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Chapter 18

Appearing to hang suspended above the campsite, a dense fog drifted at varying heights as the moon rose higher in the sky. The murky haze reached out with long, billowing wisps at the whim of the fickle breeze.

Embraced in the arms of sleep, the outlaws slumbered contentedly, relaxed now that their leader was safe within their home camp and recovering from his injuries. Unlike his companions, Robin stirred in his sleep, caught in the labyrinth between dreams and reality.

Unconsciously, Robin clutched for the presence that pressed against his side. Coming to full awareness, he found nothing of substance rested there; even Marian was curled up in her blanket and separated by a short distance. Whatever had been beside him seemed so…real? Robin stared at his palm still sensing the warmth of a presence. He shrugged off the strange feeling as the remnants of a vivid dream.

Shifting slightly to one side, the outlaw leader drew his blanket around him, grimacing as the still sensitive wound pulled with the movement. Carefully, he settled behind Marian spooning against her body and resting his right arm on her hip. Without waking, Marian sighed contentedly, and hugged his hand to her chest.

Robin smiled lovingly at her then was instantly alerted to a faint sound like the padding of paws traveling through the mist settling across the campsite. He reared up on his elbow, his eyes searching for any indication of an intruder.

But again, there was nothing, just the midnight vapors invading the forest. The outlaw summoned that intuitive sense, the one that makes some leaders great, and peered through the meandering fog. For just an instant, the nearly imperceptible shape of a familiar physique, characteristic of incredible swiftness and formidable strength, sat stoically at the top of the rise above the camp.

To many, the site of this animal symbolized the underworld, striking terror and panic in the hearts of nobleman and peasant, Christian clergy and pagan priests. Many thought the wolf a vicious beast, whose musical, mournful howl was unnerving, the portent of impending doom.

But to those who lived in the arms of the greenwood, the wolf symbolized life's cycle, the turning of the wheel. The balance and strength in nature was promised to all inhabitants who depended on its replenishment for their continued existence. In the golden, almond-shaped eyes was wisdom far beyond what most of mankind acknowledge…or even possess.

For an eternal moment, time stilled their heartbeat. A shared understanding bridged the physical distance of the two forest dwellers, both living dual lives: Predator and prey; hunter and hunted; outlaw and wolfshead. Fate bound them together in the spirit of Sherwood.

Fin

Author Note:

In the early Middle Ages, an outlaw was also called 'wolfshead.' Outlaws were outside the law and its protection; they could be hunted by anyone. Wolves, menaces to livestock, could also be hunted by anyone. And so when an authority figure, like the sheriff, wanted to get everyone to hunt down an outlaw he'd cry "Wolf's-head!"