Because everyone knew I was eventually going to write a story about people getting stoned in medieval England.

Title: Smoke
Chapter: 1 of 2
Genre: Angsty angsty slash.
Pairing: Nasir/Robin of Huntingdon
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex, drugs, and my liberal use of the Angst Hammer. Spoilers for the the big plot points of all of Robin of Sherwood, especially the finales of the two seasons.
Beta: 3scoremiles_10
Summary: In the aftermath of "The Time of the Wolf", our former hashshashin offers Robin the solace that hashish can offer.
Word Count: 7,225
Notes: Born of two bunnies that I got from various conversations with 3scoremiles_10, avictoriangirl, and azinazelle. I then took the bunnies and made one story of 'em.


Glossary of Arabic terms:
Hashshashin: Lit. “one who uses hashish”. Name for the Al-Da’wa al-Jadīda. Derogatory.
Al-Da’wa al-Jadīda: Radical sect of Ismaili Shi’a Islam to which the hashshashin ascribed.
Al hamdu lilah wa shukru lillah: All praise and thanks to God
Thawb: Semi-ubiquitous article of dress, with regional variations, throughout the Arabian Penninsula, the thawb is a long robe which goes down to the ankles.
Takbīr: the expression “Allahu akbar”
Sadiqi: friend
Djinn: singular form of djinni, whence we get the Anglicised word “genie”.
Allahhu akbar: God is great
Habibi: male form of a rather all-purpose term whose meanings include "dear", "darling", "baby", "babe", "sweetie", etc.
Nur’rohi: Light of my soul. (Nur = light, rohi = soul)
An’na bahibbak kaman: I love you, too.

     It had been a stroke of luck that he had found it: a small amount of dark, reddish-brown hashish. It was remarkably fresh, still bound up tightly in the wrappings in which the two knights, brothers freshly returned from the Holy Land, had carried it. The faces they had made when the Nasir relieved them of their small but obviously treasured bundle had made the Saracen smile. When they told him (under duress) that they had got it from “a hashshashin”, he had laughed at the ironies of the world and sent them on their way, their purses untouched. And to his surprise, it truly was the hashish of a hashshashin: the same potent mix that ad-Din Sinan made. Nasir would have recognised it anywhere.
      He had not tried to smoke it. Nasir could remember the last time he had smoked the hashish, with those others of Al-Da’wa al-Jadīda, who had journeyed so far with their single goal of ending his life. They had brought him a taste of home, though Nasir wasn’t sure it was a taste he had missed. It awoke hazy memories of a confused past, and on those dark midsummer nights in Sherwood when the air was hot and humid under the trees – so unlike the burning heat of Syria – he could hear the Old Man’s hypnotic voice whispering in the rustling of the leaves. He would shiver, draw his blankets closer about his neck, and try to think of nothing: not of home, not of England - and attempt to will himself down into blank, black sleep.
      Such night-time oblivion was ever his hope: sometimes for the sake of his sanity and sometimes for his soul. He tried to think on simple, happy memories, repressing the echoes of those dark years with ad-Din Sinan or the stygian nightmare of his time under Simon de Belleme. And in submission to He Who Sees All Things, Nasir fought with his own heart in the quiet of the night, denying the gilded scenes that crept from the corners of his mind as sleep accepted him. He knew he would answer for his thoughts on the day of judgement, so Nasir drew away from these as well as the ghosts of his past, focusing instead on memories of light-hearted games between his friends and the love he had for them – all of them. It was what kept him in this strange land, after all: the love of friends. If he loved his leader most, it was only fitting: a commander whom his men could not love was not worthy of the name.
      He had to beat his thoughts into submission, he told himself. There were lines it was better not to cross. Perhaps that was why he had kept the pilgrims’ hashish; tucked away but close, it reminded him that believing – loving – too much and too hard was dangerous. He must remain balanced, in control. Without self-command, he would be no better than Will Scarlet, who blundered wildly through his life like a baited bear among curs: without thought or clear direction. The man fought with such little care for what surrounded him that Nasir thought it no small miracle that the former soldier yet lived and breathed. And though Nasir could not fathom for what purpose Allah had protected this man who fought like a drunk (and often as a drunk), Nasir was grateful for His mercy on the man’s behalf. Heathen though he might be, Will was still dear to him, as were all Nasir’s friends in Sherwood Forest. He fought with them, believed in their cause, and loved them.
      Love brought pain, of course, as the poets warned. There had been cruel times in past years when Nasir had longed for hashish and the bliss it brought: when Loxley had died; when he slew his brother and buried him in a forest far from home; and on those nights when the memories overran his mind. Now, that chance had been given to him, here in the shaken aftermath of the Time of the Wolf. In truth, he did not know how much longer he could deny himself the perfect, if transient, escape to Paradise promised in the fine coils of the hashish smoke. It would, he told himself, be a shame to let the bundle go to waste, and it would only roughen and fade with age. Tempered as this sample was with ad-Din’s own secret tinctures, the hashish he carried would bring a combination of serenity and heightened focus that a layman’s drug never could. He remembered the elation all too well: the joy in his blood and the keenness of the world around him as the drug took hold. Had he not steeped himself in this drug many times in his youth, and had it not allowed him to rise above himself? Each time he had gone in, blades keen for the cause, and he had come out alive by Allah’s mercy; though he had not always been present enough in his mind to care. He was something of a rare creature among his fellows of Al-Da’wa al-Jadīda, for in his time at the height of the Old Man’s favour, he had fulfilled many missions while most of his brethren lived only to carry out one first and final task. Al hamdu lilah wa shukru lillah. That he still lived was wonder enough. That he could still love should have been a welcome gift of divine compassion. Instead, it sometimes seemed a curse.
      Marion had left. She had retreated to the convent, that curious, contradictory place wherein Christian women might seek solace and peace or be imprisoned by their kin. Marion’s case was the former: Nasir had not seen her go himself, but he could well imagine how her heart must have broken, seeing that body splayed and wounded, blonde hair fanned out upon the grass. Nasir could understand that. But by Allah, it rent and shred the very peace of his soul to see the pain left in her wake. The misery, the hurt – he could not stand idly by; he was incapable of doing nothing. Strength he had, and endurance, but not enough; not for this. In a selfless and selfish act, Nasir hoped to relive his pain by relieving the pain of him who he loved.
      It was love, that exquisite baleful demon in his breast, which had ultimately driven him to speak. Robin needed to get away, Nasir could see that. Every morning when the fair young man woke, Nasir could see the hurt gnawing inside: every new day was another day she did not come back. Nasir knew that the succour he would take from easing Robin’s suffering could not be Allah’s will, yet knowing the truth did not bestow the strength to resist. Finally unable to bear another morning, Nasir surrendered to his heart and hinted to Robin that the outlaw should travel a while to collect his thoughts. The look of relieved agreement on Robin’s face made Nasir feel he should have spoken sooner; he should have known Robin would not leave his friends unless one of his friends suggested it. And Nasir and Robin were friends, strangers together amongst these English peasants, though those peasants were beloved as blood kin.
      On one crisp fall evening while they watched the North Road together, Robin had laid out his plans to Nasir. To his surprise, it became clear to him that Robin wanted them to travel together. Robin made no mention of any of the others accompanying them, nor had he asked Nasir himself; he simply assumed Nasir would go with him as easily as he assumed the sun would rise the next day. Nasir said nothing. Words would not avail him. And he knew that the only fitting words he could say would be words of denial: that he could not go alone with Robin. He could not. Must not. He should have been stronger, should have spoken. But he said nothing.
      All things fell into place. It became clear that Robin purposed to ride north and, though Nasir wished they could have gone south to escape the coming cold of winter, he bowed to Robin’s will. Robin told John, Will, Tuck, and Much of his plan, and if their friends thought the journey anything but a good idea, they did not say so. And a day later, they relieved two corpulent pardoners of their horses and purses, disposed of their “relics”, and sent them on their way, but thus supplied mounts and funds for the journey. After packing some light travelling food and warm clothing, Robin and Nasir had left one clear autumn morning, heading northeast towards the home of some distant Scottish relatives of Robin’s who, Robin assured him, would be willing and able to provide them with bed and board. Nasir was content with that, willing to endure with the stares he received as they travelled the road. On those first few nights when they dared not chance being recognised at an inn, they bedded down side by side, and Nasir kept his thoughts in line.
      The third day out from Sherwood, the weather, which had been as crisp and fair as one could wish in autumn, reverted to its usual cruel ways and dumped sheets of icy rain the whole day long. Shivering, miserable, and damp, Nasir had looked at Robin’s cloaked and bowed head as the young man rode before him and hoped Robin was finding peace from Marion in the merciless British rain. As evening approached, they came upon some miscellaneous town: a Something-ton; Nasir could not catch the name. Nor did he care at this point, though the place was large enough that he should have known it. Without speaking, they rode their horses down the muddy main way, stopping at the first respectable-looking inn they could find. Robin went inside to procure a bed while Nasir saw to the stabling of their horses, so it was with surprise that the Saracen first beheld the room to which the landlord directed him. Perhaps Robin had been wet and weary enough to simply accept the best chamber in the house, or perhaps Robert of Huntingdon, earl’s son, was affecting his will in this hard time and claiming the accommodations he might’ve expected. Either way, the chamber was surely the finest in the house: spacious, astoundingly clean, and even outfitted with its own fireplace.
      Looking about the room, Nasir was distressed to find Robin seated, slump-shouldered, on a surprisingly luxurious fur rug before the fire, fair hair darkened by the damp, a mug clutched in his hand, and a tortured look on his face. Robin glanced up at Nasir as he entered, looked guiltily down at the drink, and bit his lip: the young nobleman knew Nasir’s opinion of alcohol. Yet Nasir found that he couldn’t entirely blame the man for seeking to dull his grief however he could; his own pain could only be the dullest echo of Robin’s, and that was torment enough. If there was any solace to be found in a mug of ale, Nasir hoped his friend could find it.
      Without a word, Nasir kicked off his boots and rummaged through his saddlebag for a change of clothes. Divesting himself of his sodden trousers and shirt, he found what he was looking for: his brother’s thawb. The weave was rough, but it felt like home. And after facing down the weather for a whole gruelling day, he wanted something to remind him that, somewhere out there, the sun still shone. As he changed, Nasir removed the small bundle of hashish, still dry in its wrappings, from his clothing. He looked at it, then up at Robin. Was now the time? Robin’s silhouette against the fire was the very picture of dejection. Even as the Saracen watched his leader and friend, Robin took another long draught from his mug. Nasir made up his mind, and if some part of his mind warned against it, he was too tired of analysing his thoughts to pay attention any more. He was too far gone.
      Sitting himself down cross-legged beside Robin upon the rug before the fire, Nasir took Robin’s hand: it was a friendly gesture, nothing more. Nasir had clasped hands with nearly all of his friends in Sherwood at some point or another; they had long since accepted it as a Saracen custom and read no more into it than they would have a comradely arm about the shoulder.
      “Sadiqi, I am sorry,” Nasir said gently, without preamble.
      Robin gave his hand a squeeze but said nothing, only a shaky breath escaping his lips. There was a pop and a crunch as logs settled in the fireplace. After a while, Robin finally spoke. His strangled voice was so near to sobbing that the sound of it was a knife in Nasir’s breast.
      “It’s not your fault; there’s nothing you can do. Nothing that could change anything.”
      Nasir did Robin the courtesy of not looking at him when he was so close to tears, though it took more resolve than the former assassin could ever have imagined.
      “I know. But I am sorry,” Nasir replied. Robin sighed again, sniffed, and coughed as though to clear his throat.
      “You’re a true friend, Nasir.”
      A friend. Of course. Nasir bowed his head to that. Yet by Allah, those words brought pain where they should have brought contentment. The realisation sickened him. So like a Frankish flagellant, Nasir wielded comfort to scourge his own treacherous heart and mind.
      “There will be other women, Robin. You are young and handsome; what woman in this world could reject you?”
      Robin let out a broken, miserable laugh. “Other women? No, none like her.”
      Harsh truth though it was, Nasir couldn’t help but agree with Robin: Marion’s brave heart was a rare jewel amongst so much human dross. He doubted any other – man or woman – could equal her gentle soul and dauntless fighting spirit. Such thoughts were unlikely to sooth Robin’s wound, however. Rather than try to ease the hurt with an empty lie, he unwrapped the bundle of hashish that had lain in his lap and, turning to Robin, held it up.
      “Do you know what this is?” he asked, trying not to stare at the shining wet tracks that marked Robin’s face. In some chamber of his soul, Nasir bemoaned his fate and mourned that, even with Robin’s skin red and splotched from weeping, Nasir still thought him the most beautiful creature in Allah’s creation. The desperate, damning longing that accompanied his love made something ache miserably inside him. How could this be His will?
      Robin looked at the hashish Nasir held between his fingers with a dubious expression.
      “No.”
      “I have told you, I think, that those of Al-Da’wa al-Jadīda were called ‘hashshashin’ by our enemies?”
      Robin nodded and tried to wipe his face surreptitiously at the same time. He still hadn’t caught what Nasir was trying to tell him, though.
      “This,” Nasir raised his hand for emphasis, “is hashish. We were called hashshashin because we would smoke it in the gardens.”
      Robin raised his eyebrows, impressed, and studied the innocuous-looking brown chunk with new-found respect. Nasir handed it to him to inspect, and Robin took it as though it were as fragile as a butterfly. That made Nasir smile a little.
      “This is different from normal hashish. It has…” Nasir trailed off. He didn’t know what element ad-Din Sinan added to keep a man’s senses sharp. All he knew was that it was effective, sometimes unnervingly so. Nasir found himself lost in his memories of silent, dangerous nights and dead comrades when Robin’s voice broke the spell of the past:
      “It makes you happy?” A desperately hopeful question.
      “In a way,” Nasir said, not quite sure this language had the words to describe the euphoria and the way that the senses seemed to magnify. Robin frowned.
      “But where did you get this?”
      “Some pilgrims passing through Sherwood a short while ago. They must have travelled fast. The hashish… it is not very old.”
      Robin gave the hashish a sniff, then made a face. Nasir smiled fondly. Robin’s hair was drying out, but in clumps that made him look like a tousle-haired child.
      “Would you like to try it?” he asked softly.
      Those brilliant blue eyes met his for a moment, and the Saracen flinched inwardly at the raw emotion behind them as Robin replied: “Yes.”
      Nasir felt his pulse quicken. Rising to his feet, he excused himself – he needed to find the right tools, he explained – and retreated from the room and the object of his desire. Closing the door behind him, he took a moment and leaned against wall. He must be careful. Cautious. Weigh each motive and not do anything that would destroy this friendship he valued so highly.
      With a deep breath, he walked down the hall, barefoot in his thawb. He could only imagine how outlandish he appeared to these English townsfolk with his dark looks and dressed in the garb of his homeland. In the far corner of the common room, one old man looked so shocked that Nasir guessed he need only belt out the takbīr to make the venerable gentleman topple from his chair. But it was cold in only his thawb, now that he was away from the fire, so he made directly for the currently slack-jawed innkeeper and explained what he needed. Still gawking, the man bolted off and returned with what Nasir has asked for in terrified haste. Nasir thanked him politely, bowed, and returned to the room with two impressively blunt knives and the top of a broken yet well-cleaned bottle of olive oil in his hands.
      Nasir opened the door to their room to find Robin still holding the chunk of hashish, clearly unsure what to do with it. He gave Nasir a funny, soft smile as the darker man entered and sat beside him.
      “You truly look the Saracen in that,” he said, reaching forward and tugging at the hem of the thawb. To his horror, Nasir felt his cheeks flush. Seeking cover, he sat down and bent towards the fire to wedge the tips of the knives amongst the hot coals. Leaning back, his cheeks now warmed by the flames as well as embarrassment, he saw Robin peering curiously at the knives.
      “We do not have a shisha so we will heat the knives, then press hashish between them.” Nasir explained, miming the movement. “Then, we can use the bottle to take in the smoke.”
      “You mean breathe it in?” Robin asked incredulously. Nasir nodded.
      “You crazy, crazy Saracens,” the blonde man smiled, shaking his head. “Going out of your way to breathe in smoke.” It lifted Nasir’s spirits to hear Robin make such a light-hearted comment; the bright, cheerful man he’d known and loved had disappeared since Marion left. Now, it seemed that he might be coming back. Nasir was thankful for that, even as he struggled not to think what that meant to his heart: that the beloved one was returning to him.
      Deeming that the knives were now hot enough for his purpose, Nasir used one of his own small blades to cut a piece off the block of hashish which he’d reclaimed from Robin. Nasir was surprised at the low thrill he felt in sharing this experience with the young man, but looking up, his heart sank a little at the apprehension he saw in those blue eyes.
      “Nasir, I’m not sure how to do this. Would you show me?”
      Nasir nodded. “If you will hold the knives for me,” he agreed. Removing the knives from the fire, he showed Robin how to press them together. Then, returning them to the fire for a moment as he retrieved the bottle, he nodded to Robin.
      The young nobleman took the knives from the fire and then, slowly and very carefully, dropped the small fragment of hashish onto one blade, quickly pressing the other hot knife down on top of it. Nasir was ready with the bottle as soon as Robin had made the first move. He lowered his head as the smoke filled the glass and breathed in slow and deep. He closed his eyes as he held his breath, savouring the moment, then opened them and as he exhaled; he could see the light of the fire on Robin’s face. The young nobleman was still tensely holding the knives together, but he was watching Nasir in utter fascination.
      “That face you make when you breathe in…” Robin murmured, biting his lip. “You enjoy it?”
      That was something of a complicated question, haunted by complicated ghosts, but Nasir had to concede that he did enjoy it. And lounging here on the rug, leaning on his elbow before the fire in his thawb, it made him feel more at home than he had in a long while. He smiled. “Yes, I do. It is your turn now.”
      Nasir handed the bottle to Robin, let the knives reheat, then repeated the process. As he pressed the knives together and Robin bent down to breathe in the smoke, Nasir had the strangest sensation that Robin was eating out of his hands: there was something in the way he lowered his blonde head. Then Robin hacked and coughed, shattering that strangely alluring illusion.
      “What did I do wrong?” Robin gasped in a tight voice.
      “Do not gasp it all in like a winded man,” Nasir said gently. “I will make the smoke again for you. This time, breathe in more slowly.” And Robin did.
      As the evening wore on, they traded the hot knives back and forth many times. The hashish was affecting Robin more quickly, as Nasir had expected. It was not long before Robin was chuckling to himself and grinning widely at Nasir. It might not have been the bright smile that Robin would have given him before Marion left, but it was genuine nonetheless. As the drug permeated Nasir’s mind, it freed an answering smile. When the sun was long since set and the room full-filled with the pungent smell of the hashish, Nasir could finally laugh aloud for his own joy at Robin’s happiness.
      After that unrestrained laugh had slipped the bonds of Nasir’s self-command, Robin’s carefree expression changed into one of pleasant surprise. Unabashedly, he raised one hand to Nasir’s face: a simple movement, but it seemed to Nasir to take millennia, and all the civilisations that could have risen and fallen in that time were lost beneath the waves when Robin grinned at him. In the merriest voice Nasir had heard from Robin in many a day, his beloved giggled and said: “Iesu, but you’re a handsome devil when you laugh.”
      Nasir said nothing. He was hypnotised by Robin’s hair, which had transformed into a cascade of molten gold before the fire.
      “And your skin,” Robin continued, still smiling, though a softer gladness had crept into his azure eyes. “You make me look like a ghost.”
      “You make me look like a djinn. You are Jibril: shining like the sun and the moon,” Nasir said slowly, relishing the touch of Robin’s hand on his skin.
      They were both lounging low on the rug before the fire, which was burning high. Robin had stacked nearly their whole supply of firewood onto the flames; at this rate, they would have to send out for more. Nasir considered it a marvel that the fire had not smothered under Robin’s enthusiastic attentions, but the coals were still raging hot, burning with a welcome warmth. Indeed, the heat was such that, for fear of befouling his single spare, clean shirt, Robin had stripped the garment away and now lay with his bare shoulder upon the fur of the rug.
      “Sadiqi, the only things about us that are the same colour are our palms and the whites of our eyes,” Nasir laughed. As he remembered the black-skinned slaves of his homeland, he realised that all men were basically the same colour on those parts of their body. It was a marvellously strange joke which Allah had played that all men should only have those two places in common.
      “Our lips are the same colour,” Robin pointed out, then made a madly comical face as he stuck out his own lips, trying to verify that the colour was in fact the same.
      “No, mine are darker,” Nasir countered, and though he was not now certain that was true, he still retained enough dignity not to stick out his lips to check.
      Robin suddenly leaned close to Nasir, moving his hand down to lift Nasir’s chin so he could see the other man’s face more clearly in the light. The world around Nasir focused alarmingly and his stomach lurched. Even through the sweet herbal scent of the smoke, he could still smell Robin, and he was dazzlingly aware of the man’s bare shoulders and the blonde curls upon his breast.
      “Robin…” he said, summoning enough presence of mind to communicate warning.
      “I just want your lips,” Robin said petulantly. Then he giggled at his own words. “I just want to see your lips,” he corrected himself. Nasir felt his heart clench, but Robin laughed again and leant closer. His face was so near to Nasir’s that the Saracen could’ve counted every single eyelash. He almost lost himself trying to do just that, but Robin’s laugh caught him and brought him back. It was a free, liberated sound; beautiful and a wonder to hear. “No,” Robin admitted, still chuckling, “this is what I want.” And he tilted his head and kissed Nasir full on the mouth.
      Perfection. Robin’s lips on his own, his soft hair falling forward and tickling Nasir’s nose, and his hand gently holding Nasir’s head up close to his own. Allahhu akbar, this was Paradise. Robin released him and closed the gap between them, pressing himself more closely against Nasir’s body to kiss him deep and freeing up one hand to wend its way down Nasir’s shoulder and arm.
      Stop! A part of Nasir, untouched by the hashish, finally made its voice heard. They could not do this. They must not do this. Surely their very souls were at stake! With a grunt, Nasir shoved Robin away and sat up, breathing hard.
      “No, Robin.”
      “What?” The outlaw looked almost insulted, and the clear hurt he felt wrung at Nasir’s resolve. Still, he could fight this and win, Nasir was sure.
      “This is the hashish acting upon us; it can make us forget ourselves. But this is not right.”
      “Right?” The reply was incredulous, nigh on angry. “I’m happy, Nasir. Can’t you just let this go where it will?”
      “I know where it will go. It will end in shame and sorrow.” Robin had no right to look at him like that; his chest heaving and his lips kissed red.
      “And you know this from experience?” The reply was more scathing than Nasir would’ve expected, but it was followed up with a softer request. A single word, quietly spoken, as Robin sat up and extended one hand to rest lightly upon Nasir’s shoulder: “Please”.
      It was devastatingly unfair.
      Allah be merciful, Nasir begged in silent prayer. Anything but that touch, that voice. He drew away from Robin and sat unmoving on the fur rug, hoping his mute stillness could deflect Robin’s advances. But Robin moved closer and began to lay slow, methodical kisses up the line of Nasir’s neck, laughing softly as he did so. It was as though those kisses turned Nasir entirely to stone but for the places Robin touched: all he could feel were those lips upon his skin. Everything else was gone before that exquisite sensation of tender touch. Nasir swallowed. His mouth was dry, and he was loosing his control.
      “Hmm,” Robin said contentedly, then laughed again. “You taste like salt.” And then he licked at Nasir’s neck; one long, soft, playful sweep of his tongue.
      It was destruction. The end of the world. The earth was burning in a haze of soft smoke, and Nasir didn’t care anymore. The man bestowing those kisses upon him was as radiant and loving as any of the dream-Robins who plagued Nasir’s lonely nights. Nasir should be fighting. He was fighting, but not hard enough. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. The gentle joy of the hashish was making a wreck of his resolve, but Robin’s mouth pressing hot kisses against his flesh would surely damn him. Desperate, he made a last stand, telling himself no more, screaming at himself to save them both. Nasir could taste his guilt, bitter as bile: he had unleashed this fantastic vision upon himself, the darkest of his desires risen up to try to drag him down. He had plied Robin with hashish when he was heartbroken over Marion – a woman, a woman, Nasir! – and now, confused and euphoric, Robin was lavishing whisper-soft caresses and kisses upon Nasir’s undeserving body.
      Robin moved behind him, wrapping his arms about Nasir’s chest and resting his head against Nasir’s back. Through the light fabric of his thawb, which was now clinging to his sweat-damp skin, Nasir could feel the hot exhalations of Robin’s breath.
      “I can hear your heart beat,” Robin said wonderingly. With shaking hands, Nasir cut another piece of hashish, pressed it between the knives, and inhaled the smoke as it rose hot from the blackened steel. The Saracen knew he was wasting smoke by not using the bottle, but with Robin’s hands still splayed upon his chest, he could barely care, and all thought of wasted hashish escaped with the smoke as Robin’s hands began to wander up and down his body.
      “Your heart is beating so fast,” Robin murmured sillily against Nasir’s back. Nasir swallowed hard. This was obscene, but he was cast loose in the moment: a roaring fire, a soft fur rug, lazily wafting smoke, and the touch of Robin’s sword-calloused hands. Then Robin rose to his knees and shuffled around until he was between Nasir and the fire. Nasir could only look at him, silently pleading. What he was pleading for, Nasir could not have said even if his life had been in the balance: for Robin not to touch him; for Robin to touch him again; for Robin to never stop touching him until the Day of Judgement. Robin was beautiful, tempting, terrible. He had never looked more magnificent than he did now: bare skin sheened with sweat, every hair shimmering like spun gold, and his pupils dilated to dark pools ringed with sapphire, all bathed in the warm light of the fire.
      With cruelly kind hands, Robin moved closer and held Nasir’s dark head against the warm skin of his breast.
      “Just listen,” he whispered, and Nasir could hear Robin’s voice resonate in his chest over the slow percussion of his heart. The Saracen closed his eyes, his face twisted in grief: he should run while he still could, for this was not a battle to be won by staying. But he had not fled yet, and in his heart of hearts he knew that he could not. He had hungered for too long.
      “Please, habibi nur’rohi,” he choked out in a final appeal. “Please stop.”
      He got no response but Robin bending down and burying his face in Nasir’s black curls and, as those long-fingered hands continued to explore every inch of his body, Nasir could do nothing but whimper. Then, in a voice made rough with sudden desperation, Robin held Nasir fiercely close and whispered in his ear. “Touch me”.
      Nasir, who had held back for so long, who had submitted for so long, felt earthquakes as his guiding principles collided. As the tremors of the conflict racked him, he lifted one trembling hand and placed it upon Robin’s chest. At that contact of skin on skin, Robin let out an exultant sigh and leant into Nasir’s touch. The Saracen could, and had, withstand torture, but the fortress of his composure was brought down by this one single sigh. In a smooth movement he rose to his own knees and captured Robin’s mouth, pursuing the sweet oblivion he found there.
      Moaning rapturously into the kiss, Robin fell back onto the fire-warmed rug, pulling Nasir down on top of him. The warmth of the blazing logs had driven them both to a sweat, so Robin’s skin glistened in the firelight as he lay in the deep fur of the rug. It was almost more than Nasir’s mind could process. Growling low and hungry, Nasir threw himself down upon Robin’s body and covered every inch of that pale and golden chest with kisses as the other man gasped and ran his hands through Nasir’s coal-black curls.
      Flicking his tongue over the bud of a nipple, Nasir felt Robin buck up against him with a gasp. “Je t’oime,” Robin whispered, his eyes closed and his mouth open wide in a perfect “O” as he panted under Nasir’s touch. Nasir did not know much of the Norman speech, but he needed no translation for those words. In his own language, he replied: “An’na bahibbak kaman,” before resuming his adoration of Robin’s mouth with his lips.
      Entwined with Robin before the fire, every sense in Nasir’s body sang like a lyre, each dazzlingly clear sensation plucking a new string: the flicker of Robin’s tongue in his mouth, the hands on his back that held him close, and the hard, strong body beneath him. When Robin writhed to press more closely to him, Nasir felt the leg he straddled brush against his manhood, that lightest of touches eliciting a sharp exhale of tortured pleasure. As if intentionally trying to evoke that sound from Nasir again, Robin flexed the long muscles of his thigh, bucking his hips up gently. Nasir groaned at that sweet torment and made to move away, but Robin’s hands slid swiftly down Nasir’s body and insistently, purposefully, held Nasir against him by the small of the Saracen’s back; shifting his leg again as he began to grind himself against Nasir’s erection. With an effort, the darker man choked back a cry, sure he would melt from the rush of sensation. A small corner of his mind was still present and clear enough to bewail his fate, but he was lost.
      Alight and aquiver with each brush of Robin’s body, Nasir raised himself up, kissing Robin again and trying to communicate without words the multitude of emotions that coursed through him. In that kiss, he tasted some of Robin’s own feelings: loss, love, and most potently, desire.
      Obligingly, Nasir laid a trail of kisses down Robin’s chest and stomach, slowly savouring that beloved skin and the sweet, crooning sounds Robin made in response to his touch: gasps, moans, and Nasir’s own name in tones of dearest wonder. When he reached the waist of Robin’s trousers, he stopped, mind clearing a little through of the fog of hashish and passion. They had to stop.
      He tried to speak. “Robin, I –” But Robin raised his head and looked down at him with such lust and love that Nasir’s logic stood no chance, not when every fibre in his body was burning and craving more.
      Utterly misinterpreting Nasir’s pause, Robin murmured, “Let me help”, and raised his hips up from the rug. Nasir was so entranced by the sudden tightening of muscles on Robin’s abdomen that he forgot himself in the way that pale skin reflected the firelight and the rise and fall of Robin’s breath. Shaking himself free of the daze, he helped free Robin of his trousers. Their hands brushed together as they struggled over the drawstring, Nasir’s fingers trembling so that he could barely manage the simple knot. Finally, he had Robin naked and handsome before him on the rug, his skin all aglow and his manhood erect in its thatch of golden curls. Sitting back on his legs, Nasir tugged at his thawb, trying to pull it off, even as it clung to his skin with sweat. Briefly trapped inside his robe and frantic enough to rip it off, he felt a pair of strong, sure hands come to his aid. When he emerged from under his thawb, he saw that Robin was sitting upright and regarding Nasir’s own circumcised cock with a breathtaking expression of curiosity.
      Spitting into his hand, Robin reached tentatively forward and began to stroke Nasir’s shaft. As Robin gained confidence, starting to move his hand faster up and down, Nasir thought he might die. To his brief dismay, Robin stopped, but only to shift forward to kiss him. As Robin’s hair brushed feather-light against Nasir’s neck, the young nobleman began to work the other man’s shaft again, and Nasir knew without doubt that he was dead and flown to the Garden of Paradise.
      Groaning Robin’s name, Nasir closed his eyes, tilted back his head, and revelled in it all: the feel of the hand sliding up and down the length of his cock, the soft fur of the rug tickling at his legs, the crackle of the fire, and the sounds of Robin’s breathing. But he couldn’t ride this on his own forever.
      “Wait,” he panted, though he nearly cried out when Robin ceased moving his hand. Quickly spitting into his own palm and shuffling forward on his knees, Nasir reached down and deftly rolled back the skin covering the head of Robin’s own manhood. If Robin was surprised that Nasir could manage a man’s foreskin so well, he didn’t say so; in any case, the Saracen’s hand caressing his cock was too great a distraction from him to think of such questions. And even had he asked, Nasir would have died rather than answer.
      The Saracen focused on doing all he could to keep Robin making those soft, whimpering moans, carefully moving Robin’s foreskin to bring him as much pleasure as he could. To Nasir’s mind, Robin looked like an angel in ecstasy. Even as the Saracen held Robin’s cock in a firm grip, those blue eyes still stared worshipfully and unwaveringly back into Nasir’s own dark ones.
      Then, as if Robin, too, had forgotten himself and was only now coming back, the outlaw resumed his own slow working of Nasir’s shaft. Nasir hissed at Robin’s inexperience, feeling the too-tight drag of eager fingers about his cock. Reaching down, he covered Robin’s pale hand with his own olive-dark one, easing Robin’s grip and guiding him to a gentler one. “Not so tight, habibi. Like this, yes?”
      With that, Robin and Nasir’s hands began to work each other to the beats of that oldest of rhythms. But Ya Allah, what a rhythm. Kneeling together upon the rug, their hands upon each other, and their lips locked in a storm of deep kisses, their bodies were caught the movements of an escalating dance of skin on skin and words whispered into mouths, all enshrouded in the pungent cloud of the hashish. Bathed in the red-gold light of the fire, his hair clinging to his neck with sweat, Robin was in ecstasy, gasping out disjointed words in Norman French and fairly writhing under Nasir’s hand. His every muscle was tense, defined by the shadows of the room. Nasir could hear his own voice matching Robin’s, growling words, prayers, curses, fragments of poetry in Arabic, but it was distant: all his heart and mind were enthralled by the erotic scene of Robin before him on the deep fur of the rug.
      Locked together, he and Robin increased their pace, both now riding waves of intense pleasure so high that they could have drowned. Any coherent thought was lost in the smoke and fire and sounds of flesh on flesh. In Nasir’s palm, Robin’s cock was now wet with his own precum as well as Nasir’s spit, and within him, the Saracen could feel his own climax building.
      Desperately, from Robin, a gasping plea against Nasir’s neck: “Faster Nasir, please!” Focusing as much as his entranced mind could, Nasir pumped Robin’s shaft even faster, and the ever-louder, higher moans that Robin made as he rode his pleasure to its peak were nearly enough to bring Nasir off there and then. Then, with a final exhalation of exhaustion and release, Robin spurted his release into Nasir’s hand and fell forward, his head resting upon Nasir’s shoulder.
      Yet even through his climax, his hand on Nasir’s own shaft never paused, carrying the Saracen to his own orgasm even as Robin slumped against his striving body. Soft but steady, Robin whispered into Nasir’s ear: “Come for me.” Something exploded in Nasir’s mind with those words, and at Robin’s command he climaxed violently with a cry surely heard through all the town, shuddering out his seed upon Robin’s fingers. 

     Nasir was rudely awakened later that night by the town crier making his rounds. The Saracen found himself lying in the bed of their chamber, which still smelled of hashish. His high was long gone, however, and with slowly dawning terror, he realised that he was naked, with Robin’s arm curled tenderly about his chest. Resisting the urge to leap from the bed, he carefully disentwined himself from Robin’s arm and rose. Robin made a displeased snuffling noise as he did so, and Nasir automatically pulled the blankets up again over the man’s shoulders. The outlaw relaxed back into his pillow, and as he fell back down into dreams, Nasir distinctly heard Robin murmur his name in a sweet, contented voice. Nasir wanted to wail, to fall to the floor, to rend his garments and mourn the innocence he had taken. He wanted to cease feeling, to escape from the ruins of silent resolve behind which he had long sheltered. But he knew he could not outrun this shame: his sins lay naked and exposed, plain for all the world to see.
      Moving swiftly and silently to the fireplace, he recovered his thawb by the light of the redly smouldering embers. Wincing as the cold floorboards squeaked and whined under his bare feet, Nasir opened the bedroom door and escaped into the hallway. The narrow corridor was as dark as a tomb and nearly as frigid. Closing the chamber door behind him, Nasir leaned back against the wall. The memories of what he had done came back in a merciless barrage of tauntingly clear and vivid images. He slid down the wall, face pale in the pitch black night as despair drained away his colour. What had he done? This was Robin, the most beloved of his heart: how could he have done that to him? Allah be merciful, he was not only weak, he was evil: Robin’s heart was broken, raw, and lost. How could he have taken advantage of him so? He had plied Robin with hashish when the man was vulnerable, open to influence. As if the shame of his own lust had not been enough, Nasir had now brought that shame down on Robin, too, sullying the honour of the one he loved with a single moment of weakness.
    What have I done?
    Alone in the black hallway, Nasir put his head in his hands and wept without a sound.