Well, this is it, folks. My first Robin Hood fic. There's not much of a plot, I'm afraid. My next one will have plot, I swear.

Not-Much and the Bad Temper

It's not that Much didn't want to learn how to use a sword. Quite the contrary. He was extremely aware that his very survival depended on his ability to defend himself with one weapon or another, and while his archery rivaled Robin's, he knew that a bow is almost useless if one's enemy is standing right in front of one, about to slice one in half.

Which is why the youngest of Robin's band found himself facing skinny, redheaded Will, trying to hold the heavy broadsword up without killing his arm.

"No, no!" Will shouted crossly. The older boy sympathized with his pupil, but that didn't stop him from wanting the boy to hold a sword properly, and from being frustrated at the lad's seeming inability to do so. "Hold it higher! D'you want to get your head chopped off?"

"No—" Much began, but his sweaty hands were gradually losing their grip on the pommel of his weapon, forcing him to lean the point on the ground as he scrubbed the extra moisture from his palms onto his tunic. Will muttered a curse and flicked his sword out to keep Much's clumsy practice weapon from falling in the dust.

"Ye do know that it's too heavy for him," someone remarked dryly as Much struggled to catch his sword without hurting himself.

"Rob, 'twas your own idea to have him learn," Will informed the nondescript man who leaned against a nearby tree.

"Perhaps I was wrong to have him use a broadsword, though."

Much gaped at his leader. "Y'mean I've been practicing for nothing, then?"

Robin laughed. "No, lad. Everything serves a purpose, and you'll find that even though you may not be able to hold a broadsword properly, you're still stronger now than you would have been if you'd never picked it up." He turned to Will. "But perhaps for the time being we start him on something lighter, eh?"

Will was fuming. Once again, Much stood before him, this time holding a wooden practice dagger in one hand and staring glumly at the other that lay in the dirt.

"You're living up to your name, aren't you," Will accused. "Not-Much."

"I'm still better than you at archery," Much pointed out, kicking the discarded dagger.

"Useless in a fight. Weaker than a girl. Can't even hold a dagger without dropping it!"

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT I'M SMALL!" Much had had enough. Chucking his practice dagger at Will's head, he ran. Will swore, then stalked off in the opposite direction.

Supper that evening was a tense affair, with Will and Much glaring at each other over their trenchers. Robin twice tried to get them to explain what was wrong, only to have his head bitten off. Little John merely shook his head and went to do something more important than staring at the two fuming boys.

Robin tried again, this time picking a different tactic.

"They say there's an archery contest over in Nottingham," he said. "Fencing tournament as well. Rumours are running that the prize for each is ten gold pieces and a boon from the Sheriff himself."

Much was the first to break the silence that followed Robin's announcement. "Think he'll grant a pardon as a boon?" he asked.

"You never know," Robin said with a smile.

"Bah," said Will. "Filthy son of a pig can't be trusted. It's a trap."

"We've dealt with traps before," Robin pointed out. "And we'd be going in disguise, like."

"No disguise'll hide this hair of mine," Will shot back.

Much thought back to the previous autumn, when he'd stained his hands dark brown collecting nuts. He knew of a way to hide Will's flaming hair, but to say it would be like giving in. On the other hand, the lad looked up to Will, and didn't like having the older boy angry with him.

"Walnut hulls," he muttered, staring at his empty trencher and hoping no one would hear.

"Good idea, Much," Robin said. "I think Will owes you an apology."

If looks could kill, Robin would have found himself pushing up daisies.

"Don't look at me like that, Will. He's ready to make up, so I suggest you hunker down and apologize."

"Or what," Will ground out.

"Or I'll pound you," Little John rumbled, back from his mysterious errand. "It's not Much's fault that he's small and clumsy, just like it's not your fault that you've a temper that matches your hair."

Will was beat and he knew it. John's poundings were a force to be reckoned with. "'M sorry, Much," he muttered. Then he got to his feet and stalked off in the direction of the river.

"So when's the tournament?" Much asked.

"There isn't one," Robin told him. "I was just sick of seeing you two fighting."