This chapter took the most effort out of them all so far. I couldn't begin to tell you how many tweaks and revisions it went through. Robin's point of view is the most difficult for me; there's so much denial and avoidance tangled up in his thoughts, particularly right now, that I spent half the time staring in exasperation at the computer screen. If the other chapters were the gang good-naturedly hitting their marks, reading their lines, and bearing with the director's dialogue changes and whatnot, this chapter was Robin storming off the set and locking himself in his trailer. The gang and I had to physically pry his hands off the doorframe before we could get him on set, and even then he kept dragging his feet and sulking. He's exhausting, I tell ya. :P
And Little John finally gets a turn to narrate as well, hopefully clarifying a few things from the previous chapter. I realized after the fact that Much's point of view makes even less sense without this section alongside it, but combining the two would have made for a ridiculously huge chapter, so I apologize, and hope I didn't perplex any of you too badly… I'll be glad to clarify anything Little John doesn't make clear.
ZeDancingHobbit: Yeah, poor Much just can't catch a break lately… which is kind of my fault and makes me feel like a bad person… but it's for a good cause, really! :P
DoubleDaggered: Thank you! Dark though it was, I really enjoyed writing that chapter… At some point I'd like to write more about Robin and Much's time in the Holy Land – we get such tantalizing, tiny little hints about what happened there, and that was five years of their lives!
EternallyEC: Thank you so much! Brian Jacques (late author of the Redwall series) used to say to "paint pictures with words, and you won't go far wrong", and that advice has always stuck with me. So that's what I try to do, and I'm so glad you like the result. It's a messy process, believe me. :P And that last moment with Much is probably one of my favorites in that chapter, too. Robin just doesn't understand that Much's world honestly does basically revolve around him. Much has no family, has spent the last ten years of his life serving Robin: at this point, Much hardly has an identity outside of his relation to Robin. And Robin just doesn't realize any of this… ARG. O_o
MiscPurpleEccentric94: Confession time – I actually have never watched the third season of Robin Hood. I heard tell of the horrors contained therein, and stopped watching new episodes after "A Good Day to Die". :P I wish there were more stories out there centering on Much, too. He's so easily overlooked or made into the panicky comic relief that it seems like a lot of the writers out there tend to pass him over in favor of the rest of the gang, the poor fellow.
Quick author's note, and then I'll get out of your way and let you get to reading: The next chapter may be a few days later than usual, since you lot have actually caught up to me in my writing. I have the next chapter drafted and the rest of the tale plotted out, but won't have much spare time to revise over the next week (I finished this one between pumpkin pies and packing). A very happy Thanksgiving to all my readers who celebrate it, and a happy November 22nd to those who don't! ;)
*Now updated to fix some nitpicky formatting issues and a few typos I spotted after posting (amazing how these things jump out at you AFTER you hit "post", isn't it?).
The low fire coughed softly, a little flicker of sparks fluttering up as a branch settled lower into the ashes. John eyed the sleepy flames, but they'd give light and heat enough for a while yet. No sense in making a ruckus adding branches just yet. The large room was almost silent, the stillness broken only by the muted conversation of the fire with the logs, and the soft breathing of his sleeping companions. The fire warded away the chill of the night air, and John had shrugged his long coat off hours ago, bundling it beside him where he now sat with his back against the cavern wall, arms crossed comfortably over his chest as he kept watch.
They'd moved their supplies to this cavern a week or two ago, ahead of the cold breath of autumn, knowing they'd need someplace warmer than a wind-sheltered hollow when the first frosts came. Looking around the shadowed walls now, John allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, remembering Allan's initial complaints, and Robin's reluctance to adopt such a fixed camp. The security of this place was worth Allan accusing him of "making a fuss over it", because while the narrow, crooked opening worked well to keep most of the cold out, it also made this camp more easily defended than any they'd found yet. If need be, John himself could block the entrance bodily, and woe betide anyone foolhardy enough to test their strength against his.
Not that he expected an attack tonight, nor did any of them. Whatever Gisborne might be fuming over and planning in that castle, he had more sense than to invade Sherwood by night and hope to succeed against outlaws who could run the forest's paths in pitch darkness. Dawn and the following day might be a different story, particularly since none of them but Much knew how successful Gisborne's interrogation might have been, but none of them were heartless enough to demand their own answers now. For tonight, at least, they were safe, and such painful questions could wait for brighter hours.
The cave could have held twice their number easily, but everyone had clustered near the fire to sleep, almost within reach of each other. Young Will's thin frame was stretched out between the fire and the faint outline of the entrance, axe alongside his pallet and only a half-second's instinctive reach away. The fire smoothed the angles from his face, his dark hair falling into his eyes, transforming him back into the boy his years made him, rather than the man circumstance had forced him to become. Allan was barely visible, burrowed under his blanket like a fox wrapped in its brush-tail for warmth. The thief had fallen asleep not long after Djaq had finished seeing to his leg, half a mug of her sweet-smelling tea leaving him drooping where he sat. John chuckled gently under his breath as his eyes traveled to the next figure in the circle, remembering how he'd had to practically guide Djaq to her pallet, weariness staggering her usually confident steps. The little Saracen woman had been determined to keep watch over her two patients until dawn broke, but her practicality had finally won out, after John promised to wake her if she was needed. She was cozily tucked in now with her blankets pulled to her chin, sleep-softened face lit in warm, wavering light.
He had spoken truthfully when he had told her he didn't mind sitting up in her place. His mind was still too troubled to find sleep, and while Robin was right in saying they would do better to rest than tire themselves further watching a camp Gisborne had no hope of finding that night, Much was not in a fit state to be left alone tonight. True, Robin sat only a short distance away; he was slumped at the bare edge of the firelight, orange stars flickering in his somber eyes as he kept his own watch over his friend. But there was an absence in Robin's tired gaze, and John felt it best if clearer eyes kept watch as well. Whatever dark paths Robin's mind was wandering, they could hardly be darker than the ordeal Much had just come through, and a return to the camp and safety, to the defending arms of his friends, did not mean a magical restoration to health and wholeness, like in the stories of heroes in days past. They were all-too-human, whatever the village children imagined as they played at being outlaws with stick-swords and toy bows.
Much had hardly stirred in the past several hours, lying well-wrapped in furs and blankets close by the fire. Carrying the younger man had been no hardship, though John had begun to feel the strain in his shoulders by the time he and the gang had arrived at the mouth of the cave. As they walked, Much had gradually slipped from his faint into an exhausted sleep, the need for rest overcoming the pain of his wounds. John hadn't been sure whether to be grateful or worried that Much had hardly made a sound during the long walk, save once when John had stumbled over a branch in the darkness. Even then, as soon as John had regained his footing and murmured, "All right, lad…" Much had drifted off again into whatever dreams had taken him. Unpleasant ones, John would wager reluctantly, distaste twisting in his stomach at the memory.
Djaq had hoped Much might sleep through the setting and binding of his broken hand, but the motion of settling Much on the pallet had half-woken him, despite John's care, and in the end it had taken John, Robin, and Will together to keep the lad from undoing Djaq's work before she'd even finished. Waking from dreams that left his eyes glazed and wide, driven half out of his wits with pain, Much hadn't been able to tell the hands of his friends from those of his tormentors, and struggled against them with pitiable desperation that left even steady Djaq's eyes wide with barely-mastered horror. Their attempts to sooth and calm him were in vain, though Robin didn't leave off trying, his words half-orders and half-pleas, even as he helped to pin Much's shoulders down for Djaq. It cut deep to be the cause of such misery, but the cruel fact was that this could not wait, lest his hand begin to heal as it was and leave Much crippled. And so John had kept his hands firm on Much's shuddering wrist as Djaq coaxed the bones into place, and prayed Much would wake later with no memory of this apparent betrayal.
When at last it was done, and Robin sat with his arm under Much's shoulders, urging him quietly to swallow down the freshly-brewed sleeping draught, Will had sat back and rubbed an unsteady hand down his face, dark eyes haunted as he looked over wordlessly at John. He could only offer the young carpenter a reassuring nod in return, one that felt useless and feigned, but Will had nodded back, drawing a quiet breath that released some of the trembling tension visible in his shoulders. As Djaq's potion began to take hold, the little woman had looked across the fire to Allan, who'd been so quiet during the commotion John had nearly forgotten he was there. Will had helped him to his blankets when they arrived before circling the fire to help them with Much, and the thief had simply stayed put, watching them solemnly with patience John hadn't expected from the man.
"Go on," John had told Djaq, offering a short smile to dispel the doubt from her features. "You see to him, and we'll see to the lad here." Robin had nodded agreement, still mutely supporting Much, though Djaq's draught had sent his manservant into mercifully dreamless sleep several minutes ago, and Djaq had slipped around the fire to crouch beside Allan.
John had sat at enough sickbeds in his years to take over for Djaq, and offered a wry prayer of thanks that Much was truly unaware of his surroundings now. With his hand set, splinted, and carefully bound into immobility with strips of cloth, the next step was to do what they could to rinse away the grime and foulness of the dungeons before the dirt turned Much's smaller wounds bad. This was the first thing Djaq had taught them all, a task she had demanded they all grow accustomed to when dealing with their own injuries, however small. So, dutifully, John set to this task, heating water over the fire and setting a few clean cloths where both he and Djaq could lay hand to them, then rolled up his shirtsleeves and settled at Much's side again. Robin obeyed each of John's murmured instructions without comment, but like John, his jaw had grown tight with anger as they worked. Gisborne's cruelty was unavoidably detailed for them, and told the story of Much's imprisonment more clearly than words ever could.
Dark bruises the size of John's palm, of another man's fist, blossomed haphazardly along Much's sides, spreading across his stomach and chest in blows that would have knocked the breath from a man's body. The skin was dark as a plum over one particular span of Much's ribs, and the lightest brush of John's cloth there made Much's breath catch even in his deep sleep. The purpling half-moons on his back were the wrong shape for a fist, but sharp and angular enough to be the echoes of a man's boot lashing out, angry gashes where the heel cut in, deeper shadows buffeting in to break the bowed shoulders' defense.
Much had been knocked about enough to leave his mouth bloody, a wide swath of skin around his left eye so battered John expected he'd have to make do with half his vision for a handful of days until the bruising eased. While John unwound the damp and stained scarf from Much's left arm, revealing half-scabbed cuts curved like scarlet vines around his forearm, Robin had taken up another clean cloth with his free hand. Slowly, with movements hesitant as the fire-flickers that gave them light, he had begun to wash Much's sleep-slackened features, shying around the muddy bruising, as if hoping to wash away the shadows there along with the blood and grime. Warm water and a friend's hand couldn't clean away the traces left by hunger and deprivation, though, the slight hollowing they'd seen all too often in the faces of families under the Sheriff's rule. Then there were the rough scrapes ringing Much's wrists, no doubt from struggling against rope or shackles, and whatever harm their unskilled eyes could not see, all adding up into the sad mess Much was left in. He looked bad, and would probably feel worse when he woke, but he would live. He wouldn't be on his feet for another week at the least, most likely, and wouldn't be fit for a mission until long after that, but he would certainly pull through, out of sheer pluck and determination if nothing else.
Robin's distress, then, had seemed still further out of place, and John had cast a questioning eye toward the leader of their little band. Were it not for the gnawing, active worry in the archer's keen eyes, his expression would have better fit a man tending to the body of a fallen comrade. Now, as that same bleak emotion wavered on Robin's face several long paces away where he sat watching Much sleep, John could venture a guess as to why he looked so stricken.
Like all of them, Robin knew this was no game, that baiting and thwarting the Sheriff came with enormous risk and a heavy price for failure. After losing both parents when he was hardly of age, after five years fighting in the Holy Land, the lad knew better than many the reality of death and how fiercely and suddenly it could steal you from the world. But there was some part of Robin, a child-like, stubbornly innocent core to the young man that still believed good would always win in the end, life and love would triumph, and that somehow death couldn't really touch him. What some would call the arrogance of youth, Robin had fashioned into a banner and led the charge under its bold colors, and until today, that emblem had not failed him. Not until Death had leaned, leering, over the threshold of Robin's home and left Much behind half-broken as it departed, the one steady point in Robin's life lying in frightening fragility at his feet.
No wonder the landless lord looked like a small child, wouldn't leave Much's side. He had kept up the façade of stern supervision, had watched Djaq's every move as she worked, but every now and then the mask slipped and John could see the fear glittering through. Robin was scared, looking to Djaq and even John for assurance the same way John's own boy used to look up at him, at Alice, when thunder shook the thin walls of their home.
He wanted to know things would come out all right, wordlessly begging to hear those words from someone, but John wasn't the one to say them. There were older wounds and deeper scars here than the ones that would fade into pale memories on Much's skin. So John held his silence and Robin held his, which was for the best: a lot could be said in silence, and Robin, sitting with his eyes fixed on Much's sleeping form, had the look of a man afraid to move lest the words pour out of him.
Robin gusted out a sigh and scrubbed the hair from his eyes. He should sleep, he knew. His eyes felt rough and heavy in their sockets, an invisible weight pressing him over like an old man where he sat. The others were all asleep, had dropped off an hour or more ago. Even Little John sagged gently where he sat against the wall, arms crossed and bearded chin to his chest. The last few days had been hard on them all, and the gang had earned this night of unguarded rest. Another few minutes, perhaps, and then he would stand, would wake Djaq for her turn, retreat to his own blankets and sleep. But not yet. Something held him transfixed where he sat, some power in the shadows above him pinning him there. He thought he could feel the hollow ache in his chest where the rod had passed through, leaving him immobile like the jeweled beetles and drab moths he'd once seen fixed against smooth wood in a trader's wagon – helpless victims to the studies of scholars whispering over their dried heads. His limbs held no more volition than those hapless insects' had as his mind carried out its observations against his will, each passing minute releasing another heavy drop into the pool of self-recrimination swelling in his chest.
Mea culpa.
The fault is mine.
Two elegant Latin words and the thought was finished, complete. Far too short a phrase for everything it meant. Mea culpa. The fault is mine. I bear the responsibility. I have caused this.
Much was asleep now, the tension drained from his battered features for the first time in that long afternoon and evening, but each ripple of shadow and firelight mimicked the harsher, desperate movements from a few hours ago. The memory physically hurt, the sharp edges slicing as it forced its way to the forefront of his mind, and he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying in vain to blot it out.
He'd helped tend the wounded on the battlefield before, held down soldiers lost in a world of their own pain, heard their groans, heard their screams when agony broke their self-restraint. That hadn't been the same, had never left him shaken so badly he didn't dare stand, had tonight left him sitting there holding Much until his heart stopped pounding. Much's ribs hadn't let him scream, had stifled him to breathless cries that caused as much pain as they would have relieved. And Robin's fellow Crusaders had cursed, had fought restraining hands simply because the pain wouldn't let them be still; they hadn't struggled to shield their faces from blows that weren't falling, hadn't kept shaking their heads in weak refusal even after their strength had given out.
He lifted his head wearily, vision blurred from the pressure of his hands. The shadows exaggerated the hollows under the sleeping man's eyes, stroked gray fingers along his cheeks and temples. Those same shadows rested more thickly than usual on Robin's own features, seemed to drag at his eyelids, his face, his whole head. Among all the sleepless nights and grueling days between them, only once could he recall Much ever looked so drained. The memory was a uneasy one, of drifting up from scorching nightmares and gouging pain in his side to feel a damp cloth sliding across his face, so wonderfully cool he could have wept, to see Much's haggard features above him, a slight roughness in the voice that asked him to sleep, to please get better so they could go home and see Marian.
There was a vital difference between the vigil Much had made and the one Robin kept now, though, a difference that banished any hope of sleep with this slowly pulsing sorrow that felt like mourning. He had been wounded in defense of the King, fulfilling his vow as a member of the Royal Guard, but Much had been captured, had been tortured, not as a soldier with all the oaths and knowledge of what they might demand, but as a friend, simply as Much.
Mea culpa, a never-ending echo in the darkness.
Gisborne had used Much to reach Robin Hood, used him to reach his goal like a crudely-fashioned tool, discarded when its usefulness had ended. And Much suffered for Robin's sake, forced to choose between betraying his master and submitting to Gisborne's calculated cruelty. And because Much was Much, he had suffered without relief, because tactics and deceit had no home in his honest mind, and where another might have played for time, set the lieutenant on the wrong scent, there was no doubt in Robin's mind that Much had simply shut up, as he'd so often been ordered, and waited for Robin to come. Every long hour had been endured for love of Robin, and he could feel dark regret sinking into his bones, staining them, filling up the spaces in his chest, behind his eyes, because there should have been some way to reach Much sooner, to keep all this from happening. He and Will should have burst through the dungeon doors that same night, not days later. He should have met the gang at a triumphant stride with Much's relieved voice filling the air, not sitting helplessly in the dark with Much in his arms too weak to do more than breathe.
Much wouldn't die. Djaq would see to that, and whatever God still cared to look down on them could not allow it. If such a deity chose to look the other way, then Robin would see to it himself that Much did not leave this earth. But the physical mending of bruises, of seeing the bones knit together… all that was only part of the wound caused here, and Robin was no healer. He was a soldier, an undoer of life. Here in the darkness, silently in the shadows of his weary heart, he could admit that he had struck blows against his friend before today, done harm even as he told himself his actions would leave no mark.
He remembered careless jabs and gouges with the tip of a dagger, accumulated over the past months since they'd returned to find their home usurped, dealt out in moments when Robin was simply too tired to restrain the sarcasm in his voice, when he told himself Much just needed to learn how to take a joke, when he'd been too busy being a leader to be a friend as well.
And Much had always returned from those things, sighing or sullen or raising his eyes to Heaven, but at Robin's side and ready for a new day, despite whatever invisible wounds might still have been lingering. Robin knew the wounds were there, though admitting that truth felt like carving a piece from his own heart – undeniably there and healing less quickly than he always told himself as he watched the hurt confusion on Much's face eventually disappear under determined loyalty.
There were times he'd used Much, yes, but in the way a drowning man used any foothold to push his face above the water for another gasp of air. Because Much would let him, would always come back, was always standing at Robin's shoulder when the darkness closed in, when Robin had to act, shout, do something to push it back, even if it meant lashing out, spitting poison at those around him so the poison wouldn't fill his veins entirely and drown him. And Much would always be startled or offended or try to pretend he hadn't noticed, and then he'd fall back into step with Robin, there and steady and dependable.
But this time, Much hadn't come back.
This time Much was quiet, was still, was everything that Much wasn't supposed to be, and despite Djaq's tired, reassuring smile, and the slow relaxation taking over Little John's muscled form, Robin couldn't subdue the fear that he'd pushed too far, that he'd risked too much, that he'd thrown the dice one time too many and only just now seen his friend's life lying among the objects thrown cheerfully into the pot.
A ripple of movement not caused by the firelight snapped his attention back to Much, up from the miserable doze he'd been sinking into. Even as he looked up and focused on Much's face, the slight frown was easing, but it returned a moment later, accompanied by the soft sound of Much's fingers brushing against the furs as they curled into a loose fist. A part of Robin wanted to rise and force himself into sleep, to leave the cave entirely, while the rest of him dropped his face wearily into his hands and cursed against his palms, because they had earned this peace, paid for it with blood and tears and whatever wrung from hearts that were beside themselves with worry. After ten years, half of that spent in the same tent or around the same fire, Robin could tell when Much's dreams had turned bad, just as he knew Much could tell the other way, and he didn't have the strength for this tonight.
They had never discussed those terrible, sand-filled dreams, not beyond the few times Much had broached the subject with hesitant words that never led anywhere except into uncomfortable silence when Robin didn't reply. At first, though, Robin had woken in the middle of his own nightmares to find Much's hand on his shoulder, or to see Much's wide, worried eyes watching him over the fire, ready to call his name again. A few times, Robin had done the same for Much, interrupting the dreams before they could run their course. The raw emotion in the other man's face was too much, though, too vivid a reflection of the horror he spent so much time forcing down, pushing away, and he told himself Much was a grown man, that he could deal with his own nightmares. One night after surfacing from that same black dream of defending the King, he had simply told Much to leave him be. If Robin dreamed of the Holy Land, so be it – they were only memories, but he would face them alone, fight them down and master himself. Eventually, Much had stopped trying to talk about the dreams too, apparently accepting that Robin either couldn't or wouldn't deal with Much's nightmares as well as his own, and for long months they had dreamt, woken, and coped privately.
Stuttering movement behind Much's bruised eyelids and a restless quickening of his breathing stole away any choice Robin might have had, set his stomach roiling. He owed his friend this, owed him his life and more; how could he hope to repay such a debt if he couldn't find the courage in himself to face another man's bad dream? Such a small thing, to fend off the nightmares for this one night, so Much could rest. Much had given up far more in the past three days than it would cost Robin to do this one thing.
He reached out for Much's shoulder, fighting against the leaden reluctance in his arm, as if touching Much right now could transfer some oily residue of dream and memory to him, slip a key into the locks that shut away the claws of his own demons. Grounding himself in the texture of the clean, worn linen (Much's other shirt had been past saving, though he'd likely complain over its loss when he woke, as he'd only just finished mending it), Robin let his hand rest there for a moment. His voice sounded strangely small as he murmured Much's name, but the lines slowly faded from the sleeping man's face, as if that were all it took. If it were truly that simple….
Then Much stirred again, a faint moan whispering in the back of his throat.
"Much," Robin repeated, swallowing back the childish fear that rose in his chest, but Much didn't respond this time, and Robin gave the taut shoulder under his hand a gentle shake. "Much, wake up." A moment later he hastily withdrew his hand as Much's eyes flew open, as he jerked back instinctively against his blankets while his wide gaze swept the dark ceiling. Without looking to his right, Much wouldn't catch sight of him there in the shadows at all, which was fine; Much needn't know Robin had woken him. He'd give his friend room to compose himself, handle the aftermath of the nightmare in his own way.
Robin watched the nauseatingly familiar disorientation crawl across Much's pained features, followed by a strained sigh when his fist clenched against fire-warmed furs, not dungeon stone or sand that belonged an ocean away. That same hand wavered up to cover his face a moment later, the first step in a pattern Robin knew far too well. Long, long moments of simply breathing while your heart tried to hammer through your chest. The collision of lingering fear and sudden relief that took desperate effort to weather without letting tears escape. He waited for Much to breathe more easily, to wipe angrily at his eyes, sniff once or twice, and settle eventually into his blankets again, like always. He waited, but Much's hand didn't leave his face, and his breaths still came in thick gasps; what little of Much's face Robin could see was tight and trembling, and it was suddenly painfully clear that Much wasn't going to shake this off so easily. If he were honest with himself, Robin knew it was unfair to hope that Much would deal with this trial like always, as if this were any other night, that he would miraculously master himself and find sleep again, and let Robin stay safely in the shadows. It was unfair, and it was cruel. This was the least he could do, he told himself again firmly, and leaned a bit closer, deliberately shifting the drifted leaves.
He could think of no less startling way to announce his presence, but Much still jolted, gulping a deep breath that pinched his face with pain as his eyes landed on Robin. And while Robin was prepared for the brief flash of fear on Much's face, and the surge of relief that followed, he didn't expect the wash of something like horror that erased the relief, that sank a cold, heavy weight into the pit of his stomach. Much's slow, fumbling attempt to erase his tears, whispering barely audible apologies, sent another mea culpa ghosting through Robin's mind, brushing his face with a dark wingtip.
Before Robin could piece together the right words, Much spoke, his voice so fractured it sounded as if it were held together by determination alone.
"I didn't mean to… to wake anyone. I'm sorry. I'm all right."
Everything in Much's voice, his posture, the desperate way his eyes sought strength from the walls of the cave showed his last words to be a lie, and Much had always been a terrible liar anyway. The fact that he still bothered to try, though, that he felt he needed to, felt Robin would expect him to after all this…
"Don't," Robin said, the ache roiling like a living thing in his chest. The word came out as more of an order than he'd meant, and he took a quick breath past the knotted regret in his throat to try again, to forestall the disappointment that threatened to bring down the last remnants of Much's composure. "You don't have to-" But the words weren't there when he reached for them, his silver tongue thick as lead, sorrow and guilt and the sleek feathers of mea culpa blurring his vision.
So instead Robin reached for the trembling hand and bruised shoulders and pulled Much up, gathered him close against his chest. The wrenched-tight shoulders against his arm told Robin that he'd managed to hurt his friend again, but he didn't know what else to do, now that words had failed him and he had almost failed Much.
But then Much's head tipped heavily into his chest, his hitching sigh warm against Robin's tunic before a small sob fought free, muffled behind Much's hand, and Robin knew he'd done the right thing. He tightened the embrace when he felt the first shuddering tears take hold, when Much's hand dropped to press tight against his bandaged ribs.
All Robin's self-control was barely enough to keep him from letting his own agitation show, to keep him from shrinking back from the malicious memories that seemed to ride on each shaky breath and shed tear. He could imagine too clearly what the other man was seeing and remembering right now: the sandy mounds that swallowed names and bodies like they had never been, those moments shorter than a breath where chance had chosen between him and another, the creeping nausea as the distant laments slowly turned the Saracen enemy into people who could love and mourn. Dizzying heat, the taste of blood and sweat and grit in his teeth. Robin could feel his own demons lurking at the corners of his vision, waiting to take him. So he didn't move his gaze from the sight of his gang nestled safely in their blankets, from the sleepy fire, letting the light burn afterimages into his vision until the memories were buried in their glow, distantly aware that his expression was haunted enough to terrify any of them if they woke.
"It's all right," he said, and they were the most useless words, laughable when everything was patently, painfully not all right. The trembling running through the hunched frame in his arms told Robin a few of these tears sprang from the belated reaction to his rescue, the knowledge that he was safe, that he'd come through it alive, and Robin rested his jaw against the disheveled head, murmuring, "I'm so sorry, Much…"
All was hushed as he whispered apologies into the night air and Much's tears left a warm patch against his heart, whispered "I'm sorry" more times than he'd spoken those words in his life. Those two words throbbed in tandem with the slowly growing ache in his throat that threatened to reach to his eyes and the faint burn there, push him to the edge of composure and over, and he couldn't let that happen, not yet, not right now. Leave the demons in their cages, let them writhe in the prison of his heart, and let him try to drown them out with his own murmuring, the same two words repeated like a rosary that said he was sorry Much had to bear this, sorry he hadn't gotten there sooner, sorry because he couldn't make himself believe that he deserved the kind of loyalty that lay behind Much's wounds. He apologized for everything, while Much cried for everything and tried to breathe, face pressed into Robin's chest.
In the end, either the pain of his injuries or a simple dearth of tears left Much quiet, slumped inside the fence of Robin's arms. Robin himself felt raw, drained, but for now, at least, the dark-feathered whisper of regret had gone and left them in peace.
"'M'sorry," came the almost-inaudible whisper, and Robin simply replied, "Don't be," not trusting his voice any further.
Much made no move to sit back or return to his blankets and attempt to find sleep again, so Robin stayed as he was, listening to the pained breaths slow and even out for the second time in that long evening. For tonight, he could give Much this, shoulder some of the burden instead of sloughing it off for Much to bear alone.
Across the low fire, a small smile lifted the corner of John Little's mouth as he settled his broad shoulders more comfortably against the cave wall, and allowed sleep to find him at last.