Hey. I'm back with another chapter, and a little fighting. I hope you're not getting confused with Frances' complicated storyline; her life is a little hectic and crosses many fandoms. Once more, feel free to check Frances' timeline on my profile if it makes it a little clearer. I have not one review yet, and am wondering if people read this. But anyway, I'm quite decided to get this story to completion, so here we go.

She could feel the anticipation in the knights' veins at they came closer to the main road. At last, they formed a line at the top of a hill, all of them clad in armour under the brilliant sun, and Frances gaped at their magnificence. They were quite a sight to behold as they waited from the carriage of the Bishop to come forth. Arthur's intelligence left no doubt, for once more he had found the best of spots to embrace the view over the road. Or was it the scout's choice? The wind blew slightly at their unkempt hair, from the south west, from the direction the Bishop was supposed to come from. 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, she wouldn't be there, wouldn't she?

— "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!" cried Bors in his powerful voice.

It was all it took for the knights to urge their mounts forward. A mere hundred yards from the battle, Arthur suddenly turned to Dagonet, and his eyes widened.

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

Frances couldn't even voice her protest before 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, her heart beating hard as she took in the scene down the hill. Arrows flew everywhere, the Roman soldiers trying, and failing to defend the carriage as they died. The knights were upon them in an instant, slicing and dicing from their horses. Her legs pumped the blood in her veins as she ran. The distance closed off, but not fast enough as Frances saw the knights dismount, except for Galahad and Tristan who kept firing arrows with deadly precision. Only Sarmatian could possibly be so skilled while shooting on horseback! Gauwain, Lancelot, Bors and Dagonet could be seen, 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. As she ran, Frances spotted the lady Hawk circling above Tristan's head. The bird was watching over him!

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 moved, pulling his blade like a death sentence, and each of his moves send an enemy to the ground, dead. Clean cuts, Japanese style mainly, 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. Leaving her bow behind, 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 her killings 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 her as 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. Legolas, Aragorn and her own years of Aikido had taught her much. 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. She knew all the dirty tricks from her training in Interpol. When her blade was snatched out from her grasp in a skirmish, she seized the knife at her waist, and attacked another woad viciously in her path. In the fray, something seemed amiss, as if the blue devils fled her rather than attacking her. But she couldn't care less as she 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, Frances 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 on her brow as she washed it away with her wrist. Her armour was strangely devoid of any stabbing, 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 as she retrieved it from him. Frances only nodded her thanks, not trusting her voice as she flicked the blood of her blade. Red blood, human blood. The young lady closed her eyes an instant, but a fierce battle cry called her back to reality.

— "RUUUUUUUUUUS"

It would be time, later, to be in 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, before deciding to retrieve her bow left on the other side of the stream. There she stayed for a while, taking in the ruthless battle that had just occurred, and the sad fact that she'd inflicted and 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 was sickened to have defended a Roman and extinguished the sacred spark of life in other human beings. And when the bishop eventually made his appearance, 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, and 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 Frances who has fought in 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'd been shedding blood for 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, and 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.

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. For the moment though, the road seemed clear, and the wall came into view. 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 was burdened by the deaths she had caused. Her first real kill. Sometimes, her body trembled. Fortunately, the movement of the horse hid it quite properly. 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, or a quick check of her health. But then, he bowed his head to her, and her face changed into a puzzled expression.

— "You did well," came Gauwain'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 words; meant as a compliment, they troubled her greatly. Tristan urged his mount forward to join Gauwain and Galahad, they were discussing their future. She badly hoped there'd be one. And 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."

Gauwain 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 look. He said the eyes 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 grey, hope existed still. Hope that dwindled every day, but had not faded entirely.

Gauwain 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 drowned by Frances laughter.

— "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, and laughed out loud. 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 lovely 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 has 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. Gauwain 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 Gauwain 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 playful roll of her eyes.

A piercing cry calls him to attention, and Tristan whistled, shooting his arm up in the sky. A moment later, his lady hawk landed on his glove, its 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 grazing softly at the bird's feather.

— "She is very loyal, and cares about you," said Frances in a low voice.

— "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. Lady Hawk, after all, was very welcoming in regards to the little fairy.

— "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, he didn't handle it all that well. 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!"

— "Lt'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. 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 people…"

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, Arthur. I value bravery, and honesty above all. There was none of that in Rome, but much hypocrisy. 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. The blade was so alike Tristan's sword that he wondered if she used it the same way. 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!"