Frances walked, lonely, her gaze lost into nothingness as the heavy blanket of snow soaked her walking boots. The atmosphere was tense, Saxons drums being carried by the wind. How she wanted revenge! Her mind couldn't get rid of the horrible sigh that had greeted her in the burnt village the day before. Men and women slaughtered mercilessly, left to die in a crimson pool as snow covered their bodies, some of them calcined by the blazing huts. One silhouette, in particular, has stabbed her through the heart in its stillness. It was a child, nary two years old, his cheeks marred with tears as he clung to his dead mother's arms. His blue eyes contemplated the endless sky, wide with terror, a shaggy wound piercing him through and through. The merciless embrace of death had been instantaneous; the only comfort Frances could find in this absurdity. Her arm was humming with dark energy, her core asking for revenge.

The next step she took nearly send her tumbling down, for below the snow laid a flat expense of ice. Before her, Arthur was asking people to spread around the smooth surface of the lake. Frances knelt, trying to assess the depth of the ice. 10 cm at least, maybe 20, but would that be enough to hold them? The young woman skidded to the commander, the ice gently cracking below her steps, but not giving way. Damn! This would have been so much easier with her skates! But she'd had enough knowledge of the ice to keep her balance, and breathed in relief as she reached her destination without tumbling all over the man.

— "Arthur!"

The Roman turned around, his features alarmed until he realised who had called him. As she skidded to a stop, his jaw unclenched. A sign of trust that baffled her.

— "Frances"

His curt nod greeted her and she eyed the lake warily, taking in the gentle slope on the other shore.

— "Stick to the sides! The heaviest must follow the shore, the ice is thickest there. Wagons and horses. Light people in the middle, so that they can be pulled out by the others if needed"

Arthur nodded his assent and relayed the command to his knights who organised the others in mere seconds. He didn't discuss it; in the rush, he simply chose to trust her judgment. Frances marvelled at the knights' efficiency albeit she wondered that no one had thought about it before. After all, it was just a bit of physics, a tad of phase diagram and notions of inertia. Nothing extraordinary if you had experienced it before.

Her gaze encountered the scout who was slowly making his way across the lake, the sudden groaning of the ice making horse and rider alike jolt in fear. For the first time, angst was marring his handsome features. Gawain, a few feet away, seemed ready to pass out such was the terror in his eyes. Obviously, the knights didn't feel at ease with water, which would explain why Tristan had not designed a strategy about it. If she recalled correctly, there were no lakes in Sarmatia, only a few rivers, and scarcely enough to determine where the tribes should settle. It was no wonder the knights feared frozen lakes, and rightfully so; they probably avoided them like the plague.

Frances skidded to Gawain, holding her hand out.

— "Let me lead your horse, I'm lighter than you are," she offered.

Gawain nodded, a gleam of relief shining in his blue eyes as he gave her the reins. Quite the gift, for no one but Jols and themselves usually tended to Sarmatian horses.

— "Do you want to walk beside me?"

The knight nodded vehemently; his voice stolen.

— "You stick to the shore side, all right Gawain?"

— "Yes, Lady Frances"

— "And shove the lady somewhere else."

The jab surprised him so much that he laughed, a nice recollection of the good-natured knight that he usually was. His shoulders dropped slightly, a little confidence regaining his posture.

— "Don't worry," added Frances. "The ice is thick, it should hold."

The conviction in her voice was hard pressed, at best, and Frances shared a look with Tristan. His features were carefully neutral, the gleam of fear carefully buried under the mask of indifference; he wasn't blind to her attempt at reassuring them. Closer to the cliffisde, the little caravan seemed to progress without issue, even if the giant noise of ice cracking echoed through the whole valley, sending shivers down her spine. It was an impressive growl, as if the mountain itself was trying to come down. It reminded her of the French Alps when a piece of glacier broke apart and fell into the lake in front of her eyes, the mighty crack reverberating through the entire valley. The grumble made the very earth tremble below their feet, and Frances swallowed nervously. A prayer was sent to the Valar, let them not allow the ice to claim their lives.

Behind them, the refugees were slowly starting their trek across the ice. Babies cried, elderly skidded and faces were afraid. Frances sighed. They needed help, and reassurance. This, she could provide, and it would give Tristan a sense of purpose to lead the people. As it was, she could nearly see his fists trembling. No amount of skill or planning could foresee the outcome of this crossing, and she realised why the scout was so tense. Victory or defeat was entirely out of his hands; there was no controlling it. The mountain decided if they should live or die. Period. And thus, each of Tristan's step was a test to the spirits of the water. Graceful, always, but tentative. By her side, Gawain was another affair, his heavier stomps unsure on the slippering surface.

— "Come. Let's stick to the other shore, the slope is less pronounced, the ice will be sturdier there. I'll go first, you follow, and so will they"

And thus, Frances retreated a few steps back to gather the people who had not started to cross yet, and created a path for others to follow close to the other shore. It would lessen the strain on the ice since the wagons were so heavy.

— "Keep ten feet between people, thirty between the wagons at least !", she cried out.

She heard Galahad trying to enforce her instructions further down the line; the dark haired knight was visibly more at ease on ice than his elder brothers. Gawain's horse, at first, seemed reluctant in her grasp. But he sent tongue clucks and reassuring noises as he followed her and the nervous animal eventually followed. Behind them, Tristan was whispering words of reassurance to his own mount. It was his way to keep his stoic façade, she gathered. Easier to reassure someone else than to delve on your own fear. She wondered once more how the others could think him heartless when his care for animals was so gentle. As she turned to Gawain, gesturing for him to follow, a small smile rewarded him.

Step after step, the warhorse set his hooves down with care, creating a little clap clop that echoed on the ice. Frances tried to keep her steps even, her feet skidding slowly in front of the beast, eyes fixed on the ice to spot any crack of rock that could fragilise it. Fortunately, the thickness seemed enough to sustain their combined weight.

And then, the constant boom of war drums echoed in the valley. Frances's steps faltered slightly, so did Gawain's. Her head lifted to find Arthur a mere fifty feet away; he was standing tall surrounded by Lancelot, Bors and Dagonet, curly hair damp with snow. The scene shifted before her eyes. Everything blurred, the snowflakes falling before her face, the wind whipping at her hair, the immaculate landscape before her. All in black and white, as Dagonet fell into the lake, two bolts piercing his body as his axe shattered the ice. Frances' heart stuttered, her breath short. Her free arm extended in a silent plea, the scream stuck in her chest, dread crushing her heart. Boom, boom, boom, called the drums as he disappeared in the icy grip of the frozen surface.

Tristan skidded into view, seizing her arms harshly to halt his hurried dash, nearly sending them toppling over. His braids whipped at her face such was his closeness, his worried gaze appearing before her.

— "What is it?" he asked, straightening himself.

Frances startled, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest as she tried to see behind his shoulder. The caravan was progressing neatly, the ice intact. No glimpse of Dagonet into the lake; the tall knight stood proudly on the other side. The young woman noticed Tristan, realising that the warmth she felt on her shoulder were his hands holding fast. Her gaze was haunted, quite absent. His worry only intensified as she uttered shakily.

— "I don't know"

For a moment, he searched her face as she composed herself. Behind them, Gawain was slowly closing the distance.

— "Anything wrong?" he called worriedly.

— "I'm OK," she said.

Tristan frowned, his eyes flickering between his fellow knight and her face.

— "OK?"

The word felt weird under his silky tongue. Once more, he didn't understand her. The young woman shook her head, as if to get rid of a veil plaguing her sight. The mask slipped into place, so similar to his, and warmth returned to her hazel eyes. Then, determination set in. Frances was back, and she turned aside to acknowledge Gawain.

— "It's all right. I thought I saw something, but it was just my imagination playing tricks. Let us go ahead. Those blasted drums make me feel like killing somebody. A drum player, most of all"

The blond knight scoffed beside them.

— "Be a pleasure to put an end to this racket."

Tristan smiled despite himself, but not without sending a suspicious look to the young woman. Yet, he kept his mouth shut. Frances was hiding something, but if she didn't want to talk about it, he would not pry. This was how far his trust had gone in the short extend of their acquaintance; he accepted her secrets whereas he would have extracted them forcefully just a week before. No doubt she was still trying to come to terms with the village they'd found yesterday. It had been a gruesome sight for a young lady, even one such as she. Especially one such as she. Gawain, for one, seemed quite oblivious about what had just transpired. Sweet Gawain, nearly as naïve as Galahad! He was as sturdy of heart as he was of mind, being able to kill for fifteen years and still keep his inner self unplagued. As if the golden knight feared nothing… Tristan smirked. Nothing except for the water spirits; this frozen lake sent him trembling in his boots.

At last, the crossing of this blasted lake was completed, and Tristan sighed in relief when his feet did not hover over water anymore. There, they'd all decided to make their stand. There they would die an honourable death. Nine of them against two hundred Saxons at least, that would be a battle to remember. But what could they do? Arthur had known all along that his decision to take refugees could lead them to this confrontation. Yet, the pride that shone in his green eyes as the knights aligned themselves was a sight he'd never forget. If he was to die today, Tristan was happy that it made his commander proud. They'd never been close, Arthur and he. No one had ever been close to him, not since his cousin had died more than ten years ago. But he knew the commander respected him, and he, in turn, admired Arthur.

His only regret was the presence of Frances amongst their ranks. Guinevere, he didn't care, especially now that she was garbed as a Roman. But Frances, damn! She deserved to find her betrothed, she deserved a better life than this. A better death. But she wouldn't be deterred, hence his words as he came to her.

— "Stay close," he asked her.

No, he commanded her.

Frances gave him a genuine smile but fled to place herself between Galahad and Gawain. The youngest knights started at her presence, and welcomed her with heavy hearts, but a spark of hope in their eyes. The scout frowned, anger flooding his body. Of all times, she'd chosen this one to disobey! Never before had she disobeyed his command! Nor a request, now that he thought of it. She sang for him, reported to him, and shared her thoughts whenever he asked. They were running out of time, and that blasted woman would get herself killed! Suit herself. With the odds, there was no way he could protect her anyway, he'd have enough work slaughtering Saxons before he succumbed to the grip of death. There'd always be time for a good scolding in the afterlife!

A last, the Saxons appeared on the other side of the lake. A band of ruthless warriors, even shaggier that he was after fifteen days on the saddle. A bald man, about his age, seemed to lead them. His braided beard, a blond goatee, hung from his chin ridiculously. There was a man he'd enjoy killing. One of their archers lifted his bow, and even from afar the familial twang echoed against the cliffs. The Saxon's arrow pathetically skidded on the ice, landing a hundred feet from them at least. Arthur stole a glance at him, dark humour in his voice as he commanded:

— "l believe they're waiting for an invitation. Bors, Tristan"

Smirking at Guinevere's comment that they were out of range, Tristan knocked three arrows, and drew his bow as far as he could before releasing. Four Saxons fell, pressing the leader to march on. A fatal mistake. At once, all knights started to fire at will, following Arthur's clever idea to make them cluster. He didn't know if Frances's arrows embedded themselves as precisely as Galahad and Gawain's had, but he knew her bow sang alongside theirs. Her elbows showed up now and then on the other side of their line. Surprisingly, Guinevere's shots seemed quite accurate as well. The Saxons panicked, but still marched on. And that blasted ice refused to break, when it had been ready to swallow them whole but moments before! Damn the Saxon gods watching over them! They were, evidently more powerful than Arthur's. There was a hint of urgency in his commander's voice as he realised it himself.

— "lt's not gonna break. Back. Fall back! Prepare for combat."

Tristan unsheathed his word in a graceful arc, dark emotions swirling about him. The need for blood, the thirst of revenge, and, for the first time in years, a little uncertainty. He wished the little fairy didn't have to die this way, even if she'd been too cheeky to leave his side. A quick glance at Arthur told him his commander followed the same line of mind, albeit he was worried for two of the ladies. Tristan didn't care for the Woad. She was a manipulative bitch that could take a dive in the lake if she so wished it. But Frances, damn! He wouldn't let any man defile her; he'd kill her himself before they touched her. He chanced a quick peek aside to see how she fared; hopefully, they'd be able to share a final glance before chaos unleashed its wrath. Somehow, she always seemed to know when his eyes rested upon her. But not this once.

Tristan couldn't help the disappointed pang that ran through his heart. No goodbye. So be it. Frances' mind was elsewhere, her head turned around to check on Dagonet. He found it odd that her attention didn't move from the tall knight. He knew she got along well with him, but not once did her head turn to himself. And then, Dagonet picked up his axe with a yell, and sprang forward like a demon. At once, Frances had plunged to get Gawain's shield, and ran after him, her sword still in the scabbard. Weird; she had not even unsheathed it in the first place. Tristan's heart leapt into his throat, sweat running down his spine as he took an involuntary step forward. Had he been a more expressive man, he would have yelled his frustration at the top of his lungs. Being the silent scout, he only sent to hell the wave of angst that washed through his body. Yet, his hands were trembling in fear. They were running to their death! She was…

— "Dag!" echoed Bors's desperate yell.

— "Cover them"

Arthur's voice called him back to reality, and Tristan rushed to his bow. He'd be more efficient with his mind clear, picking the Saxons who aimed their crossbow at his friends. Before him, the young woman preceded Dagonet now, and skidded to a halt a few feet in front of him to provide cover. There she took her stand, alone against a Saxon army, crouching behind the shield in a protective stance. An impressive sight, if she had not been about to be slaughtered.

— "Get back, you mad woman !", yelled Dagonet as he lifted his axe.

She didn't seem to bother responding as the axe fell on the ice with a mighty blow, Dagonet displaying his full power as he pounded the lake's surface with battle cries. Gone was the gentle giant, replaced with the unstoppable warrior. A few bolts deflected on the diminutive shield, leaving Frances' legs exposed. Yet, she did not back down, keeping her stance to protect the much larger frame of Dagonet. Their bows were singing relentlessly, taking out Saxon after Saxon as they attempted to cripple the giant knight. But he was well protected.

A startled cry escaped her lips and Frances stumbled on her knee, lifting the shield upwards. Something was wrong with her leg! Tristan snarled as his fellow knights gasped, knocking several arrows, viciously piercing through the Saxons that had dared attacking her. And then came the last blow of Dagonet's axe, effectively shattering the ice in a mighty crack that propagated at a tremendous speed.

— "The ice is breaking!" called a voice in Latin from the other shore.

A traitor. Bloody traitor! Tristan swore that he would get the man and make him pay, his hands tightening on the bow. And then, the unthinkable happened as the lake collapsed. Frances slid soundlessly across the ice, disappearing into its dark waters. Arthur sprang forward, running at full speed, and it was all Tristan could do to continue firing. His feet itched to join him, his heart leaping in his throat, his mind reeling with terror. But they needed his accuracy to cover them, else nor Dagonet nor Arthur would stand a chance. Frances was lost … lost in the depths of an icy lake, saving his brother from a dire fate. The pain was crippling, so unexpected that his arrow missed, hitting legs instead of a chest. Tristan huffed, and continued firing, his heart bleeding, his breath short.

Arthur was kneeling now, pulling at Dagonet's legs like a madman, his own shield propped up to protect his head. His commander managed to drag the bigger knight on the ice, and with him, came a slender form with soaked reddish hair, her wrist safely enclosed in Dagonet's right hand. Lancelot yelled to fall back, and Tristan refrained from slapping him hard. What did he think they were doing, having tea? His arrows flew, lethal, embedding themselves without failing into sweet flesh, dealing death without mercy. Maybe all hope wasn't lost then. Soon enough, all the Saxon archers had plunged into the icy tendrils of the lake. They were out of danger, but the leader was unharmed. Tristan sent him a hard look, carving his face into memory. Payback would be sweet. Dagonet was now standing, limping slightly, his upper body drenched. In Arthur's arms rested Frances, unmoving, her form limp and so diminutive in his commander's embrace that he wondered if she was already dead.