Hey ! So this chapter is reviewed at last, hence a tad longer. To all the newcomers to this story, please take the time to leave some comments and reviews. Even if you feel like this story had not been updated for a while, and it is an old stuff. It never is. A story is always alive in an author's mind, and we always want to know what you like and don't like when you read. So don't be shy ! About 6000 people have read this story since it was started, and see the number of reviews ?

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The next time she awoke, Frances found a weird necklace resting on her chest, some kind of figure carved out of dark wood. To fend off evil spirits, had explained the Pict lady, a token from the knights who were quite superstitious. Her ramblings while feverish must have worried them. The pounding of her head indicated that she needed rest, but she didn't feel the annoying warm and cold waves of the previous day. The stitches of her leg, though, stung like bitch. If she didn't find anyone to cauterise it, she'd just have to remove them herself. Dagonet would not be pleased but hey, he owed her big time. As she owed him for pulling her out of the water.

Eventually, the wall was sighted. Cheers and cries erupted from the refugees and Frances desired to withhold Hadrian's rampart from the north. Tightening her elvish cloak, she emerged from the wagon only to be loaded like a sack of potatoes behind Gawain. The stiches pulled and she winced, but the view was worth it; the was simply was impressive from this side.

— "An impressive sight, isn't it?"

— "Quite"

Beside them, Galahad snorted in disdain.

— "Yes. The best of jails"

— "And from tonight, a prison no more," stated Frances.

The steady voice of Gawain grumbled before her.

— "Who knows what the Bishop will pull out of his sleeve? I'll believe it when I hold the discharge papers in my hands."

She had to give him that; Gawain wasn't one to make pies in the sky. He was a down to earth person; a very valuable quality when you needed to survive fifteen years in the middle of a war.

— "I think Arthur will kill him if he doesn't surrender those blasted papers. "

Galahad sent her a pointed look, his clear eyes loaded with fury.

— "If he doesn't, I will."

— "I might help you with that. I absolutely loathe this toad head."

Both Galahad and Gawain sniggered at the nickname until a piercing cry called their eyes to the sky. Lady Hawk joined her master before the gates and Tristan, as was his wont, was the first to pass the huge doors. A large patch of deserted land greeted them before they engulfed below a second gate that led to the fort. The refugees dispersed in the streets with Ganis, while the knights took their mounts to the stables. Frances was relieved to penetrate in a rather quiet area; she hated the crowds nearly as much as enclosed spaces. Agoraphobia and claustrophobia, two of her faithful friends. The sight that greeted her, however, did nothing to lighten her mood. The Bishop stood there, all fake smiles and teeth, welcoming them as if he'd fought his way through an army of Saxons. "Enfoiré", she mumbled as Gawain lend a hand to help her dismount. The stitches of her thigh stung from the move, and she sighed dejectedly. She was quite accustomed to this very specific pain[1], the one of riding with a slice in her left thigh. Damn those Saxons! Damn the Orcs who had done it the very first time! The same spot anew, and damn her for having to ride afterwards! Granted, she could have stayed in the wagon. Her own logic didn't lift her mood as the Bishop came close.

Then he was blocked from view by a very familiar silhouette. A mane of shaggy hair, a tall stature, lean muscles hidden behind a leather cuirass. Tristan said nothing as he stepped in front of her protectively; Frances didn't need him to. His manner was so casual, but she knew he could turn lethal in less time it took to blink. Anywhere he went, the knight always observed his surroundings, the scout never rested, to ensure the protection of his fellow knights. She wondered if his companions had realised it, that even in places where it was supposed to be safe, like in the tavern, Tristan sat in a corner where he could surveil the area. And now that she was a lady knight, he protected her from the Roman's leery gaze. Was he even conscious of the fact?

The Bishop uninterrupted flow of words kept hurting her ears, his false contempt at granting their freedom making her blood boil. She wondered; had Dagonet perished at the lake if Bors would have killed the horrid man. And to be perfectly honest, she quite didn't give a damn. At last, the sickening character went to pester Alecto, and Frances considered it as her cue to leave. Tristan's hand landed on her arm, tugging at her sleeve to escort her to her room. Protection, once more, for a wounded comrade.

— "What a charming demon," she eventually stated once out of hearing.

Tristan's mouth quirked upwards in this private smile she now recognised, the line of his full lips hidden in the strands of his beard.

— "He will be gone soon," came his smooth reply.

Frances stopped in the corridor, stomping her foot like a child, and wincing because of the stitches embedded in her thigh.

— "Good riddance. Although I feel bad for Alecto."

— "The boy ?"

There was genuine surprise in Tristan's voice.

— "Yes. The kid looks … normal."

The scout raised his eyebrows, their faint lines lost in the shaggy fringes of his hair. He didn't need to ask her to explain as she caught his meaning. Such an incredible feat, how his silences meant a thousand different things. Two lines of white hair at the corner of his jaw gave his unkempt beard a fearsome appearance, but she knew better now. Behind the warrior, a passionate nature yearned to break free.

— "I mean. Compared to that old manipulative dog of a bishop, the boy seemed untainted somehow. And this whole mascarade of getting a family precious to the Pope can only be a lie"

Frances" word struck a chord in the scout; he neither had swallowed the easy lie they'd been fed, but politics were not his forte.

— "Explain"

— "If the Pope loved this godson so much, he wouldn't have left him into this hellhole, in enemy territory for so long. He would have kept him at hand, a fresh mind available for corruption. I can only surmise that Alecto was placed there to be away from the influence of Rome."

— "You think they fled?"

The young woman shook her head.

— "Cast out by peers. That would be the Roman's way"

And then, she started a poor imitation of the Bishop's sickly manners and falsetto.

— "I'll give you some territory, my dear friend, you'll see. Close to the sea, vivid weather, untouched mountains, paradise for you to settle"

Tristan nodded, slightly amused at the irony of her mimicked dialogue. It would certainly explain Marius' bitterness, and the revenge he exacted from pagans.

— "The fact that Bishop Germanus came in person to get him … well. It's like a game of power again. If the Bishop can gain influence over Alecto, and push him in the right direction, it would give him leverage against whomever he is struggling against. Pope, senator, whomever SPQR that has its hands in the apparatus of power."

— "The same people who cast the family in the north of Briton," he finished for her, seeing that she was rambling again.

Frances's shoulders were so tense that he wondered how she could breathe. Her explanation made sense, even if they had no proof of it. There probably was some underlying Roman conspiracy going on in the background, one he didn't care much about. Arthur, though, might still be affected by it and he surmised he would talk to him at some point. As they resumed their walking, Frances's shoulder sagged slightly, the limp becoming more obvious as her whole body relaxed. Tristan shuddered at the memory of the bolt that had embedded itself in her thigh; crazy woman, it was a wonder she wasn't dead. Oblivious to his musings, Frances was, once more, voicing her opinion rather forcefully.

— "Anyway. He's gone, and as long as I don't have to breathe the same air, he can go all the way to hell and back for all I care"

Tristan considered her tense jaw and angry gaze before his voiced his question.

— "Who so much hate?"

She sent him a look of disbelief.

— "He almost had all of you killed. Isn't that enough?"

— "Many people tried to kill me… I don't let it bother me"

What kind of an answer was that ? The young lady threw her hands in the air, exasperated by Tristan's thick skull.

— "That doesn't make it all right, you know!"

Forcing the air of aloofness on his face, the knight bluntly stated the truth. His truth.

— "You've known us for less than fifteen days."

Her features softened, and she sent him a fond look.

— "I love both fiercely and easily, provided there is cause to. And once my affection is won, I protect the ones I care about. The Bishop was a threat to the knights."

Her words were like a punch in the gut, loaded with so many layers of implications that he wasn't sure he caught them all. She loved them. All of them! It was truly a wonder, how different they both were, yet so alike at the same time. He, for one, didn't love easily. Could he love, really ? But he protected those to whom he extended his care as fiercely as she did. At last, they came to Bors' room, and Tristan lingered a second in the doorway.

— "You know your way to the bath area, I suppose."

— "Yes, Sir"

Her eager tone made his eyes sparkle. Women and their washing!

— "One of us will escort you to the tavern for dinner. Don't roam the fort on your own, it is dangerous."

Frances frowned, annoyed that she wouldn't be able to wander alone.

— "Think I can't defend myself?" she challenged.

The knight sent her an unreadable look.

— "This place is very different from your home, Frances. Forget it and you'll die"

Miffed by his tone, she sent him a glare.

— "I'll bow to your wisdom, dearest knight."

Tristan snorted, disappearing down the hall, his steps so wide that most people would run to keep in stride. Frances closed the door, and crashed in bed for a few hours of restful sleep.

Purposeful knocks woke her up, and Frances nearly fell out of bed as she leapt forward, dagger in hand. Gods! Wasn't she antsy.

— "Who's there?" she asked.

— "Dagonet. I merely wished to have a look at your wound."

Frances hobbled to the door, her muscles stiff, and pulled the lock away with a clang. As the knight entered, he took in her disheveled appearance.

— "Did I wake you?"

— "You might have, yes."

His eyes roamed the upturned bed, finding the dagger in the midst of the sheets.

— "And you always sleep with a dagger under your pillow?"

— "When not at home, yes"

The older knight chuckled.

— "Tristan would be proud of you, but there's no need for such drastic measures. In the fort, there's no one but us."

Frances closed the door behind the knight, and added in a quiet voice.

— "No offence, Dagonet, but there's also that blasted Bishop, and he is one I cannot trust."

The knight nodded once. Considering she was a woman, it made sense to protect oneself from such men. Dragging her to the infirmary, the knight had the healer check on her stitches, and change the bandages before he led her to the bath room. There, he guarded the door, her mindful comments in mind, until she finished. It didn't take as long as he expected; she was a woman, after all, and injured. And the insane length of her hair should probably need ages to wash. When she emerged, however, the knight stifled a good-natured laugh. Once again clad in a man's garb, she had secured her wet hair into some sort of twisted bun. The circle under her eyes, though, seemed diminished, and her gait easier. Hot water could work miracles after a warrior's journey.

— "Yes, I know. No dress for Lancelot's sore eyes. Poor lamb"

— "I'm sure he will find plenty of amusement to console him."

— "Of this I have no doubt."

They made their way to the tavern, Dagonet descending the paved street slowly to match Frances' steps. Sometimes, she muttered curses under her breath, irked at being such a burden.

— "Do not worry, it will only take a fortnight before you are fully healed," he told her.

— "We don't have a fortnight, Dagonet. In three to four days at best, those Saxons will be upon us."

— "And we will be gone."

Frances bit her lips. She had no idea what came next, and since the necklace had not decided to send her home yet, it meant she still had a role to play.

— "I hope so fervently. But if not, I cannot fight with stitches. Still don't want to cauterise it for me?"

The tall knight sent her a worried glance.

— "No. And none of us will do it. The scar would be horrendous. And the pain … it would keep you from fighting as well. It is too late now."

— "Damn, you're right. I'll just have to rip them if needed. Yay!"

Her false enthusiasm sent a shiver down his spine, and Dagonet wondered what kind of woman would willingly inflict upon herself a horrible scar. He owed her his life, and wasn't about to complain on her weirdness. When you spent fifteen years fighting aside a man like Tristan, nothing seemed so weird anymore. Speaking of which, she was observing him, not unlike the scout used to do. As he caught her staring, she blushed prettily. So there was a girl hidden below the warrior after all!

— "So what does the ring mean?" she asked.

— "It is a family heirloom, my father gave it to me when I left. I had to wear it on a chain for years before it fit."

— "I gather your father was not a scrawny man."

At this Dagonet actually laughed.

— "I'm the smallest in the family."

— "Right. Good luck when you find a woman, that's going to be the hell of a family-in-law."

Her words made him pause. Now that he was free, he could consider taking a wife and having a family of his own. A whole world of opportunities had just opened up, and the woman by her side was the one who'd rendered it possible. If not for her, he'd be lying in a wagon, awaiting his burial in the cemetery where most of his brothers rested already.

— "Thank you," he said eventually, his eyes boring into hers. "Thank you for making this possible."

— "Thank you for dragging me out of the water, it was freaking cold down there!"

The knight didn't answer, slinging his arm over her slender frame in a gesture of companionship. Frances couldn't help but beam. The warmth of his embrace affected her greatly, and she was happy she'd managed to save him. Thank the Valar, she mouthed, for the vision. They were the last to arrive at the knight's tables, and a hot bowl of steaming stew awaited them. Lancelot's eyebrow lifted in annoyance at seeing that once more, another of his brothers had managed to approach Frances while she still shunned him. The others only turned surprised stares to them – Dagonet was usually a quiet man whose affections were not displayed in public – or, in the case of Tristan, an indifferent mask.

— "Had a nice evening?" Lancelot called to them as Dagonet settled in his seat.

— "Dagonet accompanied me to the bath house," she stated with a smirk.

Galahad gasped while Gawain laughed. But Lancelot… Lancelot's eyebrows had hit his hairline at Frances' bold implication. Her eyes were shining with mirth, challenging him anew.

— "Aaaw, is that true?"

The tall knight only nodded, frustrating Lancelot even more as he refused to take the bait. The dark haired womaniser then turned to Frances.

— "Come and sit by me, lovely lady," he coaxed gently.

But Tristan would have none of it, irked by Lancelot's remarks. In a swift move, he took hold of Frances's wrist and dragged her down beside him, the command irresistible.

— "Your bowl is here," he simply said, getting back to slicing his apple.

— "Thank you," came her soft words.

Tristan spared her a glance, showing her the bread to dunk in the stew.

— "Eat while it is warm."

— "Sir, yes sir!" she retorted playfully.

His lips didn't move, too busy munching on the slice of apple he'd just popped into his mouth. But his eyes held this slight twinkle of amusement, their corner scarcely shrinking, the wrinkles a little more pronounced. The evening was merry, the knight more intoxicated than ever. The stew has disappeared in Frances' belly in less time than it took to tell a story while Gawain, Galahad and Tristan had started a new competition of dagger throwing. The scout's eyes, though, were always moving around the place. If she followed, she could see the people he checked discreetly. A woman here, a peasant there, a drunk Roman eyeing them a with a little insistence. Even in the tavern, there was no peace for the wicked.

As she sat contentedly, Frances was suddenly assaulted by Vanora. The redhead fury launched herself on her, crushing her in a tight hug.

— "Thank you, thank you, thank you for saving Dagonet, lady knight. My Bors would have been sinister. He's like a brother to us"

Frances hugged Vanora back, surprised by the woman's tight grip upon her shoulders. How good it felt to be held by another woman, especially once as radiant and intense than Vanora. At last, the waitress let go and Frances smiled, slightly dazed.

— "As I told Dagonet, he saved mine, so we're even."

Vanora nodded, and dragged her to the bar when she started to recount many a tale about Arthur and his knights, most of them revolving around Bors and his antics. She came and went, speaking as she cleaned, never losing track of her story even if she served five rounds of tables. Frances laughed a lot, keeping her eyes on the knights who had dispersed in the tavern. Bors handled some of his youngest, under Vanora's tutelage, while Lancelot's lap was kept entertained by a wench. Galahad was now quite drunk, and Tristan had forcefully shoved him back onto the bench, and removed all pointy objects from the vicinity while the youngest knight pouted at him like a child to his father. Dagonet was watching the proceedings, hardly affected by the ale he kept drinking, his lips twitching whenever Gawain got pissed at Tristan for gutting his knives ass. Vanora's voice fluttered around Frances like a butterfly as it came and went.

— "Tomorrow, we'll celebrate their freedom. I'll do your hair, and lend you a dress, right?"

It didn't feel so necessary, but Vanora didn't seem the type of woman to whom you could say no. As she disappeared in the backroom once more, a hand landed on her backside. Goosebumps shot through her back as Frances whirled around; her dagger held out. A drunk man, about six feet tall, was leering at her suggestively. Dread filled her at once; if she was used to full-scale battles, she never responded well to sexual harassment.

— "Shnt y'a say no to d'dress, beautiful."

— "Your sentence is a grammatical disaster," she deadpanned.

Unfazed by her poised attitude and the dagger pointing at his throat, the guy slurred suggestively.

— "Don't matter, you wanna warm me bed, aye?" he added, bending closer to steal a kiss.

Was the guy absolutely suicidal? Hadn't he seen the company she kept? Smirking, Frances found hilarious to quote the fifth element.

— "Seno acta gamat"[2], she said, her dagger held in front of his nose.

The guy leered at her blade warily, obviously trying to charm her, and failing miserably.

— "Watdat language, wench?"

— "That means 'I'm not interested in tiny ones'. Now get out of my way before I serve your balls for dinner."

Gawain, who'd witnessed the whole altercation, was now roaring with laughter. He wasn't the only one. Vexed by her harsh retort, the man chose to attack instead of retreating nicely. He was so drunk that Frances sidestepped him, using a swift aikido move, easily sending him crashing to the floor. As soon as her attacker was on his feet, Dagonet had him in a choke hold. Frances frowned, uneasy about such violence, but the knight glanced at someone behind her. Turning around, Frances barely saw the knife disappearing in Tristan's sleeve before Dagonet's voice scolded the drunk. Panicking, she glared at the scout before returning her attention to the altercation.

— "Apologise to the lady knight," he grumbled.

A few contrite words escaped the poor man, and Frances nodded her assent to Dagonet before he was shoved back to the floor.

— "Get lost," punctuated Gawain with a mighty snarl.

The man scrambled to his feet and disappeared, leaving a very upset lady at the bar. Frances' legs felt like jelly, and she sent a grateful nod to Dagonet before sitting in her initial spot. Very soon, a brooding scout joined her. None of the knights asked her if she was all right; nothing had happened after all, except this hand on her butt. Of course, she should be all right. But fact was that … she wasn't.

She'd seen battlefields, and gone to war. But this everyday violence people were submitted to, she couldn't cope. Wenches had gone back to seducing; it was nothing more than a slight altercation to them. Not even a stabbing, or the ghost of a wound, let alone a dead body. No, nothing happened. Their kind died under the blows of vicious men, they were raped, or sold their bodies for coin. Men were killed for a disagreement, or a robbing. This fifth century … it was too harsh for her modern sensitivity. Eventually, Frances turned to Tristan, keeping her voice low so that it got lost in the noise.

— "Little fairy…"

— "You'd have killed him, right?"

— "Yeah. He deserved it."

Frances shuddered. She'd heard the voices, singing his ruthlessness in battle. But killing in cold blood, really?

— "For insulting me?

Tristan bent his head, his brown eyes holding her in their power.

— "He was going to rape you, Frances. I saw it in his eyes. He would have waited for you to go…"

The young woman paled, closing her eyes a second.

— "All right, all right. I see your point"

— "Good"

Frances' hands shook, and she hid them in her lap, thinking about Tristan's earlier warning. This world was very different from her own. Now, there were laws against rape, and prisons, and judgement. Here, and there, a woman was just good to warm one's bed, to be taken against a wall. Without a protector, she was at the mercy of any person stronger than her. She was lucky the knights watched over her, else her blade would be covered in blood. How could she convey her point without insulting Tristan?

— "Tristan" she started, taking a deep breath.

It was so rare that she pronounced his name, and the scout's attention rested solely on her. He could see her hands trembling below the table, and resisted the urge to take them in his own.

— "I wish…"

— "Yes"

— "I wish you wouldn't kill for me, please?"

Tristan held her gaze, seeing the uncertainty, the emotion swimming inside of her brown eyes. They reflected the light of the torches, sending flickers of gold to warm them up. No, he wouldn't promise such a thing. She was an idealist, and he would protect her from harm no matter what.

— "I'll kill if I have to."

Frances sighed, and sat straighter on the bench. Tristan braced himself from what would come next. Mayhap he'd better leave now; he could see her disagreement written plainly of her features. The occurrences where she went against him were scarce, she dared not to as she rightfully feared his anger. But this … this was close to her heart, and he decided he wanted to hear it nonetheless.

— "I don't kill outside of battle, you know. Defending myself when there is no other choice is difficult enough. Killing someone for an insult, or an act he didn't commit yet would make me akin to our creators. Who am I to decide if a man must die or not? What he was a good son, a good father? Maybe he was dear to someone?"

His jaw tightened, his fingers curling in distaste.

— "And what about you, whom he would have raped, maybe killed without a second thought? Do you not have dear ones as well?"

— "I…"

No response, typical of a damn woman ! His temper rose and he stood so suddenly that Frances almost fell backwards. How dare she judge him, she that had only fought half of a battle? He knew he was unfair, he knew of her suffering, he'd seen it in her eyes. But now that cold-blooded rage had a hold on him, he only knew to lash out.

— "That man was a good for nothing and you're a damn sentimental woman, like Galahad!"

And then, he stormed off, his long strides bringing him to the wall where Lady Hawk would keep him company for the night. Isolde – he had named her, but never told a soul – wouldn't lecture him about his killing habits. Frances watched his retreating back with regret. Her judgement, perhaps, would need revision. Still, she could never accept that a friend would kill for her, not when another solution existed. A warm hand landed on her arm; Dagonet's serious face watched her intently.

— "Give him some time. He'll come round"

— "Thank you, Dagonet. For … everything"

The knight nodded. She certainly hoped he was right, for she feared losing the understanding of the scout. Such a short time in the company of this intense man, but he had won a special place in her heart. Gawain was dozing off in the arms of a wench across the table. Beside him, Galahad was glaring daggers at the empty spot Tristan had just vacated. He'd probably heard the scout's last comment.

— "Don't mind this loner, Frances. He's always looking for a fight," he slurred drunkenly.

Lifting her eyebrows in surprise, the young woman wondered what Galahad had in mind.

— "Uh?"

— "Damn scout"

His name was spat with such contempt that her blood boiled. Her voice was cold when she addressed the younger knight.

— "You are blinded by our anger, Galahad. Tristan had been protecting you, and you can't even see it."

He had the gall to snort! Standing so suddenly that she pushed the bench out with a mighty screech, Frances slammed her hands on the table, eyes akin to a storm. Gawain sat straighter, much more alert than the minute before, while Galahad's mouth failed to close.

— "Don't you see the risk he takes every single fucking day to see you safe? All of you?" she added, pointing at the remaining knights. "Even here, in the tavern, he's surveilling the place. Have you seen the drunk Roman who's been stealing glances at the tables with a sombre expression? The merchant that came, his hand concealed in his pocket? Did you notice them? Well, he did. And kept his eyes on them until he was sure they posed no danger to you all"

Gawain's blue eyes dawned with some sort of understanding. He had no idea what went on in Tristan's head, but Dagonet send him a knowing look. Apparently, the silent knight had also noticed where the scout's eyes roamed.

— "Ugh!" came Galahad's exasperated response, his arms shooting in the air. Wanna marry him or what? Ouch!"

A mighty slap from Gawain's hand earned him a glare.

— "Galahad !"

Dagonet's warning didn't go unnoticed and Frances lifted a hand to let him know she would handle it. Her voice stern, she stood tall.

— "You know where my heart lies, young knight. No more of this."

— "Don't call me young when you look like a maiden yourself! I am merely a year younger than you are."

— "And acting like a child!" came Gawain's chastising voice.

Frances sent him such a glare that he recoiled.

— "Be thankful I don't box hears"

Suddenly, all spite fled Galahad as he slumped on the bench.

— "Why are you defending him, Frances? You are so nice, and he…"

Fire shone into her eyes as she clenched her jaw.

— "Because he is worth it, damn it! Be warned. I won't have you soil a friend's name, nor his intentions."

— "Sorry," the young man eventually mumbled.

Frances moved from her seat to settle beside the knight. As she started into his incredible bluish eyes, she could fathom all the sadness and pain forced upon a boy too young to handle it.

— "I'll all right," she told him quietly. "I know of your pain."

Galahad's sank on the table, mumbling inconsistent nothings. Hesitantly, Frances stroked at his hair, hands gentle.

— "Feels good" he slurred as she chuckled.

— "You have lovely eyes Galahad. You'll make a woman weak in the knees someday", she told him.

The drunk knight barely lifted his head from the table, groaning a falsely cheerful answer.

— "'Ere 'ere, see what she says."

Gawain chuckled by his side, his blue eyes slightly veiled from the sheer amount of alcohol he had consumed, but not as drunk as he should be. Suddenly, Galahad circled her waist with his arm and Frances started, slapping his hand.

— "Hey ! It doesn't mean anything else."

His muffled voice barely reached her ears.

— "So, don't want to share my bed ?"

Frances laughed this time; it would feel so wrong to sleep with Galahad. He felt like a little brother. Yuck !

— "Nope, you're too young for me"

— "How old is your betrothed ?", Gawain asked.

Frances froze, the reality of Legolas' nature slamming into her. Despite the rowdy atmosphere and untamable knights, she realized she was getting used to it. Away from Aragorn, the future king with elven ways, away from Greenleaf whose light and manners could brighten the darkness of Khazad-dum, Frances had adapted to her new environment. It didn't mean she liked it; the untidiness, the children being beaten, women mistreated, the horrible ways Romans held sway over other people's lives, the harshness of disease and death… the man who would have raped her readily. Still… she wasn't discontent. And somehow, deep inside her, in unsettled her. Was she that volatile ? So unfaithful to elvish customs ? Had she disregarded entirely Tristan's warning ?

— "Frances ?"

The young woman blinked, her chest strangely hollow. How old was Legolas already ? She just had no clue. More than five hundred, less than three thousand.

— "Uh ? Oh. Er. I don't know exactly."

Galahad' slurr saved her from elaborating, earning a chuckle from the others.

— "Don't care"

A meaningful look passed between Gawain, Dagonet and herself. Galahad's fits of anger spoke of deep, raw pain that they could not heal. But the touch of a mother might very well bring him a little peace, and so she kept roaming her hands into his hair, whispering that he was safe, and free now. Eventually, a soft snore told her that Galahad has passed out.

— "Come, pup. Let's get you back to your room."

Fortunately, Dagonet was still sober enough – or remotely sound – to haul Galahad to his feet. Frances recoiled at the horrible smell of alcohol that she hated so much, and they departed to the knight's quarters. She, limping beside Dagonet who held a staggering knight. For a moment, they walked in silence as Galahad stumbled between them, half mumbling about one of the tavern wenches.

Frances rolled her eyes then. Women of pleasure. Suddenly, she felt like she couldn't stand this world' harshness anymore. Everything seemed so absurd, so pointless, so raw and so dirty. When Dagonet's voice rumbled by her side, she was nearly startled.

— "Tristan… he's realistic. Protecting Arthur and us."

The giant was a man of few words, and Frances nodded.

— "I know. I've seen how he watches your back"

But strangely, the conversation didn't die as Dagonet felt compelled to tell her more. And she wondered why the great giant had such a need to make her understand Tristan's nature. Not that she would complain about it; the scout puzzled her at best.

— "He wasn't always so stern."

This was a lifeline offered, and Frances took it eagerly. Since Dagonet seemed in the mood to speak, who was she to deny him ?

— "What happened ?"

Frances braced for impact… but it wasn't enough.

— "When Bedivere was wounded, he bled on the floor from a gash to his guts. We couldn't transport him, we had to run and he would have died a horrible death. He asked for Tristan to kill him."

Tears sprung to her eyes and she swallowed thickly, dragging her leg behind, hoping the pain would distract herself from the tightening of her chest. What could anyone answer to that ? Why had Tristan be subjected to killing his own brother ?

— "Why him ?", she stuttered.

— "Because he was his best friend."

So Tristan had a best friend. A double, just like Galahad had Gawain, Lancelot had Arthur, and Dagonet had Bors. Here he was, the faithful partner of the fearsome scout; the man supposed to understand and support him. Gone, killed by his own's friend hand. For she had no doubt that Tristan had done it out of honour; the most heart wrenching sacrifice.

— "I would have done it, since I am healer."

Frances nodded stiffly. Is that what being a healer entailed ? To be able to kill your patients in mercy ? Yet Dagonet went on, his piercing eyes boring a hole into her.

— "But Arthur couldn't have, none of the others would have. Tristan did it, and looked into Bedivere's eyes until his life ended. He was never the same after that"

— "I wonder why", she scoffed, barely refraining the sob that threatened to overwhelm her.

Such courage. Could she have done it ? Stared into her brother's eyes and killed him ? Stared into Aragorn's eyes and plunged a knife in his heart ? Into Legolas', or Elladan ?

Frances was glad that Dagonet remained silent as he carried Galahad to his rooms.

[1] See Innocence's journey

[2] When Korben kisses Leeloo to wake her up, she points her gun to his head saying "Seno acta gamat" which means "never without my permission".