Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For the life of him, Tristan wouldn’t tell what he had seen. Blinking a few times, his greyish eyes strained on the spot that had been, a mere moment before, an empty patch in the woods. Yet, now laid a young woman, a slip of a girl really, sporting a battle-worn leather armour, a bow strapped to her back, a sword at her hip. The strong wind coming from the cliff, loaded with snow flakes, engulfed in her cloak, playing with the reddish strands of her hair. The rest of it, secured in a tight braid, tumbled down her back to her waist. She looked like a vengeful spirit as she knelt there, regaining her balance from … her arrival?

Tristan blinked once more, holding his breath. That was it, all those years of service had eventually finished the job; he was hallucinating. Madness had overtaken his mind, for there was no other explanation possible. In Sarmatia, they believed in ghosts and fairies, in demons and spirits. Shaman taught them from infancy to fear evil spirits and revere the God of fire the greatest of all. In the Yazygue tribe, red hair was scarce, but revered for its link to fire. Tristan grew up with those stories, before those horrid Romans took him away. Yet, he had never come across a spirit. And this girl looked suspiciously alive, from flesh and bones. She couldn’t be human, though, he was sure of it, for she had just appeared in a blinding blue light. The slight tingle still burning his eyes was a blatant testimony.

The girl stood, taking in the surroundings, her feet planted in the ground. Unmoving, her gaze intense as it roamed the forest. At first hopeful, her features gradually turned sad. And then, unexpectedly, her gaze found his, albeit he was concealed behind branches and trees. She held it, her hazel eyes firm, nearly commanding him to come out. And, enthralled by the possibility of her magical power, the scout complied. The girl’s hand gracefully leapt to the hilt of her sword, but she did not unsheathe it. Albeit terribly confused, Tristan seized his dagger. It would take barely the time for her to exhale before he could bury it in her heart, just one flick of his wrist and she’d be dead. Unless … she was a witch.

Her eyes roamed across his equipment, his garment, and at last, his face. Her expression, unreadable at first, changed to disappointment as she spotted his bow. The fear he seek to instill with his ruthless appearance reflected in her gaze. Good. Still, she didn't turn around to flee the coldhearted killer that he was. Tristan’s feet stopped on their own, away from the girl, assessing her level of threat. Should he dispose of her before the arrival of his fellow brothers? Or let her live? Arthur would, without a doubt, be furious if he harmed a young woman without any proof. For she was no wench, with such posture and refined feature. No Woad either, of this he was sure – the high cheekbones, the reddish hair, her thick clothes didn’t match – yet she had been using blue magic.

Her voice eventually called to him, its quietness surprising for he was expecting something more … hysteric? Girly? Noisy?

• “Good day, sir. Could you indicate me where I am? I am afraid I got lost.”

Tristan nearly snorted. Got lost indeed, in a haze of blue light? But he refrained from doing so, still wondering if he had gone crazy, and was imagining things.

• “You are just south of Hadrien’s wall, twenty leagues from the first village to the east.”

Blood drained from the witch’s face, her eyes losing their sharpness as she seemed to struggle for breath. She took a step back, and another, as if impaled by a spear. Tristan flinched, and the woman froze, ready to fight, ready to die, her jaw set in a fit of rage he could not understand. Her voice was deadened as she struggled to utter more words, a little bow addressed to him. It was so strange to witness politeness in a spirit.

• “You have my thanks”

And then she left, turning from the dusty track, disappearing along the cliff. Stunned, Tristan let her go. Obviously, the woman was crazy. The scout’s eyes followed her silhouette as she progressed, snowflakes dancing around her, her feet nearly silent on the frozen ground. Had the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach not bothered him, Tristan might have praised her ability for stealth. His own feet followed cautiously, as if stalking his prey, silent and unseen. A piercing cry let him know that Hawk was calling. The bird had probably spotted something; he needed to go.

The young woman didn’t even flinch at the shrill cry, admiring the view of his friend circling high in the sky, above the fall, away from the summit of the tallest trees. From the smallest moment, Tristan though she was going to fling herself from the cliff but a sharp movement backwards sent her to her knees. And then she collapsed, shoulders moving silently, sobs muffled into her fists, as if despair had, this time, gained the upper ground. Her cloak[1] settled around her, shielding her from prying eyes as it seemed to reflect the colours of the forest. How peculiar! Never before had he seen such good concealing garment! It left no doubt now; she was a witch !

Nonetheless, Tristan couldn’t linger. Not that he wanted to. The scout snorted. The lady probably wasn’t the biggest threat on their path, no matter how incredible her appearance had been. If she truly was a spirit of the forest, let the forest take care of her. She’d be buried in no time in snow; her well-being was none of his business.

Frances stayed prostrated for hours, the few snowflakes dancing around her as she cried. She had known, the instant she landed in this cursed place, that she wasn’t in middle earth. Her link to Legolas, interrogated at once, did not tingle; it was as weak as ever. Three years waiting for the Valar to send her back to middle earth, to grant her to see him once more, to dull the ache in her bones, in her heart from his absence! Three years waiting, and the crazy hope that had engulfed her at seeing the gem from her necklace shine again, crushed at the very instant of her arrival! Frances wanted to scream, to yell at the Valar for being so cruel, for asking more of her when she had nothing more to give. For a moment, she almost flung herself down the cliff. Death would have been a nice release, a welcome respite after the last three years of dull life in her own 21st century. But the memory of her loved ones – her family would never know how she died - stilled her movement at the very last moment, and she landed harshly on the ground. Her parents, her cousin, her friends would have to take the mantle of sadness. She couldn’t do that, especially to her father who had lost a brother already. Life would be life, and she had to endure it for them, completing this mission before she got back to the modern world.

Her anger dissipated, leaving in its stead crushing despair. Frances crumbled down, sobs wracking her body as she harshly bit on her own hand to prevent from wailing like a child. No matter the extend of her grief, she wouldn’t make an easy target of herself. The twins’[2] training and Aragorn’s, during her time spent in middle earth, had ensured that her reflexes of survival were embedded deep in her skull. When in unknown territory, do not let people know you exist. Tears leaked, falling on either side of her cheeks as she wept. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the face of the silent man she had just met appeared. He knew she was there, but seemed indifferent. Yet, he was dangerous, it oozed out of him, this edge that threatened to make him a psychopath. Frances was vulnerable, alone in the woods of Britain.

One question kept nagging at her mind though. The man had sported tattoos on his cheeks, and wore a recurved bow on his back. His eyes, slightly slanted, resembled those of Mongol fighters of old. What would a Mongol do in Britain? The man’s steps had been practised, his gestures graceful and scarce, not unlike Aragorn’s ones had been. How she longed to have him by her side, her skilled ranger! The man who should have been king, the quiet mentor of her days in Arda. How she missed his soothing presence ! They had only known each other half a year, but he would forever linger in her heart. Had he accepted the crown, at last? Aragorn had been a brother, he would protect her, and sooth her anguish. He would tell her Legolas had survived their separation and not lost his inner light! A wave of longing hit her anew, and for once, Frances couldn’t seem to call her survival instinct. Still as a statue, she let the tears fall as snowflakes danced around her. Time passed in the silence of the forest, the bitter wind numbing her extremities. Yet, she couldn’t force herself to care. She was dead inside.

The sound of several voices shook her out of her trance. Frances sighed, cocking her head to the side to pick up on the different tones. Horse hooves banged the ground as the horses negotiated the steep descent, and their riders were conversing. Men, at least four different ones. One of them was laughing, such an ill-fitting sound in the depth of her despair! Yet, she was there for a reason. No matter the extend of her anger against the Valar, she still was the Keeper of Time, and must to act as such. In the past, the first people she had met after her appearance were always the ones she needed to help. Perhaps she would find the strange man again, but for now, she would have to take her chances with the group coming down the mountain. Frances braced herself, and shook the snow crusted on her cloak. Her hands were numb, as was her nose. She couldn’t shoot her bow with frozen fingers, but would still be able to hold her own with the sword. Time to go.

Slinging her leather backpack above her shoulder, Frances retreated on the cliff path, sniffing the pure air of north Briton. Snow and pine trees, a little moist and harsh cold. The freezing ground couldn’t release much more of its fragrance as it was, but the young woman enjoyed it nonetheless. Granite and acidic grounds always created this sort of vegetation. Her mind flew to happier times, to dawn in the mountains as she went skiing with her family. When she wasn’t heartbroken, and struggling every morning to find a meaning to her life. What would her mission be, this time? How important, how meaningful to earth, and history? Would she manage, or get killed? Fortunately, she had called her cousin Cécile before going. If she died here, her family would at least know that she died with honor on a mission for the Valar. As she walked, her elvish boots silent on the uneven ground, the voices got louder. And when she came out of the road, a mere hundred feet before the group of riders, she could observe the knights before a set of green eyes spotted her.

There were six of them, lined up on the rocky road by pairs. All of them stumbled to a halt when the man in front lifted his hand. Disciplined, she surmised, and dedicated to their leader. The commander was tall, with a crimson cape and a Roman armour covering his torso and legs. Frances' jaw tightened immediately. Damn, she hated Rome! Her first mission with the necklace had ensured that never again she would set foot in Rome. She’d lost Maximus there, to the infamous Emperor Commodus. At least, he got what he deserved! That son of a bitch, he would have killed Cicero if she had not been there! She’d spit a hundred times over his grave. Frances exhaled slowly. She needed to let go, and get in the good graces of this Roman commander.

The young lady gave nothing away, but her inner self started at that. What was a Roman commander doing so far north in the Middle Ages? Unless … this period predated the Middle Ages. Damn, she’d have to ask for the date. The other knights, for they wore chain mail and armours as well, did have a very different style. Long hair or bald, beards, and a very intimidating posture that screamed of ‘warriors’. She had known enough of those to recognise the wariness albeit they seemed unafraid of her. The Roman commander leaned on his horse, eying her with this unnerving gaze that few people possessed. Fortunately for Frances, she had survived Aragorn's looks, as well a Lord Elrond’s and Gandalf's stern gaze. After that, she was better equipped to face people demanding answers.

Bracing herself for the confrontation, Frances was totally dumbfounded by the commander’s first words.

• “Do not fear. I am Artorius Castus, and those are my knights. Do you require assistance?”

Wow. The man met a woman armed to the teeth in the middle of nowhere, and he offered his help. And this name … it rang a bell, but she couldn’t remember what she had read about it. Now, she needed to convince them to let her tag along, and from the looks of it, this conversation was looking better than anticipated. Behind Artorius, a dark-haired man harboured a seductive smirk.

• “I’d be happy to offer a ride to the lady.”

The other knights laughed, and Frances’ cheeks coloured slightly from the double meaning.

• “Lancelot…”, came Artorius’s warning.

Frances gasped, her eyes opening wide.

• “Lancelot? As in first knight Lancelot?”
• “See Arthur, she has heard of me already.”

Despite her reeling mind, Frances couldn’t help but quip back.

• “Not in the way you think of, I’m afraid.”

The knight snorted, his beautiful dark eyes flashing as he regarded her from atop his horse.

• “You’re an exotic beauty I’d gladly have a taste of.”

Spooked, Frances lifted a shaped eyebrow. How dare he! The gall of that man, to assume that any lady would fall into his arms! He’d learn his lesson, this one.

• “You’re cute, but I am promised to another. Go and take a bite elsewhere.”

A knight laughed at that, a wide man with a bald head. Lancelot’s gaze sparkled with mischief as he quipped.

• “Then where’s your betrothed? Leaving you alone like this, it is not unseemly?”
• “Lancelot!”

This time, the commander’s tone brooked no argument. Frances’ eyes turned hard and her fist trembled, thinking of what Legolas would have done with the knight. Sushis ! Skilled or not, no one could hold a candle to the deadly prince of Greenwood … if he lived, still… Her rage knew no bounds as she turned an icy stare to the offensive charmer.

• “Be thankful he isn’t there, knight,” she growled. “He’d so enjoy wiping the floor with your ass.”

Lancelot’s smirk faded at her words as the big man guffawed, the others regarded her with mixed looks of awe, incredulity and suspicion. Frances took a step back; she needed some time to think before she launched herself at the arrogant man. There were problems more urgent to solve that her anger at the Valar for separating her from Legolas. Like the names they called themselves with.

Lancelot and Artorius. Could it be the roman for Arthur ? It couldn’t be true. Was there a Gawain in there? THE Gawain against the green knight? Galahad maybe? Percival ? And Arthur being a Roman, this definitely rang the bell. She had, not a year ago, presented a lecture on the Arturian’s legends in her English class. Yes, it all made sense now, as historians seemed to agree that King Arthur was, in fact, a Dux Bellorum in the first place. It meant then that the Roman empire was on the brink of falling. And try as she might, she couldn’t remember when they had left Hadrian's wall. Damn! She’d never been back so far away in the past, expect for Rome of course. The culture shock it would be! Time had come to appease the tensions; she’d get nowhere picking a fight with the infamous Lancelot if she wanted this to work. The elvish greeting passer her lips before she could hold it back.

• “Well met, all of you. And thank you for your offer. I am thoroughly lost, and in great need of guidance.”

Definitely, she had a knack for meeting future kings on a rocky road.[3]

[1] Elvish cloak given by Galadriel to the fellowship’s company in Lothlorien

[2] Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond

[3] Feä Bond will enlighten you on the meaning of Frances’s ironic musings.

Chapter Text

For once, Artorius was at loss. The nearest village was too far away for a maiden to have wandered, and the girl standing before him had no fear. She was wary, like a warrior should, and had too many weapons to be a mere lady. Yet, her face was youthful, she might not even be seventeen under that cloak. Her reddish hair was a sight, deeper than any Scot's carrot colour, her slightly tanned skin indicated a habit of the outdoors. From Rome to the latest confines of the world, no noble lady would allow her face to get darker than the most delicate porcelain; it would mean work, which was reserved to the commoner. Yet, the lady held herself proudly, her manners refined, her latin perfect. Everything in her screamed of weirdness and he couldn’t sense any hostility. Her golden gaze was so bright, so sincere that he couldn’t decide what to do with her. Was this a trap laid out for his knights to fall in? Lancelot, for one, seemed quite eager to do so.

Could he leave her there, vulnerable to any bandit or woad that would have passed the wall? Was she strong enough to defend herself if a random man came across her? On the other hand, he couldn’t quite burden himself and his knights with a young woman. In five days, Bishop Germanus would be there with their freedom papers, they deserved it more than anyone on this earth. Arthur didn’t want to be responsible for any delay.

Eventually, he nodded, his eyes wary, but features kind.

“The woods are dangerous, lady …?”

“Frances. But I do not hold any title, so please call me Frances”

“How were you led astray, if I may ask?”

That was it. Lie or die.

“I’m looking for some … friends.”

Her hesitation did not go unnoticed, and Arthur wondered if her betrothed was missing. It was bad luck that Tristan wasn’t here to discern truth from lies. He’d always been the best at this game.

“Briton friends?”

“Yes. I’m going from village to village to find them. They probably never passed the wall.”

There. Frances was proud of herself. It was a good cover story, with lots of blanks, and not too many lies. She has been, indeed, trying to find friends when her necklace had called her. Now, she was utterly at loss, and offered this genuine emotion to the commander in hopes of convincing him.

“How in the world did you end up on such an isolated path? There’s no village within twenty leagues from this forest.”

Damn! He had her! One little mistake was all it took. She was a terrible liar, and has always been. Disappointed, she mumbled under her breath.

“Took a wrong turn…”

At this, Lancelot’s perfect eyebrow shot up. Upset to have been set aside so easily, he was quite ready to lash out at her blatant lies.

“Well, then. You would do well to…”

A sudden thunder of hooves echoed from the bottom of the hill, calling everyone to attention as a sick smell passed in the air. Frances scrunched her nose, assaulted by the unwelcome fragrance.

“Ew! What is that smell?” she cried, searching around her for a carcass.

“What smell?”

“That’s probably Galahad!” said a blond man with a mane to die for.

“Eh!” came a young knight’s protest.

But Arthur stayed still, his gaze roaming the surroundings for a clue. And then, another wave of the stench hit them.

“Woads!”

Tension spread among the ranks and Frances unsheathed her sword, catching a few stunned stares from the knights. Unbeknownst to her, her blade – a Dao – , resembled their scout’s so much that it seemed forged by the same man. They could not imagine she had chosen it because of its similarities with her elvish blade – lost in Morannon battle with her bow – in weight and form. As the commander seemed to hesitate in their course of action, Tristan was climbing the forest at full speed, his horse panting.

“Stay away from the witch!” he yelled at his comrades.

The stares intensified, laced with distrust as their mounts took a few steps backs. The moment was broken by a volley of arrows, strangely bringing none of them to harm. Spooked, the horses took off and Frances barely avoided being crushed under their hooves. Swallowing her panic, she got ready to dart off the path when a meaty hand grabbed her and lifted her off the ground. Screaming in fear, Frances found herself sitting on a giant’s lap as his steed hurtled down the rocky road at full speed.

“Witch or not, I’m not leaving you there,” he grumbled as he leant forward on his horse.

“Dagonet, come on!”

Crushed between his huge body and the animal, Frances held on tightly, fear seizing her heart. She was no stranger to riding, but never before had she thundered at breakneck speed in such a precarious equilibrium. Any moment now, she’d be thrown on the ground and trampled, or hit by an arrow. All she could do was to hold Dagonet in a death grip, and keep her body stable enough to prevent from gauging his eyes out with her bow. Easier said than done, for her precarious position threatened to send her overboard. The strong knight held fast, his arm digging into her ribs; there’d be bruises, big fat blue ones for her alone to see.

Eventually, the chase seemed to ease, and Dagonet’s horse started to slow down. Frances twisted to position herself properly, wary of her blade still drawn behind the giant's back. A quick glance around told her there had been no casualties. The young lady frowned, relieved, and yet uneasy. Were the woads such bad archers that would not even manage to graze a horse’s rear at a close range? Unless they only wanted to spook them, and not injure them? What was their game? The company moved on in silence, the only noise being the echoes of the hooves on the granite showing up here and there. When the path widened at last, the column of knights paired easily, the commander at the front with his first Knight, Lancelot. The scout had joined them in a heated discussion, his glances at her more than obvious, and she knew he was distrustful of her. She couldn’t blame him; it was his job to keep his companions safe. She’d seen enough of O’Neill being a wary ass more time than she could count when joining SG1 off world.

A quick halt allowed Frances to descend from Dagonet’s horse, the mount needed a relief of her extra weight. Frances thanked him profusely, to which the bald giant only nodded. A scar ran along his skull, passing over one of his clear blue eyes but not impairing his sight; the knight had been lucky in his demise. And despite his fearsome appearance, Dagonet felt like a rock. Strong and sturdy, unmovable, unshakable. Satisfied with her assessment, Frances turned around to find a young bearded knight beside her. He offered his hand in silence, his features more open as she thanked him. Despite his youthful look and slender build, the knight hoisted her up rather easily to help her settle behind him.

"I'm Galahad", he said.

And they started anew, Frances floored by the fact that she was now riding behind Galahad. The knight if the round table. The one supposed to find the San Graal. Needless to say that it was much more comfortable now, and Frances fell into her old pattern of following the mount’s movement, and the body of the knight before him. Memory flooded her mind, long lost after so many years apart from Legolas. She’d ridden with him often on the march to the black gate, and often enough as well behind Elladan or Elrohir. Since elves weighted nothing, her presence didn't impair their horses much. Each of them had its way of moving in the saddle, forcing her body to adapt to the rider and mount. It was no different this time. The only difference is that here, she surmised she would have to change rider often enough to preserve their horses' strength. Even if she weighted only a hundred pounds, the overload wasn't negligible to a horse.

The dark and handsome Lancelot made eyes at her gracious rider, waggling his eyebrows suggestively; Frances sighed. She’d been wrong; this was definitely different. On Arda, no one had ever made an untoward move, nor any dirty suggestion. She was the lady Frances, hosted by the great lord Elrond, the Keeper of Time, and later on, the prince of Greenwood’s intended. But aside from the status, it was the inner nature of her friends, back then, that had prevented them for putting her ill at ease. Be it Aragorn, the twins, Legolas, Gimli or Boromir, even the hobbits respected her enough to refrain from commenting on her proximity to men. Here though, it’d be another story, and it left her uneasy. Surely none of the knight would dare making a move against her? Frances nibbled at her lower lip. She’d have to stay alert, and brace for impact.

Beside them rode a man with an incredible mane of blond hair. His built was impressive, his fierceness written over his face. Yet, his blue eyes held some softness, and something akin to joy. This man, she thought she could trust.

“I am Gawain,” he told her. “And your gracious knight there is Galahad.”

Frances very nearly blurted out ‘Mae Govannen’, the elvish greeting, before repressing the urge. A flash of pain seized her heart, but she forced herself to be civil. Crossing paths with the knights of the round table was such an honour that she felt bad to be so ill at ease.

“It is nice to meet you, Sir Gawain. As for my gracious knight, he already presented himself”

His voice greeted her pleasantly.

“Gawain is all right, my lady.”

“Then Frances it is”

Gawain’s blue eyes were set on her, demanding, curious. As the young lady turned around to meet his gaze, he questioned bluntly.

“Are you a witch?”

“Gawain!” came her rider’s scandalised voice.

“No, it’s all right. He has the right to ask, and I guess that all of you might want to hear the answer to that.”

Several sets of ears turned to the conversation, most of them very discreetly. But none other more intently than the scout.

“Well. I am no witch. I am just a woman who happens to know how to fight. Given the hearty welcome of the locals, it is quite fortunate that I thought to take my bow and blade.”

A heavy snort came from the bald man, his boisterous voice laughing at her statement.

“A woman you say? Naaaah, you’re just a girl.”

“A strange girl indeed,” came Lancelot’s smooth voice.

Frances’ eyebrow lifted on her forehead, drawing a perfect arc that gave her a mischievous air.

“Is this how you have revenge, Sir Lancelot? By belittling my age and calling me a girl?”

His dark eyes twinkled; he enjoyed the challenge.

“I didn’t. Bors did.”

So, that was the bald man's name.

“I am allowed to call her a girl, I am almost thirty-three now.”

Thirty-three. It probably was a respectable age at the time, when in the 21^st century, this man would be considered young still. The age Jesus Christ was crucified.

“More than ten years older than the pup”

“Hey!”, protested Galahad.

Frances laughed at the nickname. So Galahad was the youngest, and 23 years old. Her eyes observed the other knights around her, trying to assess their age according to their looks. Bors seemed at least five more years than what they told her. As for Galahad, she would have gone for thirty. One couldn’t expect to live in the dark ages and be fresh as a daisy. Somehow, it also gave her the answer to their mislead statement about her age. Of course they’d think her much younger, for she was, after all, living in a modern setting with day cream, spa, showers and a proper diet. And a much easier life … when she wasn’t on a mission to save earth or history.

“All right. So would you like to guess my age?”

“Yeah! What do we win?”

Frances blinked. She had forgotten the inclination of men to bet and gamble. Definitely not middle earth. Damn, she had got used to Aragorn and Legolas’s gentle nature. Those men were rough. Her voice was not as strong as she hoped it to be as she answered the blond man beside her.

“What do you win? Er … the right to be right?”

“That’s lame,” protested Gawain, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“What about a kiss?” jested Lancelot.

Frances’ face darkened, and her hold tightened on the knight before her.

“Forget it. You can speculate about my age for eternity.”

“I don’t care about any winning,” came Dagonet’s voice behind them. “But you must be around seventeen of age, and should not place yourself in harm’s way. I will, however, ensure that there is no unwanted kiss involved.”

His voice seemed to settle the knights, for all of them slightly deflated. The man had a soothing aura, this strength barely concealed behind a quiet exterior. Frances’ hands unclenched on Galahad’s armour. She would have hugged Dagonet if she could; he had just saved her from future wooing, setting the limit.

“I thank you for your kindness, Sir Dagonet. To you then, I can admit to being level with Galahad, for I am 23 of age, and hardly a child. Yet, I will value your counsel.”

Several gasps welcomed this statement, and Frances patted Galahad back slightly. Being the youngest one in a group of men, she’d known that her whole life. Not that her brothers had been many, but her neighbours had five older boys, and she’d been more often at their place than hers while growing up. The lone woman around seven boys…

“I know how it feels, to be the youngest one. I grew up with seven brothers, and was the little girl for a long time. It’ll pass. Someday you’ll be old, and reminisce about the times you were treated like a kid.”

“I wish,” came his dreamy voice.

Frances frowned at this, sensing the despair flowing through this statement.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Gawain regarded her for an instant before pushing his chin forward in Galahad’s direction.

“He’s a pup. A baby wolf. When the Romans took us, he was the youngest one.”

“Took you? Enlighten me. I am unfamiliar with your situation, and the Roman’s part in this.”

And so, this is how Frances came to learn that each of those knights had been snatched away from their parents at a young age and forced to serve. Forced to die, as so many had along the years. Twenty one had arrived, six were left. Her blood boiled, her hatred for the Roman empire and its hypocrisy burning in her heart. After losing Maximus to that horrid Commodus, she had kept a searing disgust for Rome.

Unbeknownst to her, the discussion at the front had ended, Arthur hearing the solemn voice of Gawain explaining the state of slavery they were in. The commander hated this situation, wounded to the core each time one of his knights would pass away. And yet, he believed so strongly in the might of Rome, in its enlightenment. The lady, though, didn’t keep her rage contained.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she roared. “Fifteen fucking years ‼!”

Arthur cringed at the words, relieved when the woman had the sense to apologise for her outburst. Bors’ loud laugh cut her short.

“A knight doesn’t ask forgiveness for swearing.”

“She’s not a knight.”

Tristan’s quiet words shocked everyone silent. His statement, if harsh, only spoke the truth. Arthur needed to find a safe place to get rid of the girl, especially now that the bishop was coming to grant their freedom. He couldn’t afford to miss the carriage, and to jeopardise this mission. They had suffered enough under his care. They deserved freedom, and happiness. And he … he would go to Rome, and eventually relish in the light of the city, and the love of his caretaker Pelagius.

Chapter Text

They stopped for the night at the base of a hill, keeping the fire to a minimum to avoid being detected by the woads. The less garrison at the wall, the bolder they became. Tristan’s eyes were set on the girl as she helped build a fire, and settled herself in a corner. As per Arthur’s command, the scout watched for inside threats, as well as woads and animals. The witch should not be taken lightly. Already, his brothers had warmed up to her in an unnatural fashion. But she would not enthrall him so easily. Her eyes and manners though, seemed genuine. Still, he wouldn’t relent; it probably was part of the bewitching. Now, even Arthur was smiling down at her as she handed him a bowl of Gawain’s stew. 

Eventually, the young lady excused herself, claiming the call of nature. Arthur’s eyes caught his, earning a nod of his head. ‘Watch her, and keep her safe,’ was his silent command. As the witch found refuge in a few trees not far from their encampment, Tristan followed, a shadow amongst shadows. Very soon, he couldn’t even spot her. He had to grant this; she was stealthy for a lady. Yet no one outmarched him. Standing still in a clearing, he waited, until the slight shuffle of leaves indicated her position. A silhouette passed between the silver bark of the trees, her reddish hair painted in lighter hues from the moonlight. Tristan approached, his daggers clutched tightly. Witch or fairy? He had not decided yet. Albeit he had conveyed his doubts to Arthur, the scout had refrained from speaking about the blueish light. To this moment, he was still unsure of his reasons for concealing such an important information.

The young woman spread her arms wide, turning slightly around, as if feeling the land under her feet, and inhaling the forest. Tristan blinked, mesmerised by her silent dance. Her moves were graceful, her eyes closed in a prayer. Was she, like him, more at ease in nature than between walls? A sudden shiver caught him, and Tristan emerged from his trance. That was it, she was bewitching him also! In a fit of rage, the scout burst forth. The witch spun at the last moment. Too late. His arm rushed, fingers sneaking around her throat as he pinned her violently to the bark of an oak. Her fist hit him in the stomach, then a knee. She was fast, but not strong enough to deter him, especially with his armour on. Tristan grunted, and set his blade on the white skin of her smooth throat.

Eyes wide open, she stared at him in fear. And then, recognition dawned on her, and she slightly relaxed in his grip. Tristan scoffed at the trust she put in him. As if she was safer with him holding a blade on her throat than with a woad!

“Tell me witch", he growled. "What will you do now?”

Frances swallowed cautiously, and the scout slowly released the pressure of his blade so that she could answer. Her throat was sore, he’d nearly crushed her windpipe and she struggled not to cough.

“I am no witch”

His answer was a grunt, eyes shining under the moonlight, lighter than they seemed during the day as he hid them under the fringe of messy hair. The predatory glance, though, was enough to tell her that she was at his mercy.

“I have seen your coming. I have seen the ball of blue light. Is it woads’ magic?”

So he knew of the necklace’s magic. Well, then, from the inquisitive looks he gave her, Frances knew she would not be able to lie. Never before had she encountered such an intense gaze. It was as if he could see right through her. It was unnerving … and slightly soothing; she didn’t have to hide anymore. Her hand came to rest upon the one that held her pinned, finding support in the coiled fingers to adjust her stance upon the bark that dug in her back. The scout tensed, yet didn't chase her away when he realized she wasn't trying to gain the upper hand. The warmth she found at his contact slightly unnerved her, and Frances swallowed before answering.

“I do not wield this magic, nor am I its master. I was sent there to aid you.”

 “To aid us?”

The scout’s face revealed nothing, his grip as painful as ever. If she reared up now, she had no doubt he’d slice her throat in an instant. Panic rose, overwhelming her senses, and Frances pushed it down by studying the strange colour of his eyes at night. She didn’t know why but, even as he threatened her life and her heart hammered in her chest, she found his eyes to be fascinating. A window to his tortured soul. And God, there was so much pain, so much regret in their depth.

“Yes. Your knights, Arthur, and you”

This time, his feature hardened.                 

“Me”

She couldn’t possibly tell him that the first person to stumble upon her usually was the one she was supposed to help. In her heart, though, she knew it to be true. Tristan needed solace more than anyone in this merry company.

“Yes. You are the first person I met on arrival. I will fight for you”

His voice slightly raised, just above a whisper as he chastised her.

“Foolish girl! We do not need you”

His anger only managed to rile her up, and despite the fact that he could slice her throat on a heartbeat, her respond flung back without remorse.

“Apparently, you do. Or I wouldn’t have been sent here in the first place!”

“Who sent you?”

She had to give him some credit, the man knew how to conduct an interrogation. And his gaze pinned her to the tree as efficiently as his blade. There was no escaping the truth such was his magnetic presence.

“The Valar, my gods. Albeit I suspect them of having agreements with other deities… Anyway. They send me to ensure that events unfold the way they are supposed to.”

“Your ramblings make no sense, woman!”

This time, Frances huffed loudly. She’d had enough. Fortunately, the man had the reflex to drive his blade a little further from her throat lest she killed herself.

“Damn it, you stubborn scout! Can you not just trust me?”

“For fifteen years I have protected my brothers… no, I cannot”

The woman sent her arms to the sky in a silent plea, and he removed his blade altogether. He’d overpower her easily if need be, and didn’t want to tell Arthur he had bled her like a cow.

“I’d bash your thick head on the bark of the tree if I could!”

Tristan blinked, surprised by the colourful insult. No one at the fort, not even his brothers had the guts to give him a tongue lashing. People stayed clear from his path, fearing him like the plague… but the young lady here, she couldn't know of his reputation until she saw him hack at his enemies. She'd learn soon enough to avoid him. Until then… until then he would enjoy invoking her wrath, for it felt good, for once, to be treated like a human being. Vanora only dared sending him glares, and even the mighty redhead refrained from unleashing her tongue at him. Needless to say that Tristan enjoyed the challenge in a twisted way. And her exasperation felt so genuine. Despite the fact that she fed him the craziest story ever, no lies dwelt in her eyes. She told him the truth, her truth. Had he not seen the blue light, he’d have dubbed her absolutely demented. Yet, something nagged at the back of his mind. Her mannerism, her genuine smiles, her way of speech. She was different. Perhaps then, it was the world that had gone crazy, and she truly was from another place?

A piercing cry called his attention to the sky in surprise, and the young lady followed his gaze. Out of habit, Tristan extended his hand in the air to welcome his Hawk. The bird passed his face in a flurry of wings, and landed on his glove. Frances let out a muffled cry, biting her lip to refrain from making more noise. The scout scratched the dark feathers of the bird lightly in welcome and then something incredible happened. The hawk hopped aside once, twice, and, instead of taking off again, it landed on the lady’s shoulder. Tristan watched her as she repressed her scream, his surprise barely hidden on his face. The scout didn’t make a sound, his golden eyes set on the hawk as its claws dug into her shoulder piece, creating two set of holes in the patterned leather. He didn’t miss either the way her chest heaved up and down before her posture relaxed. She had a tight control over her emotions.

Frances contemplated the bird from the corner of her eye, its shiny feathers basked in the moonlight. Albeit its beak could pierce her eyes, she felt strangely comfortable with its weight on her shoulder.

“Hello there. You … you are splendid.”

 The bird was still like a statue until Frances dared lifting her hand and brushing its lovely feathers under Tristan's stunned stare. The hawk always nibbled at the other knight's fingers when they approached her, but she did nothing of the sort with Frances. Perhaps that she was a shaman.

The feathers were soft under Frances' skin, and the young woman caressed the bird for a long time before it started fidgeting. Then, the hawk started chirping at its master, as if telling him off for being so rude. When at last it took off again, Tristan’s mind was made up. She was no witch, but a fairy. His hawk had told her so. Turning to the young woman, he eyed her once more.

“Do what you have to do. I’ll not stand in your way.”

“Thank you, Tristan”

It had been a long time since a feminine voice had uttered his name, let alone thanked him with the heart, and it strangely soothed his soul. The scout gave her a levelled gaze, his mask slipping back into place.

“Don’t thank me. This world is not made for women. You’ll be broken soon enough.”

And then he huffed and walked away. Before disappearing, though, he called to her.

 “Don’t stay there, it’s dangerous.”

Chapter Text

Dagonet was checking the edge of his heavy sword – again – to avoid conversation. Not that Bors would get the hint, mind you. Every now and then, a jab would be thrown his way. The giant knight barely had to grunt to deflect the attention. Bors, his brother in everything but blood, was used to it by now. Most of the time, Dagonet didn’t even bother acknowledging him at all; this is what Vanora was for. The memory of the couple’s last fight called a smile to his lips. For sure, Vanora wasn’t one to back down. There wasn’t a woman in the world that could make Bors squirm with a glare like she did. With her fussing and ordering around, she had replaced the knight’s mother figure so easily and he … well. He was their father, because Bors was too busy taking care of himself. Their conscience as well.

It hurt more than he had foreseen. Every loss felt like a piece of his family ripped apart. He had held the hands of most dying knights, be it from wounds or disease, except for Kay who had been dead before he touched the ground. Every time they lost a knight, Dagonet felt the blade plunge into his heart as keenly as Arthur did. For even if their commander was responsible for them, he was still a Roman. Or a Briton. An outsider commanding respect, a man they would die for. But no Sarmatian. He, Dagonet, had started learning the art of healing because he wanted to have a hand in his brothers’ health, like a father would have done, or a benevolent uncle. The only one that didn’t regard him as such – apart from Bors – was Tristan. Perhaps because they were closer in age. Perhaps, also, because no one could replace the mighty father that had raised such a warrior. Their scout was the sort of man you didn’t cross. All rage contained, ready to be unleashed upon their enemies, precision incarnated into a human being. A predator on the prowl.

Speaking of which, Tristan emerged from the woods like a shadow, footsteps silent. Under the moonlight, a flying shadow soared in the sky, circling twice above its master before gliding away. There were many jokes about Tristan’s hawk, Lancelot stating more often than not that the bird was the only woman in the scout’s life. Dagonet kept his mouth shut about it, wondering in silence if Tristan had ever taken interest in a woman other than to bed her. In truth, he didn’t know what made his heart sing other than the wilderness and, of course, the thrill of battle. Despite his observation skills, Dagonet had yet to pierce the scout’s secrets. His brothers were oblivious of his approach; his stealth cheating even the most observant ones. But not Dagonet, who shared the ability to remain silent with the scout. Apparent passivity gave more time to observe, and he wanted to know if the lady Frances was still alive. Witch or not, his heart had refused to leave her behind to die. And when his eyes had met hers, he was moved by the pain in her eyes, the earnest plea of her soul. He felt responsible for her life now.

His clear blue eyes bore holes into the scout, interrogating without asking aloud. His impassive mask didn’t falter as he sat on a log, and for a moment, Dagonet’s heart quickened. He understood Tristan’s suspicion; something … there was something the lady wasn’t saying. Something HE wasn’t saying either, like a secret they shared. And when this very night, Arthur sent Tristan to the young woman, he grew afraid of what might happen. But he trusted their scout, no matter how tempered he could be. Tristan’s amber eyes twinkled in the dark, and he barely nudged his head aside. It was enough for Dagonet to follow his line of sight and spot the young woman as she approached the campfire. Arthur spared her a glance, checking that she posed no danger. Then, seemingly satisfied, he returned to his musings.

Dagonet watched as she, too, prowled like a giant cat. Not unlike their scout. She seemed unhurt, and, catching his gaze, decided to settle beside him. Her instincts probably told her he would protect her from anything. After all, Lancelot had been brutal enough in his intentions. Even if Dagonet knew that none of them would ever take a woman by force – Arthur would be enraged! – the young woman didn’t. It was a harsh world for a woman to travel alone; she’d been lucky to find them and not a band of outlaws. The tall knight almost shuddered at the thought of what might have happened. Even if she carried weapons, her skill remained to be seen. And no one could outmatch fifteen armed men intend on feasting upon a lovely maiden.

Frances settled beside him with a discreet smile, pulling him out of his thoughts. Dagonet nodded her gently as she rummaged into her leather bag. Then she started unbraiding her hair to pass a wooden brush in the tangled strands. The light of the fire set it ablaze, and even he had trouble tearing his gaze from the long strands that fell over her lap in waves. Her movements caught the attention of the younger knights; their eyes following the rhythmic movement of the brush. But he, alone, could hear the faint hisses and curses – in another language – that escaped her each time she ran into a knot. It took a long time for her hair to be entirely combed out, and when she eventually finished, she gathered its thickness behind her head and started twisting its length to pin it in a bun so compressed that it seemed ridiculous compared to the mass she had just tamed. The movement caused her collar to open slightly, revealing a purple bruise upon her neck. Refraining a growl, he awaited for the attention to shift away from them before asking discreetly.

"What happened?"

The young woman gave him a doe look, eyes wide open in an innocent expression that almost made him chuckle. With this catlike face, he didn’t doubt she could obtain anything she wanted. But Dagonet wasn’t fooled, and mustered his best fatherly stare, pointing at her neck. Frances sighed, pulling her collar closer to hide the purple bruise.

"The scout and I now have an understanding," she whispered.

Dagonet nodded, unwilling to comment to avoid catching the other’s attention. Anger seldom seized his heart, but the shape of purple fingers upon the lady’s slender neck irked him nonetheless. Keeping silent didn’t prevent him from sending a harsh glare to Tristan, promising retribution should anything alike happen again. The scout didn’t shrug albeit he could see he longed to. His smouldering eyes lingered instead on the young woman by his side, a strange look hidden behind his fringe.

The giant knight almost smirked. If he didn’t know Tristan so well, he might have missed the puzzlement in his gaze. But he could read him better than anyone else… Well, that was interesting. The scout’s unshakeable countenance undone by one woman. A tiny slip of a girl; she could be his own daughter. Let her be so for the while she needed it. A shoulder to rely upon to counter the fearsome scout.

Chapter Text

Once more, Tristan’s eyes lingered on the lady’s face. The memory of her kind gestures towards his loyal companion called some guilt in his gut. He’d been less than civil, threatening her life, and the bruise at her throat reminded him of his penchant for violence. Tristan knew of his twisted soul; there was a good reason why people did not approach him. Even Vanora, Bors’ lover, kept her distance from him… most of the time. But in the light of yesterday’s event, he actually felt disgusted by his ways.

Fifteen years of fighting for a cause that wasn’t his had managed to break him. Bitterness to replace the pain, solitude to prevent from sharing his despair at seeing his kin fall. And not even Arthur’s light could howl him out of the pit his soul had been thrown into. His eyes fell once more on Frances’ face, taking in the exotic beauty of her gently carved face, and her faraway look. She wanted to fight for them. Well, then, she’d very soon die with them. He cared not for the whims of an insane fairy.

She’d hidden the bruise under the collar of her tunic, the strange embroidered designs covering her skin. It wasn't roman, nor scot, nor celtic. Tristan had an eye for detail, and he'd never seen any patterns alike. Still, her hand lingered there every so often before falling back to seize Gawain’s armour. Pain. Pain he had inflicted upon her. Tristan would have sighed had his heart not built such walls. Soon, very soon, the bruise at her throat would be the least of her concerns.

To the knights’ mutual amazement, she was not such a burden. Her conversation was lively, albeit a little forced. She had not taken eternity to shake herself in the morning, and was even ready before Galahad. She had not complained about the meagre rabbit stew for breakfast, neither about her sore hide after a day in the saddle. Yet, he could clearly see the failings in her gait; her muscles were unaccustomed to riding. Most surprising of all in the scout’s view, the lady had checked her weapons before setting off. She might be useful, after all, especially if she knew how to shoot her bow. Its design was foreign to him – quite a feat ! - it seemed slightly recurved, less than his, but forged with materials he’d never see before. The handle was thick, moulded to her hand with a rich reddish wood, the colour not unlike her startling hair.

The young woman turned to him, her hazel eyes finding his despite the heavy fringe and plaits that adorned his unruly hair. Her left eyebrow shot up; she knew he was observing her. Well, time to scout ahead to find a place to rest. Tristan urged his mount forward, and left the puzzling fairy behind him.

************

Lively flames were soaring high in the sky as the company enjoyed a well-deserved rest. Frances’ butt was numb, and her thighs didn’t fare so much better. But at last she’d made progress with the group of knights who were getting friendlier. Tristan, their scout, had reported a clear area without the fear of being ambushed by Woads, hence the blazing fire and hearty laughs. As the distance closed off with the fort of Hadrian’s wall, tensions seemed to diminish. From what Frances was gathered, a bishop was on the way with their discharge papers. Freedom! Why would Rome sent a man of the church for such a task, she couldn’t fathom? Venison was being presently roasted on the fire by an expert hand; Gawain seemed quite determined to cook then a nice dinner.

“After all, it is not often that we welcome a pretty lady among our ranks.”

His face was youthful albeit hardened by years of battling.

“Even less often that you get your freedom back,” she retorted.

The blond knight sent her a grin. His banter held no innuendos, and she was happy that his interest in her lay elsewhere than between her legs. Gawain had a very direct temperament that she appreciated greatly.

“Be careful, said pretty lady is quite heavily armed,” retorted Galahad.

“Aaah, but so am I”

Laughter greeted the knight’s quip, to which even Arthur joined as he sat down across her.

“So tell me, Frances. Where do you hail from?”

Shit. More questions. The scout’s eyes were once more set on her face. No lies possible then.

“I was born in Lugdunum. My family still resides in the area.”

“Ah. This explains your perfect mastering of the Latin language.”

Frances pursed her lips to prevent from laughing. Damn, if Cécile – her cousin – heard that, she’d die from a seizure. The Keeper of Time was good with languages, but Latin she could never learn properly. She hated it, even before her first mission to the Roman empire. Her cousin, on the other hand, mastered antic languages quite fluently – all part of her master in Lettres Classique in Lyon. Damn, Cécile even knew Hebrew! But Frances couldn’t possibly say that her proficient level in Latin came from the magic of the necklace. Somehow, her brain had assimilated the language as its own … and she’d forget all about it when getting back. The ways of the Valar … and their technology. Unfortunately, it only extended as far as the main language, meaning she had no clue about Briton, Celt or any other language.

“You have come a long way to find your friends.”

This was not a statement, but open interrogation. Frances turned to the commander, gazing into his gentle green eyes. Curiosity had settled there, laced with concern. The poor man was burdened enough, but still took the time to worry about her. King Arthur indeed, the best of men; he’d earned his title!

“You have no idea,” she whispered back.

Seeing that she offered no more, Lancelot couldn’t resist prodding. There simply was too much silence in the lady’s answers.

“I gather your betrothed is the one whom you seek?”

A new wave of sadness washed over her, and Frances swallowed painfully the piece of bread she had been munching on. Yet, none of the knights scolded Lancelot for his words.

“I had thought, at first, that he would be here. But I fear I was misled, for none have seen him in the villages I passed.”

It was a good lie, one that came close to the truth. She had hoped for three years that the necklace would take her back to middle earth, to Legolas, only to face the terrible disappointment that it was not so.

“You will find him I am sure,” came Galahad’s voice.

Frances didn’t have the courage to smile back, fearing that tears would spill should she witness his sympathetic gaze. The young man truly was pure of heart, and she’d have welcomed his comfort had she been but a little stronger.

“Maybe he passed but people didn't spot him? The Britons care about their own ass, they're not very observant", said Bors.

Frances’ eyes got lost in the flames, her memory painting Legolas in this forsaken place. For sure, an elf prince would have made a striking figure on earth!

“Nay. He is not one to be disregarded. Had he set foot on those lands, he would have been recognised for sure”

Lancelot smirked, his cynicism coming forth.

“Bah you know the saying. It is better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all.”

Frances’ gaze hardened as she met his dark one, and he instantly knew he had hit a nerve. Arthur elbowed him hard, his eyes, immensely sad, watching the young lady’s. Lost in the depth of her despair, Frances failed to recognise a fellow heartbroken man. She stood up abruptly, and glared at the dark knight.

“Tell me about it five years from now.”

‘When you weep over Guinevere being Arthur’s wife’, she thought. Then she realized she was standing before them all, and looked for an excuse.

"Anyway. I smell, I'm off to find the stream"

"Not as much as Bors", came Gawain's playful retort.

Had she not been so heartbroken and angry as the Valar for pulling this mission on her when they refused to reunite her with Legolas, Frances would have laughed. As it was, bluntness replaced her usual politeness.

"Not as much as you all, frankly. Still I can't do anything about you lot, hence I'll wash myself at the stream."

Many eyebrows rose, but none of the knight felt like contradicting her. Yes. They all smelled of sweat, blood and horse; nothing new here. If she wasn't happy, she could very well walk to Hadrian's wall by herself. Arthur, though, couldn't prevent from playing the gentleman.

"Lady Frances, the stream is extremely cold."

Her jaw clenched, the fury of Lancelot's misplaced quip still running through her veins. Yes, the stench of sweat and horse was unbearable to her acute sense of smell. Yes, she hated being there ! Yes, she was enraged to be travelling again with men when Legolas always carried with him the subtle scent of pinetrees and forest breeze. Greenleaves…

"I don't mind cold water. It is vivifying and washes aches away."

Would it soothe her heartache ? Probably not. Then, realizing how rude she had been, her gaze softened as she told the commander.

"I will be back shortly, please excuse me."

And then she left the camp, walking swiftly to the top of the hill as tears fell down her cheeks. How she missed him! So much that she didn’t hear the commotion in camp, nor the harsh words chastising Lancelot. She also failed to detect the scout’s presence, lingering a few feet behind her as she plopped ungracefully beside the steam and started singing softy.[1]

« Cette lettre peut vous surprendre (This letter might surprise you)
Mais sait-on ? peut-être pas... (But you never know, maybe not)
Quelques braises échappées des cendres (A few embers escaped from the cinders)
D’un amour si loin déjà (From a long lost love)

Vous en souvenez-vous ? (Do you remember?)
Nous étions fous de nous (We were so fond of us)

Nos raisons renoncent, mais pas nos mémoires (Our reason surrendered, but not our memories)
Tendres adolescences, j’y pense et j’y repense (Gentle teenagers, I think about it all the time)
Tombe mon soir et je voudrais vous revoir (The night falls, and I’d like to see you again)

Nous vivions du temps, de son air (We lived from the air of time)
Arrogants comme sont les amants (Arrogants, like lovers are)
Nous avions l’orgueil ordinaire (We were so proud to think)
Du “nous deux c’est différent” (That we were different)
Tout nous semblait normal (Everything seemed normal)
Nos vies seraient un bal (Our lives would be a ball)
Les jolies danses sont rares (But lovely dances are scarce)
On l’apprend plus tard (We all come to learn it)
Le temps sur nos visages (The time on our faces)
A soumis tous les orages (Overpowered all the storms)
Je voudrais vous revoir (I’d like to see you again)
Et pas par hazard (But not by chance)”

It was a sad song, yet gentle, into which Frances could pour out hopes and despair. A tribute to her bright love, and the desire to see Legolas again before she died … or her absence cause him to fade. Dear Lord, how she wished it never came to that! Legolas had been the one to send her back to earth in hopes of saving her life. That, at least, had been a success as the teleportation had mended her broken body. But at what price? Gathering her face into her hands, Frances cried earnestly.

The appearance of the scout by her side should have spooked her, but she was too far gone in her melancholy to jump. She knew the knight stood watch and would keep them safe. His impassive façade did not flinch as he plucked an apple from his pocket, and started slicing it methodically. Truth be told, Tristan didn’t even know why he was there, sitting beside her, rather than keeping watch from the top of the hill. Though he was not the only one having sensed her distress, he’d agreed with Arthur that the lady needed some time. Lancelot, for once, had been a bigger ass than he. Yet, it was no reason enough to disregard this universal masculine wisdom to never get in position to comfort a crying lady.

Her song had called to him, her quiet words, in a language that held a few similarities with Latin but he couldn’t comprehend, had led his feet to this very spot. And before he knew it, he’s taken a seat by her side. She didn’t turn to him, probably ashamed of her tears, but gazed at the stars. With her little nose stuck in the air, her profile was lovely, much gentler than his. A womanly shape – definitely not a girl – with a pointed jaw and high cheekbones. Her eyes retained the light of the stars, brightening the warm brown of their depth. In the night, the red of her hair was dulled; she almost seemed like a normal woman. And suddenly, Tristan was curious about what kind of man could have captured the fairy’s heart.

“What is he like, your betrothed?”

Frances didn’t move an inch, but her the corner of her lips twitched upwards. A very private expression lightened her features as she answered.

“He is like the sun, so bright that it sometimes hurts. Agile like a wild cat, light on his feet, his voice is a melody for sore hearts, and his character merry and gentle. Yet, he is the deadliest warrior I have come to know,”

Tristan nodded, he could relate to the deadly part, but none of the rest came close to what his fellow knights were … to what he was.

“Legolas cares for trees, for animals and every living being. His horse is a friend, not a servant.”

Then she turned to him, her eyes shining with tears, but a smile upon her lips.

“Not unlike you care for your hawk. My betrothed loves laughing, and singing, and when he does the world stops spinning.”

The scout frowned, unfamiliar with the notion of a spinning world.

“How long have you been separated?”

“Three years.”

It was a long time for a girl. Even if she was as old as she claimed – which he could believe, given the depth he’s seen in her eyes – three years bordered on eternity at such a young age. The feeling she had poured in her words, though, left no doubt in his mind.

“You love him still.”

Frances nodded.

“I’d die any moment for him.”

For a moment, Tristan wondered how it would feel the be the recipient of such heartfelt love. Would it be fulfilling enough to bypass the stares and hatred he gathered when he walked in the fort? His stone-cold mask didn’t slip away as his thoughts ran havoc in his head. Yet, anger rose in his chest. Love, what a silly notion! He was altogether undeserving, and had forged his fearsome reputation all by himself. He asked for it, the wide berth people gave him, and relished in the peace it gave him. No one approached; they knew of his corrupted mind. Tainted and unpredictable. Violent and merciless. His next words were harsh, unforgiving.

“Then why do you throw your life away so carelessly?”

The young woman glared her gaze so intense that he felt like a kid under its parent’s scowl. Is that how people felt when he stared at them? When she stood a little stiffly, her muscles sore still, he did not move an inch.

“I do not. It’s my job to be here, and I will do what is required of me. Maybe then will I be allowed to reunite with my betrothed.”

Frances got back to camp, annoyed at the hurtful words of the scout. As she climbed the hill again, a shrill cry pierced the sky, and she turned around to see a dark shape land on its master’s shoulder, the feathers blending with the scout’s hair.

The night was uneventful, and Lancelot even came to her to apologise for his lack of thoughtfulness. Frances accepted it, albeit she could sense he was still wary of her. Whose knight she had to thank for this, she did not know, but she couldn't care less as night engulfed her.

Sleeping hours were short. They set off right after dawn. The scout didn’t leave for long, claiming the road was safe, and the knights were in high spirits. The dense forests of northern England had surrendered their hold on an open valley, and the road followed a stream which waters seemed to glide into the sunshine. It was a beautiful day, away from the biting cold as the wind turned to the west. The lingering smell of iodine was in the air, the smell of the Ocean. Frances was in a better mood than the previous day, riding behind Galahad once more. Curiously, speaking about Legolas had somehow settled her heart, or was it the reminder of the Ocean a mere fifty kilometres – er, leagues – away?

The knights bantered around her, laughing at her wit as she jested back, unfazed by their manners and sometimes less than acceptable choices of subjects. This was not middle earth, and she had to accept it, accept their roughness, if she wanted to have a chance. And then, as the time approached noon, they started singing. It was a warrior’s song, in their mother tongue, to which Galahad only contributed sparsely. The rhythm took Frances far away, on the rolling plains of Sarmatia, and she found herself singing along the tune. It was strong, powerful even, to hear those voices raising together as one. At the end, as she felt more confident, Frances introduced a few variations to compliment their baritone. A habit from her long days with Cécile, at home, when they would sing relentlessly two or three different voices. Her soprano laced with the melody, and the warrior’s march ended beautifully on a powerful final. Frances smiled, impressed.

“It was beautiful, you have such strong voices, and this language is very melodic.”

“Aye, it is,” said Gawain, once more riding beside her.

“Too bad I cannot remember half of it,” spat Galahad.

The young lady frowned, sending a glance at Gawain who seemed quite discombobulated. How terrible, to not even me able to remember your mother tongue! Damn those Romans for snatching him away from his family at such a young age. But then, Gawain’s expression lightened as he smiled.

“It is your turn now.”

Frances reddened instantly, a drop of sweat forming between her shoulder blades.

“My turn?”

“Yes. I’ve heard your voice in the chorus, and it seemed fine enough for you to sing a song from your homeland.”

Gawain grinned at her, and she found herself a little weak at the knees. The soft clop clop of horses came nearer as Lancelot and Bors surrounded Galahad. Lancelot turned to her, an infectious smile on his lips, his infamous locks glowing in the sunshine.

“Come, my lady. Surely you can regal us with your sweet voice?”

Somehow, she knew she’d not get away from it. And she loved singing, just not in public.

“Er … give me a minute to think.”

“A minute?”

Frances blinked. Of course, the minute was a non-existent notion in the fifth century.

“A moment, sorry. Just a moment.”

Silence fell upon the knight, anticipation gaining them as Frances’ stress peaked. There was no escaping this. Why not give them a treat?

“So?”

The young lady glared at Lancelot. The man was insufferable sometimes.

“All right, all right. There you go, stubborn knight."

Frances exhaled slowly, and inflated her lungs. It was not the easiest song ever, but she had performed it so many times before that her voice could handle it. And she knew of Lancelot’s aversion for the Christian Holy Church. It would serve him right, even if he could not understand the words. English, after all, was a non-existent language in 5^th century Briton.

“God rest ye merry, gentlemen

Let nothing you dismay

for Jesus Christ our Saviour

Was born on Christmas Day

To save us all from Satan’s power

When we were gone astray

O tidings of comfort and joy,

Comfort and joy

O tidings of comfort and joy”

Damn, she’s started a little higher than intended. The strain on her voice was stronger than usual, but Frances refused to relent as a religious silence told her they expected her to continue. She concentrated her gaze on Galahad’s back, refusing to look around. Had she done so, she’d have stared at the shocked faces of her fellow companions.

“From God our Heavenly Father

A blessed Angel came;

And unto certain Shepherds

Brought tidings of the same:

How that in Bethlehem was born

The Son of God by Name.

O tidings of comfort and joy,

Comfort and joy

O tidings of comfort and joy.

Silence greeted her, and Frances closed her eyes, her skin flushed. It still surprised her how this song could make her whole body vibrate. At last, the young lady opened her eyes, only to meet Lancelot shocked face.

“What?” she said defensively. “The exotic beauty not up to the task?”

“On the contrary,” he answered with a bow, “you have only enchanted me more.”

Frances blushed under his intense staring, and was relieved when he steered his horse away. Gawain replaced him, recovering his position as he gave her a genuine smile.

“It was beautiful, Frances. Unlike anything I have heard before.”

“Yeah. I felt like I was flying above this all,” confirmed Galahad’s voice, as if he was in a trance.

Bors exclamation behind them approved and Frances smiled.

“I am glad you enjoyed it.”

Before they could discuss it further, Arthur’s horse came beside them on the right side.

“I too, have found your voice truly angelic. But the language was unknown to me, and thus I didn’t catch the meaning.”

Busted! English, Gaelic … old Norsk! Which one of those existed in England now? She had a few notions, but nothing sharp enough to give her guidance on the language the Britons were speaking in the fifth century. The only thing she did know was that their language was very different from English. Tristan’s eyes were nowhere in sight; she could probably afford a little lie.

“It is a dialect I learnt as a child. As for the meaning, it speaks of Yule, and the coming of Jesus Christ, of course.”

Arthur’s eyes seemed to lighten up at this, and Frances heard a few groans around her. Her pride at their praise was dampened a bit by their reaction, but it was to be expected. This olive branch was destined, after all, to their commander.

“Are you a Christian, Lady Frances?”

Trust Arthur to call her a lady.

“Nay, Sir Arthur. But it is part of my culture, and I respect men in their faith, especially when it leads them to act with a higher consciousness.”

“And pray, lady, what are your Gods called?” came Lancelot’s ironic voice.

The first knight had come to the other side, effectively sandwiching her between the commander and himself. This was a sensitive discussion. What can of worms had she opened without thinking!

“My Gods are called the Valar, and I have a few misgivings about their recent decisions. Here that, up there?

Frances’ shout, directed to the heavens, elicited a few chuckles. It hid her uneasiness easily enough, as she knew her words to not be entirely true. She, a frantic atheist, had been faced with the impossibility of the elvish race recently. The very existence of Gandalf, a maiar and servant of the Valar, had sent her world spinning around. She’d had to admit that the Valar were no myth, and that they were superior beings in charge of the magical Arda. Did she consider them Gods? Not truly, but the notion would be too difficult to convey.

“So you’re a pagan, like us?” came Galahad’s tense voice.

“A pagan?”

“That’s what they call us, those damn Romans.”

Ah this, Frances couldn’t help but bark a mirthless laugh. Her last visit at Lyon's museum talked at length about the roman's religion and Sainte Blandine, in particular, martyred in Lugdunum. Thank God her long term memory never faltered.

“How ironic, when they were the ones that burned dear Jesus Christ not so long ago. Weren’t the Romans pagans themselves? It is but two hundred years that Rome has been converted to Christianism. If I recall correctly, Sainte Blandine was a martyr in Lugdunum on ground of being a heretic herself. Burnt, bled and tortured, uh?”

Beside her, Arthur seemed deep in thought. In truth, he was surprised by the extended knowledge of the young woman. And she had a point, a very sore point if he may add. Yet, she didn’t seem eager to attack him on his faith, only criticising the inconsistency of the Roman empire as a whole.

“You are correct. Yet now, Rome had recognised the sovereignty of our Lord, and changed its ways to the better.”

Lancelot scoffed as his commander, a harsh sound to which Arthur did not respond. Frances tried to soothe all egos with a piece of wisdom imparted by Gandalf, three years ago.

“To me, all our gods are the same as long as they watch over us. But with our free will, we can also guide ourselves to betterment,”

Arthur nodded silently; his green eyes boring into her as he concluded.

“And this is why you can sing so beautifully of the saviour’s coming.”

[1] 'Je voudrais vous revoir', Jean-Jacques Goldman. Do not hesitate to listen to it, it is beautiful.

Chapter Text

She could feel the anticipation in the knights’ veins at they approached the main road. When they finally lined up atop a hill, all clad in armour under the brilliant sun, Frances gaped at their magnificence. They were quite a sight to behold, awaiting the carriage of the Bishop. The wind blew slightly at their unkempt hair, from the south west, from the direction the Bishop was supposed to come from. Strangely, a thin layer of mist clung to the bottom of the hill, next to the forest. Despite the breeze, it seemed reluctant to tear. Frances dismissed it for the dampness of the climate. How wrong she was !

Friendly banter was exchanged, but most of the wait happened in silence. It was a brilliant day for them, the day of their freedom. Yet, somewhere in the back of her mind, Frances couldn’t help the looming weight that had settled on her chest. If the events were meant to unfold brightly, the Valar wouldn't have called her here, right ?

“The carriage! There!” shouted Galahad, almost bouncing on the saddle.

Dagonet turned his horse sideways, providing the view for Frances who rode behind him since morning. “Thank you,” she told him as she patted his arm.

At once, all riders descended the grassy hill in a canter. It was the most difficult of paces for Frances, for she had to adapt to Dagonet’s tall stature as he lifted himself from the saddle in rhythm. But she shouldn’t have worried about the canter, for suddenly, blue devils washed down from the woods like a wave of madness.

“Woads!” bellowed Bors.

The mighty cry was all it took for the knights to urge their mounts forward. A mere hundred yards away, Arthur suddenly turned to Dagonet.

“Leave her here!” he yelled above the mane of his horse barreling at full gallop.

Frances' protest was drowned when Dagonet slowed his horse down and expertly twisted her with his meaty arm. Her feet touched the floor at great speed, and she ran alongside as the knight’s horse passed her. She could fight, she would fight! The young woman darted off, heart hammering as she took in the scene downhill. Arrows flew everywhere, the Roman soldiers trying, and failing at defending the carriage as they died.

When the knights barreled into them, chaos descended upon the Bishop's party. Frances' legs pumped she ran at breakneck speed; the distance closed off, but not fast enough. Done slicing and dicing atop their horses, some knights dismounted, except for Galahad and Tristan who kept firing arrows with deadly precision. Only Sarmatians could possibly be so skilled while shooting on horseback! Gawain, Lancelot, Bors and Dagonet were in view, as well as Arthur with his long sword. The Woads were no match for their skills, and very soon the tide of the battle turned. Above them, a piercing cry told Frances that Lady Hawk was watching over its master!

And then, Tristan dismounted as well, so graceful that it reminded her of her beloved elf. One strike of his sword, one woad on the floor. And thus he danced, pulling his blade like a death sentence, and each of his moves send an enemy to the ground. Clean cuts, Japanese style, it suited his choice of sword, his technique flawless and much different from his fellow knights. Closer to Frances’ style than medieval. It was a fascinating dance, a deadly dance, but one Frances couldn’t possibly linger to watch.

Deprived of her bow still strapped to Dagonet's horse, she took a leap across the stream, and jumped into the chaos. At once, her sword was moving, incapacitating the blue devils as she passed; they’d overlooked her approach. It had been a long time since she had killed, three years ever since her last battle at the feet of the black gate. She’d nearly died that day, but victims had mostly consisted of orcs. Now, she battled against human beings. Her mind refused to hurt them, stilling her blade in the midst of the battle like it had, in Rome, when she’d faced her first kill. Frances's breath was short, her heart wild as she turned around, sword in hand. ‘Shake yourself!’, her mind yelled at she avoided a dagger to the gut. There was no time to consider, and Frances fell into the familiar pattern of battle. Mind blank, senses honed out, analysing before striking, emotionless.

Her skills were not equal to those of the knights, far from it, and sometimes it was all she could do to avoid a blade headed her way. But she was fast, and stronger than she used to be. Blamer her travels, and relentless training. And so, her sword sunk into guts, grazed arms and limbs, hacked away at flesh with a sickening sound in the disorganised chaos. Had the adrenalin of the battle not lead her, she’d probably sunk down weeping at the destruction she left in her path.

The Woads though, a good set of warriors in close range, were not as skilled with blades. Most of them clenched daggers in their hands, and albeit they were sneaky, Frances’ sword reached further. When her blade was snatched out from her grasp in a skirmish, she grabbed the knife at her waist. In the fray, something seemed amiss, as if the blue devils fled her rather than attack her.

Let's dwell on that another day.

Frances ducked, spun, and hit with fists, elbows, knees and legs. No matter how she detested taking a life, she’d had seven years of hand-to-hand combat under her belt. Sword or not, she was a strength to reckon with.

Very soon, there were no devils left alive on the battlefield, and Frances stopped in her tracks, chest heaving in exertion, sweat trickling down her brow. Her armour was strangely clean, her tunic not drenched in blood. Weird. As if none of her enemies had attacked her directly. As she took in the destruction around her, her blade suddenly appeared before her weary eyes. Tristan sent her a funny look. Frances only nodded her thanks, not trusting her voice as she flicked the blood of her blade. Crimson blood, human blood. The young lady closed her eyes an instant, but a fierce battle cry called her back to reality.

"RUUUUUUUUUUS"

There would be time, later, to register the shock. For now, Bors was roaring at the misty forest in an attempt to warn the Woads away. Frances lifted her eyes to the trees, the strange fog dancing around its roots. There she stayed for a while, taking in the ruthless battle that had just occurred, and the sad fact that she’d inflicted death without mercy.

The knights were killing the wounded, Arthur had just let one of them go and he scrambled away to its people. Then, the commander’s green eyes came to rest upon her. Maybe he had not seen her in the battle? She’d rather avoid a scolding in her current state of mind. She was sickened with herself, sickened of those deaths, of the devastation her blade had woven within the blue people. Even if they wanted to kill her, even if she was protecting her newfound friends, she loathed to have defended a Roman and extinguished the sacred spark of life in other human beings.

So when the bishop eventually came forth, she would have vomited right there and then such was the falseness, the hypocrisy on his face. Arthur’s gaze turned to the Roman, forgetting about her; it was just as well. Frances, wobbly legs took her to the stream where she attempted to wash her hands from the bloodshed. Adrenaline was rushing out, and she sank to her knees, white as a sheet. It was there that Dagonet found her. His powerful body was covered in blood and gore, a sight not unknown to her after the war of the Ring.

 Except that this one was bright red instead of black, a flowing and sacred life force rather than a perverted one. She understood now, why the knights seemed broken. For fifteen years, they had shed blood in the name of Rome, for the empire that allowed slavery, and killed its own, to prevent people from taking back what was rightfully theirs. How could Arthur condone it? Dagonet offered his hand, afraid to spook the lady; Frances took it, her own cold from its bath in the stream. Then he lifted her up on Galahad’s horse, the less bloody of them, and on they went. She should have thanked him for his consideration, but her mind was awfully blank, trying to reach for tendrils of sanity.

The ride back was silent for a while, until the knights took the lead, and were out of earshot of the Bishop’s carriage. Arthur had sent her a heated look, one that said that he wasn’t ignorant, and they’d talk about it later. The ghastly expression on her face, though, deterred him form asking further. For the moment, the road seemed clear.

A massive wall appeared before them. Hadrian's wall.

The fortress itself was squarely designed, a Roman fort like any other, with a tall wall of grey rocks that came from the land. Granite, or gneiss, probably. The sunrays heated Frances’ face, but she didn’t relish in its warmth, her heart too burdened. Sometimes, her body trembled. Fortunately, the movement of the horse hid it. The figure of Tristan, popping out by her left side, surprised her. His piercing gaze held her in his power, as if in assessment. She wondered what he saw, if it was her weakness. But then, he bowed his head to her, and her face changed into a puzzled expression.

“You did well,” came Gawain’s voice, as if translating the silent scout’s words.

“Did well ‼ She’s a killer, that one !”

That was Bors, and his less than subtle way to give her some tribute. Frances flinched at his compliment. Tristan urged his mount forward to join Gawain and Galahad who were discussing their future.

Let's hope there will be one.

When Galahad voiced his concerns about the Bishop, she couldn’t help but interject.

“I feel it too. There is something wrong with this man. He is as fake as they come, and something dark looms in his eyes.”

Gawain glanced at her, unsettled by her statement, but Frances’s attention was elsewhere, her gaze set on the scout. It was her father who first taught her to read people through their eyes. He said they never lied; she’d verified this statement so very often that she adopted it as her own. What she saw in Tristan’s gaze, what lingered still as he stared back at her, impressed by her readings on the Bishop, was difficult to comprehend.

There was darkness there, and great sorrow. It spoke of a broken man, unpredictable, and deadly, for he held human life in no great value. But somewhere in their depth, deep down between the specks of brown that marred their beautiful greyish hues, hope existed still. Hope that dwindled every day, but had not faded entirely.

Gawain broke away from the staring contest, wondering what the lady and the scout could be silently conversing about, to poke fun at his brother knight.

“Galahad, do you still not know the Romans? They won’t scratch their asses without holding a ceremony.”

“Mind the lady,” came Dagonet’s voice.

Gawain's jab eventually reached Frances' heart, defrosting it as she authorized herself to laugh. The shock, though, still lingered; she would process it later and stored it in a drawer.

“Ah never mind, Dagonet. I’ve heard worse. Much, much worse.”

Frances didn’t add ‘in engineering school’, but the words were on the tip of her tongue.

“Such as ?”

This time, Frances flushed. Nope, nope and nope, she couldn’t relate any of the horrible jokes she’d heard about fist-fucking and the likes. Yuck! Once more, she wondered how she would ever be able to fit in this horrible school, where fifty percent of the student had such a terrible humour. The knight couldn’t even come close to that on a drunken day. Turning to Bors, she stuck her tongue out.

“You don’t want to have this conversation, believe me. And neither do I.”

Her eyes lit up as she laughed, her cheeks turning a nice shade of pink. Tristan schooled his features with his usual mask of indifference, refusing to find her lovely. By then, Galahad had insulted him, claiming that he killed for pleasure, and the scout hid his anger behind a stony face. How had they not understood, after fifteen years by his side, that his killing spree was just an endless revenge for his brothers in arms? But he’d never admit it, and instead of letting the young knight get under his skin, he just answered evenly.

“Well, you should try it someday. You might get a taste for it.”

There. If this didn’t scare the fairy away, he didn’t know what would. He was a hopeless broken man, and didn’t want her to get in danger on his behalf. There’d be enough work with keeping the others alive is something bad happened.

“lt’s a part of you. lt’s in your blood,” answered Bors.

Galahad’s vehemence almost moved him. There was so much anger in his posture, and bitterness. Like any of them, except that he didn’t know what to do with it, except to get drunk.

“No, no, no. No” came his young voice. “As of tomorrow this was all just a bad memory.”

As Galahad rode ahead, Tristan couldn’t help but see Frances’ hand going to the young knight’s shoulder in comfort. The scout urged his horse a little forward, placing himself half a pace behind them, another half in front of his fellow knights. Alone, but in range to observe, his favourite spot.

Gawain and Bors were discussing their plans to get back to Sarmatia, or not in the case of the latter. Laden with eleven children, Bors had found his happiness. Lancelot’s playful banter intruded, and he left after telling Gawain that his wife would probably welcome his company. Tristan smirked slightly; another one who wore a mask, another one as wounded as he was, but coping differently. The lady’s posture in front told him she was following the conversation albeit keeping a straight face. He even saw her shoulders shaking with laughter as Lancelot passed them to catch up with Arthur. The wink the handsome knight sent her was answered by a roll of her eyes.

Definitely immune to his charms.

A piercing cry called him to attention, and Tristan whistled, shooting his arm up in the sky. A moment later, hawk landed on his glove, her claws digging strongly to receive a piece of dried meat.

“Where you been, now? Where you been?” he asked, ruffling its feather playfully.

“She was watching over you during the battle.”

Tristan’s gaze lifted to the young lady who had turned in the saddle, and she smiled tentatively. He was shocked when his horse came closer, directed by his thighs even if he couldn’t recall making the movement. Frances extended her hand, and grazed softly at the bird’s feather.

“She is very loyal, and cares about you.”

“I fear her loyalty is wavering.”

His face was straight, but his eyes held some mirth as her fingers stroked the bird’s breast gently. His Hawk, after all, was inexplicably welcoming in regards to the little fairy. Unless she controlled animals too…

“I think not, for I too, will watch over you.”

Then, Galahad urged his mount forward, leaving a dumbfounded scout in its wake as he drove Frances away from his side. The lady frowned, spooked by the animosity between those two. Galahad was so young, so angry. The huge wall of the fort was now casting shadows at their feet, and she couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between Lancelot and Arthur.

“And what will you do, Arthur, when you return to your beloved Rome?”

“Give thanks to God that l survived to see it,” came his deep voice.

“You and your god! You disturb me.”

“l want peace, Lancelot. l’ve had enough. You should visit me.”

The first knight couldn’t contain his disdain.

“Ah!”

“It’s a magnificent place, Rome. Ordered, civilised, advanced”

“A breeding ground of arrogant fools.”

At this, Frances couldn’t help but snort. For once, she was quite inclined to agree with Lancelot. Yes, Rome was organised, and a place where all great minds could thrive … provided they came from a wealthy family. Pline the young, and the elder had, for sure, been of those minds. Only for the first to witness his uncle’s death in the Vesuvio’s eruption. As for the rest, slaves, daughters or sons, weak minds and poor people, they’d just have to survive its perversion and horror.

“How long have you not set foot in Rome, Commander?” she eventually asked.

Startled, Arthur gave her a wistful look.

“It has been a very long time. What about you?”

“Six years ago, give or take.”

She couldn’t possibly tell them that she’d visited Rome in 2002, landing in 192 AD as Commodus killed Maximus in the Coliseum under her very eyes. The very same Coliseum she’d seen as a teenager, half-broken, and emptied of its cruel crowds in the first year of the second millennia. Her silence, though, taught Arthur everything he needed to know, and Lancelot lifted a dark eyebrow.

“I take it that Rome didn’t call at your heart?”

Frances nearly choked down on her response. It had been the first time she’d lost a friend to cruelty. Her first mission, first kill. She struggled to level her answer, trying to sound detached.

“I have gazed upon its magnificence, and suffered through its depravity. Don’t get me wrong. The architecture is stunning, the organisation as well. Bath houses, drainage and such, the cleanliness, all of this has some merit. The juicy peaches in summer, the fountains in the streets, and the blazing sun upon the rocks were fabulous. But its core…”

The commander frowned, and Frances’s next words caught in her throat. She didn’t want to hurt him, to tell him he’d been fighting for a horrible empire, but how could he be so blind? It was infuriating, to know that the knight had given their lives for such depravity, that his men were broken for the glory of Rome !

“The Roman culture does not hold the same appeal to you as to me ?”

Nibbling on her lower lip, the young woman tried to choose her words. In front of her, Galahad was tense, and he squeezed her arm in warning.

“I am sorry to say so. I value bravery, and honesty above all. There was much hypocrisy in Rome. The political games are sickening. Forgive me, but what can we expect from people who murdered their own? I’m sure no one could ever forget how Maximus Decimus Meridius was killed by the emperor Commodus himself in the arena. After an unfair fight, for he was previously wounded! What kind of moral allows slavery, allows people to be slaughtered in the coliseum, and human beings to be sold as pieces of furniture ?”

Hearing such harsh words, Arthur nodded stiffly, and urged his horse forward. Frances sighed in defeat.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured to Galahad, utterly miserable.

The knight shrugged as Arthur’s stern voice called at the guards.

“Open the gates !”

Lancelot watched his friend’s tense shoulders as he disappeared ahead, and turned his inquisitive eyes to the young woman behind Galahad’s saddle. He had to admit that she had guts. He’s spotted her fighting in the melee, quite proficiently at that, albeit he had yet to see her wielding her long Dao. And now she had the gall to tell Arthur about his beloved Rome, to crush his dreams with softly spoken words. There was no denying her truth, even if it was just one point of view. But his experience of Romans inclined him to believe her, rather than Arthur’s ideals. Her face, though, was dejected. Lancelot leaned in the saddle, and winked at her in his most charming way.

 “And the women ?”

This time, Frances smiled, and slapped his arm playfully.

“You, Sir Knight, are a cad!”

Chapter Text

Frances was pleasantly surprised at Bors's suggestion that she have his room for the night. After all, she expected them to send her on her way upon arrival, especially since they directly walked into a meeting with the Bishop to receive their discharge papers. Without money, she was already wondering where she would spend the night. But Bors had adopted her since she had thrown herself in battle, and without even asking permission to Arthur, dragged her to his unoccupied room.

"Stay here, we'll meet in the tavern after the Roman is finished with us. We'll ask around for your man."

My man… is not a man. Have you seen an elf around, eh ?

To say Frances was touched by Bors' thoughtfulness was an understatement. From the looks of it, he had not slept there for ages. The place was damp, faintly smelling of mould and dust. The sheets seemed clean enough, if rough under her fingers. As for the blanket, coarse wool, she knew she would have to sleep fully clothed to stave off the itch. The knights probably had a maid that took care of the washing, for nothing was stained. How many times did they stumble into Lancelot's bed ?, Frances mused.

The contrast between legend and reality was jarring. Both the knights and the time period were much different. For the moment, there seemed to be no Queen, no Guinevere. The knights didn't make any mention of her, especially Lancelot. Perhaps later, perhaps it was all another artistic licence and Arthur had never been married. Merlin, though, was another puzzle. Lancelot had mentioned to the bishop that he was leader of the enemies… What a mess !

Finding a bowl of warm water occupied Frances for half an hour as she roamed empty corridors. The fort was made of sturdy grey rock, the openings scarce enough to keep the mood gloomy. It must have been stifling for people used to live in yurts in the open. She eventually stumbled in the kitchens; the only issue… the middle aged woman didn't speak Latin much, and Frances not a word of Briton. Damn ! Nor Celt, nor Gaelic.

The cook rambled a lot – probably shocked to find a young woman in breeches in the knight's quarters - until they eventually managed to exchange a few words in latin and Frances could drag a pail of hot water back to her room. As she brushed her hair and changed her tunic, the Keeper of Time wondered if the people of the fort would speak Briton or Latin or both. It wouldn't be the first time she didn't speak the main language, but in Rivendell at least, people switched to common tongue whenever she was near. A courtesy she didn't expect here.

After an hour or so – by her internal clock – Dagonet appeared on the threshold to lead her to the tavern. Frances was ready; now washed, she had passed a tunic and long woollen overcoat, long hair flowing across her back and sword strapped at her hip.  She followed the tall knight through the fort, observing the scenery when she wasn't busy running after his long strides. Frances took in every little detail as she walked, to the feel of the cobbled street below her supple elvish boots to the stalls still opened.

They passed a very busy street were cobbler, seamstress, blacksmith and many other dealers sold merchandise. Walking in a fifth century Roman fort was awesome ! At last, they made it to the tavern: a place where inside and outside held no meaning for the whole place was open around a cobbled square. Those Britons really didn't feel the cold. And for sure, most of the conversation around her made no sense to her. Brittonic, great !

If I learn Gaelic, will I understand a bit ? Welsh, perhaps ?

When Lancelot joined them around the table, Frances was pulled out of her musings.

“What, no dress? Not even a little cleavage for sore eyes?”, he smirked.

Frances scoffed, refraining the need to tug at one of his dark curls.

“My eyes are sore as well, and I don’t see a skirt to compliment your perfect locks.”

His dark eyes bore holes into her as he reached for her hair. The long strands caressed her waist, twisted by the braid so that it created a waterfall of reddish waves. A sight to behold! And he wasn’t the only one staring, as half of the tavern was already ogling the woman in breeches. Frances instinctively pulled back and stood.

“This, dear Lancelot, is guarded territory. Find someone to sit on your lap instead.”

And she fled to the bar, finding a very stoic Tristan whose gaze was thoroughly fixed on the apple he was slicing. She’d heard the talk and whispers about the scout; no one would dare approach her here. No one but Vanora, Bors’ lover, who was looking for a pair of friendly arms to soothe her latest son. Seeing that Bors was on good terms with the lady, she shoved the moving bundle into Frances' arms without ceremony.

“There, little one. I’ll be back soon,” she whispered to the baby.

And then, she stared at Frances seriously:

"He just ate, put him on your shoulder a bit, will you? Thank you, lady knight.”

Her protest fell on deaf ears; horrified, Frances stared at the chubby toddler. A few feet away, Gawain chuckled at her disgruntled expression before launching a knife into a stool.

“Ah, no buts. You’re a woman, you know what to do.”

Right. 5^th century. Panicked beyond understanding, Frances tightened her hold on the swaddled baby.

Don't let it fall !

 He smelt of stale milk and coarse linen, the cap upon his head a worn cloth of … whatever it was. The chubby little guy looked at her hopefully, his deep blue gaze searching this new and very unfamiliar face.

“I’m useless with kids,” she grounded.

“Nonsense,” came Galahad’s voice as he landed a heavy arm on her shoulder.

Frances shook him off, frowning intently at his inebriated state. Drunks always made her uncomfortable. By her side, Tristan stood from his stool, a strange gleam shining in his golden eyes. She could have sworn the corner of his lips had lifted in a smile, which only intensified the cringe of her eyebrows.

“I do bow and arrows, I wield a sword and I study mathematics, biology and geology. I don’t do kids.”

Galahad shrugged; his legendary grace impaired by the alcohol.

“Bah, you’ll manage. In the meantime, you can observe my winning.”

And then, he joined his brother in arms in the game, his blade landing a few inches above Gawain who sat back at the table, draining his wooden cup. Frances gaped: how he managed to land a dagger in his inebriated state was a wonder ! A small tug at her scalp indicated that the baby had found a loose strand to play with. After all, she shared hair color with his mother, although Vanora's was slightly lighter… and natural, lucky woman. The waitress was incredibly good looking, especially after eleven babies ! Frowning, Frances gave up the idea to get her tresses back; the toddler was already munching upon it.

Let's hope drooling on my hair will keep you quiet.

A slight movement beside her called her attention ; Frances lifted her head just in time to spot the easy swing of Tristan’s wrist as he carelessly tossed his own knife. He must have been at least two feet behind but the blade landed true, embedding into the tip of Galahad's handle. Both Gawain and Galahad turned to him, as stunned as they were pissed.

Such talent ! Even Legolas doesn't…

“Tristan!", Galahad cried.

But Gawain, sitting happily with a 'wench' massaging his shoulder, couldn't refrain from asking. "How do you do that?”

The scout took a bite of his apple and answered innocently, pointing at the knives like a drunk man: “I aim for the middle.”

Frances didn’t know if it was his straight face or the look of absolute dejection on the other’s faces that sent her in peals of laughter. Tristan turned around, his eyes shining with mirth and her smile widened at the sight. She swore that, buried under the shaggy beard, the corner of his mouths twitched. The amusement, though, was short-lived as the swaddle in her arms started whimpering. Panicked, Frances walked around, the baby cradled against her chest. She was so tense that her muscles ached.

Babies are heavier than I thought !

And then, as his cries assaulted her hears, she lifted him up on her shoulder and started singing the first lullaby that came to mind. The Skye boat song. Not fit for children, for it spoke of Bonnie Prince Charles fleeing the massacre of Culloden moor, but she didn’t have much better in mind. She loved the 'Outlander' series, and any Iron Maiden song would have been a little pushy.

“Sing me a song of a lass that is gone
Say, could that lass be I?
Merry of soul she sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye”

Her voice, low and soothing at first, started to rise as the baby responded. Releasing a little burp on her shoulder, she repositioned him in her arms, and begun to spin slowly, lost in the baby’s blue gaze. Despite the swaddle of dirty linen, he was charming… and shared a few of Bors' features. The tavern was noisy, who would care about her singing? And so, oblivious to the world, Frances sang, her voice deeper, stronger than before.

“Billow and breeze, islands and seas
Mountains of rain and sun
All that was good, all that was fair
All that was me is gone.”

Tristan watched the fairy as she unknowingly enchanted his brothers, her powerful voice touching their hearts and souls as she became more confident. Fortunately, her eyes were set on the baby, for he knew she would have shied away had she realised that a circle of patrons had their attention fixed upon her now, the ones sitting directly across the bar. The scout frowned at some of the men, their gazes lustful.

“Sing me a song of a lass that is gone
Say, could that lass be I?
Merry of soul she sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye”

A local round of applause welcomed the end of her performance, and Frances’ posture suddenly shifted, her shoulders tense. The baby in her arms started crying anew, and Bors came along to retrieve his son. She sighed dejectedly, relinquishing the tight hold on the swaddle, and disappeared in a corner. Her hair followed her like a cascade of fire, lit by the blazing flames of the hearth.

When the young lady emerged again, she strode directly to him, her eyes locked on his face. Tristan lifted an eyebrow; few people dared approaching him so blatantly, fewer still challenged him to a staring contest. Her jaw was set, her gait determined. And for once, Tristan found himself bracing himself.

Frances crossed the tavern in a few strides, trying to appear confident. Forsooth, she only wanted to get to the point before she lost her nerve. And thus, as she came to the scout’s side, she asked bluntly.

"Can you help me ?"

Tristan gave her the silent treatment until she relented. Frances stared back, pissed that his method of intimidation would work so well. Already, she had lost the sentences she’d prepared, and struggled not to babble her concerns out.

"I need your insight"

A second eyebrow joined the first, indicating that he was taken off guard. People probably didn’t ask him for his thoughts so often – they usually avoided him altogether. Except for Arthur and his brothers in arms of course.

"Speak,” came his gruff reply.

Frances exhaled, trying to dissipate her uneasiness. To no avail. That man had a chilling presence, and one’s heart could only miss a beat when faced with his undivided attention; a predicament reminiscing of Lord Elrond’s study.

"During the battle with the Woads, I felt like the blue devils were avoiding me. Or rather, not trying to kill me. I was the one who engaged them mostly."

His intense stare caused her to babble, and Frances hated herself for it. Damn, she was a Keeper of Time, not a schoolgirl.

"It might be a stupid notion, I’m not that accustomed to skirmishes like these, and yet…"

A simple nod was her answer, and for a moment, Tristan’s eyes glazed over, recalling the battle. He wondered if his brothers had seen it also; he had not spoken openly of his observations to them after the fiasco with the Bishop. It all seemed rather pointless now that freedom was at hand. Of course, he’d watched her during the battle: once because he still didn’t trust her, and secondly because of his scouting habits. Tristan looked out for his brothers, always and foremost, and covered their backs with arrows. And he had to admit that her fighting had style. Several times, he saved an arrow because she had felled an enemy before he could react. A Woad, in particular, nearly got to Gawain before he could shoot. But Frances’ blade had sliced his calf, hence saving the blond knight.

"The only engaged you when in danger, and some out of anger at the end."

Frances nodded once, a frown marring her features. Tristan almost chuckled at her worried expression, it gave an adorable crunch on her small nose. But smiles didn’t come easy to him. In reality, he was surprised by the accuracy of her observations. In the midst of the battle, she had still managed to maintain a general awareness of her surroundings, and analysed it properly. A good scout material, that fairy. Yes, the Woads had avoided her, and he would bet his life that it wasn’t because of her being female. Their women fought, some as fiercely as men.

Perhaps that her magical appearance had something to do with it? He knew the Woads to have an acute sense of what transpired in their woods. But, all in all, what baffled him the most was the fairy's willingness to share this with him. The honestly of her words doubled with the earnest light in her eyes told him she was not attempting to deceive. Perhaps then, he could learn to trust her. She said she would fight for him … and so far, she had. Tristan would have shaken his head had he not picked up the habit to be still like a statue. Too much unknown, not enough information to make up his mind.

For the moment, Bors was leading Vanora into the courtyard for her to sing. And despite her protests, the redhead waitress eventually obliged. Her voice rose, a little coarse, but powerful enough to be heard. The words she sang were Briton; they held no meaning to Frances. But she could feel the longing. Such longing… not unlike her own.

Middle earth… Legolas. My heart.

When Vanora tightened her arms on her last born, the melody swayed like waves at sea, piercing her heart with melancholy. Tears sprang to Frances' eyes, blinked away at once.

Over the courtyard told, the knights were engrossed. All of them. Galahad was singing along, his bearded face ten years younger. Dagonet stood, silent. Like a rock, too sturdy to weep, albeit his eyes longed to. Lancelot kept his head down, the cheeky knight overwhelmed. From her point of view, she couldn't discern Gawain nor Bors' face, but Tristan… Tristan's features softened, the stoic scout giving way to a man whose youth had been stolen. A man who longed to find where he belonged.

Vanora's singing touched him just as much as the rest, but he refused to let it show. Slicing his apple methodically, he let the blade slide across the flesh to focus his mind. But try as he might, he couldn’t help but be affected by the mood. What would home look like now? Had his tribe moved in the fifteen long years he’d been away, wandering the unending plains of Sarmatia? How about his mother? His elder sister? Would she be married? A mother? Dead? Would horror marr her face at seeing what he had become, her little brother turned into a deadly scout? A broken man, incapable of loving and bestowing affection on his nieces and nephews? What life laid beyond their release?

Arthur’s appearance in the tavern sent cold dread in the pit of his stomach. The commander expression did not bode well; that he was his friend too did not matter. Why no one picked up on his mood was jarring. Mayhap his fellow knights were too intoxicated to see what pain lingered in his eyes. No matter what, Tristan never got drunk; it would mean relinquishing control.

As Arthur came closer and swallowed nervously, Tristan’s eyes caught Frances’. She had not left his side, nor moved from her spot; he had nearly forgotten she was there, wallowing in his self-pity. Blending in her surroundings, she’d patiently waited for the world to shift as Vanora sang. That, in itself, was a feat; to be forgotten by the scout. Maybe he felt more at ease with her that he’d dared admit. And the worried look in her eyes, now, told him he wasn’t the only one feeling that doom was about to deal a crushing blow. He bowed his head to her, and joined his fellow knights. Definitely scout material, that little fairy.

And when Arthur told them a last mission was asked of them, a suicide ride to rescue a forsaken Roman family north of the wall – NORTH OF THE WALL ‼! – Tristan quenched the burning anger at the Bishop’s treason, choosing rather to taunt his fellow brothers. He knew them by heart by now, Gawain’s silent disappointment, Galahad’s drunken anger and childish behaviour as he crushed his jar at Arthur’s feet, Bors’s yells, and eventually, Dagonet’s acceptance. Always the voice of reason. A father to all. And Lancelot, trying once more to appeal to Arthur and his commander’s stern answer. There was nothing Arthur could do, no point arguing. Tristan disappeared in the dark; he needed to find Hawk.

Chapter Text

The altercation that followed Vanora’s beautiful song sent the knights if fits of anger. Frances, hidden in the shadows, didn’t dare utter a word. She felt bad for Arthur; his own wrath written all over his face as he asked of his brothers this last suicide mission. Trapped between the hammer and the anvil ! The commander didn’t react to Lancelot’s lashing, nor to Galahad’s harsh actions, but in those green eyes were an Ocean ready to lay waste on the rest of the world. His jaw, though, was the only indication of the tempest raging inside. There was the King of legend, the leader of man who could set aside his own feelings and do what needed to be done. Damn Rome, once more, for eternity ! Frances knew anyway that the empire was falling, and would fall hard. It was just a matter of time before it became history.

Too bad it will take years.

The young woman dallied a little in the tavern, but not overly long. The stares she received from Romans and Briton men alike froze her blood more than once, and the few comments she understood didn't help. Frances eventually set off after Lancelot to the stables. Thank her sense od direction ! Sword strapped at her hip, she walked with purpose, long strides silent on the paved streets. The best way to fend off any drunk stragglers. She’d perfected that art over the years of loneliness. Be it in a modern world or in a medieval one, Frances knew how to push away any man with her attitude.

Raised voices in the stables caught her attention, and she paced herself. Frances didn’t want to intrude, but knew that the conversation would probably be heated if Lancelot had indeed found his commander. Her guess was confirmed as Arthur’s stern voice reached her, at once interrupted by the first knight’s anger. Pure and powerful anger laced with despair as his voice cracked afterwards. Now, how was she going to convince Arthur to let her tag along ? Her body was still humming from the knight's anger, and she breathed in slowly. Her permeability to others' feeling was a strength as much as a curse. How she hated confrontations ! People lashing out at loved ones! Frances crossed her arms and pulled her cape tighter; the chill was getting to her.

Heavy footsteps shook her from her musings. As Lancelot passed her, he shot her a look that, for once, was neither guarded nor playful. Fear danced in his dark orbs, fear of what may happen to his fellow knights, and his commander. His hand found his way to her shoulder, his head bowed for a while, the contact desperate.

"Go. He badly needs a song right now, or a woman’s touch."

So the flirt wasn’t dead yet. Frances rolled her eyes, and took his hint. Lancelot watched her retreating form, waterfall of fire swaying over her waist as she disappeared in the stables. If she knew what she walked into… she was one hell of a woman ! If not… thtoo bad.

The building was huge, and dark, even with the torches burning on the walls. Horses were at rest, but the lone man at the end of the hall was not. Yet, he sensed her presence easily. Fifteen years of fighting could do this to a man. Straightening up, the commander sent her a stern look.

"Lady Frances."

The Keeper of Time almost sighed at the title; here or on Arda, people with manners persisted to call her a lady. Maybe someday she’d have to accept that it was what they thought her to be. But not now.

"Commander. I won’t intrude on your privacy for long, for I gather you probably want to be alone."

Arthur’s green eyes softened at that. Yes. He very much wanted solitude, but wouldn’t take his anger on her. "Is there anything you needed?"

"Yes. Your approval."

Silence. Arthur’s temper surged at that. He had no time for petty matters. His voice filled with anger as he responded, his patience getting thin.

"As you have probably heard, my knights and myself will be gone tomorrow at the first hour. What can you possibly request of me ?"

"I wish to accompany you on your last mission."

Mind numb, Arthur staggered, his hand finding the wooden railing. His mouth opened, then closed, before he could regain his bearings.

"Out of the question."

The young woman stared at him, undeterred by his refusal and he marvelled at her ability to stand her ground under his glare. Many knights used to shudder when he displayed his full regalia, most of them gone by now. Frances took a step forward, her stance confident.

"I can fight."

"I don’t care."

The words left his mouth before he could backtrack, rude and out of character. In any other circumstances, he’d have pointed how she had jumped into the fray, and defended herself quite skillfully. Hell, he even owed her thanks for saving Gawain. But this evening, his patience had dimmed to nothing, and he would NOT be sending a woman north of the wall.

"My friends might be beyond the fort, please."

"Then find them yourself. I won’t be responsible for one more death."

Having said his part, Arthur turned around and braced his arms on the railing. He would hear no more of it. A sigh rose from her lips before her smooth voice echoed in the empty stalls once more.

"All right. All right. Get prepared to meet me on the road, whether you allow it or not. My life being mine to command, I will use my free will to do what I must."

Her soft words struck a chord in him, and he turned his head slightly.

"Whatever can you mean ?"

"You owe nothing to me, certainly not your protection. But your knights, you owe them big time. I’m here to watch over them to the best of my abilities. Therefore, if you don’t allow me to accompany you, I will find a way to do so."

This time, the commander turned fully, completely floored. Long reddish hair falling over her slender frame, she looked like a noble lady eager to get married, not a fiery fighter. Well, except for the men's garments. Yet, there was no anger, no despair, only fierce determination in her posture. She meant it, every word, and it baffled him how she could possibly make a difference. But the truth was that she already had.

"Why ?"

His plea was no more than a whisper, and Frances took a few tentative steps forward.

"Your God have delegated mine to help you and your knights."

His sharp intake of breath was all it took for her to retreat. "You are insane."

A sly smile graced her lips.

"A bit. But not in the sense you think. Talk to your scout. Ask him of my coming. Ask him of the Woads’ reluctance to attack me. Listen to reason and allow me to complete my bidding."

What a strange way to view things. He’s seen many of his knights fall under his command, and no matter how appealing the idea of her protecting them, he couldn’t fathom seeing the young woman die either for them.

"There is no reason in putting you in harm’s way,” he countered stiffly.

Her huff of annoyance echoed around the stall with fierce anger.

"Damn it, Arthur! You’re as stubborn as your scout!"

This time, Arthur was stunned speechless. So, she’d had an unpleasant conversation with Tristan … well, it would not be the last. The whole idea of an emissary sent by Gods was preposterous. It took him a while to wrap his head around the concept.

"Are you sure ?"

His questions made her pause, and she eyed him wearily. "About what ?"

"Are you sure that God answered my plea ?"

The woman nodded, her fiery hair dancing about her face. Arthur sighed, he’d thought her very young at first, and was shocked to discover that it was not so. She shrugged then, turning to embrace the stables with her eyes.

"Well. I wouldn’t be here if not. This is my purpose. Whether it is your God’s doing or mine, I cannot tell. They’re probably all on the same boat I reckon."

Half of her speech didn’t make sense. She had some wit, and sometimes twisted the words in an unsettling way, referencing to things he knew, things he didn’t, and things even the wisest didn’t know about. Her knowledge was eclectic and puzzling at the same time. And then it hit him, the reason why it bothered him so.

"You lied about your friends."

"Sort of. I wasn’t so sure about my purpose when I first met you. Now I am. I’m here for your protection, and your knights. You are the friends I mentioned."

Her admission made him pause. Most liars never relented on their cover stories, but there she was, a genuine look on her pretty face, telling him she was sent by her Gods to protect his knights.

"What about your betrothed ?"

Her face fell, pure, raw pain radiating from her eyes as her body flinched. It was a low blow, one he wasn’t even aware he had dealt. Mayhap his own pain was still too close to his heart after all, for he only wanted to appease hers. Matters of love could destroy the strongest of men … and women if he could judge it by her reaction.

"He … cannot be here. He is lost to me, out of reach."

Strange words, that said nothing and everything at the same time. It spoke of a lover’s tale gone wrong, of affection gained and lost. One he would not pry upon. At last, Arthur nodded his acceptance, sending a silent prayer to God that believing Frances’ tale was the right path to take. Faith.

"All right. Meet us at dawn, fully garbed. And you answer to me now, don’t make me regret this."

The young woman relented to his wishes, and bowed before leaving. If he led her to battle, then she was his to command. As the young woman’s silhouette disappeared in the street, Arthur reflected on the craziness of it all. Only a fool could believe such a tale, or a desperate man. Well. He’d be a fool a hundred times over if it saved any of his knight.

*********

Lady Hawk’s dark feathers blended once more with Tristan’s wild strands as he sped away from the company. Her head cocked aside, Frances watched the knight as his horse took him on yet another scouting trip.

"Careful, don’t lean too far away lest you fall."

Arthur’s deep voice held no chastisement as he warned her to stay put. They’d met at dawn, the knights quite baffled at her presence, and even more when Arthur asked her if she could ride on her own. Given her level of proficiency, the commander had eventually chosen another solution. Surprised by this olive branch, Frances only had the time to share a knowing look with Tristan before she mounted behind him.

Arthur’s commanding presence was strangely soothing, not unlike Aragorn had been, yet more tense. She couldn’t blame him; Aragorn, for one, had grown with loving foster father and brothers, and been raised in the wisdom of elves. Rivendell had a way to soothe one’s mind, and leave a light in anyone’s memories to revive in the darkest of moments. A far cry from the condition Arthur and his knights had lived in the latest fifteen years. And still, his eyes were gentle and caring. A king in the making, for sure. “Another one,” she almost snorted to herself before her mind sobered; wandering on the mission ahead.

"It might be a little stupid, but would you care explaining why this Roman family has settled north of Hadrian’s wall?" she eventually asked.

"I can only second the lady’s thoughts,” muttered Lancelot by her side.

Arthur didn’t let his first knight's anger deter him as he responded evenly.

"The Roman empire used to extend until Antonine’s wall, which is now Woad territory. Some land was granted to Roman families in the past, and even if most have evacuated, some villages remain."

"Aren’t they called Picts, those people of the north ?"

It was Arthur who answered, a little irked by this seemingly innocent remark.

"This is what they call themselves, yes. But to us, they are Woads, from the plant they crush into a blue dye to paint their bodies."

Frances’ nose crunched involuntarily.

"Oh, I remember. That’s the stuff that smells so bad ?"

Lancelot gave her a teasing look, his dark locks dancing in the wind.

"Yeah. I wouldn’t expect you to appreciate the delicate smell."

"Well, I’d feel slighted too if I was named after a horrid scenting plant."

This time, the first knight’s gaze turned deadly serious, giving Frances a glare. Stupid logical mind ! Had she just shunned them for insulting their lifelong enemies ? His answer, though, seemed to be directed at their commander.

"I think they are more pissed that Rome occupies their lands."

Frances nodded, deep in thought. How could Roman people be so blind, so proud to not understand the danger that loomed ? Were they so attached to the land that they refused to desert their homes ? She’d understand it for natives, but in the case of a misplaced Roman family, it didn’t make much sense to her. Unless they were of the prideful, stupid people that considered others to be at their service, included the knights that now risked their lives to evacuate them.

"Seem one hell of a bet to me, living that far north of the wall,” she eventually said. "What do they eat ? Thistles ?"

Lancelot sniggered. "As well as impossibly cocky. Given they are Roman, it wouldn’t surprise me if they stayed out of spite."

"Lancelot…"

A warning Arthur probably gave his friend ten times a day, if not more.

"What, Arthur? Tell me you don’t agree, tell me that it’s normal for a Roman family to live in Woad territory and expect us to put our lives on the line for their protection."

"It is THEIR home."

A tense silence followed, and Frances squeezed Arthur’s waist a little tighter. His Roman armour, all metal and carved plastron, was very uncomfortable to hug. She knew his reasons for setting off with her in the saddle; to ascertain his will and smother the whispers of his knights, and Bishop Germanus in the first place. The official’s eyes had lingered a tad too long on her form, making her uneasy, and she was glad Arthur had chosen to sit her behind him to shield her. Yet now, she’d be quite eager to change mount whenever possible. Galahad or Dagonet were less stiff in their riding. Poor beast.

Arthur eventually sighed: "I have no sway about our orders. You know that if I had, you’d be free, my friend."

The sadness of his voice swept into Frances’ mind, her fiery spirit rebelling against Rome once more. Better to keep quiet, though. Arthur’s opinion was settled, and she didn’t want to insult him again. When Tristan returned, stating the road was clear until they penetrated the woods, Lady Hawk hopped aside to squeak at the young lady. If the scout was surprised, he didn’t show it, extending his arm a little closer to humour his beast. Frances gave the bird a thorough scratch, voicing her happiness softly.

"Hello, beautiful,” she crooned gently.

Behind them, Lancelot gave a mutter about "loony bird-speaking people" that she absolutely ignored. After a while, the animal hopped back to Tristan’s shoulder, sending a little parting cry to Frances who smiled fully.

"Thank you, Lady Hawk. You honour me with your trust."

And she meant every word of it, amazed that such a solitary soul had bestowed her attention upon her. She suspected the hawk to feel her intentions; another person looking out for his master was better than nothing. Such was the amazing intelligence of animals. But the bird was not the only one her words were directed at. The scout’s gaze bore holes into her, had he caught the double meaning of her grateful plea? Was trust too far-fetched that she could gain it? Frances cocked her head aside, a movement very bird like, her gaze passing from Lady Hawk to Tristan. How could eyes look so indifferent and so intense at the same time?

In front of her, Arthur slightly relaxed in the saddle, his armour still stiff, but his shoulders less tense. He probably wasn’t fond of having the formidable bird at his back, and thought her current position – on Tristan's shoulder - far more agreeable now. Conversation struck as they climbed a wide rocky path, Lancelot keeping to the right, and Tristan on the left, his silent nods and looks good enough for the two men who knew him. There were many interrogations, cultural references and geography exchanged. Arthur, it seemed, was trying to pry into her past and assess the extent of her knowledge.

Frances did not disappoint: she was a badass in geography and could read a land like no other thanks to her geological background. She couldn’t help it: she had a strong sense of orientation and could map any road after roaming it once. Her knowledge of the people of Europe in the 5^th century, though, was mushy at best. There were no English, no French and no Germans at the time. Briton was divided between Celts in the south and Picts in the north, the Scots didn’t live in Scotland – yet! –but in eastern Ireland. As for Italy and Spain … well, she knew the Romans to be in Italy, some Vikings to hold Sicily – thanks to vacations she'd spent there - and that there probably was an Arabic incursion in most of southern Spain – vacation again. Period.

Fortunately, Lancelot started speaking of the Sarmatian plains, and the shamans that watched over them. And despite the angry gleam hidden in Tristan’s eyes, Frances drank his stories like a child would listen to a tale-teller. Lancelot's stance relaxed, his dark irises shining, for once, with a genuine light. There was pain as well, homesickness so deeply rooted that it was painful to watch, but also wistfulness in his gaze. Like a dream, that all would be well for the people left behind, that no harm had befallen their respective families despite the theft of their firstborn.

Frances’s heart constricted painfully as she imagined the crushing blow of having your sons ripped away. When Lancelot shed his mask, she could take a glimpse at the boy he’d been when taken so brutally from his land.

"How old were you when they…?"

"Too young."

Tristan’s voice shocked Arthur, but the commander would not show it for the world. The scout scarcely participated in a conversation unless directly addressed. He never took well to strangers either, and even less answered personal questions. The young lady’s words came back to his mind –talk to your scout. For now though, Arthur could only cringe as Lancelot answered truthfully. And it hurt him more than he would ever admit.

"I was ten. Galahad, only seven, and Gawain eleven. Bors was the eldest, at eighteen, Dagonet not much younger. The others … well, there’s no point. They’re dead now."

Silence met this statement. A thick, heavy, and loaded silence. By his side, Tristan seemed caught in a contest of stares of sort, for his eyes didn’t move from the young lady riding behind him. And then, his hawk took flight, the shuffle of her wings nearly covering Tristan’s answer. But not entirely.

"Sixteen. I was sixteen, soon to be betrothed, and a man already."

And then the scout spurred his horse into gallop to follow his hawk and disappeared on the path without turning back to watch their slack jaws. A man already … the reason that his face had been tattooed ?

"Did you know ?" came Lancelot’s voice beside him.

One word. Final, and hopeless escaped Artur’s lips as the weight became unbearable.

"No."

A strangled laugh shook Lancelot’s chest.

"Seems someone has more luck prying answers from the scout that we had in the past fifteen years."

Frances bristled under the first knight’s stare, clearly uneasy in the saddle. The commander sighed; she was not the only one, and a little discomfort was hardly repayment for the hardship she brought upon him. Her unsettling presence opened his eyes and hears in a manner he loathed. As if he’d never cared to listen before, and was now starting to dive into another world. A world different from his own, painted with brighter colours, soaked red by the harshness of it.

Perhaps she was right, perhaps his God had answered his prayers, albeit in a way he wasn’t expecting it to. And for a moment, he’d loved to hate her for it. The knowledge that reached his conscience with her innocent questions, the things she pried out of his knights was unbearable. And her opinion on Rome, her mention of how Commodus killed his best general turned in circles in his mind. Was Rome so far gone from what he knew? From Pelagius’s teachings? No, he couldn’t hate the messenger, especially a woman.

Arthur called for a halt. It was time for the young lady to change mount, and for him to gather his thoughts away from her unsettling influence.

Chapter Text

It was Gawain’s turn to babysit the woman; he might have enjoyed it had they not been neck deep in one of the Woad-infested forest. Her presence wasn't too bothersome, she held herself rather well on horseback, and tried to match the pace of his hips. Their mounts carved a path into bushes that were way too lively for the season, but this blasted island never really cared for seasons after all. Of perhaps Merlin’s magic willed those horrible plants to grow just to annoy the hell out of riders. Who knew?

Tristan was riding at the front with Arthur, but even the great scout – partial shaman, he talked to beasts after all – couldn’t keep his horse from fidgeting. Thunder rumbled across the hills, the light had diminished so much that it felt like dusk, and the knights were nervous. The wind was picking up now, slightly warmer than usual, the promise of a thunderstorm hot on his trails. Yet, no enemy showed up on their path. As if on cue, Tristan’s characteristic accent echoed among their ranks.

"Woads, they are tracking us."

"Where?" Arthur asked.

"Everywhere."

Gawain felt the young lady tense behind him; her hand hovering above the bow stowed on the left side of his saddle. His was already unfastened, awaiting for a good occasion to be used. What a pity that this lovely lady should die with them all on this blasted soil. For she was quite lovely, and cheeky as hell, so unlike those submissive Romans' wives. If he survived it all, he would be glad to find such a woman upon his return to Sarmatia. For the moment, though, he doubted it. But still they progressed, Tristan’s head lifted to the skies; he probably spotted the Woads even with the dim light. On Gawain's left, Galahad stayed close. It appeased him; should they die, they would have least do it together. Bond in life, linked in death: blood brothers.

The wind made his hair fly, and several times, he felt Frances fidget behind him to slap it out of her face. The blond knight resisted the urge to chuckle to release the tension. Perhaps it would be best for her to ride with Dagonet when the wind was too strong; his hair wouldn’t get in the way. The gentle giant, close on his heels, suddenly whispered.

"Inish, devil ghosts."

Gawain nodded. They might as well be ghosts for all he cared, perhaps it was the reason why the blue devils didn’t feel the cold so acutely, always parading half-naked in this forsaken land. But he could make them bleed. No, not ghosts. They were definitely human. Humans that had taken the lives of fifteen men, cousins, brothers from his tribe and his people until there were only six of them left. And maybe none, before dusk fell upon the land.

But it was not to be. The massacre he expected never came.

Little by little, they progressed into the woods led by Tristan’s infallible sense of direction; they depended on him more than they should. Sometimes, his dark eyes left the treetops to concentrate on the woman riding behind him. Frances then turned to meet his gaze head on. Suspicion perhaps? Or interest? Gawain didn’t know; he had never been good at reading the scout’s mask. But contrary to Galahad, he didn’t resent him for it. Tristan was a lonely, private man. The best swordsman of their group, as well as the best archer. Not the best rider, though, this title fell upon himself; a feat he was rather proud of. And, needless to say, that Tristan’s skill with daggers sometimes rubbed him the wrong way. But he didn’t judge him for it. Tristan had perfected the art of killing like a musician the art of playing and the Romans the art of conquering. It kept them alive; it was enough for Gawain to be thankful.

Here and there the horses fidgeted. Rain poured upon them, gathering in the tree tops before fat drops splashed their hair. For a while, there was only dampness and miserable puddles on the ground. Until the downpour thankfully stopped. The wind picked up, flapping at their heads as it changed direction. As it turned to the north, its icy gusts elicited a shiver from the young woman behind him. She had not said a word during this whole ordeal, but God knows her thighs must be cramped. Unless she was used to spending days in the saddle. Yet, she followed the mood like a seal followed the waves. If they remained silent, so did she. If hands flew to their weapons, she drew her sword. And when his horse relaxed slightly under their combined weight, her hips danced alongside his easily.

Frances was no burden, and he was the first surprised by it.

Who is that blasted woman ?

 Young, but not so young. Betrothed to a man they knew nothing about, and roaming the land on her own to find him. Loyal, for sure, for she undertook this suicide mission for his sake, or so he thought. How she had convinced Arthur to let her tag along … he would have paid a few silver coins to be a mouse and spy the discussion. He had no doubt the lady could be stubborn, but his commander … well. Arthur was unmovable in his rightfulness. A true Roman – ordering people around – or was it his Briton side? A rock, as thick as the heavy boulders of this blasted country.

Still, the famous Artorius Castus had relented, allowing the peculiar woman to continue looking for her betrothed north of the wall, bestowing protection. Gawain found himself curious to know what kind of man he could be, the one that had stolen Frances' heart so mercilessly. He couldn't possibly imagine it was no man, nor that her reasons for coming were entirely different.

Gawain sighed, fed up with the dampness that plastered his long hair to his face. But when the inexistent sun descended behind the mountains, he couldn’t care less. The promise of a break lifted his spirits enough for him to forget about the strange presence of the fiery woman. And none of them were dead … yet. Perhaps Bors was right, perhaps she would bring them luck.

Chapter Text

The wind howled in tree tops, its scent carrying the promise of snow as surely as the sun would rise in the morning. Huddled around a carefully buried hearth, the knights partook a stew fixed by Dagonet, the wheat grains dancing with bannock morsels. It was only by the grace of Tristan's skills that meat joined their dinner, for the land was asleep this far north. As they set up camp, Frances felt useless. Not out of ignorance, for she was used to sleeping in the wilds. Yet, this company worked as a tight group, each of them with their task, all individuals doing their own chores that intertwined into a collective effort. A strange ballet to watch, fascinating, where she had no place.

After getting some relatively dry wood in the surroundings to supply the fire, she collected pine needles in a corner to insulate her a woollen blanket – lent by Jols, the Valar bless him – from the frozen ground. After checking that her future bedding was free of ants and other crawling beasties – as if they could survive such coldness !– Frances was left to take a seat, facing the rise of the hill. None of the knights were unsettled by Arthur’s subtle demand to speak to his scout. Frances's blood drained from her face, though, for she had an inkling about what the subject might be. Her sorry ass. As well as her impossible arrival in a great flash of blue light, and the subsequent notion that, witch or fairy, the Woads seemed to steer clear from her. The lack of attack this afternoon could only confirm their suspicion that she worked in league with their enemies.

If Tristan and Arthur came to this conclusion, they would be hell to pay. Would Arthur execute her without trial ? Or leave the decision to his knights ? Would he interrogate her ? Leave her behind, tied to a tree ? Here, in the middle of nowhere, she didn’t think she could survive on her own. Without Aragorn or Legolas to look after her, she knew the cold and barrenness of the land would kill her for sure. The knights conversed lightly, grumbling about the weather, the Bishop and their blasted last mission. Despite the eminence’s secretary being there – smart man, he kept to himself - the knights did not have qualms about voicing their contempt.

Who would blame them ? Robbed of their freedom and sent to death ? Why had secretary Horntorn accepted to follow them in the pits of hell ? He probably had no choice in the matter; poor guy.

Frances had to refrain from staring at the two lonely forms lingering in the shadows, close enough to distinguish their cloaks billowing in the wind, but far enough to prevent her from hearing them. She would have given anything to be privy to their conversation and could only hope that Arthur’s heart was not too heavy … yet. Or that his ideals would stand true. For she didn’t think Tristan would advocate her case. The scout looked after his own, and if he believed her an enemy, he would cut her down where she stood without an ounce of remorse.

Someone plopped down beside her, steering her thoughts from the secret conversation that kept her on edge.

"Do not worry, Frances. The Woads don’t want us dead, and Tristan will find the best way out of those woods."

Frances smiled at Gawain, touched by his attempt at lifting her mood. She couldn't possibly tell him that she was afraid of his commander, right ? But Bors couldn’t care less as he addressed her a grin.

"Yeah. You, lass, brought us luck. So let’s celebrate, right?"

Frances smiled back, amused at his antics. But somewhere in the shadows, she distinguished a set of amber eyes boring holes into her skull. She could nearly hear the scout’s thoughts from here, scoffing at the sheer naiveté of his older brother. Luck had nothing to do with this. Somehow, Merlin had plans for Arthur … or for her.

"Oh, I can’t wait to leave this island,” Galahad grumbled as he sank on a log. "If it’s not raining, it’s snowing. If it’s not snowing, it’s foggy."

"And that’s the summer!" interjected Lancelot with a smirk.

This time, Frances smiled. Britain’s weather was a common joke in Lyon. For her city was no laughing matter; in 2003, a massive heat wave had decimated many of the elderly. She didn’t remember it with great fondness as she had been stuck in the city at the time... and brooding over her fresh separation with Legolas. Hell, she would have given anything to be there, by the fire, in this blasted country, freezing her arse off than wallowing in misery in Lugdunum's oven.

"True, there are not many places where it rains more than here," she scoffed.

Frances hated the rain, it always impaired her great outings in the forest as a kid, and drowned her fire at the hut they’d built with her little neighbour. A familiar smooth voice rose behind her and she nearly jumped.

"The rain is good. Washes all the blood away."

Not even a full sentence, as was the scout’s wont. Tristan’s comment was drowned by Dagonet's sarcastic remark that it didn’t help the smell, but Frances felt caught like a deer in headlights. For his intense gaze rested upon her, unreadable. She struggled not to fidget, wondering if his words were a threat – your blood could be washed way with a shower – a question – are you here to spill our blood? – or had even remotely anything to do with her arrival. Then Tristan settled on the other side of the fire, directly in her line of sight. Frances sighed; trust was hard gained. She chanced a quick glance to Arthur who only nodded tersely. No interrogation, no shouting and no incrimination. Better than expected. Inwardly, she deflated, schooling her features to let nothing show.

Beside her, Gawain seemed oblivious to the little display – or he chose to ignore it. How the knight managed to keep his mood so even, so cheerful was a mystery to her, but it was refreshing. His voice was deep and calming, like a ripple across the waters of a summer lake.

"Hey, Bors, do you intend to take Vanora and all your little bastards back home ?"

Home to Sarmatia. Eleven children, travelling across three thousand kilometres. That was the challenge of the year. Bors must have reached the same conclusion for shook his head.

"Oh, I’m trying to avoid that decision…"

Then he sent a pointed look to his commander.

" … by getting killed. Dagonet, she wants to get married and give the children names."

"Women!" came Tristan's voice, his eyes firmly planted into her own.

And for a moment, nothing existed other than the amber of his gaze pinning her into place before he released her, turning to Bors.

"The children already have names, don’t they ?"

His comment reassured her somehow, as if not naming one's children seemed preposterous to him. For it was crazy to think that…

"Just Gilly. It was too much trouble, so we gave the rest of them numbers."

Bors' answer shocked her enough to root her to the log she was sitting on. No names… children with no names. Damn… Lancelot, for one, seemed unfazed as he smirked.

"That’s interesting. And I thought you couldn’t count."

Beside Frances, Gawain silently laughed as he tried to share an amused glance with her. But she couldn't show mirth as the reality of the fifth century hit her like a truck. A time where children had no names, and people couldn’t count. Or read, or write for that matter. Where you could kill your neighbour, or be killed in a jiffy. Die of the simplest of wounds, and see your children whither and waste away on a bad winter. Perhaps, in a few months from now, the baby she had held in her arms would be buried under the unforgiving earth of Britain.

"You know," Bors continued in a lower voice. "I never thought I’d get back home alive. Now I’ve got the chance, I… I don’t want to leave my children."

"You’d miss ’em too much," said Gawain.

The bald knight nodded over the fire, his eyes a tad too misty to be caused by the wind. It was heartwarming, to see such a giant, the ruthless warrior, so taken with his children. Vanora must be the hell of a woman to put up with him and such a brood.

"I’ll take them with me. I like the little bastards. They mean something to me…"

In 2006, hearing such words would have sent feminists in a fit. Here, and there, it just meant that Bors had a heart of gold. How far had the world evolved in fifteen hundred years. Frances was numb, lost in the recesses of her mind.

" … especially number three. He’s a good fighter."

Lancelot couldn’t resist rubbing salt in the wound.

"That’s because he’s mine."

His goading woke Frances from her depressed thoughts and she bent over Gawain to slap the dark knight's arm.

"Lancelot!" she hissed.

Shocked by her gall, Lancelot sent her a glare that she returned tenfold. At the tavern already, she had seen how he taunted Bors by trying to drag Vanora into his lap. Funny, how the tall brute of a knight was gullible, for the redhead only had eyes for him. Did Bors have an inferiority complex regarding Lancelot’s good looks ? Didn’t he see, that cad of a knight, that he undermined Bors’ confidence ? Psychology 101 ? But it was no matter, as even as they glared at each other, Bors stood up dejectedly.

"I’m going for a piss."

"Me too," said Gawain.

Both knights disappeared in the woods. Abashed, Arthur chanced a glance at the young woman. "Please excuse our crude ways, Lady Frances."

Somehow, the upgrade in standing felt off in the misty woods. Frances blinked, sending one last chastising glance to Lancelot before addressing the commander.

"Bah, it is no matter. I, too, need to piss sometimes."

A round of subdued laughter greeted her words. Arthur caught her meaning in everything left unsaid; she was no maiden to protect. There was no need to flinch over the trivialities of soldiers and their crude humour. If only he knew the horrors they said in school, the one-night stands and other party endings, completely drunk, that her schoolmates partook in. Phew. Despite it all, she felt better surrounded by Samartian knights than with her so-called comrades. Except for the Picts infested woods and impending death threat.

Gawain’s return was more eventful than Bors’. The tearing of fabric, followed by colourful swear words in his native language, caused her eyebrows to rise.

"Stupid trees, standing in my way ! Another tunic to mend,” came his unnerved outburst.

"Shhh, Gawain," chastised Bors. "The Woads will have our hides if they find us."

Frances lifted her eyes across the embers, meeting the scout’s gaze. Her spine tingled, and she was quite sure that said Woads had known the moment they set up camp. But they had yet to show. Tristan’s irises came alight with the glow of the fire, their light brown nearly golden in the night, the eyes of a predator on the hunt. She realised then how the others relied on him, for as long as he said nothing, they acted as if all was well. Such responsibility, it must be crushing … and if she guessed right, he probably didn’t tell them half of what he saw.

Bah, there was nothing she could do to settle her nerves. On a whim, she offered to mend Gawain’s shirt. The repetitive action, at least, could soothe her mind.

"I always have my sewing kit with me" she said as the knight hesitated, his shirt bundled up in his hands.

"A typical woman," snorted Lancelot.

"I also carry things to sew you back together…"

Dagonet’s voice, so scarcely heard, caused Frances to raise an eyebrow. Was he defending her from the offence of being called a woman? His intervention, though, caused his fellow brothers to still. Gentle and fearsome at the same time, Dagonet oozed those fatherly vibes that were unconsciously picked up by the others like a bunch of chastised children. The young woman smiled at the giant in the dim light before turning to Gawain. The knight gave an enormous yawn, his mind made up as he handed her the shirt.

"Who cares, I am grateful for your offer, because the gods know I hate it !"

Frances accepted the bundle of cloth with a smile.

"Well, can’t be good at everything, right ?"

There was no flattery in her words; so far, she had been impressed by the knights’ skills. Those men fought, mastered their horses, cared for them, knew the land and survived on their own in any place. And despite her barging into their lives, Gawain had been a fairly decent fellow. The blond knight grinned at her, amusement twinkling in his blue eyes as he cocked his head aside.

"Well, Tristan can sew. He’s good at everything. Killing, throwing daggers, horse riding, taming animals…"

The scout’s eyebrows rose under his shaggy mane, the look of surprise barely perceptible on his usually impassive face. On the other side of the fire, Galahad scoffed, disbelief written on his features. They had never quite seen eye to eye, and he couldn’t understand why his brothers didn’t shy away from his bloodlust.

"The best bowman," added Bors.

Lancelot nodded.

"Our best swordsman … and scout of course"

Arthur, amused, watched at the band of brothers paid their tribute. Something he had, until now, never witnessed. The young woman’s eyes sparkled in the fire’s light, and she raised an eyebrow challengingly, turning to Tristan.

"How about cooking ?"

Would he grace her with an answer ? The commander knew how his scout hated to be in the spotlight. But Frances seemed to have some sort of understanding with Tristan, for after a while, he eventually grunted a stern reply.

"Aye."

It wasn't much, just enough to convey that he, indeed, could cook decently. For a man prone to spend days at a time in the wild on his own, nothing preposterous to that. Frances was enjoying the game far too much as she fired questions away. "Singing ?"

"He can," Gawain deadpanned.

Yes, of course, she'd heard his voice in the Sarmatian song several days ago. She needed something even more preposterous. Wracking her brain, she found another idea. "Dancing ?"

"You’d be surprised. The Gods knew I was."

Galahad’s comment surprised them all, including the key player of this conversation. A humming sound echoed in the lady’s chest as she searched for other subjects to broach. A thin smile lifted the corner of his lips, remembering his fighting style. His footwork on the battlefield was like a dance… "Mmm, I sense there’s a story there that I might ask someday. So, what else ?"

"There’s something he might be good at…"

Lancelot wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Frances suddenly flushed.

"Damn it Lancelot, pull your mind out of the gutter. Are you actually trying to marry him off or what ?"

Her comment called forth a round of subdued laughter – Woads might be nearby after all – and somewhere behind the dark fringe of unruly hair, she wondered if Tristan’s colour had shifted. How was she going to manoeuvre out of this corner, especially since an annoying French song now danced in the back of her mind – Si tu veux m’essayer … if you want to try me out – Ugh ! But Lancelot was having way too much fun to relent, and pressed his advantage as he presented the now glaring scout with his hand.

"Aah, but don’t be fooled by the shaggy exterior. Tristan probably has plenty of hidden qualities."

Frances frowned at the bite coated in sugar. Her eyes roamed about the scout’s braids partially hiding his smouldering amber eyes, long leather vest, medieval shirt and sturdy boots. Her scrutiny called forth the image of Aragorn, drenched with grime and sweat in the wilds the first time they had met. A fond smile spread upon her lips, remembering how miserable the ranger’s appearance had been. Yet his noble lineage always showed in his every action, Aragorn was a man she looked up to. There, she had found a way out as she grinned at Lancelot.

"Ah, I once met a King who looked and smelt even worse than you lot reunited."

"Not possible, Bors is there…" Galahad interjected.

And just like that, they all seemed to forget that she had met a ranger King, or compared royalty to Tristan. But she didn't; who could possibly forget such a man ?

The scout squinted his eyes, but remained impassive. As if this whole conversation didn’t concern him one bit. And when he suddenly stood, like a feline about to jump upon its prey, a hush fell in the forest.

"Aye. Now leave me be. Get some rest, I’ll take first watch."

Arthur nodded, standing as well.

"Yes, let us rest. We depart at first light."

A useless order, for Tristan's words were enough to send his brothers to their bedrolls, all teasing forgotten. Incredible, how that man could shift the mood. Frances retrieved her bag and sat closer to the fire as the knights made ready. A bittersweet souvenir assailed her as she fished her sewing kit; the last time she’d mended another’s shirt on the road had been for Boromir. She remembered the proud man’s misogyny as he stated that “women should know how to sew”, and how she had grumbled under her breath as her delicate fingers worked on the torn fabric. They’d been on the road to Mordor then; he never reached it. The road to his death.

Images of his pale face, begging forgiveness, flashed before her eyes and she closed them tight. Another friend she’d left behind. The proud Captain of Gondor and the Keeper of Time had eventually found their rhythm... just before the battle of Amon Hen, just before his death by Orc's poisoned arrows. It was lucky Legolas had not been killed that day; at least, there was still a chance for them to meet. Somewhere, deep within her heart, dwelt the thread of light that linked her to the elf.

By the Valar, let me survive this so I can find him again.

Night settled, snores echoed in the silence, the noises of the forest dampened by winter. Frances sat on the blanket near the fire, her needle swiftly repairing Gawain’s poor linen tunic. The cloth was rough against her fingers, a far cry from the soft cotton of her own, but more solid. And it smelled of sweat; fortunately, the cold dampened it a little. Lost in her reminiscence of battles and death, Frances mended the fabric with small stitches. Tristan had taken first watch, unsettled by the stillness of the woods. Something was off, and not yet threatening so that Arthur should be awakened.

His fellow brothers would need all the sleep they could get. Eyeing the young lady across the embers, the scout eventually stood, silent as death. His previous discussion with Arthur had not been conclusive. The man, with his ideals and values, wanted to give the lady a chance. Tristan didn’t argue against it; he had promised not to stand in her way. And even Arthur’s religion didn’t believe for fairies or witches, he had not denied the scout’s account of her arrival. From there, they could only watch, and make sure she posed no threat to the knights.

The Woads’ reluctance to fight her, though, still annoyed him. And the lack of attack in the woods tended to confirm that she worked with them. If such was the case … he would end her life without mercy. For the moment, though, her presence was protection. And a refreshing addition to their sorry group, for her conversation alone had called forth confessions from his fellow knights. Hearing their praise, albeit reluctant from Galahad and Lancelot, had put balms on wounds he didn’t even know he possessed. For he was a loner, closed off from the world to prevent further hurt. And antagonising his fellow brothers was just a way to protect himself from losing them, or bearing the brunt of their sarcasm. Learning that they admired him gave him a sense of belonging.

And she … she had looked at him with kindness… fondness even as she compared him to this King. As if she could see the man behind the mask without fleeing in disgust. The private smile that followed Lancelot’s preposterous comment – not that the wenches complained about his performance, mind you – had stirred something in his heart. Somewhere existed a woman – with brains, and not running after coins – that could appreciate what he was … who he was, without judging. It was oddly reassuring, even if said woman was a little fairy bond to another man.

Tristan sighed. Too much thinking for a desperate situation. And none of this would help him make heads or tails of the predicament they were currently in. Frances didn’t flinch when he crouched a few inches from her, only acknowledging his presence with a nod. There, he could embrace the whole slope of forest without having to move, a position she’d chosen by instinct. It only confirmed that she was used to travelling in enemy territory.

"They know we’re here,” she eventually whispered.

Tristan nearly started, once more unsettled by the awareness of the young woman. Had she been trained as a hunter ? A tracker perhaps ?

"How do you know ?" he whispered.

The young woman shuddered.

"The smell."

The wind whirled around as it was wont to do whenever snow came. He'd caught a few whiffs himself further north.

"You’ve got an acute sense of smell," he remarked.

"Yeah. Unfortunately for me."

The young woman scrunched her nose comically, eliciting a low chuckle from the scout. If her delicate nose could pick the faint smell of woad paint in the icy wind, he had no doubt she suffered greatly from the proximity of unwashed men and horses alike. This probably explained why she had assembled her pine blanket further away from them.

"I wonder why they do not attack," she stated, visibly puzzled.

If she was playing him, then her game was incredibly smooth, for nothing betrayed her duplicity. And her eyes, this warm chocolate hue that turned gold in the light of the fire, held no other feeling but genuine concern. There were so wide, so incredibly inviting; he indulged himself in the contemplation. Barely a moment, where the weight of the world lifted slightly before it came crashing down upon his shoulders again.

"They are not so close now."

The young woman nodded, her features concentrated on the deep gash that Gawain had clumsily torn on his tunic. Her sewing was neat, the stitches small and even, some additional ones reinforcing the cloth. He marvelled that she didn’t ask why; she’d probably gathered that he didn’t know … or wouldn’t tell her. Her a calm demeanour as she knew them to be surrounded intrigued him; they were, after all, at the mercy of the locals. Mayhap she was right, and the Woads kept away from her. In this case, her very presence was a talisman. Mayhap she'd been in worse situations before, just like them. Mayhap … she was a spy for the Woads.

"Why do they keep away from you ?" he suddenly growled.

Frances’ gaze turned back to him, surprised by the renewed threat in his low voice. The flames danced in fire of her hair, the surreal halo of light bringing out her cheekbones.

"I have no idea," she whispered genuinely. "But I certainly hope it remains so."

Tristan gave her his most intimidating stare, and she flinched a little. Good, after that episode in the woods where he had nearly crushed her windpipe, he’d wondered how human she was. No one could sustain his glare without showing signs of distress.

"I swear to you Tristan, in the name of the Gods I serve. I am no Woad, and am at loss as much as you are."

"Your Gods are nothing to me."

She stared back at him, her indignation radiating off her slender frame. Little did he know that the Valar were not Gods to her either, but it was simpler this way.

"Then trust Lady Hawk."

Lady Hawk, a mighty nickname for his companion…. Animals had more sense than humans. An eternity passed until the scout was satisfied with Frances' earnest plea. Standing tall, he took a silent turn behind the camp, his eyes scanning the surroundings and finding no soul alive. Yet, his gaze often returned to the fire where the fairy mended a shirt in a show of domesticity that sent a pang to his heart. He’d never have that, a wife sewing his shift in front of dying embers, the comfort of a feather bed with a soft curvaceous body awaiting him, a pair of fine eyes watching him with admiration rather than contempt. Little feet pattering on the ground, unconditional love in their eyes. Would his brothers survive long enough to enjoy a blissful marriage ? How many of them, if any ?

At last satisfied with the stillness of the forest, Tristan settled back beside the little fairy. Oddly enough, her presence didn’t disturb him, nor prevented him from keeping alert. His brothers were snoring away, oblivious to the danger lurking ahead. When she spoke, the scout was unsure whether she was addressing him.

"It soothes me to sew by hand."

"By hand?"

His accented voice nearly got lost in the gentle cracking of the embers; it was so quiet. But she answered anyway.

"At home, I have a machine. One thread below, one thread above, it makes a stronger seam, it is more efficient. Faster. But my mind settles when I do it by hand."

A machine; he’d never heard of such a thing. Tristan shrugged the idea off; he wasn’t one to get interested in womanly arts. The sleeves of his leather overcoat were roughly sewn; he’d repaired them enough to know how inelegant it was. The true question, though, was on the tip of his tongue. And even if he’d rather stay quiet, his curiosity won the struggle.

"Where is home, Frances?"

"Home is where the heart is, at least, that’s what they say."

Her answer seemed hollow, and Gawain’s shirt came to rest upon her bent knee as she turned her face to him. Her eyes shone with repressed emotion; their golden hue glazed by unshed tears. A tough battle was raging inside her mind, a battle he knew for having fought it a hundred times over. He was not sure he’d escaped victorious from it, and her quiet admission sent a pang of sadness through his heart.

"I have no idea where home is, at the moment."

The words stumbled out unbidden.

"Neither do I."

Home. Sarmatia, Brittany, Rome? Where was home now? Where did he belong? The young lady nodded, her eyes searching his for answers. And even though he did not say a thing, Tristan realised that she saw it all, and for once, he didn’t hide. Compassion, understanding, kinship. All of this written on her face, pouring out of the depth of her warm chocolate gaze. It had been a long time since someone had looked upon him that way, without fear, disdain or disgust. And even if Tristan wasn’t one to seek company, it felt good to be considered as a human being, for once. A piercing cry called him back to reality; Hawk requested his presence. The scout watched the dark sky intensely as he leapt to his feet.

"Get some sleep,” he ordered sternly.

"I will. Once this is done."

Tristan nodded and disappeared from the camp’s halo of reddened light.

 "Be safe, Tristan,” she murmured.

Unbeknownst to her, the scout paused a few yards away, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips before resuming his round. Eternity had come and gone since a woman had wished him such a simple thing.