First off, you guys are all awesome. It's wonderful to turn on my computer and see so many views - thanks for stopping by and checking this story out! And as promised, a chibi-style outlaw plushie to my reviewers: here ya go! ^_^
SleepingwithinWater: Somehow Robin always manages to wiggle out of a real apology, doesn't he? Allan's the expert at sleight-of-hand, but Robin uses words just as skillfully (sleight-of-word?).
DoubleDaggered: Fear not! The next installment is here! :)
Just a quick note: If I owned the gang, I'd be rewriting the end of Season Two and all of Season Three, not writing fanfiction. Or I'd be doing both, at least. My potted cactus, Tony, and I both thank you for not suing us.
It was a stupid mistake; embarrassing, really. After all the drilling and practice Robin had put him through in the Holy Lands, for this most basic of combat rules to slip his mind…. Much had foolishly assumed Gisborne was out of the fight, at least for a good minute; he hadn't held back when delivering that terribly unsportsmanlike blow, after all. But the gang had scarcely turned to run when something struck a glancing blow to his ribs, distracting him, allowing his opponent's sword to skim across his knuckles painfully. In the split-second it took him to resume fighting, Gisborne suddenly loomed before him, dagger in one hand, other arm a blur of motion.
Much had blinked and found himself sprawled on the ground, cheekbone radiating hot pain across his face, sword gone, and a circle of blades pointed down at him. Gisborne, tight-lipped, motioned the guards into the castle with a jerk of his head. Before Much could come up with something suitably witty and defiant to say, the guards had hauled him to his feet and half-dragged him back through the empty doorframe. Noticeably winded, Gisborne remained behind, leaning slowly against the wall with a barely-audible groan.
At least Robin and the gang had gotten away, Much reflected numbly as they hustled him along. Nobody hurt, even, which was a miracle in itself, considering their narrow escape. And it shouldn't be more than a few hours, maybe a day, before they'd come barging into the dungeons to break him out. Robin would scold him mercilessly for putting himself at risk, John might clap him on the shoulder, Djaq would smile. True, the rats would be horrid… He'd probably have to stay awake all night just to shoo them off, keep them from chewing little holes in his newly-mended shirt…The cloak and jacket were rags anyway, but he'd only just finished the shirt yesterday.
A parting call from the lieutenant dropped Much's heart down into his toes.
"Not the cells – get him ready for me."
The pace picked up, leaving Much stumbling to keep from being dragged along. He tried to look into his captors' faces, but the helmets and chain mail obscured too much, and he stammered, almost involuntarily, "W-wait, what does he mean, not the cells?" Only his own panting, and the sound of marching feet. "What's he talking about? Where are you taking me?"
He got a metal-gloved rap in the head for his questions. In a bewilderingly short period of time, they arrived at the door leading down into the cells. One of them hauled it open and let his mates jostle Much through, his feet scuffing loudly against the stone in instinctive rebellion. The air was rank and utterly still, coiling thickly into his lungs. Instead of stopping by one of the filthy cells, someplace Much suddenly, desperately wanted to be, they shoved him roughly into an adjoining room he knew only by reputation.
This was bad. Very, very bad.
Much only had time for fleeting impressions before his arms were jerked behind his back and the guards began searching him. Tables stacked with metal tools, instruments. A wooden post in the middle of the room. Chains and hooks fixed to the ceiling. A pervasive, stifling stench, horribly like the battlefields in Acre, but this air was cold, not hot… The faceless, voiceless guard searching him took the moneybag first, unsurprisingly, then his sword belt. Silly, that, as his sword was lying out there in the rain…. They jerked the torn cloak and jacket from his shoulders, but left him his vest and shirt.
Measured, deliberate steps counted out the dungeon stairs, then the paces to the room Much stood in. Face unreadable, Guy of Gisborne stepped into the room and dismissed all the men but two with a gesture.
"Tie him to the post," came the growling order, and Much spent a few useless moments struggling before the burlier guard of the two knocked the wind out of him with a single, well-aimed punch to the gut. By the time he could breathe again, his hands were tied tightly behind him, the post solid and uncomfortable between his shoulderblades.
All right, then – this would definitely be more difficult than a night in the dungeons. Significantly more difficult. Murmured words between Gisborne and the guards echoed gently. Clanking footsteps departed, and a few seconds later, the dungeon door closed with a reverberating rumble. As it faded, the room fell quiet until all Much could hear was his own breathing and the ghostly whisper of the torches.
When he looked up, the man was a black statue by the door, eyes so unfeeling Much tore his gaze away, looking anywhere and everywhere else. He couldn't recognize any of the implements on the tables, recoiled at the mere thought of their purpose. The wine-colored stain on the stone beneath Much's feet was not wine. Surely Gisborne didn't intend to kill him right now, already? If so, there was no rescue coming, nothing else but this room and just a short while left. That knowledge dropped like a rock into the pit of Much's stomach, and he swallowed hard against the fear rising in his throat. Lacing his fingers together hid their shaking. No use letting Gisborne have the satisfaction of knowing how afraid he was. The rest of the gang already believed him half a coward, Much knew. The fact of the matter, though, was that courage came easily enough when his master was in danger, or the gang's safety at stake. When Much was Much's only concern, though…
He heard the uneasy twist of moving leather at the same time Gisborne's heavy boots sounded out, tracing a tantalizingly slow curve around the room. He jumped when Gisborne's voice broke the silence beside him, the man himself a darker shadow in the shadowy room.
"I recognize you now." He paced on out of Much's sight. "You're Locksley's servant, the one he dragged off to the Crusades with him. His right-hand man, such as you are…" An invisible sneer. "His confidant…" Gisborne bit off the "t" as he sauntered back into view, slightly blurred by the swelling beginning around Much's left eye, where Gisborne had hit him earlier.
"You have this one opportunity, and believe you me, I am being far more lenient than you deserve. Speak now, tell me how to find Hood, and I may find my way to sparing your life." He studied his prisoner as he spoke, a bird of prey choosing the best way to strike. Much felt horribly like the trapped and terrified hare the bird had spotted. Still, he couldn't repress a little scoff, barely more than a cough, really; could Gisborne honestly expect one of Robin's men to buckle so easily? Just crumple up and beg for mercy because Gisborne told him to? It was practically an insult.
"That's, uh… That's tempting, that is. Ah, but I'm going to have to say no thanks." Proudly, Much realized his voice had barely wavered, and he summoned a falsely cheerful smile from somewhere. That's what Robin would do: just brush Sir Guy off, strike at his ego. Flash a grin and then make some improbable escape he'd laugh and brag about for weeks.
The silence after his words lasted a few seconds too long, and Much ventured another glance upward. The dark-haired man only shook his head regretfully, tutting as he twitched a sable glove tighter at the wrist. He lifted his own eyes to meet his prisoner's then, and a crooked grin slid onto his face.
"Pity."