Title: The Road Twice Traveled
Writing Prompt: Yuku Gift Exchange 2011/12 Ficathon; Request # 9 - A missing scene set in/between S1 ep 12 and 13: what happened between Allan and Will on the road to Scarborough? Why did they return to Robin and the gang?
Word Count: 4935
Rating: PG (Adult Themes)
Characters/Pairings: Allan-A-Dale, Will Scarlet, mentions of other series outlaws, villains, and their ladies.
Spoilers/Warnings: Through Season Two ("A Good Day to Die").
Summary: The Portsmouth/Nettlestone/Scarborough connection. On Robin Hood's birthday, Allan-A-Dale experiences an intersection of time and a crossroads of decision.
Disclaimer: The BBC's Robin Hood is property BBC/Tiger Aspect.
Category: Drama/Angst; Short Fic ; Happiness through Allan-centric Fic

The Road Twice Traveled

Betrayal. To wit: Could a man - a person - betray the Sheriff of Nottingham? Betray Sir Guy of the elusively located 'Gisborne'? Could such a thing be done when the very notion of betrayal seemed to rest, most importantly, upon the concept of a shared trust and the one-sided breaking, or dissolution, of that very trust?

Did these men...blackguards, scoundrels, and as-near-to-daemons-as-one-should-ever-wish-to-come share such a trust with anyone in the known world? Even, with each other? It boggled the mind to even suggest such an above-board liaison existing between the two.

"Betray - more at traitor. 1: to lead astray; esp: SEDUCE 2: to deliver to an enemy by treachery 3: to fail or desert, esp. in time of need 4c: to disclose in violation of confidence"

Allan-A-Dale had not the particular, bookish curiosity that could have at one time lead him to such manuscripts housed within Nottingham Castle and all they might have had to offer in ponderance upon such a subject - much less defining it. But his own conscience knew better than most that he was, at present - through his actions over the past year - ticking off the multiple definitions of the very word with each traitorous breath he took.

Tick. To disclose in violation of confidence: how many of Robin's plans and secret ways of eluding capture had he shared with the enemy?

Tick. To deliver to an enemy by treachery: one loyal-to-the-King Roger of Stoke, deceased.

And now, to fail or desert, esp. in time of need: Would he add this to his mounting list of shortcomings maturing into sins? He had failed already, deserted through his choosing an (in hindsight flawed) course of action - but now, now 'in time of need' would he stay that course? Would he - through bull-headedness, through a weird, little-understood desire to shoulder responsibility for his actions - attempt to sleep in the bed he had made for himself?

Surely his own, over-worked guardian angel held her very breath waiting to learn what choice he might next make.

Portsmouth Road Inn - A sweat had first sprung up upon his lip as he castigated himself over his inability to stay angry for long. It was simply not a skill he possessed. Flashes, really, lightning-brief moments of anger were all he had ever been able to hold against Robin (against anyone). And certainly those flashes were more easily expressed than the bone-deep fear of abandonment and, yes, betrayal, he had expected to receive upon the King's return.

And though Robin was a combat-learned Crusader, no doubt their tussle in the castle kitchens would have at least shown himself having more of an edge had he been able to harness a long-lasting rage or fury - rather than the simple desperation he had felt.

Perhaps lack of sustainable anger had brought him to where he was. Certainly Will would never have been able to work - much less function - under the Sheriff and Gisborne (he had failed at it already in Locksley). His temper and outrage would have seen him executed in the first hour. John, too - though he operated on more of a slow burn. Even the usually non-violent indignation that defined Much would have compromised old Muchy's ability to carry on, follow orders, and look the other way, all the while submerging what negative emotions chores for such men usually entailed.

Certainly, Allan-A-Dale had been deeply angry several times a week (if not more) at things he was tasked to do while he wore the Gisborne black. More than once found himself teetering upon the precipice of furious. But it never lasted. The next day he was ordered to do something else, the weight of coin in his purse the only permanent reminder of his deeds.

It was a rainless night. In the barroom below a few hangers-on still sang out of tune, occasionally calling for another October Ale. But their noises lessened considerably with each passing quarter hour. He found himself fiddling with his dagger, a gift from Robin on the very night he had agreed to spy for Gisborne in return for escaping certain torture. He did not think he could ever part from it - the lone thing he still wore daily that reminded him of the past, of the forest. Of friendship and camaraderie and better, cleaner-feeling times.

In all likelihood it was not a gift of much significance to Robin – chief among the outlaws had simply noted its good blade, withdrew it from a chest of the day's haul, and encouraged Allan to take it for his own. But it was that action - no doubt unthinking - by Robin, bestowing a thing of value on a man shortly resolved to betray him that Allan saw in it more often than not. At times it made him feel as he thought he knew he ought: low-down, dirty, hollow rubbish.

Just as he had been at razzing the gang (and on Robin in particular) for never paying or rewarding him, just as he had covenanted with the devil's lieutenant Gisborne in exchange for release and future payment - here was the moment Robin, in the twinkling of an eye, reached out to him: rubies in the hilt of its finely-tooled golden blade, forged with consummate craftsman's skill. More than once Allan had unintentionally nicked himself with it when at paring his nails.

And here he was, that same Allan-A-Dale, untrustworthy (certainly the other lads would say so), disloyal, undeserving - contemplating betraying the Sheriff and Gisborne, and asking himself: was he ready to die? To die as had Lambert, as had his own brother - and countless others?

It seemed clear to him - clearer than any other decision (all of which he had usually fallen arse-backward into) in his life - that by morning he would have to decide: certain physical death were he to ride out, away from here, back to Nottinghamshire and do what he could for the gang (for whatever of the gang might be left alive); or, stay the course he had been following of late and endure the rottening away of his insides, and an eventual emotional death.

Choosing a direction, a path with such finality was not entirely foreign to him. After all, there was a point-of-no-return in cards. Many a seasoned grifter would find himself musing upon it over a warm pint of an evening when the take had been good and the ears in the tavern willing to listen. A point when you went all-in, and waited only to see the hand's conclusion, unable to take further action.

Emotional death. He almost smirked. For if sustaining anger was not a gift he possessed, holding on to enduring regret certainly seemed to be.

His mother used to say, on occasion, (usually when she knew the table was likely to be bare - or mostly bare) that if she could but make a meal of her regrets and sorrows she'd never again pass a day hungry.

And if Robin were yet alive (after all, Locksley's Lord'd pulled more magical escapes out of his bag of tricks than any man had a right to), perhaps the imminent death of Allan-A-Dale would come at his hand. Which was yet another reason he, said Allan-A-Dale, would have to further weigh the feasibility of taking Marian away with him as well.

On a good day - on a day his own regrets (using his mother's recipe) would have made only a scanty snack - he liked to compare himself to her, to Lady Marian. Likewise a spy in the castle, working with the enemy, but not so as that lot were ever able to accomplish much. Watching out - even if his help was not wanted - for Robin's best interest.

He'd managed to stay alive, hadn't he? And to keep the gang alive and whole (without him), hadn't he? He'd done Marian more than a few favors.

After all, Marian was Robin, really, wasn't she? And Robin, Marian? Two sides of the same coin. A promise from one honored by the other. One able to still the killing hand of the other.

In his agitation his own hand had gone to his never-far-from-him coin purse. He withdrew a coin, the marking upon it visible, and tactile as well. He let his thumb roll over it. Oh, he and this mark were old acquaintances - if not friends - by now.

To lead astray; esp: SEDUCE: see also one Will Scarlet, skin of wine in hand, following him down the forest road to Scarborough.

And so Allan-A-Dale recalled himself standing at yet another crossroads; leafy and green - wet with rain, unlike the dry, hot, close air of the second floor sleeping room he currently occupied.

Road to Scarborough - He looked back at Will, bringing up the rear. The rain had lightened somewhat.

He had not cared for Will's response to his question, 'Know wot I'm thinkin'?' It showed a decided lack of insight-apparently chronically so, as Will claimed he never did, never had.

It was not a response that bode well for their future together. Partners, Allan had told himself as the idea of an escape and relocation to Scarborough had coalesced in his head. He and Will would be partners in a return to the old life. Certainly he could think of no one he would trust more than Will. No one better suited to become his first apprentice in grifting.

Once they were free of the Sheriff's grip, out of the shire - and then some - anything would be possible for them. The King, after all, would not be able to right the many wrongs of the world overnight. Sure, Robin's re-instatement would no doubt be instant - first order of business and all that. But the rest: potential pardons for those the Sheriff had wrongly convicted and imprisoned? That would take time. Installing Much at his promised Bonchurch? Probably involved paperwork and ceremonies, the sending of invitations, the planning for a feast. Nothing to be done in haste, and all that.

The heart of the thing, though, really: 'wrongly convicted'. 'Wrongly accused'. But he knew it too well. He had not been driven into a life of outlawry by the Sheriff's injustice. He had chosen the wrong side of the law long ago, and for far from political reasons. Chosen in favor of himself - not nobly in favor of others, as Robin had done. And it was the King's Own laws he had broken - no matter that the Sheriff was the man enforcing them. Allan-A-Dale might not have deserved the dangle for his transgressions - but he could not with clear conscience argue that he didn't deserve something.

Him and Will? He assured himself they'd never have to return, never have to worry about being recognized. Auntie Annie would give them a roof over their head and three square a day. The horse he led was saddled with just the means to bring such a profitable abscond about.

He caught the scent of some herb or other, wet and fragrant along the wooded road as they walked away from Nottingham and Sherwood, and an image of Djaq leapt into his mind. Not only an outlaw, she wore the skin of the King's sworn enemies. Allan chewed on his lip only a moment before willing the perplexity that was Djaq to wash over and away from him. It was not like she could have been induced to come along - no more than could have John. Their belief and faith in Robin was total. There was no (he was certain) shaking that.

But, his two-steps-ahead mind scolded at them across the distance, Robin was not head man now. Now, he would give over to the King. It would be the King's will and rule. A King that might not entirely think the Sheriff's way of doing business was quite so off the mark.

He stopped himself. Wait. If he really believed the King might not be wholly trustworthy - might not prove the savior Robin prophesied him as - what was he doing running out on his best mates? Leaving Djaq to face a man - a powerful monarch - who would doubtless consider her an enemy? Leaving Robin and Much to quite possibly have their unrealistic, rosy dreams of happily-ever-after-England dashed before they might find themselves in the stocks?

What was he doing?

Scarborough was a long way off to expect to hear news of men in Sherwood Forest - much less from which to enact a rescue (before it was far too late).

He grabbed for several wet, hanging leaves from the branches above, and scrubbed them on his face, trying to wipe away his doubts, trying to make the road ahead - the road to Scarborough - easier, less cluttered, to see.

...TBC...