Hey, a few additions in this remastered chapter. I have also modified the section of Vanora's singing because I was told – with reason – that I had passed over it too quickly. True, this is a pretty important moment of the movie that I rewatched just for this moment's sake.

Frances was pleasantly surprised at Bors's suggestion that she have his room for the night. After all, she expected them to send her on her way upon arrival, especially since they directly walked into a meeting with the Bishop to receive their discharge papers. Without money, she was already wondering where she would spend the night. But Bors had adopted her since she had thrown herself in battle, and without even asking permission to Arthur, dragged her to his unoccupied room.

— "Stay here, we'll meet in the tavern after the Roman is finished with us. We'll ask around for your man"

To say Frances was touched by his thoughtfulness was an understatement. Stunned, the young woman stood in the small room as Bors disappeared from sight. From the looks of it, he had not slept there for ages. The place was damp, faintly smelling of mould and dust. The sheets seemed clean enough, if rough under her fingers. As for the blanket, coarse wool, she knew she would have to sleep fully clothed to prevent from itching everywhere. The knights probably had a maid that took care of the washing, for nothing was stained. How many times had she stumbled into Lancelot's bed ? She wondered. How different the dark knight was from the legends she had read and studied. They all were… and so was the era. For the moment, there seemed to be no Queen, no Guinevere. The knights didn't make any mention of her, especially Lancelot. Perhaps later, perhaps it was all another artistic licence and Arthur had never been married to a Guinevere. Merlin, though, was another puzzle. Lancelot had mentioned to the bishop that he was leader of the enemies… What a mess !

Finding a bowl of warm water occupied Frances for half an hour as she roamed the empty corridors. The fort was made of sturdy grey rock, the openings scare which created a gloomy atmosphere. It must have been stifling for people used to live in yurts in the open, especially for the scout. The knight's quarters were probably well protected, and she eventually found someone in the kitchens to help her. The only issue… the middle aged woman didn't speak Latin much, and Frances not a word of Briton. Damn ! Nor Celt, nor Gaelic. And she rambled a lot – probably shocked to find a young woman in breeches in the knight's quarters - until they eventually managed to exchange a few words in latin and Frances could drag a bucket back to her room to refresh a little. As she brushed her hair and changed her tunic, the Keeper of Time wondered if the people of the fort would speak Briton or Latin or both. It wouldn't be the first time she didn't speak the main language, but in Rivendell at least, people switched to common tongue whenever she was near. A courtesy she didn't expect here.

After an hour or so – by her internal clock – Dagonet appeared on the threshold to lead her to the tavern. The tall knight led her through the fort, his strides long, not oblivious that the young woman by his side observed with wide eyes the scenery around her. He could understand that someone coming from far away would find the fort intimidating. Still, Lugdunum was a far greater city.

Odd.

Frances took in every little detail as she walked, to the feel of the cobbled street below her supple elvish boots to the stalls still opened. They passed a very busy street were cobbler, seamstress, blacksmith and many other dealers sold merchandise. Walking in a fifth century Roman fort was awesome ! And the quick refresh had done wonders; she felt much better in her new tunic and long woollen overcoat, long hair flowing across her back and sword strapped at her hip. At last, they made it to the tavern: a place where inside and outside held no meaning for the whole place was open around a cobbled square. Those Britons really didn't feel the cold. And for sure, most of the conversation around her made no sense to her. Brittonic, great !

When Lancelot joined them around the table, he pretended to be offended at her appearance.

— "What, no dress? Not even a little cleavage for sore eyes?"

Frances smirked, refraining the need to tug at one of his dark curls.

— "My eyes are sore as well, and I don't see a skirt to compliment your perfect locks."

His dark eyes bore holes into her as he reached for her hair. The long strands caressed her waist, twisted by the braid so that it created a waterfall of reddish waves. A sight to behold! And he wasn't the only one staring, as half of the tavern was already ogling the woman in breeches. Frances instinctively pulled back, and freed her strand from his grasp as she stood.

— "This, dear Lancelot, is a guarded territory. Find someone to sit on your lap instead."

And she fled to the bar, finding there a very stoic Tristan whose gaze was thoroughly fixed on the apple he was slicing. She'd heard the talk and whispers about the scout; no one would dare approach her here. No one but Vanora, Bors' lover, who was looking for a pair of friendly arms to soothe her latest son. Seeing that Bors was on good terms with the lady, she shoved the moving bundle into Frances' arms without ceremony.

— "There, little one. I'll be back soon," she whispered to the baby.

And then, she stared at Frances seriously:

— "He just ate, put him on your shoulder a bit, will you? Thank you, lady knight"

— "But …?" stuttered Frances, her arms loaded with a chubby toddler.

A few feet away, Gawain chuckled at her disgruntled expression before launching a knife into a stool.

— "Ah, no buts. You're a woman, you know what to do."

Right. 5th century predicament and sexism. Panicked beyond understanding, Frances tightened her hold on the swaddled baby. He smelt of stale milk and coarse linen, the cap upon his head a worn cloth of … whatever it was. The chubby little guy looked at her hopefully, his deep blue gaze searching this new and very unfamiliar face.

— "I'm useless with kids," she grounded.

— "Nonsense," came Galahad's voice as he landed a heavy arm on her shoulder.

Frances shook him off, frowning intently at his inebriated state. Drunks always made her uncomfortable; she never knew whether she should be nice and understanding or shoved them away harshly. And Galahad had been a prefect gentleman until there. By her side, Tristan stood from his stool, a strange gleam shining in his golden eyes. She could have sworn the corner of his lips had lifted in a smile, which only intensified the cringe of her eyebrows.

— "I do bow and arrows, I wield a sword and I study mathematics, biology and geology. I don't do kids"

Galahad shrugged, his movements slower than on the battlefield because of the alcohol.

— "Bah, you'll manage. In the meantime, you can observe my winning."

And then, he joined his brother in arms in the game, his blade landing a few inches above Gawain who sat back at the table, draining his wooden cup. How he managed to land a dagger in his inebriated state was a wonder ! A small tug at her scalp indicated that the baby had found a loose strand to play with. After all, she shared hair color with his mother, although Vanora's was slightly lighter… and natural, lucky woman. She had to admit that the waitress was incredibly good looking, especially after eleven babies ! Frowning, Frances gave up the idea to get her strand of hair back; the toddler was already munching upon it and it would hopefully keep him quiet.

A slight movement beside her called her attention ; Frances lifted her head just in time to spot the easy swing of Tristan's wrist as he carelessly tossed his own knife. He must have been at least two feet behind but the blade landed true, embedding into the tip of Galahad's handle. Both knights turned to him, as stunned as they were pissed and Frances bit her lip to refrain from openly gaping. Damn, this was talent like she'd never witnessed. Not even Legolas had ever shown her such a feat !

— "Tristan!", came Galahad's voice, unable to voice more than surprise.

But Gawain, sitting happily with a wench massaging his shoulder, couldn't refrain from asking.

— "How do you do that?"

The scout took a bite of his apple and answered innocently, pointing at the knives like a drunk man:

— "I aim for the middle."

Frances didn't know if it was his straight face or the look of absolute dejection on the other's feature that sent her in peals of laughter. Tristan turned around, his eyes shining with mirth and her smile widened at the sight. It was rather foreign to see him enjoying himself, but she swore that buried under his beard, the corner of his mouths were upturned. The amusement, though, was short-lived as the swaddle in her arms started whimpering louder and louder. Panicked, Frances walked around, the baby cradled against her chest. She was so tense that her muscles ached. And then, as his cries assaulted her hears, she lifted him up on her shoulder and started singing the first lullaby that came to her. The Skye boat song. Not fit for children, for it spoke of Bonnie Prince Charles fleeing the massacre of Culloden moor, but she didn't have much better in mind. She loved the 'Outlander' series, and Iron Maiden would have been a little pushy.

"Sing me a song of a lass that is gone
Say, could that lass be I?
Merry of soul she sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye"

Her voice, low and soothing at first, started to rise as the baby responded. Releasing a little burp on her shoulder, she repositioned him in her arms, and begun to spin slowly, lost in the baby's blue gaze. Despite the swaddle of dirty linen, she had to admit that he was charming… and shared a few of Bors' features. The tavern was noisy, who would care about her singing? And so, oblivious to the world, Frances sang, her voice deeper, stronger than before as if she had no care in the world. And the knights stopped bellowing, and drinking, and playing as the young woman's notes echoed on the roof.

"Billow and breeze, islands and seas
Mountains of rain and sun
All that was good, all that was fair
All that was me is gone."

Tristan watched the fairy as she unknowingly enchanted his brothers, her powerful voice touching their hearts and souls as she became more confident. Fortunately, her eyes were set on the baby, for he knew she would have shied away had she realised that a circle of patrons had their attention fixed upon her now, the ones sitting directly across the bar. The scout frowned at some of the men, their gazes lustful. Frances was not meant for them, not for any of them. Her voice was dedicated to her bright lover, and no one else. No one would ever touch her; he'd made sure of it.

"Sing me a song of a lass that is gone
Say, could that lass be I?
Merry of soul she sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye"

A round of applause welcomed the end of her performance, and Frances' posture suddenly shifted, her shoulders tense. The baby in her arms started crying anew, and Bors came along to retrieve his son. She sighed dejectedly, relinquishing the tight hold on the swaddle, and disappeared in a corner. Her hair followed her like a cascade of fire, lit by the blazing flames of the hearth. She'd said so herself, she was not good with babies. Mayhap someone would tell her someday that she had done well enough, if not for the child, for the rest of them at least. But it wouldn't be him. He was the silent scout, after all, not a ladies' man, nor a mushy friend. And so it was with great surprise that, when the young lady emerged again, she strode directly to him, her eyes locked on his face. Few people dared watching him so blatantly, fewer still challenged him to a staring contest. Her jaw was set, her gait determined. And for once, Tristan found himself bracing himself without his face giving anything away. What did she want?

Frances crossed the tavern in a few strides, trying to appear confident. Forsooth, she only wanted to get to the point before she lost her nerve. And thus, as she came to the scout's side, she asked bluntly.

— "Can you help me ?"

Tristan only lifted an eyebrow, giving her the silent treatment until she relented. Frances stared back, pissed that his method of intimidation would work so well. Already, she had lost the sentences she'd prepared, and struggled not to babble her concerns out.

— "I need your insight"

A second eyebrow joined the first, indicating that he was taken off guard. People probably didn't ask him for his thoughts so often – they usually avoided him altogether. Except for Arthur and his brothers in arms of course.

— "Speak," came his gruff reply.

Frances exhaled, trying to dissipate her uneasiness. To no avail. That man had a chilling presence, and one's heart could only miss a beat when faced with his undivided attention; a predicament reminiscing of Lord Elrond's study. Tristan would probably be pleased to know how efficient his intimidating stance could be. The young lady repressed a snort at that, amused, and the tension radiated off.

— "During the battle with the woads, I felt like the blue devils were avoiding me. Or rather, not trying to kill me. I was the one who engaged them mostly."

His intense stare caused her to babble, and Frances hated herself for it. Damn, she was a Keeper of Time, not a schoolgirl.

— "It might be a stupid notion, I'm not that accustomed to skirmishes like these, and yet…"

A simple nod was her answer, and for a moment, Tristan's eyes glazed over, recalling the battle and the things he had noticed as well. He wondered if his brothers had seen it also; he had not spoken openly of his observations to them after the fiasco with the Bishop. It all seemed rather pointless now that freedom was at hand. Of course, he'd watched her during the battle: once because he still didn't trust her, and secondly because of his scouting habits. Tristan looked out for his brothers, always and foremost, and covered their backs with arrows. And he had to admit that her fighting had him surprised. Not only because of her skills who were, in fact, better that he thought they'd be. Several times, he saved an arrow because she had felled an enemy before he could react. One of them, in particular, had nearly got to Gawain back before he could shoot. But Frances' blade had sliced his calf, hence saving the blond knight from a nasty cut or worse.

— "The engaged you when in danger, and some out of anger at the end"

Frances nodded once, a frown marring her features. Tristan almost chuckled at her worried expression, it gave an adorable crunch on her small nose. But smiles didn't come easy to him. In reality, he was surprised by the accuracy of her observations. In the midst of the battle, she had still managed to maintain a general awareness of her surroundings, and analysed it properly. A good scout material, that fairy. Yes, the Woads had avoided her, and he would bet his life that it wasn't because of her being female. Their women fought, some as fiercely as men. Perhaps that her magical appearance had something to do with it? He knew the Woads to have some magical beliefs, and acute sense of what transpired in their woods. But, all in all, what baffled him the most was her willingness to share this with him. The honestly of her words doubled with the earnest light in her eyes told him she was not deceiving him. Perhaps then, he could learn to trust her. She said she would fight for him … and so far, she had. Tristan would have shaken his head had he not picked up the habit to be still like a statue. Too much unknown, not enough information to make up his mind. Well, maybe later.

For the moment, Bors was leading Vanora into the courtyard for her to sing. And despite her protests, the redhead waitress eventually obliged. Her voice rose, a little coarse, but powerful enough to be heard. The words she sang were Briton; they held no meaning to Frances who couldn't understand them. Still, the strange longing it contained called to her heart. And when Vanora tightened her arms on her last born, the melody swaying like waves at sea, an intense feeling of melancholy swept over her. Tears sprang to her eyes, expertly hidden as she blinked them away. A quick glance over the courtyard told her the knights were engrossed. All of them. Galahad was singing along, his bearded face ten years younger. Dagonet stood, silent. Like a rock, too sturdy to weep, albeit his eyes longed to. Lancelot kept his head down, the cheeky knight overwhelmed just as well. From her point of view, she couldn't discern Gawain nor Bors' face, but Tristan… Tristan's features softened, the stoic scout giving way to a man whose youth had been stolen. A man who longed to find where he belonged.

Vanora's singing touched him just as much as the rest, but he refused to let it show. Slicing his apple methodically, he let the blade slide across the flesh to focus his mind. But try as he might, he couldn't help but be affected by the mood. What would home look like now? Had his tribe moved in the fifteen long years he'd been away, wandering the unending plains of Sarmatia? How about his mother? His elder sister? Would she be married? A mother? Dead? Would horror marr her face at seeing what he had become, her little brother turned into a deadly scout? A broken man, with no smile adorning his features, his hands twitching to shed blood in revenge, incapable of loving and bestowing affection on his nieces and nephews? What life laid beyond their release?

Arthur's appearance in the tavern sent cold dread in the pit of his stomach. His commander and friend's expression did not bode well, and he was still surprised that no one picked up on his mood. Mayhap his fellow knights were too intoxicated to see what pain lingered in his eyes, but he wasn't. No matter what, Tristan never got drunk; it would mean relinquishing control.

As Arthur came closer and swallowed nervously, Tristan's eyes caught Frances'. She had not left his side, nor moved from her spot; he had nearly forgotten she was there, wallowing in his self-pity. Blending in her surroundings, she'd patiently waited for the world to shift as Vanora sang. That, in itself, was a feat; to be forgotten by the scout. Maybe he felt more at ease with her that he'd dared admit. And the worried look in her eyes, now, told him he wasn't the only one feeling that doom was about to deal a crushing blow. He bowed his head to her, and joined his fellow knights. Definitely scout material, that little fairy.

And when Arthur told them a last mission was asked of them, a suicide ride to rescue a forsaken Roman family north of the wall – NORTH OF THE WALL ‼! – Tristan quenched the burning anger at the Bishop's treason, choosing rather to taunt his fellow brothers. He knew them by heart by now, Gawain's silent disappointment, Galahad's drunken anger and childish behaviour as he crushed his jar at Arthur's feet, Bors's yells, and eventually, Dagonet's acceptance. Always the voice of reason. A father to all. And Lancelot, trying once more to appeal to Arthur and his commander's stern answer. There is nothing Arthur could do, no matter how willing he would have been, to avoid this predicament. There was no point arguing. Tristan disappeared in the dark; he needed to find Hawk.