Fic: Let Silence Pass (Robin Hood: Much/Eve, PG)
Title: Let Silence Pass
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Much/Eve
Words: 3,166
Spoilers: For 2x12/13.
Disclaimer: Belonging to the BBC, and not a scrap of it mine.
Summary: There's always somebody waiting for the ones who are gone.
Notes: Written for the rh_ficchallenge for the prompt resolution. And because I don't like to see secondary characters dropped like pebbles. And yes, I'm a sap, and just want a happy ending for everyone.
The moment she heard that Robin's outlaws had left for the King and lands far from England, the first thing Eve did was to light a candle and leave it burning through every night she couldn't sleep. And almost as fast as that idea came, she felt silly for thinking it; she was no wife or sister, after all--surely the villagers would look at her and wonder where this call to devotion had come from. If they were to know, she might become the root of gossip, and then conjecture would simply blacken what she had meant as a private message between two people. A candle, however much she wished it, would not last above an hour. But rumour will.
When they last spoke, he could not have known this was coming, for Much was always disinclined to second guess his master, and she would never push him for answers he plainly couldn't give.
That particular conversation, as it happened, had been almost entirely about Robin.
"It's his birthday," Much said. "Did you know that? Quite soon, actually. And he's not exactly been in high spirits lately, so I thought I'd...um, do something."
Ten minutes of silence, and he'd blurted this out like a child no longer able to conceal a great secret. Eve had tried not to smile, having expected something of this nature; Much was either chatting about things he didn't really know a lot about, or was completely closed off, caught up in his own thoughts. Today it had been the latter, and although she'd not minded, happy enough to walk beside him and be in his company, it worried her more than she would let on.
Her father had not been one to talk. And a mercenary of the castle had taken offence to this, taken his silence as admission of conspiracy, and had cut his throat like a beggar in the street. Much didn't know this, as it had happened many years ago, and it was not a thing she wished their conversations to linger on. Not when the little time they spent together was like grasping onto something fleeting and inaccessible, chopped up moments they were forced to share in secret. One day, they would have time to let these things out, be able to move freely without worry.
But Much was not a free man, not in the truest sense, and in the same way, by association, Eve was guilty too. It wasn't the courtship she might have once dreamed of as a girl, but it was all she knew, and so she let him talk, of anything and everything. Their meetings were matched to no schedule; they crept together whenever he could bring himself away from Robin--and she became aware of him, through these disjointed narratives, of the sort of man he was. He was conscious of everything, his own honesty, especially. Talk of war troubled him deeply, instead he preferred to hear what Eve was doing, what a normal life was all about. She tried to tell him that it wasn't entirely normal, but in Much's eyes it was close enough, and he was constantly asking questions that she couldn't properly answer, ending in laughter and, on both their parts, happy bemusement.
It was why she loved this slightly bedraggled, comical, deeply brave outlaw. For his ability to talk as if it were an unconscious act, second only to breathing, so constant beneath the worn threads he wore. It was an easy thing to do; in truth, it made them aware of each other, of this connection and strange comfort, inexplicable, and real.
It made her sensitive to his feelings, how he might be silent one minute but all exuberance the next. He was constantly thinking, weighing up all the issues that he could never properly speak of; the most important things always seemed to come out in a jumble of words, but when she managed to piece them together, Eve found that what Much often said was of the plainest sense. But his thoughts and actions for Robin were made and pursued in equal blindness; it was to those feelings, she knew, that he made the least effort to conceal.
With this in mind, she'd smiled up at him, playfully, and asked, "And what something will you do?"
"Eat," Much replied. It was an odd response, as if he hadn't quite heard her question, and she wondered if he was even thinking of Robin any more at that point, and not his stomach instead. But then he paused, pulling them both to a stop, and a wide smile spread across his face. "Of course--Robin shall eat!"
Before she could reply he whipped her round in a dizzying circle, kissing her briefly in the process--all quite on impulse, without thinking. When he drew back his eyes were bright. "The whole village shall eat. And there will be singing...and gifts for Robin...and food. Lots of food. We...we will celebrate. Properly."
They were close, his hands on her shoulders. He broke off suddenly, looking at her. It had been months, many months since their strange, and on her side, not entirely coincidental, meeting--but Much had yet to leave behind the surprise of having someone in his heart who wasn't Robin Hood; and he always managed, in some endearing way, to appear astonished that she was not only willing to return the sentiment, but happy to do so. As if he had learned to expect so small a response, physical or otherwise, and could not properly imagine it being acted out so simply, out of love. The grin was still partly there, and she leant up on her toes, smiled against his lips, and thought, How is it that anyone could treat you wrongly?
"Whatever you choose to do," she murmured, "I'm sure he will thank you for it."
"After what I've got planned, he'll be hard pressed not to."
He let her go, and they continued walking. The conversation continued some more after that, but Eve was soon forced to return to her mother, and Much to the outlaws. And the events that passed after that day kept her awake at night, fearful, because she didn't know what was happening. Fearful, because he'd been planning a feast, and had come out only to disappear, under darkness and plans she couldn't guess, to foreign parts. She hoped the resolution, if indeed there was one to speak of, happened fast. She prayed for the King's mercy, that his promise to Robin would be strong enough to resolve whatever conflict and plots happened to unfold in the coming months.
She wished they had not spoken of birthdays and feeding the villagers; for what little hope it was worth, she would have held him there in the street, if she'd known he might never come back. But she hadn't, and they'd stood there with smiles on their faces, two figures beneath a broad sky, and had thought out a feast for Robin, settled on which pig was ready to slaughter, how to best conceal this grand scheme. Much, full of ideas on how to conduct proceedings and lure his master to the barn, had left her in high spirits, unaware of how swiftly plans and promises change.
If she'd known what was to come, she might have never said goodbye.
~~
The snow fell early that year, covering the trees and crops like something heavy and indifferent, concealing whatever warmth was still trapped in the soil, far below where the cold couldn't reach. She walked out in boots that quickly froze, hung out dripping linens in the early hours, and returned to retrieve them when they were stiff and unmanageable. But she could do nothing else; it was either give in to the elements or plough through them, ignoring everything that didn't involve a fire, or a meal, or plain existence. Eve was not alone in this. Common sense told her that.
She still felt it, though. The waiting, the silence. It was constant, a thing that they all shared but nobody spoke of, and as the months passed, the quiet grew until it became fearful to talk, as if those around her had grown distant, accustomed to existing without words. She would let it pass, if she could, let silence pass and have winter gone, if it meant she would not have to think of him, and acknowledge the quiet fear that he was suddenly too far to reach for; but she woke before the sun to find that she had thrown off her bedding and was shivering to the ends of her fingers, that the candle would not light itself because she was so cold.
No fear of freezing in the desert. They might face every danger in the world, but over there, Eve thought, they would surely not fear that.
~~
They returned in April, more than six months since the day of Robin's birthday, to an England that was no different. But the green hills must have felt like an extravagance, compared to the stark desert, the shifting light and dry heat that lay miles and many nights away to the east.
In the villages, rumours quickly spread, each as plainly false as the next: Robin was dead and then alive in the same clueless whisper. Somebody said, with great certainty, that the King had killed Vaysey, imprisoned Gisborne at Acre, and was returning to bring prosperity to Nottingham. These reports changed on a daily basis, and to each one Eve turned away, refusing to believe until her eyes told her otherwise.
The first truth came suddenly, and without warning, like a fist to her stomach. The Lady Marian was not returning, and neither was the King, but in two very different ways. These facts came in quick succession, and she knew at once, from the look in her mother's eyes, that neither one was a lie.
Robin's name was mentioned, but none of the others were spoken of, and she didn't dare ask. But those who knew better looked at her carefully, wondering why she didn't act. The days passed, and she fell asleep trying to think only of the chores that were waiting to be done, the stores that had to be filled, clothes mended and pressed, like the good house-kept girl she knew she had to be. It was easier this way--domestic troubles were of far greater consequence to her than what a small band of outlaws happened to be doing, in Sherwood or in the Holy Land. That was the truth, and if Eve knew or abided by these things, she would do best to stick by it.
But instead she walked out, and rather than completing these chores, she felt as if her feet might take her past the markets and to the edge of the fields, to counter those people who looked at her and wondered; to where she might see him, alive and well, and returned. Her wishes tumbled one into the next, quick in succession, until she was forced to stop and tell herself firmly that things had changed, and whatever small dreams she kept hidden, they were nothing compared to Robin's cause.
Robin and Much. Eve repeated their names in her head, the latter several times more, and turned her eyes from the forest. She loved him, and she would let him grieve, in turn, for his friend.
~~
As the week drew to a close, the weather turned bad, and a fierce wind set about wreaking havoc through the forest. One afternoon, on a day when she had fallen behind in the housework, Eve came out to retrieve the washing, and saw that the shadows were moving over the ground as if to catch her, and chide her for being so forgetful. Everything was caught in the squall, the household linens flapping about all over the place, and she was forced into an awkward stance of one foot raised to counterbalance her weight as she tried to unpeg the sheets from the sagging line. She had tucked the basket in the crook of her hip, but the sharp end of a reed had come apart and was poking at her side. Eve twisted to shift it away, and the sheet, which she had been in the process of gathering up, flew with striking speed out of her free hand and across the ground.
A groan escaped her as she saw, with dismay, how quickly the white cloth turned patchy with mud and dirt. That, she supposed, was her comeuppance for the day. And she probably deserved it, too.
"The King wanted to repay us," came a nearby voice, suddenly. "For saving his life."
For a short moment the wind dropped and she watched, with detached interest, as the sheet settled in a crumpled heap. She breathed carefully, held herself from turning around. She spoke softly. "And what did you ask for?"
"Home."
Her grip on the basket loosened and she let it fall, uncaring any more if the washing stayed clean. It could be coated in a layer of mud, and she wouldn't care. He was behind her now, and whatever resolve had held her into standing still fell swiftly away, and Eve, choking out something that might have been an admonishment, or simply his name, wrapped her arms around Much's neck and didn't let go. He was murmuring words that she couldn't hear, and kissing her in between them, and she wanted to laugh but felt her body shake instead, and she realised that it was coming from him, from his heart. She tasted salt on his lips and wondered which of them was crying.
"I thought you were gone," she said.
His forehead rested upon hers, his skin warm, a touching resilience against the cool air. Everything about him spoke of tiredness and exhaustion, as if it was only her own small frame that kept him from falling to his knees. But when she met his eyes she only saw relief, and when he spoke his voice was thick.
"I thought so, too."
"Who proved you wrong?"
"Robin."
"Robin," she repeated, slowly. She thought of her mother, and the news that was no longer a rumour, passing with hurried, unconscious speed through the streets. Eve shook her head. "And now he has lost--"
Much drew back a little, his hands slipping to her upper arms. He held her like this for a while, just looking at her. She waited, she could see that he was remembering, thinking back, placing images he probably didn't want to see against words that, quite plainly, had to be spoken. At last he replied.
"She was buried with the King's own ring. They were married, you know--twice, in fact. I...we thought he would not return. But he quoted the Qur'an to the King. And he was first off the boat, the first one on horseback out of Portsmouth. He is grieving, but he will be better. He is..." His eyes shone a little, and he turned his head to the fallen laundry, blinking at it, almost as if he was wondering how such a domestic scene could exist so blithely at their feet. A faint smile appeared at his mouth. "He is Robin."
There was the old Much, committed to the end, but there was a tightness to his voice that made her wonder if that devotion was beginning to hurt, taking more than he was able to give. He looked so full of exhaustion, and in need of something that he couldn't find back at camp, so she smiled, and kissed him once, very gently. The wind had picked up again, swirling her skirts about her legs, and around his, too; the yellowing lace of her hem against Much's old boots, still with sand bleached to the toes, white from wear and a foreign sun.
The top button of his waistcoat had fallen from its eyelet, and she reached up and fixed it, smoothing it down into place. They didn't speak. She took her time, going from one button to the next, and he let her, not drawing away to return to the forest as she might have feared, but watching her instead, watching her fingers move, as the sheets billowed on the lines; watching as if he understood their purpose, and what she meant, for the first time.
~~
In the end, they were forced to retreat under cover as a scattering rainstorm blew across the fields. Once inside, Much whipped up a small breeze of his own as he tackled the sheets and wrestled them into some sort of collective whole. While the intricacies of folding linens were somewhat lost on him--Eve suspected she would be finding dirt in the bedclothes later on--what he lacked in precision he made up with an eagerness to be of help, and she gave him nothing but thanks. Just his being here was enough.
"There." Standing in the doorway, he surveyed the room with satisfaction. "Anything else I can help you with?"
She took his hand with a smile. "No. This is perfect. I should employ you more often."
"As you wish." He was looking at their hands, and she saw that there was a slight flush at his neck. "Although, having said that, I...I might not be back for a while. Robin is--"
"Much, I know. It's okay."
Eve picked up the coat he had shrugged off earlier and helped him into it. He had to pull at the sleeves and she saw that his knuckles were chafed and red. He spotted the concern in her eyes and said, with a forced chuckle, "I've never understood how the sea is always at its roughest when you don't want to be on it. Ropes. They had lots of ropes. I got...caught."
"Bad weather?"
"Oh, no more than the usual."
The tone in his voice was jovial, but she could tell it was covering up something unresolved, and the blue of his eyes were dark, looking past her to the plain table, sheets folded into squares, a pattern of simple life. She put her hand to the door. The room felt too warm to be disturbed with such things.
"Your request," Eve asked, quietly. "Did the King grant it?"
He looked at her, and shook his arms roughly until the coat was sitting more or less in place. "Not exactly. But he will, I'm sure of it."
She nodded, and brushed at his collar absently, where a cobweb had stuck. Her reply, something in between I know, and I'll love you anyway, rose in her throat; but she let it remain there, unsaid and silent. The wind rose again, stronger than before--it caught the half-opened door, cool air rushing through to where they stood on the threshold, neither in one place or the other, and there she let him kiss her farewell.
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Much/Eve
Words: 3,166
Spoilers: For 2x12/13.
Disclaimer: Belonging to the BBC, and not a scrap of it mine.
Summary: There's always somebody waiting for the ones who are gone.
Notes: Written for the rh_ficchallenge for the prompt resolution. And because I don't like to see secondary characters dropped like pebbles. And yes, I'm a sap, and just want a happy ending for everyone.
The moment she heard that Robin's outlaws had left for the King and lands far from England, the first thing Eve did was to light a candle and leave it burning through every night she couldn't sleep. And almost as fast as that idea came, she felt silly for thinking it; she was no wife or sister, after all--surely the villagers would look at her and wonder where this call to devotion had come from. If they were to know, she might become the root of gossip, and then conjecture would simply blacken what she had meant as a private message between two people. A candle, however much she wished it, would not last above an hour. But rumour will.
When they last spoke, he could not have known this was coming, for Much was always disinclined to second guess his master, and she would never push him for answers he plainly couldn't give.
That particular conversation, as it happened, had been almost entirely about Robin.
"It's his birthday," Much said. "Did you know that? Quite soon, actually. And he's not exactly been in high spirits lately, so I thought I'd...um, do something."
Ten minutes of silence, and he'd blurted this out like a child no longer able to conceal a great secret. Eve had tried not to smile, having expected something of this nature; Much was either chatting about things he didn't really know a lot about, or was completely closed off, caught up in his own thoughts. Today it had been the latter, and although she'd not minded, happy enough to walk beside him and be in his company, it worried her more than she would let on.
Her father had not been one to talk. And a mercenary of the castle had taken offence to this, taken his silence as admission of conspiracy, and had cut his throat like a beggar in the street. Much didn't know this, as it had happened many years ago, and it was not a thing she wished their conversations to linger on. Not when the little time they spent together was like grasping onto something fleeting and inaccessible, chopped up moments they were forced to share in secret. One day, they would have time to let these things out, be able to move freely without worry.
But Much was not a free man, not in the truest sense, and in the same way, by association, Eve was guilty too. It wasn't the courtship she might have once dreamed of as a girl, but it was all she knew, and so she let him talk, of anything and everything. Their meetings were matched to no schedule; they crept together whenever he could bring himself away from Robin--and she became aware of him, through these disjointed narratives, of the sort of man he was. He was conscious of everything, his own honesty, especially. Talk of war troubled him deeply, instead he preferred to hear what Eve was doing, what a normal life was all about. She tried to tell him that it wasn't entirely normal, but in Much's eyes it was close enough, and he was constantly asking questions that she couldn't properly answer, ending in laughter and, on both their parts, happy bemusement.
It was why she loved this slightly bedraggled, comical, deeply brave outlaw. For his ability to talk as if it were an unconscious act, second only to breathing, so constant beneath the worn threads he wore. It was an easy thing to do; in truth, it made them aware of each other, of this connection and strange comfort, inexplicable, and real.
It made her sensitive to his feelings, how he might be silent one minute but all exuberance the next. He was constantly thinking, weighing up all the issues that he could never properly speak of; the most important things always seemed to come out in a jumble of words, but when she managed to piece them together, Eve found that what Much often said was of the plainest sense. But his thoughts and actions for Robin were made and pursued in equal blindness; it was to those feelings, she knew, that he made the least effort to conceal.
With this in mind, she'd smiled up at him, playfully, and asked, "And what something will you do?"
"Eat," Much replied. It was an odd response, as if he hadn't quite heard her question, and she wondered if he was even thinking of Robin any more at that point, and not his stomach instead. But then he paused, pulling them both to a stop, and a wide smile spread across his face. "Of course--Robin shall eat!"
Before she could reply he whipped her round in a dizzying circle, kissing her briefly in the process--all quite on impulse, without thinking. When he drew back his eyes were bright. "The whole village shall eat. And there will be singing...and gifts for Robin...and food. Lots of food. We...we will celebrate. Properly."
They were close, his hands on her shoulders. He broke off suddenly, looking at her. It had been months, many months since their strange, and on her side, not entirely coincidental, meeting--but Much had yet to leave behind the surprise of having someone in his heart who wasn't Robin Hood; and he always managed, in some endearing way, to appear astonished that she was not only willing to return the sentiment, but happy to do so. As if he had learned to expect so small a response, physical or otherwise, and could not properly imagine it being acted out so simply, out of love. The grin was still partly there, and she leant up on her toes, smiled against his lips, and thought, How is it that anyone could treat you wrongly?
"Whatever you choose to do," she murmured, "I'm sure he will thank you for it."
"After what I've got planned, he'll be hard pressed not to."
He let her go, and they continued walking. The conversation continued some more after that, but Eve was soon forced to return to her mother, and Much to the outlaws. And the events that passed after that day kept her awake at night, fearful, because she didn't know what was happening. Fearful, because he'd been planning a feast, and had come out only to disappear, under darkness and plans she couldn't guess, to foreign parts. She hoped the resolution, if indeed there was one to speak of, happened fast. She prayed for the King's mercy, that his promise to Robin would be strong enough to resolve whatever conflict and plots happened to unfold in the coming months.
She wished they had not spoken of birthdays and feeding the villagers; for what little hope it was worth, she would have held him there in the street, if she'd known he might never come back. But she hadn't, and they'd stood there with smiles on their faces, two figures beneath a broad sky, and had thought out a feast for Robin, settled on which pig was ready to slaughter, how to best conceal this grand scheme. Much, full of ideas on how to conduct proceedings and lure his master to the barn, had left her in high spirits, unaware of how swiftly plans and promises change.
If she'd known what was to come, she might have never said goodbye.
~~
The snow fell early that year, covering the trees and crops like something heavy and indifferent, concealing whatever warmth was still trapped in the soil, far below where the cold couldn't reach. She walked out in boots that quickly froze, hung out dripping linens in the early hours, and returned to retrieve them when they were stiff and unmanageable. But she could do nothing else; it was either give in to the elements or plough through them, ignoring everything that didn't involve a fire, or a meal, or plain existence. Eve was not alone in this. Common sense told her that.
She still felt it, though. The waiting, the silence. It was constant, a thing that they all shared but nobody spoke of, and as the months passed, the quiet grew until it became fearful to talk, as if those around her had grown distant, accustomed to existing without words. She would let it pass, if she could, let silence pass and have winter gone, if it meant she would not have to think of him, and acknowledge the quiet fear that he was suddenly too far to reach for; but she woke before the sun to find that she had thrown off her bedding and was shivering to the ends of her fingers, that the candle would not light itself because she was so cold.
No fear of freezing in the desert. They might face every danger in the world, but over there, Eve thought, they would surely not fear that.
~~
They returned in April, more than six months since the day of Robin's birthday, to an England that was no different. But the green hills must have felt like an extravagance, compared to the stark desert, the shifting light and dry heat that lay miles and many nights away to the east.
In the villages, rumours quickly spread, each as plainly false as the next: Robin was dead and then alive in the same clueless whisper. Somebody said, with great certainty, that the King had killed Vaysey, imprisoned Gisborne at Acre, and was returning to bring prosperity to Nottingham. These reports changed on a daily basis, and to each one Eve turned away, refusing to believe until her eyes told her otherwise.
The first truth came suddenly, and without warning, like a fist to her stomach. The Lady Marian was not returning, and neither was the King, but in two very different ways. These facts came in quick succession, and she knew at once, from the look in her mother's eyes, that neither one was a lie.
Robin's name was mentioned, but none of the others were spoken of, and she didn't dare ask. But those who knew better looked at her carefully, wondering why she didn't act. The days passed, and she fell asleep trying to think only of the chores that were waiting to be done, the stores that had to be filled, clothes mended and pressed, like the good house-kept girl she knew she had to be. It was easier this way--domestic troubles were of far greater consequence to her than what a small band of outlaws happened to be doing, in Sherwood or in the Holy Land. That was the truth, and if Eve knew or abided by these things, she would do best to stick by it.
But instead she walked out, and rather than completing these chores, she felt as if her feet might take her past the markets and to the edge of the fields, to counter those people who looked at her and wondered; to where she might see him, alive and well, and returned. Her wishes tumbled one into the next, quick in succession, until she was forced to stop and tell herself firmly that things had changed, and whatever small dreams she kept hidden, they were nothing compared to Robin's cause.
Robin and Much. Eve repeated their names in her head, the latter several times more, and turned her eyes from the forest. She loved him, and she would let him grieve, in turn, for his friend.
~~
As the week drew to a close, the weather turned bad, and a fierce wind set about wreaking havoc through the forest. One afternoon, on a day when she had fallen behind in the housework, Eve came out to retrieve the washing, and saw that the shadows were moving over the ground as if to catch her, and chide her for being so forgetful. Everything was caught in the squall, the household linens flapping about all over the place, and she was forced into an awkward stance of one foot raised to counterbalance her weight as she tried to unpeg the sheets from the sagging line. She had tucked the basket in the crook of her hip, but the sharp end of a reed had come apart and was poking at her side. Eve twisted to shift it away, and the sheet, which she had been in the process of gathering up, flew with striking speed out of her free hand and across the ground.
A groan escaped her as she saw, with dismay, how quickly the white cloth turned patchy with mud and dirt. That, she supposed, was her comeuppance for the day. And she probably deserved it, too.
"The King wanted to repay us," came a nearby voice, suddenly. "For saving his life."
For a short moment the wind dropped and she watched, with detached interest, as the sheet settled in a crumpled heap. She breathed carefully, held herself from turning around. She spoke softly. "And what did you ask for?"
"Home."
Her grip on the basket loosened and she let it fall, uncaring any more if the washing stayed clean. It could be coated in a layer of mud, and she wouldn't care. He was behind her now, and whatever resolve had held her into standing still fell swiftly away, and Eve, choking out something that might have been an admonishment, or simply his name, wrapped her arms around Much's neck and didn't let go. He was murmuring words that she couldn't hear, and kissing her in between them, and she wanted to laugh but felt her body shake instead, and she realised that it was coming from him, from his heart. She tasted salt on his lips and wondered which of them was crying.
"I thought you were gone," she said.
His forehead rested upon hers, his skin warm, a touching resilience against the cool air. Everything about him spoke of tiredness and exhaustion, as if it was only her own small frame that kept him from falling to his knees. But when she met his eyes she only saw relief, and when he spoke his voice was thick.
"I thought so, too."
"Who proved you wrong?"
"Robin."
"Robin," she repeated, slowly. She thought of her mother, and the news that was no longer a rumour, passing with hurried, unconscious speed through the streets. Eve shook her head. "And now he has lost--"
Much drew back a little, his hands slipping to her upper arms. He held her like this for a while, just looking at her. She waited, she could see that he was remembering, thinking back, placing images he probably didn't want to see against words that, quite plainly, had to be spoken. At last he replied.
"She was buried with the King's own ring. They were married, you know--twice, in fact. I...we thought he would not return. But he quoted the Qur'an to the King. And he was first off the boat, the first one on horseback out of Portsmouth. He is grieving, but he will be better. He is..." His eyes shone a little, and he turned his head to the fallen laundry, blinking at it, almost as if he was wondering how such a domestic scene could exist so blithely at their feet. A faint smile appeared at his mouth. "He is Robin."
There was the old Much, committed to the end, but there was a tightness to his voice that made her wonder if that devotion was beginning to hurt, taking more than he was able to give. He looked so full of exhaustion, and in need of something that he couldn't find back at camp, so she smiled, and kissed him once, very gently. The wind had picked up again, swirling her skirts about her legs, and around his, too; the yellowing lace of her hem against Much's old boots, still with sand bleached to the toes, white from wear and a foreign sun.
The top button of his waistcoat had fallen from its eyelet, and she reached up and fixed it, smoothing it down into place. They didn't speak. She took her time, going from one button to the next, and he let her, not drawing away to return to the forest as she might have feared, but watching her instead, watching her fingers move, as the sheets billowed on the lines; watching as if he understood their purpose, and what she meant, for the first time.
~~
In the end, they were forced to retreat under cover as a scattering rainstorm blew across the fields. Once inside, Much whipped up a small breeze of his own as he tackled the sheets and wrestled them into some sort of collective whole. While the intricacies of folding linens were somewhat lost on him--Eve suspected she would be finding dirt in the bedclothes later on--what he lacked in precision he made up with an eagerness to be of help, and she gave him nothing but thanks. Just his being here was enough.
"There." Standing in the doorway, he surveyed the room with satisfaction. "Anything else I can help you with?"
She took his hand with a smile. "No. This is perfect. I should employ you more often."
"As you wish." He was looking at their hands, and she saw that there was a slight flush at his neck. "Although, having said that, I...I might not be back for a while. Robin is--"
"Much, I know. It's okay."
Eve picked up the coat he had shrugged off earlier and helped him into it. He had to pull at the sleeves and she saw that his knuckles were chafed and red. He spotted the concern in her eyes and said, with a forced chuckle, "I've never understood how the sea is always at its roughest when you don't want to be on it. Ropes. They had lots of ropes. I got...caught."
"Bad weather?"
"Oh, no more than the usual."
The tone in his voice was jovial, but she could tell it was covering up something unresolved, and the blue of his eyes were dark, looking past her to the plain table, sheets folded into squares, a pattern of simple life. She put her hand to the door. The room felt too warm to be disturbed with such things.
"Your request," Eve asked, quietly. "Did the King grant it?"
He looked at her, and shook his arms roughly until the coat was sitting more or less in place. "Not exactly. But he will, I'm sure of it."
She nodded, and brushed at his collar absently, where a cobweb had stuck. Her reply, something in between I know, and I'll love you anyway, rose in her throat; but she let it remain there, unsaid and silent. The wind rose again, stronger than before--it caught the half-opened door, cool air rushing through to where they stood on the threshold, neither in one place or the other, and there she let him kiss her farewell.