I'm so sorry for the massive delay, everybody. It was unavoidable, really, but I'm still really sorry. Apart from realizing I had very little concrete detail in mind for Much's recovery and thus having to start from scratch, I've had only limited access to watching the Robin Hood episodes, so I was stuck with a growing case of writer's block, unable to figure out how characters would react and whatnot. This has now been remedied (thanks to the powers of the Internet), and I humbly offer this monster-size chapter as a peace offering in thanks for your patience and reviews!
Also, just as a disclaimer: though I did all the research I could for the sake of realism in this chapter, and gave Djaq the benefit of the doubt when it comes to her medical experience, I trust you all know better than to take medical advice or techniques from characters who still think leeches can help you balance your humours. ;)
Wanderingidealism: One order of hurt/comfort/recovery, well-done, with a side of feels coming right up! Would you like cries with that? :P (Actually, there probably won't be tears due to this chapter – we're on the upswing now, with just a few last hurdles to face…)
LadyMurdock: It's true Robin's not much of a talker, but even he can't just ignore the magnitude of what Much has done for them this time. And if he doesn't end up having a meaningful talk with Much soon, the rest of the gang will probably take matters into their own hands. :P
TheCrumpet: Thank you so very much! It's always awesome to hear from the ninja clan (and now I've got this image of a crumpet with a little ninja mask…), and telling me you created an account just to review is a huuuge compliment! Your review had me smiling all week. I hope you like this chapter too! :)
Prats 'R' Us: The Sheriff's dialogue was disturbingly easy to write, compared to some of the others'. The one line you mentioned just leaped into my mind fully formed, like Vasey was there with his Cheshire Cat smile, as you said, giving me suggestions. *shudder* Hmmm…. Sequels, eh? I think I hear the patter of plot-bunny paws approaching… :D I'm open to any ideas or suggestions, if you've got some!
Anonymous: Thank you! And you're very welcome – I'm so glad to find so many people enjoying my attempt to give the poor fellow the respect he deserves. Much was my favorite character from the very first episode, and I couldn't resist the siren call of the muse to write for him. ^_^
Lady Chekov: I made this little squeaky sound when I saw your name on the wonderful review you posted – your lovely Much-focused stories were some of the first I read, and were the original inspiration I had for writing my own Much-y tale! It makes me ridiculously happy to hear that you're enjoying this story. I feel like I ought to ask for a virtual autograph or something. :D
Ordis: I'm totally with you on the hugs thing. I'm pretty sure that would resolve most, if not all, of Gisborne's problems, and probably eke a smile out of the man to boot. Hugs are astonishingly effective and restorative things, don't ya know. ^_^ Thanks for stopping by to review!
The morning dawned cool and grey, the gentle hush of rain wearing the edges of the gang's lingering cheer to something more somber. Robin squirmed lower under his blanket, trying to block out the weak light invading his sleep. Though dawn was usually the gang's cue to rise and set to the day's work, he'd allowed them all a late morning this once. Heaven knew they all sorely needed the rest, with two men wounded and the rest of them going about with circles under their eyes. Relieved sighs had gone up around the fire last night at his announcement, making him chuckle wearily, though his mood had been solemn as he glanced at the two already-occupied bedrolls and said, "Don't wake me for anything tomorrow unless it's King Richard himself riding up to our doorstep," only half in jest.
The dawn light, watery and half-hearted though it was, didn't seem to care how badly he craved more sleep. It slid over his hunched shoulder to glow rose-pink through his eyelids, an unwanted guest no amount of wishing could dismiss. Finally, Robin dragged the blanket up over his head entirely and took a full breath in the darkness, inhaling the warm scents of wool, woodsmoke, and damp earth until he felt sleep thickening his thoughts and drawing him down again….
A stifled grunt of pain jerked him back to full awareness in a heartbeat, and Robin shoved himself up on one elbow, blinking hard to clear his eyes as he stared around the circle of blanket-shrouded figures. Much was his first thought, but the injured man's breaths were soft and even, the frown tensing his battered face too slight to match the force of the sound he'd heard. A moment later, a curt groan that might've been a muffled word broke the silence in the cave again, and Robin's gaze flew over the low fire to where Allan lay.
The thief was stretched across his bed, one arm flung over his eyes while his other hand slowly mangled the blanket beside him. Before Robin could determine from the clenched jaw and barely-visible tremor in the hands whether he needed immediate help or not, Allan breathed a fervent, carefully enunciated phrase and Robin huffed in surprise when he recognized it, impressed despite himself. Hadn't heard that one since the sea voyage home from Acre. One space farther around the fire, Will's dark tousled head swung up sharply, eyebrows soaring high.
"…Good morning to you, too…"
"Shut up," Allan snarled back through gritted teeth, a sure sign he wasn't so terribly bad off. It was when he went quiet over an injury that you had to worry. Running his hand over his face, Allan glared at them both by turns for a moment, then muttered, "Forgot about my leg…. Tried to get up…."
"How do you forget you've got a hole in your leg?" Will asked, a barely-suppressed smile coloring his words, which drew a dagger-keen glare from the thief that swore vengeance as soon as Allan could humanly accomplish it. For the moment, though, he simply turned his scowl to the cave entrance, dragging his blanket up again, and Will snorted quietly.
Robin caught sight of Djaq's warm gaze across the fire, a gentle smirk teasing the corner of her mouth. He exchanged a wordless 'good morning' with her, one half-smile for another, before Djaq rose and wandered to the rear of the shadowy cave, lifting aside sacks of food to gather what she needed to make breakfast. Will tossed back his own blanket to help as Little John rolled over with an indecipherable grumble and began slowly untangling himself from his coat.
Soon, all four unhurt members of the gang were up and about, shaking off the last nagging wisps of sleep. The air drifting in from the cavern mouth was cool and heavy with rain, a barely-noticed murmur under their drowsy conversation. Robin's brief venture to peer outside, a few cold drops tapping his face, told him he'd slept longer than he'd realized, and though the wooly clouds hid all but a distant glow of sunlight, it was well past dawn. After the celebratory mood around the fire the previous night, the unceasing whisper in the trees outside the cave sounded strangely mournful.
Little John roused himself enough to start cutting chunks of bread while Djaq set out and sliced portions of cheese for each of them. The result was closer to a mid-day meal than breakfast, but since it was hours after they would usually have risen anyway, nobody complained. Allan eventually limped over to sit with them, yawning and raking his fingers through his rumpled hair, and for a few minutes, everyone ate in companionable silence. Robin's thoughts, however, refused to remain on the bread in his hand, instead straying to the almost palpable absence from their familiar huddle, the space beside him that was all the more noticeable for not being filled.
Much had not moved since Robin had risen, still huddled under his blankets. At some point last night one of the others had returned his cap; under the beige fabric, lines etched themselves between his brows, deepening momentarily with each breath. The hand Djaq had so carefully splinted lay beside him on the dark blanket, and it took Robin a moment to realize he could see the tips of Much's fingers past the bandages: they simply matched the blanket beneath, dusky with bruising, and Robin's stomach turned briefly.
Djaq's voice broke softly into his thoughts, and he looked up to see her watching him.
"Much is as well as he can be, Robin. Right now, rest will help him to heal better than anything I could give him."
"He needs to eat something," Robin said, the statement somehow turning into a question as it left his mouth, almost a plea. Much would normally have brought up the subject of food after a few hours without, and it had been days… nearly three days in the dungeons, with no reason to believe Gisborne had offered his prisoner food or water, not to mention another full day here with them. But Djaq's expression was calm and sure when she replied, a direct contrast with his own uneasiness.
"He will eat when he wakes," said Djaq, level tone skirting the edge of authority, her experience as a physician matched against his concern as their leader, and Robin let the subject drop for the moment, trying to ignore the worry that made each mouthful sit like lead in his belly.
The hours passed in relative quiet, everyone occupying themselves with neglected chores or hobbies. The craggy vault of the cave's ceiling only rarely echoed back their voices, all of them conscious that raised tones could carry too far into the forest and draw in one of the patrols Gisborne was doubtless still leading through Sherwood. Their voices were low even to their own ears, though, hushed in the awareness that their camp had become a sickroom, at least for a time. Much slept on with only the involuntary movements of sleep to show that he had not faded out of their reach, an irrational fear that persisted in coming to mind no matter how angrily Robin forced it from his thoughts. After what were surely sleepless nights in the dungeons, Much's exhaustion made perfect sense, and Robin himself had slept far longer at a stretch while recovering from his own wound in the Holy Land, but control over his anxious imagination seemed frustratingly out of his hands.
As the morning stepped imperceptibly into afternoon, Djaq sat down to examine Allan's leg, and despite his hissing and complaints, pronounced the wound to be healing well. In the rainy light at the cave opening, John hunched over one of his boots, patching a hole. Left idle, Robin settled by Much's feet with a branch and stirred the winking embers nestled at the base of the fire. The sleeping man's face was creased with discomfort, the blankets shifting softly now and again, brushing along Robin's leg; the soothing effects of Djaq's herbs must have faded entirely by now. He could hardly blame Much for seeking refuge in sleep for as long as possible, though. Let him sleep for a week, a whole fortnight, but just let this whole black business be done with, for their sake and Much's.
Nothing was ever made simple by wishing, however. The pain from injured ribs was tenacious, a maddening thing, and it could be near a week before this first raw hurt started to abate. Then there was Much's hand to consider, and the deep bruising from Gisborne's beatings…. Robin's heart sank to admit it, but there would be no consigning this to the vault of memory anytime soon. Though Gisborne had lost this fight, lost the money and his prisoner, he'd done more than enough damage to make the victory ring hollow.
Once freed from Djaq's ministrations, Allan had scrounged up a smooth piece of wood that looked suspiciously like Much's cutting board, procured three wooden cups from his knapsack, and settled himself facing Will across the makeshift table. The young carpenter's dark eyes focused with wary concentration on the pebble held up between the older man's fingers, following it down to the cup that covered it, and through the lazy shuffle of hands and cups until Allan sat back and raised querying eyebrows.
"A'right. What d'you think?" A few moments' silence before Will tapped the left-hand cup and Allan nodded approvingly, lifting it to reveal the pebble sitting there. "Not bad – little faster this time, then." Again the cups began their weaving dance, and Robin twisted where he sat to watch more closely. Will barely hesitated this time, choosing the middle cup with a small smile, and Allan reset the game, commenting, "Sharp eyes, mate. I must be out of practice or somethin'." The pebble vanished under the right-hand cup and into the serpentine shuffle again, noticeably faster this time. Hardly glancing down at his hands, Allan said, "Think you can make it three in a row?" The scrape of wood on wood halted, and Will grinned confidently.
Allan's cheeky smirk turned into a groan a moment later when Will tipped over a cup to reveal the pebble sitting innocently on the smooth board.
"I don't believe this," Allan muttered, shaking his head and sighing down at the tiny rock while Will chuckled at his expression. "It's tragic. Losin' my touch already, and me in my prime..."
"In your prime?" Will echoed, smirking, and Allan shot him a warning look before frowning down at the cups as if working through the steps in his mind.
"Careful there, mate. I'm not that much older'n you."
Will snorted and said, "Gotta be at least ten years between us. Fifteen, maybe." A challenging gleam came into Allan's eyes, and he said, "Fine then. Since you're feelin' so confident, shall we have a little wager this time?"
"Sure. I choose the right one, and you wash up tonight?" Will suggested, grinning. Robin chuckled under his breath at Allan's predictable grimace. The man could hold his own in a fight, steal you anything you pleased, but ask him to wash up a few dishes… Surprisingly, the thief gave a shrug of agreement, and the low rasp of the cups against the wood began again, this time so swiftly it looked as if Allan were trying to braid the cups together by willpower and speed alone. He had just begun to slow his movements when Will jerked forward, eyes wide and jaw dropping.
"Hey!"
Allan jumped so violently he nearly scattered the cups off the board, a startled curse already forming on his lips as Will gestured indignantly to Allan's right hand, frozen in the process of sliding one of the cups along.
"I saw that! You snuck it off the board!"
Allan's expression of growing bewilderment was a well-honed and convincing act, but not convincing enough to make Will doubt his own eyes. "Open your hand, then, and let's see," the younger man demanded.
Allan started to stumble through some flimsy explanation or other, but something nudged Robin's leg, pulling his attention away from the rare sight of Allan A Dale being caught out, and he looked over to see Much levering himself up on one elbow, face rigid with alarm and bound hand close against his chest.
"What was-?" he began in a ragged whisper as he looked to Robin, wide-eyed. He looked nearly as shaken as when they'd found him in the dungeons, and Robin quickly got his arm behind Much's shoulders to help him lie down again before he hurt himself further, saying, "It's all right… Allan's just being an idiot, and Will's making sure he knows." Behind him, Allan's excuses were getting him nowhere, Will's voice interjecting with half-serious outrage. Much's shoulder trembled under Robin's reassuring hand, though, and his bruised gaze jumped past Robin to the bickering pair as if to confirm that the shout had meant nothing worse. Light footsteps heralded Djaq's arrival, and Robin added, "He had to learn someday that his tavern tricks don't work on everyone."
"S'bout time…" Much mumbled, and Robin couldn't help but chuckle. The flickered smile Much offered was pulled awry by bruises, a fleeting echo of his usual grin that crumbled back into thin-lipped distress as Djaq knelt beside them. She easily evaded Much's shaky hand that came up to stop her from pressing her palm to his brow, and he squirmed under her evaluating eyes, murmuring uncertainly, "I'm all right… 'm fine…"
"I doubt you're going to convince her of that, Much," Robin said, marveling that Much would even try. Despite his meek protests at the sudden attention, Much had barely moved, watching Djaq with worry behind the discomfiture in his eyes. Each breath was measured out, filling his lungs only so far and no more, and the strain of speaking had already drained his face to an unhealthy pallor. As her hand left Much's forehead to lightly encircle his wrist, Djaq gave a wry smile and said, "I will believe you are fine when you can see me with both eyes, Much, and can speak louder than a whisper." Her humor seemed to ease some of the strain tightening Much's uncharacteristically serious features, and Robin sat back to give Djaq room, listening as she explained to Much what Robin had already surmised: that while the next several days would not be pleasant, he would come through it all right, and simply had to rest and obey her instructions. She ended by asking, "How bad is the pain, Much? Truthfully?"
After a few seconds spent gathering his breath, Much murmured, "Only bad when I move, or… or breathe…" From any of his other men, that statement would have been an attempt to lighten the mood, but Robin reluctantly suspected Much was telling the plain truth. The glance his friend flicked over to him looked almost sheepish. Surely he didn't think Robin would fault him for complaining? Did he think he was expected to deal stoically with the injuries Gisborne had dealt him, to simply carry on as usual? Robin didn't know whether he wanted to hug him or cuff him round the head for being thick, but before he could sort it out or do more than look blankly back, Much had looked away, eyes following Djaq as she rose to fetch something.
Several minutes later, after Much had swallowed the last of his bread and yet another draught of Djaq's brew, Robin quietly followed Djaq across the cave where she turned to face him, physician's eyes thoughtful and serious. A glance to the side showed Much lying motionless with eyes shut again, as if his short time awake had undone all the healing wrought by his hours asleep.
"He must stay where he is for at least several days," she began, and though Robin kept his expression calm, his stomach dropped at the gravity in her words. "That is the only way to allow his ribs to heal. His strength and appetite will return in time, and the herbs will help ease the pain so he can breathe more comfortably, and that is very important. If he hurts too badly to breathe as he should, he could grow very, very ill." The worry that tightened her voice in the last few words was enough for Robin to immediately promise to keep a close eye on Much.
Quietude reclaimed the cave, an abashed-looking Allan choosing to sharpen his sword and dagger while Will knelt with Djaq to sort through her herbs, a triumphant smile flickering across the young carpenter's face when he glanced at the other man now and again. The hours seemed countless, though, dragging on as the rain continued, and Robin couldn't find a way to shake away the tension that had begun to dog him, his efforts to relax as vain as trying to escape the hem of his own cloak.
After their brief exchange when he woke, Much didn't speak again that day, dozing fitfully between the times someone woke him to offer something to eat or drink. There seemed to be hardly any position that afforded him real relief, even lying on his back or curled gingerly on his uninjured side. The rustle of his blankets whispered restlessly around the cave every few hours as the effects of the herbs began to dim, and Robin found himself looking up every time he heard it, tensed as if his friend's discomfort was something he could fight with blade and bow.
A lull in the rain late in the afternoon gave his men the chance to stretch their legs, though nobody ranged far; Gisborne didn't know where their camp was, but that didn't mean he wasn't still out there searching, waiting for them to let their guard down. Robin waved the others out, sitting at the mouth of the narrow rocky entrance and letting his mind wander in the damp-laden branches, depending on instinct to keep an ear and eye out for danger as he lost track of time. He barely heard the low sound full of pain long minutes later, but it set him scrambling back to the fire, where he found Much trembling on his side, the heel of his hand pressed between his eyes. He had to repeat Much's name twice, hand firm on the back of his neck, before Much's eyelids flickered, a flash of blue seeking him blindly as Will entered the cave, alarm spreading across the younger man's face when he caught sight of them.
Between too-thin gasps, Much managed to whimper Djaq's name, and Will sprinted back out at Robin's command, leaving him to fumble for calming words as he watched the cave entrance for Djaq's return. Whether the herbs had worn off too soon or Much had somehow aggravated his wounds, Robin could only guess at one or the other, and it hardly mattered. The broken syllables of Much's breathless attempt at a Pater Noster counted the seconds, and the worry roiling in Robin's stomach sank into his bones like ice.
When Djaq appeared a long minute later, taking Robin's place, she immediately poured a larger helping than before of her tea for Much and sat with him speaking softly until his breaths came more easily. That night, when Djaq offered a cup wafting a lighter scent like strawberries, Much reached for it with an uncaring trust that bordered on desperation. While Much slept in unnerving stillness, Djaq showed Robin the new line carved on the inside of the wooden cup, where he should fill the tea to, should Much need more when she happened to be away again.
The next day dawned just as grey as the one before, and by the time Robin had given his gang their assignments and struck out on his own mission through the sodden forest, a knot was slowly twining itself into a heavy tangle in his stomach. Over and over he reminded himself, eyes fixed unseeingly on the fallen leaves and mud squelching under his boots, that they'd only brought Much back three days ago; there was no reason to expect or hope Much would be back on his feet, no earthly way he could be at this point, not after what he'd been through. Still, the unfocused blue gaze remained imprinted in his memory, only the briefest motion of the heavy-lidded eyes showing that Much had seen Robin leave the cave at all. Djaq had stayed behind with him, as had Allan, for while the thief could hobble around the camp well enough by now, he wasn't fit for a lengthy walk through the forest.
That left the day's errands and chores to Robin, Will, and Little John. While the other two were out checking the snares and searching, most likely in vain, for any dry branches to add to their depleted store of firewood, Robin's feet carried him unerringly toward the village of Knighton, a path so familiar he could have followed it in his sleep – he'd done so often enough in his dreams. He reached the sturdy walls of Knighton Hall and swung up to the beams beside Marian's window without seeing a soul other than the distant shape of a farmer or two tending their fields.
The wooden beams were cold and damp, pressing their chill through his shirt as he leaned out to rap his knuckles against the window frame, but the sight of Marian's face as she opened the shutters sent warmth spreading through his chest. She wore blue today, the color the sky ought to have been. When she spotted him, her puzzled frown melted into the beginnings of a smile, quickly masked with worry as she threw a hasty look toward the village.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered, just loudly enough to carry through the rain-thick air. "It's broad daylight – you'll be seen!"
Casting a dubious eye at the sky above, hidden behind a swath of grey wool clouds and hardly deserving to be called daylight, Robin only crossed his arms comfortably and looked back at her.
"Not if you don't tell anyone I'm here," he replied, unable to help the smile growing on his face when her lips tightened in endearing frustration. Her sigh held equal parts exasperation and lingering concern, but honestly, the risk of one of the villagers spotting him and deciding to hunt up a guard somewhere to turn him in was so slight as to be laughable.
Apparently resigned to the fact that he wasn't going anywhere, Marian leaned more comfortably within the frame of the window, palms against the sill and hair loose around her face. Her eyes grew somber in the brief silence, each of them drinking in the sight of the other, and after a few long seconds, she asked quietly, "How is Much?"
"Recovering," he replied, eyes dropping to the wall below the dark windowsill despite his attempt to sound confident. "Slowly." He forced his eyes upward again and hoped the flare of anger was less visible than it felt. If Marian could see even a hint of what he was contemplating for when he next encountered Gisborne, she would probably be horrified, and rightly so. None of it was pleasant. He could feel his jaw tightening, the same gnawing tension returning that had followed on his heels for nearly a week now, and dragged a grim smile onto his face for Marian's sake, adding, "He'll be all right, Marian." She looked unconvinced, but the reassurance he managed to force into his smile seemed to satisfy her for the moment.
"I'm glad to hear that. I wasn't sure…. When I saw him in the dungeons…" She trailed off in favor of shaking her head rather than put into words whatever she'd seen. That hadn't even been the worst of it, based on how recent Djaq said Much's worst injuries were, but he still hated the idea that Marian had witnessed any portion of that brutality. The very thought of it, his mind's automatic impulse to fill in the canvas of the scene, was enough to sour his stomach with startling potency. Certainly no need for Marian to hear any further details, and time to turn the conversation to other matters, to the purpose of his visit.
Perhaps feeling the same, Marian drew a breath, eyes scanning the treeline out of habit, and said, "I suppose you're curious how the Sheriff has taken the news." At his nod, she took on a more business-like tone, continuing, "Well, the last I heard, the Sheriff was throwing inkwells and threatening to put the entire castle's complement of guards in the stocks for a week. So far, that's occupied the whole of his time. I doubt he's planning anything major in the next few days, at least." Without warning, she turned a stern look on him that brought an instinctively innocent smile to Robin's lips. "I'd avoid Guy for a good while if possible, though, Robin. He's livid – I've never seen him this angry. The Sheriff's blaming him for all this."
Robin scoffed, saying, "You don't expect me to feel sorry for him, just because Vasey's thrown a few tantrums and Gisborne got in the way?" Dark-bladed anger jabbed at his heart again, but Robin managed to restrain it to a narrowing of his eyes and the bitterness that crept into his voice. "You haven't seen Much, Marian. He's-"
"No, I expect you to be careful, and not invite more trouble by taunting Guy and the Sheriff," she rejoined, a warning heat in her words. "The petty satisfaction you'll receive isn't worth you putting your men in danger again so soon. After everything Much has just done for you, you owe him more than that." Only the determined gleam in her eye, the breath drawn to impart some new piece of information, kept the sharp reply from escaping Robin's throat. Did she honestly think he was so blind or careless, that he would ignore the magnitude of what Much had suffered – was still suffering – at Gisborne's hand?
He quelled a dark wash of jealousy when Marian went on, "I met Guy two days ago, just after the Sheriff returned to the castle." If she caught sight of how tightly his jaw was clenched, teeth almost aching at the pressure, she hid it well. "He had nothing to offer the Sheriff. Not a single name, a route, nothing. Despite what I saw in the dungeons, and whatever happened afterward, Much didn't say a word against you, Robin. And you cannot ignore that fact and do something that will endanger him before he's had even a chance to recover from this."
Her words seemed to echo in the short space between them. Robin had to remind himself to draw air into lungs that suddenly felt paralyzed. He had known this already – he had. Why, then, did his stomach suddenly feel hollow and his throat tight at this confirmation? The question had hovered unspoken in the air among his men, but in the time since Much's rescue, after searching the familiar face in the quiet moments of the afternoons and evenings, Robin had known. If Gisborne had managed to torment something, anything, from Much, the guilt would have shone in his manservant's eyes like torches in the night. Not to mention he would probably have confessed to Robin at the first opportunity, a rush of stilted, miserable words he'd braced himself for before he and Will ever set foot in the dungeons. But having the reality of Much's sacrifice held up before him like this, hearing the words spoken aloud as indisputable fact, somehow made them infinitely weightier, as if his breath in the winter air had become not vapor but a solid plume of ice thudding to the ground.
This news should have lofted his spirits like a sparrow riding the wind. He knew he should be feeling a golden swell of gratitude and relief – and it was there, a muted glow like a candle behind a curtain – but he could hardly feel it past the strange twisting discomfort in his heart. The weight of responsibility dragged at his shoulders, threatening to haul him from his perch down onto the muddy ground below. His temple bumped into the damp wood as he leaned against the window frame and gusted out a sigh that he heard echoed softly beside him, the tiniest breath of breeze brushing his face.
"Will you promise me?" she asked softly, and Robin had to think for a long moment before he remembered what Marian was asking. Gisborne deserved to suffer everything he'd inflicted on Much and then still more, to answer for every crime he'd committed against the King and his people. And yet Robin knew Marian was right. Deliberately provoking the lieutenant now, however badly Robin yearned to turn loose the righteous fury harbored in his heart, would only pull his men into a fight they weren't ready for. They didn't deserve that.
"I promise," he murmured, receiving a flicker of satisfaction at the faint surprise on Marian's face, probably at how easily he had agreed. He waited for her to straighten, to quip something he would reply to before taking his leave. He was so tired suddenly. Instead, her gentle voice recalled his gaze back to her face less than arm's reach away, her brows drawn in and grey eyes sad as she said, "Robin, how bad is it? Tell me."
He let out a quiet breath, saying, "He's… Djaq says he'll recover. It'll take time, but… He's barely spoken. He can't even stand, Marian." He dragged his fingers through his hair roughly enough to score his scalp. "I don't know what to… She tilted her head slightly, dark hair swaying in the breeze that rippled past.
"Robin, in the Holy Land, when you were wounded, what did Much do?"
The question was unexpected, and he fumbled with the hot-edged memories for long seconds.
"I don't know. I wasn't exactly paying close attention for a few days," he bit out, but Marian didn't snap back, only repeated, "What do you remember?"
"What does this-?" He let out a long breath, resigning himself to dredging through the memories, speaking as it came to him. "He was there, he was always…." The king's physician had been there at times, firm hands wrenching new pain from his throbbing side, but whenever Robin's blurred vision cleared of fever-dreams, it was Much's face and presence he remembered. "The physicians had to get past him every time they arrived, I was told. I'm not sure he even slept," he said, trying to joke, but that wasn't true – he remembered waking briefly in darkness with a weight pinning the blankets by his side, something resting lightly on his chest near his heart, as if to sustain the steady beat through the night. Nobody had told him until days later how perilously close he'd come to death.
Rolling his shoulders and pulling his mind to the present again, Robin looked back up at Marian to find her smiling faintly, and said, "But I still don't-"
She laughed sadly, the sound wafting through the air to him intimately, dimmed by the ceiling of pale clouds.
"It's not so difficult, Robin, truly," she murmured, shaking her head at him. His glare was too tired to be more than a lost-looking sulk, probably, and only drew another affectionate smile from her lips. Reaching out, she brushed away the loose hair hanging near his eyes like he was a child and said, "He's your friend. You'll sort it out. "
As Robin returned to camp, he kept up a determinedly steady stride, strengthening himself with the memory of Marian's confidence, but his resolve faltered again when he stepped into the camp and saw everything unchanged. Djaq greeted him with small nod, Will and John looked round, and Allan lifted a lazy hand from his slouch against the wall, but there wasn't the smallest movement or sound of welcome from the third figure in the cave. Just a slow breath, then another, and firelight glowing orange-gold on tightly shut eyelids.
He glanced over at Much again as he set his bow against the rocky wall, then let his feet carry him over to sit beside his friend. Even the long walk back from Knighton hadn't dislodged the weight in his chest, a dark sensation that felt oddly like resentment. Who was there to resent, though, beyond the Sheriff and Gisborne, whose greed and corruption had made their ill-fated raid necessary to begin with? And for them he reserved a sentiment sharper than blunt and heavy resentment: for them, it was contempt, a flame of cleansing anger that met each new injustice like dry tinder, using it to leap higher and scorch the object of his fury. Mentally, he cast his vision around, sick to death of the dragging heaviness and determined to be rid of it. Marian's words had stung, but she spoke the truth, and he did not hold her at fault for that. He considered each member of the gang in turn, finding affection, exasperation, and reassurance in his heart, but nothing darker. Perhaps it was only weariness he felt, just the weight of leadership in uncertain times. With a sigh, he brought his eyes back down to Much, his searchabandoned for the time being.
And there it was. There, buried beneath the worry and care for the man sleeping before him lurked a strange defensiveness that shifted its coils back into the darkness, a black companion to the silent regret that had softly winged its way back into his mind over the past days. What offense had Much, of all people, committed against him, though? The strength of the bitter emotion burgeoning in his chest was bewildering. What on earth had Much done besides prove himself willing to give his very life for Robin?
Another harsh rasp of discomfort, wrenching itself away from the renewed ache at the thought, but Robin held his gaze steady, frowning down at the blankets' folds, the little mountains and ranges the shadows made against the firelight. He would not ignore this, would not bury it in the back of his mind as he'd done so many other things.
Much's willingness to put himself in danger for them, to hold off Gisborne in the courtyard those long days ago, was hardly a surprising thing. He had always known how relentlessly loyal Much was. He'd often joked with the other Crusaders that you couldn't drive Much away with a stick – he'd come back regardless. And that had been a piece of firm footing in the sliding sands there, the knowledge that whatever else happened, whichever cities fell or how much blood drained into the dusty ground, Much would be standing there with him. It was such a deep-rooted part of them that it had never required words, had sunk deep into the earth of their years as master and servant, as friends. Upon returning home to England, though, outrage and determination to make things right had driven Robin at a dizzying pace, leaving him no time or inclination to think over the past when the present was full to bursting with needs and duties.
The sudden upheaval of Much's capture had violently revealed just how frighteningly far Much was willing to go in defense of the gang. Of course, he could not possibly have foreseen the cost of his bold move against Gisborne – if he'd had any conception of what lay in store for him… Robin gave a weary scoff, resting his head in his hands. No, Much would probably have done it anyway.
Even Acre and the brutality there didn't teach a man to hold up under torture, though. There was little in this world that could. Against the Saracens, few enough prisoners ever escaped to tell their stories, too few to do more than set your teeth and pray you were never taken alive. Yet somehow Much had not only survived three days under Gisborne's punishing hand, but also kept every last thing he knew about the gang and their activities safe. And deep in his heart, down in his veins where he could neither reach nor change the fact, Robin knew it was less for the sake of the gang and their fight against the Sheriff that Much had held his silence – it was that unhesitating loyalty to him, the friendship that had grown so strong between them. The knowledge was jarring, uncomfortable, something his mind and heart shifted from, casting themselves away and to the sides with anxious wonder.
And then came the ungrateful thought: I never asked Much to do this for me. I didn't ask for this. It had been Much's choice, his decision. Dwelling on the reality of what Much had been ready to give for him was like being forced to stare down the shaft of an arrow aimed at his eye; he wrenched his thoughts from it instinctively, defenses coming up sharply enough to wind his shoulders tight. Why, though? Why was it so difficult for him to accept, he demanded in the uneasy darkness of his mind. He recoiled from it as if burned, but why? There was nothing dishonorable or offensive in the act. Why could he not reach out and accept this gift as the honor it was meant to be?
The answer cut through the growing clamor of frustration like the whisper of a blade. It hurt to accept this gift, to let it rest in his hands, because the weight of it would bear him to his knees, would humble him to the very earth to acknowledge its endowment. And this realization left the coiled, resenting creature thrashing silently in the throes of death as Robin's breath left him in a long, wondering sigh. When had he become so proud? When had he set himself so high that the thought of feeling smaller than another stirred such fear in him?
Ignoring the dying shudders of pride, he steeled himself and bent his head, silently telling Much yet again, I'm sorry. He didn't say the words aloud. He wouldn't ask Much to summon the strength to listen to his apologies now, to hear the things surfacing in his heart that he should have been saying all along. Much had given for years upon years, and now it was Robin's turn to give, first of all by holding his tongue, by putting that conversation to the back of his mind for the time being, though he couldn't help the relief that ran along his shoulders from knowing he would not have to force his thoughts into speech so soon.
Dusty memories, tangled with realizations, were struggling half-heartedly to surface past the walls he'd placed to keep them back, and for a while he sat there in the quiet, too tired to get up and put away the thoughts with activity. Instead he drew up his knees, resting his arms across them, and hid his face in the crook of his elbow, focusing on the sounds of his gang around him: the loose snatches of idle conversation, the rustles, coughs, and steps criss-crossing around him at intervals. The comfortable darkness inside his arms was soothing, and before long he was half-drowsing, a soldier's doze that kept him upright and pulled one arm free to rest soothingly on Much's shoulder when the other man stirred. Much needed to sleep, and nightmares wouldn't make his rest any easier.
"Robin?"
The quiet voice brought his head up from his arms at once, bleary vision revealing Much looking up at him with a puzzled expression. Though the fog of Djaq's herbs still lay heavily across his features, Much was obviously awake and not having any sort of nightmare, and Robin pulled his hand back quickly, still wrapped in a layer of gauzy sleepiness himself. He glanced away, striving to put his thoughts back in order, and to pull his expression back into something less open, but when he looked back, Much's faint frown had only deepened, the effort audible in his voice as he murmured, "What's wrong?"
"It's nothing," Robin said, but Much's gaze roamed across his defensive, hunched posture, resettling on his face with doubt turning the corner of his mouth down, and Robin shook his head dismissively, saying, "I'm all right. It's just that the Sheriff and Gisborne have a lot to answer for." Much must have read his deep breath and glance in Nottingham's general direction as concern, however, because he started shaking his head, ignoring the wince it produced.
"He won't come here... H-he doesn't know about the camp, or- or about anything. I didn't-" He trailed off to ease the angry pain in his ribs, hand held gingerly to his side, but his uncertain gaze waited on Robin's response. His face beneath the mottling bruises and scrapes held a hint of pride under the uncertainty. Before Much could catch his breath and stumble on verbally, Robin bent closer, hand light but earnest against the side of his friend's face, and said, "I know he doesn't, Much. I know." Much looked back at him, the words reaching slowly through the soporific effects of the medicine, and Robin said quietly, "You did well, Much."
The words were inadequate, poor and lacking even in his own ears, but Much received them with a huffing laugh that rubbed raw low in his throat, eyes shutting as if in relief, jaw relaxing against the heel of Robin's hand, and it was enough for now. Sitting back, Robin said lightly, "Rest up, Much. We need you in top shape if you're going to save us from John's cooking anytime soon, hey?" The barest motion of a nod was Much's only answer as he began to drift again, and Robin drew a slow breath that felt lighter than any he'd taken in the last year, looking up and out to where he could see sunlight reaching carefully through the craggy entrance to the cave.
A/N: This chapter grew so much in the telling that I've actually cut it in half, and made the second half its own chapter - so now you've got *two* more chapters coming up! The next is well over halfway written, so with a little cooperation from the muse, I should be able to post it in a week or so. Thanks once again for your patience! ^_^