(no subject)
Robin sat against a low wall on the outskirts of Locksley, simultaneously deep in his thoughts and hyper aware of his surroundings. He heard footsteps approaching, and let out a groan when he saw Much walking towards him. Much sat down next to him defiantly.
‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I’m going to sit here, whether you like it or not.’ He slumped against the wall, and pulled his hat over his eyes, settling to sleep. Since Tuck’s arrival and their settling back into old routines (albeit much changed by the loss of Djaq and Will) Robin’s dark moods had abated, but only to an extent. Much made efforts to help, but in his heart of hearts he knew Robin grew tired of them, rather than drawing comfort from them. Much was too much of the old, of their youth, of Marian, and the Locksley of his father’s day. He reminded Robin too much of his failings. It annoyed Robin that Much seemed so capable. He had been through ass much as Robin had, one way or another, and yet he did not show it. ‘Dependable old Much.’ Sometimes Robin hated him for it. They never spoke, he became caught up in his thoughts, let the Much of his mind take over the Much of reality. But as they sat against the wall, skylarks singing and soaring above the fields of short wheat, he was startlingly aware of reality. The adrenaline from the earlier skirmish still grated against his veins, and he saw and smelt and felt everything. Next to him, Much was as usual quite the opposite. He sat with his arms gently crossed, and as sleep seemed to overcome him, hid muscles relaxed. His lightly curled fingers fell against Robin’s arm. Robin felt it as strongly as if it had been a slap, yet all the softness was retained. Even in this he felt a sense of revulsion, he wanted to move away, but kept still, a dear hoping to hide from its foe by standing motionless. Much’s breathing was easy, rhythmical. In tracking the source of the sound, Robin’s eyes met Much’s face. Cap pulled over his eyes, expressionless. Robin moved his arm; Much’s hand fell against his side. Robin felt alone. Much was there, and yet not, he sat on his own, trapped. Salvation facing him, and yet turning away. Much stirred, his soul floating back to its earthly cage. Robin noted the cuts on Much’s fallen hands, blood staining the veins like unholy art. The hair had grown; Robin noticed that all this time Much had been growing. Older, wises, stronger, stranger, tired. He touched the hand, the roughness surprised him. Much stirred again, and Robin winced, pulling his hand away suddenly. He pretended he had not moved when Much’s hand pushed off his cap and rubbed his eyes. He turned to look at Robin; his look went unmet, as Robin gazed across the fields. He looked back, and Robin spoke.
‘How is your side?’ His hand went to Much’s burn, and Much jumped at the touch, more from surprise than pain.
‘Oh, it’s alright.’ Robin, still not daring to look, pulled up the shirt, and placed his hand on the hot skin beneath. He felt Much hold his breath, and moved his hand to the hardening skin and scabs of the burn. He ran his fingers across it, then his thumb. Much let his breath go, slowly, and was moving his hand to Robin’s, half to hold and half to push away, when Robin pulled it away. He turned to look at Much. The confusion on his face created a steady trickle of thoughts, and he saw that now he looked, he saw Much. The Much of reality, not of his mind. The Much who needed him, needed help, but from strange selflessness felt he shouldn’t show it. Robin put his arm to Much’s shoulder, and pulled him in, resting his head on Much’s shoulder. Much sighed, and rested his head on Robin’s. They sat for minutes. The sounds of the village invaded their cocoon, a force of memories, responsibilities, troubles and doubts. When Much stood, he too was a reminder. Shirt untucked, hair messy, cap in hand, he was the very image of their youth, and personification of mood that brought tears to Robin’s eyes. Robin, unsure if in mind or body, saw Marian standing metres away in the wood line, her smile beckoning him to enticements and friendship and love and challenges. Much offered his hand. Robin stared at Marian, she stared back and told his mind not to be afraid. He took Much’s hand and pulled himself up, and the look on her face was expectant. At the tight squeeze of Much’s hand, and the hand against his side, feebly trying to tuck in Much’s shirt, she smiled. She turned, and trotted into the forest, holding up her green dress, black locks of hair last to disappear. Robin looked away, as Much watched where Marian had been. He studied his friend’s grey-blue eyes, and knew he saw too. He pulled on Much’s hand, and, in a move whose significance was not lost on Robin, headed into the forest in the opposite direction.
‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I’m going to sit here, whether you like it or not.’ He slumped against the wall, and pulled his hat over his eyes, settling to sleep. Since Tuck’s arrival and their settling back into old routines (albeit much changed by the loss of Djaq and Will) Robin’s dark moods had abated, but only to an extent. Much made efforts to help, but in his heart of hearts he knew Robin grew tired of them, rather than drawing comfort from them. Much was too much of the old, of their youth, of Marian, and the Locksley of his father’s day. He reminded Robin too much of his failings. It annoyed Robin that Much seemed so capable. He had been through ass much as Robin had, one way or another, and yet he did not show it. ‘Dependable old Much.’ Sometimes Robin hated him for it. They never spoke, he became caught up in his thoughts, let the Much of his mind take over the Much of reality. But as they sat against the wall, skylarks singing and soaring above the fields of short wheat, he was startlingly aware of reality. The adrenaline from the earlier skirmish still grated against his veins, and he saw and smelt and felt everything. Next to him, Much was as usual quite the opposite. He sat with his arms gently crossed, and as sleep seemed to overcome him, hid muscles relaxed. His lightly curled fingers fell against Robin’s arm. Robin felt it as strongly as if it had been a slap, yet all the softness was retained. Even in this he felt a sense of revulsion, he wanted to move away, but kept still, a dear hoping to hide from its foe by standing motionless. Much’s breathing was easy, rhythmical. In tracking the source of the sound, Robin’s eyes met Much’s face. Cap pulled over his eyes, expressionless. Robin moved his arm; Much’s hand fell against his side. Robin felt alone. Much was there, and yet not, he sat on his own, trapped. Salvation facing him, and yet turning away. Much stirred, his soul floating back to its earthly cage. Robin noted the cuts on Much’s fallen hands, blood staining the veins like unholy art. The hair had grown; Robin noticed that all this time Much had been growing. Older, wises, stronger, stranger, tired. He touched the hand, the roughness surprised him. Much stirred again, and Robin winced, pulling his hand away suddenly. He pretended he had not moved when Much’s hand pushed off his cap and rubbed his eyes. He turned to look at Robin; his look went unmet, as Robin gazed across the fields. He looked back, and Robin spoke.
‘How is your side?’ His hand went to Much’s burn, and Much jumped at the touch, more from surprise than pain.
‘Oh, it’s alright.’ Robin, still not daring to look, pulled up the shirt, and placed his hand on the hot skin beneath. He felt Much hold his breath, and moved his hand to the hardening skin and scabs of the burn. He ran his fingers across it, then his thumb. Much let his breath go, slowly, and was moving his hand to Robin’s, half to hold and half to push away, when Robin pulled it away. He turned to look at Much. The confusion on his face created a steady trickle of thoughts, and he saw that now he looked, he saw Much. The Much of reality, not of his mind. The Much who needed him, needed help, but from strange selflessness felt he shouldn’t show it. Robin put his arm to Much’s shoulder, and pulled him in, resting his head on Much’s shoulder. Much sighed, and rested his head on Robin’s. They sat for minutes. The sounds of the village invaded their cocoon, a force of memories, responsibilities, troubles and doubts. When Much stood, he too was a reminder. Shirt untucked, hair messy, cap in hand, he was the very image of their youth, and personification of mood that brought tears to Robin’s eyes. Robin, unsure if in mind or body, saw Marian standing metres away in the wood line, her smile beckoning him to enticements and friendship and love and challenges. Much offered his hand. Robin stared at Marian, she stared back and told his mind not to be afraid. He took Much’s hand and pulled himself up, and the look on her face was expectant. At the tight squeeze of Much’s hand, and the hand against his side, feebly trying to tuck in Much’s shirt, she smiled. She turned, and trotted into the forest, holding up her green dress, black locks of hair last to disappear. Robin looked away, as Much watched where Marian had been. He studied his friend’s grey-blue eyes, and knew he saw too. He pulled on Much’s hand, and, in a move whose significance was not lost on Robin, headed into the forest in the opposite direction.