There, a new chapter. Frances is having trouble being accepted by the knight she just met, and there's a lot of suspicion going around. But hey, you can't expect to walk in on a tight group of fighters and make friends in a jiffy ! As usual, if you enjoyed it, please review ! It keeps my muse going.

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. 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 said. 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, in weight and form. As the commander seemed to hesitate in their course of action, said scout 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 seized 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 letting 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 as Dagonet's horse started to slow down, Frances twisted to position herself properly. 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 he only nodded. A young bearded knight offered his hand, and assisted her to settle behind him. It was much more comfortable, 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 Aragorn, Elladan or Elrohir. 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 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 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 Gauwain," 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 Galahad."

His voice greeted her pleasantly.

— "Galahad is all right, my lady."

— "Then Frances it is"

Gauwain'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?"

— "Gauwain!" came her rider's scandalised voice.

— "No, it's all right. He as 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."

— "More than ten years older than our baby Galahad"

— "Hey!"

Frances laughed at that, trying to assess the knight's age according to their looks. She'd have given them at least five more years than what they told her. One couldn't expect to live in the 5th century 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 Gauwain, 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'd 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 older than 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.

— "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?"

Gauwain 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. 35 had arrived, 6 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 Gauwain 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.

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 enthral 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 Gauwain'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.

The young woman spread her arms wide, turning slightly around, as if feeling the land under her feet, and inhaling the forest. Tristan blinked, quite enthralled 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, 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 almost came out as a growl. His eyes shone 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.

— "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"

— "Apparently, you do," came her heated response. "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?"

— "Foolish girl. For fifteen years I have protected my brothers. No, I don't trust you."

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. Her exasperation felt so genuine, and 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? Time?

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 lady 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 at his companion's move. The scout didn't make a sound, his grey 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 that one.

Frances contemplated the bird, 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. They were soft under her 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 lady 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, and it strangely soothed his soul. He 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, the scout huffed, and walked away. Before disappearing, though, he called to her.

— "Don't stay there, it's dangerous, and I'm not staying."