Fic: 'Stigma'
Title: Stigma
Fandom: Robin Hood (2006)
Rating: U
Wordcount: 712
Character(s): Much, Allan, Tuck
Disclaimer: I’m not in any way associated with the BBC’s production of Robin Hood; I do this for fun, but no profit.
Summary: Much has been branded by the Sheriff; it needs looking at.
The bubbled flesh where the iron had stuck and melted needed tending, but of course there was no one to do it. Much had tugged up his shirt to bare skin and it had torn away from the flesh with a sound like skinning rabbits, a pain like abrasion, rough and hot. The burn was more than a burn, it was a defect in his flesh; a smeared cross shape, wet and livid red. It was the Sheriff’s signature. It was like his fingernails in Much’s skin, digging.
Allan had caught sight of it, and his entire body had seemed to sharpen before he came to kneel beside Much where he sat. He bent his pointed face close to it, and for Much every soft breath hurt. “Fuck, mate,” Allan said, fingers hovering, not daring to touch. “That’s gonna be a beauty of a scar.” He looked up, eyes on edge. One hand landed on Much’s knee, a token of reassurance. “The Sheriff do this to ya?”
“It was his little way of saying ‘welcome to the dungeons’, I like to think.” Much crooked a smile from one of the corners of his mouth. It felt like he had a fish-hook in his cheek.
“It needs looking after.”
“Well, without Djaq, there’s no one to look after it. So.” He pulled his shirt back down with stiff hands. There was a dark patch where the wound had wept. Much was remembering - while trying not to remember, trying his hardest - the mind-wiping agony of the brand, how it had popped white hot, melting into him, and taken everything he ever thought he knew or cared about and made it shrink into nothingness, instantly. How afterwards he had been left gasping like a newborn in the massive, simple fact that the pain was gone, the pain was gone, thank the lord, the pain was gone and he was still alive.
“Actually,” it was a voice from just behind Much’s shoulder this time, and it made him spin ‘round. The brand tightened and flared and he curled back in on it, on a sharp breath. It was Tuck. “Actually, I think I might be able to do something about that.”
He was in front of Much in a grey swirl of robes. He bent in half like a set square and lifted Much’s shirt between two long fingers - the cross wet and thick - for a moment in which Much felt the monk’s gaze like cold water, holy water, on his skin; and then he straightened. Half a bright smile. “Yes, I can definitely help you with that one. I just need a bit of yarrow, that’s all, maybe some other herbs.” His face darkened briefly, a different kind of smile taking possession of it. “It’s a cross, too. For better or for worse, that’s a mark of God.” His fingers sketched a cross in the air over Much then disappeared back into their sleeves.
“Yeah?” Allan cocked an eyebrow, his face closed. “Given to him by the devil.” He had moved closer to Much when Tuck had appeared.
Tuck inclined his head toward the sky. To Much, he seemed like the tallest man he’d ever seen; bigger even than Little John. “You know,” Tuck said, “He moves in mysterious ways.” He smiled on them a second longer and then was gone, soft and quiet, into the forest. His divine grey soaked into the tree shadows and Much and Allan were alone again.
“Mark of God,” Much repeated under his breath. He looked down at his own stigma, fresh and insistent, a beating upon his consciousness like wings in the corner of his eye. In his life-long religious history, latticed with prayer and joy and fear, he had never once felt as if what he had been looking to had been anything more than a preoccupied father-entity as vague as firesmoke. Now he had been furnished with a different idea: an idea of God’s eyes like Tuck’s, clear and cold, and before them he was utterly disassembled.
Allan looked at him under severe eyebrows - “Yeah, right, mate. Don’t believe any of his Bible-bashing hocus-pocus, I beg ya.” - and Much faked a tiny laugh - “Of course.” - while inside a voice repeated: mark of God, mark of God.
Fandom: Robin Hood (2006)
Rating: U
Wordcount: 712
Character(s): Much, Allan, Tuck
Disclaimer: I’m not in any way associated with the BBC’s production of Robin Hood; I do this for fun, but no profit.
Summary: Much has been branded by the Sheriff; it needs looking at.
The bubbled flesh where the iron had stuck and melted needed tending, but of course there was no one to do it. Much had tugged up his shirt to bare skin and it had torn away from the flesh with a sound like skinning rabbits, a pain like abrasion, rough and hot. The burn was more than a burn, it was a defect in his flesh; a smeared cross shape, wet and livid red. It was the Sheriff’s signature. It was like his fingernails in Much’s skin, digging.
Allan had caught sight of it, and his entire body had seemed to sharpen before he came to kneel beside Much where he sat. He bent his pointed face close to it, and for Much every soft breath hurt. “Fuck, mate,” Allan said, fingers hovering, not daring to touch. “That’s gonna be a beauty of a scar.” He looked up, eyes on edge. One hand landed on Much’s knee, a token of reassurance. “The Sheriff do this to ya?”
“It was his little way of saying ‘welcome to the dungeons’, I like to think.” Much crooked a smile from one of the corners of his mouth. It felt like he had a fish-hook in his cheek.
“It needs looking after.”
“Well, without Djaq, there’s no one to look after it. So.” He pulled his shirt back down with stiff hands. There was a dark patch where the wound had wept. Much was remembering - while trying not to remember, trying his hardest - the mind-wiping agony of the brand, how it had popped white hot, melting into him, and taken everything he ever thought he knew or cared about and made it shrink into nothingness, instantly. How afterwards he had been left gasping like a newborn in the massive, simple fact that the pain was gone, the pain was gone, thank the lord, the pain was gone and he was still alive.
“Actually,” it was a voice from just behind Much’s shoulder this time, and it made him spin ‘round. The brand tightened and flared and he curled back in on it, on a sharp breath. It was Tuck. “Actually, I think I might be able to do something about that.”
He was in front of Much in a grey swirl of robes. He bent in half like a set square and lifted Much’s shirt between two long fingers - the cross wet and thick - for a moment in which Much felt the monk’s gaze like cold water, holy water, on his skin; and then he straightened. Half a bright smile. “Yes, I can definitely help you with that one. I just need a bit of yarrow, that’s all, maybe some other herbs.” His face darkened briefly, a different kind of smile taking possession of it. “It’s a cross, too. For better or for worse, that’s a mark of God.” His fingers sketched a cross in the air over Much then disappeared back into their sleeves.
“Yeah?” Allan cocked an eyebrow, his face closed. “Given to him by the devil.” He had moved closer to Much when Tuck had appeared.
Tuck inclined his head toward the sky. To Much, he seemed like the tallest man he’d ever seen; bigger even than Little John. “You know,” Tuck said, “He moves in mysterious ways.” He smiled on them a second longer and then was gone, soft and quiet, into the forest. His divine grey soaked into the tree shadows and Much and Allan were alone again.
“Mark of God,” Much repeated under his breath. He looked down at his own stigma, fresh and insistent, a beating upon his consciousness like wings in the corner of his eye. In his life-long religious history, latticed with prayer and joy and fear, he had never once felt as if what he had been looking to had been anything more than a preoccupied father-entity as vague as firesmoke. Now he had been furnished with a different idea: an idea of God’s eyes like Tuck’s, clear and cold, and before them he was utterly disassembled.
Allan looked at him under severe eyebrows - “Yeah, right, mate. Don’t believe any of his Bible-bashing hocus-pocus, I beg ya.” - and Much faked a tiny laugh - “Of course.” - while inside a voice repeated: mark of God, mark of God.