Thank you all so much for reading (and reviewing) despite the classes and homework I know most of you are dealing with right now! Just a quick note: While reading other fics, I've realized that my chapters are rather short, comparatively – if that's been irking any of you, the next several chapters are significantly longer (and seem to get longer every time I revise!). Also some behind-the-scenes trivia: This chapter is the scene from my original one-shot that refused to remain a one-shot; after I drafted it, I realized I couldn't handle not knowing how Much ended up like this, and couldn't leave him like this, either… :(

DoubleDaggered: Djaq's such an interesting character to write for – she has an entirely different background and point of view from the rest of the gang, which made finding her "voice" a little more difficult than usual. Since each character will narrate at least one chapter, I've had to get out of my comfort zone and figure out what makes the rest of the gang tick! ;)

SleepingwithinWater: I couldn't tell whether I'd made Robin's reactions too subtle, at first, but since you picked up on them I feel much better. XD Yep, Gisborne's got a world of pain and suffering coming if Robin gets his hands on him…

Much tried. He honestly did. But there simply was no good bit to any of this.

His shackles clinked coldly when he shifted against the wall, shards of sound scattering along the walls. The movement jostled his right hand, dragging a miserable groan from behind his clenched teeth. His fingers were undoubtedly, horribly broken… two of them, maybe more... He couldn't remember how many, didn't want to, and the sight of his distorted and swollen right hand only sent the nauseating pain soaring higher. The slightest motion, even breathing, made it worse, and Much had given up long hours ago on trying to stop the pain. He'd be content – happy, even, happy enough to sleep – if the pain would just dull a little, let his stomach settle. Between his hand, his pounding head, and the bone-deep ache composed of every vicious blow Gisborne had dealt him, Much could hardly remember what it felt like to not hurt.

Hunger pulsed underneath the nausea like a wound in his pit of his stomach, but it felt so much like all the other bruises Much was almost able to ignore it. The thirst was worse, but swallowing anything and keeping it down was a feat Much didn't think he could manage just now. Most of his last shreds of energy were focused on not shivering in the dank air, a reaction that jarred every one of his aching muscles and bones.

A few hours ago, after Marian had appeared in the doorway of that awful place like an angel and Gisborne had left with her, Much had been able to compose himself, just barely. Bless her, a thousand times over, for those precious minutes of reprieve. He'd found a few fleeting minutes of peace, most of them spent catching his breath through shudders of pain, trying to ignore the scornful gaze of the guard and to think of Robin, how he had to stay safe, how maybe Marian had come to distract Gisborne long enough for Robin and the gang to burst in and stage a rescue.

But rescue hadn't come. Instead, Gisborne had returned. He had stalked in, fury rippling from him like shimmers of heat, and flung Much against the stained stone with a ferocious blow that left his head ringing, throbbing. Two long steps, then Gisborne's boot smashed into Much's side and something gave way, drove a white-hot dagger through his ribs, a wave of agony that half-erased the sound of his own guttural cry of pain. The wave spread into a pulsing haze, blurring his memory of the hail of blows that followed, the horrible, desperate sounds he only half-recognized as his own voice. No more questions, only harsh grunts of effort and a snarled tirade above him that pain rendered meaningless.

Rough hands eventually dragged him across the stone to his cell, where Much had spent his last energies pulling himself to the farthest corner, his revulsion at the accommodations abandoned in an overwhelming, animal desire to get away, and he had not moved in the hours since. Chilled though the dungeons were, the cool stone wall felt good against his cheek. If he held still just like this, cradling his useless right hand in his left, and shut his eyes, he was all right… he could manage….

Despite everything the man had done – stolen his master's lands, dealt the wound that nearly killed Robin in the Holy Land, tried to kill the King – Much had never considered that his own death might come at Gisborne's hands. Perhaps indirectly: a chance blow by a guard in a skirmish, or an unlucky mistake that set nooses around all their necks while Gisborne looked on in triumph. These possible fates Much had recognized long ago, realities driven home by Roy's brutal death in Nottingham. Much was reluctantly familiar with violent death, having witnessed and caused far more than he had wished, more than God had willed, in the Holy Land. On the battlefield, though, death was at least swift, if often gruesome, and the Sheriff's hangman was nothing if not practiced. Death by those means would be terrible, grotesque, but quickly done with.

This, though… this was slow and deliberate, Gisborne kicking the life out of him like a mongrel dog from the streets. Much couldn't lie to himself and pretend he would survive another session like the last. He could barely fill his lungs, what felt like that burning dagger still lodged in his side if he dared draw breath too deeply, too quickly. Much wasn't even sure he could stand, just now, though he wanted to pace, to find a way out of this cavern-like place that felt like being buried alive.

He was not resigned to death, not at all, though he half-wondered if that was only foolish hope on his part. His heart hammered in his chest, flying into his throat as if to escape at the very thought of how little time he might have left. But if he had to die so soon, if he really, truly did, he did not want it to be like this… Not without just a moment to say goodbye to Robin. Not without ever finding Eve, just to see her again.

He sniffled, waiting out the rising pain with a grimace when the invisible dagger wrenched sharply in retaliation. Another tear tickled its way down his cheek, and he turned his head slightly to smear the wetness away against the grimy stone. Surely Robin had a plan by now. If not, the others would have begun to pull something together, and Robin would sew it all up into a clever scheme soon enough. They wouldn't leave him here. That was something good, a tiny little spark of good in this whole horrible mess, though Much wasn't sure whether it really counted, as it hadn't happened yet, and might not. Robin might be too late. Still, he clung onto that miniscule hope, the happy dream that the next person who came through the forbidding oak panels would be his master.