The wind howled in the tree tops, its scent carrying the promise of snow as surely as the sun would rise in the morning. Huddled around a hidden hearth, the knights partook a stew fixed by Dagonet, the wheat grains dancing with bannock morsels. It was only by the grace of Tristan's skills that meat joined their dinner, for the land was asleep this far north. As they set up camp, Frances felt slightly useless. Not out of ignorance, for she was used to sleeping in the wilds after her little adventure with the fellowship of the ring. Yet, the company worked as a tight group, each of them with their task, all individuals doing their own chores that intertwined into a collective effort. A strange ballet to watch, fascinating, but that left Frances with a sour taste of worthlessness. After getting some relatively dry wood in the surroundings to supply the fire, she collected pine needles in a corner. It would insulate her from the frozen ground where she would lie. Then she unpacked a woollen blanket – lent by Jols, the Valar bless him – from Galahad's horse. After checking that her future bedding was free of ants and other crawling beasties – as if they could survive such coldness !– Frances was left to take a seat, facing the rise of the hill.

None of the knights were unsettled by Arthur's subtle demand to speak to his scout. Frances's blood drained from her face, though, for she had an inkling about what the subject might be. Her sorry ass. As well as her impossible arrival in a great flash of blue light, and the subsequent notion that, witch or fairy, the Woads seemed to steer clear from her. The lack of attack this afternoon could only confirm their suspicion that she worked in league with their enemies. If Tristan and Arthur came to this conclusion, they would be hell to pay. Would Arthur execute her without trial? Or leave the decision to his knights? Would he interrogate her? Leave her behind, tied to a tree? Here, in the middle of nowhere, she didn't think she could survive on her own. Without Aragorn or Legolas to look after her, she knew the cold and barrenness of the land would kill her for sure. The knights conversed lightly, grumbling about the weather, the Bishop and their blasted last mission. Despite the eminence's secretary being there, who kept mostly to himself, the knights did not have qualms about voicing their contempt. She couldn't blame them; they had been robbed of their freedom and sent to death. Curiously, though, she wondered why secretary Horntorn had accepted to follow them in the pits of hell. He probably had no choice in the matter; poor guy.

Frances had to refrain from staring at the two lonely forms lingering in the shadows, close enough to distinguish their cloaks billowing in the wind, but far enough to prevent her from hearing them. She would have given anything to be privy to their conversation and could only hope that Arthur's heart was not too heavy … yet. Or that his ideals would stand true. For she didn't think Tristan would advocate her case. The scout looked after his own, and if he believed her an enemy, he would cut her down where she stood without an ounce of remorse. And she respected him for it as much as she feared him.

Then someone plopped down beside her, steering her thoughts from the secret conversation that kept her on edge.

— "Do not worry, Frances. The Woads don't want us dead, and Tristan will find the best way out of those woods."

Frances smiled at Gawain, touched by his attempt at lifting her mood. Little could he know the true reason of her fears. She couldn't possibly tell him that she was afraid of his commander, right ? But Bors couldn't care less as he addressed her a grin.

— "Yeah. You, lass, brought us luck. So let's celebrate, right?"

Frances smiled back, amused at his antics. But somewhere in the shadows, she distinguished a set of amber eyes boring holes into her skull. She could nearly hear the scout's thoughts from here, scoffing at the sheer naiveté of his older brother. Luck had nothing to do with this. Somehow, Merlin had plans for Arthur … or for her. Galahad's grumbling, though, shook her out of her musings as he sat on a log.

— "Oh, I can't wait to leave this island. If it's not raining, it's snowing. If it's not snowing, it's foggy."

— "And that's the summer!", interjected Lancelot with a smirk.

This time, Frances smiled. Given her birth place, she had lived through many summers where the temperature rose over 38 degrees Celsius. Britain's weather was a common joke in Lyon. For her city was no laughing matter; in 2003, a massive heat wave had decimated many of the elderly; the temperature had barely gone below 30 degrees at night, and it stayed over 40 for at least a month during the day. She didn't remember it with great fondness as she had been stuck in the city at the time... and brooding over her fresh separation with Legolas. Hell, she would have given anything to be there, by the fire, in this blasted country, freezing her arse off than wallowing in misery in Lugdunum's oven.

— "True, there are not many places where it rains more than here," she scoffed.

Frances hated the rain, it always impaired her great outings in the forest as a kid, and drowned her fire at the hut they'd built with her little neighbour. A familiar smooth voice rose behind her and she nearly jumped.

— "The rain is good. Washes all the blood away"

Not even a full sentence, as was the scout's wont. Tristan's comment was drowned by Dagonet's sarcastic remark that it didn't help the smell, but Frances felt caught like a deer in headlights. For his intense gaze rested upon her, unreadable. She struggled not to fidget, wondering if his words were a threat – your blood could be washed way with a shower – a question – are you here to spill our blood? – or had even remotely anything to do with her arrival. Then Tristan settled on the other side of the fire, directly in her line of sight. Frances sighed; trust was hard gained. She chanced a quick glance to Arthur who only nodded tersely. No interrogation, no shouting and no incrimination. Better than expected. Inwardly, she deflated. But her features didn't change an inch, the mask firmly in place.

Beside her, Gawain seemed oblivious to the little display – or he chose to ignore it. How the knight managed to keep his mood so even, so cheerful was a mystery to her, but it was refreshing. His voice was deep and calming, like a ripple across the waters of a summer lake.

— "Hey, Bors, do you intend to take Vanora and all your little bastards back home?"

Home to Sarmatia. Eleven children, travelling across three thousand kilometres. That was the challenge of the year. Bors must have reached the same conclusion for shook his head.

— "Oh, I'm trying to avoid that decision…"

Then he sent a pointed look to his commander.

— " … by getting killed. Dagonet, she wants to get married and give the children names."

— "Women!", came Tristan's voice, his eyes firmly planted into her own.

And for a moment, nothing existed else than the amber of his gaze pinning her into place before he released her, turning to Bors.

— "The children already have names, don't they?"

His comment reassured her somehow, as if not naming one's children seemed preposterous to him. For it was crazy to think that…

— "Just Gilly. It was too much trouble, so we gave the rest of them numbers."

Bors' answer shocked her enough to root her to the log she was sitting on. Her gaze flew to the scout once more, wondering what he thought of his brother's answer. But Tristan wouldn't look her way, and she inhaled sharply to ease the weight that settled upon her chest. No names… children with no names. Damn… Lancelot, for one, seemed unfazed as he smirked.

— "That's interesting. And I thought you couldn't count."

Beside Frances, Gawain silently laughed as he tried to share an amused glance with her. But she couldn't show mirth as the reality of the fifth century hit her like a truck at full speed. A time where children had no name, and people couldn't count. Or read, or write for that matter. Where you could kill your neighbour, or be killed in a jiffy. Die of the simplest of wounds, and see your children whither and waste away on a bad winter. Perhaps, in a few months from now, the baby she had held in her arms would be buried under the unforgiving earth of Britain.

— "You know," Bors continued in a lower voice. "I never thought I'd get back home alive. Now I've got the chance, I… I don't want to leave my children."

— "You'd miss 'em too much," said Gawain.

The bald knight nodded over the fire, his eyes a tad too misty to be caused by the wind. It was heartwarming, to see such a giant, the ruthless warrior, so taken with his children. Vanora must be the hell of a woman to put up with him and such a brood.

— "I'll take them with me. I like the little bastards. They mean something to me…"

In 2006, hearing such words would have sent feminists in a fit. Here, and there, it just meant that Bors had a heart of gold. How far had the world evolved in fifteen hundred years. Frances was numb, lost in the recesses of her mind.

— " … especially number three. He's a good fighter."

Lancelot couldn't resist rubbing salt in the wound.

— "That's because he's mine."

His goading woke Frances from her depressed thoughts and she bent over Gawain to slap the dark knight's arm.

— "Lancelot!" she hissed, letting the anger pull her out of her sad musings.

Shocked by her gall, Lancelot sent her a glare that she returned tenfold. At the tavern already, she had seen how he taunted Bors by trying to drag Vanora into his lap. Funny, how the tall brute of a knight was gullible, for the redhead only had eyes for him. Did Bors have an inferiority complex regarding Lancelot's good looks? Didn't he see, that cad of a knight, that he undermined Bors' confidence? Psychology 101? But it was no matter, as even as they glared at each other, Bors stood up dejectedly.

— "I'm going for a piss"

— "Me too," said Gawain.

Both knights disappeared in the woods. Abashed, Arthur chanced a glance at the young woman.

— "Please excuse our crude ways, Lady Frances."

Somehow, the upgrade in standing felt off in the misty woods. Frances blinked, sending one last chastising glance to Lancelot before addressing the commander.

— "Bah, it is no matter. I, too, need to piss sometimes."

A round of subdued laughter greeted her words, and she thought that even Tristan's lips quirked beneath the mane of unruly hair. Arthur caught her meaning in everything left unsaid; she was no maiden to protect and her mind could handle his men without flinching. There was no need to upset himself over the trivialities of soldiers, and their crude humour. If only he knew the horrors they said in school, the one-night stands and other party endings, completely drunk, that her schoolmates partook in. Phew. Despite it all, she felt better surrounded by Samartian knights than with her so-called comrades. Except for the Picts infested woods and impending death threat.

Gawain's return was more eventful than Bors'. The tearing of fabric, followed by colourful swear words in his native language, caused her eyebrows to rise.

— "Stupid trees, standing in my way! Another tunic to mend," came his unnerved outburst.

— "Shhh, Gawain," chastised Bors. "The Woads will have our hides if they find us."

Frances lifted her eyes across the embers, meeting the scout's gaze. Her spine tingled, and she was quite sure that said Woads had known the moment they set up camp. But they had yet to show. Tristan's irises came alight with the glow of the fire, their light brown nearly golden in the night, the eyes of a predator on the hunt. She realised then how the others relied on him, for as long as he said nothing, they acted as if all was well. Such responsibility, it must be crushing … and if she guessed right, he probably didn't tell them half of what he saw – except to Arthur.

Bah, there was nothing she could do to settle her nerves. On a whim, she offered to mend Gawain's shirt. The repetitive action, at least, could soothe her mind.

— "I always have my sewing kit with me" she said as the knight hesitated, his shirt bundled up in his hands.

— "A typical woman," snorted Lancelot.

— "I also carry things to sew you back together…"

Dagonet's voice, so scarcely heard, caused Frances to raise an eyebrow. Was he defending her from the offence of being called a woman? His intervention, though, caused his fellow brothers to still. Gentle and fearsome at the same time, Dagonet oozed those fatherly vibes that were unconsciously picked up by the others like a bunch of chastised children. The young woman smiled at the giant in the dim light before turning to Gawain. The knight gave an enormous yawn, his mind made up as he handed her the shirt.

— "Who cares, I am grateful for your offer, because the gods know I hate it!"

Frances accepted the bundle of cloth with a smile.

— "Well, can't be good at everything, right?"

There was no flattery in her words; so far, she had been impressed by the knights' skills. Those men fought, mastered their horses, cared for them, knew the land and survived on their own in any place. And despite her barging into their lives, Gawain had been a fairly decent fellow. The blond knight grinned at her, amusement twinkling in his blue eyes as he cocked his head aside.

— "Well, Tristan can sew. He's good at everything. Killing, throwing daggers, horseriding, taming animals…"

The scout's eyebrows rose under his shaggy mane, the look of surprise barely perceptible on his usually impassive face. On the other side of the fire, Galahad scoffed, disbelief written on his features. They had never quite seen eye to eye, and he couldn't understand why his brothers didn't shy away from his bloodlust.

— "The best bowman," added Bors.

Lancelot nodded.

— "Our best swordsman … and scout of course"

Arthur, amused, watched at the band of brothers paid their tribute to the scout. Something he had, until now, never witnessed. The young woman's eyes sparkled in the fire's light, and she raised an eyebrow challengingly, turning to Tristan.

— "How about cooking?"

Would he grace her with an answer? The commander knew how his scout hated to be in the spotlight. But Frances seemed to have some sort of understanding with Tristan, for after a while, he eventually grunted a stern reply.

— "Aye"

It wasn't much, just enough to convey that he, indeed, could cook decently. For a man prone to spend days at a time in the wild on his own, nothing preposterous to that. Frances was enjoying the game far too much as she fired questions away.

— "Singing?"

— "He can," Gawain deadpanned.

Yes, of course she'd heard his voice in the Sarmatian song several days ago. She needed something even more preposterous. Wracking her brain, she found another idea.

— "Dancing?"

— "You'd be surprised. The Gods knew I was"

Galahad's comment surprised them all, including the key player of this conversation. A humming sound echoed in the lady's chest as she searched for other subjects to broach. A thin smile lifted the corner of his lips, remembering his fighting style. His footwork on the battlefield was like a dance…

— "Mmm, I sense there's a story there that I might ask someday. So, what else?"

— "There's something he might be good at…"

Lancelot wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Frances suddenly flushed.

— "Damn it Lancelot, pull your mind out of the gutter. Are you actually trying to marry him off or what?"

Her comment called forth a round of subdued laughter – Woads might be nearby after all – and somewhere behind the dark fringe of unruly hair, she wondered if Tristan's colour had not slightly reddened as well. How was she going to manoeuvre out of this corner, especially since an annoying French song now danced in the back of her mind – Si tu veux m'essayer … if you want to try me out – Ugh! But Lancelot was having way too much fun to relent, and pressed his advantage as he presented the now glaring scout with his hand.

— "Aah, but don't be fooled by the shaggy exterior. Tristan probably has plenty of hidden qualities."

Frances frowned at the bite coated in sugar; somehow, it didn't feel so much like a compliment coming from the dark knight. Her eyes roamed about the scout's braids partially hiding his smouldering amber eyes, long leather vest, medieval shirt and sturdy boots. Her scrutiny called forth the image of Aragorn, drenched with grime and sweat in the wilds the first time they had met. A fond smile spread upon her lips, remembering how despicable the ranger's appearance had been. Yet his noble lineage always showed in his every action, Aragorn was a man she looked up to. There, she had found a way out as she grinned at Lancelot.

— "Ah, I once met a King who looked and smelt even worse than you lot reunited."

— "Not possible, Bors is there…" Galahad interjected.

And just like that, they all seemed to forget that she had met a ranger King, or compared royalty to Tristan. But she didn't, for the remembrance of orc blood upon Aragorn's clothes could never be forgotten.

The scout squinted his eyes, but remained impassive. As if this whole conversation didn't concern him one bit. And when he suddenly stood, like a feline about to jump upon its prey, a hush fell in the forest.

— "Aye. Now leave me be. Get some rest, I'll take first watch."

Arthur nodded, standing as well.

— "Yes, let us rest. We depart at first light"

A useless order, for Tristan's words were enough to send his brothers to their bedrolls, all teasing forgotten. Incredible, how that man could shift the mood. Frances retrieved her bag and sat closer to the fire as the knights made ready. A bittersweet souvenir assailed her as she fished her sewing kit; the last time she'd mended another's shirt on the road had been for Boromir. She remembered the proud man's misogyny as he stated that "women should know how to sew", and how she had grumbled under her breath as her delicate fingers worked on the torn fabric. They'd been on the road to Mordor then; he never reached it. The road to his death. Images of his pale face, begging forgiveness, flashed before her eyes and she closed them tight. Another friend she'd left behind, for in time, they had reached an understanding. The proud Captain of Gondor and the Keeper of Time had eventually mended the torn bond between them as he warmed up to Aragorn in Lothlorien... Just before the battle of Amon Hen, just before his death by Orc's poisoned arrows. It was lucky Legolas had not been killed that day; at least, there was still a chance for them to meet. Somewhere, deep within her heart, dwelt the thread of light that linked her to the elf.

Night settled, snores echoed in the silence, the noises of the forest dampened by winter. Frances sat on the blanket near the fire, her needle swiftly repairing Gawain's poor linen tunic. The cloth was rough against her fingers, a far cry from the soft cotton of her own, but more solid. And it smelled of sweat; fortunately, the cold dampened it a little. Lost in her reminiscence of battles and death, Frances mended the fabric with small stitches. Tristan had taken first watch, unsettled by the stillness of the woods. Something was off, and not yet threatening so that Arthur should be awakened. His fellow brothers would need all the sleep they could get. Eyeing the young lady across the embers, the scout eventually stood, his movement as silent as death. His previous discussion with Arthur had not been conclusive. The man, with his ideals and values, wanted to give the lady a chance. Tristan didn't argue against it; he had promised not to stand in her way. And even Arthur's religion didn't believe for fairies or witches, he had not denied the scout's account of her arrival. From there, they could only watch, and make sure she posed no threat to the knights.

The Woads' reluctance to fight her, though, still annoyed him. And the lack of attack in the woods tended to confirm that she worked with them. If such was the case … he would end her life without mercy. For the moment, though, her presence was protection. And a refreshing addition to their sorry group, for her conversation alone had called forth confessions from his fellow knights. Hearing their praise, albeit reluctant from Galahad and Lancelot, had put balms on wounds he didn't even know he possessed. For he was a loner, closed off from the world to prevent further hurt. And antagonising his fellow brothers was just a way to protect himself from losing them, or bearing the brunt of their sarcasm. Learning that they admired him gave him a sense of belonging.

And she … she had looked at him with kindness… fondness even as she compared him to this King. As if she could see the man behind the mask without fleeing in disgust. The private smile that followed Lancelot's preposterous comment – not that the wenches complained about his performance, mind you – had stirred something in his heart. Somewhere existed a woman – with brains, and not running after coins – that could appreciate what he was … who he was, without judging. It was oddly reassuring, even if said woman was a little fairy bond to another man.

Tristan sighed. Too much thinking for a desperate situation. And none of this would help him make heads or tails of the predicament they were currently in. Frances didn't flinch when he crouched a few inches from her, only acknowledging his presence with a nod. There, he could embrace the whole slope of forest without having to move, a position she'd chosen by instinct. It only confirmed that she was used to travelling in enemy territory.

— "They know we're here," she eventually whispered.

Tristan nearly started, once more unsettled by the awareness of the young woman. Had she been trained as a hunter? A tracker perhaps?

— "How do you know?" he whispered.

The young woman shuddered.

— "The wind whirls as it is wont to do when snow is coming. I can smell the woad plant."

So this is how she spotted them. Sneaky woman.

— "You've got an acute sense of smell."

— "Yeah. Unfortunately for me"

The young woman scrunched her nose comically, eliciting a low chuckle from the scout. If her delicate nose could pick the faint smell of woad paint in the icy wind, he had no doubt she suffered greatly from the proximity of unwashed men and horses alike. This probably explained why she had assembled her pine blanket further away from them.

— "I wonder why they do not attack," she stated, visibly puzzled.

If she was playing him, then her game was incredibly smooth, for nothing betrayed her duplicity. And her eyes, this warm chocolate hue that turned gold in the light of the fire, held no other feeling but genuine concern. There were so wide, so incredibly inviting that Tristan lost himself in their contemplation. Barely a moment, where the weight of the world lifted slightly before it came crashing down upon his shoulders again.

— "They are not so close now."

The young woman nodded, her features concentrated on the deep gash that Gawain had clumsily made on his tunic. Her sewing was neat, the stitches small and even, some additional ones reinforcing the cloth. He marvelled that she didn't ask why; she'd probably gathered that he didn't know … or wouldn't tell her. Her a calm demeanour as she knew them to be surrounded intrigued him; they were, after all, at the mercy of the locals. Mayhap she'd understood something he didn't. Mayhap she'd been right, and the Woads kept away from her. In this case, her very presence was a talisman to the knights. Mayhap she'd been in worse situations before, just like them. Mayhap … she was a spy for the Woads.

— "Why do they keep away from you?" he suddenly growled.

Frances' gaze turned back to him, surprised by the renewed threat in his low voice. The flames danced in fire of her hair, the surreal halo of light bringing out her lovely cheekbones.

— "I have no idea," she whispered genuinely. "But I certainly hope it remains so."

Tristan gave her his most intimidating stare, and she flinched a little. Good, after that episode in the woods where he had nearly crushed her windpipe, he'd wondered how human she was. No one could sustain his glare without showing signs of distress.

— "I swear to you Tristan, in the name of the Gods I serve. I am no Woad, and am at loss as much as you are."

— "Your Gods are nothing to me."

She stared back at him, her indignation radiating off her slender frame. Little did he know that the Valar were not Gods to her either, but it was simpler this way.

— "Then trust Lady Hawk"

Lady Hawk, a mighty nickname for his companion… one he might quite start using in private. Most of the time, animals had more sense than humans. An eternity passed until the scout was satisfied with Frances' earnest plea. Standing tall, he took a silent turn behind the camp, his eyes scanning the surroundings and finding no soul alive. Yet, his gaze often returned to the fire where the fairy mended a shirt in a show of domesticity that sent a pang to his heart. He'd never have that, a wife sewing his shift in front of dying embers, the comfort of a feather bed with a soft curvaceous body awaiting him, a pair of fine eyes watching him with admiration rather than contempt. Little feet pattering on the ground, unconditional love in their eyes. Would his brothers survive long enough to enjoy a blissful marriage? How many of them, if any?

At last satisfied with the stillness of the forest, Tristan settled back beside the little fairy. Oddly enough, her presence didn't disturb him, nor prevented him from keeping alert. His brothers were snoring away, oblivious to the danger lurking ahead. When she spoke, the scout was unsure whether she was addressing him.

— "It soothes me to sew by hand."

— "By hand?"

His accented voice nearly got lost in the gentle cracking of the embers; it was so quiet. But she answered anyway.

— "At home, I have a machine. One thread below, one thread above, it makes a stronger seam, it is more efficient. Faster. But my mind settles when I do it by hand."

A machine; he'd never heard of such a thing. Tristan shrugged the idea off; he wasn't one to get interested in womanly arts. The sleeves of his leather overcoat were roughly sewn; he'd repaired them enough to know how inelegant it was. The true question, though, was on the tip of his tongue. And even if he'd rather stay quiet, his curiosity won the struggle.

— "Where is home, Frances?"

— "Home is where the heart is, at least, that's what they say."

Her answer seemed hollow, and Gawain's shirt came to rest upon her bent knee as she turned her face to him. Her eyes shone with repressed emotion; their golden hue glazed by unshed tears. A tough battle was raging inside her mind, a battle he knew for having fought it a hundred times over. He was not sure he'd escaped victorious from it, and her quiet admission sent a pang of sadness through his heart.

— "I have no idea where home is, at the moment."

The words stumbled out unbidden.

— "Neither do I"

Home. Sarmatia, Brittany, Rome? Where was home now? Where did he belong? The young lady nodded, her eyes searching his for answers. And even though he did not say a thing, Tristan realised that she saw it all, and for once, he didn't hide. Compassion, understanding, kinship. All of this written on her face, pouring out of the depth of her warm chocolate gaze. It had been a long time since someone had looked upon him that way, without fear, disdain or disgust. And even if Tristan wasn't one to seek company, it felt good to be considered as a human being, for once. A piercing cry called him back to reality; Hawk requested his presence. The scout watched the dark sky intensely as he leapt to his feet.

— "Get some sleep," he ordered sternly.

— "I will. Once this is done."

Tristan nodded and disappeared from the camp's halo of reddened light.

— "Be safe, Tristan," she murmured.

Unbeknownst to her, the scout paused a few yards away, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips before resuming his round. Eternity had come and gone since a woman had wished him such a simple thing.