It was night. Much sat away from the fire and tried to examine his insult in the darkness.
The cross-shaped wound was puckered and red, as angry as a white-hot burn could be with no healing attention, no bandage but a dirty shirt and a cautious hand. Djaq had taught him a few things about her medicines. He had cleaned the skin as best he could, then rubbed some wetleaf sap onto the burn, but it still throbbed and ached in a strangely dry manner, a way that made his skin feel like parchment that would tear with the slightest movement. Hunched over in the firelight, he traced the brand. He remembered the pain very easily – just the thought of it sent chills down his body. In his memory, the sheriff became a black, nebulous thing, and the iron brand was a star, flaming into his eyes, then exploding into his flesh and hurting so brightly it was as if the whole night sky was burning down around him.
Carefully, Much placed a pad of clean cloth over his wound and secured it with another length of cloth wrapped around his stomach. It looked like a shabby job. It didn't even seem like it would be helpful. But Djaq had taught them all that sealing a wound was an important way of protecting against infection; Much was loyal to her words. He lowered his shirt. He faced the fire. He saw its heat in a different way. And he had to try very hard not to put his head in his hands, not to cave into the memory - because it wasn't just the pain, it was the fear of it, the knowledge of its power over him, the knowledge of his weakness that was a different torture, a different sky that hadn't burned, but had frozen and cracked. Of course, it had ended well - Much had prevaricated, protected his secrets. Faced the sheriff and won.
But he remembered too well. He remembered staring at that iron cross and, for a brief moment, faltering. When the brand hissed into his skin, the thought had shot through his mind that he would do anything to make the pain stop. Give Robin up. Throw over his friend and brother into the sheriff's hands.
The temptation had lasted only for a moment, yes, but a moment that now felt like forever, stretched out with a thousand horrifying possibilities.
The fire threw sparks, catching Much's eye – he looked up and saw Allan, standing off to the side, looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face.
"You alright?" he asked, his clipped accent slowing a little with what might have been concern.
"Of course," Much replied, not as loudly as he might, with less of sincerity and more of deflection. "Simply tired. Had a long day, you know, what with my being kidnapped and imprisoned. Not to mention digging around for the sheriff." He rubbed at his shoulder for emphasis.
Allan jerked his chin up and studied him from glittering, slitted eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "That dungeon's not a 'appy place, is it?"
Something in the way he said it made Much lower his eyes and stare at the dirt. A tightness began to develop in his chest.
The empty air between Allan's words and Much's silence grew thick with understanding.