Disclaimer : I don't own anything except any characters you don't recognise from the BBC Robin Hood show. And I'm a skint student, so please don't sue me.

Rating: T

Summary : New outlaws, new betrayal and new love flourish in the forest as Robin and his men recover from the events of the Holy Land. [Post season two finale

Author's Note : I started writing this story and couldn't resist temptation to start posting it. I have a confession to make: I haven't seen much Robin Hood. I am Nottingham born and bred but was in America for a year whilst the first series was shown, then always busy on Saturday nights during the second season. I caught a few episodes on UKTV Gold a couple of weeks ago and became addicted! Its my new love. I have read online what happens so hopefully this fic won't have too many mistakes, please let me know if I make any glaring ones.

So without furthur ado, Retribution!

Chapter 1

The camp seemed smaller somehow. Allan wasn't sure how, but it did. He had imagined it would be roomier, even spacious, with three less people living in it. Instead, the walls closed in around them, reminding the remaining outlaws how small their world was and how much emptier it was now.

Staring into the flames of the merrily blazing fire, all Allan could see was their faces. Marian, gone forever, hopefully to somewhere she could finally live in peace without divided loyalties or torn affections. Will and Djaq, not dead, but who knew when he would see them again? Allan's greatest regret was that he had been unable to prove himself to them, his best friends. He had betrayed them, and now he could not spend every day making it up to them as he had tried to do with the others.

Not that they noticed – everyone was too preoccupied with their own thoughts. No longer was there any of the teasing, joking or easy laughter that Allan thrived on, none of the fun he had missed during his time as Gisborne's man. Cooped up in camp, Robin too absorbed in his grief to formulate any plans, all they had to do was dwell on their loss. They dared not venture too far from their secret base, fearful of crossing the Sheriff and Gisborne; after the events of the Holy Land their rage would be absolute.

Allan was not used to sitting still and resisting the urge to fidget. He had delighted in fidgeting around Gisborne and the Sheriff, knowing how much it annoyed them both. Risking the disturbance of movement he twisted his head to survey his companions.

Robin was lying on his bunk with his back to the room, no doubt thinking of Marian, perhaps reliving the nightmare moment of her death. Allan was terrified for Robin, and for what his self-imposed isolation meant for the rest of them. He seemed to have lost faith in their cause – worse, he seemed to have lost interest. Allan A Dale was not one to trust easily, probably because he knew that he himself was not to be trusted. He was more likely to betray someone else and let them take a punishment on his behalf than face the consequences of his actions. But Robin – Robin was different. He inspired trust. And Allan A Dale would have followed Robin Hood to his death.

Sitting on the bunk opposite Robin's, worried eyes fixed on his master, was Much. Allan felt a stir of pity in his stomach for the young man who was suffering almost as badly as Robin. Dark circles under his eyes showed how little he had slept, as he lay awake for hours in case his master needed him. Robin did need him – he just hadn't realised it yet. He snapped at Much every time he tried to offer words of comfort. Although Allan had often been scathing of Much's commitment to another man and scornful of the sacrifices he made for him, he wished Robin would stop being so cruel to the most loyal friend he would ever find.

John sat near Allan, next to the fire, trying to make himself useful by cleaning a sword with a rag. The sword hadn't been used for weeks, and was already gleaming with cleanliness, but Allan knew he just needed something to distract him. Allan was glad he was there; John didn't say much, but his solid presence was somehow comforting. And Allan knew the quiet man felt the loss as deeply as any of them.

Stifling a yawn Allan ran a hand through his hair, wincing as he felt the dirt and grit loosen under his fingertips. He was certainly back in the forest; no baths with pretty girls ready to fill them with warm water for you. He was tired, but he knew sleep would not come easily to him that night. It never did anymore.

The camp was silent. Allan hated silence, but he did not dare speak. He knew any attempt at conversation would fall flat, any of his characteristic humour would be unwelcome. Needing something to do he tossed another log on the fire. Much jumped slightly, startled by the hiss and crack of the flames as they took hold of the fresh wood. Allan watched the flames lick along the log, their cheerful brightness taunting him. The colour and light seemed intrusive somehow, in this dark place filled with despair and uncertainty. Emotions were crowding the camp, stifling it.

Allan couldn't stand it anymore. He rose swiftly from the stool on which he had been seated and left the camp quickly, before anyone could reprimand him for venturing alone into the unknown darkness. He just needed to get out.

The fresh air was a balm to his soul, the feeling of freedom overwhelming him. The forest was quiet too, but it was a peaceful, calming silence and a welcome relief.

Allan's sense of direction had always been poor at the best of times, and the darkness did not improve matters. To him all the trees looked the same – he had never understood how Will had been able to navigate the forest easier than if he had had a map. The thought of Will made his stomach clench and he began walking quickly, blinking furiously to get rid of the tears that had sprung from nowhere.

He made for the nearest path, reaching it quickly and walking blindly along it until a sound in the distance made him freeze. Even Allan, whose hearing was almost as poor as his sense of direction, could not miss the distinct sound of hoof beats against the packed dirt of the road.

Ducking into the undergrowth and behind the nearest tree Allan gripped the handle of his sword, glad that he had had the sense to grab it on his way out of camp. The moon was bright and the source of the sound soon came into sight.

The horse was lame – it was favouring its right foreleg – but was plodding forward determinedly, head bowed. There seemed to be a pile of blankets on its back. Allan waited, his interest piqued, alert all the while for a sign of the horse's owner.

As it neared the horse stumbled and the bundle upon its back slid to the ground, landing in a heap with a thud. Tightening his grip on his sword, Allan ran forward silently until he could kneel by the pile, which he soon realised was a person wrapped in a cloak. It was a girl, if the blonde hair spilling out of the hood was any indication, and a dark stain on her arm showed that she was bleeding. For a moment Allan wondered if she was dead, as that would explain why she had been slumped over her horse's neck and then put up no resistance to falling from the animals back, but then he noticed the gentle rise and fall of her chest and knew she was merely unconscious.

A moment of indecision hit him as he wondered if he should just check her belongings for valuables to steal before sense set in and he realised his could not leave a vulnerable, injured girl lying on the road alone. Decision made he gathered her into his arms, grunting slightly as he stood. He managed to catch hold of the reins of the docile horse with a spare finger and with a click of the tongue to summon the animal Allan set off back the way he had come.

A/N: So there you have it. I know the ending is very damsel-in-distress, but hopefully the next few chapters will improve things. Reviews are love.