Fic: Of Differences and Broken Things (Robin Hood: Much, Djaq, Robin, PG)
Title: Of Differences and Broken Things
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters: Much, Djaq, Robin
Words: 3,037
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, of course.
Summary: In which Much comes to the realisation that hard work and appreciation don't always go hand in hand.
Notes: Written for the rh_ficchallenge: 'Cruel to be Kind'.
~~
No man of good integrity, however poor his circumstances might be, could frown completely upon the life of an outlaw. Their grand scheme was one of simple means and great rewards, and men who denied this did not know what it was to love someone; did not know the hardships that fell upon a household where a husband and father could not provide food for his family, all because his meagre living went directly to the Nottingham coffers. Men who denied this did not know Robin Hood.
But, glory and charity aside, this life was not without its own drawbacks. The fact that they could not stay in the one place for more than a few nights was the greatest of all; shifting camp was a tedium that never grew any easier. And, of course, it fell to one amongst them to dirty his hands in order to ensure this 'grand scheme' actually had legs to run on. Someone had to fetch wood when it rained, and suffer woodlice and splinters while chopping it. Someone had to strip some unfortunate creature of its fur, sit for endless stretches of time waiting for a fire to build, or a pot of water to boil. Someone, in other words, had to forgo many of the said glories to wait instead on his own while the others were away, and ponder what, exactly, it was that made his own part of this life so contrary to the assumed norm their leader preached to them all.
Much supposed that God had his reasons, his own means of distributing life's strange adversities in this way; but he wished, just sometimes, that he might be a little fairer in doing so.
A more generous man, for example, might call it a labour of love; but when Robin fired arrows at a whim about camp--pinning a sleeve here, trapping a boot mid-step there--did he go around like the generous soul he was and collect up those arrows afterwards? Did he rub his hands raw trying to extract many a stubborn quill from tree trunks suddenly disinclined to let them go? No, he did not. Much did all that. Much, martyr to all things domestic and entirely free of glory, the servant of this damned forest, as in the Holy Land, as life before war broke out, following dutifully in his master's wake and picking up, tidying, cleaning and cooking his way from camp to camp. Because Much knew--had always known, really--how he'd never truly be like the others. His compulsion to serve was like a thick blanket of smoke, masking his judgement so that he could not see clearly enough to speak up, for fear of being heard. Heard, and quite possibly overlooked again.
But Much had a feeling that Robin heard anyway, and, like so many unspoken things in this strange life they shared, quite simply let it pass.
Which was why he found himself by the creek in the early hours of the morning, a load of dirty undershirts on the ground beside him, while the others slept off a late night of rare celebration. Here he would do the washing, would suffer the freezing water around his bare feet and calves, because he knew if he did not, then somebody else--Will perhaps--would volunteer, do not nearly as proper a job as was required, and Robin would say, with a sigh in his voice, well done, Will, but best leave it to Much. In other words, best leave it to the man who won't object. The man who knows his place. Who does not expect anything more, or anything less. And he'd pat Much on the shoulder, as if willing him to rebuke, affection in his smile but knowledge that sooner would the sun rise at dusk, then would his old friend do anything to upset the balance of things.
He picked up a shirt and dropped it in the water. At least here it was quiet. There were only so many of Allan's bad jokes that he could put up with in a single evening, and last night, that particular threshold had been reached about twenty minutes into the first flask of wine. No, not just reached--well and truly passed. Much, with a grumble only the owls could hear, had retired to his bedroll with a headache and a vow never to participate in drinking competitions again. The knowledge that he would be rising several hours earlier than everyone else had not aided in his getting a good night's sleep either. But he knew it was not his position to complain--the job had been tricky to pull of, to say the least, and celebrations of this sort were few and far between. In the end, and as these things usually went these days, his decision to bail out early had only served to make them all laugh.
In an attempt to liven up the dullness of his chores, he fell to humming to himself as he wrung the shirts out. Let them call him tone deaf and ignorant of anything remotely resembling a tune; Much didn't care. It helped him remember what life once was. In Acre, when sleep had so often failed to come, he'd regularly close his eyes and listen, far away, to the distant sound of Saracen song. Enemies aside, he had dearly preferred it to the sounds of war.
But here, now, it reminded him of something else. A woman's voice, strong and beautiful, but weighed down with something heavier. Sadness, he thought, but the question of whose sadness it was left him somewhat confused. Much placed the shirt flat on a rock, and watched the water lap at his toes. If he left it there, left his friends sleeping and the fire burning...would anyone wonder? Would anyone actually remember?
Would anyone, aside from Robin, know why?
There was a rustle behind him. Thinking a deer had perhaps wandered into the clearing seeking water, he turned quickly, only to see Djaq, one hand to her forehead, blinking in the morning light and looking altogether worse for wear.
Glad for the reprieve, if only from his increasingly depressive thoughts, Much smiled brightly. "Good night, was it?"
Djaq knelt down by water's edge and gingerly splashed her face and neck. "I'm surprised," he continued, watching her, "that you, of all people, don't have some magic remedy for when a hangover rears its ugly head. Unless it's plain aqua, in which case...you might want to help me with this washing."
"Your English wines," Djaq replied darkly, swallowing hard, "are very, very poor."
He peered at her beneath a raised eyebrow. "There are some among us who might take offence at that. Fortunately for you, I'm not so inclined."
The Saracen girl lowered herself onto the bank, duly noting this remark with a glare, weakened a little from the nausea but still stony enough to make Much close his mouth. He turned back to the pile of shirts. After a while, Djaq spoke.
"What were you humming?"
"Sorry?"
"You were humming."
"Now you know I can't hum, Djaq. It must have been birdsong. Some very...out of tune...birdsong."
She sighed. "Much. I could hear you from camp."
He looked across the creek, at a swallow hanging delicately on an overhanging reed, and shook his head. "It was nothing," he said quickly. "Nothing that matters, anyway."
There was a pause, and he could feel her peering at him, curiously. "No," she said, her voice suddenly gentle. "I suppose not. If nothing was to one day matter, it wouldn't be nothing, would it?"
With a sigh, Much yanked another shirt from the water and tossed it with a slap onto the rock beside him. "It's a little bit early in the morning to be philosophical, isn't it?"
"I'd say it's a little bit early to be drowning your sorrows in a pile of dirty undershirts," she replied, her accent thick, and not missing a beat. "And yet...here you are."
Much frowned. The sun, a little higher now, shone across the narrow breadth of water, dispersing the thin mist of dawn; and he looked into it, blinking. The swallow, having dipped its beak to steal an insect that had become trapped in the undergrowth, was now perched on the highest point of the reed, swinging a little as the air whipped through the dewy grass. He felt a pang of envy for this tiny creature; its life was so simple, so distant from the complications that humans had to endure. Plus, it could fly. There was nothing so free, Much believed, than a bird in flight. Sometimes, in between the images of men aground, death swallowed like ashes in a sandy desert, he dreamt of a road, of a path clear through the forest. He often thought, in his own quiet way, that perhaps it lead to Bonchurch; but, in actual fact, it never seemed to arrive at any particular place. It was just a road, unhurried, a map of solid ground beneath his feet. There was no sound in these dreams, not even the wind; and he knew was a departure, but from where, and for what reason, he could not say. "You know," he said, breaking his own silence, "I do not think I was designed for this life. I do not think God intended for me to perform great acts of robbery, however well the meaning, or exhilarating the process. I do not think he meant for me to fight in war."
He stopped, catching the expression of Djaq's face--a calmness that immediately cooled the blood that had rushed to his face. Much swallowed the words back down, trailing a hand into the water so that the sandy grains caught in his fingernails. How cold it is, he thought suddenly. The cold of broken things.
"Much..." Djaq began.
"No," he said, interrupting her, "that was selfish. I should not have said so much. We can't help what we are."
"You're human. There is a difference, I think."
"Would your God punish you for resenting him?"
She looked thoughtful. "If I believed that, then perhaps, yes. But, Much, if you feel this way, you should make it known. Robin is not cruel."
"No." Much shook his head. "He is not. There is no cruelty in his kindness, though it may seem that there is. But there is persistence and ambition. There is pig-headed stubbornness. And there is love. He hates being trapped outside his own home just as much as any one of us, Lady Marian or no Lady Marian. I do not believe he means to hurt me; it is only that he does not always see it. I have been with him longer than he could ever remember. When I was a boy, I was already his guardian, but I am like a shadow--he knows I am here, he expects it. And so do I."
"You think he takes you for granted?"
He thought for a moment, then asked, "Do you?"
She glanced away. "It is easy to judge what you don't know. I could look upon you both and say, yes, there is unfairness in your situation; yes, Robin could do better. But I think you understand this, or else you would not speak so openly. You are compassionate. You feel things, I think, very close to the surface."
"What I am is patience personified," Much said, with a small, wry smile. "That is your difference, Djaq. Who besides me would drag himself from a cold, hard bedroll, to watch the sun come up and freeze his toes for the sake of a few clean undershirts? I don't see many hands. Do you?"
To this she smiled a little, turning and meeting his eyes again, but he wasn't sure if the smile was for his rambling, or something unspoken in her own thoughts. He was well aware that a voice like his own, unchanging in its tone--of grumbling so much, that he would very well be the butt of complaints himself.
After a time, when neither of them spoke, Djaq reached across and pulled the remaining shirts from the water's edge. "Well," she murmured. "If we are done philosophising, then we are surely done with these chores."
Much clambered to his feet with a grunt, and held a hand out. "We are almost done," he corrected, helping her stand. "The fire will have settled nicely by now, and if similar celebrations in the past are to be gone by, then Master will be wanting a good hearty breakfast." He draped the shirts over an arm and patted the Saracen on the shoulder. "What do you say to...ox-tail stew?"
For a second Djaq only looked at him. But just as she was opening her mouth to reply all the colour drained from her face and, eyes closed, she made a hasty retreat to the bushes.
Much stood still, listening to the whistle of birdsong across the creek, and with a half-smile on his face and the washing heaped carefully in hand, he turned back for camp.
"I'll take that as a yes, then."
~~
He found Robin later that morning, perched, legs askew, in the low branches of a tree. "There is a load of lumber bound for the castle today, Master," Much said, directing his voice hesitantly through the thick canopy of leaves.
There was a pause, and then Robin's voice filtered downward. "I know."
Much scanned the camp wearily. Allan and Will were asleep on either side of a large log, and somewhere, he could hear John snoring. "I gather then we will be taking part in the usual surprise attack?" he asked, hands on hips. "Something of the clandestine variety, aimed to stretch our wits and intellect? Because this lot look ready to burst at the seams."
There was a rustling from above, which turned into the distinct sound of someone descending rapidly. Catching sight of Much as he neared the bottom, Robin gave a chuckle and let go of the tree trunk, leaping into the air and landing nimbly on both feet. There he brushed his hands together, offering his friend a neatly arranged expression that Much supposed was meant to be sarcastic, but mostly came off as wry amusement. "Perhaps not today," Robin said, walking toward camp with a shrug.
"Oh, that's big of you," Much said, following and nearly tripping over a tree-root. "They will be sorely disappointed, I am sure."
This was ignored. Either the younger man was remarkably unaffected from last night's exertions, or he was hiding it very well indeed. Much, having known his master in decidedly more intoxicated situations, suspected it was the latter.
Robin prodded the last of the glowing coals with a stick. "You were up early."
"Shirts do not wash themselves," Much replied curtly. "Whatever that Allan seems to think."
"No, and I thank you for it."
Much looked across with a frown. "Yes," he said, automatically. "Well...there is no need. It is my job." It was all he could think to say. He had intended, encouraged by Djaq's counsel, to further vent his timid frustrations, but suddenly given this opening, he found the words completely dried up.
Robin set the stick aside. He looked at Much and this time there was no smile, or playful arch to his brows. There was only that look that Much recognised at once; one of plain, open sincerity. He had seen it before, many times. It wasn't the look Robin used when he wanted something, nor did it contain any flicker of mischief, designed to play on Much's better judgement, but years of blind trust had taught him to be wary; too many elements conspired these days to cause confusion--Marian first and foremost--and Much was well aware of the extent to which they drove Robin in this new life. But he had to believe that they had not yet lost the love of youth, of boyhood, of simple kindness and friendship. War had changed things, certainly, as England had changed in their absence. And despite the fairness or unfairness of it all, despite whatever cruel imbalance there happened to exist in this forest, there would always be friendship. If nothing else, he had to believe in that.
"And you do it better than anyone," Robin said now, his voice low, as if imparting a tenderness concealed in smoke. "It is a kindness to us all, my friend. You should not forget it."
Much looked into the fire. He felt the warmth on his skin, and he held his hands out, palms splayed so that they could both see the white scars on his knuckles. He did not look back at Robin but he nodded. "That lumber will be of value," he said, picking up the subject of their earlier greeting. But the sarcasm had left his voice; now they mimicked each other in sincerity. "Don't waste it, Master, for the sake of a few sore heads."
He could feel Robin's eyes upon him. He felt, quite suddenly and keenly, that there would always be differences between men, between friends--broken things that needed mending but could never be properly spoken of. Robin would always fire arrows into tree trunks, and there would always be shirts to wash and fires to build. It was the way things were, and moreover, it made sense. He might very well grumble to the birds every morning, dream of roads that lead to nowhere, but it all served a purpose. And it deserved no resentment.
"You are right," Robin said. "Of course, you are right. And we won't."
The sun peeked over the treetops and into Much's eyes. He raised a hand to shade them, and a short distance away he spotted Djaq, kneeling by Allan's side. Every man and beast was waking up; all were coming together like a set pattern of rituals. A breeze picked up the shirts Much had left to dry on a long branch, and sent them fluttering gaily. Robin stood, with a brief but honest smile, and set off to put his friend's plan into action.
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters: Much, Djaq, Robin
Words: 3,037
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, of course.
Summary: In which Much comes to the realisation that hard work and appreciation don't always go hand in hand.
Notes: Written for the rh_ficchallenge: 'Cruel to be Kind'.
~~
No man of good integrity, however poor his circumstances might be, could frown completely upon the life of an outlaw. Their grand scheme was one of simple means and great rewards, and men who denied this did not know what it was to love someone; did not know the hardships that fell upon a household where a husband and father could not provide food for his family, all because his meagre living went directly to the Nottingham coffers. Men who denied this did not know Robin Hood.
But, glory and charity aside, this life was not without its own drawbacks. The fact that they could not stay in the one place for more than a few nights was the greatest of all; shifting camp was a tedium that never grew any easier. And, of course, it fell to one amongst them to dirty his hands in order to ensure this 'grand scheme' actually had legs to run on. Someone had to fetch wood when it rained, and suffer woodlice and splinters while chopping it. Someone had to strip some unfortunate creature of its fur, sit for endless stretches of time waiting for a fire to build, or a pot of water to boil. Someone, in other words, had to forgo many of the said glories to wait instead on his own while the others were away, and ponder what, exactly, it was that made his own part of this life so contrary to the assumed norm their leader preached to them all.
Much supposed that God had his reasons, his own means of distributing life's strange adversities in this way; but he wished, just sometimes, that he might be a little fairer in doing so.
A more generous man, for example, might call it a labour of love; but when Robin fired arrows at a whim about camp--pinning a sleeve here, trapping a boot mid-step there--did he go around like the generous soul he was and collect up those arrows afterwards? Did he rub his hands raw trying to extract many a stubborn quill from tree trunks suddenly disinclined to let them go? No, he did not. Much did all that. Much, martyr to all things domestic and entirely free of glory, the servant of this damned forest, as in the Holy Land, as life before war broke out, following dutifully in his master's wake and picking up, tidying, cleaning and cooking his way from camp to camp. Because Much knew--had always known, really--how he'd never truly be like the others. His compulsion to serve was like a thick blanket of smoke, masking his judgement so that he could not see clearly enough to speak up, for fear of being heard. Heard, and quite possibly overlooked again.
But Much had a feeling that Robin heard anyway, and, like so many unspoken things in this strange life they shared, quite simply let it pass.
Which was why he found himself by the creek in the early hours of the morning, a load of dirty undershirts on the ground beside him, while the others slept off a late night of rare celebration. Here he would do the washing, would suffer the freezing water around his bare feet and calves, because he knew if he did not, then somebody else--Will perhaps--would volunteer, do not nearly as proper a job as was required, and Robin would say, with a sigh in his voice, well done, Will, but best leave it to Much. In other words, best leave it to the man who won't object. The man who knows his place. Who does not expect anything more, or anything less. And he'd pat Much on the shoulder, as if willing him to rebuke, affection in his smile but knowledge that sooner would the sun rise at dusk, then would his old friend do anything to upset the balance of things.
He picked up a shirt and dropped it in the water. At least here it was quiet. There were only so many of Allan's bad jokes that he could put up with in a single evening, and last night, that particular threshold had been reached about twenty minutes into the first flask of wine. No, not just reached--well and truly passed. Much, with a grumble only the owls could hear, had retired to his bedroll with a headache and a vow never to participate in drinking competitions again. The knowledge that he would be rising several hours earlier than everyone else had not aided in his getting a good night's sleep either. But he knew it was not his position to complain--the job had been tricky to pull of, to say the least, and celebrations of this sort were few and far between. In the end, and as these things usually went these days, his decision to bail out early had only served to make them all laugh.
In an attempt to liven up the dullness of his chores, he fell to humming to himself as he wrung the shirts out. Let them call him tone deaf and ignorant of anything remotely resembling a tune; Much didn't care. It helped him remember what life once was. In Acre, when sleep had so often failed to come, he'd regularly close his eyes and listen, far away, to the distant sound of Saracen song. Enemies aside, he had dearly preferred it to the sounds of war.
But here, now, it reminded him of something else. A woman's voice, strong and beautiful, but weighed down with something heavier. Sadness, he thought, but the question of whose sadness it was left him somewhat confused. Much placed the shirt flat on a rock, and watched the water lap at his toes. If he left it there, left his friends sleeping and the fire burning...would anyone wonder? Would anyone actually remember?
Would anyone, aside from Robin, know why?
There was a rustle behind him. Thinking a deer had perhaps wandered into the clearing seeking water, he turned quickly, only to see Djaq, one hand to her forehead, blinking in the morning light and looking altogether worse for wear.
Glad for the reprieve, if only from his increasingly depressive thoughts, Much smiled brightly. "Good night, was it?"
Djaq knelt down by water's edge and gingerly splashed her face and neck. "I'm surprised," he continued, watching her, "that you, of all people, don't have some magic remedy for when a hangover rears its ugly head. Unless it's plain aqua, in which case...you might want to help me with this washing."
"Your English wines," Djaq replied darkly, swallowing hard, "are very, very poor."
He peered at her beneath a raised eyebrow. "There are some among us who might take offence at that. Fortunately for you, I'm not so inclined."
The Saracen girl lowered herself onto the bank, duly noting this remark with a glare, weakened a little from the nausea but still stony enough to make Much close his mouth. He turned back to the pile of shirts. After a while, Djaq spoke.
"What were you humming?"
"Sorry?"
"You were humming."
"Now you know I can't hum, Djaq. It must have been birdsong. Some very...out of tune...birdsong."
She sighed. "Much. I could hear you from camp."
He looked across the creek, at a swallow hanging delicately on an overhanging reed, and shook his head. "It was nothing," he said quickly. "Nothing that matters, anyway."
There was a pause, and he could feel her peering at him, curiously. "No," she said, her voice suddenly gentle. "I suppose not. If nothing was to one day matter, it wouldn't be nothing, would it?"
With a sigh, Much yanked another shirt from the water and tossed it with a slap onto the rock beside him. "It's a little bit early in the morning to be philosophical, isn't it?"
"I'd say it's a little bit early to be drowning your sorrows in a pile of dirty undershirts," she replied, her accent thick, and not missing a beat. "And yet...here you are."
Much frowned. The sun, a little higher now, shone across the narrow breadth of water, dispersing the thin mist of dawn; and he looked into it, blinking. The swallow, having dipped its beak to steal an insect that had become trapped in the undergrowth, was now perched on the highest point of the reed, swinging a little as the air whipped through the dewy grass. He felt a pang of envy for this tiny creature; its life was so simple, so distant from the complications that humans had to endure. Plus, it could fly. There was nothing so free, Much believed, than a bird in flight. Sometimes, in between the images of men aground, death swallowed like ashes in a sandy desert, he dreamt of a road, of a path clear through the forest. He often thought, in his own quiet way, that perhaps it lead to Bonchurch; but, in actual fact, it never seemed to arrive at any particular place. It was just a road, unhurried, a map of solid ground beneath his feet. There was no sound in these dreams, not even the wind; and he knew was a departure, but from where, and for what reason, he could not say. "You know," he said, breaking his own silence, "I do not think I was designed for this life. I do not think God intended for me to perform great acts of robbery, however well the meaning, or exhilarating the process. I do not think he meant for me to fight in war."
He stopped, catching the expression of Djaq's face--a calmness that immediately cooled the blood that had rushed to his face. Much swallowed the words back down, trailing a hand into the water so that the sandy grains caught in his fingernails. How cold it is, he thought suddenly. The cold of broken things.
"Much..." Djaq began.
"No," he said, interrupting her, "that was selfish. I should not have said so much. We can't help what we are."
"You're human. There is a difference, I think."
"Would your God punish you for resenting him?"
She looked thoughtful. "If I believed that, then perhaps, yes. But, Much, if you feel this way, you should make it known. Robin is not cruel."
"No." Much shook his head. "He is not. There is no cruelty in his kindness, though it may seem that there is. But there is persistence and ambition. There is pig-headed stubbornness. And there is love. He hates being trapped outside his own home just as much as any one of us, Lady Marian or no Lady Marian. I do not believe he means to hurt me; it is only that he does not always see it. I have been with him longer than he could ever remember. When I was a boy, I was already his guardian, but I am like a shadow--he knows I am here, he expects it. And so do I."
"You think he takes you for granted?"
He thought for a moment, then asked, "Do you?"
She glanced away. "It is easy to judge what you don't know. I could look upon you both and say, yes, there is unfairness in your situation; yes, Robin could do better. But I think you understand this, or else you would not speak so openly. You are compassionate. You feel things, I think, very close to the surface."
"What I am is patience personified," Much said, with a small, wry smile. "That is your difference, Djaq. Who besides me would drag himself from a cold, hard bedroll, to watch the sun come up and freeze his toes for the sake of a few clean undershirts? I don't see many hands. Do you?"
To this she smiled a little, turning and meeting his eyes again, but he wasn't sure if the smile was for his rambling, or something unspoken in her own thoughts. He was well aware that a voice like his own, unchanging in its tone--of grumbling so much, that he would very well be the butt of complaints himself.
After a time, when neither of them spoke, Djaq reached across and pulled the remaining shirts from the water's edge. "Well," she murmured. "If we are done philosophising, then we are surely done with these chores."
Much clambered to his feet with a grunt, and held a hand out. "We are almost done," he corrected, helping her stand. "The fire will have settled nicely by now, and if similar celebrations in the past are to be gone by, then Master will be wanting a good hearty breakfast." He draped the shirts over an arm and patted the Saracen on the shoulder. "What do you say to...ox-tail stew?"
For a second Djaq only looked at him. But just as she was opening her mouth to reply all the colour drained from her face and, eyes closed, she made a hasty retreat to the bushes.
Much stood still, listening to the whistle of birdsong across the creek, and with a half-smile on his face and the washing heaped carefully in hand, he turned back for camp.
"I'll take that as a yes, then."
~~
He found Robin later that morning, perched, legs askew, in the low branches of a tree. "There is a load of lumber bound for the castle today, Master," Much said, directing his voice hesitantly through the thick canopy of leaves.
There was a pause, and then Robin's voice filtered downward. "I know."
Much scanned the camp wearily. Allan and Will were asleep on either side of a large log, and somewhere, he could hear John snoring. "I gather then we will be taking part in the usual surprise attack?" he asked, hands on hips. "Something of the clandestine variety, aimed to stretch our wits and intellect? Because this lot look ready to burst at the seams."
There was a rustling from above, which turned into the distinct sound of someone descending rapidly. Catching sight of Much as he neared the bottom, Robin gave a chuckle and let go of the tree trunk, leaping into the air and landing nimbly on both feet. There he brushed his hands together, offering his friend a neatly arranged expression that Much supposed was meant to be sarcastic, but mostly came off as wry amusement. "Perhaps not today," Robin said, walking toward camp with a shrug.
"Oh, that's big of you," Much said, following and nearly tripping over a tree-root. "They will be sorely disappointed, I am sure."
This was ignored. Either the younger man was remarkably unaffected from last night's exertions, or he was hiding it very well indeed. Much, having known his master in decidedly more intoxicated situations, suspected it was the latter.
Robin prodded the last of the glowing coals with a stick. "You were up early."
"Shirts do not wash themselves," Much replied curtly. "Whatever that Allan seems to think."
"No, and I thank you for it."
Much looked across with a frown. "Yes," he said, automatically. "Well...there is no need. It is my job." It was all he could think to say. He had intended, encouraged by Djaq's counsel, to further vent his timid frustrations, but suddenly given this opening, he found the words completely dried up.
Robin set the stick aside. He looked at Much and this time there was no smile, or playful arch to his brows. There was only that look that Much recognised at once; one of plain, open sincerity. He had seen it before, many times. It wasn't the look Robin used when he wanted something, nor did it contain any flicker of mischief, designed to play on Much's better judgement, but years of blind trust had taught him to be wary; too many elements conspired these days to cause confusion--Marian first and foremost--and Much was well aware of the extent to which they drove Robin in this new life. But he had to believe that they had not yet lost the love of youth, of boyhood, of simple kindness and friendship. War had changed things, certainly, as England had changed in their absence. And despite the fairness or unfairness of it all, despite whatever cruel imbalance there happened to exist in this forest, there would always be friendship. If nothing else, he had to believe in that.
"And you do it better than anyone," Robin said now, his voice low, as if imparting a tenderness concealed in smoke. "It is a kindness to us all, my friend. You should not forget it."
Much looked into the fire. He felt the warmth on his skin, and he held his hands out, palms splayed so that they could both see the white scars on his knuckles. He did not look back at Robin but he nodded. "That lumber will be of value," he said, picking up the subject of their earlier greeting. But the sarcasm had left his voice; now they mimicked each other in sincerity. "Don't waste it, Master, for the sake of a few sore heads."
He could feel Robin's eyes upon him. He felt, quite suddenly and keenly, that there would always be differences between men, between friends--broken things that needed mending but could never be properly spoken of. Robin would always fire arrows into tree trunks, and there would always be shirts to wash and fires to build. It was the way things were, and moreover, it made sense. He might very well grumble to the birds every morning, dream of roads that lead to nowhere, but it all served a purpose. And it deserved no resentment.
"You are right," Robin said. "Of course, you are right. And we won't."
The sun peeked over the treetops and into Much's eyes. He raised a hand to shade them, and a short distance away he spotted Djaq, kneeling by Allan's side. Every man and beast was waking up; all were coming together like a set pattern of rituals. A breeze picked up the shirts Much had left to dry on a long branch, and sent them fluttering gaily. Robin stood, with a brief but honest smile, and set off to put his friend's plan into action.