Thanks to everyone who reviewed and encouraged me to continue this story! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter (and the ones that will inevitably follow it). Again, your comments and feedback are much appreciated! -HJB

Rain. It was the worst part about living in a forest; the spongy, muddy earth, the constant struggle to keep wood dry for the fire, the dampness that seeped into one's clothing, the dreary light, the inevitable venture out into the downpour to hunt for game or watch the road for travelers. This was the third straight day of rain, and Will Scarlet was convinced that he was going to start sprouting mushrooms if he didn't dry out soon.

Aggravated, cold, and soaked to the bone, he ducked under the low, open shelter and shook the water from his hair.

"'Ey, watch it, Scarlet!" squawked Bull, cringing away from the droplets. "I just got meself dry!"

"If you're dry, then I'm king of the fairies," Will grunted, plopping down on one of the tree-stump chairs that sat by the fire and removing his sopping wet boots. He then peeled off his cowl and waistcoat, wrung them out, and hung them above the fire, where several articles of clothing were already drying.

"Where you been at, Will?" Much asked inquisitively. "We ain't seen you round here lately."

"Aye, we thought you'd taken off for good," said George.

Will smiled sardonically as he unbuckled his belt. "It'll take more than one little prick to get rid of me."

"Little?" Bull echoed. "I wouldn't call an arrow through the hand a little—"

"He's talking about Robin," George interrupted.

"Oh . . . Oh, 'ey, that wasn't very nice."

Will held up his right hand, showing off his spectacular scab and the yellowish, fading bruise around it. "Neither was this."

Effectively silenced, Bull turned away and went back to warming his hands while Will stripped down to his braies and hung up the rest of his clothes. The other outlaws were in similar states of undress, having already been out on patrol earlier that day. Now they were preoccupied with weapon-making; George was whittling arrow shafts, Much was sorting feathers for fletching, and Bull was attaching the vanes to the arrows. Will joined the others in mutual silence as they sat around the fire, listening to the rain pattering through the leaves of the trees above.

Will shivered as the flickering orange flames began to warm his cold, wet skin. This was much better than huddling over his own weak, smoldering campfire and trying to keep it from sizzling out of existence . Bloody weather. He wondered if Locksley was in camp or out "procuring donations" from the rich. He hoped for the latter. He'd managed to avoid running into Sherwood's great leader for an entire week, and frankly, if he never saw Locksley for the rest of his life, it would be too soon. However, the recent rain had finally driven Will out of his leaky hut and back into camp, which had changed dramatically since his last visit: tree-huts, rope bridges, a goat pen, a stable, an infirmary, even a little shelter where the children could play, swings and everything. It looked like a real village, not some shoddy campsite for the dregs of society.

It almost looked like home, Will thought distantly, gazing at the altered landscape and the familiar faces around him. As unattached as he was to his thieving compatriots, he felt glad to see them again, even if they weren't the smartest or best-looking blokes in the shire. They seemed to have forgotten about Will's act of mutiny a fortnight ago, which was some relief; the last thing he needed right now was another reason to be shunned. He already had enough trouble fitting in with the others, who harbored a natural distrust of anyone who didn't appreciate the fine art of breaking wind and belching ballads. But as leery as they were around Will, they were more than happy to make use of his clever ideas, such as the rope in the river and the wind chimes on the edges of the forest. Will had also come up with the counter-weight trap for catching fish, and he was the only man in Sherwood who knew how to sew a proper pocket. A good thief always had a need for pockets, and Will's clothes had many.

As he pondered what to do with the rest of his day, approaching voices at the edge of camp interrupted his thoughts. His eyes narrowed as he recognized John's full-bodied laughter and Locksley's unusual accent. God, just what he needed—to be caught here, half-naked and soaking wet! No doubt Saint Robin would be stopping by the community fire to gloat and swagger on his latest success with his Merry Men. Will was disgusted at how eagerly the others had fallen into step behind their glorious, infallible leader. The fools would probably follow him over the edge of a cliff if he jumped.

Just as Will feared, the newly-arrived group began heading in his direction, guffawing and carrying on, their spirits sunny even in this abominable rain. He turned away and hunched down, hoping no one would notice him.

Bull and Much and George broke into smiles as Robin stepped under the shelter, streaming rainwater as if he'd just been hauled from a river. They helped him remove his wet, tangled quiver, then offered him a seat by the fire. He accepted it gratefully as the rest of his sopping comrades gathered about, jostling each other and talking loudly and flinging water all over Will, who by this point was ferociously annoyed.

"You should've seen the look on your face, Rob!" John laughed, his beard dripping. "When that stumpy little bugger stepped out of 'is carriage and drew 'is sword—ha!"

"Aye," agreed Arthur, "he had to have been two heads shorter than you!"

Robin grinned broadly and continued to pull off his wet clothes. "And yet he fought with the courage of a man twice his size—for that, I respect him. We would all do well to remember that you should never judge a man by his height . . . especially if it puts him within biting distance of your balls."

The men roared with laughter, and Will, despite his foul mood, snickered at the crude pun. Of course, Robin's eyes just happened to find him at that exact moment.

"Will," he said, sounding surprised.

"Locksley," Will muttered, his smile abruptly vanishing.

A hush fell over the group as they realized Will Scarlet was in their midst. The last time they'd seen him and Robin in the same place was two weeks ago, and the outcome had not been pleasant. Strong words had been exchanged, arrows shot, injuries delivered. What would happen now?

"Where have you been?" asked Robin lightly. "We've missed you at camp these last few days."

"Have you? Didn't realize my charming, friendly nature was so greatly appreciated round here."

Robin glanced over at Azeem as if to ask, what should I do now? The Moor, unwinding his dripping keffiyeh, gently shook his head. Robin sighed and, ignoring Will, asked John if he had some mead to warm their bones. John went to fetch his jug and slowly the men returned to their normal banter, pulling off their wet outer layers and hanging them up to dry.

Will crossed his arms over his bare chest and stared into the fire, determined to pretend as if no one else existed. If Locksley tried to speak to him again, he'd just take his clothes and leave. Being wet and cold was better than being in the presence of that ignorant, intolerable . . .

Robin stood and peeled off his undershirt, and a quiet lull once again settled among the men. Will looked up, wondering what had stolen everyone's attention, and was greeted by the sight of Locksley's naked torso stretching as he hung his shirt from the rafter above. But it wasn't his body that had alarmed Will—it was the scars. Dozens of them. Long, white, upraised scars striping across Locksley's chest and back and ribs and arms, some of them crisscrossing, as if he'd been whipped repeatedly for years on end. Who had beaten him, and for what reason?

Robin noticed the silence and the astounded eyes on him, and he sat down self-consciously.

"Beggin' your pardon, Master Robin," said George meekly, "but what . . . where did . . . ?"

"The Crusades," Robin softly answered . "I was imprisoned in Jerusalem for five years. The only fighting I did was for my own life . . . and my sanity."

Will forced himself to look away. Five years? God, the suffering he must have endured, getting beaten like that by his savage captors for five long years! It was inconceivable. Will would have sooner died than faced torture like that. How could anyone have the strength to survive for so long in those conditions? Surely he had been starved and chained, whipped for sport, tormented and humiliated. Gradually, Will began to wonder if five years of hell could compare with eighteen years of poverty, if it was possible that Robin of Locksley had changed from the spoiled little tyrant he had been so long ago . . .

Will glanced down at his right hand, at the healing puncture which now seemed as insignificant as a scratch. "Did it hurt?" he asked.

Robin gazed at him for a moment or two, then said, "Every waking moment."

Before Will could speak again, John returned with the mead and soon the somber mood began to fade with the pleasant comfort of home-brewed hooch. Robin's scars were forgotten and the joking and laughter began anew, but Will remained withdrawn and quiet, staring into the fire, lost in his thoughts.

As the day grew late and the rain began to dissipate, the men gathered their dry clothes and one by one went their separate ways. Will was reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire, but neither did he want to stay—the longer he lingered, the more difficult it would be to pull himself away.

As he was getting dressed, he heard Robin remark, "That's an interesting waistcoat you have, Will."

Wonderful. Another attempt at conversation.

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you mean," Will retorted.

"That's not what I meant. I was . . . admiring the craftsmanship."

"Thanks, my mother made—" Will balked. He'd said too much. Again.

Robin's face brightened. "Your mother made that? It's beautiful. You must be very proud."

"Not anymore. She's dead."

Robin paused awkwardly. "I'm sorry. Did she . . . What was her trade?"

Honestly, didn't this fool know when to shut up? "Textiles," Will muttered, fastening his belt. "Weaving. Sewing. Spinning."

"Ah. And did she teach you anything?"

Will shot a glare toward Robin. "Why do you ask?"

Robin shrugged, feigning ignorance. "You seem to be the best-dressed outlaw in Sherwood. Either you're an excellent thief or a master of the thread."

"I'm both," Will snapped. "Would you care to see a demonstration? I'd be more than happy to sew your mouth shut and steal your sword."

Robin smiled broadly. "I think I'll pass, but thank you for the offer."

God, how Will loathed this man. If only he could punch that wide, jackass-grin off of his smug, stupid face, he wouldn't ask for anything else in the world.

"It's an intricate design," Robin continued, gesturing to the waistcoat. "Do you like wolves, Will?"

"Better than you."

"They are fearsome animals, aren't they?" Robin wondered aloud, completely ignoring the insult. "Strong, solitary, mysterious. Is that why you admire them?"

Will couldn't take it anymore; he would rather throw himself onto a broadsword than spend one more second with this infuriating imbecile. He hastily finished lacing his boots and stormed out of the shelter, breaking into a trot and putting as much distance between himself and Locksley as quickly as he could.

Robin crossed his arms and watched Will Scarlet disappear from view. How on earth could anyone be so easily offended? It was as if Robin's very presence brought out the worst in Will, even though he was being friendly and conversational—could they not even speak to one another without arguing? Lord, what a frustrating boy! His mother must have had the patience of a saint . . . May she rest in peace, Robin added thoughtfully.

"Azeem, do you think I was too—" But when Robin turned, he found that the Moor had vanished.

"Of course, always there when I need you," he muttered, shaking his head. Well, no sense standing here and talking to himself like a lunatic; he had work to do, particularly the divvying of that day's spoils among the needy villagers and the suffering residents of Nottingham. Fanny seemed to know every family in the shire—her advice would be helpful.

With a more feasible goal in sight, Robin left the shelter and pointed himself purposefully in the direction of the Little household.

Will slowed to a brisk walk as he neared the edge of camp. The women were out and about now that the rain had ceased, busily tending stewpots, sending the older children on errands, and letting the little ones have a bit of playtime outside. The air was rich with the smell of supper, making Will even more reluctant to return to his hut. But he had no friends here—not anymore, thanks to Locksley—and he was too proud to ask for handouts. No, he would go back to his shoddy little shelter and scrape the mold off of his bread and at least be thankful that he didn't—

"Salaam, Will."

No man in Nottingham could sneak up on Will Scarlet, the thief with the eyes of an owl and the ears of a wolf; but this day, Will Scarlet jumped with surprise as Azeem suddenly appeared from around a tree.

"God!" he cried, then immediately tried to calm himself, embarrassed by his outburst.

"Nervous, my friend?" Azeem asked concernedly.

"No. I, ah . . . I've got a lot on my mind."

"And not enough in your belly. You look thin."

"I'm fine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to Castle Scarlet—"

Azeem was not convinced, and reached out a hand to stop Will in his tracks. "Join me for the evening meal. I would be glad for your company."

Will was also not convinced, and he scoffed incredulously. "My company? That's a poor joke, Azeem, even for you."

"Then allow me to examine your hand again. I am interested in seeing your improvement."

Realizing that the Moor was not going to take 'no' for an answer, Will sighed and pretended to be highly inconvenienced, though in reality he was more thankful than words could express. "All right," he grumbled, "but as long as you don't make me drink that awful tea again."

Azeem smiled and put a friendly arm around Will's shoulder. "I would not dream of it."

Hallelujah—a dry hut, a warm fire, and a bowl of hot stew! After two weeks' living on the outskirts, Will felt as if he were in heaven. He tried to remember his manners and not wolf down his supper, but he'd been living off of tasteless trout and rock-hard bread for days, and this was the first decent meal he'd eaten in over a week. He was so grateful to Azeem that he became something of an awkward, bashful oaf; it wasn't often he was shown such kindness and respect, and he was poorly equipped to deal with this unusual treatment. He did his best though, stammering out his thanks every so often, hoping that he wasn't somehow insulting his host.

If Will's manners were wanting, Azeem took no notice. He carried on a pleasant, casual conversation with his guest, avoiding the topic of Robin or Will's painful past, and even managed to lure a few chuckles out of the lad by telling him humorous stories from his homeland. He had the feeling that joy spent too little time dwelling in Will's heart, and did his best to amuse him without seeming patronizing.

". . . so Mullah Rashad says, 'Then the half of you who know what I am going to say can tell the other half!' and then he left."

Will snorted and laughed. "That's clever! Are all the people where you come from so smart?"

"No," said Azeem, smiling gently. "We have our fools and our simpletons, the same as any people."

Will set aside his empty bowl and reclined on the comfortable pallet he'd been offered. "It must be hard for you to be so far from home."

"Not as hard as one would imagine. Besides, I have always wanted to see the world."

"Even if it means being an outcast, having people turn you away simply because of how you look or . . . or where you come from?"

Azeem detected the hint of melancholy in Will's tone and suspected that he was no stranger to the hardships he had mentioned. He gazed at the young outlaw sympathetically. "The Greek philosopher Aristotle once said, the antidote for fifty enemies is one friend. So long as a man has one friend in this world, Will, he shall never be an outcast, and there will always be a home where he is welcomed."

Will was quiet, allowing the words to sink in as he stared at the fire with a sad, distant expression. "How did you come to be friends with a man like Locksley?" he asked softly. "He was your enemy, wasn't he?"

"Only because our countries told us we were," Azeem said. "Our faiths had nothing to do with it, for our God is one and the same. But in the prisons of Jerusalem we faced a common enemy, and that is where we became allies."

Will blinked in surprised. "You were imprisoned too?"

Azeem nodded. "Yes. And Robin chose to save me when other men would have saved themselves. I owe him my life, and have sworn a vow to repay my debt to him."

"And what happens when you do? Will you leave England and go back to your home?" Will looked distinctly troubled. He liked Azeem. He didn't want him to leave.

"No," said the Moor, shaking his head. "There is nothing left for me in my homeland. Besides, it would pain me to leave a country with such beautiful weather."

The two shared a chuckle at the obviously un-beautiful weather outside, though Will's ended with a lengthy yawn.

"You are tired," Azeem observed. "You are welcome to rest here tonight."

"Oh, no, I couldn't," Will objected, though there was nothing he wanted more than to spend the night in a warm, dry hut, with blankets that weren't soggy and dirty. "You've already done so much for me and I can't—"

"Please. I insist."

Will was feeling sleepy already, too sleepy to keep arguing. A belly full of stew and the fire crackling nearby guaranteed that he wasn't much longer for the waking world. "Well, since you insist," he murmured, stretching out on the pallet. "But just for a . . . little while. I don't want to . . . be a nuisance . . ." He was asleep almost before he could finish his sentence.

Azeem smiled down at him and pulled a blanket over his body in an oddly parental gesture. "Sleep well, sadiq," he said, patting Will's shoulder. "Perhaps the sun will shine tomorrow."