The Masked Myrtle

The first sign that the Masked Myrtle had been there was not the missing coin, nor the slit purse, nor even the quiet absence of a man who had once thought himself untouchable.

It was the leaves.

Three of them. Always three.

Glossy, dark, and fragrant when crushed between the fingers—myrtle leaves, placed with deliberate care. Sometimes on a windowsill. Sometimes on a corpse. Sometimes tucked beneath a ring or pinned with a dagger into oak.

The people whispered.

Some said she was a ghost.

Some said she was a devil.

Others, quieter, said she was justice.

The Sheriff of Nottingham called her a nuisance.

Robin Hood called her a problem.

“She’s interfering,” Robin said, pacing before the low-burning fire in the heart of Sherwood. The Merry Men watched him in varying states of concern and amusement.

“Interfering?” Much laughed, leaning back against a log. “She robs the rich. Sounds familiar.”

“She doesn’t share,” Little John added.

“That’s the problem,” Robin snapped. “We’ve had three caravans this month already hit before we could get to them. She leaves nothing but those leaves—no coin, no supplies, nothing for the poor.”

Will Scarlet twirled a dagger idly. “Maybe she gives it elsewhere.”

“Or keeps it,” John muttered.

Robin stopped pacing. “Either way, she’s operating in my forest.”

“Your forest?” Much grinned. “Careful, Robin, the trees might start charging rent.”

Robin ignored him. “She’s reckless. And worse—she’s unpredictable. She kills when she deems it necessary.”

A silence fell.

That part wasn’t rumor.

They’d seen it.

Men with blackened throats. A nobleman found with a blade between his ribs and three leaves resting over his heart. A tax collector who had vanished, only for his signet ring to appear days later nailed to the sheriff’s door—with three myrtle leaves beneath it.

“She’s not like us,” Robin said quietly.

“No,” said Little John. “She’s not.”

That night, the Masked Myrtle watched them.

She crouched in the high limbs of an ancient oak, the bark rough beneath her gloved fingers. Below, the Merry Men laughed, sang, and argued over the last of the ale.

Her eyes lingered on Robin.

He was not what the ballads made him.

Less polished. More dangerous. There was something in the way he moved, in the way the others deferred to him even in jest. He wore leadership like a second skin, though he seemed unaware of it.

She studied him the way she studied all obstacles.

Measured. Calculated.

Dismissed.

He was competition.

Nothing more.

She shifted, her cloak whispering softly with the movement. The half-mask pressed against her nose and cheeks, the kerchief damp from her breath. Beneath the layers, her lips curved in something almost like amusement.

Robin Hood thought Sherwood was his.

How quaint.

She moved at dusk the next day.

A merchant convoy, heavily guarded, cutting through the eastern road. The kind of target Robin’s band would normally strike.

She arrived first.

The guards never saw her properly. Only glimpses—a shadow slipping between trees, a flicker of movement, the whisper of steel.

One fell with a poisoned dart.

Another with a blade across the throat.

The rest scattered in confusion, shouting, firing arrows at nothing.

She dropped from above, silent as falling ash, and landed behind the last man standing. He turned too late. Her dagger pressed beneath his jaw.

“Run,” she whispered.

He did.

She let him.

Fear was a better message than death.

When it was done, she rifled through the caravan with practiced efficiency. Gold, jewels, ledgers—anything of value vanished into her satchel.

Then, carefully, she placed three myrtle leaves atop the overturned chest.

A signature.

A warning.

A promise.

Robin arrived too late.

Again.

He crouched by the chest, staring at the leaves. His jaw tightened.

“She’s taunting us,” Will said.

“No,” Robin murmured. “She’s claiming territory.”

Little John folded his arms. “What’s the plan, then?”

Robin stood. “We find her.”

“And do what?” Much asked.

Robin’s gaze hardened. “End it.”

But the Masked Myrtle was not so easily found.

She moved like rumor—unseen, half-believed, always just beyond reach.

Until the night she chose otherwise.

It was raining.

A soft, persistent drizzle that turned the forest into a haze of silver and shadow. The kind of night where sound carried strangely, where footsteps were swallowed and shapes blurred at the edges.

Robin was alone.

Or so he thought.

He had followed a trail—deliberately left, he realized too late. A series of signs subtle enough that only someone like him would notice.

A broken twig.

A scuffed patch of earth.

A single myrtle leaf caught on a thorn.

He stepped into a clearing.

And waited.

“You’ve been busy,” he said into the dark.

A soft laugh answered him.

“Not as busy as you,” came a voice—low, muffled by cloth, but unmistakably amused.

She stepped into view.

Cloaked in black and green, blending seamlessly with the forest. The half-mask concealed her upper face; the kerchief hid her mouth. Only her eyes were visible—sharp, bright, and entirely unafraid.

“The great Robin Hood,” she said. “I was beginning to think you’d stopped looking.”

Robin studied her. “You wanted to be found.”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

She tilted her head. “Curiosity.”

“Dangerous thing.”

“For some.”

Rain pattered softly between them.

“You’re in my forest,” Robin said.

She laughed again, quieter this time. “You keep saying that.”

“And you keep ignoring it.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Why?” he pressed.

She took a step closer. Then another. “Because I don’t answer to you.”

“I don’t ask for obedience,” Robin said. “Just cooperation.”

“Cooperation?” She stopped a few paces away. “You mean submission.”

“I mean working together.”

“I work alone.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Another step. Closer now.

Robin didn’t move.

“You’re efficient,” he admitted. “But reckless.”

“And you’re idealistic,” she countered. “But slow.”

A flicker of something passed between them—challenge, perhaps.

Or recognition.

“You kill,” Robin said.

“When necessary.”

“That’s not justice.”

“It’s reality.”

Rain traced a line down the edge of her mask.

“And what would you know of reality, Robin Hood?” she asked softly.

“Enough,” he said.

“Not enough,” she replied.

She was close now. Close enough that he could see the faint rise and fall of her breath beneath the kerchief. Close enough to notice the tension coiled in her frame.

Close enough that something shifted.

She moved suddenly.

Not away.

Toward him.

In a blur of motion, she closed the distance, her hands gripping his shoulders as she surged forward. Robin barely had time to react before she was on him, pushing him back a step, then another.

He caught her wrists—but she twisted free with practiced ease, her movements fluid, precise.

And then—

She tore the kerchief down.

The mask followed.

The hood slipped back.

And for the first time, the Masked Myrtle had a face.

Dark hair spilled loose, damp with rain. Her skin glowed faintly in the dim light, her lips parted slightly as she looked at him—really looked at him.

Something flickered in her eyes.

Not recognition.

Not quite.

Something else.

She exhaled softly.

“Well,” she murmured. “You’re not what I expected.”

Robin opened his mouth—

But she didn’t let him speak.

She surged forward again, this time with no hesitation, no restraint.

And kissed him.

It was not a tentative kiss.

It was bold. Certain. Claiming.

Robin froze.

For a heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

And then he pulled back, startled, his hands coming up between them.

“What—?”

She blinked.

Just once.

And in that single moment, everything changed.

Her eyes sharpened. Focused.

Truly saw him.

Not the silhouette. Not the shape.

Him.

Recognition hit like a blade.

“You—” she breathed.

Robin stepped back. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”

Silence crashed down between them, broken only by the rain.

Her expression shifted.

Shock.

Then confusion.

Then something far more dangerous.

Understanding.

“You’re not—” she began, then stopped.

“No,” Robin said carefully. “I’m not.”

Her lips parted again, but no sound came out.

For the first time, the Masked Myrtle looked uncertain.

“I thought—” she started, then cut herself off with a sharp shake of her head.

Robin raised an eyebrow. “You thought I was a woman?”

A flash of irritation crossed her face. “In the dark. Cloaked. Alone. It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.”

“It’s a rather bold one,” he said dryly.

She ignored that. Her gaze dropped briefly, then snapped back up. “You shouldn’t have been here.”

“You invited me.”

“I didn’t invite that,” she snapped, gesturing vaguely at him.

Robin folded his arms. “That being me?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he said, “I can hardly change that now.”

Another silence.

This one heavier.

More complicated.

“Who are you?” Robin asked.

She hesitated.

For a long moment, it seemed she might vanish back into the trees, retreat into shadow and myth once more.

But something had shifted.

Masks removed—literally and otherwise.

There was no going back to anonymity.

Not entirely.

She exhaled slowly.

“My name,” she said, “is Hadassah.”

The name hung in the air between them.

Robin nodded once. “Hadassah.”

“You won’t tell them,” she said sharply.

“Tell who?”

“The Merry Men. The Sheriff. Anyone.”

“That depends.”

Her eyes narrowed. “On what?”

“On whether you’re going to keep making my life difficult.”

A faint smirk touched her lips. “I make everyone’s life difficult.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Another pause.

Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.

It was softer than before. Less guarded.

More real.

“You’re not what I expected either,” she admitted.

“Seems to be a theme tonight.”

They stood there, rain-soaked and breathing hard, the tension between them no longer purely adversarial.

Something else had taken root.

Something neither of them fully understood yet.

“You thought I was a woman,” Robin said after a moment.

Hadassah groaned softly, dragging a hand over her face. “Must you keep saying that?”

“It’s memorable.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s also informative.”

She frowned. “How so?”

Robin tilted his head. “You don’t strike me as someone who makes careless assumptions.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why that one?”

She hesitated again.

Then, quieter: “Because I wanted you to be.”

Robin didn’t respond immediately.

When he did, his voice was gentler. “Why?”

Hadassah looked away.

For the first time, she seemed… vulnerable.

“I prefer women,” she said simply.

The words were matter-of-fact. Unapologetic.

But there was something beneath them. Something older. Heavier.

Robin nodded slowly. “I see.”

“Do you?” she challenged.

“Enough.”

She studied him, searching for judgment.

Finding none.

Only curiosity.

And something like understanding.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said.

“Which one?”

“What you’re going to do about me.”

Robin considered that.

“You’re good,” he said finally.

“I know.”

“You’re dangerous.”

“I know that too.”

“And you’re not going to stop.”

She met his gaze evenly. “No.”

Robin sighed. “Then I suppose I’ll have to adapt.”

Her brow furrowed. “Adapt?”

“You work alone,” he said. “Fine. But we don’t have to be enemies.”

She crossed her arms. “We’re competitors.”

“Only if we choose to be.”

“And if I don’t choose that?”

Robin shrugged. “Then we keep crossing paths. Keep interfering with each other. Until one of us gets tired of it.”

“And which one will that be?”

He smiled faintly. “Not me.”

She held his gaze.

Then, slowly, something like a smile answered his.

“Not me either,” she said.

The rain began to ease.

The clearing felt different now.

Less like a battlefield.

More like… a beginning.

Hadassah pulled her mask back up, tying it into place with practiced hands. The kerchief followed, hiding her expression once more.

But not entirely.

Her eyes were still visible.

And they were different now.

“You won’t tell them,” she said again.

Robin shook his head. “Your secret’s safe.”

“For now.”

“For as long as you don’t give me reason otherwise.”

She nodded once.

A silent agreement.

She stepped back into the shadows.

Paused.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she flicked something toward him.

Robin caught it.

Three myrtle leaves.

He looked up.

She was already gone.

In the days that followed, the stories changed.

The Masked Myrtle still struck.

Still vanished.

Still left her leaves.

But sometimes—

Not always, but sometimes—

There was something else left behind.

A second mark.

Subtle.

Easy to miss.

Unless you knew what to look for.

And Robin Hood did.

Their paths crossed again.

And again.

No longer purely adversaries.

Not quite allies.

Something in between.

Something complicated.

Something unfinished.

And in the quiet moments, when the forest stilled and the world held its breath, Robin would sometimes find himself thinking of that night.

Of rain and revelation.

Of masks falling away.

Of a kiss meant for someone else—and yet, somehow, not entirely misplaced.

As for Hadassah—

The Masked Myrtle—

She never made that mistake again.

But she never quite forgot it either.

Not the shock.

Not the realization.

And not the strange, unexpected way it had changed everything.

Because for all her skill, all her secrecy, all her careful control—

That night had revealed more than her face.

It had revealed her.

And there was no hiding from that.