There was no sound but the desert wind, and no color but the harsh red against the white against the yellow of the sand, inches above someone that used to be Carter, at least not that Much could see. Djaq, Will, Robin, John, Allan, and he. The gang. They were who was left. All the extras, all the outward ties to their small group had been severed. After the first time round the Holy Land, Much knew that Robin never wanted anything he couldn't stand to lose, knew the hurt was too great. As he looked at the plain, evident, solidified grief on his friend's faces, he knew it was too late for that, for all of them. But, he thought with conviction, with a very Much-like tendency, that at least they still had each other. All of them, together, were ok. He looked at Marians grave, and then back at Robin, and then back at the grave. He pushed his cap off and wrung it in his hands, tears dripping onto his boots.