Disclaimer: I do own Much! I do! (stamps foot)

His entire childhood featured the same two faces. Much’s face, usually creased into concern, and Marian’s face, nose crinkling in laughter, eyes sparkling.

Sitting on this hillside, he was overwhelmed by childhood memories, and he remembered that it was on this hill that he proposed to Marian.

Marian.

She was getting married at this moment, he realized. All the chances he’d had, and he’d wasted them, and now the only woman he’d ever wanted, ever loved, was gone forever, marrying Gisbourne. He remembered the day he’d promised Marian that she’d live on the Locksley lands one day, and laughed bitterly, realizing that his prediction had come true, only not in the way he’d imagined.

Footsteps, and he brushed the tears hastily from his cheeks.

“Master.” Much’s voice. Robin was both glad that Much is here, and furious that his friend could not leave him be at this time. Much took a seat next to Robin on the grass, close enough that their thighs touch. Much’s fingers tangled in Robin’s, and it was comforting and familiar, and a reminder that Robin still had Much. Today though, it was not enough.

It would have gone well, Robin thought later, if Much hadn’t started talking.

He supposed he should have seen it coming. After all, Much could never help but talk, especially when he was nervous, or concerned, and Robin supposed that at that particular moment, Much was both.

“I knew you’d be here.” He murmured, and Robin shook his head, never taking his eyes from Locksley village.

“It is my village.” He said in a low voice, and the declaration sounded feeble, even to his own ears.

“Remember the times we used to sit up here?” Much asked. “Sit up here and say there was no finger place in England.”

It was a good attempt at drawing his thoughts away from the present situation, but Robin would have none of it. He spotted a man in black swing into a saddle, and his fingers itched for his bow.

“Gisbourne is stealing my life.” He said darkly, and Much sighed.

“And you must let him.” Much advised. “You heard Edward. The King is in danger. What is Locksley if England cannot be saved?”

Much was speaking sense, and Robin knew it. And he resented Much for it.

“At this moment, I care more about Locksley than England.” He confessed, wishing that Much would simply sit here and sympathize with him, as opposed to trying to talk sense into him.

“It isn’t Locksley, is it?” Much whispered, and a shade of hurt crept into his voice. “It’s Marian.”

Robin did not deny it, watching as the horseman galloped out of the village, towards the estate. It was not Gisbourne…Gisbourne was most likely making wedding preparations. The thought made his jaw clench.

“We must let her go… When I say we, I mean you.” Much said quietly, and Robin felt his jaw tighten.

“Master, things could be worse. I’m sure that Edward will give Knighton to Gisbourne for his own, and he’ll have no need of yours…and with Marian to persuade him, you can be made master of Locksley again, and all your titles restored. And the king will be home, and the sheriff will be brought to justice, and there will be no need for outlaws. Things could go back to the way they were…”

There was hope in Much’s voice, but Robin could not bring himself to speak. The things that had passed between him and Much during the war, they had been perfect, wordlessly perfect, and sometimes Robin caught Much looking at him with such tenderness across the fire that it would take his breath away.

But Robin knew that such things were not acceptable in England, and that the future Much was most likely envisioning at the moment could never come to pass.

“There must be a way. There has to be.” He insisted, and Much turned to him in desperation.

“Robin, the king is coming back! And if we can stop the sheriff from messing things up, then England will be right again.” And Robin knew from the seriousness of Much’s face that his friend honestly did believe what he was saying.

“Will it?” Robin questioned, and his disbelief was painfully obvious.

“Yes!” Much assured him. “The sheriff will be out. You’ll be in.”

Robin shook his head slowly as the hopeless of the situation rose up and choked him. It did not matter to him anymore, who was in power. All that mattered was the fact that it seemed that no matter what he did, he was destined to be alone. Marian married to another. Happiness with Much denied to him by society’s rigid rules. The unfairness and anguish and fury was building, and Robin just wished that Much would stop talking, since all those dreams would never come to pass.

“Robin, we’re talking days, surely. I mean, you’ll have your lands back. You’ll be in Locksley. And I’ll be in Bonchurch.” A small smile curved Much’s beautiful lips at the thought of Bonchurch, and he said fondly, “It’s not a huge estate, but it’s big enough. A man could easily get lost on it. Easily.”

Robin smiled, and he knew that the expression held no joy. It was more like a baring of teeth, the way a dog must smile before attacking.

And attack Robin did.

“You know something, Much, if you want to get lost, why don’t you start practicing right now?”

Much blinked in confusion, then grinned, although Robin saw the sting of the words in Much’s widened eyes.

“You don’t mean that.” Much said confidently, and Robin laughed, and he knew that Much could hear the bitterness in the sound. “A smaller man would be offended. A smaller man would be wounded. A smaller man would—”

Robin cut him off with a cold snarl, still smiling, even though there was nothing to smile about.

“You see, there is no smaller man, Much. You are the smaller man. There is no one smaller than you. All you care about is the roof over your head and the food in your belly. And you speak every facile though that comes to your head.”

His words dripped from his lips, soft and sharp, and Much stared at him in shock. Robin took a strange satisfaction in that. His words cut Much like razors, he could tell from the look in Much’s eyes.

“Master…” He said softly, tugging his hand out of Robin’s as he searched his master’s eyes. “Robin…”

Robin laughed, and even to his own ears, the sound was menacing.

He moved very close to Much, close enough that, if he were so inclined, he could kiss the older man thoroughly. A part of him wanted to, wanted to lose himself, find comfort in Much’s lips and calloused hands and strong arms, but a bigger, angrier part of himself simply wanted to make Much hurt as badly as he was hurting, and that was the part of him that growled, “You’re like pox on my skin. I scratch, but you never go away.”

Much’s face crumpled. Robin had only seen that expression on Much’s face once, and that had been long ago, when they had been children. He remembered that day very well, as it had been the first time he’d ever attempted to kiss Marian. They’d had some small quarrel, and, as she yelled at him for that, he’d pulled her to him on impulse and tried to kiss her. She’d slapped his face hard, then shrieked that she would rather die than be kissed by him before speeding off towards the estate.

Much had tried to offer comfort, told Robin that he could kiss Much instead, that Much himself wouldn’t mind at all. And Robin had turned on him, speaking in the same exact tone as he did now, smiling coldly as he called his friend worthless, and informed Much that he didn’t press his lips to the dirt, so why should he touch them to Much?

And Much had stared at him in confused anguish, face frozen, arms crossed. And Robin had squirmed under his gaze, thankful, almost when tears forced Much to look away, to hide in the stables. Robin had spent weeks trying to atone for his action, Much’s wounded expression lingering in his mind.

Much wore that expression now.

Suddenly, Robin felt ashamed of himself, for taking out his own hurt on poor Much, who only sought to comfort him. Much sat beside him, tears pricking his eyes, and Robin felt a compulsive urge to take everything he’d just said back. He made a small movement forward, but Much shoved him sideways, so hard that Robin toppled over and landed hard in the dirt, tasting blood in his mouth.

He couldn’t remember an instance when Much had ever laid a hand on him, save for those moments when they’d laid together in the Holy Land, or when Much had been bandaging his wounds. The memories shamed him, and he sought once more to take things back, but he couldn’t find the words fast enough.

“You go away!” Much spat, and Robin heard his own tone echoed in his friend’s words, the pain in Much’s voice all too evident as he rose easily to his feet and took off towards the forest, running harder and faster than he ever had, not even when they’d retreated from the Saracens in the Holy Land, until the forest swallowed his trembling form.

Much went crashing through the underbrush, running blindly, tears streaking his face. It was only through dumb luck that he managed to find the camp, and he sailed into it, tripping over Allan and landing on his face in the dirt.

“Much? What is wrong?” Djaq asked, her brow furrowing in concern, but Much shook his head, swiping at his now-filthy face with the cuff of his sleeve as he began throwing his possessions into his pack.

“Much, what happened?” John demanded, his strong voice and stern expression demanded an answer, a demand that not even Much could ignore.

“Robin…Robin told me to leave.” He gasped out, and Allan laughed, shaking his head.

“Not trying to be funny, but you are mistaken, my friend. Must be.” The trickster informed him, clapping him comfortingly on the shoulder.

“Allan’s right, Much.” Will offered. “Robin…Robin would never want you to leave.”

“Yeah.” Allan agreed. “I mean, he’s known you since the cradle, right? You’re the best friend he has. Why would he send you away?”

“He said…” Much began, and as he recounted Robin’s cruel words, fresh tears gathered in his eyes, and his hands started shaking as he tried to cram his possessions into the tiny sack.

Much realized that he’d shocked them with Robin’s words. Djaq was clutching her face, eyes huge. John’s face was thunderous in its rage and disappointment, and Will, beside him, mirrored the expression perfectly. Allan, whose hand had dropped from Much’s shoulder, simply looked dumbfounded, and from the way he glanced about, he most likely expected someone to tell him he’d been hearing things, and should take some time out of the sun.

Djaq recovered her voice first, murmuring, “Much, he couldn’t have meant it.”

Shaking his head slowly, Much said, “You didn’t see his face, Djaq. He meant every word.”

“Still, that doesn’t mean you have to go.” Allan insisted, seconded by Djaq whispering, “Please, Much, stay here.”

“We’ll talk to Robin.” John said ominously. “And if he still holds that view, then he must be the one to go. We would not part with you so easily, Much.”

Much was still shaking his head.

“No. No. I’ve troubled all of you long enough.” He said quietly, shouldering his pack. Various items belonging to Much still littered the floor, but the former manservant was on the verge of breaking into tears again, and disregarded them. He strode from the camp, the outlaws on his heels, pleading with him.

Finally, Much drew his sword, and the ring of steel silenced their pleas.

“I cannot stay.” Much said firmly. “I love you all, but I cannot stay.”

He turned and moved towards the darkening forest. Allan, with a meaningful glance at John, took several small steps forward and sideways, most likely intending to fade into the shadows, and follow Much.

“Allan, don’t follow me.” Much’s voice was disembodied, its owner now engulfed in shadow. “You’ve seen me with the sword. I wouldn’t want to fight you.”

And Allan obeyed. His face torn, he stepped back to stand with the others, and watch helplessly as Much vanished into the distance.