Cinnamon. Sweet, amber spice; rich and exotic; Bitter. Nauseating. Foreign.

Veils. Floating paradise of silk flames against my skin; Garish. Sticky. Uncomfortable.

Sand. My heels sinking into the soft dunes of gold; Hot. Rough. Grainy.

The gang's gravelly laughter still echoes in my ears and, slowly, I begin to realise that home is no home. There is no comfort. No family. My smiles are forced and...sickly. I have the sheer urge to vomit with rage as I touch the still-torn rug and sinful ink stains on the Koran – all of which are blatantly young Saffiyah's handiwork. The memories are mute and unfeeling; just a blur of taunting scrolls and dried blood. My fingertips trace everything. But, In my soul; I feel nothing but loss.

Loss. I've lost it.

Where are the damn clouds? I drum my fingers restlessly against the clay walls as the sun sails dumbly across the sky and I scoff because it's too ignorant of the draught it's causing. My skin burns and I wonder how I ever dared loathe English weather.

And then Will touches me, like a cooling pad of raindrops on my arm which can only lure me to drown into his liquid eyes. Those deep pools of Sherwood's dirty emerald lake. He's a broken piece of home; my love. He's lost, too. I want to drag him back to England's shivering frost and run barefoot on the damp soil...I want to take this misplaced soul back to our camp – a camp in which we are whole. Not broken. Together and complete, with our odd family of unwashed men. Somehow, I begin to understand how Allan had felt living in the castle for several months as, even for a money-craving trickster, it's lonely without the gang.

But Will looks at me and he's pathetically trying to convince himself that Acre is the second Heaven. His weak smile and straight stance doesn't convince me. Allah, for the first time I actually look at his clothes. What was at first well-fitted and charming now looks hideous. What is he wearing? Where the Hell is his filthy green scarf and axe belt? Oh, my kaftan-clothed Englishman believes that we belong here, amongst the tasteless spice and prickly heat. It's so ironic how my skin blends into the Holy land's dark, dry horizon, but inside my heart; the skies are clouded in silver and the gravel is wet.

I am a foreigner to my own country. How very droll.

My fingers run through Will's newborn beard. We're both thirsty for home and our kisses supply us with replenishment. Tender, hurried - they are the linger of woodsmoke and the sharp flesh of brambles and my stomach explodes with passion. Our desperate embraces and the rushed rip of garbs from our bare bodies are ways to revel in each other's company and prove to ourselves that love is all we need. We're tasting the remains England in each other, and that'll do for now. I have to remind myself that we're in a land of privacy and newfound peace. Peace. Funny, how Will is the only comfort that keeps me from drilling my fist through these cracking, clay walls.

He is all I need, I believe, as I lay panting under midnight's sprinkle of celestial white. The starlight blurs through the gaps in the thatched rooftops and I feel my head loll against my husband's. My eyelids gradually descend.

Sleep. The angelic lull of pleasant dreams; Tossing. Turning. Anxiety.

Another night flickers the amber Saracen candlelight and Little John's snores are nowhere to be heard. I will, yet again, dream of the forest.