob was tall and broad, but this man was taller and broader by far, the largest either of them had ever seen. Not only was he broad and tall, each limb was corded with muscles that had clearly known hard labor and possibly combat.
Hob’s smile became slightly manic as he drew an arrow and slowly fitted it to his bow. “We’ll see how much better you are with an arrow in your gut.”
The stranger frowned and held his staff out before him. “I’ve only a staff and you threaten me with a longbow and a gray goose shaft. What kind of coward-”
“You dare call me coward, ass?” Hob shot back, his smile starting to morph into a snarl. “Hah! Very well then, I’ll carve myself a staff.” He snapped the arrow back into his quiver and stomped to the tree line. Alan opened his mouth to try and reason with the two hotheads who seemed intent on fighting, but he could tell by the set of Hob’s shoulders that he would get nowhere. With a sigh, he sat on the gently sloping bank leading into the brook and unslung his lute from his back, humming to himself as he tuned the instrument.
With his hunting knife, he hewed down a sturdy oak branch and trimmed off the twigs. When he was happy with its size, he returned to the bridge: the stranger was waiting for him in the middle, leaning casually on his staff. Hob dropped his bow and knife, and unslung the quiver from his back. He met the stranger on the bridge and mimicked his stance.
“Right then! I have my staff, let us have at it until one of us ends up in the water, agreed?”
“Agreed!” the stranger replied, quickly twirling the staff in his hands before aiming a quick feint to Hob’s side.
Hob realized too late that it was a trick; the other end of the giant’s staff was practically waiting to meet him as he dodged the false strike. He barely got his own up in time to block it.
They traded blows back and forth for the better part of an hour, the clacks and thuds of their staffs meeting interspersed with grunts when a hit was struck, and shouts of abandon. It wasn’t a perfect fight to be sure; they each struck several solid blows on the other, but none hard enough to cry ‘hold.’ However, both knew they would be black and blue the next morning, and aching something fierce.
“Hah!” the giant shouted with a smile as he aimed a quick strike at Hob’s shoulder, “I should ask payment for what I’m teaching you here today.”
“I would consider it money well spent!” Hob replied with a laugh, slipping backward to avoid his opponent’s next swing.
Every now and then they paused to lean on their staffs and catch their breath, thinking that they had never seen their opponent’s equal in skill with a quarterstaff. They would pant for breath, exchange brief smiles, take their staffs in hand, and begin the dance again.
Finally, Hob managed to smack the giant on the ribs with the end of his staff, hard enough to release a small puff of dirt from the leather jerkin covering his tunic. The other man grunted and crumpled around the blow, but it was still not enough to send him into the water. Instead, he breathed through his teeth as he hoisted himself upright.
The giant’s next blows came quickly, one right after the other, darting all about Hob’s body like a swarm of bees looking for places to sting. He blocked all except for the last, aimed at his head: the end of the staff made solid contact with his temple, and Hob went careening into the brook.
The shock of cold water soaking into his clothes was enough to drive away the temporary dizziness caused by the strike. When his vision refocused, he saw the giant standing tall and proud on the bridge, the end of his staff planted against the boards, his free hand pointed at Hob, and a jovial laugh pealing through the wood.
Hob was about to take offense at this stranger mocking a defeated opponent, but his laugh was without malice. After taking a look at himself, Hob had to admit that he indeed was a sight, all bruised and soaked through like a drowned rat.
And as he half sat, half laid in the shallow water, he couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up in his chest.
Still laughing, the giant hopped off the bridge onto the gently sloping bank and held out a helping hand. Grunting as his head throbbed in time with his pulse, Hob took his hand and let the giant easily haul him to his feet. Hob only managed the few steps it took to get out of the water before plopping back down next to Alan, holding his head with a smiling grimace.
“How’s the head?” the stranger asked with a chortle, leaning on his staff.
“Humming like a swarm of bees,” Hob groused with another little laugh. Alan gave him a very ‘I told you so’ grin.
“I hope you’ll not hold it against me.”
“On the contrary,” Hob replied, squinting up at the giant, “I love a man that can best me. And well done.”
The giant chuckled again, staring bashfully at the ground. “What’s your name, friend?”
“Robin to strangers, Hob to friends.”
“Hob, eh?” The giant let his bulk fall to the ground as he sat next to Hob, who was still grousing over the growing goose egg on his head. “Wait…” he took in the rest of Hob’s attire. “Not Robert Gadling.” Hob nodded, and the giant’s smile grew. “I’m Olethros, Ollie to my friends.”
“Ollie,” Hob repeated with a smile. “Rather glad I fell in with you.”
“‘Twas he who did the falling in,” Alan quipped.
Hob laughed with a slight grimace. “I wanted to see what you were made of, and God’s wounds, I did.”
The giant let out a little sigh, as if gathering courage to speak his mind. “I’d very much like to join your company.”
Hob let out a bark of laughter and offered his hand to Ollie to shake. “If you can hold a breach like you held that bridge you’re one of us, and welcome.” Ollie gave it a shake, dwarfing and swallowing up Hob’s hand in the process. Hob gestured to the man on his other side with a jerk of his chin. “This is Alan a-Dale.”
The two nodded at each other over Hob’s shoulder. “Seems a bit more brains than brawn,” Ollie said slowly, somehow both a compliment and a criticism at once. Alan chuckled smugly as he offered his hand to shake.
They sat by the brook and chatted amiably until Hob’s head was no longer pounding in time with his pulse. When he was ready, the three hauled themselves to their feet and set off toward the camp, already laughing as if they were lifelong comrades.
“Hob!” Will Scarlet cried once they reached the camp, “There you are, we were starting to fear the worst!” He gave Hob a bewildered once-over. “You’re soaked!” Hob laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
“No need to worry Will, just took a little tumble into the brook.”
“Actually,” Alan interjected, a roll already in his hand, “He took a rather large tumble, courtesy of our new friend here.”
“And who’s that?” Will asked, his eyes momentarily bugging out as he took in Ollie’s stature.
“Ollie,” Hob answered, “He’s come to join us.”Ollie held out his hand for Will to shake, swallowing the other’s fingers the same way he had Hob’s.
“Can I just say,” Will half squeaked, “I’m rather glad you’re with us and not against us.” Ollie threw his head back and laughed, loud and merry.
“Nice to meet you as well.”
Hob had been circling around the camp, exchanging greetings with his men, sharing jokes, taking a sip out of every mug offered to him. “Friends!” he yelled boisterously as he leaped onto a tree stump, a mug of ale in his hand. “Today we celebrate! As you can see, I am in a rather different state than when I left.” He paused for the chuckles. “No harm done, but it is all thanks to our new friend here.” He raised his mug in a toast to Ollie as Will shoved the giant forward.
“Ollie here is one of the finest fighters I’ve had the privilege to meet,” Hob continued, “Should he join us?” The entire band cheered their agreement.
“Then kneel, Olethros.” Hob jumped off the stump as Ollie took a knee and placed his free hand atop his head, fingers burrowing into the bright red locks. “Do you swear to despoil the rich, only to give to the poor, to shelter and protect the old and helpless whether they be man or woman, rich or poor; to fight for a free England until the return of our king Richard the Lionheart, and to fight to the death against our oppressors?”
“I do.” Olie’s proclamation was loud and strong.
“Then rise Ollie.” Hob offered his hand. “As new to the greenwood and our way of life, you are now known to the forest as…” he grinned. “Little John, a name to give those who are not yet friends. And welcome!”
Hob shoved the mug into Ollie’s hands as the band cheered again, and Ollie drained it dry in one swig. Alan took up his lute, and the celebration continued late into the night. Thus did Olethros become an outlaw by the name of Little John, Robin Hood’s stoutest companion.
