Awake, Arise . . .

Because a.) there aren't enough Will S. fics, and b.) the series writers took the Handsome, Quiet One and made him fall in love with The Healer and never once gave us a plot where she gets to save his life!

In the show's anachronistic spirit, the songs & poems mentioned are not necessarily period to the 12th century, though some may be. My deepest apologies, especially, to G.K. Chesterton and other poets from whom I will borrow. The one thing in this fic which is purposefully NOT anachronistic (and definitely NOT in the spirit of the series) is the description of clothing. Because, for God's sake, the 12th century is the 12th century. Men wore tunics & hose & hoods. Not 16th century doublets. Not 21st century hoodies. Not 18th century cravats with 15th century tabards. AND WOMEN DID NOT WEAR CORSETRY - ESPECIALLY NOT AS OUTERWEAR. Please. For the love of God and country, STOP THE BLOODY, DAMNED COSTUMING NONSENSE. (Okay, rant over). Enjoy!

[One more note: if any of you have stumbled over here because you're wondering when I'm going to post the next few chapters to my damn Doctor Who fic . . . Well, let's just say I got a little stuck. The following fic is my attempt at getting unstuck. Hope you can half-enjoy anyway, and thanks for your patience!]

"Awake, arise, you drowsy sleeper,

Awake, arise, it's almost day,

How can you bear these thoughts of sleeping,

When your true love's going away?"

Will Scarlet rolled over on his back and gazed up through the slowly wakening Sherwood as the morning stars disappeared one by one. Through the thick morning mist, he could just make out Djaq, already up and helping Much prepare the breakfast fire. She was cycling through her usual run of English folk songs. Will thought to himself that it was high time he taught her a new one – maybe something a little more staid and appropriate for the early morning. Like "Queen Jane," perhaps . . .

"Oh go, love, go, and ask your father,

If this night you will be my bride,

O if he says no, then return and tell me,

'Twill be the last time I'll awaken you."

Will lay there for a while and listened. Djaq's voice was deep and sweet, like water from a well. Occasionally she would add in a snatch or two from an Arabic song – but these seemed to sadden her, and she would soon hum her way back to the more manageable folk-grief of her adopted land. The thought passed through Will's mind that he might be perfectly happy just lying there listening to her sing for years and years. But soon the birds added their morning chorus to Djaq's voice, and the sun's long fingers reached down through the trees and began lifting the surrounding mists like a bridal veil from the earth. True morning was upon them and it was time for all God's good outlaws to be up and making mischief.

"Today shouldn't be too exciting," said Robin, putting down his pottage bowl and reaching for his bow. "3 drop-offs in Edwinstowe, Wellow, and Earking - John & Djaq can handle that. Much, Allan, Will, and I are handling a prisoner extraction in Locksley."

"Prisoner extraction?" said Much as he gathered up empty dishes. "Don't we usually take a few days to plan those?"

"'Tis a bit last-minute, granted. Alice the smith's wife came to us very early this morning – Djaq had to wake me. Seems her son Tad was in his cups last night and was overheard by some of the Sherrif's men cursing King John at the pub. He was put in the stocks at Locksley and is due to have his hand cut off at sundown. Well, we can't have that, said I – so I told her we could get him out and smuggled away to Will's father in Scarborough."

"In broad daylight?" said John, cocking a skeptical eyebrow.

"Well, we've never let it stop us before," said Robin with his oh-so-confident sideways smile. Will grimaced. Robin meant that smile to be inspiring, but it inspired little more in Will nowadays than the remembered sensation of getting punched in the head with a mailed fist one-too-many times. Still, the thought of Tad, a childhood playmate and friendly rival of his youth, going through the horror of losing a hand . . . Will shook his head to clear it of the memory of his father's muffled screams.

"Just tell me Allan gets to be the decoy this time," said Will with a half-grin of his own.

"Oy," said Allan, tossing a knawed-over chicken bone in Will's direction. "How come it's always –"

"You two can argue all you like after the fact," said Robin. "It's a hurried plan, but I think it will work . . ."

Will frowned. He was going to have to put another hole or two in his belt – at the moment, laden with his favourite knives and throwing hatchets, it was threatening to slide right past his hips and end up around his ankles. Will bent over to find an awl amongst his tools, stood up, and the belt did just that. He hurriedly stepped out of it and looked around – to his relief no one seemed to have noticed. Allan had taken to calling him "Scarecrow Will" lately, and Djaq and Much were always trying to get him to eat more – but he could never seem to work up an appetite. He always had too much on his mind to enjoy eating. His father, his brother, his old friends back in Locksley, always one wrong word away from torture and death at the hands of the Sherrif – their faces filled his mind at night. But more and more, he admitted to himself, it wasn't their faces that came between his mind and his stomach – but a round, Saracen face with large ebony eyes and a gentle smile. With her sitting beside him at meals, he didn't seem to need food.

"You need to eat more," said a soft voice behind him, startling him so badly the awl punched through the leather of his belt and into his palm.

"I'm so sorry!" Djaq said as she hurried forward and pressed a piece of cloth to his throbbing hand, but Will didn't notice. Her men's apparel had been replaced with a lovely blue linen kirtle; and it hugged her form in just the right way to remind Will what a lovely woman she was underneath the tunic & hose she usually wore.

"Don't mind the hand," said Will, "it's not deep. You look . . . um . . ." The words Will wanted to say caught in his throat. "You look, er, like a woman . . ."

Djaq rolled her eyes. "I should hope so! I'm not supposed to be passing for John's brother when he goes on these runs! Are you sure your hand is alright?"

Will could only nod and hope his face wasn't turning as bright pink as he felt it was.

"I only came over here because I need someone to lace-up this kirtle in the back – Much is utterly useless with laces!" She turned around without another word, the gaping back of the dress revealing her thin linen chemise, and barely concealed beneath that Will could make-out the perfect S-curve of her back. His fingers – usually so deft with wood, and tools, and locks – fumbled with the leather laces. He had only made it about half-way up her back when Allan popped his sardonic face out from behind a tree.

"Really, Will, you look like you haven't handled a woman ever in your life! Come on, Scarecrow, have you never tied-up a sheave of wheat or laced up a leather hose in your life? Allow me, m'lady . . ."

He elbowed Will aside and took over the lacing with swift & confident hands. Will was torn between the desire to run away and the violent urge to bash Allan's face into a tree-trunk. Unable to muster either of these options, he sat down and attacked his belt with an awl.

"There you are, doll –" Djaq cut Allan's sweet talk off with an elbow in the ribs. She turned around and smiled sweetly.

"Call me 'doll' again, Allan, and I will ensure you spend the rest of your short life breathing through your ears!"

Will never got to hear the response Allan was trying to formulate between the series of vocal sputtering which followed, because Robin called him over to help sharpen arrows. Djaq sat down next to Will.

"Let me see your hand." She took his left hand and turned it palm up, examining the coin-sized blue bruise with small dot of now-dried blood in the middle. "Let me clean it out, at least. Even the smallest wound can fester if it's contaminated"

She pulled a small bottle from the bag of medical necessities she always wore on her belt, and uncorked the water bottle that also hung there. She rinsed his palm with water, then poured an amber liquid from the smaller bottle over it. It stung, but Will was used to the bite of splinters and tools in the woodshop, so his face betrayed no pain when her eyes met his. She smiled. Did her eyes seem to linger on his face, and did her hand hold his for longer than was wont? Will did not think it was his imagination, but he scarcely dared to hope.

"There," she said, releasing his hand. "Now go off and be one of Robin Hood's men – and if he returns you any the least bit broken after I've gone to so much trouble keeping you whole, he will have me to answer to!" She put a hand behind his head and pulled it down to her level so she could plant a sisterly kiss on his forehead. "Stay safe." She turned and walked away without another word, the hem of her blue kirtle stirring the forest leaves behind her just as her smile had stirred Will's heart.

The plan, as always, was simple but relied perhaps a little too much on the general stupidity of anyone wearing the Sherrif's colors. Will thought so, anyway. He was loitering near his father's old house, which had been taken over by a new carpenter, and was pretending to study the different wares on display. To his left was Much, trying to look as non-chalant in his lookout roll as possible. On his right, just over his shoulder, were the stocks where Tad the Smith's son stood looking bruised and dejected, guarded by two of the Sherrif's men. All Will had to do was wait for the signal.

Suddenly, on the far side of the village, came Allan's familiar screech. "FIRE! HELP! FIRE! OUR GRAIN BARN'S AFIRE!" Will turned with the rest of the passersby, some of whom had already begun to run in the direction of where Allan had planted smoke-pots underneath the thatch of the grain barn. With any luck, no grain would actually be lost. But, for the moment, the more panic the better.

"Fire!" Will joined in the shouting and ran across the square. He turned, to be sure the Sherrif's men could hear him. "OUR GRAIN TAX TO THE SHERRIF IS IN THAT BARN! IT CAN'T BE LOST!"

The two guards looked at each other, then shuffled off to towards the shouting to see what glory might be in it for them if they saved the Sherrif's loot. Will shook his head. "It works every time," he muttered as he ran up to the stocks.

Tad looked up as soon as Will began fiddling with the lock.

"Oh, they're sending bloody carpenter's rats to do a smith's work now, is it? Tell Robin he needs a new business plan!"

Will gave him a play smack across the top of the head. "Don't fret yourself, Tad, I'll have this open before you can say 'The Sherrif's a Saracen.'"

"The Sherriff's a Saracen."

"Very funny. Hold still."

Two more clicks and the stock cross-piece popped open.

"You're not done yet," said Tad, straightening up with a groan. "They've chained my ankles as well."

Will examined this new challenge. The locks, one for each ankle, were brand new, with complicated catches. He knew he could do it, but it would take a few minutes longer than their plan allotted. With a series of short whistles like a cuckoo's call, Much was at his side.

"Tell Robin we'll need to prepare for a hot exit. The guards might be back before I can spring this lock."

"Oh, he'll enjoy that one, he will!" Much laughed, then stopped at the look on Will's face. "You're not joking. Damn. He's never joking. Why does he never joke . . .?" Much ran off to Robin's perch on the hill above town, still muttering to himself.

"I think we might have more to worry about than guards," said Tad. Looking up, Will followed his line of sight until he too noticed the plume of road-dust approaching ever closer. The catch he had been wrestling with gave way. One more to go. His hands worked so fast that his tools sparked on the new padlock.

"You have to get out of here, Will!" said Tad, moving as if to put his head back in the stocks. "It's just a hand. If they catch you, it's your life, or worse! But losing a hand – it's not an un-survivable loss. You should know."

Will didn't look up from his work, but he hoped Tad would catch all that was meant in his tone of voice. "Yes, yes I do know. And I'm not leaving."

Sooner than he liked, Much was running towards them. He was badly out-of-breath by the time he reached Will' side.

"Robin says . . . come right away . . . 50 of the Sherrif's men . . . be here in seconds."

"Well, he'll just have to keep 50 arrows at the ready because this lock isn't going to spring itself."

"Will, just leave me!" cried Tad.

"Much, get out of here!" Will could feel the last of the lock giving way.

"I can't –"

"Just GO! We'll catch up!"

Everything seemed to happen at once. Much started running. The padlock fell open. Will grabbed Tad around the waist and dragged him down from the platform just as the Sheriff's men came thundering around the corner and into the square. Guy of Gisbourne was at their head.

"That boy is a condemned prisoner!" He heard Guy shout as he ran. In a few more seconds, when Robin's hilltop perch still seemed miles away, he heard another order. "And those are Robin Hood's men! ARCHERS! LOOSE! DAMN YOU, LOOSE!"

Will and the others broke into a sprint of pure panic. From above, he could see Robin & Allan plying their bows, and could hear the screams behind him as each green-feathered shaft found its mark. But they didn't seem to thin the rain of arrows mercilessly seeking the fugitives. A spike of cold fear pierced him when he saw Much fall with an arrow in his back.

He stopped. The sight of Much's still form, and the sound of Robin's scream of rage from the hill above numbed any thought of self-preservation that might've reared its head at that moment. Tad had stopped as well, was slinging Much up on his broad, smith's shoulders. But he would need time to reach the hill. Will pulled a hatchet from his belt, and shouted , "RUN, Tad! I'll handle them! Just get him to Robin! And don't look back!"

He turned, somehow not surprised that the closest pursuer was but a hatchet's swing away. Two of the black-armoured men fell with cloven helmets before Will's left shoulder was enveloped with a deep, burning pain. He looked down and saw the feather –end of an arrow embedded just below his collarbone. He felt a heavy, mailed fist slam into the side of his head. "Djaq is going to kill Robin . . ." was his last thought before darkness utterly overwhelmed him.