Back to a far less pleasant place than Sherwood in this chapter...

DoubleDaggered: I was a little put out at first, too, when I realized I'd need to switch viewpoints to tell the story properly. But it's been so much fun getting into the other characters' heads, I'm very glad I ended up doing it this way. Much as we love Much, he can't tell the whole story himself this time. ;)

SleepingwithinWater: I'm glad you liked the dialogue there - a scolding Djaq and out-of-line Allan are always fun to write!

Without further ado, we return to Much...

Much came to his senses with the taste of blood in his mouth, metallic and sickening. His thoughts shambled aimlessly in a fog, wandering until he found where sight and memory had last left him. Sir Guy of Gisborne, standing in a doorway… No, closer than that, close enough to see the hate in his eyes... They were pale, his eyes, like all the color had drained out of them. Like you'd snapped an icicle from the edge of a roof and looked at the broken end, and seen Gisborne staring back.

Memory churned harder, set Much's heart thudding faster along with it. There were little silver clasps up the front of Gisborne's tunic, little wolf-head clasps, and matching ones on his gloves. The first punch had carved into Much's jaw, digging a groove there he could still feel, hot and burning.

A door thundered shut nearby, and Much's eyes flew open, only to find that his jaw was clenched so tightly his entire neck ached. For a moment, the muscles seemed paralyzed, and he could not relax them despite all his efforts. After a few agonizing, panicked seconds, something reluctantly released, and Much let out a pathetic whimper of relief, working his jaw gingerly. He could feel blood drying on his chin, sticky and itching, and as the last shreds of fog melted away, every single blow of Gisborne's fists and boots throbbed in unison through his body.

His wrists burned behind him, and the awkward angle reminded him that he was on the floor now, knees pulled up in a desperate attempt to relieve the searing pain in his stomach and sides. The skin around his left eye was a tight and swollen knot of pain, forcing his eye nearly shut. Gisborne had seen the mark, the reddening skin from when he had felled Much outside the castle, and deliberately struck there again, repeating the blow until Much thought his head would burst. Lifting his throbbing head now, scanning the room unsteadily, he saw that he was alone. The room was silent and cold, as if the wavering torches gave no heat at all.

He'd done it. He'd managed it, and the thought almost let him smile, despite his bleak surroundings. Robin would be proud. Even Allan couldn't say anymore that Much couldn't keep his mouth shut. Despite Gisborne's ruthless assault, his relentless demands to know where the silver was hidden, how to find the gang's camp, Much had not spoken a single word, had gritted his teeth and remained mute, apart from the grunts of pain he'd been unable to hold back. A little swell of pride grew in his sore chest, then dimmed when common sense told him it was far too early to celebrate. He was alive: that alone meant Gisborne had further plans for him. As if to prove him right, guards arrived, helmeted and faceless, and to his shame, Much found he could barely keep his feet when they untied him. They dropped him into the first empty cell like a sack of potatoes and locked him in, chuckling to each other.

Much lay where he had fallen for several long minutes, half-curled with his head resting on one outstretched arm. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Wrenching his arms forward to break his fall, after standing with them bound behind his back for hours… Allan would have a number of astoundingly coarse sayings for how badly that hurt, and for once, Much was willing to apply them to his situation.

Dirty straw littered the back wall of the cell, presumably for use as bedding for prisoners. It stunk of decay and unmentionable filth, however, and Much pulled himself over to sit in the front corner of the cell instead, as far away from the nauseating stench and Gisborne's torture chamber as possible. Reluctantly denying his desire to shut his eyes and sleep for days, Much tipped his head back against the stone and took a personal inventory, the chill from the stone immediately sinking through his shirt and vest. It was hard to separate the different aches all making themselves felt at once, but Much tentatively decided that nothing was broken. His wrists were sore, chafed raw from the rope. His whole face hurt, but that was only a black eye and some-odd bruises, all throbbing in time with his heartbeat; after a week or two of brilliant colors and jests from the gang, they would be nearly forgotten. Bruises and scrapes all over, most of them fitting the shape of Gisborne's fist. Only bruises and scrapes, though, however impressive in number and discomfort.

Fine, then. Good. Well, not good, obviously, but certainly nothing Much couldn't handle. In decent shape, considering, and he'd be perfectly willing to ignore his aches and pains if Robin turned up. When he turned up. Together, they would be able to overcome the guards, return to Sherwood together, and all would be well.

Much shifted closer to the bars, and nearly cried out when his ribs flared with pain, reverberating like an echo through all his other injuries. He froze, hardly breathing, rethinking his earlier assessment. Very, very slowly, the burning pain abated, ebbing away in little ripples. He concentrated on taking slow, shallow breaths. Oh, that had truly hurt. Something cracked, maybe; it didn't feel quite as bad as he imagined an actually broken rib would. All right. Not good. In not-so-good-at-all shape, with the promise of more abuse to come, if he stayed here long enough. At least Gisborne would likely wait until tomorrow, since it was so late already… At least, Much thought it was late. It had been just after midday when they entered Nottingham, and it felt like nighttime now. Had he really been in this awful place so long? Gisborne had left him in there and gone away… why had he left? They'd missed supper by now, surely, so that wasn't it. Or was Much wrong, and it was only just now suppertime?

He couldn't think with so much of him crying out for rest and relief. Robin was the master strategist, not him. Much prided himself on his practicality, on keeping things in mind the others were too hasty to consider, but Robin had a gift for seeing five steps ahead, anticipating his opponents' moves. It was all Much could do to keep up with the man some days, physically and intellectually. Right now, he didn't even know if the sun had set, let alone what was going through the mind of Sir Guy of Gisborne.

Gingerly, he rested his head against the cold bars of the cell and shut his eyes. Whatever happened next, he would surely need all the rest he could get. Unless Robin pulled off some daring nighttime rescue, Much knew he'd find himself in that horrible room again, come morning, with Gisborne's pale eyes and merciless smirk boring through him. The gang would come for him, they would, but in the meantime, he needed to be ready, needed to have it straight in his mind that whatever happened – whatever happened to him – he couldn't say a word. Words tumbled out of him like water from a waterfall; one drop, one word followed another, and Much knew that if he let anything, even a whimpered plea for mercy, pass his lips, that would be the end of it.

He was thirsty. The dungeons were cavernously silent, the only sound the industrious dripping of water somewhere. He hadn't thought to bring a water skin on the mission, thinking they'd all be back at camp soon enough. Not that they would have let him keep it, anyway – the guards, that is. Pointless. As if he could escape from a locked cell using a half-full water skin… If for nothing else than to rid himself of the taste of blood, just a cup of water would be lovely. Much's shoulders ached fiercely, but he tucked his cold fingers under his arms anyway, hoping he could manage to sleep in this pit.

"Hurry up, Robin," he murmured, resigning himself to a night spent in this revolting, frightening place. "Please hurry up…"

Thank you to all who've read this far! And to all you sneaky ninja-like readers out there, I don't bite (unless you're a sandwich) - jot down a quick little review, and let me know what you think! :P

~ Si