Anyway. I promised this chapter to my dear Tobiramamara. Check her story on the mischievious twins of Elrond in the Lord of the Rings section, it is worth a detour!

The altercation that followed Vanora's beautiful song sent the knights if fits of anger. Frances, hidden in the shadows, didn't dare uttering a word. She felt bad for Arthur; his own wrath written all over his face as he asked of his brothers this last suicide mission. Trapped between the hammer and the anvil, what a difficult position! The commander didn't react to Lancelot's lashing, nor to Galahad's harsh actions, but in those green eyes were an Ocean ready to lay waste on the rest of the world. His jaw, though, was the only indication of the tempest raging inside. There was the King of legend, the leader of man who could set aside his own feelings and do what needed to be done. Damn Rome, once more, for eternity! Frances knew anyway that the empire was falling, and would fall hard. It was just a matter of time before it became history.

The young woman dallied a little in the tavern, but not overly long. The stares she received from Romans and Briton men alike froze her blood more than once, and the few comments she understood didn't help. Frances eventually set off after Lancelot to the stables. It was just as well that her memory was so good at remembering maps and directions. Sword strapped at her hip, she walked with purpose, long strides silent on the paved streets. The best way to fend off any drunk stragglers that might want to stop and talk to her, or worse. She'd perfected that art over the years of loneliness. Be it in a modern world or in a medieval one, Frances knew how to repel any man with her attitude.

Raised voices in the stables caught her attention, and she paced herself. Frances didn't want to intrude, but knew that the conversation would probably be heated if Lancelot had indeed found his commander. Her guess was confirmed as Arthur's stern voice reached her, at once interrupted by the first knight's anger. Pure and powerful anger laced with despair as his voice cracked afterwards. Now, it gave her a few minutes to gather herself and think about how she could convince Arthur to let her tag along. Her body was still humming from the knight's anger, and she breathed in slowly. Her permeability to others' feeling was a strength as much as a curse. How she hated confrontations, and people lashing out at loved ones! It always disturbed her greatly. And for sure, she realised she was shaking. Frances crossed her arms over her slight form, and pulled her cape around her wool coat in an attempt to warm herself. It was getting very chilly.

Heavy footsteps shook her from her musings. As Lancelot passed her, he shot her a look that, for once, was nor guarded nor playful. There was fear in his dark orbs, fear of what may happen to his fellow knights, and his commander. His hand found his way to her shoulder, his head bowed for a while, the contact desperate.

— "Go. He badly needs a song right now, or a woman's touch."

So the flirt wasn't dead yet. Frances rolled her eyes, and took his hint. Lancelot watched her retreating form, waterfall of fire swaying over her waist as she disappeared in the stables. If she knew what she walked into… she was one hell of a woman !

The building was huge, and dark, even with the torches burning on the walls. Horses were at rest, but the lone man at the end of the hall was not. Yet, he sensed her presence before she was close enough. Fifteen years of fighting could do this to a man. Straightening up, the commander sent her a stern look.

— "Lady Frances"

The Keeper of Time almost sighed at the title; here or on Arda, people with manners persisted to call her a lady. Maybe someday she'd have to accept that it was what they thought her to be. But not now.

— "Commander. I won't intrude on your privacy for long, for I gather you probably want to be alone."

Arthur's green eyes softened at that. Yes. He very much wanted solitude, but wouldn't take his anger on her.

— "Is there anything you needed?"

— "Yes. Your approval"

Silence. Arthur's temper surged at that. He had no time for petty matters. His voice filled with anger as he responded, his patience getting thin.

— "As you have probably heard, my knights and myself will be gone tomorrow at the first hour. What can you possibly request of me?"

— "I wish to accompany you on your last mission."

Mind numb, Arthur staggered, his hand finding the wooden railing. His mouth opened, then closed, before he could regain his bearings.

— "Out of the question"

The young woman stared at him, undeterred by his refusal and he marvelled at her ability to stand her ground under his glare. Many knights used to shudder when he displayed his full regalia, most of them gone by now. Frances took a step forward, her stance confident.

— "I can fight"

— "I don't care"

His words left his mouth before he could backtrack, their rudeness so out of character for him. In any other circumstances, he'd have pointed how she had jumped into the fray, and defended herself quite skillfully. Hell, he even owed her thanks for saving Gawain. But this evening, his patience had dimmed to nothing, and he would NOT be sending a woman north of the wall.

— "My friends might be beyond the fort, please."

— "Then find them yourself. I won't be responsible for one more death."

Having said his part, Arthur turned around and braced his arms on the railing. He would hear no more of it. A sigh rose from her lips before her smooth voice echoed in the empty stalls once more.

— "All right. All right. Get prepared to meet me on the road, whether you allow it or not. My life being mine to command, I will use my free will to do what I must."

Her soft words struck a chord in him, and he turned his head slightly.

— "Whatever can you mean?"

— "You owe nothing to me, certainly not your protection. But your knights, you owe them big time, safety and freedom. I'm here to watch over them to the best of my abilities in the direst of times. Therefore, if you don't allow me to accompany you, I will find a way to do so."

This time, the commander turned fully, his eyes roaming her earnest features. Long reddish hair falling over her slender frame, she looked like a noble lady eager to get married, not a fiery fighter. Well, except for the men's garments. Yet, there was no anger, no despair, only fierce determination in her posture. She meant it, every word, and it baffled him how she could possibly make a difference. But the truth was that she already had.

— "Why?"

His plea was no more than a whisper, and Frances took a few tentative steps forward, her hand landing on his arm.

— "Your Gods had delegated mine to help you and your knights."

His sharp intake of breath was all it took for her to retreat.

— "You are insane."

A sly smile graced her lips.

— "Been there, heard that already, but no. Not in the sense you think anyway. Talk to your scout. Ask him of my coming. Ask him of the Woads' reluctance to attack me. Listen to reason, Arthur, and allow me to complete my bidding."

What a strange way to view things. He's seen many of his knights fall under his command, and no matter how appealing the idea of her protecting them, he couldn't fathom seeing the young woman die either. Because of him.

— "There is no reason in putting you in harm's way," he countered stiffly.

Her huff of annoyance echoed around the stall with fierce anger.

— "Damn it, Arthur! You're as stubborn as your scout!"

This time, Arthur was stunned speechless. So, she'd had an unpleasant conversation with Tristan … well, it would not be the last as he'd find his man soon enough. The whole idea of an emissary sent by Gods was preposterous. It took him a while to wrap his head around the concept.

— "Are you sure?"

His questions made her pause, and she eyed him wearily.

— "About what?"

— "Are you sure that God answered my plea?"

The woman nodded, her fiery hair dancing about her face. Arthur sighed, he'd thought her very young at first, and was shocked to discover that it was not so. She shrugged then, turning to embrace the stables with her eyes.

— "Well. I wouldn't be here if not. This is my purpose. Whether it is your God's doing or mine, I cannot tell. They're probably all on the same boat I reckon"

Half of her speech didn't make sense. She had some wit, and sometimes twisted the words in an unsettling way, referencing to things he knew, things he didn't, and things even the wisest didn't know about. Her knowledge was eclectic and puzzling at the same time. And then it hit him, the reason why it bothered him so.

— "You lied about your friends."

— "Sort of. I wasn't so sure about my purpose when I first met you. Now I am. I'm here for your protection, and your knights. You are the friends I mentioned."

Her admission made him pause. Most liars never relented on their cover stories, but there she was, a genuine look on her pretty face, telling him she was sent by her Gods to protect his knights.

— "What about your betrothed?"

Her face fell, pure, raw pain radiating from her eyes as her body flinched. It was a low blow, one he wasn't even aware he had dealt. At once, Arthur felt like gathering her into his arms; given the heated discussion they'd just been through, it quite disturbed him. Mayhap his own pain was still too close to his heart after all, for he only wanted to appease hers. Matters of love could destroy the strongest of men … and women if he could judge it by her reaction.

— "Legolas … cannot be here. He is lost to me, out of reach."

Strange words, that said nothing and everything at the same time. It spoke of a lover's tale gone wrong, of affection gained and lost. One he would not pry upon. At last, Arthur nodded his acceptance, sending a silent prayer to God that believing Frances' tale was the right path to take. Faith.

— "All right. Meet us at dawn, fully garbed. And you answer to me now, don't make me regret this."

The young woman relented to his wishes, and bowed before leaving. If he led her to battle, then she was his to command. As the young woman's silhouette disappeared in the street, Arthur reflected on the craziness of it all. Only a fool could believe such a tale, or a desperate man. Well. He'd be a fool a hundred times over if it saved any of his knight.

The morning after…

Lady Hawk's dark feathers blended once more with Tristan's wild strands as he sped away from the company. Her head cocked aside, Frances watched the knight as his horse took him on yet another scouting trip.

— "Careful, don't lean too far away lest you fall."

Arthur's deep voice held no chastisement as he warned her to keep her centre of gravity stable. They'd met at dawn, the knights quite baffled at her presence, and even more when Arthur asked her if she could ride on her own. Given her level of proficiency, the commander had eventually chosen another solution, and offered to take her. Surprised by this olive branch, Frances only had the time to share a knowing look with Tristan before she mounted. Arthur's commanding presence was strangely soothing, not unlike Aragorn had been, yet more tense. She couldn't blame him; Aragorn, for one, had grown with loving foster father and brothers, and been raised in the wisdom of elves. Rivendell had a way to soothe one's mind, and set a light in anyone's memories to revive in the darkest of moments. A far cry from the condition Arthur and his knights had lived in the latest fifteen years. And still, his eyes were gentle and caring. A king in the making, for sure. "Another one," she almost snorted to herself before her mind sobered; wandering on the mission ahead.

— "It might be a little stupid, but would you care explaining why this Roman family has settled north of Hadrian's wall?" she eventually asked.

— "I can only second the lady's thoughts," muttered Lancelot by her side.

Arthur didn't let his first knight's anger deter him as he responded evenly.

— "The Roman empire used to extend until Antonine's wall, which is now Woad territory. Some land was granted to Roman families in the past, and even if most have evacuated, some villages remain."

— "Aren't they called Picts, those people of the north?"

It was Arthur who answered, a little irked by this seemingly innocent remark.

— "This is what they call themselves, yes. But to us, they are woads, from the plant they crush into a blue dye to paint their bodies"

Frances' nose crunched involuntarily.

— "Oh, I remember. That's the stuff that smells so bad?"

Lancelot gave her a teasing look, his dark locks dancing in the wind.

— "Yeah. I wouldn't expect you to appreciate the delicate smell of our enemies."

— "Well, I'd feel slighted if I was named after a horrid scenting plant."

This time, the first knight's gaze turned deadly serious, giving Frances a glare. Stupid logical mind! Had she just shunned them for insulting their lifelong enemies? His answer, though, seemed to be directed at their commander.

— "I think they are more pissed that Rome occupies their lands."

Frances nodded, deep in thought. How could Roman people be so blind, so proud to not understand the danger that loomed? Were they so attached to the land that they refused to desert their homes? She'd understand it for natives, but in the case of a misplaced Roman family, it didn't make much sense to her. Unless they were of the prideful, stupid people that considered others to be at their service, included the knights that now risked their lives to evacuate them.

— "Seem one hell of a bet to me, living that far north of the wall," she eventually said.

— "As well as impossibly cocky. Given they are Roman, it wouldn't surprise me if they stayed out of spite."

— "Lancelot…"

A warning Arthur probably gave his friend ten times a day, if not more.

— "What, Arthur? Tell me you don't agree, tell me that it's normal for a Roman family to live in Woad territory and expect us to put our lives on the line for their protection."

A tense silence followed, and Frances squeezed Arthur's waist a little tighter. His Roman armour, all metal and carved plastron, was very uncomfortable to hug. She knew his reasons for setting off with her in the saddle; to ascertain his will and smother the whispers of his knights, and Bishop Germanus in the first place. The official's eyes had lingered a tad too long on her form, making her uneasy, and she was glad Arthur had chosen to sit her behind him to shield her. Yet now, she'd be quite eager to change mount whenever possible. Galahad or Dagonet were less stiff in their riding. Poor beast.

— "I have no sway about our orders. You know that if I had, you'd be free, my friend."

The sadness of his voice swept into Frances' mind, her fiery spirit rebelling against Rome once more. Better to keep quiet, though. Arthur's opinion of Rome was settled, and she didn't want to insult him again. When Tristan returned, stating the road was clear until they penetrated the woods, Lady Hawk hopped aside to squeak at the young lady. If the scout was surprised, he didn't show it, extending his arm a little closer to humour his beast. Frances gave the bird a thorough scratch, voicing her happiness softly.

— "Hello, beautiful," she crooned gently.

Behind them, Lancelot gave a mutter about "loony bird-speaking people" that she absolutely ignored. After a while, the animal hopped back to Tristan's shoulder, sending a little parting cry to Frances who smiled fully.

— "Thank you, Lady Hawk. You honour me with your trust."

And she meant every word of it, amazed that such a solitary soul had bestowed her attention upon her. She suspected the hawk to feel her intentions; another person looking out for his master was better than nothing. Such was the amazing intelligence of animals. But the bird was not the only one her words were directed at. The scout's gaze bore holes into her, had he caught the double meaning of her grateful plea? Was trust too far-fetched that she could gain it? Frances cocked her head aside, a movement very bird like, her gaze passing from Lady Hawk to Tristan. How could eyes look so indifferent and so intense at the same time? In front of her, Arthur slightly relaxed in the saddle, his armour still stiff, but his shoulders less tense. He probably wasn't fond of having the formidable bird at his back, and thought her current position – on Tristan's shoulder - far more agreeable now.

Conversation struck as they climbed a wide rocky path, Lancelot keeping to the right, and Tristan on the left, his silent nods and looks good enough for the two men who knew him. There were many interrogations, cultural references and geography exchanged. Arthur, it seemed, was trying to pry into her past and assess the extent of her knowledge. Frances did not disappoint: she was a badass in geography and could read a land like no other thanks to her geological background. She couldn't help it: she had a strong sense of orientation and could map any road after roaming it once. Her inner sense always knew where north and south were, be it from the position of the sun or just her intuition. As she scouted with the mischievous twins of Elrond on Arda, she's found that her sense of direction was not impaired at night. A very masculine trait !

Her knowledge of the people of Europe in the 5th century, though, was mushy at best. And this, even after passing the extremely competitive exams – where general knowledge was revered –that got her a spot on one of the best engineering French school. Phew. There were no English, no French and no Germans at the time. Briton was divided between Celts in the south and Picts in the north, the Scots didn't live in Scotland – yet! – but in eastern Ireland. As for Italy and Spain … well, she knew the Romans to be in Italy, some Vikings to hold Sicily – thanks to vacations she'd spent there - and that there probably was an Arabic incursion in most of southern Spain – vacation again. Other than that, their respective languages and cultures were a big question mark to her.

Fortunately, Lancelot started speaking of the Sarmatian plains, and the shamans that watched over them. And despite the angry gleam hidden in Tristan's eyes, Frances drank his stories like a child would listen to a tale-teller. The young woman observed Lancelot as his stance relaxed, his dark irises shining, for once, with a genuine light. There was hurt as well, homesickness so deeply rooted that it was painful to watch, but also wistfulness in his gaze. Like a dream, that all would be well for the people left behind, that no harm had befallen their respective families despite the theft of their firstborn. Frances's heart constricted painfully as she imagined the crushing blow of having your sons ripped away. No longer did she consider Lancelot as an annoying flirt for she saw, as he left the mask behind, the young boy he'd been when taken so brutally from his land.

— "How old were you when they…?"

— "Too young"

Tristan's voice shocked Arthur, but the commander would not show it for the world. The scout scarcely participated in a conversation unless directly addressed. He never took well to strangers either, and even less answered personal questions. The young lady's words came back to his mind –talk to your scout. Ask him of my coming. Ask him of the Woads' reluctance to attack me – and he resolved to ask Tristan before the end of the day. For now though, Arthur could only cringe as Lancelot answered truthfully. And it hurt him more than he would ever admit.

— "I was ten. Galahad, only seven, and Gawain eleven. Bors was the eldest, at eighteen, Dagonet not much younger. The others … well, there's no point. They're dead now."

Silence met this statement. A thick, heavy, and loaded silence. By his side, Tristan seemed caught in a contest of stares of sort, for his eyes didn't move from the young lady riding behind him. And then, his hawk took flight, the shuffle of her wings nearly covering Tristan's answer. But not entirely.

— "Sixteen. I was sixteen, soon to be betrothed, and a man already."

And then the scout spurred his horse into gallop to follow his hawk and disappeared on the path without turning back to watch their slack jaws. A man already … the reason that his face had been tattooed?

— "Did you know?" came Lancelot's voice beside him.

One word. Final, and hopeless escaped Artur's lips as the weight became unbearable.

— "No"

A strangled laugh shook Lancelot's chest.

— "Seems someone has more luck prying answers from the scout that we had in the past fifteen years."

Frances bristled under the first knight's stare, clearly uneasy in the saddle. The commander sighed; she was not the only one, and a little discomfort was hardly repayment for the hardship she brought upon him. Her unsettling presence opened his eyes and hears in a manner he loathed. As if he'd never cared to listen before, and was now starting to dive into another world. A world different from his own, painted with brighter colours, soaked red by the harshness of it. Perhaps she was right, perhaps his God had answered his prayers, albeit in a way he wasn't expecting it to. And for a moment, he'd loved to hate her for it. The knowledge that reached his conscience with her innocent questions, the things she pried out of his knights was unbearable. And her opinion on Rome, her mention of how Commodus killed his best general turned in circles in his mind. Was Rome so far gone from what he knew? From Pelagius's teachings? No, he couldn't hate the messenger, especially a woman. And somehow, he had an inkling that Tristan wouldn't allow him to.

Arthur called for a halt. It was time for the young lady to change mount, and for him to gather his thoughts away from her unsettling influence.