So there we go, Bors' point of view over the recent events. I hope you enjoy taking a little peek into his mind, I had a lot of fun writing it. This chapter is short... Bors is a not a man of many words :p

Weary, but proud, Bors rode silently beside the wagon who held Dagonet and the young lady who had saved his life. For there was no doubt in his mind, not even one. If the lass had not sprung forward like a devil out of a box, Dagonet would be a pincushion feeding the sodding fishes that resisted this bloody winter icin'!

But his cousin was alive, resting from his dive into the lake, his eyes half closed as he watched over the little lady. A crazy one, this kid. As quick on her feet as with her wit. Bors berated himself for not reacting when Dagonet ran to his certain death, intend on sacrificing himself to get them all to safety. That idiot! What a low blow to his pride that this mere slip of a girl had protected Dagonet in his place. She had sunk under the ice without a wave, and had more trouble recovering from the cold than Dag. Her lips were now a healthier shade of rose because they had buried her under a mountain of blankets. If she was strong enough, she would survive.

And to protect her, Bors had just found the thing she needed in his saddlebag. When she had emerged from the lake, he was sure that evil spirits had got to her. She had been rambling, inconsistent, speaking of 'fisic' or whatever. Nowhere near those educated nonsense lessons Arthur sometimes told them, or the old preceptors had bored him to death with – in his youth. No. It was more … like her mind was leaking through her ears. A water spirit, angry that it couldn't keep her in its clutches after she had deprived him of Dagonet's life.

But the amulet should do its job, right? Brushing his thumb over the carved piece of reddish wood, Bors debated whether it could help her or not. The fish and waves had been carved by a weird elder from a nearby village – possibly a shaman. A present from a family he had saved a long time ago meaning to bring good luck when fishing; Bors had not refused although he avoided rivers and lakes like the plague. He didn't know how to swim. His tribe had lived more than four hundred leagues from the seashore. Or so Arthur said. He had never been able to wrap his head around maps anyway.

The little lady needed it more than he did. Perhaps she could go fishing afterwards … with the bloody scout!

Bors dismounted gracefully – his sheer bulk hiding powerful muscles – into the wagon. Dagonet lifted his glazed eyes in interrogation and he waved the amulet before his eyes. His giant cousin only nodded before he retreated into his less than peaceful slumber. Of all of them, Dag less inclined to believe in old wives' tales and magic. But at the moment, it seemed he couldn't care less. Bors knelt before the young woman. Was she sleeping, or unconscious? Sweat trickled around her temple, her reddish hair a mess of plastered strands, dark circles under her eyes that contrasted with her pale face. The battle of her mind against the evil spirit.

Bors gently touched her head; she didn't react.

— "There, there, littl' un, I got something that'll help ya"

A pair of piercing eyes landed on him, a gaze so intense it could have stopped the faintest of hearts. Tristan watched him, daring him to make a wrong move. Bors almost snorted at the challenge; his hands only wandered around Vanora's body. He could be a dirty pig, but he loved his woman and would never touch another. And even if Frances was a redhead, she was a child. No one was worth his 'nora. Her hips widened by their children, her bosom … mmm. He couldn't wait to get into her bed again.

Glaring right back at the scout, Bors passed the leather cord of the amulet around the kid's head, letting the carved wood rest on her blanketed chest. He tapped it gently, mumbling a 'there, there'. As he mounted again, Bors caught Arthur's curious eye. By now, he knew the commander would not frown upon his pagan faith; no matter his Christian beliefs, Arthur believed in genuine care above all else.

— "To chase the evil spirits," he grumbled, ignoring Lancelot's smirk.

Arthur nodded, the lines of his face weary. They were all spent to the bone with this bloody mission. But it could have been worse, and thanks to the kid, Dagonet was still alive to receive his papers from the tight-assed Roman. Bors smiled. He couldn't wait to get drunk and take a tumble with Vanora! Smiling widely, he spurred his horse to a canter and passed the scout, sending him a grin.

Tristan's mask didn't falter, yet his eyes burned under the disarrayed stands of his tousled hair. Bors felt his gaze boring holes in his back a mile away. What was it with the bloody scout? Had his hand nipped by the blasted bird of his? Where was it anyway? Lifting his eyes to the sky, the knight could barely distinguish the faint black dot that circled them from above. No matter his feelings on the matter, he had to admit that the Hawk was a faithful one. And she liked the little lady too, just like its master. How Frances had managed to defrost the stern scout… Bors had no clue. The truth was that Tristan seemed to take her protection very seriously, as well as her virtue. Perhaps she reminded him of a little sister…

Bors smirked, remembering Tristan's sneer to his earlier taunting. The scout wasn't too easy to rile up, usually keeping a straight face for insults that would send Galahad into a duel … or a pissing contest. But this morning, he had managed to nip at the scout's façade… Teasing about women usually did the trick; he had a proud streak, their wild Tristan!

The little lady's lips were blue. Poor kid, taking a dive in the lake. Bors shuddered. Better she than him but still … she had saved Dagonet's life so he should show a little more respect. Wrapped in Arthur's cloak like a bundle, she slumbered against the scout. At the beginning, she mumbled things in a language he didn't know. Not that he knew many. Latin, good enough. Sarmatian, and a little Briton, just enough to get served in the tavern and treat Vanora properly. Bors wasn't one for languages and scholarship and all that shit. He was a man of action, and damn, he had seen some the previous day!

The little lady didn't move now, but her lips were still blue. Did Tristan bring enough body warmth to make her better? Perhaps he should take her instead; he was far meatier than the scout after all. It was the least he could do after she had saved Dagonet's life.

— "I can take her," he told Tristan, holding his hand out.

The scout glared at him as if he'd grown two heads, his hand tightening around the young lady.

— "She needs someone bigger to make her warm. You ain't eating that much."

Somewhere I front of them, Gawain swallowed a laugh, his shoulders shaking. Poke a cave bear in the ribs and see if he retaliates. Bors nearly sniggered when Tristan only grunted a no; he had called the scout 'small' and told him he was badly suited to make a lady warm. The greatest of attacks on one's virility. Any other knight would have punched him now, but Tristan only stared ahead.

— "Is she even alive?" He asked

This time, Tristan's head snapped to him, his glare so murderous that Bors' horse sidestepped to shake the tension away. The knight lifted his hands in surrender.

— "How d'ya even know, uh?"

The scout's smooth voice was as even as usual when he said:

— "Her heart beats."

Incredulous, Bors laughed, his eyes travelling across the bundle of red fabric where only a head emerged … and boots, further down. He could clearly see Tristan's left fingers on the reins.

— "Where's your other hand, uh?"

The scout growled this time, the sound so alike a mewling wildcat before it decided to attack.

— "If you don't shut up, I'll emasculate you before we reach the fort."

Tristan's voice didn't rise over his usual tone, but the threat was there. Hanging between them like a sword of … bugger, he couldn't remember the name. Bors shook his head in mock dismay, such great words. Nor Gawain not Lancelot were around to have a go at the scout. Too bad, they would have enjoyed it; it was not so often Tristan took the bait.

— "Vanora will have your head."

Dark eyes found his, partially hidden behind a warrior's braid.

— "I'm not afraid of her. Unlike some"

Ouch. This insult touched close to home … he wasn't afraid of his little flower, no. But sometimes … sometimes Vanora was downright scary, and better take cover rather than face her. Bors shrugged. Well, the scout was itchy. As bone-weary than any of them, his ass probably hurting from days in the saddle. But they would get their freedom, they were all alive and ready to get drunk to death, and he couldn't wait to recount the tale to his brothers and the little lady at the tavern. If she survived.

Bors did a double take at the pale face engulfed in the great crimson cape, her body held tight against the scout's. From the looks of it, she didn't seem too peachy. Perhaps she wasn't strong enough after all; her wrists were so tiny. Would they bury her in the little cemetery? Nah. She was a kid, kids had plenty of energy to spare. His littl' ones sometimes burned up with fevers, and they always pulled through and ran about as if it was nothing. Unless she was battling evil spirits…

— "Tristan?"

This time, the scout didn't even bother responding, a huff his only indication that he had heard him. His muscles were probably getting stiff from holding her up on the saddle. Stubborn fool, stranded beside him until they reached the wagons, or he couldn't hold her anymore an admitted defeat. What pride could bring a man to do!

— "That ramblings she was saying, d'ya think she was grabbed by a spirit of the lake? D'ya think we should…?"

— "What?"

Damn, he really was pissed. Better to say it.

— "I have this talisman villagers gave me, for protection. I can give it to her."

Tristan seemed to reflect, his long unkempt hair shielding his eyes from view. The tattoos upon his cheekbones marked him with their tribes' beliefs. Out of them all, he was the most attuned to nature – its beasts and its spirits. Son of a shaman, they said he was. Not that he spoke of his parents anyway. Surprisingly, Tristan nodded and Bors released the breath he had not realised he was holding. Damn, aside from Vanora, the scout really could instil terror in a man. He had this weird presence that told him that, yes, he probably had some connection with the spirit world.

— "It's with my stuff, in the wagon. I'll get it when you put her down."

— "Aye."

Happy that they had come to an understanding, Bors' eyes roamed the little lady and her knight in shining armour.

— "So … how much clothing does she have left under that cloak?

The glare that Tristan sent him would have sent the Saxon cower at their mother's feet. Laughing, Bors scurried away from the fearsome scout.