Just a short little chapter...
Robin did not want to sleep, sitting cross-legged beside his friend. But the heat of the fire, ruddy and brisk against his face and the sound of a low moaning wind rustling against the roof of the camp worked their lulling magic...his head lowered to his chest and--
He jerked awake when a large hand fell over his shoulder. Little John was crouched beside him. He gave Robin an apologetic little smile and gestured toward his leader's empty bunk.
"I'll watch for a bit," he said, and settled down beside Much to end the argument before it started.
Robin didn't want to leave his friend, but John was giving him a firm glance.
"He's been fitful, but he hasn't woken up since..." Robin cleared his throat, and John nodded. Robin wasn't sure how much of the scene between Much and Djaq the others had witnessed, but he had an idea that none of them had been sleeping that soundly since. Robin gave his friend a final glance and then got to his feet.
"Wake me for the next watch," he ordered and crossed the floor to his bunk where he climbed in, quiet as a cat.
Little John sat back on his haunches and regarded the pale boy beside him. Much was still fairly glowing with fever, his skin glistening in the flickering light. Although it was clear he was sleeping, it seemed he could not find stillness or peace there. John Little was suddenly reminded of his young son, with his limp and his mother's easy smile, and he reached out to lay his hand on Much's forehead.
Much trembled, his eyes fluttered opened, searched for focus. John had never known the horrors of the Holy Land, but he did understand desperation. It lived in him, a distant kindling in his heart that he had to watch over in case it one day ignite. He could read that emotion plainly in his friend.
"You are safe," he said, leaning closer. His brown eyes were gentle and home to sympathy and when Much looked at him, he felt some of his fear dissolve in their surety. When they had first met, Much had thought this man no better than a brute. But as the older outlaw tucked the blankets around him closer and smiled, Much saw him more than ever for what he really was.
"Father..." Much murmured aloud,"...You are our father..."
John frowned, unsure. The younger man must be calling for his pa, but John was certain that Much had no family, as he often said during the nostalgic night-time talks the others usually indulged in. The servant occassionally referenced his mother when he got on in his babbling, but he'd never spoken once about his father and John assumed there wasn't one...or at least, one worth speaking of.
"It's just John, lad," he clarified, "Just John Little."
But Much had already gone off again, face turned away from the fire-light, leaving John to simply sit by his side and chew on his thoughts.