Disclaimer: How many times do I have to tell you? I do not own Robin Hood. The BBC does.

Author's Note: Yay! An update! I actually remembered to update! This is kind of a late christmas gift to you guys, especially Tori :)

Robin Hood, legendary hero of England, found himself sprawled on the seashore, soaking wet. Where was Marian? Where was the gang? He looked around, but the beach was empty aside from him. His head dropped back to the sand. He couldn't be the only one! Without the others he was nothing.

He lay there for a long time, until finally his powerful survival instincts kicked in. He had to get up. He had to get off the beach and find somewhere safer. He fought the instincts, wanting nothing more than to stay here forever. Survival without the gang seemed pointless. But, eventually, he pulled himself together and tried to stand. Immediately, a sharp pain coursing through his ankle forced him back to the sand. He examined the injury and found it to be nothing more than a sprain. He sighed in relief. A broken ankle would have been really bad. But there was still the problem of getting away from the beach and into the forest beyond it, where he would be safer. He couldn't walk with his injury, but if he could find some way to make a crutch…

He scanned the beach again, searching for anything that could aid him. There! Lying in the sand, not five feet away, was Little John's quarterstaff. He crawled over to it and used it to push himself to his feet. He refused to think about the man this weapon had belonged to. Thinking about John would only hinder his survival and hurt him. He just had to survive. He had once heard the saying 'where there's life, there's hope.' As long as he lived he could hope that the others were okay too. He pushed away any thoughts of the gang, or the future, or the past, and simply focused on each step. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he reached the cover of the trees. He knew he was still far from safety, but it was a start.

Allan cursed as he once again tripped over a rock. Wherever he was, it was much rockier than Sherwood.

"Have I seen that tree before?" he wondered aloud. He knew it was quite possible that he was going in circles. He had never had a particularly good sense of direction and when Little John had offered to teach him some navigational skills he had scoffed at the idea. After all, when was he going to need it? But, of course, now he was shipwrecked who-knows-where and totally lost. He was really starting to wish he had accepted John's offer. Note to self: try to think ahead every once in a while. He wondered if the rest of the gang was okay. He hoped so.

The worst part of being lost, in the sarcastic liar's opinion, was that there was no one to talk to. Sure, you could talk to trees, but that got boring after a while. After all, it's not very much fun to insult something that won't get worked up about it, like Much usually did. Allan had tried to attack the trees, to keep his mind off the insane boredom, but his sword had gotten stuck almost immediately and he had spent almost an hour trying to get it out. He had almost decided to leave it behind, but the thought of being lost and unarmed really didn't appeal to him.

As he passed the same tree for the fifth time, he groaned.

"Stupid trees!"

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