Hey peeps. Thanx for the reviews :)

Dina C: The chapters are still pretty sad, but it will get better eventually. Less wallowing in grief anyway :lol: I understand why people like Guy the least, I don't even read Guy-fics myself. He is difficult, but rather interesting, to write though.
MissWed: There will be more Luke coming :D More Will/Djaq as well, not going to leave them in this horrid state.
LoonyLover: I think Djaq is experiencing some disillusion when things didn't turn out as she planned. There will be sweet stuff between them eventually as well. Basically I think the situation they find themselves in put too much strain on such a fresh, fragile relationship. LJ will be better once everything gets better I think. :) Not going to have any more suicidal ranting from him, that was number two or three in stuff I hated about the finale.
Gatewatcher: Yeah I feel sorry for them as well-- But I got stuff planned for them ;)
X-Kate-X: lol, I love writing excitement and drama, there will be more stuff like that later on. :D
LadyElsii: lol, glad you liked it. I update as fast as I can without wasting all my life on fanfiction :lol:
Daze-dly: I never start a story that I don't finish ;) Yeah I was sort of in need for a alternative ending after the horror the beeb put my poor shipper heart through--
MonthyPythonFan: Aw yeah there could be more MP references lol. I love them. :D

Love,
Trix

Chapter 9: And then there were three

-In which Allan finds himself in a delicate situation that requires tact—Oh my.

Allan had been all set on going to Scarborough when he returned to England. Well, pretty soon anyway. In a not so distant future. Perhaps after the winter, when the roads were better. He had made a promise to Will after all, although he hadn't exactly specified how soon after the return he would do it. Might be just as well to wait, he had told himself as they set foot on English soil; it wasn't like anyone was going anywhere.

In any case, he had certainly not expected to find Luke Scarlett awaiting their return. Seeing Will's younger brother pop his blonde head out of the dusky camp had caused Allan to silently curse his bad luck. What was the point of making all sorts of fabulous excuses if reality kept changing the rules of the game? He would have preferred a bunch of useless guards any time, especially since he knew most of them. In his experience there was nothing quite as unsettling as killing a man who cheerfully sent his regards to your wife and children.

Yet here he stood faced with Luke Scarlett, as sweet end sensitive as ever when he shyly made his presence know. Luke had a certain resemblance to Will, but there was less latent anger in him. He was the kind of person that followed rather than led the way; gladly found heroes and role models to silently worship, even though he was more bothered with the state of his immediate family than the state of the world. Allan had noticed how Will was protective towards Luke and it was not simply because he was the elder brother. Luke had the kind of personality that made you think he needed to be protected and that made it all the more difficult to break the news to him.

"Where is Will?" Luke said as soon as he emerged from the shadows and walked out to meet the returning outlaws. "Where is he, what has happened?"

"What are you doing here Luke?" Much asked, still too preoccupied with the mystery of the young man's presence in the camp to get his priorities straight. He was pacing around the living area, inspecting the state of it and noting that the stores were well-filled. "I mean, you must have been here some time."

"Do you mind?" Allan sighed and let his eyes dart from the annoying manservant to Luke. "First things first, right? Lukey—the good news is, your brother is alright."

"But where is he?" Luke repeated. "If there is good news then there is bad news."

"Nah it's—" Allan started before he noted the tense atmosphere around them. He put a hand on Luke's back and shuffled him towards the slope that led down to the camp. "Look mate, go to that creepy floating head—"

"My father's memorial?" Luke asked him.

"Yeah that's it. I'll just talk to the lads. Will is fine, don't worry."

Luke nodded reluctantly and walked off with a final glance at the outlaws. He was used to being told what to do and was usually rather easily persuaded, too shy and modest to argue his case.

"You will talk to the lads?" Much repeated scornfully as soon as Luke disappeared behind the crest. "Since when did you become the camp shrink?"

"Shut up, Much. I have to do this," Allan sighed. "You really think I like breaking little Lukey's heart? I promised Will, didn't I?"

"That is good Allan," Robin mumbled, silencing Much's oppositions. Now that the danger was over he had taken on that aloof expression again, staring at some spot of nothingness in the dusky camp as the memories fell over him. This would be a difficult evening and quite frankly Allan was glad to leave it for a while. Shame though that the encounter that awaited him was nearly as bad.

The leaves rustled under Allan's feet as he walked off to that horrid memorial Will had built for his father. It was cloudy and the face would look like blurry, pale spots at best, but it still seemed like an appropriate place. The forest was naked with the approaching winter, the branches almost stripped bare in the chilly air, and Allan pulled his cloak closer around him. Why couldn't he they just have stayed in southern France over the bleedin' winter?! Surely Luke would have given up waiting for them and gone back to Scarborough, and he could just postpone this a little further—

"Where is he Allan? Where is Will?"

Allan stopped in the glen where Luke stood nervously waiting for him. He had a knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other, the bark already stripped off to reveal the smooth wood beneath it. What was it with the Scarletts and wood? As far as Allan knew there was a difference between a comfy chair and a hard stool, but wood was just wood. Yet they treated it with something that seemed like dignified respect, caressing it and smiling fondly at the dead material as they worked with it. If they spent half that much passion on the women in their lives, Djaq's choice of spouse might actually have been a wise one.

"Look Lukey. Don't be cross alright? Your brother thought he should stay in the Holy Land for a while—you knew we were in the Holy Land, right?"

Luke looked confused, as if he didn't quite know what to do with his body, then slumped down by a tree and started to carve the wood again. His movements were fast and angry as he pulled the knife away from himself, making flakes of yellow wood fall to the ground, and his work seemed purposeless. He was carving because he could, because he liked the feel of the metal against the soft material, not because he was actually making something out of it.

"No," he finally mumbled. "I didn't know. No one knew, they all just guessed. I asked everyone. They say you abandoned them, or died. Some say you were a myth all along, that there never was a Robin Hood—"

"Sorry," Allan murmured. "Nah we had to go, take care of the sheriff."

"Didn't you change side?"

"I changed back," Allan grinned, then his smile faded and he sat down besides Luke. Allan wasn't a modest man, but he knew his limits and he wasn't good at this. In his family you didn't talk about things. If he had a problem with one of his brothers they threw some punches, shuffled each other around a bit, then the winner bought the looser a beer. Actually they had been buying each other beers as long as they had hands to pick pockets with, Allan remembered rather fondly. He usually won over Tom so fighting him was expensive. Yet it was worth it, knowing how bitter that ale tasted in his brother's mouth and how much he could gloat and smirk in triumph. Allan grunted miserably, of course this stupid encounter had to bring out memories. He had a feeling the policy of throwing tender punches wouldn't work here though; the Scarlett boys were different, and perhaps that was why he liked them. They were nothing like the tough people he grew up with.

"Listen Luke, I know," Allan tried, "I know how it is to loose a brother. I mean, mine was a bleedin' idiot. He had t coming really—" The image of Tom-a-Dale dangling from the castle wall flashed by in Allan's head and he shrugged it off with a pang of regret. "Not that you 'ave lost 'im or anything. He just wanted to stay with Djaq. Some blokes get like that when they meet a lass that they think is special or whatever."

"Will and Djaq?" Luke asked a bit puzzled.

"Yeah, he didn't tell you? Head over heels he was. Well, is. You will understand when you get older."

"I am old enough," Luke responded flatly.

"Yeah? A special someone is there?"

Luke's face became red and Allan couldn't help grinning over his reaction.

"No," the young man murmured. "Not now. I have been here for months, when I heard the rumours that you were gone—I came here to find my brother. I have to find my brother. Now I will have to go to him—"

"Wha?! No Luke, listen, he is in the Holy Land. He said to me, tell Luke to be a carpenter, right? Make him proud." Allan frowned and fumbled for the right words. Bond with him, reason with him, flatter him. "Look at you carving that wood, you got it in your blood mate."

Luke stopped carving and they sat silent for a while, staring at the piece of wood clenched in his hand. It didn't resemble anything, just a shredded branch with curly flakes sticking out like some sort of frayed petals. He tossed it away and leaned against the tree, his head bumping against the coarse stem with a low thud.

"I'm going for my brother," he mumbled, his face stubborn and grumpy.

"Nah you can't!"

"I will."

Allan sighed and let his head dip down into his hands, rubbing his temples wearily. Perhaps Luke wasn't so very different from Will after all; he sure had that same stubbornness once he really wanted something. "You will go though France?" Allan asked.

"Yes."

"But you don't know a word of French!"

"Did you?"

"Not being funny but Robin did! And then there is the money—you need to take a boat you know. It's horrible! You'll hate it!"

"I'll get a job on a ship," Luke responded. "My mother always said; if you really want something, you have to work for it. It doesn't just come walking to you. It takes sacrifice and hard work."

Allan glared at the young man, then let the air out of his lunges with one deep sigh as he realised what he had to do. Allan-a-Dale was not a man that worked hard for things. He was a firm believer in the notion that things did come walking if you just waited in the right spot. Yet Luke was different, and in the end there was only one solution to this mess.

"Right," he grunted wearily. "Then I will just 'ave to come with you, won't I? At least I know the bloody way, more or less." He frowned and looked at the surrounding forest. "Well," he added. "It's south anyway—the way the birds fly in the winter."

"Do you think people will ever be able to fly?" Luke asked, a question seemingly taken out of the thin air. "It would be faster I think."

"Wha?!" Allan exclaimed. "People fly? Are you daft?!"

Luke Scarlett shrugged his shoulders and rose from the uncomfortable position by the tree. He wiped the leaves and pieces of wood from the coarse wool clothes and stood to watch the memorial Will had built. Allan studied him as he folded his hands and let his head fall down in a silent prayer; the structure casting a pale shadow over his figure and a soft wind tugging the bangs of light brown hair. Then he moved his hand to his eyes and wiped them off, a swift movement that he didn't care to shield from Allan. It surprised the older man a bit since he would have blushed with embarrassment if anyone saw him cry like that. In his experience it was a great way to give people a reason to beat you up, showing weakness publicly, but then again a forest wasn't really stuffed with people. Luke was red and puffy-eyed when he turned to Allan with half a smile.

"You don't need to come," he mumbled bashfully. "I can manage."

"Don't be silly. Why would I like to stay 'ere in the cold bloody winter when I can go south? Nah, it will be like a vacation mind you."

"Really?" Luke smiled gratefully, and Allan felt a short moment of something that he couldn't quite place at first. Then he realised that it was pride, the knowledge that he finally did something right. Sure, Robin would like him to stay here, but they could do without him. Luke couldn't. He needed him, and Allan wasn't used to being needed and having people rely on him.

"Yeah, sure," he answered with more certainty than he felt. In people thought that you knew what you were doing they would believe you and follow blindly, that was the big secret of a successful trickery. Luke needed to think that Allan was perfectly in control because it would keep him calm. The young man's eyes were filled with trust and gratitude, and it reminded Allan of the faces of the people watching Robin aim his bow at a hangman's rope. He would fix this. They would walk through France with the soles of their shoes worn thin, live off will and enthusiasm without a penny in their pockets. Who needed French when you could sing? Who needed food when your heart was pure? Allan moaned silently at the gloomy prospects of the trip. His feet would get wet and cold and sore, again. They would have to steal to live and Luke would silently resent him for it, since honest men never understood the necessity of dishonesty. When they finally arrived at their destination it would be hot and sandy everywhere. They would be seasick and starving, and then Will would very gently persuade them to go back home without him.

"Thank you," Luke mumbled shyly before he turned to take the lead back to the camp. "Thank you, Allan."

---

The camp was unbearable so when Much offered Robin a flask of strong October ale he took it in spite of usually being cautious with alcohol. It wasn't much of an escape but it dulled him off a bit, made it easier to be rude and irrational and not care about his companions. He raised his mug to cheer in mock celebration of their safe return and nearly laughed out loud at the outlaws' discomfort. Sorrow did not become him. Robin knew from experience that he became nasty when he lost control, felt frustrated and trapped. Now the camp felt unbearable and he reacted by being mean and snappy, pushing back the guilty conscience at their hurt expressions. Everything here reminded him of Marian. The blanket he had wrapped around him had once been wrapped around her, back when she needed heat to be comfortable. He knew it was this one because the edge was frayed from where her fingers had played with the threads, absently untangling the weave until Much pointed out that threads were useless on their own. It was strange how a harmless memory could feel so fraught with dire consequences in retrospect. Had Marian not done with her life as she did with the blanket, untangling herself from the group to play her own game, she would still be alive. A shudder went down Robin's spine and he took another sip of the strong beer, feeling it burn without warming him up. A blanket wouldn't do her any good where she was now, any more than the untangled threads would.

"It will get better."

Robin flinched and turned to Little John. "Pardon?" he mumbled.

"It feels hard now but in time, it gets better. Easier," the big man repeated.

"Because I will forget her," Robin answered bitterly. He knew it was wrong to cling to the memories, to wallow in grief, but a part of him feared what would come when sorrow faded even more than sorrow itself. The emptiness was to terrifying; the knowledge that there might be a world without her, where he could learn to live, felt wrong.

"You will never forget her, master," Much pointed out. "You didn't forget her in the Holy Land did you? I mean—during the war."

Robin gave out a bitter laughter. That was part of the problem, a small part but still. In the blazing heat of the Holy Land there had been times when he had forgotten about her. Even though he had missed her, he hadn't always remembered what it was that he missed. Her face had become a pale memory, the features he had known so well started to elude him, and words she once spoke became impossible to recall. Those had been the loneliest nights, more frightening than the Saracen swords because everything had felt so utterly futile. In time it would be like that again. There are more ways than one to loose a person, and she would disappear from him bit by bit until the memory of her was watery and full of holes.

"Much is right," Little John agreed. "You will not forget. But it will be easier."

"So," Robin scoffed, feeling irrationally resentful towards these people that only wished him well. "Ten years from now I won't scare my friends senseless by shouting that I want to die?"

The following silence was so tense it seemed stifling. Did that hurt, John? Robin thought; his grief-stricken mind unkind and selfish. He felt no wish to apologise, only wanted the heartache to cease somehow. I hurt more.

"That was uncalled for, Robin," Much said cautiously. "You do not mean that. You hurt and—sometimes you say things you don not mean."

"It was a question not a statement," Robin smiled. He hated this. He hated to be here in this camp in this forest. He hated the stupid blanket that kept him warm, resented the night that made him remember lying awake and listening to Marian's soft snoring next to Djaq. He detested the morning as well, because a morning was the beginning of another day. He hated the trees because they didn't care about his pain and hated his friends because they did care, but said all the wrong things. He even hated the outlaw's looks when their eyes were shot, because he knew how they would look if they were open and aimed at him. It wasn't easy to please him, Robin thought with a shivering laughter.

"So," he continued, still shaking with tainted glee what refused to be cowed. "We need a plan of action."

"What, now?" Much exclaimed. "Master surely—We don't need to think about that now! I'm not sure you should have more ale, perhaps we should go to bed. I mean—everything will look better in the morning."

"It will look the same, only slightly lighter once the sun is up," Robin murmured. "The sheriff is back, we are back. Remember what that maid on the Blue boar inn said. Vaysey is planning a feast to celebrate his victorious return." Robin felt anger for a moment overshadowing the grief at the thought of the sheriff and Guy.

"We are only four," Much pointed out and looked over to the corner where Allan and Luke sat silently. They looked uncomfortable and Allan was uncharacteristically silent. "Well, five, if we count Luke I guess."

Allan gave Luke an awkward glance and the younger man stared down into the leaves, the flames from the fire making sharp shadows dance over his features.

"What?" Much asked.

"Well," Allan mumbled. "I think perhaps you will be only three."

"What!?" Much repeated louder.

Luke took up a stick and started to poke around the fire, making it spit and spark with little embers escaping to the floor, glow a few seconds and die out.

"Luke and I are going away for a while," Allan answered, chewing on some dry meat while he avoided the outlaws' looks. "Should 'ave said earlier, I know—"

"I knew it," Much exclaimed. "Luke, what has he told you? Don't listen to him, whatever he said! He can not be trusted. Hah! Oh, I said he would betray us again, but did you listen? No, no one listens to Much— Well, I'm just saying. Perhaps you should."

Robin had lifted his eyes to Luke and Allan, and studied them intensely while Much continued to ramble. To listen is not only to hear the words spoken, it is to feel them and register the tone and mood surrounding them. Robin knew the art of reading between the lines, and to be honest Luke Scarlett wasn't very subtle. There was more there than Allan's simple words, and then he realised what it was. "It was Luke's idea," he interrupted Much. "Allan is trying to do the right thing."

"Oh," Much said a bit taken aback. "Ah—well—is that true?"

"We're off to pay Will a visit," Allan mumbled in response. "Right or not—mind you, doing things right isn't really my strength. Can't let him go alone though, can I?"

The camp was silent as Much failed to find any words to express his thoughts about this unexpected turn of events, and John simply sighed and rolled his eyes. Having to put up with the folly of youth was the curse of aging, it seemed. They would never listen. Finally Robin just nodded and smiled faintly. The ale was starting to get to him, making him drowsy as he started to sink down deeper by the wall; the cloth of his blanket scratching against the rough wood. Two more threads untangled from their weave; and then there were three.

"Very well," he sighed in a tired voice. "Give him my regards. We can still pay the sheriff's party a visit—three will be quite enough."

NEXT: So what is Marian up to anyway? You know you want to find out. ;-)