Disclaimer : The BBC owns Robin Hood. Unfortunately. I could have so much fun with them if they were mine.

Rating: K

Summary : Will and Djaq try to cope with Allan's betrayal.

Author's Note : This is really different to my other one shots! Its not fluffy, for a start. But mainly because it isn't a stringent Will/Djaq shipper fic! I saw the first few episodes of series 2 for the first time yesterday and it really changed my view on the whole Will/Djaq/Allan saga. Up to episode 5 I honestly think it was Allan/Djaq all the way! It was only him being out the way that let her and Will get closer. So, this is my reaction to the end of episode 5, partly inspired by my new found affection for Djaq/Allan and partly inspired by a passage in the fic Weakness by Biancaneve. Check it out, it's awesome. And if you get to the end of this and like it, let me know! :)

Betrayal

The camp was silent. It had never been so silent. Will glanced up, looking to Allan for a quip or crude anecdote to lighten the mood, forgetting for a second that he was gone. Allan was gone; that was why the camp was still and quiet, as if suspended in time, no-one knowing quite what to say or how to act.

The scent of accusation and betrayal still lingered, everyone full of regret and guilt for accusing one another of treachery. Will felt it the keenest; first, Much had accused him, and then Robin had banished him from the gang. He knew why he had done it, knew it had been a trick; but the pain still smarted, both on the cheekbone with which Robin's fist had connected, and in his heart.

That pain was nothing compared to the agony and rage that consumed him when he thought of Allan's treachery. His fists clenched without him realising, his blood began to boil in his veins, and his jaw set firmly, a muscle twitching in his neck. He was furious, but he had learned to manage his rage. It bubbled under the surface, unlike the uncontrollable emotion that had spilled over when he saw his father killed. Buried under the rage was hurt, pain that permeated every fibre of his being. Allan had been his best friend, but he had given it all up for a few coppers.

It was strange, Will mused, how money and power were so corrupting. He didn't understand the lure of money, nor the appeal of power.

His family had never been rich. When Edward had been Sheriff and Robin's father in charge of Locksley, they had been relatively comfortable, as Dan's carpentry business had been successful. But they had never had an abundance of money, and they had been perfectly happy. They didn't have platters of venison to eat, but they had enough food. They hadn't been dressed in silk and linens, but they had had clothes to play in and a nicer set for church. They hadn't attended fancy parties and feasts, but there had been plenty of children to play with and villagers willing to tell stories and entertain them. He, his parents, and Luke had had each other, and that had always been enough.

Will had also never harboured a lust for power, a desire to take charge and influence the lives of hundreds. Holding a position such as Sheriff was far too much responsibility; even if your intentions were right, politics was a dangerous game to play. It was far too easy for a man to let power go to his head, to make him think himself more important than his position and the people he served.

It was strange, too, how his concept of such things had changed in the past months. Two years ago his mind had been determined that there were only two paths in life. The good path, and the bad path. Right and wrong. Good and evil. Now the boundaries of his values had blurred slightly; he had seen how easy it was to stray from the right path, how the choice between right and wrong balanced on the edge of a knife.

He would always have believed that he was on the right path. He was good, he knew that. He was doing something good, something inherently right, by taking from the rich and helping those that couldn't help themselves. But when his father had been killed, in a split second his life had changed, until he was treading a different path – a path towards betrayal, cruelty and murder. He knew how easy it was to take a wrong turn, and that was what Allan had done – he wasn't evil, he had just made a poor choice.

But that did not mean that he forgave Allan. He couldn't even begin to comprehend how Allan had betrayed his friends for a few measly coins. Will would rather have died than betray Robin, Much, John, Djaq or Allan. But then, he supposed, that was the difference between him and Allan.

The sudden sound of boots against wood disturbed the silence and Will's head snapped up to see Djaq stand, mumble something about firewood, and leave the camp. Without hesitating he stood and followed her.

He had a feeling he knew where she was going, and his theory was proved correct. After a short walk through the twilit forest he saw her, on her knees, burrowing through the fallen leaves that littered the ground. Leaning against a tree he watched until she triumphantly pulled something from a crevice in a rock, standing up and cradling her prize as if it were a precious treasure.

"He means nothing, Djaq." His voice rang out in the quiet forest and the woman before him whirled round, her fist closing around Allan's outlaw tag. "He was a traitor."

"He was a good man," Djaq retorted, before correcting herself. "He is a good man, he isn't dead."

"He should be," Will said shortly.

Djaq looked at him sadly. "Do not speak so quickly, Will. He was your friend."

Will stared at her in disbelief. "How can you say that? He betrayed us, Djaq. He deliberately sold our secrets for a few coppers."

"I don't believe he did it to hurt us, to cause us pain," Djaq said quietly. "He did it for his own benefit."

"There is no difference!" Will cried. "It all amounts to the same thing. He is a traitor." He stared at Djaq, whose fingers were still closed possessively around the tag that had hung round Allan's neck. "I don't believe this. You feel sympathy for him, don't you? After everything he has done!"

"Yes, I do," Djaq replied, looking at him defiantly. "Imagine what torment he must have suffered in his mind to agree to do such a thing."

Will gaped at her, unable to find words to express his incredulity at what she was saying. "There is no excuse, Djaq!"

"It is not an excuse, it is an explanation."

"I don't understand you." Will shook his head slowly. "You are a fool."

"And you are naïve!" Djaq spat back at him.

They stared at each other, both breathing heavily, as if they had sparred with swords rather than hurtful words. The insults hung in the air between them, both wishing they could reach out and retract their accusations.

"Djaq, I…" Will broke the silence first, his eyes filled with regret and apology.

"Just go," Djaq said quietly. Will looked at her, wounded, and Djaq sighed. "Please."

As Will disappeared into the trees Djaq sank down to sit on the closest rock, another sigh escaping her lips. She knew she had offended him and that she would have to apologise later. However, she knew too that he would apologise a thousand times for calling her a fool, and pester her until she forgave him. But he did not need her forgiveness; she didn't blame him for saying what he had. Perhaps she was a fool.

Alone at last she slowly uncurled her fingers, revealing the tag that lay on her palm. With a deep breath she forced herself to look at it, before clenching her fist once more, feeling the hard edges of the wood digging into her skin. She squeezed it tighter, until she felt a rough corner draw blood from her flesh, focussing all her energy on the tiny piece of wood that was the last shred of tangible evidence that Allan had ever been one of them.

The last proof that Allan had ever been her friend.

Djaq honestly did not know how to even begin to sift through the emotions she felt when she thought of Allan A Dale, let alone how to work out what those emotions meant. She had meant what she said to Will – she had a certain amount of understanding for what Allan had done. That didn't mean she forgave him, just that she could muster a certain amount of empathy for the confused young man.

She had known he was the traitor before anyone else; she knew his nature, knew that he would be the one most easily lured by Guy's poisoned words. But she had understood, and that was why she had given him a chance to admit his treachery. She had encouraged him to confess to Robin, believing that he could repent for his betrayal and make amends. But he had ignored her advice, had been too cowardly to stand face to face with Robin and acknowledge his own mistakes. Maybe Will was right; maybe she was a fool. A trusting fool.

Will. That was another issue that her troubled mind was trying to shut away, to force into a padlocked compartment where it could confuse her no longer. She had noticed recently that his eyes softened slightly when he looked at her, that his fingers lingered to prolong their contact when he passed her something. She had to admit that part of her was pleased; he was handsome, brave, loyal. A strong, trustworthy young man that any woman should be pleased to receive attention from.

But even as she saw the soft, warm green of the carpenter's eyes, she remembered the mischievous flash of blue that she would see when Allan turned his laughing face to her. Allan, with his roguish grins and cheeky winks, his quick tongue and playful words. He was a scoundrel, a rascal that would trick the last coin from a pregnant woman or blind beggar. But in his heart she knew he was good, knew that being part of the gang had actually meant something to him. He had just been conditioned by his circumstances; England was a mess, and he had been forced to resort to trickery and deceit to assure his own survival.

If Allan hadn't betrayed them, if he was still in the gang, maybe things would have been different. But he was gone, and Will was still there; strong, steadfast Will who would do anything to make her happy.

It was just all so complicated.

As she looked down once more at the tag nestled in her hand, as she thought of Allan, Djaq cried. For the first time since her family had died she cried, rocking slightly as her shoulders heaved with sobs. She cried for Allan, she cried for a group of stinking men whose hearts and faith had been broken, but mostly she cried for herself. The gang were only a hundred yards away but suddenly, sitting in the forest and missing the man in whom she had seen a lot of herself, she had never felt more alone.

Djaq waited until the sun had disappeared in the west and the forest was shrouded in a cloak of darkness before she returned to the camp. Her silent prayers were answered when she entered and found all the men in bed; she couldn't have coped with having to answer questions, or have suffered the awkward atmosphere for a moment longer.

They had left a lantern lit and in the dim glow that the light afforded her she scanned the bunks, checking that all her fellow outlaws were safely in bed. John's bulk was a comforting presence, Much was sprawled haphazardly, and Robin's bow was mere inches from his fingertips. Her gaze fell on Will, whose eyes were glinting in the dim light as he peered at her over the edge of his blanket.

Pleasure that he had waited for her to return safely fought a tug of war in her stomach with annoyance that he was always watching her. She managed a tiny smile then shuttered the lantern, plunging the camp into semi-darkness. Only moonlight played through the roof, splashing a silvery sheen onto the surfaces it caught.

"Go to sleep, Will," Djaq said softly. Waiting until she heard him roll over, turning his back to her, she silently crept to the corner where Allan had always slept. The bunk was shrouded in shadows but she reached up, gently touching the straw mattress on which he had lain night after night. She shuddered slightly at the thought that he had slept there after selling them out to Gisborne, after charming them all with his gilded tongue, then ran a gentle hand over the rough sacking and withdrew Allan's tag from her pocket.

Running a thumb over the wood she raised it to her lips and very gently pressed a kiss against the engraving of the bow and arrow before sliding the tag beneath Allan's mattress, where hopefully none of the others would find it. No matter where Allan ended up, or what happened to him, she knew that he belonged in the camp. This was his bunk, and no matter what anyone said he was a part of the gang. A part of their history, perhaps, but a part of the gang nonetheless. And she would never forget.