A/N: It's been a while since I've done a short angsty one-shot. And I've never done one for Will, so it's his turn now.
There was a crack in the wall, a sliver of a fracture, the stone forced open by a nail at the base. The crack ran along in a wrinkled smile of a line. In time the stone would weaken, the entire wall would be made vulnerable. But it was just a crack. Just a tiny little fissure in an otherwise solid foundation.
Will made note of it one early morning when he was pacing his room in Bassam's house. He was beardless and pale, a frightening outsider to the people of Acre. They all thought him to be a Crusader who betrayed his ranks.
They never imagined him to be just a man who followed his love.
He was tired—not being able to communicate wore him out. Not knowing what to do or say was taking its toll. Even in his worst days as an outlaw in Sherwood, he never felt so wholly unwelcome.
His mind wandered and he wondered how the lads were, if they were back in Sherwood yet, if the woods smelled damp and sweet, and the villagers smiled at the sight of them.
His heart ached to be in England almost as much as it longed to be with Djaq. And as fair as it was for him to live in her land since she lived in his, he couldn't feel glad about being in Palestine.
He looked back at the wall.
He remembered how his father taught him to patch up cracks. But would it be any good over here?