Hey. Another chapter for today, a tad longer than the previous ones. Frances is starting to understand the knight's dynamic, but she still has no clues about the reason she's there. And a certain scout is curious :) We'll see that rascal of a Bishop soon enough. Please review if you like it, it feeds my muse ! Cheers.

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.

A few hours later…

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 langage.

— "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 content with it, 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 without disruption. 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 to contemplate his features when its rays descend upon him. 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 glare at him, 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 to help them. 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. The first knight 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 5th 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.

"Fear not then," said the Angel,

"Let nothing you affright,

This day is born a Saviour

Of a pure Virgin bright,

To free all those who trust in Him

From Satan's power and might."

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. She knew the tone of her voice to be alike Loreena Mc Kennitt, some friends had told her so, and her compositions suited her well. Yet, 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.

— "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.