Thank you all for your patience! I'll try to have the next chapter up in a week, but may (read: probably will) have to beg your indulgence again, depending on how smoothly the writing goes.
This chapter is dedicated to SleepingwithinWater, whose suggestion of a nice moment between Allan and Much took on a life of its own and morphed into this whole chapter. ^_^
Prats 'R' Us: Thank you so much! While it's true Robin was thinking of himself in the last chapter, he still chose to stay and try to offer Much some comfort, which means a lot when it comes to our dear archer. He's notorious for wiggling free of situations that don't suit him or that make him uncomfortable, but this time Robin went through the motions and actions of being there for Much, even if his attention was focused more on himself and maintaining his own control at the time. Love's a verb – actually doing it is more important than feeling like doing it sometimes. :)
"…the picture of John being a good mother to the outlaws." I love that phrase so much – he definitely has a mother-hennish streak, though he'd probably deny it.
Desi Jo: Thank you! Writing Robin's half of that chapter was far more difficult than I expected, so it's a relief to hear that it sounded right to you! Hearing so much amazing feedback from all of you makes even the rough writing patches fun. My usual beta is currently frolicking deep in the Avengers fandom, so you all are the first to let me know what works and what doesn't – your comments are always appreciated! I'm always open to ideas or constructive criticism, too, if anything catches your eye or comes to mind. :)
Wanderingidealism: There have been so many sad Much moments in this story so far… Things are brightening, though – hopefully this next chapter will dry your tears and cheer you a bit. :)
As things stand right now, there are only about two chapters left, though knowing me, another rogue one may turn up as I write. And may I just say that you are all truly wonderful for sticking with this story and reviewing so faithfully – I'm feeling spoiled, gosh darn it. ^_^
Much woke slowly, sluggishly. It was so, so tempting to sink back into the deep waves of sleep and just stay there, where nothing hurt, nothing threatened…. If he didn't open his eyes, maybe the world would stay exactly as it was, warm and dark and comforting. Maybe he would eventually wake up to hear the rest of the gang talking and grumbling over breakfast not being ready yet. If he didn't open his eyes, he wouldn't blink sleep away and find bars reaching down from the ceiling like teeth closing him inside stone jaws. This was bearable, just now. Opening his eyes to find the same stinking cell shrinking around him when he remembered so vividly stumbling along with Robin's arm around him, remembered hoofbeats and hope and a night sky he hadn't believed he'd see again… Waking to find that had all been a dream might just be the end of him.
For another long moment, the world was merciful and remained as it was, though awareness pressed persistently inward, like a beetle boring through a fallen tree. If he didn't open his eyes, he wouldn't see the cell bars that might be there, but he would still hear the door groan open, hear the determined tread of Gisborne's boots. He would have some warning, at least. Would hear but not see… Suddenly leaving his eyes shut felt no better than being blind, and he dragged his heavy eyelids upward, bracing himself.
The sight of uneven stone arcing up in firelight met his bleary eyes, shadows stabbing inward against the wavering light, and his heart clenched for one icy, reeling moment. But the air around him carried the scent of fallen leaves and damp earth, and he wasn't cold anymore… He had almost forgotten the bliss of being warm, of not having to fight to keep his limbs from betraying him by shivering, which only made everything hurt so much worse. Blankets rested across his legs and chest, wrapped him in comfortable confinement, and cushioned his aching head as he turned to find the source of the firelight somewhere to his left.
A campfire burned low nearby, crackling contentedly and breathing out blessed heat, and Much closed his eyes again, ready to take back every harsh word he'd ever spoken about their cave-camp. Right now, the brief blurry sight of those craggy walls and ceiling that had once felt so oppressive meant he was safe, that he was far from Nottingham, and that simple fact was enough to make him want to weep for sheer relief. His eyes already felt strangely swollen and tired, though, a different sensation blending with the deep pain around his left eye that was slowly reasserting itself. It felt almost as if he'd been weeping already, and for a minute or two, he simply lay there in the quiet and couldn't remember. Then memory tumbled back into place, and Much wanted to hide his face, or sink into the ground, or maybe both at once.
He'd dreamed of the Holy Land again, of Acre, and woken Robin with his nightmare like a child. He'd tried so hard in the past months to keep those awful dreams to himself, to spare Robin the reminder, since Robin hated even the mention of them. Robin still had the nightmares too, Much knew. But Robin always shook them off, let the haunted expression melt away or soak down into his bones, would shrug off Much's concern and walk on as if the blow had never been struck. And maybe that made Robin's way better, made him stronger, but Much had been so, so tired, and remembered thinking that this couldn't be fair, though that thought skirted dangerously close to blasphemy. Yes, he would atone for his deeds in the Holy Land for the rest of his life – that was as it should be, as God willed – but did it have to be tonight, after everything else? Didn't any of that count at all?
When he'd seen Robin sitting there in the shadows beside him, he'd instinctively tried to apologize, babbled something he couldn't remember, and just attempted to keep himself from unraveling until Robin had gone. But this time Robin hadn't left, hadn't gone stony and pretended he'd seen nothing. Instead he'd reached out and held Much steady as he fell apart, which was a mercy, because Much couldn't reach anymore, could only let the world batter him and hope someone would reach out too and find him. He knew the dreams were his penance, but surely God wouldn't mind someone helping him with it, just this once. He'd let the other man help Him carry His cross, hadn't He? Maybe the Lord knew what it felt like to be so weary and broken, strange as the thought was.
The fire gave an abrupt hiss as it devoured another branch, and the near-complete silence suddenly struck Much as peculiar. Even at night there was some sound: the deep rumble of Little John's snoring (which he vehemently denied), Allan mumbling in his sleep, something. Right now, though, there was just him and the fire and no sense of time or the day, and Much suddenly wanted to see someone else urgently, badly enough that he pushed himself up on one elbow before he thought about what he was doing.
He thought he heard himself cry out, but that didn't seem possible with his jaw clenched this tightly. The thought flickered through his mind that he'd been stabbed, but the common sense that had abandoned him a moment ago reminded him that he had a broken rib, that he was hurt worse than he'd ever been before, and that maybe he should just lie very still and work on breathing right now. It took more effort than he remembered, and pulsed new pain through his chest relentlessly; it couldn't possibly be helping, he decided dimly, and was half-considering holding his breath until it all stopped hurting so miserably, but a voice somewhere nearby was telling him to take it easy, to take short breaths, to come on and open his eyes, and after what felt like forever, Much managed to obey, to see Allan A Dale's brows bent down in concern that eased somewhat as Much slowly regained control of his breathing.
"There you go," the other man said, one of his typical half-grins broadening his words. A slight echo chased his voice around the cave, a hollow sound. "Scared me, mate. Just take it easy, a'right?"
While part of Much was grateful to have anyone there, the rest of him couldn't help him shutting his eyes wearily. Of course it would be Allan. Much cared about the whole gang, certainly – they were his friends, slowly becoming brothers in arms – but he and Allan simply didn't get on well. On the rare occasions when the man wasn't stirring up trouble or joking at Much's expense, they were still constantly disagreeing and shooting each other wary looks. He knew it was useless, but he half-wished anybody else were there, someone he didn't have to worry might bring this up again later when he didn't expect it.
When Much carefully turned to look to his right, muscles protesting even that small movement, the lanky thief was settling more comfortably onto the ground, stretching one leg out with a decidedly pained grimace. Catching Much watching, Allan grumbled, "If Djaq sets into me when she gets back, I'm blamin' you. Tells me stay put, don't walk on it, don't even think about it, then they all up an' leave." Allan's scoff was disbelieving as he shook his head in the direction of the cave entrance. "Leavin' us invalids to our bed rest." Much's gaze trailed down to the neat bandage wrapped around Allan's lower leg. He faintly remembered Robin or Djaq or someone saying something about Allan being hurt last night, but just thinking took effort right now, with his chest threatening more agony with each careful breath, and his right hand beginning to send shivers of warning pain up his arm. He hadn't dared look at his hand yet, though he could feel the wooden splints and cloth binding it, presumably holding the bone in place, keeping anything from shifting. For an instant, he remembered the vice-grip of Gisborne's hands, and shut his eyes for a long moment against the sickening chill that sank through him.
Then Allan's voice rang around the cave again, setting off echoes, as if nothing was wrong, as if they were just sitting and having a casual chat.
"I mean, what am I supposed to do? Hop around on one leg? Walk on my hands like a trained bear?" Another scoff as he shifted his bandaged leg a few wary inches. "Might as well be one, some days." Another tremor of discomfort ran through Much's limbs, every bruise and strained muscle making its presence felt, and he made a conscious choice not to sigh when Allan only paused for a moment before rambling on. Sighing would hurt far more than the mild confusion Allan's words conjured in him. So he just lay there and listened as Allan decided aloud that they were really more like one of those groups of traveling entertainers than the bold band of freedom fighters everyone seemed to think they were.
"You've seen 'em, right?" he asked, glancing down at Much, pointed features glazed orange in the firelight. "Jugglers comin' through town, folks who can do all these tricks, amazin' stuff. Amazing. I mean, I saw a fellow once who bet anybody they couldn't beat 'im in a contest of strength. Tiny little chap, no bigger'n Djaq, an' here he is puttin' all the farmers to shame in front of their wives. This one blacksmith wouldn't give up though, just kept haulin' at the cart – mind you, stacked higher than a man's height with kindling… No, it was barrels of ale, that's right – kept draggin' and blowin' like a dyin' plowhorse until his mates had to come carry him off." A delighted chuckle. "Now, if we'd had John there, I'd have made twice what I lost bettin' on that poor beggar. Would've shown 'im up in a minute flat, put 'im out of a job.
"So," Allan went on, voice rising decisively, "John's our strongman, then. Good start. These days, though, you've gotta draw in the wives and kids, what with half the shire's men off diggin' the Sheriff's ditches. Give 'em a show, you know? That's where Will comes in." He could hardly have sounded more focused if he were actually planning to turn from outlawry to this more lucrative calling. The idea was ridiculous, not least because he seemed to be laboring under the assumption that the whole gang would merrily follow where he led. Much looked over again in time to see Allan's mouth quirk up as he swung a welcoming arm toward the invisible crowd of onlookers. "Hits his mark every time! You, milady, will you come help the young man out? Excellent, right here, stand right here." Soft whistles accompanied Allan miming a flick of the wrist, then an overhand throw, sending knives or hatchets flying through the air. "Oh, and there you have it, ladies and gents! Within an inch of her lovely self, but not a hair on her head touched!"
It was all too easy to picture Allan talking up a storm, luring the crowd in with a broad smile and his quicksilver words, even if the image of Will flinging weapons around willy-nilly just to put on a show was unlikely, to say the least. Much felt the ghost of a smile pull at his lips, but didn't have the energy to work up a real one. The stabbing pain in his side had faded to a dull pounding that kept time with his heart, but he still felt limp and miserable. The ache in his hand had traveled by degrees up his arm nearly to the elbow, and whatever Djaq had given him for the pain had most definitely run its course. She had given him something, or someone had, he remembered, though the rest of that memory was a dark place he didn't care to explore further. One minute at a time, and he was all right. Allan had said the others were coming back soon, hadn't he? One minute and they'd be back. One more minute. If he kept telling himself that, eventually it'd be true.
Allan was sitting back, cheery grin faded to tight-lipped silence as he kneaded gingerly at his leg. His long fingers brushed the torn edge of the bandage, forward and back, like a restless tide. It didn't look like the movement was helping, if the set of the thief's jaw was anything to go by.
The distant gaze at the stone wall suddenly became a searching glance directed at Much's tired face, and with no more warning than that, Allan turned back to the wall where his assembled villagers waited, and announced, "But – if that don't suit your fancy, have a look here: a wild Saracen, captured in the sandy wastes of the Holy Land!" His wide gesture toward the back of the cave displayed a torch wedged between the rocks and nothing more fascinating than a few sacks of grain or vegetables, if Much remembered correctly. But Allan shied back theatrically at some violent motion or sound from the caged Saracen, offering the crowd a sympathetic grimace. "Not too close, now. Full of spirit, she is, but those chains'll hold, trust me on that." He tossed a cheeky wink to someone in the crowd, and Much felt his eyes widen when he realized Allan meant this to be Djaq's part in their imaginary circus. Unbelievable. Even for Allan, this was going too far. The very idea of Djaq taking that role, the sheer ignorance in the thief's words, was almost enough to make Much object aloud. Besides, who could ever mistake their Djaq for one of the bloodthirsty savages most Englishmen imagined Saracens to be? Not that she couldn't be fierce, though; Allan would change his tune pretty quickly if she ever heard a whisper of what he was going on about right now.
His disapproval must have shown on his face, because Allan tilted his head in a shrug, apparently conceding the point.
"Yeah, maybe not. Her loss, though – that sort of show, the exotic stuff…" He tutted, shaking his head, probably at the loss of money from his imaginary crowd.
Despite how sore and weak he felt, despite the silly, rambling nature of their conversation (if you could call it that, when it was all Allan talking and him listening), the ridiculous picture the other man was painting was intriguing. Allan had accounted for half the gang already, almost everyone. Only him and Robin were left, and while Much would far rather be standing safely in the appreciative audience, well away from Will's flying hatchets and the trouncing Allan would no doubt be receiving from Djaq shortly, he couldn't help feeling faintly curious as to where Allan would stick him in their troupe. A crowd would get hungry standing there all day; maybe he could set up shop nearby, just wheel up a cart with pastries and meat pies. Give them all something healthier to do than stand around letting Allan make Will throw weapons at them.
Allan had gone quiet, tapping his fingers against the ground and frowning.
"Robin…" he mused. "See, that's gonna take some thought, there, 'cause you can't just…" He chewed his thumbnail, peering at the craggy ceiling in a show of deep thought before holding up his hand for silence – not that Much was making any noise, apart from breathing, which he wasn't about to stop on Allan's account – and saying, "The man with a bow that never misses." Much blinked at the plain statement, and Allan rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Well, we'd give it some color, make it sound like you'd want to spend your coins on it. Say he got it blessed by some hermit up in the hills, some abbey… Doesn't matter which – pick a name, make one up. Let 'im show off, blindfold 'im an' let 'im shoot apples off the kids' heads, all that. Can't go too long, though, or people start askin' smart questions, wantin' to try a shot themselves…" He waved his hand dismissively, discarding the idea and the extra work it would bring.
Only him left. And Allan, maybe… he was supposedly already the trained bear, but Much couldn't imagine a trained bear that was also allowed to be the master of the show, which Allan certainly seemed to think he was.
"Last, but definitely not least," Allan declared dramatically, pausing to turn a merry grin down on Much, "every proper group of entertainers has… their very own fool."
The expectant expression remained poised on Allan's face as Much's tired mind caught up with the words, and his mouth opened in useless disbelief.
He should have known. Every single time…
Allan's expression was nothing short of delighted, as if he expected Much to clap his hands and cheer over his wonderful place in the show.
"Poor man's jester, like," he continued, apparently deciding that Much hadn't understood him. "You know, somebody with a painted-up face throwin' somersaults an' givin' the other players grief until they knock 'im down, everybody claps…." Allan smirked at his own explanation, apparently oblivious to the undisguised disappointment on Much's face. He should have known better than to think Allan wasn't going to turn this all into a chance to mock him, now that he couldn't get up and leave. He should have expected something like this, but he was so sick of being taken in all the time…
And for just a moment, the unending throbbing in his head and the weariness dragging at his bones didn't matter. The simple act of speaking hurt, but after everything that had happened, after sitting in the dark thinking he would never see the gang again, he hadn't come out of it alive just to lie there and keep quiet while Allan mocked him.
"'M'not a fool," he rasped, filling his lopsided glare with the vehemence his voice lacked.
Allan peered at him in mock-surprise, and Much saw the other man switch tactics before he'd even opened his mouth.
"Oh, come on. You've got the face for it already!" Before Much could gather himself to hotly deny that accusation, Allan had leaned forward to trace a lazy circle in the air a foot above his face. "Nice touch, just the one eye there. Lovely shade of violet." A slanting swing of his fingers that made Much blink and indicated the stiff, aching bruising along his jaw. "Dunno if I'd have gone with that color right there, though. I mean, what is that? Is it black, blue? I see, what, touch of green there on the side? If you can't decide, mate, you don't just mix 'em all up."
If he hadn't been so confused at Allan's bizarre behavior, Much would have been trembling with indignation. As it was, he could feel the blood rush to his face, which only made the bruises Allan had so kindly described throb all the worse. Flinging the painful consequences to the wind, Much repeated, "Not a fool… And you're not… not a bear, either."
"Oh?" A politely interested quirk of his eyebrow, inviting, challenging.
"No. Better one. Man that never… never shut up."
It was a poor retort, Much knew, and given enough time he could have come up with something far more satisfying, something to knock that insufferable smirk off the other man's face. As it was, he braced himself for some sort of retribution, another crack at him, but instead Much saw a glint of something strangely like triumph flash in Allan's eye before the lanky man sat back and shot a glare down at Much.
"Oh, that's nice. Really. You want to talk about somethin' else, just say so, mate."
And that was it. An injured sniff, a couple seconds of blessed silence, and then Allan was off again, something about how Much ought to be thanking him, not insulting him. Much barely heard a word of it, still marveling over the fact that he might have just won an argument with Allan, for once in his life. Allan had hardly replied, just backed down and changed the subject, which constituted a minor miracle in itself.
So when he heard Allan say he'd single-handedly fended off Gisborne's men last night, all fifty of them, Much just gave him a half-hearted, knowing glare, too tired and warm to care why the corners of Allan's mouth curled up at that.
"Well… John might've helped a bit." Much gave an unimpressed "hmm" to that, prompting Allan to roll his eyes and add, "Fine! And Djaq. Satisfied?" He wasn't, and managed to narrow his eyes just a bit despite the steady pounding in his skull, enough to let Allan know he wasn't fooling anybody. The other man cast his eyes to the cave walls, one hand hovering in mid-air as if appealing to a higher power for help.
"I swear! On me mother's sainted soul, I must've fought off twenty of those brutes at least before I even made it up the hill, and there was another fifty lyin' in wait for me there." That his mother was a saint, Much could easily believe. And from the past months spent living around Allan, not to mention the chaotic day or two surrounding Tom A Dale's time with the gang, Much would venture to say that raising those two ruffians had probably also driven their sainted mother to an early grave.
The rest of it was a boldfaced lie, of course. Learning to count higher than he had fingers hadn't been important for a miller's son, the same way he knew letters only well enough to pick out a single mark here and there. But if you started with I-swear-it-was-fifty and ended with on-my-mother's-soul-it-was-fifty-and-twenty, that came out to Allan up to his usual exaggeration.
But based on the quick glance Allan cast him and the way the half-smile never quite left the other man's face, Allan already knew that Much wasn't falling for his nonsense, and he didn't seem to care. He just leaned back on his hands and carried on, voice traveling along the cave walls, filling the wide space and reminding Much of the storyteller who'd once come to Locksley Manor during the Christmas festivities. He'd sung ballads and made the ladies laugh with his jokes, but the best part had been the tales he told as the night deepened and the fire sank in the hearth. Every word had rung out or swooped low along the floorboards, tracing pictures in the smoky air and leaving Much transfixed, so distracted he had nearly poured wine down Robin's front instead of into his goblet. Much had to admit this at least: Allan A Dale could tell a story, just so long as you didn't mind how much truth you ended up with.
Much worked the blanket a little higher with his good hand, so the cloth tucked comfortably under his chin, and let his aching eyes close while Djaq shrieked Saracen war cries and frightened a dozen men into flight on the spot, and Little John picked men up bodily and flung them yards without batting an eye. The battle raged on ever more spectacularly, and the sheer absurdity of it all was somehow soothing. Allan felled scores of enemies with perfect shot after shot, probably thanks to his blessed bow that couldn't miss, and cut through the enemy with Robin's Saracen blade using intricate moves more likely to deprive him of a limb than to harm his opponents. He overcame those odds, miraculously, and was in possession of all his limbs when he confronted Gisborne in a dizzying bout of swordplay. Allan's story-Gisborne raged and threatened, but was no match for the runaway imagination of Allan A Dale, who quickly gained the upper hand and finally sent his enemy's sword spinning out of reach.
With Gisborne on his knees, Saracen blade at the defeated lieutenant's throat, Allan was about to declare victory when – what's that? A hidden archer in the branches overhead; he looses a single arrow at the unwary figure below that sends him to his knees, a black-feathered arrow sunk deep into his leg. Gisborne makes a desperate lunge for the wounded outlaw's sword, and they struggle, but Gisborne is quicker –
The dramatic pause slowly lengthened into outright silence, and finally curiosity forced Much's eyes open again. Allan was still sitting there, one hand absently smoothing the bandage around his leg, staring sightlessly at the cave wall, brows drawn up plaintively as if he could still see the tragedy about to unfold in front of him. Either he'd actually worked himself up to tears with his own storytelling, or he was stuck, trying to decide how to explain away the fact that he'd supposedly been killed in his duel with Gisborne last night. A snort of laughter escaped Much's throat, a brief moment of humor that felt wonderful, until all the muscles and aches that had been slowly relaxing while Allan talked seized up in unison around that innocent puff of air.
He wasn't about to let the groan pressing behind his lips escape, not in front of Allan, but it was a very near thing. Between gasps, colorful lights swimming behind his eyelids, Much heard Allan shift closer, but he must have realized there wasn't anything he could do, because he didn't say anything this time, just stayed there. When he could manage a few shallow breaths, Much gritted his teeth and rolled onto his uninjured side, burying the less-bruised side of his face in the blankets and wishing Djaq was back from wherever she'd gone. She always had something to help. All he wanted to do right now was sleep until everything stopped hurting.
He half-expected Allan to say something, treat the whole situation like a joke, as always. But instead he just sat there beside Much in the quiet, letting the crackling fire fill the silence as Much found a rhythm in breathing again and tried not to move at all. The resulting stillness was almost companionable, something new and practically unheard of when it came to him and Allan. One more minute, maybe two. He could handle lying here for one more minute. This wasn't the Sheriff's cells and waiting for rescue – this was the camp, warm blankets and the fire behind him slowly soothing the worst aches from his back. As he told himself this over and over, until it felt more like truth and less like empty babbling, other words slowly filtered down into the ones he was silently repeating… Allan's voice again, quieter this time, but still rambling on. He didn't sound uncomfortable, like he was trying to fill the silence; his words just meandered on, unhurried and constant, until Much idly wondered whether the whole cave would simply fill up with words at some point, and what would happen when it did. There had to be room for the rest of the gang to fit in eventually, if they ever decided to come back. How did one go about clearing words from a space, anyway? Brush them out like cobwebs, he supposed, or sawdust. Though some words would be heavier, certainly, and he'd have to carry them out one by one. Words could be heavy. They could be painful, too, could burn like red coals. He could practically feel his fingers blister at the thought, and wished Allan would be considerate for once and stop trying to bury them alive under all these words.
And he did, the silence falling so gently that Much listened to the fire's soft crackling for a long minute before realizing that was all he could hear. When he looked up, reluctantly lifting his face from the blankets to see – his left eye was so bruised it afforded him little more than a sense of light and dark – Allan was looking down at him, mouth serious and none of the usual mischief glinting in his eyes. Waiting for a reply, or a response, or something, and Much had no idea what he'd just said.
"Sorry. What'd…" he began, the words sticking in his dry throat, pressing the familiar sharpness into his side, but only for a moment. Allan only gave a peculiar one-shouldered shrug, gaze wandering off over the fire and the rest of the cavern as he said, "Nothin', just… Hadn't thought you could do it, is all." Long seconds stretched between them as Allan's meaning sank in. They weren't talking anymore about the silly acrobats or single-handedly defeating Sir Guy of Gisborne, and suddenly Much felt weary to his very marrow.
Allan must have seen the change in his face, because he went on, "I'll be honest – whole first day after Gisborne got you, I thought we'd have to scarper in a hurry. Lookin' over my shoulder every time somebody coughed. Figured we'd have Gisborne knockin' at the door with all his mates before sundown."
The candid confession stung, but Much hadn't expected anything more, not from Allan, at least, so he said nothing. What was there to say, really? It was no secret Allan thought him weak and foolish, though weak to the point of sacrificing the gang to save his own skin...? The blunt notion hurt more than it had a right to, coming from Allan. Still, it hardly mattered what Allan thought of him...
"Didn't get a wink of sleep," Allan said, still talking to the ground and the rocky walls instead of Much. "But you're here now. I mean, I'm talkin' to you, aren't I?" His eyebrows lifted incredulously, pulling up one side of his mouth as he finally looked directly at Much again. "An' you came through all right, I guess." How he figured that, when even breathing was a chore and he couldn't have taken a step if the cave were about to collapse on his head, Much couldn't begin to answer. "All right enough to tell me off." A snort of amusement. "Sort of. Thought you were just gonna let me say whatever I pleased for a while there, just gonna lie there with a long face and take it."
This was little more than confirmation of what Much had always believed: Allan actually made it his purpose in life to deliberately wind up and annoy those around him, Much in particular. The insufferable man had honestly spun that whole tale of being entertainers and making him their fool just to get a rise out of him, to see whether he was still willing to fight back. To see if he'd have to find somebody new to infuriate, Much supposed, see if his usual target was out of working order for good. There was something odd about the thief's casual words, though… Allan was talking about all this as if it were over, like all his fears of Gisborne descending on their camp were laid to rest. He hadn't thought Much would bear up under torture – he flinched a little from the word, even in his own mind – hadn't thought Much had it in him. Hadn't.
Peering up at the other outlaw, Much managed to stammer, "You… You don't think I- I told him…?" wanting to know if he'd understood Allan correctly, but not willing just yet to say Gisborne's name and invite all those memories to come crashing down again.
Allan only shrugged carelessly again, looked down and said, "Did you?"
The question hit with the force of a blacksmith's hammer, scattering the many things he wanted to say. That of course he never answered those harsh questions, would never have. Doesn't think he ever did, even when it all hurt the worst and he thought he might be injured so badly that rescue would be meaningless. That he doesn't remember all of it, thank God, and prays those memories stay lost in the shadows, but that just now, he wasn't sure… he couldn't say absolutely that he didn't say something Gisborne could use, even something he thought wouldn't matter while he was lying there-
But Allan was scoffing, strewing scorn with the sound, saying, "'Course you didn't," and there was a world of confidence in the other man's tone that reassured Much in a way Allan A Dale's words never had before. "I knew you hadn't the minute we got out of the dark and got a good look at you. Who ever heard of somebody lookin' such a poor sight for handin' over the Robin Hood, Nottingham's most wanted?" He chuckled, a surprisingly warm sound. "If you had, we'd have found you playin' 'Lord Much' over at the castle, sittin' on a sack of gold big as your head. You wouldn't be lyin' here, that's for sure, turnin' every color of the rainbow like you lost a fight with all of Nottingham's guard at once." He chuckled again, shaking his head to himself, and let the silence fall between them again as Much slowly absorbed this new revelation. Allan A Dale, of all the people on God's green earth, believed he'd come through it all right, that he hadn't betrayed the gang or been weak or anything like that. Staring up at the man's sharp profile, painted in shadows and gold light, Much opened his mouth to say something, maybe "thank you" or something like it, but Allan waved the words away before he'd even decided what they'd be.
"Doesn't matter. All's well what ends well, right?" He didn't meet Much's eyes this time, preoccupied with picking frayed bits of thread from Djaq's neatly-tied bandage, and Much half-considered saying "thank you" anyway, because he truly meant it, but the faint sound of voices broke into his thoughts. A ripple of familiar laughter heralded the gang's return, Robin's voice rising in half-hearted protest, drawing nearer. For a few comfortable seconds, the voices approached steadily, and Much drew a small breath of relief. Just one more minute.
Then Allan jolted slightly, a startled curse falling from his lips as he pushed himself off the ground in an ungainly scramble for the other side of the fire. The cloth-muffled sound of him falling onto his own pallet was almost drowned out by the overlapping shuffle of boots and the gang's conversation suddenly filling the cave behind Much's back.
Djaq's voice quickly overrode the others, a whisper loud enough to carry to her laughing companions.
"They are resting!" The briefest pause before she went on, "Or they are supposed to be… if they were listening to their physician's orders, that is…" The wry tone in her lilting voice prompted an innocent, "What?" from Allan that set Will laughing again. Footsteps approached the fire, soft sighs as the gang set down their weapons or sat down, and a dull clap, a hand on someone's shoulder, as Will spoke again, amused.
"Dust was still settling, Allan. You'll have to be faster than that to fool Djaq." A merry hum of agreement from Djaq, closer at hand, before she announced, "I will need hot water for the comfrey. Robin, you can make yourself useful, since you've had such a restful morning, and–"
"I wasn't sleeping!" Robin insisted, voice rising with exasperation, though Much could hear the reluctant grin in his master's words. "I just shut my eyes for half a minute…"
He couldn't stand only hearing anymore, lying like this with his back to the rest of them. Wary of his splinted hand, Much eased himself onto his back, shutting his eyes with a tiny sigh once he'd managed it without any serious pain. That was it – no more moving. He'd be stuck on his back now like a helpless, very tired turtle, but there were worse fates, honestly. There were worse places to be stuck than by a warm fire with the sound of laughter nearby.
Djaq only shushed Robin's protests, to the others' stifled amusement, and her light tread circled the others to stop beside Much. The touch of a cool hand on his forehead brought his eyes open again, and a sweet smile spread across Djaq's face when he met her gaze. He could only imagine how sorry a sight he must look to draw her dark brows together like that.
"How are you feeling?" she asked softly. Thinking about the answer to that question faded his smile somewhat. Just coming out and saying "terrible" seemed ungrateful somehow, but Djaq was already nodding sympathetically and saying, "I will make you something to help with the pain. It will only take a few minutes, all right?"
"I reckon he can last a few more minutes," came Allan's voice from across the now merrily-burning fire. "Made it nearly an hour waitin' for you lot already." This made Djaq's head snap up to stare at the thief where he lay comfortably on his own blankets, then back down to Much with guilt beginning to tighten her features.
"I am sorry, Much. I did not know… We would have been back far sooner if someone…" Her emphasis brought a rueful smile to Robin's face, a wince already forming. "…had not decided to take a nap under a fir tree where no one could find him…" For once, his master seemed tongue-tied, only stammering under the gang's amused gazes until he settled on, "I was tired!"
This set off a new round of disbelieving laughter, during which Robin lifted his hands helplessly and fought the sheepish grin forming on his lips. When he could get a word in edgewise, he said, "You were gathering herbs, Djaq – what kind of trouble could you have possibly run into?
"Sheriff's guards…" began Will from somewhere above Much's head, but Robin interrupted with, "Are all at the castle for the Sheriff's return from London. Djaq was perfectly safe."
"Of course I was," she rejoined at once, rising from Much's side and returning a few moments later with her box of herbs and medicines to settle near the fire beside Robin. The glass vials clinked pleasantly, their contents rattling or sliding quietly as she went on, "It was you we were concerned about, when Will and John returned from Nottingham to find you snoring loudly enough to frighten the birds away.
"That was how we finally found him!" she added. "That sound…!" Her look askance at Robin set Allan off again. The man was going to do himself an injury; it sounded as if he were trying to muffle his snickering in the blankets, and accidentally smothering himself in the process. Even Little John's deep chuckle joined in this time, out of sight over by Will.
"You did not," Robin said, eyes narrowing, trying to read her placid expression. When she only offered a serene smile and returned to mixing herbs into several mugs, a shadow of doubt fell across his master's features, and Much didn't bother suppressing the grin that stretched his sore cheek and jaw. Robin had rarely looked so concerned, usually over a matter of life and death, not a matter of personal pride.
Djaq appeared at his side again, holding one of the wooden cups, and someone settled by his head, worked an arm under his shoulders and helped him drink. She'd added some ginger, a familiar flavor that made the peculiar herbal taste more palatable, though he'd have drunk a mug of trough water if she'd promised it would ease the throbbing in his hand, the thousand overlapping pains that belonged back in the dungeons, not here.
He heard Allan say, "Bless you," with surprising earnestness when she crossed to him, probably with another mug. Though he didn't want to sleep yet, wanted the light and warmth and companionship, he shut his eyes again, watching the green afterimage of the fire dance in the darkness, and drifted a little. Not too far, close enough that he heard Will tell Allan about their trip to Nottingham, that the Sheriff was back, Gisborne had met him, and that's all they knew. The lack of information didn't stop them from speculating over what fate awaited the lieutenant for losing the season's taxes and a prisoner, though, and by the time John announced that supper was done, Gisborne had been put in the stocks, banished from England, and made the Sheriff's stableboy, among other various humiliating punishments.
By this time, the conversation had taken on a pleasantly distant quality, as if the whole world had floated out to arm's length, close enough for him to latch onto the gang's words if he liked, but without the gnawing tension that had strung each muscle painfully tight since he'd found himself facing Gisborne in that dark, stained room. It was a familiar sensation, a memory from better times. Before they'd left for the Holy Land, he and Robin had spent several summers as lads cooling themselves in the pond near Locksley, and Robin had taught him how to float on his back one day. Once he'd gotten the hang of it, the sensation was wonderful, with the water filling his ears and dulling the village noise to an indistinct murmur. Utterly content, Much had decided he'd spend at least half an hour just floating and letting the sun warm his face.
Then Robin had dropped into the water out of nowhere like a stone, one swinging arm catching Much across his stomach and dragging him underwater. The next several minutes had ended with him coughing up half the pond, trying to spit the taste of silt from his mouth, while Robin thumped him unhelpfully on the back and tried to get him to listen about how you could climb the tree just there and jump in, and how it was far more fun than floating around like a boring leaf.
Somehow he'd made it back to the drifting and the peace, and he'd had more than enough of tree climbing, and the falling that came with it. Years of learning caution the hard way wouldn't leave him be, though, and finally he cracked his eyelids open once more, just to be sure nobody was going to splash down beside him out of nowhere and dunk him. Instead he saw golden rippling flames and familiar figures, heard John's gruff burr and Will's good-natured voice arguing, the whole gang adding their voices to the debate over the proper way to prepare the rabbits for supper, and Much could tell them all how, could tell them that Will was right, if he wanted to. He was too comfortable to dredge up energy for speech, though, and instead he just drifted with the sounds and smells of cooking and his friends' voices.