Another one of my old oneshots, originally posted on the rh2006 forum.

It is a past-fic about Robin and Much in the Holy Land, written from Much POV. Robin is wounded and Much tries to deal with it.

Enjoy,
Trix

A Place to Heal

The hospital was not a place for healing.

It was merely a storeroom; a space to stock the bodies of dying soldiers while their spirits still clung to their frail human shells. The wasted men that you didn't know where else to put had to be somewhere, and they had to die in a place where you still maintained the precious hope. This was a crusade after all, if there was no God to save the soldiers then who were they fighting for? Thus they preyed and hoped and died all the same, with feverish hands clenched around the wooden crosses. Only rarely was the hospital a place of rest and recuperation - in spite of all the fancy remedies and hopeful hymns this was as much a final destination as the morgue. The two institutions was even placed in adjoining tents; however pious the crusade the crusaders were still practical men. You did not come out alive.

Much knew all this as well as the next man. He avoided the hospital if he could, would even take detours around the camp to not be close to it. The mere presence felt somehow toxic, as if his soul got tainted and his body dirty by the close proximity. He got an urge to wash up and that was always unwise when water was as scarce as if was in this yellow desert. It still seemed odd for a man so used to the humid climate of the British Isles that God would choose a place this dry - this dead and cursed – that hardly anything wished to live here. The sun burned your skin to leather, scorched it first to deep stinging red that came off in big flakes transparent as the wings of butterflies, and then turned it hard and brown like bark. Robin had been wise to cover up and told Much to do the same.

Robin was always the wise one.

That was how it was. Robin led and Much followed. When Much took detours around the hospital Robin laughed it off as silly superstition but yet he never forced the manservant to follow him there. And oh did the master spend much time in that wretched place… It was as if he was drawn there by a magnet, as if the horror of the battlefield was not enough. He took in all the terror, all the pain, refused to take detours but instead faced every demon with his eyes hard and his back straight. Much would put cloth in his ears in battle, shutting out the screams of the dying soldiers, the clinging from the blades, the thousands of bodies struggling to stay alive in the sand, but Robin never did. He kept his mind astute, all his senses sharp. Not that you could actually hear anything through the roaring, methodical slaughtering, it was more of a matter of standing one's ground than anything. The imprint of his upbringing was still very much a reality in the young noble's mind, filled with hollow, futile words of 'honour' and 'glory'. Thus he challenged his own fears and let them eat on him, stared into the dragon's jaw with the same determination as he said his prays every night after the battles. And Much he tagged along, he followed patiently and loyally wherever Robin went.

The hospital was the exception. Much would wait by their tent, cook them supper and make the beds ready for another haunted and strangely chilly desert night. And then when Robin came back Much would make him eat, force him to swallow the food that held no flavour to him. Some nights they talked gently about times past, laughing and bickering while savouring the companionable atmosphere. And then at other times Much simply sat in silence as his master cried and wept and cursed as if there was no tomorrow.

So it had been, and as the months grew to years you got used to it, found a routine that made the darkness less suffocating. Much came to think that there would be no Much without Robin, that he would be lost without him, not knowing who he was or where he was going. And therefore it was also true that nothing, nothing else than Robin could ever have made Much venture into the dusty tent known as the hospital. He stood almost trembling in the opening, watching the rows of beds, or at least some kind of arrangements, where a man could be shuffled in. It was horrible, terrifying, it made him cold to the bone in spite of the heat. Yet he had to find his master.

Every one of Much's senses seemed to become sharpened, taking in this place that he had been avoiding with a fear that made him embarrassed to call himself a soldier. The room was filled with hushed voices, friars praying or taking confessions from the wounded soldiers, and every here and there you could hear the eerie sounds of men in pain. Moans and laments came from the beds, and some patients were hallucinating, speaking to themselves with words that meant nothing to the casual observer. It was a smell too, sweat and blood and something else that Much interpreted as the sweet scent of decay and death. It still made him queasy after all years in the war and he swallowed hard to not throw up. Judging by the smell he would not be the first man to do that, he realised as his nose took in the undercurrents of vomits and urine, and he did hid best not to breathe. His eyes too, were forced to take in the impressions around him, even though he would have preferred to simply shut them hard and hope that an angel would lead him to his master's side.

This would be a good place for angels, Much mused as he ventured further into the tent, yet there were none. He called out Robin's name in a hushed voice as to not disturb the fragile balance in the room, hoping he would answer him in that light, cheeky voice he always used when Much was being irrational. There had been blood… Much felt a pang in his chest at the reminiscence, a fear that gripped him once again. He had seen the redness on his master's fingers, seen him bend double and rise with agonised yells. He'd talked about the king and Much had followed his orders, followed in spite of caring nothing about the king if Robin was dying. His place was by Robin's side, yet he had not been there, he had been too late. Still, it was just blood. A flesh wound could be survived, as long as there were no fever a man with a simple cut would have a better chance to come out alive than a man with his fluids unbalanced. As Much searched for his master his eyes lingered for a moment on a surgeon who drained blood from a man lying pale and shivering in some mysterious sickness. The deep red fluid made a sharp contrast to the ashen skin and at his other side sat a friar praying for his soul. You did not come out alive from this place.

The tent that prided itself with the title 'Hospital' was crowded and it took time to find Robin. Much felt like he was walking through a battlefield, yet this was somehow even worse. There were too many men vainly struggling to stay alive, too much futile hope, too little dignity in this slow, agonized dying. These men all came to this place to serve God, filled with passion and life and grand ideas, and they departed like this. They were broken, crumbling souls holding on to the vague idea of salvation in the after life, disillusioned and disappointed about a journey gone wrong. He wondered if they cried as Robin did, if they cursed in rage over the hopelessness of it all, if they were haunted by nightmares too…

'Marian…'

The name sounded sharp and loud, cut through the warm dry air like one of Robin's arrows. Much had heard that name so many times, yelled through the nightmares and dreams, soft and loving or agonized and pained like this time. It was a call out to someone who was far, far away, it was a lost dream, a name painted in regret and longing. Much felt his heart sink at the sound, the helpless pleading to a person who could not answer. He made his way towards his master's voice and fell down, yes it was a fall rather than the controlled movement of someone seating himself, by Robin's bed.

It was a body like any. Robin was warm and sweaty, throwing himself from side to side in a nightmare that he couldn't wake up from. His eyes weren't closed in sleep but half-open, staring at a hallucination that was more real to him than Much who sat by his side, and he looked stricken by grief and remorse. The blankets lay twisted around Robin's legs, his arms moved uneasily as if they tried to fend of demons and even though he was alive and at least half awake he just wasn't there.

'Master,' Much said, taking Robin's trembling hand in his. 'Master, it will be fine… You saved the king, all by yourself. The best surgeons they got will look after you… And the best priests and friars I'm sure. The ones that God listens too, do you hear that?' Much felt that his face was wet and realised that he must be crying. He was rambling but he couldn't help it. At least the sound of his own voice gave him something to focus at. 'The king has moved on,' he continued, 'we will be sent home you see. Back to England as soon as you are fit for travel master. It is only the sick and wounded left here now, no more battles… And that is why you need to wake up! You need to wake up, get out of this place… We will return as heroes, return to Locksley, to Marian… '

'Marian… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…'

'…she will forgive you I'm sure. Maybe she has waited for you. Everything we dreamed of, so close now if you only wake up…"

It was a vain hope, but all hope was ultimately vain here. You needed it all the same. He looked up as he felt another man's presence and saw a rather shabby looking man standing over him. He spoke in an irritatingly soft voice, the kind of voice that made Much want to shake him and shout at him to talk as a decent man. All this sleazy, silky softness, as if bad news got better by the tone they were told in...

'I am the surgeon who had treated Sir Robin,' he said with a gentle smile, rocking the listener into a false feeling of security. 'The wound was easily patched up but I'm afraid the fever has taken its hold. It is up to God now, I fear. I will be moving on by dawn tomorrow...'

'Move on?!' Much could feel his mouth being sheepishly half open in awe, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'But surely you must stay and treat him! This man has saved the king!'

'And the Lord will be grateful for his deeds,' the surgeon said with a sudden edge in his voice. He didn't like to be accused like this, and certainly not by a simple manservant. 'My place is with the army where my services are best needed. Now, young man, I suggest you pray. It is the best you can do for your master.'

Much watched the surgeon walk off to the next patient, casting out his verdicts as some sort of self-appointed god. You may live, you may die, God have mercy on your soul…

God have mercy my… donkey, Much thought and clenched his teeth. He turned his attention to Robin again, saw his master's plagued look, pleading and begging, longing for his long lost love and stuck in never ending nightmares. With a determined look he dipped a piece of cloth in the water that stood by the bed and put in on Robin's feverish forehead.

'Do not worry Master,' he said. 'I will get you out of this place alive. I shall will you to live, and when you are well you and I shall return to England. You must live, and therefore you will."

Much wiped the hot skin with the damp cloth and untwined the sweaty sheets from Robin's legs. He took a flask filled with water before he put it gently to his master's lips, holding his head up to make him drink the fluid. Then he shuffled a piece of wood in between his teeth and started to care for the wound, changing the yellow bandages and rinsing it clean with wine. In times of desperate need Much could be both resourceful and determined.

This time the hospital would be a place for healing.