Disclaimer: I secretly write for the show- so i do own it! (joke)

A few notes you should read:
1. umm- i have no idea what the actual terms for servants were in 1193- but in this fic, it's kinda like the indentured servants of the 17th-18th centuries- which basically involves one person signing a contract agreeing to serve another people for a certain number of years. In this fic, it's really only mentioned here in the first chapter- but I just wanted to let you know what was going on. So you could sign over your kids for money --that kinda deal. Sorry if this isn't historically acurate- but hey! LJ wears jeans! And i needed a good way for some much-angst...

2. this is set approx 5-6 years before the show...
3. I am attempting to write two fics at once so forgive me if updates are a bit longer in coming than they were for Injured

Line of Trust

Chapter 1

Wham.

As the fist connected harshly with the side of his face, Much had enough instinct to grasp the cup he was holding harder so it wouldn't fall and break- that would only lead to more bruises. He successfully kept hold of the cup and paused for a moment to see if his master would follow the first punch with a second. After a few tense seconds passed and no fist or mocking laughter followed the first fist, he risked a glance up to find his master idly reading some scrap of paper. Sucking in a breath and trying to ignore the blood he could now taste in this mouth, he placed the glass down at the edge of the table and tried to fade into the shadows of the room without attracting any more attention. Besides the lashes the night before- which didn't really count since he still had his shirt on and there were only ten of them- he hadn't been beaten in nearly a week. That had to be some kind of record and he wasn't keen on breaking it.

Luck was on his side as he silently moved into the corner without his master saying anything. He closed his eyes as he swallowed the blood that had filled his mouth, hating being inside. At least when he was outdoors he could spit it out. He opened them again to half-focus on his master in case the man waved him over. The man was revolting, at least to all the servants of the keep. Much supposed that to anyone else he would seem normal enough, handsome maybe. His master had dirty blond hair that he kept long and was constantly pushing it away from his face. Of course, now that he entered his 40s, blond was mixed with white and to the glee of all the servants, he had begun to bald. When servants dared to make fun of the master, that's what they made fun of. Unfortunately, there really wasn't anything else to mock. The man might look a little fat, but all working in the keep knew that it wasn't fat but muscle. Muscle was nothing to joke about when everyone had felt it harming them in some way or another. Other than that, Master James was a perfect noble. He rode horses, went hunting, hung thieves and came home to beat his servants. A perfectly, normal noble.

Much hated him. Much, who had the unfortunate job of being the pig's manservant, despised his master more than anything in the world. He hated serving the man, hated seeing him, hated everything about him. But, after 10 years of serving and hating his master, he never really noticed this hate anymore. It wasn't a white hot rage that made him dream of killing the man in his sleep- Much didn't have enough energy for that. It was merely a dull, hopeless hate that lingered throughout Much's body and rarely made its presence known. Much had more important things to worry about- trying to keep from being whipped, attempting to sneak bits of food when he was able and usually struggling to keep his current wounds from getting infected. He didn't have time for hate- he was usually too busy with fear.

Much couldn't remember a time in his life when fear wasn't involved. In a distant way he remembered his family signing him off when he was younger to some master or other. He knew that they had been poor and that was about it. His first memories were simply painful ones of starving or embarrassment or being hurt. They blended with his current memories for the most part – except perhaps for the embarrassment. He was too used to being a servant to be embarrassed. His second master had sold his contract to another, who enjoyed little boys quite a bit. Much's mind automatically shied away from those memories and was briefly thankful for one thing in his life- that master had given the contract to a close friend after just a year. That close friend was his current master and life hadn't changed much.

He shifted slightly as his stomach rumbled painfully and the taste of blood in his mouth mingled with the taste of saliva as his mouth watered for no reason. Pain was obviously a bad thing- but in his mind, hunger was worse. He hated the deep feeling in your stomach that started out as only uncomfortable and then continued into a deep, never ending pain in your gut. He hated the weakness that it eventually caused, the numb feeling that would take hold of your body and force your brain to think too slowly. He hated the dizziness and black-outs that followed- put simply, he hated hunger. And then there was nothing, nothing better than eating- feeling the food slid down your throat and the almost instant energy it supplied, stopping the headache and ending the numbness. Eating was, as far as Much was concerned, the best thing a person could hope for. His whole day was a good day if he could at least grab a few bites at some point. He was happy to see that his master wasn't currently eating much and that his plate was still full. If he didn't call down for a kitchen boy to take it, then Much could easily-

"Much," the deep voice coming from the desk stopped any visions the servant was having of food. Automatically, Much walked over to his master's side and bowed slightly.

"Master?" he asked.

"A friend of mine," his master started. "Well more a friend of a friend is heading off to fight in the Holy Land." Much said nothing, confused. His master never told him anything about nobles or friends or anything, really- he didn't know why he was now.

"I signed over your contract to him," his master said, taking a sip of his drink. Much struggled as to what to do with this information, surely he had a say in this somehow- now that he was old enough to know what that meant. Much didn't know how long his parents signed him over for- but he once had the thought that it was only 20 years, that when he was around 23 or something, he would be free to go. But, he had heard servants say that whenever a contract changed ownership, more years got tagged on to the end. Still wrapping his mind around this information, Much forced himself to focus on the words his master was currently saying.

"You can fight well enough," Much could fight- it was another random thing James had decided he should know. So he had been taught- if taught was the right word. More like he was handed and sword and shield and told to defend himself. Personally, Much thought it was simply an excuse to beat him with a sword rather than just a whip. But ten years of desperately trying not to get hit did give you some skill- he had even beaten his master at times (though that of course simply lead to another beating). "You can ride a horse," Much could do that too- it was a necessity for when he was to serve his master on hunts. "I figured you'd be good enough- you leave tomorrow."

"T-tomorrow, master?" Much asked, astounded. His master stopped gazing into his cup and looked up to glare at the servant.

"I sent the letter to this man 2 weeks ago; it should be there by now- go pack." Much didn't move, he simply stood there, amazed at how quickly his life was changing. He realized suddenly he didn't want to leave- oh sure he hated it here, but at least it was familiar, at least he knew what to expect. He knew the cooks and could beg for food, he knew his master's habits enough that he wasn't constantly screwing up, he knew a few other servants who would sneak him food or water if they could. Now he was being shipped off to another, probably even crueler master and dragged to a war where he would probably get killed.

"Yes, master," he answered, trying not to let the dismay enter his voice. He turned and started to walk away when once again his master stopped him.

"Guards will take you to Locksley in the morning."

Much bowed again and murmured some kind of reply before continuing. He furiously told himself he shouldn't be so disappointed. He should've known that if his life could get any worse- it would. Walking down the hall, Much rolled his eyes at his master's use of the word "pack" there was nothing to pack besides a few clothes. He arrived at his small cell-like room and threw his meager clothes into a sack. He hesitated before taking the sword he usually fought with as well- his master probably wouldn't miss it. Then he glanced around his room and decided to at least go see if there was food to be had in the kitchens.

Never once did hope start to form in the servant's chest. The thought never crossed his mind that maybe his new master would be different, that maybe his life would be better. Much knew the truth- all the nobles were cruel, spoiled people. Life wasn't going to change- it was going to be exactly the same as it had for the past 19 years. There was no reason to hope- no reason at all.

Wham!

Robin grinned as the arrow he shot hit dead center of the target. Chuckling to himself he headed over and pulled the bit of wood out. There was no doubt that practicing his bow and arrow was probably his favorite thing to do. He knew that it wasn't a common weapon for a noble- most considered it a peasant's weapon, something for the infantry to have. Not for a noble, who was supposed to gloriously ride into battle, sword glinting in the sun. Nobles didn't stay back and shoot people from a safe distance- his father had been upset when he expressed interest in the weapon. But after the man had died, no one had stopped Robin from practicing openly- a few guards had even given him basic lessons on how to use it. He had picked it all up extraordinarily fast. There was something about the bow that he just seemed to already know and he loved the challenge of it. He loved that the wind was never quite the same as it was the day before, or the slight difference the fletching could make on a shot. Each shot was different, each shot was wonderful.

As he was heading back to where he was currently shooting from, he saw Thornton head out to meet him. He smiled and waved to the old man, who had been a loyal servant since before he was born and had basically taken over as his father when his own father died years ago.

"Master Robin!" Thornton called as Robin swung back around to fire again. Robin took the shot, nodded as it hit the center again and turned to greet his manservant.

"Yes, Thornton," he asked, sweetly. His smile slowly faded a bit as he sensed Thornton wasn't quite in the joking mood.

"Well, master, I have a slight confession." Robin frowned- Thornton had never had a "confession" before. He nodded slightly- indicating the older man to go on.

"You see, a few weeks ago- I sent out a few requests for a new manservant for you," Thornton said, looking down.

"You're quitting!" Robin exclaimed, dropping the second arrow he had taken out to fire. "I don't understand- why would you quit? I thought you liked it here and well-"

"No!" Thornton cut in. "No, Master- I'm not quitting."

"Then why do I need a new servant?" Robin said, still glaring suspiciously at the man before him.

"Well, I can't go with you to the Holy Land, can I?" Thornton declared, smiling and gesturing down at himself. Robin's frown deepened- he had never really considered this before. Looking at Thornton, he realized the man was right. His servant was too old to come and now that he thought about it, Robin wasn't even sure he knew how to fight.

"No, I suppose not," Robin said, sadly- Thornton had always been with him, some of the excitement he felt at leaving for war faded.

"Well, someone had one and is sending him over right now," Thornton continued, not sensing Robin's mood or choosing to ignore it. "He should be here in one week- maybe one and a half."

"Oh," Robin said, forcing a smile. "That's good." Thornton nodded, looking pleased with himself and Robin was relieved to see him head back towards the house. Suddenly he put his bow down- he didn't really feel like practicing anymore. It had never really struck him that he had to leave Locksley before this moment. When the king asked him to go- he had simply agreed. He was a young, good fighter and it was his duty to go- wasn't it? He was abruptly nervous as he glanced around his village- he was the lord of this town, what if something happened to it? What if the people needed him? He quickly shook himself out of that line of thought- Marian's father was a more than decent sheriff- he could easily handle anything. And besides, what could possibly happen anyway?

But still, he didn't feel quite right as he slowly knocked another arrow on the string. Surprisingly, he felt a wave of homesickness- and he hadn't even left yet. He loved this village, he loved the people and friends he had in it. He stepped back and shook his head before pulling back the string- he had to stop thinking about this. He was going, the village would be fine, and he would come back. He was growing up- it was time to stop being homesick. He let the arrow fly, content that he was once again excited to leave for the war.

It wasn't until he walked over to pull the arrow out that he noticed for the first time in a long time, it hadn't hit dead center.

End Chapter 1.

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