Honoring Friendship
Title: "Honoring Friendship
Author: ladyarcherfan3
Word Count: 1.163
Rating: pg
Characters/Pairings: Robin, Much
Genre: General, pre-series
Spoilers: none
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I don't own or claim Robin Hood, just my imagination
Summary: Robin gets new weapons, and a new understanding of his friend.
Notes: Short fic for RAS For rh_intercomm - Thanks auroracat65 for the beta.
“Master.”
Robin woke from a light doze to the sound of Much’s voice and a hand on his shoulder. Blinking, he looked up wearily. Recently recovered from the fever caused by his wound, he was slowly regaining strength, nowhere near the speed he wanted. Nevertheless, he and Much planned to leave the field hospital near Acre and begin the journey home in a few weeks. With a sigh of pain and impatience at his own weakness, Robin pulled himself into a sitting position.
“Yes, Much?” He scrubbed his face with his hands, slowly waking up.
Much had moved and was hovering near the tent’s entrance, all but twitching with nervousness. “I think you should see this. I mean, there is someone outside who wants to talk to you.”
Stepping outside the tent, Robin squinted against the sun’s bright assault until he saw two Saracen soldiers. His hand dropped to where his sword should have been, only to find air. He wondered suddenly when such an action that promised death had become instinctive to him.
“Uh, Master,” Much began in a rush seeing Robin’s reaction, “they want to surrender to an officer. And since you’re one of the few here, and the only one conscious . . .”
“Surrender?”
“That’s all they said to me.”
The two Saracens did not move as Robin approached. One man was on horseback, but was slumped in obvious pain. The other man stood with one hand on the rider’s knee to provide support. Robin began a greeting in halting Arabic, only to be stopped as the man held up his hand.
“I speak your language better than you speak mine.”
Robin nodded, relieved. “My name is Robin of Locksley, a Captain of the King’s Private Guard. My servant said you are here to surrender . . .” He trailed off, implicitly seeking a name.
“I do not think my name is important,” the other man said simply.
Under other circumstances, Robin would have demanded the man’s name, knowing that high ranking officers or nobles could easily be held for ransom or questioned for information. But he was sick of it all - the fighting, the inhumanity of war, the desert heat, everything. So despite the fact that the man’s clothing and manner declared him to be of some high status, Robin let it pass. His train of thought was interrupted when the man spoke again.
“I am surrendering for the sake of my servant.” He glanced up at the man on the horse as he spoke. “We are far from our own army, and he has been injured and needs medical attention.”
“Why would he do that?” Robin pondered to himself, but asked out loud, “Would it not be better to seek out your own people?”
The man shook his head. “The risk, I believe, would be too great for his health. I heard that the Knights Hospitallers here were more concerned with helping the injured than fighting. My honor is a small price to pay for the life of my friend, as his injury was sustained in saving my life.”
Robin nodded, understanding dawning through his fever wearied mind. “I will have to take your weapons.”
The man nodded, but reluctantly handed over his sword and shield; the injured servant offered up his bow and quiver. Robin took them respectfully, though his eyes lingered on the smooth curves of the bow with a mixture of excitement and longing. It was quite common for men accepting the surrenders of enemy officers to keep the weapons as souvenirs, and though Robin never had before, the bow was extremely tempting.
“I give them to you; as does my servant,” the man said in the manner of an elder giving a life lecture to a youth. “They are weapons with great honor, and should be used with such. The sword is a weapon of action and of death, but the shield is an instrument of protection and thus life. One cannot have one without the other and live. ”
The man locked eyes with Robin for a moment before glancing back at his servant, who was steadily wilting under the dual abuse of his pain and the heat of the sun. Robin glanced down at the weapons in his hands, and then at the men who had relinquished them, and finally back at Much.
“Much,” Robin said after a moment, “escort these men to the main hospital tent. Explain the situation. If you have any trouble, bring it to me.”
With a confused and troubled look, Much gestured to the Saracens to follow him and led them into the center of the camp. Robin sighed and went back into his tent, the weapons still in his hand.
He was sitting on his cot studying the bow when Much returned; the sword and shield were carefully placed on Much’s cot.
“Well, they are settled in the hospital tent, with a guard, though they seem very decent for Saracens. But then again, they weren’t trying to kill us . . .” When Robin didn’t look up immediately, Much continued, “So, you are keeping the weapons this time it seems?”
Robin nodded. “I’m keeping the bow. The sword and shield are yours.”
Much started. “Me? Whatever for?”
“It was what that man said, about how he was honoring his friend’s sacrifice, and the purpose of the weapons. You should have them.”
“Thank you, Master,” Much said quietly as he picked up the shield, fingers tracing the elegant design. “It hardly looks like a weapon,” he said quietly, but he noticed the numerous marks and dents that the ornamentation struggled to hide. It had been well used and done its job. He turned to the sword, but suddenly handed it to Robin. “But I don’t want this.”
“Why not?” Robin demanded, mildly annoyed. Trust Much to find a problem with the gift!
“It’s like he said - the sword is for killing, the shield for protecting. I don’t want to kill, I never did. I only came along to the Holy Land to protect you, Master, no matter how often I said I agreed with the cause to get Jerusalem back. I couldn’t fight without you there, I’d just run away, but I have to protect you, so . . I - I . . .” he stuttered to a stop, almost embarrassed. “And besides, I’m clumsy enough with my smaller sword; I’d probably kill myself with this! And you took their surrender anyway.”
“All right, all right!” Robin said, taking the sword. “I’ll take the sword and bow, you the shield. And your freedom. And Bonchurch Lodge when we get home.”
“That sounds - What?” Much stopped, mouth hanging open in shock. “My - my freedom? Bonchurch?”
“A small price, my friend,” Robin said. “You deserve it, Much.”
Much stood gaping. Finally he set the shield down and collapsed onto his cot. “What on earth am I going to do with a lodge?” he asked speculatively.
Robin laughed.
Fin.