Hey readers!

I once more thank again my faithful reviewer who, even with limited network, managed to give me a piece of his (her?) thoughts! I wonder, apart from Koba, who reads me. Are you dragged from Frances's story on middle earth, or regular readers of King Arthur's world?

That's a pretty long chapter, covering multiple scenes. I hope you enjoy it! I don't dare saying "let me know" since I don't usually have much feedback:'(

It was a lonely night, freakishly cold as well. Frances had trouble falling asleep, shivering under her cloak and spare blanket. In this very moment, she wished she was fat. Or a man. Or accustomed to sleep outside in the snow. She wondered as well if she'd gone too far with the Ave Maria. Despite Arthur's hearty thanks, and his confessions, the young lady questioned her actions. As if, for once, she had pushed the knights to their breaking point. Most of them had spent the evening in contemplation rather than sharing laughs and jabs in camp. Tristan, for one, had entirely disappeared. Perhaps it was just the stress of the Saxons being on their tail, or the difficult discoveries of the prisoners and their torture that weighed them down. But somehow, Frances doubted that it was the only reason.

At last sleep claimed her, a strange dream plaguing her mind. Arthur stood over the round table, his head crowned, his faithful knights ready to do his bidding. There were many new faces, youthful and experienced, all eager to serve the new King. Lancelot sat to his right, ever the first knight, Gawain and Galahad a little sideways. Bors was there too, Dagonet by his side, like the brothers they always seemed to be. But Tristan was nowhere in sight. Frances turned around, looking for him, expecting him to pass the door after a morning spent scouting, but there was no spare seat for him. "Where is Tristan?" she called to the others. But none could remember his name, features closed off, wondering who was the strange woman frantically searching for one they didn't know. At last, Arthur strode to her, setting a compassionate hand on her shoulder.

— "My lady, I am sorry to say that there is no knight named Tristan in my court."

Frances started, her eyes opening to an endless pit of darkness. The weight of his hand still rested on her shoulder; the contact that woke her. Her fingers flew to the dagger at her belt, shivers wracking her body as she squinted to discern the man who dared setting his hands upon her but she could only make out faint lines. She was cold, so cold that her extremities were numb. Fingers touched her collarbone gently, leaving a trail of heat.

— "Sleep," a smooth voice said.

And she settled back in the embrace of the tree's roots, her heart obeying the command. She knew that voice, she was safe. A heavy cloak landed around her shaking form, the knight beside her resting his head on the trunk she'd nested against, wrapped in the woolen cloth. The contact of his warm hand, though, stayed until she succumbed to Morpheus.

The wake-up call was harsher than a bucket of icy water. Tension filled her body, and Frances sprang to her feet like a coil unleashed. Adrenalin course through her veins, making her more alert, her chest heaving from the rude awakening. Her sword was unsheated, ready to parry, and the young woman marveled that she did not even remember drawing it. Sounds of a scuffle reached her ears and she let her legs carry her to the clearing where the knights had fallen asleep the day before. Marius' voice rose above the others, yelling something about a boy, then his shrill voice.

— "Kill him, kill him now !"

— "Let him go!", screamed a woman.

Fulcinia's voice. Frances blood drained from her face as took in the scene before her. Marius held a dagger at the boy's throat, Alecto and Fulcinia stood a little sideways, the woman held protectively within her son's embrace, before a very angry Dagonet. The knight was a sight to behold, long dagger in hand in his fighting stance, his impressive muscles coiled. But he didn't move an inch, for Lucan's life hanged in the balance. Three roman soldiers, chainmail and stupid helmet upon their head, fidgeted under their master's order. Sword drawn, Frances could only stop in her tracks before Marius spotted her. She wasn't about to let Dagonet die; but any wrong move, and the blood of the boy would taint the frozen earth. Silence fell for a second, the longest of moment when all actors considered their next move. Until the characteristic whistle of an arrow, and the faint thud of Marius falling on the ground echoed in the clearing. Alecto ran to his father's side while Guinevere, pale blue dress flowing upon her slender frame, walked in, bow in hand.

Damn, the woman had a mean aim. Cool, and efficient. Behind her walked in Arthur and Lancelot, dressed and armoured for battle, and Frances couldn't help but snort. Guinevere, flanked by her two lovers; it had started already. A loud battle cry startled them all as another arrow embedded itself at the soldiers' feet. Bors' stallion galloped in the clearing as he yelled:

— "Do we have a problem ?"

Behind the soldiers, Frances spotted Galahad and Gawain, already mounted and fully armed as well. She could only marvel at their efficiency, for it had not been more than a minute since all hell had broken loose. There was a little subsequent yelling as Dagonet brandished his broadsword threateningly, demanding that weapons be set on the ground. The roman soldiers hesitated, and Frances lifted her own to cover the flank.

Arthur straightened, donning once more the persona of the commander as he posed an ultimatum.

— "You help, or you die"

Frances refrained a smirk; the man had a way with words. His authority, though, was enough to convince the roman soldiers to surrender their weapons willingly. Seeing that disaster was averted, the young woman sheathed hers. Perhaps, with Marius's death, the tension would lessen a bit. The Saxons were already tailing them; they could not afford to be attacked within their own ranks.

Just on cue, another set of hooves pounded on the floor as Tristan appeared at the edge of the encampment, long strands shielding his eyes. Bors' teasing didn't stop the scout as he launched something at Arthur's feet. Panting from the exertion, his stern voice announced:

— "Armour-piercing. They're close. We have no time."

Arthur's grim face turned to Tristan as he told him:

— "Ride ahead"

The scout turned his horse around, sweeping the scene in a glance. His gaze caught Frances's red hair as she studied the armour piercing cross blot on the ground – she was safe – before he disappeared in a flurry of cloak. He didn't see the frown on her face as she turned to him, only for her to catch his disappearing form. Nor the crease between her eyebrows as she mulled on such a weapon. Saxons of the fifth century didn't have crossbows. Nor armor piercing weapons at the time. It was just too early in history. Something was very, very wrong.

As she rode Dagonet's horse while he cared for the injured, Frances traced the Hawk in the sky, indicating Tristan's location somewhere ahead. She wondered for the umpteenth time if she'd dreamt his presence last night, for when she awoke, the scout was nowhere in sight, the heavy cloak gone as well. And those damned crossbows haunted her thoughts. Could it be that another like her roamed those lands, fighting for the Saxons ? A counterpart of sorts, with decisions opposite of her own ? Damn, the certainly hoped not. Shivering under the elvish material of her garment, she spotted Dagonet exiting the wagon Guinevere and Lucan were tended to. The knight eyed her suspiciously before addressing her.

— "Get in the wagon, Frances."

The young woman frowned. She liked him, he was quiet and observant, and quite well disposed towards her, if a little overprotective. Seeing him in full battle mode this very morning left no doubt regarding his efficiency; Dagonet was no mere gentle giant. One to be feared, even. But she failed to understand his motives right now.

— "Er. Why?"

The giant man walked beside her, patting his horse's mane.

— "Your hands are numb, you won't be able to fight if needed."

— "It will be warmer with you in front."

Dagonet rolled his eyes and stopped his horse with a click of his tongue. There was naught Frances could do, for the animal's allegiance didn't extend to her.

— "And my horse needs the rest," he added with a pointed look.

Frances smirked at the change of strategy. Those who dismissed Dagonet's cleverness due to his silent ways were sorely mistaken. Like Tristan, he saw and understood much, chosing to keep it to himself rather than boast about it.

— "Since I am being kicked out, Sir Knight, I will gladly populate the sick and impaired wagon," she stated haughtily.

The giant chuckled as she dismounted in a flurry and caught up with the wagon. Easing herself inside, she was greeted by startled looks. The poor roman woman, Fulcinia, had just lost her horrible husband and she wondered what could be said in such a case. Had she been complacent, or just another victim of Marius ? Roman women had very little rights and consideration compared to Celts, and she seemed a caring individual. Perhaps then she would just wait and see before judging.

— "Order from the healer," she stated as she settled down in an unoccupied corner.

Frances made an effort at small talk, enquiring about Guinevere's hand which seemed to heal properly, and the little one's fever who was subsiding. Dagonet was right: without the wind, she was slowly regaining the control of her hands and feet. Losing herself in her thoughts, she let the bumps of the road lull her to a meditative state. Until the Pict woman's incessant prattling about Gods, the country, and the infamous Arthur shook her out of her musings. Narrowing her eyes to the dark-eyed lady, she observed as she played her game of seduction on Arthur who was riding on the other side of the window. A jab here, a little guilt, a little mischievousness and lots of guts, all packed with the self-confidence of a woman used to have her way. Her goal remained obscure, one Frances couldn't decipher. For now. If the Pict wanted Arthur, why was she so adamant about him being a murderer of his people? Reminding him of his inheritance and the blood of his mother. Frances couldn't see Arthur's face, but his silences were enough for her heart to clench for him. Those words could only bring him pain. He'd endured so much already that she felt like slapping the Pict.

Arthur had come to her, the evening before, to thank her for the grace of her Ave Maria. His face was glowing in the night, his green eyes alight with hope, and she knew she'd touched him.

— "Never have I heard such a beautiful tribute to Mary," he told her. "How can you tell you are not Christian, when you sing like an angel,"

Frances gasped, her cheeks reddening as she stared at the frozen ground.

— "Your praise is too much. But I hope to convey how beautiful faith can be when uncorrupted. What those monks have done is despicable, I wanted to put a balm to our souls. I needed it. It is not because I don't share the presence of this beautiful energy through religion that I don't feel it."

Somehow, Arthur could not understand why Frances was so closed off against religions when she brought such hope. He couldn't know that Christianity would prove so destructive against its own. Inquisition, religion wars, massacres, crusades against the Cathars, against the Moors. Name an atrocity, the church had committed it! Of all it had not come to pass yet. Still, Arthur accepted Frances as she was, hence the true light in his eyes.

— "I believe I understand, and you have managed beautifully."

Frances bowed her head in gratitude.

— "That was my hope. You know my thoughts on religion, I believe that no institution should ever dictate people's faith. What happens between God and yourself is yours to own, and no one else"

Shifting slightly, Arthur settled fully on the ground.

— "I fear that my decisions have condemned my knights to death. Yet I cannot will myself to regret it when I see the faces of those people. I couldn't leave them to die, I'd be no better man than Marius"

Frances nodded sadly. She feared for the knights as well; would she be strong enough to save them if the Saxons overcame them? How could she, a mere girl, make a difference? She hoped the Valar would give her a hand if needed.

— "I understand your plight. Being a commander, to lead for the greater good, is a heavy burden. I have known a man in a similar position some time ago, always able to make the right choice even if he doubted himself. Had I been in your shoes, I would have been at loss"

Arthur gave her a fond smile, imagining Frances wearing his boots. What a funny expression.

— "Nay, you'd done the same. It was your support that helped me take this decision."

Frances's hazel gaze searched his earnest green, and the gratitude she found warmed her heart. How he reminded her of Aragorn, the rightful King of Gondor. Arthur's stunned expression called for a quote she'd heard Elrond tell his adoptive son.

— "Eä estel illumë"

Arthur's eyebrows nearly met his hairline at the elvish she served him, and Frances chuckled, remembering the many times she'd given hope back to Estel when his spirits were low. It seemed that bringing reassurance to future Kings were the things she did best.

— "There is always hope. In elvish, the language of my betrothed."

It was quite a shortcut, to quote Quenya as Legolas' language, but now wasn't the time to discuss semantics.

— "You have faith, still, that you will find him?"

His voice was low, the question tentative, as if approaching a wounded beast. And somehow, he wasn't wrong. Sometimes, Frances interrogated the faint link she shared with Legolas, this slight glow buried deep in her heart that only deep meditation could reach. And then, she knew he was alive still, and waiting for her.

— "For three long years I have not given up. He's here, I feel it, and will not renounce until I find him."

A deep sighed escaped Arthur as his gaze got lost in the snow-laden forest.

— "Sometimes I envy you"

Had it been anyone else, Frances would have sprung to her feet and shouted her lungs out that she'd never been so miserable since her separation from Greenwood's prince. But Arthur's sad posture told her that something loomed below the surface.

— "How so?"

— "I have loved, and lost as well. But there will be no reunion for me."

Frances stiffened. She'd seen the sadness in his eyes whenever there was talk of her betrothed.

— "What happened?" she asked gently.

Arthur did not meet her eyes, recalling the events of his past.

— "She was beautiful, and so young. The daughter of a merchant at the fort. It took me a long time to understand that I loved her. Even more to gather my courage and talk to her."

— "Did she return the feeling?"

Arthur gave her a sad smile, his hand idly scratching at the armour he had yet to shed.

— "Very much so. I went to her father, to ask for her hand. And he refused me, stating that I could die anytime, and leave his daughter in a dire situation."

An unladylike growl of frustration answered him.

— "Nonsense. Anyone could die in this forsaken world. Accident, disease, name it you have it."

Arthur nodded.

— "How sadly true. His father told me he'd allow her to marry me when I became the commander of the knights, a respected figure at the fort. That it could somehow secure her future"

Frances pursed her lips. Arthur had no wife, it could only mean something went very wrong with that plan. Silence. The snow falling in a whirlwind as the flakes covered the icy ground. A sigh, and then, the chopper came down on Arthur's happiness.

— "She died, the winter after I took over the knights. A bad fever that killed one tenth of the fort's population, and left desolation in its wake. She was the kindest of souls, while so many bitter ones remained. There was so much to do, I didn't even take the time to mourn her until many months later. But when I did, I almost shed my God away"

Frances blinked back tears, the waves of sadness pouring out of Arthur and piercing her through.

— "But she still is in your heart."

— "And I cherish her memory. The way her blue eyes lit up when I came to purchase a little bread, the swing of her blond hair brushing her hips, the way her lips curved upwards in a smile when her father had his back turned. Somehow, she made me a better man"

Extending her hand, the young woman clasped the commander's. His skin was warm, much warmer than hers.

— "I'm sorry, Arthur. I know it doesn't help, but still…"

She had kept her hand in his for a while until he had excused himself and strode away.

The memory faded as Arthur's voice, angry, lashed out at Guinevere who laid in the wagon. The commander had had enough, fed up with the Pict's abuse about his knights. Nonplussed, the dark-haired lady turned to Lancelot, speaking of the paradise they currently were roaming. Frances scoffed at that, hidden in the shadows. What a slut! One lost, a second one in tow. And to qualify this place such… All right, Frances loved England and Scotland, but not was scarcely the time to babble about its beauty. They were all miserable and frozen to the core. Well, all the people riding outside, that is.

She hoped Tristan didn't get caught in high ground with the wind. There was not much body fat on the scout, she could tell by the way he moved that he was all efficient muscle and anxiety. His sheer bulk was the result of a hearty constitution, heavy training and the burden of his armour worn all day long. Not a chance to gain some weight, nor to get a little insulation against the cold. Frances wondered for a scant moment what Tristan would look like in a modern setting. Tall for sure, probably brighter, with a little less muscle, and hopefully a heart not trampled upon. Raising a brow, she left the weird idea scatter in the wind. The fifth century clung to her skin at the moment, all itchiness and scratchiness when it came to fabrics. When was elvish cloth when you needed it?

The scout must have heard her thoughts, for his voice greeted her senses as he questioned with Dagonet.

— "Where is Frances?" he asked casually.

— "In the wagon"

Frances could easily imagine his stern look hidden behind his shaggy mane.

— "Why?"

His voice sounded a little more strained than usual, almost worried. The scout wasn't one to make speculations, asking for information with the shortest amount of words. But at this moment, she realised he was alike to many men; his thoughts ran further than his voice.

— "To keep warm. Her hands were frozen on the reins."

— "Give me her bow"

It was an order, a weird one at that, and the slight fumbling outside indicated that Dagonet complied. Did this knight ever complain? Somehow, Tristan and Dagonet seemed to have an understanding, perhaps due to their lack of conversational skills. Frances jumped on her feet, setting the wagon's flap aside to meet a pair of darkened eyes. And then, the most extraordinary of things happened. Tristan levelled his horse to the wagon and held his hand out to her.

— "Come, ride with me."

She did not hesitate, her fingers grasping his for the first time, the contact sending tingles through her spine. A slight jump, and she was secured behind him.

— "Hold tight," he ordered, his voice low.

His horse spurred forward, disappearing at a gallop as the young woman hoisted her hands around his middle.

Dagonet shook his head, observing with a smirk the shell-shocked face of his fellow brothers.

— "Did Tristan just…", started Galahad.

— "Take her scouting ?"

Gawain's jaw had trouble not hitting the floor, and Lancelot couldn't help but comment bitterly at the turn of events, his attention diverted from Guinevere who pouted instantly. As usual, Dagonet refrained from joining such banter, but his mind was screaming. He'd never thought he would see the day when Tristan took fancy over a woman. Too bad she was already betrothed.

Tristan was aware of the commotion he'd probably created among his fellow brothers. He didn't mind; they could banter to their own death for all he cared. His decision to take Frances along puzzled him though. He only intended to ask her about Guinevere in the first place; he didn't trust that Woad woman. For a short moment, he felt the panic at not seeing Frances amongst the knight; he'd feared something had happened. His hand had lifted of its own accord, reaching for the little fairy as she appeared at the wagon's door. Just to ensure she was there, and safe.

For now, he was silent, his mind bollocking him for being so stupid. He couldn't possibly scout like this, she'd for sure make noises, or try to talk when stealth was needed. He despised the moment of fear that had short circuited rational mind. If something had happened, the knights would have been in disarray. And the lady was more than capable of fending for herself. Tristan felt like a fool, overwhelmed by feelings he didn't want to pry into. Behind him, Frances had noticed his tension. She adapted well to his horse's gait, and his own moves. Moulded behind him, providing a little warmth and, if he was true to himself, some comfort. Not unlike the strange sense of belonging that had washed over him as he slept beside her. Anyway. Mayhap she was used to travelling behind someone since she didn't master horse riding so well. The fact was … that it was quite pleasant not to be alone, for once.

The scout had to admit that she didn't engage him in conversation, nor impaired his senses as he observed the path ahead. Instead, he could feel her focus on the road, her hand ready to fling to her weapons. A shrill cry called his attention ahead, and Tristan slowed his horse to a canter to greet Lady Hawk on his arm. Frances gave the bird a little nudge from behind him, her presence discreet until she tapped his shoulder.

— "Something's burning," she mouthed quietly into his ear.

Tristan lifted his head, smelling the air. The fragrance of snow, and the icy wind greeted his senses. But then, a whiff of cinders passed in the breeze. Her sense of smell was certainly more acute than his. Sending Lady Hawk away, they sprang to a gallop until they found a village burnt to the ground. Tristan dismounted hastily, almost knocking Frances off balance. Damn! He'd nearly forgotten she was there; she had such a quiet presence. Before he could turn around though, she had dismounted on the other side, exploring the remains, sword in hand. Not a word passed between them, Tristan sending her a "be on your guard" look. She nodded, walking cautiously in the snow, silent as a wildcat, looking for survivors. There were none, the villagers slaughtered on the spot, huts burnt to the ground.

When they set off once more, he remarked that Frances clung a little tighter to his waist. Sometimes, her head even rested on his back when his warhorse slowed down. She didn't say a word, but he could feel the heaving of her chest, the shivering of her form. There was no sniffle, no sobs, yet Tristan knew she was crying. The knight put his hand over her arm to provide a little comfort, surprised at his own gesture; he was no tender man. To bear witness of mass murder and remain impassive was his curse, not hers; she felt too keenly to be a good warrior. At dealing hope, though, she was a master. And not so bad with a blade.

At last, Tristan turned his mount around, satisfied that they'd covered enough ground for now. As he relaxed in the saddle, Frances sat straighter behind him.

— "The Woad, what are her intentions?"

Frustration washed over Frances, feeling quite sheepish she had failed at understanding Guinevere motives.

— "I'm not sure yet, but I don't trust her."

Her own repulsion for the Pict left her dumbfounded, especially after the torture the poor woman had been through. Somehow, her empathy seemed quite broken, and the knight's voice lowered to a growl as stiffened in the saddle.

— "Sure of what?"

— "She's been harassing Arthur, and then Lancelot. As if she didn't know which one to ensnare. I don't understand what she aims to do once she has them though."

Her only answer was a few mumbled words and curses, some of them in Sarmatian.

— "Stupid knight, always womanising"

— "Yeah. Lancelot is quite prone to finish in the clutches of a lovely maiden."

At this, Tristan actually snorted.

— "Bah. She's plain as a goat."

Frances muffled a high-pitched laugh, her whole body shaking with mirth, arms tightening across his waist in an effort to keep steady. In front of her, the knight chuckled as well, happy that his heartfelt retort had extracted Frances from her sombre mood. It was a wonder how her joy, even if short-lived, lifted his spirits. The sound reminded him of a tinker bell, making his body hum in pleasure. He wouldn't tell her that he found her a thousand times more lovely than the woad bag of bones; it was a privilege her betrothed only should have, and he respected that.

— "Sing for me," he eventually said as his horse walked peacefully.

— "Your wish is my command," she sarcastically retorted. "I wouldn't want you to dub be a plain goat should I refuse,"

Tristan chuckled; he'd caught her meaning well enough.

— "Please"