Disclaimer: I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC Robin Hood series, or any previous Robin Hood adaptations.

Author's notes: Firstly, I want to thank each and everyone who reviewed and emailed to tell me how much they enjoyed the first chapter, and how eager you were for the next instalment! – I would have to agree with many of you, that the Robin/Guy genre is one that hasn't really taken off on the site as much as many others, which is a great shame! But your compliments and requests for a sequel have really helped me along, so many thanks.

Again, as seems to be a pattern with my sequels, this has taken almost a year! I have to admit that I've got lots of other writing/academic projects which take up a lot of my time, so I haven't been writing this religiously, just as and when I can. But I hope it's a suitable continuation of the story, and that it explores some things which you might have been hoping for! I won't spoil it before you get a chance to read on, but this one goes in quite a dark direction – more so than I might have originally intended! But it just seemed like the way to go. I welcome any comments/critique as ever, and am overwhelmingly grateful for the lovely feedback that I continue to receive. Aw, shucks you guys :3

...

The sound echoed sinuously through corridors, bounded off of smooth stone and panelled wood. It reached the ears of those stood on the battlements of Nottingham Castle, when it had in fact originated from the Great Hall, some two-hundred feet away. The sound was curiously high in pitch, though rich and resonating. It was Sheriff Vaisey's laughter. And what an ominous sound it was. Unlike the laughter of any decent, well-meaning person, it set every guard in the castle on edge, as if they were witnessing the beginnings of a torrential thunderstorm, just before the first clap of thunder.

Tracing the sound to its origins, one would find Vaisey sat in his large, solid wooden throne – or rather slumped – his feet resting on the long dining table in front of him, one booted ankle crossed over the other. His hands gripped the arms of the grand seat for stability, as if he would roll right off it with laughter if he weren't able to prop himself up. Tears of mirth were beginning to well in his eyes, and his entire upper body was wracked with convulsions of hilarity.

The dining table in the Great Hall could comfortably accommodate around fifty persons – fifty nobles, to be precise. Needless to say, it stretched almost the entire length of the room. At the opposite end, nearest the grand double-doorway, stood another lone figure, which to Vaisey was only distinguishable by the abundance of black cloth adorning his tall stature. The face was shielded, hung in humiliation – or embarrassment, as the Sheriff hoped. But he would doubtless have felt his laughter stick in his throat had the veiled gaze met his own. For Sir Guy of Gisborne was far from amused. In fact, he was furious. His leather-clad hands balled into fists by his sides, and he felt the potential of the weapon at his belt as a dull, aching heat.

'If I had known that the purpose of my every visit to this room was to simply listen to you laugh, my lord, I would certainly have cut out your tongue monthsago...'

The words were ready to force themselves from his lips, but he bit them back. 'Let the old fool laugh,' he told himself. Every stab of humiliation on his part brought him an inch closer to toppling Vaisey from his very precarious position of power.

The Sheriff wiped the stray tears from his face and sat up a little in his chair, resting his elbows on his thighs and regarding Gisborne with a dangerous curiosity. The man had regaled to him the previous night's events, and the report had given him more amusement than any travelling show or jester's trickery he had ever seen. To know that his own ingenious planning had forced two sworn enemies into a carnal fracas with each other was an uncommonly delightful notion to him – all the more so for one of them being his most aggravating opponent, and the other being his much-maligned second-in-command. It was like he was some form of alchemist, combining two opposing elements and sitting back to watch the chaos and destruction that followed. With this pleasing concept embedded gleefully in his mind, he let the remains of his laughter fade from his throat and prepared to engage the next phase of his plan. First objective: get Gisborne to cheer up. The man was so very difficult to talk to when he was in one of his sissy-boy sulks. Vaisey despaired of the moaning whelp at times, he really did.

"Forgive me, Gisborne, forgive me. You do tell the funniest stories," he chuckled, before trying again to gain composure. Straight-faced, he continued, "You have done well, done everything I asked of you. And for that...well, I am proud. Next, –"

Gisborne looked up fractionally, the surprise registering in the slight dilation of his pupils, but nowhere else. Proud? Vaisey? He would hardly have believed it, had the words not come from the man's own lips. But he wasn't fooled. The aging megalomaniac was simply trying to butter him up. The inevitable 'bottom line' was coming, he knew that for certain. Gisborne steeled himself for what was sure to be a distinctly unpleasant ordeal: the next stage of Vaisey's plan.

"– you must, obviously, fulfil your promise to me – vis-a-vis, your next meeting with Hood."

Gisborne felt the muscles in his shoulders clench, "My lord, you..." He suppressed his frustration, pinching the top of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before continuing. "...You seem to be implying that my – my sacrifices so far do not constitute fulfilling a promise."

Vaisey raised his eyebrows with a small smirk, "Oh no, no no, you misunderstand me. But you can't possibly be foolish enough to think that your work is done?"

Gisborne shook his head irritably, avoiding the Sheriff's inquisitorial glare.

"Precisely my point. Now let's not tiptoe around the matter in hand, Gisborne. Much as your pride is no doubt gravely wounded by the events of last night, it isn't as though you hadn't agreed to take part in them. And the rewards we shall both reap from our success will be substantial. Hence: I am going to be blunt with you...if your fragile little heart can stand it?" Gold teeth glinted provokingly.

Gisborne turned away from the Sheriff, to prevent himself from rising to the bait. He folded his arms tightly across his chest, to prevent him reaching for his sword.

"Ah, Gisborne, I do enjoy these pleasant exchanges," Vaisey drawled, inspecting his fingernails briefly. "You must cheer up, my man, for it will all soon be over! Think of the satisfaction you will have then!" He grinned widely, but seeing that Gisborne's expression had not changed, continued with a sigh, "All you have to do is meet Robin Hood inside the castle vault tonight, at the time that you agreed. After that, the name of the game is: distraction. How you keep Hood occupied is up to you...but ensure that he doesn't get the chance to scurry away before my men and I have arrived. Think you can handle that, Gisborne?" he asked, tilting his head slightly and giving the other man a condescending smile.

Gisborne's heart tremored painfully at the thought of another meeting with Hood. Panic, more than anger or bitterness. Keep him distracted? Easy enough. He would simply engage the outlaw in a little sword combat, hoping to fend him off for the desired amount of time. But one thought tugged at him, gave him an ice cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. Hood was an accomplished fighter. Very accomplished. Gisborne had succumbed to him in combat countless times. If his sword-fighting skills failed him at the crucial moment, how else would he keep Hood in the vault?

He had an inkling. A decidedly unpleasant one.

And that is when Vaisey's words came back to him in a nauseating rush: 'How you keep Hood occupied is up to you...' It wasn't really up to Gisborne at all. It had been decided for him, last night, when he fulfilled his duty by holding his arch enemy in a romantic embrace.

"I will complete the task that has been assigned to me, my Lord," was his answer, his tone of voice impenetrably free of emotion.

"Remember: if you have to kill him – all par for the course. I would much prefer a public, painful, humiliating, and graphically-bloody execution...but as we discussed before, now that Hood believes you are infatuated with him," the Sheriff couldn't disguise a gleeful smirk, "he will not expect your knife in his sickly hide! Either way, by the time the night is out, we will have ourselves a captured outlaw."

Gisborne nodded slowly, his sword-arm itching to grip cool, hard leather. He would certainly relish killing Hood. It would ease his discomfort, greatly.

...

Robin had not slept well. He had several lucid nightmares during the night, all featuring Gisborne in some manner or another. In one of them, Gisborne had raised a sword to him before forcing him to lay on the ground, his powerful frame crushing down on him, and ordering him, in a bloodcurdling voice, to...

Ugh. A nightmare, indeed. And one that would have never have occurred to Robin had he not been the mortified victim of Gisborne's warped affections the previous evening. The outlaw was still baffled by the man's revelation, and despite being highly sceptical that Gisborne had spoken the truth, could not erase the memory of that kiss: the sight of it, the feel of it, the taste...

He had spent the morning in a sort of stupefied daze, not speaking more than a handful of words to any of his companions, and going through the motions of his daily routine without really giving it an ounce of thought. He was focused solely on the endeavour he would have to undertake that night, in the vault of Nottingham castle. And, of course, the prospect of seeing Gisborne again. How would the man behave tonight? Would he be true to his word? Robin highly suspected not. But it was too perfect an opportunity to miss. He had to have those plans. The wellbeing of a significant number of Nottingham's residents relied upon it.

He would have to deal with Gisborne, should the need arise. Make the man realise, once and for all, that Robin's feelings towards him had not – and would never – change, nor would he be any more forgiving. Gisborne was still his sworn enemy, after all. He hated him with all good reason. The man was sadistic, cruel, completely without pity, a coward, a glory-hunter, and, perhaps most importantly of all –

The sight of Marian's face flickered across his memory for an instant, and Robin's insides stirred. How would she react, if she knew that Gisborne was pursuing her, despite altogether very different inclinations? He would have no claim over her, after that. The thought made a small smile flicker across Robin's lips.

Robin gathered together his fellow men (and woman) some few hours before curfew that evening, in order to inform them of his plans. He knew they would object, but they had to understand: this mission was completely different to any other he had undertaken. How would he explain, without revealing his embarrassment of the night before? That would require a little improvisation...

"I know that none of you are particularly happy with the arrangement I have made with Gisborne. But my decision stands. I will meet him in the vault, alone, as agreed. I have to try – for the sake of those villages..."

"But Robin," Will began, a pleading note in his voice, "do you really believe you have any chance of succeeding tonight? It seems like an impossible hope. Gisborne will betray you – I would have thought that you would know that better than any of us." The others murmured in agreement, some of them avoiding Robin's eye completely.

"I might be wrong: but I thought that all of our ventures into the castle were pretty much destined to fail. That hasn't stopped us from being victorious, again and again and again." Robin shrugged, noticing that one or two of his companions raised their eyebrows in reluctant agreement.

"As you said, Robin – it is different this time," Much spoke out, his voice quaking a little. He so hated standing up to Robin – it went against his total admiration for the man. "You are not certain that the mission you are going to undertake even exists. Gisborne lied about those plans once; he could easily do it again. What if the worst happens: you are ambushed, alone, without any of your men to come to your aid, and are killed by Gisborne or the Sheriff's men without a single positive thing to show for it?"

Robin remained silent. All eyes were on him. He would not change his mind, but he admired his friends' concern and regard for him. He knew that they would not concede happily to this. But he had to try. To have the challenge laid before his feet, and not accept it, went against everything he stood for.

"I cannot neglect this opportunity," he eventually said, matter-of-factly. "This is who I am. Who I was, before I met any one of you. It is my destiny, to rescue the city of Nottingham from corruption and greed. And if this mission is my final sacrifice – so be it. I know that the rest of you are here, to carry on in my name."

The gang were not content with this. But they conceded, because they knew that Robin could not be persuaded otherwise. Their only request was that he allowed them to wait for his return, in the forest a little way from the city gates, so that they may still be able to help him in some way, if their worst fears were realised. If Robin didn't return with the charts within two hours, they would be allowed to infiltrate the castle and try to find him.

Evening fell, and the time for curfew came and went. Robin left his comrades in the outskirts of the forest, and went on to Nottingham alone, the dagger at his waist and the heavy bow at his shoulder a constant comfort. Time to submit himself to providence.

...

Robin stood firm, with legs spaced apart and arms braced into fists – a stance he often favoured, as it allowed for either a swift escape or an equally stealthy launch into violent attack. His bow felt heavy on his shoulder, as if it were pressing him into the mindset of attack, and his fingers itched to grasp it, to feel the cool rush of air against his cheek as he released an arrow into the skies. Reaching the castle had been easy – a little too easy, truth be told. But Robin was grateful to have made it this far without a mishap.

As the stale air of the dungeons began to filter through his lungs, he felt his anticipation heighten. The vault was mere metres away, door unlocked, plans placed temptingly within, and he couldn't escape the terrible, lingering feeling that there was only one escape route he could use. He was below ground – below the castle – and only one trapdoor separated him from possible discovery and capture. This also just so happened to be the escape route he had in mind. If Gisborne emerged at this very moment, he wouldn't want to risk making such an escape – but he wasn't entirely sure that he would be able to restrain himself from trying to kill the man instead, as his sense of enclosure engulfed him. The release of the arrow seemed essential to him: the only thing that would quell his impending fear.

"Well, well - right on time. What an anticlimax."

Robin wheeled round; he couldn't tell where the sound had come from, but never before had the tone of Gisborne's voice made every hair on his arms prickle.

"Where are you, Gisborne?" he snarled into the shadows, eyes darting from place to place like a spooked hare.

No reply.

"...Hold on –" Robin added, after a moment's thought, "– you asked me not to be late!"

Now Gisborne's laughter rang out ominously, echoing from the damp walls. Robin felt his stomach lurch.

"Yes, but I didn't expect you to be so predictable. Where is your usual element of surprise?"

"No games tonight. No tricks. I want those charts, and I'm not falling for any of your petty diversions this time."

"If you were diverted, Hood, then that was entirely your fault."

Gisborne materialised from shadow now, stepping out from an empty prison cell. Robin took a step back, the muscles in his back becoming taught. The other man seemed taller and more imposing in this enclosed space; he wasn't dressed in his usual black leather regalia, but was still clothed from head to toe in that macabre shade. He wore a black cotton tunic and thick black linen breeches, and his hair was tousled, falling in strands about his forehead and cheekbones. Robin narrowed his eyes at the smug expression that greeted him, and forced himself not to look at Gisborne's lips – the taste of them was still disturbingly memorable.

"You changed the rules overnight. How am I supposed to react rationally to something like that ludicrous speech you made?" Robin had not meant to sound so cruel, but he had been mulling over Gisborne's words for many hours now, and his suspicions had reached a pinnacle.

Gisborne frowned. Surely his performance had not been flawed to such an extent, that Hood was having doubts over the truth a mere half-day afterwards? He recuperated his confidence, and took several slow steps towards his nemesis, resolving himself to continue with the previous night's charade.

"Ludicrous? I hardly think the admission of my feelings to you was ludicrous, Hood," he muttered sullenly, pouting his mouth into a petulant frown. "Unless...you want me to rethink our little bargain?" he said softly, his smirk adding a slight sting to the delivery of the threat.

"You can't go back on your word now, Gisborne." Robin was ready with a comeback. "I could easily ensure that the...encounter you forced upon me last night becomes public knowledge – in the city, in the court – and beyond. Who will respect you and revere you then, Sir, when they learn that you are a forceful seducer of outlaws?" Robin didn't have to elaborate. Gisborne would know that he meant to include Marian in this announcement.

"You forest rat," Gisborne growled, lurching forward and grabbing Hood by the collar of his tunic. "How dare you threaten me?" His voice rose dangerously.

Robin squirmed in the man's violent grip. He had become too complacent: believing that, because of Gisborne's admission, he would be much more reasonable. How wrong he had been. Now he felt Gisborne's hand closing about his neck, and the point of a sword pressing uncomfortably into his ribs...

"You said you would hand over the charts for the dam..." Robin gasped, his words stinted by the pain of Gisborne's grip and the slow decrease of his air supply, "I have held up my side of the deal. Now you need to fulfil yours. Give them to me – and then I will be gone, and we can forget that last night ever happened. No one will have to find out..." He began to choke, his hands pressing urgently into Gisborne's stomach to try and force the other man to release his stranglehold.

Gisborne's dull eyes were searching the face of the outlaw as he struggled for breath. Much as he wanted to watch the outlaw panic, feel his strength gradually fail in his iron-fisted grip, he also wanted to ensure that this whole sordid exchange was over quickly, and cleanly. Therefore, watching Hood die at this precise moment would not be quite as satisfying as he would have hoped. It would be much more satisfying to wait until the ideal moment presented itself – when Hood had been convinced once and for all that Gisborne loved him, and found himself impaired by a sense of compassion.

He loosened his hold on Hood's neck, but kept his other hand clasped to the outlaw's shoulder, preventing from moving.

Robin gulped fresh air into his lungs, and allowed himself to be held to the wall, with no strength in his body for escape just yet.

"My reputation would be ruined if anyone found out, Hood – my life would not be worth living," Gisborne uttered, aware that he was stating the obvious. "You will see that I can honour an agreement. You will have your charts. But I must know that I can trust you to hold your tongue."

"You can hold faith, Gisborne. I would rather no one found out myself, to be honest."

"Swear to me..." Gisborne murmured. His head was bent close to Robin's, and he inhaled slowly, drawing his chest up close to the other man's. "Swear your loyalty. Swear it..." His tone became insistent, and he drew his hand over Robin's shoulder, up over the bruises he had just inflicted on the outlaw's neck, and up through his hair. Grabbing hold at the back of his head, Gisborne held it in place, glaring deep into Robin's shock-widened eyes.

"I...I swear..." Robin mumbled nervously. He could feel Gisborne's breath on his face, and felt his pulse begin to quicken. Heat began to prickle beneath the surface of his skin.

"Good..." Gisborne whispered, drawing out the syllable so that the end of the word was muffled by the crushing contact of his lips and Robin's. He kissed the outlaw aggressively, seizing his head in his hands and grinding him roughly into the wall. The power, the control that the kiss allowed him sent a rich wash of satisfaction through him, even more so now that the act itself was less of a shock to his system. He could feel Hood's muscles tighten beneath his firm grip, and knew that the other man was tensed to the spot in sheer panic. The actual practice of kissing him was something that Gisborne didn't really have to think about any more; his movements seemed independent of his brain, and he found that his hands were tugging Hood's tunic upwards without him having planned anything of the sort. He didn't stop himself – this sudden improvisation seemed to be helping matters. In trying to halt Gisborne's movements by raising his arms, Hood made the semi-removal of his clothes all the easier.

"Nnnnhhh..." Robin protested, his exact words muffled by Gisborne's mouth. He felt the swift rush of cold air to his stomach and experienced a strange lurching under the skin, his muscles retracting with discomfort. In the process of trying to prevent his physical assault, his tunic slipped past his collarbone, exposing his whole torso, which he wasn't entirely comfortable with. He was used to Gisborne's kisses by now, for good or ill, but having his clothing removed against his will was something he had never really been willing to consent to. He knew that in this particular confrontation, Gisborne had the physical upper hand; he was the more muscular of the both of them, and had taken Robin by surprise, leaving him without enough time to react. He knew he had been overpowered, and that, without any form of distraction, Gisborne would be likely to get whatever it was he was after at this point. This concerned him greatly. He had already made a promise to the man that went against all of his morals, but to find himself at Gisborne's mercy in other ways was too much for him to stand.

The contact of their lips broke, and Robin gasped for air – but no sooner had he inhaled the free air into his lungs, than he felt the rough tugging of fabric over his neck as his tunic was completely removed. Gisborne tossed aside the limp linen smock as if it were a beggar's rag, and placed his hands firmly over Robin's upper arms, pinning him to the wall once more. The outlaw's skin felt surprising beneath Gisborne's fingertips – smooth, like sun-warmed stone. Gisborne was unable to forget, however, that the muscles of a formidable fighter were lurking only a little way underneath the surface.

"Now you see if I'm incapable of following through," he snarled, seizing Robin's mouth in another forceful kiss.

Robin was too overwhelmed by this unrelenting assault to analyse Gisborne's words too clearly – but even without the full capability of his thoughts, something about the man's statement rang alarm bells in his head.

Little did he know just how much Gisborne had endangered his plan with that one, simple statement. Good job both their mouths were too busy to do anything about it.

Gisborne had found a new way to endure this latest embrace. He imagined that, for each second that the kiss endured, another outpouring of his malice, hate and disgust was wending its way into his enemy's body – as if he could transfer his loathing, like a poison, from his lips, tongue and saliva to Hood's. It was immensely reassuring. He imagined that each contorted spasm of Hood's body was an adverse reaction to the toxic substances emanating from the contact of Gisborne's skin against his. It was cathartic holding the wirier body beneath his own, as if his noxious touch would cause the outlaw's body to decay and disintegrate into the stone walls. Perhaps, if their clinch lasted long enough, he would have these fantasies realised. He was almost curious to find out.

Robin felt stifled, almost strangled, though his airways were clear. He felt as if the mere contact that he and Gisborne were sharing was enough to debilitate him completely – as if the man were forcing the life from him, instead of doing all that was necessary to set his nerves alight. He could not deny – the sensations and movements were sickeningly arousing – his body reacted to them physically in the way they usually would, no matter who was performing such acts upon him, and he couldn't prevent this. Only his brain, and his mouth, emitted any kind of protestation; he tried his best to yell as many obscenities at Gisborne as possible while he had the space to breathe, whilst his mind lost its usual control at the mortifying reality of what was unfolding between them.

Gisborne, too, found himself under a strange sort of spell as their suffocating bind continued. Feeling Hood's physical reaction to his movements provoked a similar reaction in him; his own arousal developed almost as quickly. And because his mind was completely elsewhere, dwelling in some unnameable place far beyond his usual consciousness, he found himself power-drunk, his arousal and the outlaw's inciting him to exaggerate his carnal ministrations. It was as if the two men, in this moment, were not of the present world: as if they had found themselves a crack in the fabric of time, within which anything could happen, and all rules were broken. Everything around them ceased to matter, and both their minds were seized in a white-hot furnace, causing their vision to blur, and their senses to become a hedonistic, blood-stirring void...

The curse was temporarily broken when Gisborne took a foolish risk; he lifted his hands from Robin's motionless arms, and moved them to clutch at his hips. The temptation was too great; the man felt completely without fear or constraint. And so he slid his hand between their rutting bodies, and chafed it unashamedly against the protruding tent-pole in Hood's breeches...

Robin snapped from the intoxicating trance as if he had been doused in cold water; the guttural moan escaping his throat was mangled; a confusion between intense pleasure and deep revulsion. Realising for the first time that his arms were now freed, and with the precision of a cornered animal, Robin swiped out with his left fist and caught Gisborne squarely in the juncture between his collarbone and neck. The impact wasn't enough to shatter bone, but the cry of alarm elicited from Gisborne's lips was enough for Robin to know that suitable damage had been done. The other man stumbled backwards slightly, but righted himself with reasonable ease. Robin saw the steely sheen return to his eyes, but couldn't react quickly enough to prevent himself from being pinned to the wall once more. Gisborne's thumbs pressed agonisingly into the fragile skin just above his chest; Robin could almost feel his fingernails breaking the skin.

Luckily for Robin, Gisborne was too shocked – or too exhausted from the previous physical exertion – to speak, or attack him further. He could only glare murderously at the man he hated, his breath escaping him in sharp bursts. So the outlaw spoke out, his voice hoarse from shouting and fighting for breath, so that the words raked at his throat. He tried to ignore what had just occurred between them – already, now that it was over, it felt like a startling delusion.

"Gisborne, these feelings of yours – they can't be real. I can't accept it." He stared the other man down, forcing him to respond, showing that he wouldn't say another word or make another move until he had the truth.

Gisborne swallowed down the pain that Hood's punch had caused. Unlike the outlaw, he couldn't erase the memory of the bewildering clinch they had just shared – it was almost branded into his mind. "Perhaps you should start perfecting your ability to accept the truth, Hood," came his response. He would not back down.

"But – I don't understand it. All our lives you have only spoken of me in terms of hate. Now in love? Where did the distinction come?"

Gisborne snorted, sweeping a lock of hair from before his eyes that was damp with perspiration. "Not everything is easily explained in your layman's terms. I only know that what I have confessed to you is absolutely indisputable. You may not believe me, but I can only do all in my power to convince you." He forced himself to soften his grip on the outlaw's arms slightly, even allowed them to slide down slightly, in a sort of 'caressing' motion...

Robin panicked, sensing what was about to happen. "No – Gisborne. You don't have to convince me. I understand. You're telling the truth. Just don't –" he rambled hastily, squirming slightly in an effort to free himself.

"What else can I do, Hood? I need you. And soon enough you will realise: you need me too. You will crave me after this is over..."

He summoned all his remaining resolve and swept Hood down onto the stone floor in one swift motion. The outlaw's head made a delicious crack against the slate, and he groaned, his face contorting into an expression of pain and fear. He tried to turn himself, to roll out of harm's way, for his legs had failed him, but before he could move, Gisborne was above him, his knees placed either side of his waist.

Robin felt his head swimming as their pelvic bones made a crushing, mortifying contact, and he knew it was all over, that there was no way of fighting this, no way of escaping. Gisborne would have his way: another trophy to add to his burgeoning collection. This time, however, it was different. This trophy couldn't be stolen away, couldn't be valued in terms of money. Nothing would compensate Robin for the singular shame and repulsion of this experience. But if it was Gisborne's sole stipulation in return for the charts, so be it...

Robin averted his eyes from the looming figure of the man clad in black, and focused them on the charts, laying on a tabletop just metres away. 'The people, Robin. The people need you. They...'

"Ahh...no..." Robin moaned, his protestations half-pleasure, half-panic, as he felt that sickeningly-familiar touch everywhere, everywhere it shouldn't have been. And Gisborne's rich, macabre laughter, echoing around the walls as he loomed in closer...

"Hurry up! Hurry up you idiots! What do I pay you for – to stumble around like docile apes?"

With a dagger-point of fear impaling his heart, Gisborne heard a voice approaching. The Sheriff! Had the time elapsed so quickly? Without a second thought to the man he was supposed to be detaining, he leapt to his feet, glancing down at himself and wondering if his sin of passion was visible upon him. His sword was out of its scabbard and raised in front of him; the other hand felt curiously empty. What else did he need?

And then he remembered.

Before he could react, he saw the glint of metal. Hood's dagger, pointed squarely between his ribs. The outlaw recovered fast.

"Now, Hood, don't do anything..."

"GISBORNE!" The Sheriff's voice, booming through the stone vault, the man himself frozen in a state of frenzy on the stairs below the trapdoor, half a dozen guards shifting uneasily behind him.

Robin saw the familiar face – the only other man to haunt his dreams. Vaisey was the embodiment of everything he hated; only more so than Gisborne because it was the Sheriff who had first employed and trained the man-in-black to be the merciless assassin he was today. As soon as he saw the veiled glint in Vaisey's eye, he suspected. 'Not the infatuation of one man, but the scheming of two.'

He was distracted. The arrival of Vaisey had thrown him off. A second's hesitation was all it took for Gisborne to re-gain the upper hand.

Robin grunted as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Gisborne had gripped him by the shoulder, lurched and thrown him into the wall. In the blink of an eye, his sword-tip was forcing itself, with increasing pressure, against the tender skin shielding Robin's heart. Without a tunic to cushion the weight, Robin felt the sharp nick of pain as the blade drew a drop or two of blood.

"What are you waiting for, man? Do it!" Vaisey ordered, hopping slightly on the spot. His showy public execution forgotten, and his blood-lust raging in his throat, his chest and his stomach, all Vaisey cared about now was death. Why not let Gisborne be the man to do it? Seeing Hood's tunic discarded on the floor, he knew that his lieutenant had probably suffered enough.

Despite everything, despite all his body had told him and all the panic-stricken warnings in his brain, Robin had not been fooled into believing that Gisborne loved him. He couldn't avoid the disturbing events that had just unfolded between them, and he knew that it meant a monumental shift in their dynamic – but not love. Never love. And now, as he studied the murderous fury in Gisborne's eyes, the world began to tick onward painstakingly-slowly, as if his senses had been heightened beyond the usual human capability. He knew, before the man even lifted his blade, that Gisborne would not shy away from killing him, despite how close he had come to forcefully taking him. And that is why he was able to duck out of harm's way, just as Gisborne made to plunge his blade into his enemy's heart.

Vaisey gave an anguished cry like a wounded animal, as Gisborne's forceful sword-thrust created sparks from the stone wall which Robin had just been pressed against. Gisborne made a similarly animalistic sound, almost like a throaty growl, and wheeled round, his adrenaline high, ready for pursuit. But Robin had already disappeared without trace. And so had the charts for the dam.

"He's still in the vault! There's only one way out! Find him you brainless oafs!" Vaisey's voice was an irrational shriek, and his men rallied clumsily, intimidated by the violent temporary-insanity of their leader. They swarmed through the vault, charging into each empty cell in turn, their armour overwhelmingly noisy in the small space. Vaisey was a man possessed; he in turn sprinted around the stone-walled cellar, searching for Hood with just as much zeal as his men, despite being unarmed.

Gisborne, on the other hand, felt completely rational, his mind refreshingly clear for the first time in a long while. He knew where he had to be, at that precise moment. No one was guarding the trapdoor: the only route by which Hood could escape. He had already managed to elude half a dozen men in such a small, claustrophobic space, and Gisborne made his way hurriedly towards the stairs, knowing that he could slip away and be out of Nottingham with the stealth and silence of a shadow. Once in the prime position, he wheeled round slowly, his sword pointed in front of him in case of an ambush. All the while, torturous thoughts of his misjudgement and misfortune played on his mind; he couldn't escape the shame of being so close to achieving his ultimate triumph, and letting his quarry flee from his clutches.

And then he felt a small rush of air behind him, barely noticeable, and heard the voice in his ear as if it had travelled across the winds from miles away.

"I knew that you didn't have the gall to kill me.

"Maybe your own charade has gotten the better of you. Maybe you are starting to believe it yourself. Tut tut, what would Vaisey say?"

Gisborne couldn't move. The words had paralysed him to the spot. He was enraged at Hood for taunting him, daring to incite his anger when it would be all too easy to impale him upon the end of his blade. But it was the words themselves, more than the audacity of the action, that affected him so. Because he couldn't find any words of argument. And he wasn't entirely sure if he could believe his own denial of Hood's claims, in any case. But a thought did occur to him. He spoke from the corner of his mouth, voice very serene and quiet, because he had to speak his mind before alerting the guards to Hood's location.

"I could point out the same to you. You could have killed me as soon as you saw me here, alone and not on the offensive, with the charts in arm's reach. But you didn't take up that opportunity. Until just a few moments ago, you seemed a little too...distracted..."

Gisborne turned, triumph in his eyes, opening his mouth wider to shout for aid – but Hood was already gone. He heard the thud of the trapdoor closing before he could even gather his wits.

Vaisey came jogging up beside him, short of breath. Gisborne didn't have to look at him. He knew what was coming.

"THAT...WRETCH...ESCAPED!"

Gisborne could hear the man flustering beside him, spluttering for adequate words to voice his obscene rage. After a few seconds, he seemed to regain his composure, and his voice was a little steadier. But Gisborne couldn't relax. He braced himself for the worst, as one always does in the calm before the storm.

"Oh, there will be retribution for this Gisborne, mark my words. It will come swiftly, it will come silently, and BY HELL AND SCORCHED BRIMSTONE I WILL –"

Gisborne sighed in exasperation. Not the first mistake he had made tonight, but by far the riskiest.

He felt Vaisey take hold of him by his jaw and pull his head around to face him. Staring into the Sheriff's beguilingly-cruel eyes, he felt utterly powerless.

"Do not believe that I reserve my revenge for Hood alone, my dear lieutenant Gisborne." The Sheriff's voice was acidically-charming. "You shall certainly pay for disappointing me...again. This plan should not have failed. Only an incompetent MORON could have been presented with an opportunity like this and not have achieved positive results. You will report to me tomorrow morning, in front of the Council, and I will–"

Gisborne couldn't stand it any longer; he wrenched himself from Vaisey's grip and charged tempestuously up the stairs and out of the vault. It was only when he had rounded the corner of the landing which led to his own quarters that he dared to break into a run; but by then, it was clear that no one would try to stop him. Once in the sanctuary of his own rooms, he felt the air thicken and turn to mud all around him, his vision and hearing failed him and his stomach lurched violently as he began to lose control of his legs, fell surging to the ground, and everything turned black.

...

"Come on then Robin!"

"No need to be so tense!"

"Let's get a look at these charts and then toss them onto the fire where they belong!"

Robin's band were in understandably high spirits. They hadn't been so callous as to ignore the obvious change in Robin's demeanour; the tremble in his step or the vacant look in his eyes. They had all apologised many times over for allowing him to carry out the mission alone, when it had clearly been a dangerous one. But Robin had made no reply, and refused to go into details about what had happened. They knew better than to press matters, and had tried to cheer him instead by urging him to open up the charts.

Robin could barely breathe, let alone speak. The exertion of the fight – as well as other things – had sapped his energy, but there were far weightier things pressing on his mind. Specifically, the implications of Gisborne's final words to him before he had fled the castle. Try as he might, no matter how deeply he searched inside himself, he couldn't find a rational excuse for what he had almost allowed to happen.

At least he had been willing to make a sacrifice for the good of the people. And his friends were right: the sight of the charts would certainly ease his spirits, if only by a small amount.

He rolled out the sheets of parchment across the leafy forest floor, making a slight shooing motion with his free hand so that the gathered group wouldn't get stand on them or stain them with mud accidentally.

When the parchment was rolled out completely, Robin lent back to survey the full sight of them.

What he saw made every inch of him become ice cold.

"Fake? The bloody things are fake?" John cried out, tearing at his hair. He was the only member of the gang able to speak.

Robin's mind reeled. This was entirely unprecedented – but he cursed himself inwardly for not being able to see through the plot. He had known for quite some time – subconsciously, at least – that Gisborne and the Sheriff had hoped to succeed in his capture, or his murder, by tricking him into believing that Gisborne was infatuated with him and wished to seduce him...but for no ultimate purpose? Not to achieve the higher means of manipulating the people of Nottingham, or the fellow Council nobles? Just for the satisfaction of causing Robin to abandon his hatred of his most sworn enemy, in order to prove his fallibility once and for all? Robin couldn't accept it. He almost couldn't bear to except that anyone could be so twisted and appallingly ruthless. But it seemed that Vaisey was, and was more than willing to use Gisborne as a pawn in his latest sordid ploy.

It seemed that neither of them had counted on Gisborne becoming quite so immersed in his latest role, however.

Robin needed air, despite being completely in the open. The sight of the bogus charts, the eyes of his friends upon him, the voices gently urging him to react, were all too much for him to endure at the present moment. He stood abruptly, with a silent raising of his hand to signify that no one was to follow him, and stalked hurriedly off into the deeper forest, feeling a compelling need to walk. Walk, and walk for hours, even days, if he had to – to align the bewildering thoughts in his mind in a way which made them at all simpler to understand. He was completely aware that the memories of Locksley Manor, and of the vault, would not disappear or even fade easily. But this small opportunity for time alone would give him a renewed perspective. Already, his thoughts for Gisborne were changing. At first, all he wanted to do was purge the memory of the man from his body. But now, he was beginning to feel pity, knowing that the man had been – and always would be – Vaisey's plaything, bound to obey whatever command the Sheriff asked of him, so long as he wished to remain in the position of power he had so immorally acquired.

Indeed, at that moment, and for all moments to follow, his hatred for the Sheriff of Nottingham would only thrive – thrive upon the memory of the vault, and the unwelcome, new emotions that it had unwittingly stirred.