A/N: this thing has three parts, all written at the same time. I don't really see this going anywhere but…apparently there are three parts to it. Oh well. Oh, and thanks for the reviews!!! Confidence is always a good thing to gain. This ends at a completely random place. Don't ask.

Late that night, I rode back into our camp. Months ago we had been set free of our overlords, the experienced soldiers who had, until then, ridden with us, easing us in to combat and exploration over the years. And the transition was gradual, however strange that sounds. They wouldn't let us do anything that may threaten their lives unless they trusted that our skills were passable.

So I rode back in to camp, after the first recognizance I had ever done alone, to an Arthur who had always had his Roman back up, with a girl on the back of my horse. I can still see the shock and anger in the faces around me. Dag looked on with stunned pride, Bors' mouth hung open, Galahad was embarrassed for me, Lance was jealous, and Gawain just stood staring, sword partially drawn. But Arthur was by far my biggest concern.

He stalked across camp to me, cloak billowing behind him, eyes taking in our collective dirt and scratches. It had been a treacherous ride home, and I guessed I must look in about as bad condition as my passenger did by now. But though I expected him to be angry, I was unprepared for the situation I now found myself in.

Arthur swaggered up, he was still young enough and new enough to his position to swagger, and stared at me as though I were a frog who had taken to riding rather than a returning scout. I gave my report concisely and quickly, wishing for nothing more than a good night's sleep and for Isolde to stop clinging on to me so tightly.

But it was then that I found she was clinging. Not as she had on our mad dash, not even as she had when we had had to dismount and slither across the downhill mud trail. She was shrinking behind me in fear of…something.

Arthur took my words without reaction other than to look at the only partially visible figure behind me. I had not mentioned her yet, and I assumed that Arthur would need to know her story as well. I opened my mouth to explain, but Arthur was already moving forward.

I think he meant to offer her a hand down, but she would have none of it. In fact, as soon as his hand had left his side an unearthly scream had ripped through her. We all jumped, horse included. She had buried her head into my back and I could hear her ragged breathing.

Arthur looked at me questioningly, and I resisted the urge to rub my ringing ears. If we were ever in need of an alarm that would carry, all we would need to do was ask Isolde to scream. She still wouldn't release me and I decided her fear was directed at Arthur, who, if anything, looked the least threatening of all of us.

But he was also the only one wearing his roman issued cloak.

Insight burst within me. She would rather have gone with me than them because they still looked roman. Arthur was a sign of danger because he wore red as well.

My horse still pranced beneath me, searching for the banshee noise, but I ignored him and pulled away from her enough to dismount. I was afraid for a moment that she would topple down after me or gallop off with my horse. But she sat there looking at the fluttering red and rubbing her arms. If I hadn't known of the bruises that lay beneath those sleeves I would have thought it was from cold. Her voice came out ferial and low, defensively it seemed. "Don't you let him touch me."

I wasn't sure if she meant me as well, but what could I do? "Alright." I swallowed. "Alright." I held my hands up to her to help her down. After a moments hesitation she took them and dismounted.

Then what was I supposed to do? I led my horse towards my belongings, all too aware that no one had moved or spoken and that Isolde was, once more, pressed right up against me.

I almost jumped out of my skin at the rumble behind me. I turned to find Bors laughing louder than I thought possible. The others went back to their own chores, except for Lance, who was dividing his stare between Arthur and I, and Arthur himself.

He was standing there, looking after me as though I'd grown two heads and called him mother. "Tristan." His voice was somewhat higher, though it stove for conversational. "I'd like to talk to you when you're done." With a silent, assenting nod, I turned and continued my trek.

I left her there; with my horse blanketed and tethered by her side, my dagger in her hand and my spare blanket made hers. Arthur stood some distance off, close enough to see us but far enough to be a minimal threat. I almost wished he'd walk away and spare me the 'shouldn't fraternize with bar maids', 'shouldn't bring people back to camp', 'should have known we expected you back promptly' speech.

But, I couldn't avoid it. All I could do was stand there and take it. "Tristan…" He began, "What happened?" So I told him about being sighted, about hiding in the trees. I skimmed over our conversation though, telling him only that she didn't know who she was other than the name 'Isolde'. And I told him I was almost positive the men who had beaten her were the very Romans we now hunted.

He took it all very seriously, and it was then that I decided that his swagger was merely the result of years of training, and that he would be a good friend and leader to us all. He said that she could stay as long as she was neither distraction nor hindrance, but he would not call her a prisoner, nor would he allow others to hurt her. When we found a place for her to live she would be free to go. He made no reference to her fear of him, but he also made no move to approach her. I could see that he was willing and able to be a reasonable roman.

Isolde was less inclined to believe him, but it was hard for me to tell just then how much she comprehended about Arthur's, or my own, function in Britain.

We sat there, apart from the others but a part of their camp, in front of a small fire. Her eyes still searched everything around her, from her own hands and clothing to the shadowy hills and distant stars, as though willing them to become familiar.

It must be hard, I thought, to not know where you are or who you are. To rely on or fear a man based on the clothes he wore. To fear based on a flash of memory and pain. To lose who you were and be stuck with trying to find out who you are.

She shivered and without thought I handed her the closet thing that came to my hand. I had lain back and was staring now into the sky, so lost in my thoughts I hardly remembered that I too had the cloak of a roman in my belongings.

She took the cloth from my hands without a word and my eyes never left the sky to see her reaction. I only realized my mistake long minutes later when she began to speak.

"I remember that." I looked over to find her gaze lost in the crimson cascade in her hands, fingers blindly tracing the folds and seams. "I remember their hands coming down on me. I tried to fight them; I pulled at their cloaks and hair…anything I could get my hands on. The one…He wanted to keep for the night. I screamed at him and I kicked him but he pulled me down in that ditch. He was…he was…he almost…"

I sat up and put a hand on her shoulder tentatively. She took a breath and continued. "His brother came though, and pulled him away. He said there wasn't enough time. They'd already beaten me…I could taste the blood. But then he was gone and I thought…I thought I could go…somewhere." I could tell she was having trouble recalling it now, but it scared her just the same. "And then I don't know anything until I saw you and all that red…"

"I'm sorry."

"But you're one of them." She said with far less emotion than she had told her story with. It was a fact that she couldn't change, but it seemed as though she didn't know how to treat it. "Would you…" She tore her eyes from the material to look at me. "Would you put it on?"

I couldn't believe what she was asking, but if my ears had deceived me there was no mistaking the way she held it out to me. Demanding. I stood and fastened it to the armor I never removed. She looked at me still with the full empty eyes and I felt foolish. I sat back down, leaving the cloak in place.

"It doesn't suit you." She said. I was glad and told her so. That night, just as in the glade, we found ourselves talking long into the darkness, about everything and everything. Plants, animals, snippets of dreams and memories, homes neither of us could see again. She remembered only the warm eyes of a mother and the strong voice of a father, while my stories were full of distant cousins, brothers, sisters and grandparents.

The next day we destroyed the men who had hunted us both, and I will never forget the way she stood over him afterwards with tears slipping off her face on to his.

I stood beside her, dripping blood as readily as she dripped tears. "That's him." She said. There was no need to elaborate. "That's one's his brother." She pointed to another.

"Do you feel better now?" I asked. I don't know why, but it seemed the right thing to say at the time.

"I don't know." She said honestly. "They scare me, even dead they scare me. But I'm almost sad they died. Is that natural?"

I didn't know.