Chapter 29
Sleep evaded him. Actually, more to the point, a comfortable position evaded him.
Of course, Much didn't actually expect to truly sleep, but it would have been nice to lie down comfortably.
With a miserable sigh, Much decided to abandon any pretense of sleep and, in fact, of even lying down. Pushing himself upright, Much sat wearily upon his disheveled heap of blankets, briefly wishing for the long ago days in Locksley when he slept on a bed mat stuffed with wool. Then, he glanced over at his master's makeshift bed, wondering if Robin had finally managed to rest. Judging by the lumpy outline, Much surmised that his master was buried somewhere beneath the mound of covers.
Much rubbed the bandage over his arrow wound. His shoulder throbbed, and his entire arm ached. But considering the grim circumstances hanging heavily over the outlaw camp, Much would never dare complain about what was, ultimately, a trifling injury. After a week, at most, of discomfort, Much would heal.
Allan might not.
Much looked over at Allan's prone form. Admittedly, Allan never was and never would be Much's favorite person, and Much assumed the feeling was mutual. More often than not, Much entertained his fair share of rather uncharitable opinions toward Allan, but it never meant he wished ill toward the man. Despite his almost constant feelings of irritation toward Allan, Much had actually missed Allan's usual quips about his cooking. He had missed the often crude but always, Much grudgingly admitted, quite hilarious stories Allan told the outlaws over the evening meal. He had missed Allan trying to teach Will how to cheat at dice, which was a feat Will never honestly attempted to master. Yet, he humored Allan all the same. Much had simply missed the normalcy of an evening at camp, and Allan-a-Dale owned a special piece of that – something that no one else could ever possibly duplicate. Considering all of it and considering Allan, Much was completely incapable of reconciling the Allan he knew – the Allan they all knew – with the unresponsive shell of a man he saw now.
Then Much's gaze drifted to Will and Djaq. More specifically, Much noticed that Djaq slept cradled in Will's arms. That was a decidedly new development, though, Much reflected, somehow not as surprising as it should have been considering the strange and inexplicable bond Will, Allan, and Djaq shared. Much didn't pretend to understand how three so very different people managed to develop such a close friendship, and he didn't try to understand it. It was what it was, and, despite everyone's nearly palpable concern of Allan, Will and Djaq were the two who belonged by Allan's side now.
As Much debated what exactly he should do since sleep was impossible, he heard the rustle of movement that called his attention back to his master's makeshift bed. After a moment, Robin threw the blankets aside and stood. He offered a passing glance in Allan's direction before he slipped quietly through the camp, disappearing into the forest and leaving Much to realize it had been far too much to hope that his master might actually sleep.
At first, Much toyed with the notion of trying to simply ignore his master's abrupt departure as he realized Robin probably didn't want the company. Of course, feigning ignorance in this matter was impossible. He worried for Robin, especially considering the terrible uncertainty of Allan's fate. Since the Holy Land – Acre especially – his master was … different. Much didn't claim to understand how precisely Robin was different, but their shared experiences in the Holy Land had indefinably altered Robin.
And Much worried. Of course, Much worried. If he didn't worry for Robin, who would? His master certainly didn't worry enough about himself.
Without further debate over the matter, Much followed Robin, carefully picking his own way through camp. Despite the distance Robin already likely had on him, Much guessed Robin's probable destination and followed the familiar path to a smooth rock shelf that overlooked one of the many streams that snaked through Sherwood Forest. As he expected, Much found Robin crouched on the rock shelf as he methodically pitched stones into the gently bubbling waters of the stream. Long ago Much understood that something about the repetition somehow soothed Robin when he was overly distressed, lost in the nightmares of the present as well as the past. He stared vacantly out over the water, seemingly unaware that Much had joined him.
Much hated when Robin slipped into this melancholy state. Sometimes he wondered if anyone else ever noticed it. Unwittingly, Much recalled the first time he'd noticed his master slip away from the present, apparently lost somewhere inside himself.
The stab wound should have killed him. But his master was stronger than that. Robin of Locksley had survived where many others would not. The King's own physician had attended Robin, once telling Much that Robin was stubbornly determined to live, fighting Death every step of the way. Any other would have succumbed to the wound and the fever long before.
"He has a reason to live," the royal physician had said. "A woman, I suppose. It usually is."
Much knew his master yet thought about Lady Marian, calling to her while the infection consumed him. He loved her though they had not parted well. Marian failed to understand Robin's decision. Perhaps that was because his master had been unable to voice his fears, his dread that he couldn't handle the burden of Locksley and its people … that he could never be the man his father was. That was part of it, anyway – at least the part that Robin confided in Much. And it had been a moment of vulnerability that Robin rarely showed others. His master preferred to keep his weaknesses to himself.
As for the other part, Much suspected his master panicked at his upcoming nuptials. It wasn't that Robin didn't love Lady Marian, because he did. Maybe Robin hadn't realized it quite so well as he did while he lay on his deathbed, but he loved her long before the Holy Land. Much was more than certain of that. Still, Robin faced marriage with much the same trepidation as he faced becoming Lord of Locksley.
Robin idolized his father and rightfully so. Much admired the man himself, thankful for his generosity. He'd given Much a home and treated him as a person, which was a rare gift. Most nobles treated servants as mere material possession – things to be used and discarded, animals to be beaten or berated. Regardless of his compassion often uncharacteristic of a noble, the late Lord Locksley was still just a man – something that Robin seemed unable to accept. Robin held his father on a pedestal and convinced himself that he could never equal his father – as a lord, as a husband, as a father, as a man.
"The ship sails tomorrow then?" Wishing only to break the awful silence, Much asked a question he already knew the answer to.
For a long time, his master didn't speak. He didn't even look at Much. Instead, Robin stared straight ahead, but somehow Much suspected that Robin wasn't seeing the tent. Finally, Robin replied, "I shall never forget it, Much."
Much swallowed hard, glancing away from the intense stare Robin turned on him. Much realized that his master wasn't speaking about the wound or the pain or the fever. No, his master was talking about the war, the battles … the bloody massacre of Acre. They had seen comrades fall, and they had taken lives, so many lives that Much knew the dead would haunt him forever. But worse than that, he and Robin had witnessed how war manipulates even the best of men, making them slaves to bloodlust – violence, rape, and murder.
"I have killed so many and watched so many others die."
Again, Much refused to meet his master's eyes. In the aftermath of a victorious battle, some Crusaders took pleasure in mutilating the enemy soldiers left alive. In Acre, it wasn't just Saladin's men. It was women … and children. Much closed his eyes, hearing the screams. Of course, his master wasn't like the others. He didn't participate in the sadistic cruelty. He tried to save those he could, but one man could only accomplish so much against such a tide of brutality. Still, in the heart of the battle itself, Robin became a different man, one Much wasn't even certain he recognized. His master possessed the unnerving instincts of an assassin, quick and lethal. Robin never missed a target and he never hesitated.
But that was war.
"You know," Robin said.
Finally, Much looked at him, and Robin continued, "You know why we are different, Much. You think about the men you have killed. You always hesitate. I tell you not to. If you do, you will eventually die. And still, you hesitate. But out there, I do not think." He paused. "I kill."
His master fell silent after that, his expression almost vacant. But Much knew the words that hung heavy between them – the questions that Robin would never dare ask aloud, the questions for which Robin didn't really want answers.
Much forced aside the troubled recollections. After all, simply returning to English soil had bettered Robin's dark moods, which had occurred all too frequently on the voyage home for Much's liking. Perhaps his master was not and never would be quite the same man he'd been before taking the Cross and joining King Richard, but England, despite all her troubles, had certainly improved Robin's foul spirits.
Shaking his head, Much stepped forward. A twig cracked sharply beneath his foot, but Robin did not start or turn, leaving Much to realize Robin had already been aware of his presence but simply chose not to acknowledge him.
Robin pitched another stone into the water. Much hesitated, and, before he could gather his thoughts and speak, Robin snapped, "Say what you came to say. I imagine you plan to talk whether or not I want to hear it."
Perhaps Much should have been offended. Most other people would have at least been irritated at being dismissed as little more than an annoyance, which was, of course, the underlying implication of Robin's callously spoken words. Yet, unlike other people, Much understood that Robin was often careless with both his tone and his words, especially when such a dark mood controlled him. In such a state, Robin never truly meant half of what he said, though Much admitted it still stung.
"What happened to Allan … it is not your fault," Much said. "It is no one's fault, actually, except the Sheriff and Gisborne." He paused. "But everyone seems willing to blame themselves." Honestly, was he the only one who saw that the blame for this atrocity should be placed squarely on the shoulders of the Sheriff and Gisborne – the two men who actually tortured Allan? Of course, everyone wanted to think they'd played some role in Allan's capture, which led to his torture. But none of them could control the Sheriff or Gisborne. None of them could control or alter their decision to torture Allan. This was the life they led and the terrible consequences. It could have just as easily been John or Will whom the Sheriff tortured. It could have been any of them. Did it make Allan's condition any less horrible? No, it did not, but the reality was that no one else was to blame but the Sheriff and Gisborne.
"The Sheriff and Gisborne did that to Allan," Much reiterated when Robin did not respond.
Again, Robin remained silent as he continued to methodically pitch stones into the water.
"Master – "
"If you insist on calling me that," Robin bit out, "then at least act the part and do as you are told. Leave me alone."
Much drew in a deep breath. "No. No, I will not. You are not yourself. You are blaming yourself – "
"Because it is my fault," Robin snapped. "Allan is my responsibility, just as you are my responsibility, just as Marian is my responsibility, just as everyone is my responsibility."
Much sighed, exasperated by the irrationality of his master's thinking. "You cannot hold yourself accountable – "
"Yes, Much," Robin interrupted, "I can." He paused, rolling a stone between his fingers. "If Allan dies, it is because of my choices. Every time I choose, I sacrifice someone. Had the archer's aim been accurate, you could have died today. Had I not reached Marian in time, Gisborne could have killed her."
Much wasn't certain what to say, especially because he realized that no matter what he said, Robin would never abandon his unreasonable sense of responsibility. After all, he believed his father had been perfect and therefore incapable of making a choice that bore negative consequences.
Well, no one was perfect, the late Lord Locksley included. But Much knew he would never convince Robin of that very real fact. He didn't even try. Instead, he said, "You cannot make everyone's choices. And … well, you cannot save everyone from their choices either."
Robin did not reply, but Much had not expected it. No one could dictate Robin's thinking. He would think as he thought best, regardless of anyone else's opinion. Still, it was not because Robin didn't hear other people, though sometimes, Much imagined, it seemed that way.
And perhaps Much simply made too many excuses for his master. Certainly, some of the others might view it that way. Yet, ultimately, none of the other outlaws could ever understand what he and Robin experienced on the bloody battlefields of the Holy Land – of Acre. None of them could understand how those experiences changed Robin.
But Much did, and he supposed that was why he would always make excuses – deserving or not – for Robin's behavior. And though Much hated the silence – that awful silence that reminded him of the tent in Acre and his master's first noticeable bout of melancholy – he kept quiet.
Finally, Robin stood. Before he made his way back to camp, he paused beside Much and placed a hand on Much's uninjured shoulder. "You know," Robin said.
Much nodded as Robin released his grip on his shoulder and departed back in the direction of camp.
Yes, Much thought, I know.
A/N: All right, that was my little foray into the show's implication that Robin suffers from some form of post traumatic stress disorder. Plus, I haven't really done a lot in this story from Much's perspective. I hope you enjoyed! Thanks again for reading!
Many thanks to …
gatewatcher – Thanks so much! I'm so happy to see you're still following the story despite my horrendous lack of updates. I really appreciate it. Thanks again!
HighPriestessOfTheDreamWorld – Wow! Thank you so much! You're making me blush with such a lovely review! I'm so thrilled that you liked the description of Allan's tenuous place within the gang. I'm also glad that you enjoyed Will and Djaq in this chapter. And you're right; it is really hard to keep Djaq strong while showing the emotion necessary while dealing with Allan's potential death. I'm so glad to hear that came across well. Oh! And I definitely agree – I never imagined that Will was intimidated by Djaq. My interpretation is that he both respected and admired her. Again, I can't tell you how much I appreciate the review. Thank you so much again!
Marjatta – Thank you so much! I really appreciate it! I'm happy to hear you enjoyed the flashback with Will and Allan. I enjoyed writing it :-D
Mischieftheblackwolf – Thanks so much! I really appreciate the review! And wow! You read the entire story twice – that's incredibly flattering. Thank you! And nope, I definitely never watched the third season, and, honestly, I have no real intention of watching it. But that is kind of funny that Tuck seems to be in character based on his portrayal in the third season. Maybe the BBC stole my version of Tuck (physical appearance aside) since I introduced the character into my story in, like, 2007. LOL. Joking, of course. I just find it interesting that he seems similar to the BBC's portrayal of him in the third season. Well, anyway, thank you so much again!
