Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author Note: Set after the Seventh Doctor story 'Battlefield.'

BY THE SWORD

The sky was dark and grey. Ancelyn wondered if such rain fell in other worlds. He thought of his king and queen, who were only stories here. But Ancelyn had bowed before them, had protected them from foulest dangers, had heard of Arthur's fall from sight though surely not forever, surely not. He thought of the small castle room that had been his own, the horse and squire who would never serve see him again. He hoped that Peregrine would treat them well.

Winifred and her UNIT brothers-at-arms knew of his origins; he fought beside them and was often asked of his life as people made copious notations. Winifred said things that he did not comprehend but he listened and she listened when he spoke of great lights that had blazed across the sky when Arthur had wed Guinevere, how Arthur had been able to cause the hardest of hearts to listen to him, how wise he had been and both merciful and merciless, how the knights had fought and died together.

Sometimes Winifred's hand rested atop his and she leaned close. They were both warriors, some things did not need to be said.

Ancelyn laughed joyfully as he feinted and swung his sword and Winifred met it with her own blade. It was good to train like this and Winifred had wanted to learn, to be ready for when enemies once more threatened her land. Ancelyn had missed this, the singing of his blood and the breathless sweat that consumed him. This was what he had always strived for. He could see it in Winifred too and his blood sung further.

Winifred stumbled and Ancelyn lunged forward to press his blade to her neck. Winifred stilled and they held each other's gaze, both breathing hard. Some things remained the same though the world Ancelyn had once stood in had become another. He offered his free hand to Winifred as she righted herself.

"Guinevere too fought with a spirit such as yours," he told her.

Winifred raised her eyebrows, one hand comfortable around the hilt of her sword, the other letting go of Ancelyn as she stood erect beside him once more. She was strong; she would have been so in any world.

"Guinevere was a knight?"

Ancelyn smiled because he had seen books of this world and how they so wrongly depicted Arthur's Queen.

"She was a queen who wore armour and chain-mail and fought at Arthur's back. They were a sight to see."

They truly had been – Guinevere as determined as any knight, why shouldn't she have been? Arthur had been her King, her Sovereign and her husband, and she had fought hard to save him and his kingdom. They had moved well together, two parts of a whole, no matter what had ailed them, an inspiration to all who'd fought beside them.

Ancelyn missed that sight, he missed Guinevere's stories, how Lancelot had looked at her and Arthur, how Galahad had sung when the twilight was at its longest and Bors had snored and Gwaine had laughed into his ale, even after he had spoken to the Green Knight.

They were all stories now, stories from another world, legends here but flesh, blood and steel to Ancelyn. He did not regret that he had found happiness in this new world, he could never regret Winifred, but he keenly felt the loss of all that he had known and would never know again.

Winifred regarded him with an expression that knew even as her tone remained strong and commanding.

"Come along."

Ancelyn smiled, his expression broadening when Winifred swung her sword at him without warning. Their blades met in a nostalgic clash of light.

Ancelyn's mother had died from the pox when he had been but a child and his father had been a distant figure who had seen Ancelyn apprenticed to a knight. Winifred's parents looked at him oddly and spoke of Winifred's brother and sister and asked about Winifred's work. Their manners were to be commended and Ancelyn would have asked about Winifred's dowry had he and Winifred not spoken of such things already. Winifred did not wish for money to be exchanged over her. Ancelyn had told her that surely she would be offended at no price given; Winifred had retorted that the opposite was true.

His love would not be his love if she were not issuing commands.

Once her parents had left, Winifred was thoughtful, something bitter turning in her expression. Ancelyn steeped tea for her and settled down beside her.

"My love?"

The corner of Winifred's mouth twitched and a breath escaped her, "They think the army's finally cracked me."

"They think you addled? Why?"

Winifred's mouth twitched again and she drank a mouthful of tea, "I'm living with a man they've never met who carries a sword and talks as though he's from the Middle Ages."

Ancelyn frowned, he was the reason for her parents', and now Winifred's, disquiet? Of course he carried a sword, Winifred's world was as treacherous as his own and he would not be caught unawares. He was not a mere boy untrained in such things. But to be the cause of his love's agrievement, that could not be borne.

Winifred reached for his hand and squeezed it. Ancelyn kissed her fingers reverently. He wished to fight away the melancholy that afflicted her, every warrior became battle-weary, he had known it himself but this was different. She did not wish to upset her parents, who had not found Ancelyn a fine enough match for her. But then Ancelyn could not tell them of his great deeds, the monsters he had vanquished, the king he had faithfully served. For Winifred had extracted an oath from him – to not speak of his origins or his adventures to those who did not know of Merlin.

He could not prove himself to her parents but he could strive to lift how their words had affected her. He gripped her hand.

"We are warriors. Our blood sings the same."

Winifred looked at him. Later, her kisses tasted of tealeaves and copper and blessed unending fire.

The Brigadier's house was particularly beautiful in the summer months. He and his wife often kindly invited Winifred and Ancelyn for meals and sometimes to stay for several days. Ancelyn learned how to use the lawnmower and Winifred was glad to drive the fine yellow vehicle that Merlin had left in the Brigadier's care.

The Brigadier himself was hale and hearty, having set aside his weapons and war again. His wife Doris was pleased to have him near. They both told stories of Merlin, of the Doctor, and Ancelyn offered his own tales; of when Merlin had tricked a great serpent to turn away and into stone, of how he had travelled among the stars, of how when Arthur had vanished there were forever stories of Melin's tricks and of Arthur sleeping in wait.

It all seemed so far away in the Brigadier's garden, yet near again when the Brigadier raised a glass to aptly toast the Doctor.

"No matter what form he's in, he does like to leave us riddles."

"And bring us together," added Ancelyn.

Everyone agreed and time was always spent pleasantly in such surroundings and with such company.

Shou Yuing sometimes worked with UNIT, she toiled mostly with archaeologists, uncovering those who had lived before and had been buried. Ancelyn was horrified, the dead should always be honoured and undesicrated, but Shou Yuing claimed that lessons were learned from reading the past. What she and her people described as the past sounded so near and familiar to Ancelyn. In this world, it was all dust and story. But Ancelyn had his armour and his sword, he had Winifred, he knew what had been real, what was real.

Shou Yuing was clothed in brilliant red again with charms in her hair and strange marks painted on her skin. Winnifred often asked Shou Yuing to join UNIT's ranks but Shou Yuing always refused, despite the explosive magic they put at her disposal. She was convinced such a life was not to be hers. Winifred shook her head and was greatly frustrated but some swords were forged in different ways, on different worlds.

Ancelyn wondered when a bolt of light or indeed explosive magic would deliver Shou Yuing to hers.

Occasionally, Ancelyn saw Ace. Sometimes, she was young with fire in her words and a fierce weapon in her hands. Other times, she was older and calling herself Dorothy, wearing a suit like Winifred's with a leather coat and a determined rooted air. She was like the Doctor – changing her appearance and name.

She was a young girl, squire to Merlin, learning his methods, fighting his battles and sometimes him too.

She was a woman, forging a path alone, fighting a different war, claiming coin for needy causes, full of scars, silent stories and songs.

She was both.

There were so many traditions that Ancelyn could no longer honour. The dances and ceremonies he was used to did not exist here. Winifred introduced him to fine stone chapels that spoke to him in a way that artifices of metal and glass did not. He sat and listened to songs and words that were different but held the same cadence to what he had once known.

On one occasion, he laid his sword on an altar and knelt before it, to say prayers that had too long been absent from his lips. He thanked the Lord for bringing him to Arthur, to Merlin, and to Winifred. He prayed until Winifred came to find him, armed with her own sword and a call from her brothers-at-arms to be answered. It was the very best of aches.

-the end