A hand fell out of the silence onto his shoulder. Chilled fingers burned through his tunic like a brand. Tensed, his arms tightened around their crumpled, pathetic burden. Blonde hair streaked with blood fell across his arm like a shroud. Will Scathlock knelt in the dust, cradling her broken body like a sleeping baby. The bravest of his neighbors had touched him with a hand, full of fearful pity. Ranging behind him, they advanced like a wall of shields, invading his view, prying her gently but firmly from the cooling circle of his arms. They would insist, too late, in giving aid. Then the cold November night swallowed him in its dark silence.

* * * *
The cold midwinter sun shone in the crisp quiet, glinting on twin pools of blood, which soaked slowly into the pale grass. Will Scarlet stood over the fallen mercenaries, his eyes full of that cold November night. The sound of their terrified horses crashing through the undergrowth mixed with her trampled screams, then faded into the distance. Total, unbroken, the silence enveloped him, filling him as Guy of Gisburne rode into the clearing.
* * * *
A young man's frantic breathing echoed off the walls like a hundred Whispering ghosts. Light swam through the air, filtered through the dungeon's single opening, a grille in the ceiling which broke the gloom into shimmering squares. There were two of them this time, he noticed. One curly haired and terrified, clinging to the other, a dark-haired young man with a face full of unconcealed concern.

"The devils will come. The devils will come," the younger one gasped as the other tried desperately to calm him.

A moment. A decision.

Will Scarlet spoke, and the silence splintered into a thousand piercing fragments.