Note from teh G-girl:

I was cruzing around the internets looking for some Robin 'Ood fanfiction (yes, I have fallen madly in love with the new BBC 2006 series mostly with Much, but more about that later) and I stumbled upon a livejournal community that had a something called a "100 Table" (which a fair amount of people here should be familiar with, I think) and each table had a single word for the title/theme for a piece (oneshots, I'm supposing) to be written. Sort of like a kickstart/prompt thing. So I of course went "ooo, drooly" and decided, hey! I can write my own 100 Table tales! A fic for every word! Arwsomeness!

So, in any case, here's the first one, "Beginnings." Much centric, lotsa Robin, mostly on how they met! If it seems a bit confusing, it's because part of the brief mention about Much being ill is from a full-fledged plot bunny I've yet to write, detailing how he came to serve Robin. This would be a sort of companion to that, once it gets written. To fill you in for now, though: Much was basically starving and freezing to death on the Nottingham streets, and Robin's father found and took pity on him, which anybody in their right mind would. After all, Much is quite squeezable when he's angsty. grins

Also, side note: Much is twelve, and Robin nine, soon to be ten. And I apologize for any errors, such as names and dates and places. I'm very unfamiliar with such things, and way too lazy to look them up. Reviews, as always, are quite welcome.

Obligatory Disclaimer: I owns nothing. Not even squee!Much.

Beginnings

It was the first time he'd been allowed outside since coming to Loxley. He'd finally managed to convince Lord Huntington that he was, in fact, well enough to be up and about, and, more importantly, bored to tears with his room, lovely as it was. Personally, he found the terms and conditions under which the great lord had allowed for this most agreeable: in general, to sit and do nothing. And though he had been sitting and doing nothing for days, as any child of twelve will tell you, there is a difference between sitting in a window-less room and doing nothing, and sitting upon fresh grass with the breeze blowing through your hair and doing nothing. Besides: he was still too tired to really even think about doing anything but nothing.

He gave a contented sigh, and lay back in the grass, his hands behind his head. Not far off, Elsie was tending to the morning wash, keeping a gentle eye on him. A part of him wished he could go and help her. She had been so kind, so loving during the weeks past – weeks that he had wept, to his shame, for the warmth of a woman's touch, a mother's touch, that he had not known in years. She had held him as the fever raged; as the nightmares lay bare his sins and miseries. But he knew that she should shoo him back inside the instant he picked himself up off the ground. He did not want to go in. It was bright, and quiet. Birds whistled, leaves fluttered. Spring had arrived. And with it, he felt a sense of renewal. This was the chance for a new beginning, here at Loxley, in this strange place, with it's kind people and fair plains. Perhaps things would not be so bad here.

Perhaps he would no longer have to be so alone.

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He supposed he fell asleep, for when he opened his eyes, the sun was not where it had been, but it could not have been for more than an hour. He sat up, scrubbing a dark eye with his palm. Yawned, ran a hand through sand-coloured hair, tinted with just hints of red. And then looked around, seeing where his cap had got to. Just off a little ways in the grass. He reached for it idly. He'd slept . . . and yet he still felt exhausted. He supposed he would feel this way for a little while. Weeks in bed had a way of doing that to a person. There was muscle to rebuild, strength to recover.

"Look out!"

Thwack!

Reflexes to regain.

He wasn't sure what had hit him, though he knew it was hard enough to create a pattern of obscurely saturated stars that seemed to drift amongst each other like the coloured glass in the long-sticks he'd seen the young Master Huntington use before when playing out in the sun. He was vaguely aware of someone grabbing his shoulders and hauling him into an upright position.

"I'm terribly sorry about that. Are you hurt bad?" the voice was childish, fearful, half from true regret and the other of a switching.

He opened his mouth. A few sounds came out.

"I should probably go get Elsie."

"No, that's all right. I think I'm fine."

"Really? Well, that's good then!" the face, which was becoming gradually clearer along with it's surroundings, looking noticeably relieved. He blinked. Speaking of the devil . . .

"Honestly, Father promised me a good tanning if one more person was knocked to the ground because of my ball . . . but it's doesn't really count with you now, does it? Seeing as you were already half-way there?"

He nodded, trying to reassure the young Master, who was now squatting eagerly next to him. He brought a hand to the spot on his head that the object – the ball, which was now a little ways off, having rolled to a stop on the hard ground – had designated it's new best friend. A bruise was forming, swelling a little. He didn't finger it too much, the very thought of it making him somewhat queasy.

"I don't suppose there's anything I can do to make it up to you?" the young Master asked. They sat for a moment in silence, until his stomach gave a spontaneous grumble, signaling the impending lunch hour. Then the young Master's eyes lit up and he grinned rather mischievously.

"You know what would make you feel lots better? Nothing makes a man happier than fresh picked apples, right off the orchard!"

He frowned. The good lord had insisted that he stay put, as per their agreement. And he knew that the big lord trumped the little one. But he took one look at the young Master's face and wondered how he was to deny this boy? It seemed an amiable jest of friendship – but not without the hint of trouble. From what he had heard, the young Master had quite the penchant for it. And he felt somewhat indebted – according to Elsie, the young Master had sat with him during those terrible hours, apparently the only one able to get him to take food, and drink, which he would not do for even Elsie. The Lord alone knew why, for he himself could not remember, not really. Flashes of heat, an uncomfortable haze in which figures of gray floated in a never-ending circle, motioning towards him, speaking in unclear voices that drifted into one ear and seeped carelessly through the other.

"Oh, don't look so glum. We shan't get caught – I know the shortcut." The young Master stood, still grinning, and offered him a hand. He hesitated. Sighed. Took the hand. And followed.

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"Now, it's very simple, really. The men my father has guarding the orchard are off a ways in that direction," the young Master indicated the Southeasterly bearing. He squinted, and could just barely make out two dark figures at the far end, the entrance to the orchard. The large wooden fence further on might would have deterred any grown man – but not two young children. For the young Master was small enough to fit beneath the lowest rung, and he was thin enough and tall enough to climb through the second. But before the orchard lay another fence, another field – and this one were not filled with fruit laden trees. Rather, with sheep.

"They shan't see us, or hear us, even if we are only a mile and a half away. No one expects anybody but the village children by this way. And as they never take anymore than a little, and only ever sometimes, Father allows for it. And yes, it might not include me," his face became pale, but the young Master gave him a reassuring smile, "but he's a kind man. Very lenient."

He gulped. Nodded. The young Master was most certainly going to get him into trouble. But he was kind, and kindness, aside from the grand lord and Elsie, was something he had not known for a long time. He had never had a brother – he imagined this was the sort of thing brothers did. To be included . . . it was nice.

"All right then. Running through a herd of sheep is not as hard as it sounds. You don't even have to run, really, just walk quickly and dodge sheep. You can push them out of the way, gently, of course, sort of work your way around them. Be careful not to make any very loud noises that would frighten them, which would be very bad. Here –" he said, vaulting very smoothly over the low fence, "– watch me."

The young Master began to make his way pell-mell through the sea of white, nudging the offending wool out of his way, and they would scatter and bray in an annoyed fashion. Doubtless they were quite used to the young Master's antics, if his slight speed and careful maneuvering were any indication. The young Master paused briefly, and glanced back at him. "Well, come on!" he called quietly.

He climbed over the fence with ease, and set himself down in the midst of the she-beasts. He began to wade through the vastness, trying not to rush, but trying also to keep up with the young Master, who was a bit ahead. He had made it halfway to other side when there came a distinct sort of grunt that was most definitely not sheep. He gulped, turned to his left. No, not a sheep. A ram. With horns. Very blunt, very pointy looking horns. Yes, both blunt and pointy. A hoof pawing the ground.

"Run!"

His head turned a half circle, and the look of fear on the young Master's face was numbing. His feet would not move. He could not make them. And then the ram charged, and he felt his will finally bending at the knees. Sprinting in the opposite direction, he saw the young Master heading for the other end of the fence, from whence they'd come. He turned sharply, hearing the ram skid a bit on the ground as it tried to correct its course. Frightened sheep were jumbling about him, out of the way, in the way. He slid beneath one that refused to budge. He was at the fence, the young Master having just scrambled beneath it, holding out his arms, beckoning.

"Jump! You've got to! It's the only way! Jump!!"

He took a deep breath, his legs burning, adrenalin pulsing through him. Get your legs bent completely under you, he remembered her saying to him, it's the only way you'll ever clear anything from a dead run.

He flung himself into the air. Tried to bend his knees. Ended up flying headfirst into the dirt across the fence. Put out his arms to stop the descent, and crashed horribly, bruising his wrists, jolting his spine, rattling his brain. Nothing felt broken though. He looked up, the young Master grinning with relief, helping him to stand. They both shared a timid laugh. Then the young Master's face turned horribly pale, staring at something behind him, that he could not see.

"What? What's wrong?"

The young Master pointed, and he turned. Apparently, the ram had managed to clear the fence just as well as he had, along with several other sheep. More were still trying. A few had gotten stuck.

But the ram was still snorting its rage at the two of them, hoofing the dirt once again, and began its charge. He gulped and the young Master gasped audibly. They turned and ran in the only direction they knew how – to the hall.

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Had he not been so tired, in a state of almost listlessness, he was sure that he would be terrified by the imposing lord standing before him, that is to say, a lot more than he was at the moment. A hint of fear, more of exhaustion, was present on his face. The young Master, however, looked afraid for his life. They were standing in the kitchen, the sheep re-herded, the ram locked safely away, two chores with which their help had been adamantly required. Elsie had tried to see to him before the majestic lord had caught up with them, but she had only just managed to wash out a few cuts when his presence had been summoned to where he was standing now. He supposed he was shaking. He knew he was. The surge of energy spawned of fear from his earlier encounter with the ram had long since worn off, leaving in its place a drained, beaten feeling that made his limbs feel much too loose and entirely too vulnerable.

The fine lord was lecturing in a tone of barely repressed anger about how unintelligent there attempt had been and how dangerous a grown ram was when angered, as well as the fact that they had caused precious livestock to be put into such a precarious position. What if some had become lost? Had injured themselves, contracted a poison from an unseen cut? Did they have any idea, any idea at all what sort of hardships could befall the people of Loxley under these circumstances? The young Master nodded mutely, and so did he, believing it best. The wondrous lord paced a minute, fuming, before finally turning on his son.

"Who's idea was this great adventure, any way?" he stared the boy down, who's head quickly bent in shame, unable to return his father's penetrating gaze. He felt an inexplicable amount of pity for the young Master. Alone in this house with only a rough but fair father, no mother, no siblings, if what Elsie said was to be believed. Ostracized from the village children, unnerving to his teachers and a handful to the proud man who ruled this land, he must have been the loneliest child in the world, even more so than himself.

"It was mine, my lord."

The young Master and the old Earl both looked up sharply, wearing similar looks of shock, one a fearful hope, the other a surprised indignity.

"You, young man?"

"Yes, my lord. I . . . I know what we agreed upon about my being outside, and I must admit that in a moment of excitement I . . . well, I forgot."

He turned to the young Master.

"Is this true?" he demanded.

The young Master said nothing, merely stared at him. He looked away, his cheeks colouring.

The marvelous lord paced a bit more, this time slower, his frown brought not by fury, but by deep thought. At last, he paused before him, looking down on him from a great height. His breath caught in his throat, he did not look away, determined to take his punishment, however harsh . . . however badly it might end.

"This is deeply troubling. I take you into my home, off of the cruel, cold streets of Nottingham, nurse you back to health, give you the opportunity to serve in my house, were I should have well cared for you . . . and you repay me by disobeying me, wrecking my livestock, and encouraging my son in his own rash behavior?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Father, wait!"

"Quiet, my son." The splendid lord held his gaze, until finally he just had to look away. The wound in the lord's great eyes . . . one, not of injured pride, but of betrayed trust, had just been too great to bear.

"I can only ask your forgiveness, my lord, and promise that I shall do better next time."

"Next time." The word was spoken blandly, neither with maliciousness nor forgiveness. He swallowed. He would not cry. He was too old for such things. Twelve years on the street, in all its harshness . . . he had not cried even for her, as he buried her; he would not cry for this most wonderful of lords, for he was wonderful. He could see that, at least.

"Father." A whisper.

Silence.

The blood pounding in his ears.

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The switching had been just that – a switching. It was not exceptionally fierce, but it certainly was not kind, and middle grounds are confusing. He had cried – not full blown sobs, not galling shrieks of pain. Silent tears. Tears of embarrassment, tears of shame. Tears of regret. Afterwards, he had just lain there, on the stone, cold and calming and soothing against his burning cheek. Perhaps he was once more with fever? Perhaps he was finally going to die, this time. Perhaps.

Elsie had knelt beside him, applying a balm from the kitchens on the cuts, the stings, and a balm for his heart just by her presence. Eyes half closed. Humming. Intricate details on the wall that he could not see clearly through the salty wetness. A dry tongue on drier lips. So tired.

He could hear the voice of the magnificent lord. It was quiet, sorrowful, and proud. Proud of him. Of what he had done.

"Must you have been so harsh, my lord?"

"He admitted to his guilt, whether it was real or not. He did a very brave thing. He took the punishment that should have been my sons."

"Then the young master is not to be similarly dealt with?"

"No. After this young man was taken to be whipped, he came to me and explained what had happened. He begged me to let the boy be, to punish him instead. I could not, however, go back on my word. I have sent him to his room, as he refused super, refused to dine with me. I believe that this has been a great lesson for him. I only regret that this lad had to bare the brunt of it."

Regret. He sighed. He might not be sent away after all. Eyes closed completely. Limbs aching. Head heavy, tears slowing. Drifting . . .

"For God's sake, Elsie, take him to his room. The boys liable to be even sicker than when we found him from lying on this floor.'

"Yes, my lord."

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When he woke, he was in his room. Still tired. No going outside today. He doubted he could gather the strength. Instead, he gazed at the roof with weary eyes. Elsie came and brought broth, which he ate, enough that she was satisfied he was not truly sick. Just sore. A bit of a fever. He would feel better tomorrow.

He lay quietly against the pillows, drifting. He seemed to be doing so much of that these days. Just lying there, drifting . . .

"No, you cannot see him. He's very tired, he needs rest, and I'll not have you stirring him up any more than you already have."

"Please, Elsie. I have to see him. If only for a moment . . . I owe him an apology!"

"Well, you're right about that at least."

A pause.

"Please?"

An exasperated sigh.

"All right, all right! But only for a moment, you understand?"

"Oh, God bless you, Elsie!"

A child's kiss, feverous and sticky.

"Oh, g'on, you little rascal!"

A knock. A creak. A face peering through the crack in the door. A very chastised, tear stained face, one to match his own.

"Um . . . hi. I . . . they said you weren't allowed out of bed today, so I thought – I thought I'd come to see you." It was a meek recitation, one filled with guilt and dread, the dread of having an unwelcome apology being cast aside.

"That's very nice of you," he said, gently. He had dealt with apologies of this kind before, the way a man deals with a startled fawn that did not know it was napping alone in the field. The young Master took a seat, looking a bit less nervous. He smiled at him warmly. It was nice to have company, company that he will remember, a conversation he can recall years in the future when he shall be alone. A warm spark on a cold winter night, enough to ignite a fire of happiness in even the most bitter of men.

"Well, yes, I – no. No, it isn't nice. It isn't nice at all. My reason for being here is selfish. More than you can know," said the young Master, gazing balefully at him, looking on the verge of new tears. He returned this with a confused look. What could be less selfish than a heartfelt apology, which the poor young Master was obviously trying to make?

"You see . . . it's clearly for my own conscious, my own peace of mind. I barely slept last night at all. I couldn't stop thinking about you, how you did that for me. No one has ever done something like that for me . . ." the young Master trailed off into silence.

"No one has ever been there to do such things for you," he added quietly. He knew. He had been that person. The young Master looked up at him, startled.

"Yes. Yes, that's it, exactly! How can . . .?"

"I know. Loneliness is hard."

Silence.

Before he could react, the young Master had crossed the room and flung his arms around him, sobbing into his neck. Startled, he sat frozen for a minute, before wrapping the boy in a tight hug and letting slip a few unchecked tears. He rubbed soothing circles in his back, muttered meaningless nothing into the air. Elsie's head appeared in the door, a bit alarmed by the sight of her future lord grasping at this young nothing, as though he were the last lifeline in the world. He mouthed something along the lines of it's all right to her, and she stood a minute, watching, before nodding and closing the door. He let the young Master cry himself into a petered out state of mild hiccupping. He found the young Master curled up on the bed, his head in his lap, arms over his legs and clutching the blankets. He absent-mindedly stroked the dark brown hair. It was soft . . . soft like hers had been. Leaned against the pillows. Sighed. Felt . . . at peace, somehow. With this young boy, barely ten, drifting into sleep on his lap.

"Thank you so much," the young Master murmured.

"You're welcome, sir."

"Please, call me Robin. That is my name, you know."

Silence.

"What is your name?"

He stopped stroking, slowly. The young Master, Robin, looked up at him briefly.

"I haven't one." His mother had never given him one, he did not think. And she had only ever called him 'darling boy.' He shuddered.

"I'm sorry."

"Please, don't be. It is not your fault.

More silence. A yawn. Another one behind it.

"Then I shall call you Much."

He blinked.

"Why?"

"Because you've given me so much to be glad for."

"Like what?"

"A friend."

He sighed. Another sigh behind it.

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When the Lord Huntington had come searching for his son, Elsie had lead him to the room, where the young lad was curled under a thin blanket with his head in the rescued boy's lap, clutching the blankets. Clutching him. The other had a hand tangled in Robin's dark hair; his arm lay over his son's protectively. Both were soundly sleeping. Robin looked more at peace than he had in years . . . since the passing of his mother. The older boy looked simply relaxed, no lines upon his young face, his eyes unmoving beneath their lids, so unlike what had been only just days ago. The lord began to form a plan in the back of his mind. This boy would have to be kept, and not merely as a house servant . . .

As for Elsie, she became privilege to a rare sight that she would only ever have the fortune to look upon four times in her life – the Lord Huntington smiled, a true smile, revealing no teeth and all the joy in the world. It made her want to smile herself.

She gazed upon the sleeping boys, one too young to be so old, the other innocent and yet scarred.

This could only be the beginning.

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