'Why? What had I ever done to you? Why?' The young Saracen man pleaded. Suddenly, blood began dripping from his chest and mouth, and he fell dead, an English arrow protruding from his chest. Robin rushed forward, catching the man before he hit the ground, but it was too late, he was already dead. Stunned he rose, glancing around the battlefield, his comrades gleefully slaughtering the remaining Saracens. It all seemed a blur. He looked down, his hands were bloody, not his own blood, but that of the man he had just caught. He tried to wipe the offending liquid off on his jerkin, but the stain on his hands remained. He tried again to clean the stain, but it remained, no matter how hard he tried to get rid of it. 'Stop!' he shouted into the storm of men, but no one seemed to hear him. 'Stop!' he implored again, falling to his knees. 'Stop this needless slaughter!' but still no one heard him. Once more he tried to rub the blood from off his hands, but now he saw that his whole body was covered with blood. 'No!' he cried feverishly. 'No!' he screamed. 'No…No…No…' Robin was jerked back to reality with a jolt, Much was shaking him awake.

"Master? Master are you all right? You were crying out in your sleep." He said in a concerned tone.

"It's all right Much, I'm fine, just go back to sleep."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite, now get some rest." Robin said, trying to smile a little. Much reluctantly returned to his pallet, watching his friend warily, but soon he was fast asleep, snoring contentedly. Robin sat up awake, staring into the embers of the fire. Again he heard the cries and clashes of battle and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to close out the noise, but the images were there too. The horrors of war he had seen often plagued his dreams, the men he had killed, so many good friends slain right before him. He ran his hands through his mussed hair, trying to focus on something else, but even thoughts of Marian couldn't stave off the scenes of battle. Overwhelming guilt began to weigh on him. He had tried to rationalize some of his actions, but he knew there was no excuse for the eagerness he had had at first. But not long after arriving in the Holy Land, after his first battle, he had been struck with the gritty realization of war. There was no glory, no grandeur. It was all blood, sweat and death. Blood, so much blood, and it was wrong, they were all so wrong. Why didn't anyone see that? That this 'Holy War' was nothing but a needless bloodbath that was destroying nations and lives.

He rose, and looked up in the midnight sky, riddled with silver stars. He decided a walk would help him clear his head, and he began off through the forest, his feet making barely a sound on the dead leaves. He wandered down a familiar path to where a little spring bubbled up from the ground. Kneeling by it's gurgling stream he splashed a handful of cool water on his face. Then he straitened, thinking he had gained composure, but the tears came. No sobs or whimpers, just great, large tears. He leaned against a nearby tree and turned his face into it, his head resting on his arm. What the sheriff wouldn't give to see me now, the great Robin Hood crying.' He thought. After a few moments he breathed a shaky sigh and lifted his head. These are things of the past. He told himself. You have a new cause now, your people. Your people who need you. With this thought comforting him some, he roughly wiped the tears away and washed his face in the stream, trying to get rid of any evidence of weeping. This was why he never spoke to Much about the Holy Land, he wished his friend could see that, but he knew if he tried, it would break him. With one last look at the dawning sky, he slowly returned to camp and fell into a troubled sleep.