A/N: Sorry for the huge delay! My plot bunny morphed into the evil rabbit at the end of Holy Grail before escaping altogether. If anyone sees him, please return to sender, or alternatively, RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY!

Ahem. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. I'll be honest and say that I am completely out of my fandom here, so Chapter Two has only been written because I couldn't live with the guilt of ignoring you

To those who mentioned Robin's vengeance is possibly slightly out of character for this late in Series Three, I've made some edits to reflect your comments, but haven't removed Robin's desire for vengeance completely, because it's something I'll be exploring in the coming chapters.

Here goes...

Chapter Two

Allan waits until Robin and Tuck are asleep before creeping out of the shelter. It is a strange night, both cold and humid, and as he pads towards the fire he tugs at the collar of his shirt, trying to loosen a knot which, though imaginary, still chokes.

The fire has burnt low, its embers casting a ruddy glow over John's features, making him appear even more forbidding than usual. Allan stops a few paces away and glances at the oak tree to which Gisbourne is tied, his slumped and motionless form barely more than a clot of darkness. He supresses a shudder.

"I don't like this," he says.

John doesn't answer, but Allan is used to playing a tough crowd. "Robin's acting weird," he continues. "Holy Land weird. It's like he's regressed. I mean, one minute we're supposed to leave Gisbourne in a hell of his own making, or whatever, and the next Robin's turned dark avenger. Doesn't that seem a bit – well, a bit off? Considering all the opportunities he's had..."

"It seems like justice to me."

"Yeah?" Allan snorts. "Well, last time I checked, we were outlaws, not judges."

John watches him darkly. "Do you think we should let him go?"

"What? No! I mean..." Allan hunkers down by the fire, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I just don't want Robin doing anything he'll regret later. You know? At the execution, we all saw Gisbourne ask Isabella to spare that girl's life. He was practically begging! John, have you ever seen Gisbourne beg?"

"You point being?"

"Robin saw it too! And now he's in there spouting some nonsense about how Gizzy dragged her off into the forest to finish her off in private. I'm telling you, mate, it's like he's had a blow to head or something!" He watches John's stony expression for a few moments before letting out a sigh, trying to expell a strange feeling of helplessness. He knows he shouldn't be feeling this, not for Gisbourne of all people, but the reality of what they are going to do is like a cold fist clenching inside his chest, cutting off the air supply. Sitting back on his haunches, arse in the dirt, he stares bleakly into the embers. "It's not just Robin," he murmurs. "If we did this, it wouldn't be an execution, it wouldn't like killing castle guards or because we were under attack. Whatever Gisbourne's done ... it would still be murder."

"Like he murdered Kate's brother."

"I'm not saying he doesn't deserve it!" cries Allan, not sure who he is more frustrated with – John or himself. "Christ knows I'd like to kill him myself after what he did to me, but Gisbourne should face justice, not revenge, and that's what this is, whatever it seems like. Robin isn't about that. Not our Robin. Think about it. Do you honestly think that Gisbourne did this? Dragged an innocent girl, a girl whose life he begged Isabella to spare, out into the forest just to stab her in the stomach?"

John scowls, unwilling to be drawn down this line of argument. Truth be told he is surprised by Robin's attitude, and finds it hard to believe that Gisbourne is responsible for the girl's injuries; but he is willing to turn a blind eye to Robin's strange behaviour if it means getting rid of Gisbourne. "Look. I don't like this either, but that is why we are men and he—" this with a harsh nod towards Gisbourne, "—is a monster. Only a monster could think of killing a man in cold blood and not feel uneasy about doing it. Do you think he'd hestitate if the boot was on the other foot?"

Baffled and more than a little frustrated, Allan shakes his head. "Then why can't we just take him back to Nottingham? Let Isabella finish what she started..."

"Because she is also a monster."

"So? Monsters killing monsters – it's got a good ring to it. Biblical."

John huffs impatiently. "Allan, what are you talking about?"

"I don't know," he admits, kicking his heels in the dirt. "Just thinking out loud..."

"Well. Don't."

Allan's gaze travels back to the tree where Gisbourne is tied. Two eyes glitter in the darkness, and he realises with a prickle of unease that Gisbourne is awake, and has been listening to every word. He licks his lips nervously.

"You look knackered, John," he says, in a light, easy tone that seems to have strayed from another conversation entirely. "Why don't you go back into the shelter and get some rest? I'll take the last watch..."

John looks at him sharply. His gaze is piercing, and Allan is glad of the darkness as his face and neck flush a deep crimson. What was he thinking? After a few minutes of enduring John's silent, unblinking scutiny, he stands up and makes a great show of patting the dirt from his trousers.

"Suit yourself," he says shakily. "I'm off for a walk. Need to get some air..."

Without waiting for John's answer he turns and stalks off into the forest. It is all he can do not to break out into a run when he feels two pairs of eyes watching him go.

The first thing she hears is the song of a blackbird, sharp and bright in the morning air, followed by the sound of water bubbling beneath the lid of a copper pot. Meg hovers somewhere just beyond sleep, until the growing cacophony intrudes enough into her slumber to banish it completely. She curls her lips back from dry teeth and tries to open her eyes, which feel like they have been sealed with wax. Every ounce of her body feels thick and heavy, and when her eyelids finally peel open she is almost blinded by the sunlight streaming in through crude rafters.

Her father must have locked her in the stables again.

No, that can't be right...

Turning her head experimentally to one side, she sees a man in a tight cap sitting next to the pot, plucking feathers from the dead pheasant clamped between his knees, his expression intent and somehow troubled.

"Who are you?" she croaks.

The man looks up, startled. "You're awake!"

"Obviously," she mutters. Troubling images surface in her mind's eye: dungeons, the ominous roll of execution drums, a jeering crowd. She tries to it up. As her muscles contract, a sudden hot pain slices through her torso, and she falls back with a sharp cry.

The man scrambles to his feet, dropping the pheasant in the process.

"Please don't do that – the wound – Tuck says it will get infected—"

"Where am I?" Meg demands, gasping. "Who..."

He stops a few yards away. Unsure of what to do he picks up the bird, brushing it hurriedly with his sleeve. Its pimpled skin is now encrusted with dirt and grime.

"You're in Robin Hood's camp," he explains, looking miserably at the spoiled dinner. "I'm Much."

Meg barely registers his words. She is standing at the base of a scaffold, seeing the flash of sharp metal in the afternoon sun. A man charges towards her with a raised spear. Later, in the forest, a warm mouth press against her own...

Then darkness.

"I'm dead," she murmurs, staring at the rafters in bewilderment. "I remember..."

"We found you in the forest. You've lost a lot of blood."

"In the forest?"

"Yes."

She closes her eyes in a vain attempt to bring order to her teeming thoughts. "There was a man with me," she says. "Sir Guy ... did you find him too?"

Much doesn't answer immediately. She hears footsteps, followed by sloshing water, and when she opens her eyes he is standing beside her, holding out a wooden beaker.

"Here. Drink this," he says.

She pushes his hand away. "I asked you a question."

"You should get some rest."

"Are you deaf?"

"Tuck says-"

"Tuck says this, Tuck says that - I'm beginning to think you're Tuck's parrot!" she cries, and Much gives her a wounded look, which infuriates her even further. Determined to prove him wrong, she grits her teeth and forced herself upright. "There. You can tell your friend Tuck that I've never felt better."

It is a lie, of course: her stomach is now a furnace of pain, radiating down her thighs and into her lungs, leaving her dangerously light-headed. But she refuses to show weakness in front of the outlaw. However noble his cause might be, he is still a man! So she catches her breath by feigning interest in her surroundings, her slightly unfocussed gaze trailing from the roughly hewn bunks to the wooden staff leant against the door post, then into the clearing beyond, where the sees the ashy remnants of a fire and an oak tree looped with rope. Something strange. Leaves rustling across the ground, scattered by a cool breeze that slips through the trees...

The scene comes suddenly into focus as Meg realises what is strange about it: why the water bubbled so loudly beneath the copper pot, why the blackbird's song was so sharp and clear. The camp is deserted.

"Where is everyone?" she asks.

Much is staring at her as though she is an optical illusion. He blinks at the question, and it takes him a moment to find his voice. "They'll be back soon ... I mean, they have something ... there's this thing they have to take care of ..."

"Is Guy with them?"

Silence again. She watches him carefully, trying to work out whether there is more to his evasiveness than sheer stupidity. Nervous and miserable, Much glances out into the clearing, his gaze coming to rest on the oak tree she had noticed a few moments before. Above the rope she sees a dark stain on the bark. Meg realises, with curiosity and a growing sense of unease, that she is looking at dried blood.

"You don't have to be afraid of him," Much says, his voice quiet and strangely hollow. "Not for very much longer..."