Remember me, anybody?
*…crickets chirping…*
…. Yep. I was afraid of that…
Plot bunnies are such fickle little things… They saw I'd reached the last chapter and figured their job was done, so off they frolicked, leaving me bewildered and muse-less. Add to that a period of both financial and existential crisis, AND a near miss with a tornado (it touched down quite literally a street away, but mostly chewed up trees and took a surly kick at our power lines), and you'll see just how much love and toil has gone into finally getting this chapter completed for you! :P Thank you all for being so supportive – what an amazing group of readers to have along for the ride on my first posted story! You've all spoiled me, I swear. I just want to take you all home and give you cookies and hugs. So here's the conclusion of this tale, at long last!
Wanderingidealism: A healthy helping of Robin feels on the way, as requested! (I'll just keep an eye out for the book – it can't hide from me forever… :P)
Lady Murdock: Thanks so much – that's so sweet of you! Your reviews are always so encouraging!
Ghanaperu: I had a ton of fun writing the chapter with Much and Allan chatting; their personalities play off each other so entertainingly! Thank you for the lovely review! ^_^
You wouldn't have known by looking, Robin mused to himself, that the familiar figure walking up ahead with the others had been so close to death's door a mere two weeks ago. From behind, Much's silhouette looked the same as always: cloth cap snugged down over unruly brown hair, cloak worn at a comfortable slant that freed his sword arm, his scabbard clanking softly against his leg every other step. Strolling a few feet behind his men, ostensibly as rear guard, Robin was free to pretend the knot of cloth at the back of Much's neck was just his scarf, to ignore the sling and fading yellow-green bruises he couldn't see from here, and simply savor the sight of his gang traveling in unison once more, Much among them as if nothing had happened. It was a frail illusion, true, but a harmless one, a welcome balm for nerves rubbed flinchingly raw over the past weeks.
Today's trip to Locksley was a sort of test, both literally and figuratively a wounded man trying the limits of his strength, but between the noonday sunshine trickling down through the browning leaves and the lively chatter among the lads, Robin was ready to call the mission a success already. Djaq was the only one who seemed ill at ease, her attention swinging sideways to Much every few minutes. Her watchfulness reminded Robin of nothing so much as a mother bird whose offspring was making its first unsteady flight, and he grinned at the mental image that painted for him. Given how long it was taking to reach Locksley, he was glad now he'd allotted the whole day for the trip; despite the ease of their task, just a leisurely walk to Robin's former estate to give out some of their hard-won silver, Djaq had called for a short rest every half hour, and would hear no argument.
Of course, given that all he could see of Much at the moment was the back of his head and his cloak, he supposed Djaq would know better how long her patient ought to walk at a stretch. All illusion aside, Much's hand was still bound, of course, the broken fingers mending slowly beneath the cloth, and after a few minutes of observance, Robin had to admit that Much's confident stride had not quite returned, his gait just a beat slower, as if the level stretch of the North Road were unfamiliar ground.
Much himself was merrily oblivious to their scrutiny, however. Allan had been regaling them all with a tale of one of his many escapades for the past quarter hour, walking backwards to keep his audience in sight, and Much had eagerly joined forces with Will beside him to poke holes in Allan's story. Robin had only been half-listening, but the story seemed to have exceeded believability a few minutes past, the prospect of squeezing the truth out of Allan more entertaining than listening to his boasts any longer.
"It's true! I'm serious!" the thief protested, sincerity suffusing his entire posture and voice, a clear warning sign for those who knew him to take his words with a barrel or two of salt. "Every word of it, cross my heart!"
"Well, how'd you get away from the dogs, then?" Will challenged. Much's head swung from Will back to Allan, who replied immediately, "Crossed the stream. Threw 'em off the trail." A snort preceded Little John's disbelieving, "You can't lose a hound like that. They'll track you straight across."
"What, an' you've tried it? You've swum 20 feet across a river with a dozen dogs after you?" John made no answer, but Much remarked, "Funny. I thought you said it was only a stream just now." Allan's half-smile froze for a moment, and Robin chuckled to himself at the smug note in Much's voice as he pressed, "Well, it can't have been both. Stream or river – make up your mind."
Allan's backward stumble over a branch in the road was conveniently timed, but even after the extra seconds of thought it bought him, the best he could come up with was, "I said river. Didn't I?" The laughter from the rest of the gang drowned Allan's protests as they all came to a rambling stop together at the tree line, Much leaning against a trunk with a satisfied sigh. As always, the little cluster of thatched roofs down below and the proud height of Locksley manor standing across the lake sent a thrum of yearning through Robin's heart, but he drew a breath, slung his arm gently across Much's shoulders, and said, "Well, come on, lads. Let's make sure they haven't forgotten who we are."
Will started down the grassy slope first, a few seconds too late to dodge the playful shove from Allan that sent him reeling. Djaq and Little John followed at a more dignified pace, shaking their heads as they watched the two young men jostle each other all the way down the hill, and Robin wandered down the slope in his gang's wake, his full quiver a reassuring weight between his shoulder blades, a new speed in Much's steps beside him that had nothing to do with their downhill path, and everything to do with setting foot in their home again.
As if lured in by Robin's contentment, a familiar thought came to mind like a wasp hovering by his ear, and he resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. Knowing the thought came from the pricking of his conscience only made his annoyance grow.
He still owed Much words, and they would not be easy ones. Not harsh or hard ones, but they were buried so deeply in the walls of his heart that trying to voice them was as painful as trying to pry a gem from the rock with his bare hands. Each attempt only left him with sore and scratched fingers and a deepening sensation of guilt at his failure. He'd gathered and counted these words at night, an examination of conscience that always came out the same, and though knowing Much would not count the words' absence should have made it easier to put off, instead it left Robin feeling merely selfish.
But how was he to apologize for a hundred vague moments that defied summary? And what good was a promise for the future that was only half as sure as it ought to be? He'd been biding his time until Much could speak without wincing, until Much was able to walk about, letting the days pass with his excuses, and he knew that if he didn't speak soon, the time and words would vanish like water drying on his palms, their urgency forgotten amid the many crises he and the gang faced, and a small part of him reached hopefully for that easier outcome.
Now, in the middle of Locksley, though, was not the place or time. As their boots sent up little eddies of dust in the village road, Robin clapped Much on the shoulder and gave him a little shove as he said, "Go on, then," returning the grin he received before Much scooped the small pouch of silver from his pocket and set off ahead. Across the road, Djaq was perched on the fence keeping watch down the road, the toe of her boot hooked behind the lower bar; up ahead, chickens criss-crossed each other's paths in mindless haste as the villagers came out to greet the outlaws. Posting a watch on the road was more a precaution than a necessity, since they knew Gisborne would be occupied at Nottingham all day, but a watchful pair of eyes never hurt, particularly with at least one of their number not yet fit for sprinting half the distance back to camp.
The gang split apart to clasp hands and call greetings, while Robin stayed in the heart of the village, ready to give away both the silver at his belt and what encouragement he could offer by his presence. The half-dozen villagers welcoming them with smiles and exclamations were mostly mothers and children, the husbands and grown sons of Locksley at work in the fields unless their craft kept them here in the village. Here he was just "Robin", with a few shy "m'lord"s murmured from behind small hands or mothers' skirts, and he knew every face by name save the very youngest. Here, for a little while, he could simply be lord of Locksley, neither hunted outlaw nor rumored savior, and see to his people's needs.
Between careful answers about their unusually long absence that reassured without divulging too much, he kept an instinctive eye on his men, nodding to himself when he saw that Will had found a few old friends; he was already deep in conversation with the boys, Allan leaning against the fence nearby. Like Robin, Little John kept to the center of the village, tolerantly letting a few children try to jump to touch his shoulders. A few moments' search found Much crouched by the blacksmith's home, eyes narrowed playfully at the child gleefully trapping her golden locks under his stolen cap, the three-year-old's giggles audible even across the wide road.
As he watched, Much sat back on his heels as if struck by inspiration, then pulled something from his pocket and offered a little wooden figure to Molly, presumably as ransom. Her delighted squeal of, "A dunky!" provoked a deep laugh from the barrel-chested man standing near Robin, whose soot-streaked hands and face would have proclaimed him the blacksmith even if Robin had not already known Brian well. Much asked an inaudible question, bending his head down for Molly to replace his cap since both his hands were occupied, and Brian chuckled again when his daughter's response to Much's prompting was to pull the beige cloth down over his eyes, surprising the crouching man into relinquishing his hold on the carved toy. While Much levered himself up again using the fence, sharing a smile with Rose as Molly immediately dropped to her aproned knees to trot the wooden donkey across the ground, Robin turned back to the last few villagers waiting to speak with him.
After he had answered their questions and caught up on the latest events in their close-knit community, Robin bade them farewell and turned away to gather his men. He had just opened his mouth to get Much's attention when a shrill whistle cut through the air, straightening his spine with instinctive alarm. He and Much turned in unison to see Djaq running toward them, her post abandoned.
"Riders!" She did not elaborate, instead racing to join them in the middle of the road as mothers called their children back to the doorways and cast Robin anxious looks. The sound of hooves on the curving road to Locksley underscored the heavy tempo of Little John's steps approaching from behind, staff in hand, and Robin knew there was no time to reach Sherwood before the riders would spot them.
"Get out of sight!" he ordered, and his men scattered with practiced speed, sprinting behind houses and sheds while he caught his arm up around Much's shoulders and hurried him into the shadow of the nearest house. Pushing the other man well out of sight at the rear corner, Robin peered back around the edge at the road, listening as the tumult of hooves rushed into Locksley like an ocean wave meeting the shore. A single barked order halted the group, and an armored guard circled back on his winded mount in the section of dusty street Robin could see from his hiding place. Much pushed away from the whitewashed wall and joined Robin, but Robin's glance at him was cut short by an all-too-familiar bellow.
"Hood!"
Letting his breath out between his teeth, Robin lifted his eyes to the house's eaves in frustration, knowing the rest of his men were probably imitating him. The gang had reached cover within seconds, but apparently not quickly enough to avoid Gisborne's eye on that last short stretch into Locksley. Impossible that anyone had alerted him to the gang's presence, and equally impossible that he'd guessed they would choose this day and village to begin sharing out the silver. That left mere coincidence of the most maddening sort, and only the difference of a few minutes to explain why Robin was now hiding like a thief in his own village instead of making his leisurely way back to camp.
He looked back toward the grassy slope, squinting in the bright sunshine and ruing the distance between them and the cover of the trees, only to see Much beside him as tense and poised for battle as if an entire Saracen army had appeared before them. His shaken gaze latched onto Robin's, and he whispered, "Master, what is he doing here? Marian said- She said he wouldn't be-"
"I know," Robin said shortly, trying to remember where he'd seen each of his men slipping out of sight. At least Will and Allan were among the houses opposite, which left the riders flanked, but Gisborne had at least four men – nearly an even match, since Much wasn't up to a fight yet. Before he could decide on any strategy, let alone a way to communicate it to his men, Gisborne's voice rang out again.
"Too much of a coward to show your face? Perhaps one of your beloved peasants values their own skin more than yours, eh?"
The sound of a woman's pleading protests informed Robin that Gisborne's threat was sincere, and he slid the bow from his shoulders, hissing, "Stay out of sight," to Much as he set an arrow to the string. When Much hesitated, worried frown preceding the argument on the tip of his tongue, Robin fixed him with a steady stare, impressing his order on his servant's mind. "Much, stay here."
Then he strode out into the open, taking the scene in during the space of a heartbeat: Gisborne's back was to him, his sword drawn, facing two of his men who held Rose fast between them, the woman's gaze so fixed on the lieutenant's face she didn't see Robin until he raised his bow to send an arrow whistling past Gisborne's shoulder. It dug into the earth by one guard's feet, sending him stumbling hastily back, and his companion followed a moment later when a second arrow skimmed past his knee, and their master rounded on Robin with hungry eyes already gauging the distance between them. His tunic was burnt-black in the sun, a blight in the middle of Locksley, and Robin let a devil-may-care grin slide onto his lips, calling, "All right, all right… Impatient today, aren't we?"
Rose ran into her husband's arms and their door banged shut dully. The neatly fletched arrow aimed at the center of that black tunic kept Gisborne warily still as Robin advanced a few careful steps, but it didn't stop him speaking. With a pointed look around the village, now apparently deserted save for the two of them and his soldiers, the lieutenant said, "Where's the rest of your thieves' guild?" The subtle glance he gave the black-and-gold uniformed men wasn't nearly subtle enough, and when all four lunged for their waiting mounts to retrieve bows, Allan A Dale stepped out of hiding across the street with longbow drawn and ready, cautioning, "Ah, ah, ah… Let's keep this civil, gents…" The sight of Will emerging one house down, similarly armed, seemed to settle the question of obedience in the guards' minds, and the heavy tramp of Little John's boots announced both his and Djaq's presence behind Robin, the pair appearing in the corner of Robin's vision to neatly encircle the group. Gisborne's jaw worked in silent frustration, and Robin couldn't help but chuckle.
The laughter died in his throat when one of the guards abruptly broke from the cluster, scrambling for the cover of the horses; Will and Allan yelled in warning, the threat in their half-steps forward unmistakable, and the man froze, hands lifted in belated surrender. But the damage was done – Gisborne had dodged forward out of bow range in that moment of distraction, bare blade rising, and Robin dropped his bow, bringing his own sword up to block the jarring blow without an instant to spare. The sun-white lines of their blades cut the sharp, resolute features across from him into quarters for an instant before Gisborne twisted the crossbars of his sword free and struck again.
Between the instinctive clash and dance of swordplay, Robin saw the gang in a tight circle around the now-seated guards, John leading the uneasy horses to a fence to secure their trailing reins and keep them from being used as cover again. Yet the fight demanded an inordinate amount of his attention, all his concentration soon required to fend Gisborne's blade away; the usual banter and goading was markedly absent, as if the lieutenant's rage had sunk deep, hardened like lead in his bones and granted new weight to each thrust and attempt to disarm him. Despite his focused efforts and the times his counter-attacks staggered his opponent a step, the solid lines of a fence soon loomed uncomfortably close at his back, blocking any rearward movement.
Gisborne lunged forward again, his growling attack suddenly one-handed, his other hand dropping out of sight as Robin flung his strength into parrying the blow. The blade nearly slipped from Gisborne's hand, but something glimmered in the sunlight by the man's dark hair, and Robin pivoted just in time to send the tiny curved dagger tumbling over his shoulder, the point catching like a cat's claw on the side of his neck. His vision filled with dusty black leather, the curve of his blade too late to stop Gisborne's blade landing against his chest, crossbar grinding like a plowshare against his collarbone as the lieutenant's full strength crushed him against the fencepost.
"Drop your sword, Locksley," Gisborne ordered raggedly. When Robin did not immediately obey, the heavy blade pressed roughly against his throat and Robin set his teeth, every muscle in his body winding tight with frustration as he reluctantly let the hilt of his sword slide from his hand onto the thin grass. A raised voice from the cluster of guards was cut off by a rough shout from Allan, ordering him to silence.
Still catching his breath as well, close enough to smell the mingled sweat and leather, Robin watched Gisborne kick the Saracen blade away with the heel of his boot. Thoughts and half-plans ran through his mind like river rapids, born and abandoned with each beat of his hammering heart. He'd underestimated the other man's determination – this time. Triumph had already begun to glow in his opponent's eyes, but the fight wasn't over just yet; the plan was taking longer than usual to come to him, though, and he wet his dry lips, offering Gisborne a level stare.
"I want to see your hands, too. None of your tricks this time, Locksley." The title was dealt out with a smirk, in smug awareness of the irony, and Robin complied with a mocking smile, buying a few more moments to think. Leverage. Gisborne would use him to coerce the lads into surrender or retreat, then either send word to the Sheriff or parade him to Nottingham personally…
Wary movement at the corner of the nearest house drew Robin's gaze over Gisborne's shoulder for an instant, coinciding with a sudden yelp from across the road and Allan's shout of, "Not another word from the lot of you! I'm not askin' nicely again." His eyes snapped back to Gisborne's smirking face, the familiar thrill of combat filling his veins again as Much edged carefully around the corner, sword drawn and eyes set on Gisborne's turned back.
"Well done," Robin quipped past the uncomfortable weight of the sword against his throat, his voice covering the whisper of Much's boots on the hard-packed dirt. Another slow step closer. "I wouldn't celebrate just yet, though."
"Oh? You're not going to make another of your little escapes this time. I'm not taking my eyes off you until you're in shackles, Hood."
"I'm counting on it," Robin replied, as Much's sword lofted soundlessly up to land light as a dragonfly under the lieutenant's jaw. Robin grinned as Gisborne instinctively twitched away, only to freeze as the pressure followed, sharp edge pressing, and Much said quietly, "Let him go."
The calculation behind the lieutenant's pale eyes faded into surprise. Then the corner of Gisborne's mouth slid upward mirthlessly as he leaned into the hilt of his sword and cautiously turned his head to face Much, only the slow, vindictive twist of the crossbars revealing how infuriated the man was at this development. Much's gaze flitted to Robin, then back to Gisborne, but the lieutenant's steady glare was unblinking.
"So you're alive, are you?" Gisborne asked carelessly, and Much's lips parted briefly as if to answer the rhetorical question, then shut again firmly as Gisborne went on, "I figured the crows would have been feasting on you long before now."
Much simply repeated "Let him go," but the silver of his blade wavered, and Gisborne's half-smile grew above the steel.
"I see I left my mark, though..."
Again Much glanced to Robin before swallowing hard and settling his stance more firmly, the arm in its sling held defensively close as if to make up for his trusty shield's absence, and Robin ground his teeth to keep silent as he saw the determined set of Much's mouth falter for a moment.
"Let him go, now, or… or I will kill you," Much stammered, the jerky half-nod only making him look like he was striving to convince himself he could, the effort visible on his face.
"Kill me?" Gisborne repeated, his scoff little more than a breath, as if he couldn't be bothered to put any more effort into it. "If you had the nerve for that, you'd already have done it. You can't even look me in the eyes, let alone strike me." And Much plainly couldn't, his gaze shying from the lieutenant and Robin both, breath coming unsteadily, and Robin had to look away, gazing at the graceful arc of his sword lying a long stride away in the road. A moment or two – that was all he needed, just a moment and enough space to maneuver….
"Beaten till you mewled like a babe, and you still haven't learned your place. Still limping after your master, begging for scraps…"
Robin's barely-formed outburst was knocked from his throat in a huff of air, bruisingly forestalled by the weight of Gisborne's sword before he'd gotten more than a syllable out; the stinging line left on his neck and the breeze cooling the new wetness there warned him against trying to interrupt again.
But Much was barely holding his ground now, jaw clenched with what looked more like desperation than determination. Watching him was painful, like watching someone fight not to be physically ill, every twitched muscle and indrawn breath a testament to how much effort Much was exerting just to maintain his position. As sincerely as Robin wished Much would stop hesitating and simply strike, dash the poisonous words into the dust, the other man's face was too pale even in the bright sunlight, his eyes and the sickly green bruise standing out unnaturally. By now, Much was strong enough for his blade to have a real threat behind it again, but he still had not moved, and Robin's stomach began to hollow itself out slowly. There was no telling what had gone on in the other man's mind as he struggled back to them a fortnight ago, and it was easy to believe Much was fine when nothing had tested him yet….
Looking down his nose with a disgusted curl of his lip, Gisborne gave a huff and simply shouldered the blade from his neck like it was a pestering fly. Much flinched. As Gisborne turned back to Robin, Robin glared back, fury swirling in his chest like an oncoming sandstorm, and the lieutenant smiled, unperturbed.
"Your hound's not such a loyal one after all, is he?" he said, breath warm on Robin's face. Behind the dark-clad shoulders, Much drew slow, audible breaths, the tip of his sword hovering a bare inch from the earth, and Gisborne's smirk showed his teeth. "Though he howled enough to put any cur on the street to shame."
An inarticulate noise and the white glint of sun on the ferocious sweep of Much's blade was the only thing that saved Gisborne. The sword left Robin's throat to shriek against the incoming steel mere inches from the lieutenant's face, his look of shock emblazoned in Robin's vision as firmly as the emerald afterimage from the flash of sun. As soon as he was free, Robin flung himself sideways at his sword, snatching up the smooth hilt with a handful of dust that ground under his fingernails, and lunged back into the fray just in time to bring his boot smashing against the side of Gisborne's knee, sending his sword swinging safely wide of Much.
To the side, the rest of the gang was moving, reforming, figures darting across the village street to form a semi-circle bristling with arrows, fending off the suddenly freed guards. While Much stumbled back a few steps into the safety the gang provided, hot-burning anger still flushing his face, Robin pressed the advantage Gisborne's surprise had offered them, driving the lieutenant back with blow after blow, appreciatively noting the limp his vicious kick had created. A change of footwork and clever use of leverage forced the lieutenant's full weight on his injured leg, staggering him, and one final heartfelt swing of Robin's fist bloodied Gisborne's nose, sent him stumbling back with bright scarlet dripping between his gloved fingers. Robin's gang interposed immediately, giving him enough breathing space to collect Much with his free arm and throw a triumphant, "Ha!" between his men at the bleeding lieutenant before they were rushing out of Locksley, the bow-wielding trio of Allan, Will, and Djaq covering their retreat.
Laughter filled his lungs, escaping him like intoxicating smoke as he ran, the thud of grass-dimmed footfalls and the irregular wind of the gang's panting surrounding him. Gisborne had not seen a glimmer of the coin they'd given out, which mean the money was safe with the villagers, and they were retreating on their own terms without a mark on them. The bruise he'd be sporting along his collarbone later was a minor thing: he'd gotten worse sparring against the lads.
They burst into the shade of the forest in a commotion of laughter and catcalls, still throwing glances back just in case Gisborne changed his mind and tried chasing them down. Much was markedly out of breath, though, shoulders hunched under Robin's arm, and Allan was limping as he laughed with Will at the rear of the group, and they came to a gradual halt near one of the many routes that led back to camp.
"Piece of cake, Robin?" Will joked, hands on his hips as he caught his breath. Little John tossed Robin the bow he'd collected back at the village, and Robin caught it, spreading his arms innocently.
"What? I thought you'd appreciate the change of pace." Allan looked askance at him from the oak he was leaning against and said, "Yeah, but from standin' around to sprintin'? That's goin' a bit far, don't you think?" Djaq chuckled, and Robin gave up, sitting down beside Much on a jumble of boulders in surrender.
"There's no pleasing them," he complained, and Much gave a wry smile in response that reverted to somber weariness after a few seconds. Perhaps the confrontation with Gisborne had taken more out of him than Robin had first thought; he rubbed the stinging line on the side of his neck where the blade had pressed and dusted the flecks of dried blood from his hands before he stood again. There would be time to settle nerves and toast their success when they were back at camp. Being caught off guard once was plenty for one day. As the gang set out again at a far more relaxed pace, Will stopped to help Much to his feet, commenting, "Nice work back there, Much."
"Pretty light on your feet when you want to be," Allan agreed. "Is it just me, though, or are Gisborne's men gettin' more stubborn than they used to be? Though I was gonna have to actually shoot the idiot that kept tryin' to point you out." This began an earnest discussion over whether said stubbornness actually worked in their favor or not, and whether there was an appreciable difference between stubbornness and simply being thick. They eventually agreed that it came out to the same thing in the guards' case, particularly when it came to the man Allan had practically had to sit on to silence, and it was a minute or two before Robin glanced back and realized Much had fallen behind, standing alone in the trees several yards back as if lost in thought.
He started when Robin called his name, and stammered, "I was just thinking… that, uh… that I'll just go and find some parsnips to go with supper tonight. We've run out, and I didn't- I'll just, uh, just find some and meet you all back at camp in a bit…" He hardly met Robin's eyes the whole time he was speaking, and strode off with his head down without waiting for a reply. The rest of the gang watched him go in the same confusion as Robin, except for Djaq, whose expression was one of unsurprised somber gaze held expectation when she looked back at him, and the accompanying tug at his mind and heart made Robin draw a long breath, the browning canopy above them suddenly a far more inviting view. A crow sailed through the branches, glossy feathers reminding him of imagined wingtips brushing his face and of a very real and solid debt.
He sorely wanted to take Much at his word, to just let Much return to camp in an hour or so with a handful of the sweet roots and smile back in place. Instead, he let his breath out quietly and said, "I'll meet you at camp." Djaq took his nod onward as her cue and set out along the trail with John, and after a second or two of confused looks and unvoiced questions, Allan and Will turned to catch up, leaving Robin looking down the trail and fighting with his reluctant heart.
Much abandoned his supposed search for parsnips as soon as he was out of the gang's sight, but he kept walking, ignoring the mounting ache in his side in favor of tramping along determinedly, pretending to himself he had a destination in mind. He was fine. Just a short walk to clear his head, get his thoughts settled again, and he would be fine.
Gisborne wasn't supposed to have been in the village. Robin had said so, or Marian had and Robin had repeated it, but it came out to the same thing, and he hadn't realized how firmly he'd been relying on that promise until Robin had pulled him away from Rose's house with hoofbeats behind them and that voice filling the village. It was pitiful how that one glimpse of the man, the sound of his voice, had immediately filled his stomach with tiny stabbing knives and brought the metallic taste of fear into his mouth.
Even so, Much had kept his head. He'd snuck along behind the buildings to keep his master in sight, loosened his sword out of habit, but then Robin was pinned, Gisborne's shoulders blocking his view, and how was Robin supposed to fight his way clear if his sword was lying in the dirt?
He had been fine until Gisborne had looked at him. Try as he might, he could not avoid the strands of memory that drifted on that voice, clinging like bits of gauze that clouded his vision and weakened his arm. The disdain and calm had been all wrong for someone with steel against their throat, and even when the cold eyes blinked, it had felt like Gisborne was still watching him through the lids for that half-second. Robin had tried to help, nodding encouragement, standing ready to dodge aside as soon as Much gave him the chance, but it had been useless. In the end, it had been sheer desperate refusal that lifted his sword's point from the dust and swung it at the gloating black figure. His side had wrenched horribly, muscles straining to complete the wild arc, and even now his arm still trembled from the exertion of simply holding his sword aloft for those paltry minutes.
The forest-green blur of Robin blocking Gisborne's returning blow, the light-headed, giddy run to the forest, and then everyone walking along and talking as if nothing had happened… It was all too much, and he'd broken off from the group hoping a few moments of quiet would let him catch his balance. Except that uncounted minutes later, he was still trudging aimlessly, ribs and tired body insisting he find a place to rest for a while, and he felt no more settled or balanced than when they'd burst into the forest.
He was stronger than this, wasn't he? There was no reason for his heart to keep pounding so urgently, or his hands to shake like the dried leaves far above his head. He'd been the same way in the Holy Land sometimes, when some absurdly inconsequential thing would set off a storm of emotions inside him, and make him scramble to find some way to hide the fact that he felt like he was suffocating, that he suddenly wanted to sit down and cry into his hands like a child.
A fallen oak stretched out beside him like a drifting mast in a sea of faded leaves, and Much sat down wearily, dragging his cap from his head. Somehow this whole ordeal in the dungeons had gotten tangled up with Acre in his mind, both full of thoughts he didn't want to examine and dreams that felt like punishment. There was a fearsome power to memory that let it reach right out into the present, let it change things as surely as if it had hands and a voice. And right now, sitting here with nobody to see him swipe at the tears before they escaped, Much admitted to himself that was afraid he couldn't do it again.
When they'd come across the lost Crusader trying to burn the church in Locksley – Harold, he'd named him – Much had been the only one to really spend any time getting to know the man. Little John and Allan hadn't got over their scare with that weird mask; Will was wary like always; Djaq understandably kept her distance after being attacked; and Robin looked at Harold, talked at him and about him, but was too caught up in other things to really talk with him. So Much might have been the only one to see the deep, deep fear that lay behind the wiry man's guarded exterior. Harold had been terrified of himself and the not-knowing when he might lose his wits over something as simple as seeing another person's face – and rightly so, knowing how much damage he could wreak with his training and swordcraft. Crusader's sickness was a shadow cast over every man who had ever worn the King's uniform, something hardly talked about. "Talk of the devil, and see his horns"… that was how the old saying went, wasn't it?
And maybe this was what the sickness was like, or how it began: this slow unraveling of control as the past took a hold it did not deserve. He had drawn a breath of fresh air back in Locksley and the clammy odor of the dungeons had filled his lungs again, just for an instant. He had felt trapped, as if he were still shackled and at Gisborne's mercy. But if this was Crusader's sickness, if he succumbed to it… Much wasn't a Saracen-trained assassin, or even a knight, and there would be nothing but uselessness and pity left for him.
A bird chirruped invisibly nearby, and leaves crunched loudly under his boots as he startled; he found his hand clenched around the soft fabric of his cap, his aching ribs tight with growing panic. Shutting his eyes, he propped his head on his fist, breathing as evenly as he could, dimly grateful nobody was around to hear the childish sniffle he couldn't help. Ever so slowly, the unnatural distance between himself and the rest of the forest seemed to diminish, the low rush of terror ebbing in his ears as he breathed in damp, earth-scented air, concentrated on the solidity of the tree trunk underneath him, the birdsong overhead. He was so tired. Just tired, and foolishly letting his worries run away with his mind.
Nearby footfalls in the brittle leaves lifted Much's head, prompted him to hastily scrub the last traces of tears from his face and slide his cap back to its proper place. Unless the footsteps belonged a traveler so lost he'd misplaced the North Road itself, this was probably one of the gang come to find him. If it were Allan, and he looked like he would mention Much's red eyes and nose, he'd just say he'd had a coughing fit; Allan might believe the lie, considering how red-faced even a tickle in his throat made him only a week ago, though his ribs were nearly healed now…
Instead, Robin stepped out into sight between the grey trunks to his right, and Much remembered that he was supposedly gathering parsnips to go with their supper. Casting about for an instant and seeing not a leaf of the required plant in sight, he looked back to Robin and quickly said, "I'm getting them. I'm… I'll be right there. I was just…" But his master didn't look impatient or annoyed, and only said, "Don't worry about it, Much. John can handle supper."
"Then, uh, we'd better get back so I can-"
"Relax, Much. He's got the others to help." Robin sat down on the thick oak trunk beside him with a smile that looked only slightly forced. "They'll make sure we end up with something edible."
Left without excuses, Much looked at the ground instead. Tales of coughing fits wouldn't fool Robin any more than his clumsy lie about parsnips had. Robin didn't seem rushed for an answer about Much's peculiar behavior, though. He'd leaned forward on his knees, fingers laced together comfortably as he surveyed the trees, and the seconds stacked steadily up into a minute, then two. Forest sounds crept back into the air, the golden sunlight slid a finger's span lower among the countless tree boles surrounding them, and Much tried to pass off rubbing his sleeve over his eyes one more time as just brushing away a gnat.
Robin's voice broke the silence abruptly, making Much jump a little.
"I'm sorry, Much."
Just those words, and then silence again. Nothing more, except for the uncharacteristically remorseful look on his master's face and new tension in the line of his shoulders. Shrugging slightly, Much replied, "It's not your fault. I mean, it's not as if you told Gisborne we'd be in Locksley today or anything. Left him a note, or…"
"Not for that, for- Well, I'm sorry for that too, I suppose. It was…"
Robin hesitated for so long, frowning after the right word, that Much offered, "Just a turn of bad luck."
"It shouldn't have happened," Robin said, shaking his head, mouth a thin line of displeasure. Much had to laugh a little at that, a snort of wry humor, and replied, "Well, rather a lot of things have happened lately that shouldn't have..." He could create a good-sized list without reaching farther back in memory than a fortnight.
That turned up a reluctant corner of Robin's mouth, but he glanced down and away, his next words measured carefully like a lesson he'd taught himself.
"I should have listened to you, Much. That morning when we took the tax money from the Sheriff's rooms, it was all a trap, and you saw it. You tried to tell me so, but I wouldn't listen."
"Well, you never listen," Much said with a half-hearted smile, but the old complaint fell flat between them, and Robin actually winced. Nodding, he said, "I don't. Not often enough. And you could have died because of it. I didn't listen then, and… and you've been trying to tell me other things, too, and I wouldn't listen to those either."
Late afternoon light caught in the glassy sheen in his master's eye, glowed warmly on the tense jut of his jaw that showed just how much effort this admission was costing him. And while a selfish little corner of Much's heart swelled with gladness to have Robin acknowledge the unnerving rift growing between them, the difference like light and shadow between the need to talk and the need to not talk, but this wasn't how Much had ever hoped for an apology, with Robin sitting quiet and miserable beside him as if waiting for Much to deliver judgment and punishment upon him. This wasn't right.
Shifting uncomfortably, leaves rattling against his boots, Much tried, "It doesn't… I mean, it's over now." He could try to ease Robin's guilt on one count, at least. "I'm back, mostly in one piece… And we're all alive, so it's…" He stammered to a halt, then tried again. "It doesn't really matt-"
"Don't say that," Robin interrupted, startling Much into quiet again. "Of course it matters." His gaze delved into Much's, trying to pour the meaning into him through determination alone. "You had a choice, Much. You could have given Gisborne what he wanted – information, plans, anything – but you chose not to." He took a breath to go on, but Much was already shaking his head vehemently.
"I couldn't have." Surely Robin hadn't been thinking he'd break so easily, too, just like Allan? Surely not.
But was it such an unreasonable thought? his own traitorous mind asked. Heaven knew he'd been perilously close, throat aching with the temptation to turn his next outcry into a name or something, anything Gisborne would be content with. But the consequences would have been unthinkable… Robin might as well have said just now that Much could have cut everyone's throats last night as they slept – the outcome would have been the same.
"I… I couldn't have," he repeated, unable to explain any more simply than that. Robin sat for a few moments, just looking at him with war-weary lines under his eyes and an affectionate smile on his lips, somehow looking at once like the jaded Crusader he was and the young earl-to-be Much had sworn to look after nearly ten years ago. Much wondered whether the same lines had formed on his own face. Then Robin was shaking his head softly, reaching out to pull Much close as he murmured near his ear, "And that is why I love you, my friend."
Robin's firm grip around his shoulders, one loose fist resting at the back of Much's neck, held Much upright and steady despite his precarious one-armed balance. Though the striped fletchings of Robin's arrows tickled his face and made his nose itch, Much didn't care; it was a blessed change to let his shoulders slump a little, to be held up instead of doing all the holding up for both of them, just for a minute or two.
Strangely, Robin seemed to sense this, and they both stayed put until the embrace was in danger of becoming less of an embrace and more two people leaning tiredly against each other.
"So does this mean you're actually going to listen when I talk from now on?" Much said lightly, pretending for Robin's sake he hadn't heard or felt the unsteady exhalation and faint sniffle as they both sat back. Robin looked off into the sunset-drenched forest thoughtfully, letting out a long breath before replying, "I'll try?" with a hopeful wince. "I'm told it's not high on my list of strengths."
"Then I'll talk when you eat," Much decided aloud, only paying half a mind to what he was saying, too busy basking in the feeling that an invisible weight had just been lifted away from his shoulders. "And so long as you're minding your manners and don't talk while you're chewing, you'll have no choice but to listen to me."
Robin actually mulled this proposition over, humor slowly crinkling the corners of his eyes again, before he said, "During a mission, though?"
"I'll bring food along," Much answered promptly, straight-faced. "You're not eating properly as it is. A snack here and there between meals certainly wouldn't hurt."
Robin laughed in agreement and stood, reaching down to give Much a hand up, saying, "Which of us are we talking about again?" When Much only rolled his eyes long-sufferingly, Robin laughed again and started on the way toward camp, reaching back to lay his arm across Much's shoulders as Much caught up.
These words were not done between them, though neither would continue that night. It was like realizing you had been wounded long after the battle had ended, the awareness of blood and sickening dizziness coming over you with no more warning than a sandstorm. Their words tonight had at least staunched the flow of blood from the wound in their friendship, and while healing a wound required a careful hand, meant thread and needle, bracing oneself for necessary pain, this was enough to make a beginning.
Thank you all many, many times over, my awesome bunch of readers. This has been a huge endeavor to write and complete, and I've learned humbling things about myself and my writing in the process. There's already a new little plot bunny clinging to my ankle, begging me to write a series of little drabbles sometime soon (maybe one a week…?). If you have any ideas or situations you'd like to see, even if it's just "a happy scene with Allan" or "Where'd Much get his cap from, anyway?", drop me a review or PM and I'll see about working it into a drabble or even a little drabbly series. ^_^
Thank you again, my dears – you guys rock.