You can find some Cossack traditional sword dances that inspired me for this chapter on YouTube. So here is the extended version of a former chapter.

— Frances?"

There was uncertainty in his voice, the air suddenly charged between them.

— "Yes?"

— "How much do you know about the future?"

The young woman froze, her mind reeling with the consequences of her next words. Tristan just watched the proceedings, contemplating the tiny line between her eyebrows that indicated deep thinking. He waited; would she grace him with the truth? She had never lied to him, preferring to remain silent whenever she wanted to conceal her knowledge. But he knew how much she didn't share; the reason for it, though, remained unclear. His horse stopped, reacting to the pull on the reins, standing tall beside him. Both awaiting answers.

Frances was at loss. Could she tell him? Trust him? Yes, of course, trust was not in question. Who better than the scout could understand her predicament? Her efforts to protect and save his brothers? So she settled for the full truth; he deserved it.

— "Er… I… I am unsure, but Arthur is supposed to be a King that stays in the legends."

A King, she had said so in the cart the day before. It was a double-edged answer, and for a moment, they resumed walking in silence. Until his amber eyes bored holes into hers.

— "How do you know?"

A sly smile upturned the corner of her mouth; there, once more the right question.

— "You will think me crazy, Tristan."

— "I already think you are crazy, woman."

Laugh bubbled in her chest at the genuine, yet affectionate comment. For those who thought the scout single-minded in his killing spree, they were in for a massive surprise. Tristan was as subtle as they come; he noticed much and understood most of it. She wondered how many peasants at the fort had pierced his thick walls and took a glimpse of the complex person inside. He impressed her, mightily. Hence her slow exhale before she surrendered the last layer of deception from her persona.

— "I … hail from the future. Or maybe a parallel world."

Tristan's nonexistent eyebrows disappeared under his unruly fringe ad he levelled her with a shocked look. He had expected a seer with knowledge of certain events … but not THIS.

— "Look, I'm not even sure this is the past of my timeline. It might be an alternate reality, I have no way of knowing until I hit the internet when I get back, and even then…"

She was babbling again, and Tristan interrupted her tersely.

— "It had been awhile since you made no sense at all, woman."

Silence. Her cheeks slightly reddened, and the knight inwardly cringed at the rudeness of his chastisement. His voice was gentler when he interrogated her anew.

— "What is this net you are supposed to hit?"

Frances repressed a giggle, too self-conscious to chance a look at the scout. Hitting a net, right. Hoped he wouldn't take umbrage with her sudden merriment, she wondered how to explain the theories of astrophysics to a fifth-century man. And chose not to, no matter how intelligent he might be. There were notions; Newton, Einstein and such that were just too foreign to handle. It took her years to master them, or at least, understand any of it. Years of physics, mathematics and geometry. As for the internet … ugh. There was no way she would be able to explain it, for she didn't understand half of it.

— "Never mind."

A surge of anger hit her suddenly, and she instantly knew she had ruffled his feathers.

— "I am not simple, woman. Explain"

Frances fidgeted on the horse until she managed to climb down without pulling a stitch. Tristan froze until she came face to face with him, leaving him the leisure to gaze into her eyes. She had gathered, over the last days, that it was the best way to talk to Tristan for he could read her answers plain as day on her face.

— "I do not master all those notions. I am not educated enough. The internet is a tool I use than contains knowledge, but I would be hard pressed to explain for I do not know how it works. As for parallel worlds… I have no clue if the place I am today is the past of my own life, or another place entirely. Does it make sense?"

Tristan sensed her confusion, her genuine effort to explain things she couldn't quite comprehend herself. It felt like an apology, and he nodded his assent, choosing to focus on the mind-blowing news she had just admitted to.

— "So you hail from the future…"

The expression on his face held some relief. As if he could pull the puzzle together piece by piece. His memory bordered on eidetic; this is what made him an incredible scout. All the little details he had picked up started to form a consistent image. How she sometimes fumbled with the simplest of things, her ramblings when she got hurt about physics and whatnot, her mention of a sewing machine, and many, many more hidden comments that seemed like private jokes or references to things only she knew. It also explained her reluctance to kill, and view the world properly. Now, it all made sense; it wasn't her world. And it was reassuring to understand it all.

Except that the damn woman was from the future.

— "Yes. I am called the Keeper of Time, chosen by the Valar, my betrothed's Gods, to set things right. Except that they don't tell me what to do, or what I'm supposed to change, so it can be a bit tedious."

— "You mean you have no instructions ?"

— "No. I just pop somewhere… and make decisions. Sometimes I have visions to help"

Understanding dawned, something akin to awe crossing his features for the split of a moment.

— "Saving Gawain and Dagonet. This is why you were here."

Frances nodded, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't read Tristan's expression, so many emotions seemed to swirl in his gaze, only to be repressed and replaced by the careful mask he always wore.

— "And more, since I am still here. Unfortunately, this is not over."

He nodded carefully, and she wondered what he thought of this whole ordeal. Asking him would lead her nowhere; Tristan was a man of few words, and kept his thoughts more guarded than Fafnir's treasure. Maybe, if she asked nicely, he might share some. If he didn't deem her a threat now that she had admitted her origins. After fifteen years guarding himself, his ways were so deeply embedded that she doubted he did it consciously. Half sentences and partial truth was the best she would get. If he wasn't angry, it meant he accepted her words. Period.

— "Do you really come from Lugdunum?" he suddenly asked.

It was an important question; one of the first facts she had shared with them. A token of trust. And in this very moment, Frances was really glad she had not lied about her origins.

— "Yes. Just now it is called Lyon, and the country named France – after Frank people who conquered it. There are ruins of the Roman empire in my city, remains of an amphitheatre only."

His face brightened then, a dangerous gleam shining in his eyes.

— "Ruins ? So the romans have fallen… When?"

— "I was born in 1984. The year now is 2006."

The news floored him entirely, and Tristan just barely avoided to slip on a muddy patch. Him, slipping! Fifteen hundred years in the future. This was an insane amount of time.

— "Tell me about the future."

A request, not an order. And Frances obliged as he led her to a stream, its banks half-frozen from the harshness of the previous night. Sunlight filtered through the clearing, hard rocks, rounded by the assaults of the British weather, peeking into the water here and there. The knight unleashed his mare, letting her graze on the little grass that still persisted, and he sat on the bank. Silence fell over them both, like a blanket of comfort. This place had harboured many of his existential crisis; here his thoughts could run freely, or be at peace. After Bedivere's death … he had often ended here, night or day, to talk to his spirit.

Never before had he dragged someone in this sacred place of his. But today, it felt right. There were many things on his mind; the future, the Saxons, the feeling of his deadened heart, her tales of times to come. None of them too urgent, mind you, as he intended to rest from the turmoil for a while.

Beside him sat Frances, neither too close, nor too far so that she could reach him at arm's length. Her eyes sparkled – she loved ice and water alike – as she settled properly, body propped backwards, her wounded leg extended. A long time passed without a word, both at peace both observing the beauty of nature, not a hint of fidgeting showing up. Tristan merely understood that, no, Frances was in no way impatient with the world, but with humans. A sentiment he shared as people prattled about things without ever coming to the point. The Romans were masters as this with their protocols and ceremonial. But she wasn't. Frances was as blunt as they come, coating her words, sometimes, with the barest hint of diplomacy.

Eventually, she fished out a strange device from her leather bag. A little grey square of metal, not bigger than her hand, to which were attached two long cords. She fondled with the thing, tapping here, squeezing there, her eyes fixed on the … device until a satisfied smile graced her lips. Then, she plugged one of the cords in her hear, and held her hand out with the second one.

— "Since you know most of my secrets, I would like to share music with you."

Tristan roamed his tongue across his upper teeth.

— "Music?"

— "Yes. Will you let me show you?"

A strange gleam of uncertainty passed into his eyes, but then, he relented. Frances took a deep breath. The first bars of "Beethoven's five secrets" – from the Piano guys – were already playing, and she climbed on her uninjured knee to plug the earphone into his ear. It was a delicate matter since she'd never been that close to him, and in such an intimate position. She knew Tristan to be quite twitchy when it came to physical contact – his barriers were thicker than a bunker's – and didn't want to make him uncomfortable, but he seemed the kind of man who could appreciate the intensity of classical music. Laying a settling hand on his shoulder, she was surprised by his stillness. He did not move an inch until the ear plug was in place. Then, he shot her the most startled look she'd ever seen his amber eyes sport.

Tristan being Tristan, he didn't back off, nor yell, nor even move a muscle. He took his time, studying this new devilry, the effect of the sound coming from her strange device, his gaze intense, unreadable, pinning her in place without an ounce of remorse. As if she held all the answers of the world. And then, as the melody picked up, his eyes closed, and the wind gently ruffled at his hair as he let the waves of music permeate his whole being. At last, a single tear rolled down his cheek, a tear he blatantly ignored, lost in the grandeur of Beethoven. A surge of emotion threatened to overwhelm her, and Frances repressed a choking sound at the sight of the scout undone. She loved than song dearly; it made her cry sometimes, when in the right frame of mind. It held such joy, and sadness at the same time. But to see its effects on Tristan, stern faced, angered, ruthless Tristan, to witness his features relaxed, serenely basking in the sun as the music coursed through his veins. Well, that was a chef d'oeuvre she would remember her whole life. His sensitivity made no doubt; he wouldn't be such a good scout if he wasn't. But to witness it firsthand as he surrendered to the music was a privilege.

Frances realised then how harsh the fifth century was for a man like him. Had he been born in the 21st, he'd probably be a dancer, or a badass musician. Here, he'd just been forced into a life of heartbreak and violence, causing him to raise shields stronger than the Wall of Hadrian to protect his soul. Not that he wasn't a warrior at heart; few could excel with weapons with such skill. She wondered how said sensitivity allowed him to perfect his level of proficiency. His sheer determination was probably the drive that pushed him further and further. Yes. Tristan was a man to respect, in body and mind. And she was glad that he allowed her to be his friend; the level of proximity they shared now was nothing short of miraculous.

As the last bars played out quietly, Steven's cello dragging the latest notes, Frances sent a prayer to the Valar and the Sarmatian Gods. A prayer for this broken man, so that he could enjoy his freedom, live a long and peaceful life, find a wife who honoured him and understood the sacrifices he's made, to nurse him back to health and give him hearty and lovely children to brighten his days. So that when she was gone, someone would take care of him and love him for the greatness of his heart, overlooking the harshness of his exterior. Surely such a woman existed; a woman who would drag him out of his shell and accept the pieces he'd put into her hands, to reconstruct his soul again. She prayed as well, for all his brothers. May they share the same fate, and enjoy the happiness they deserved. To the few of them that remained, she hoped for them a bright future.

At last, the song ended, and Frances paused her mp3 player, wondering if Tristan would want to hear more. His golden eyes, once more, were fixed upon her face. Searching for something.

— "Did you enjoy this piece?" she asked.

— "Yes"

Enough to force a tear out of his stoic self but Frances wasn't expecting him to pour his awe forth. His assent was already a great step ahead. Tristan's communication passed through actions, not words.

— "What is this instrument?" he eventually asked.

— "A pianoforte"

His lips pursed.

— "Never heard of it."

— "You couldn't have, it is a sixteenth-century invention. Or so. I just can't remember. Anyway, it used to be a harpsichord, with a keyboard and…"

Tristan's blank stare told her he had no clue about what she was talking about. Picking a twig nearby, Frances tried to draw the instrument in a patch of dust. The result was … not very realistic, at best.

— "Look. Drawing is not my strongest suit, nor is the history of music instruments. Anyway, the player hits the keyboard, which hits the chords accordingly and echoes in the belly of the instrument. And you can modulate."

This time, Tristan nodded, his eyes slightly squinted. She wondered if he was amused at her babbling, or miffed about the whole future thing. The truth was that she would never know.

— "The sound is beautiful. Do you play?"

— "I did as a kid. Then … life got in the way. It is my favourite instrument with the violin. Would you like to hear more?"

The knight nodded, the glint of curiosity in his eyes rendering his face much younger, almost boyish. Frances wondered what he would look like without his beard aging him, or the matted mop of hair that hid his features. Sometimes, he really reminded her of the rangers of the north; they would have welcomed him with open arms, albeit he would have aged prematurely among the Dunedains blessed with a long life. A loner caught by the beauty of music; the archetype of a misanthropist. A shiver ran through Frances' spine, the effect of sitting still in the cold. But it felt so good to be outside of those crushing walls!

The next track was "home", still from the Piano guys. Frances didn't dare switching to more modern music yet, especially since she'd found Tristan's love for the piano.

— "This is my favourite from them," she explained.

Tristan lifted an eyebrow under his unruly mane.

— "Why not your favourite first?"

There was no accusation in his soothing voice and Frances laid back on her arms, stretching her thigh that protested from the intense cold. Her fingers, too, were getting numb.

— "I wanted to introduce you to more classical stuff first. This is more unconventional."

A twinkle of amusement danced in the scout's eyes before his gaze got lost in the stream.

— "Ah, sparing an old man."

— "You are not an old man!" she scoffed.

But instead of finding mirth in her words, Tristan barely sighed.

— "Aye, I am. I feel so old. My very soul is tired."

His sadness struck her like lightning, tearing a hole into her chest. It was clear as day now; the scout's anger and bloodlust were sadness in disguise, deep desperation turned outwards against his enemies rather than inwards – a means of survival. Perhaps a way to keep control over a life that made no sense, over the inevitable death of his comrades in a fight that wasn't his. The young woman swallowed, wondering if she should reach out for the still statue of the knight who refused to meet her gaze. Laid bare to her scrutiny, his wounds so raw that they still bled.

Instead of prying, Frances pushed the button, leaving the healing to people who knew better. At once, piano and cello rose up to the task, engulfing them both into a dimension where hope existed still. How she loved that song, reminding her of her home place and the people that awaited her return ! How fitting, too, that two misplaced people would be listening about home. Wherever that was. Truth be told, Frances didn't know anymore. And while Tristan's mind was transported through the music, hers lingered on the many people she had met, loved and left behind in the course of her travels. Bittersweet memories that called a few tears to escape. Fortunately, the scout by her side was too enthralled by the flurry of piano notes to spot it. It was so beautiful … incredible, how two musicians could produce such joy, such hope with a piano and a cello. Hope that she might see Legolas again… Her heart swelled with pride then; she had met fantastic great people, been given love that the loss suddenly felt insignificant compared to the privilege.

Incredible, what music could do. So when the piece stopped, she turned her shining eyes to Tristan.

— "This one was called … 'home."

The scout shifted slightly to meet her gaze; his eyes were forlorn, golden-flecked in the sunlight, as if still scouring another place entirely.

— "Aye, it spoke to me of green fields and freedom."

Frances nodded, her mind travelling to another time where, high in the valley of Rivendell, she used to skate on the frozen lake. Before she met Legolas Greenleaf and gave him her heart.

— "I can relate, even if my vision was slightly different."

The scout didn't even have to ask, keeping his gaze fixed upon the little fairy.

— "I skate at home," she went on. "It's like dancing on ice with blades fixed upon my shoes."

Head cocked aside, Tristan seemed to mull on her image for a moment. Then he stood, so suddenly that she started.

— "I'll show you some Sarmatian dancing."

She couldn't believe it; Tristan was offering an insight into his culture by himself, without even having to pry it out with oyster pliers. She refrained the smile from splitting her face as she made to stand. Tristan offered his arm to help her up, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

— "Will you allow be to borrow your sword?" he asked.

The formalism caught her off guard, but not the respect. Perhaps, in times past, Tristan had known how to communicate with his peers. Perhaps he had been more than a ruthless scout in his tribe? Her hesitation was met with an almost sheepish look. Who more than a warrior could value its weapon?

— "It is a dance with a blade, but mine is too long", he explained.

Frances smiled, unsheathing the Dao that replaced her elvish blade until she could lay hands on it again. She had no qualms about surrendering this particular sword; it meant nothing to her.

— "Of course, I wouldn't want you to shop your legs off."

Tristan snorted derisively; as if he could harm himself with his own blade! Despite her teasing, he received Frances's sword with reverence. Then he took a few steps back and shed his heavy leather; the cold wouldn't bother him through the dance. The young woman extended her arms to receive the garment but he let his slide to the ground without a care in the world. Frances nearly kicked herself; of course, this was a stitched leather, not a fragile velvet vest! Tristan had probably scouted with this for years, rolled in the dirt and slept within. A few minutes on the frozen ground wouldn't kill it.

The view that greeted her when her eyes reverted to him nearly caused her to blush. She'd never seen Tristan in his tunic and leather breeches, and he cleaned up rather nicely. Broader shoulders than she expected complimented the linen fabric, and despite the stains, it seemed almost intimate. Dark curls escaped the v-shaped collar, and the hem was just plain raw. Her fingers itched to stitch it properly. Oblivious to her stare, Tristan was already anchored in the ground, his feet apart in a position that reminded her of fencing, his arm extended as he tested the blade. A slight frown marred his features as he balanced it from left to right, slashing a few imaginary adversaries before sending it flying into the air. Several times, higher and higher until he managed to twirl it around twice before it fell back into his extended hand.

— "Tis not the best of blades, but it will do. Although it is strangely light. Did it ever break?"

There was no insult behind his words, just a statement and a hint of worry. Perhaps he wasn't used to steel, his blade was probably wrought from iron after all. Which meant more maintenance, more weight as well. Such metal wouldn't exist for centuries to come, and lead to a revolution weapon-wise.

— "No, it is more solid than it seems. I know the balance is not ideal. My old sword was much better and this is just a replacement,"

Tristan nodded; whether he didn't want to pry, or hear the full story of her sword, Frances ignored it. Peace descended upon the clearing, some kind of eeriness that called a shiver to descend her spine. Had Tristan called his ancestors? Made a prayer to higher spirits? They had mentioned shamans, after all. At once, she felt surrounded by a strange atmosphere, and her eyes were captivated by the moves of the man before him. As if he represented a whole nation, rather than Arthur's scout.

His first movements were slow, very deliberate, and incredibly controlled. It resembled Tai Chi, the sword an extension of him arm. A kata of sorts, where muscles extended to their very limit, wrist locked forward. Legs followed, drawing a pattern on the ground and Frances understood. If Tristan was such a fierce fighter, his skills took roots in the traditional dance for which he was gifted. She had heard many times how classical dancing was the best way to forge a body for martial arts. Tristan was a brilliant proof of that theory. He was graceful, moving with such intent, such purpose. His presence infused every single movement, irradiating from his body and outwards. As if something vibrated from his very core to the rest of the clearing, gracing his inner being to the world that surrounded him.

Something changed then, and his wrist suddenly seemed to turn to jelly as the sword twirled in his hand, it speed increasing until she couldn't follow the movement anymore. It was then that the dance really started as Tristan was but a blur of movement, imitating the rotation of her blade. The steel started to sing, faster and faster, until it soared in the air, caught up at the very last moment. Her sword passed behind Tristan's back many times, left and right, from hand to hand, or above his head as he ducked, dodged and coaxed the blade as if a partner. Together, they were an impenetrable wall of man and steel, and still they twirled around each other like companions of death.

Mesmerised, Frances' watched his lean body perform a technical prowess she was incapable of. His braids danced around his face, and she wondered how he could possibly see with the mess of his hair. Yet, it didn't impair him as he launched the blade into the air and watched it, full body coiled, until it landed in his outstretched arm. A grand finale, for he bowed next, and walked back to her to grant the sword back to its owner. Frances bowed her head in acknowledgement, mightily impressed. Tristan smirked at her dazed look, then he wiped the sweat from his brow. He was slightly winded, but with the amount of sparring the knights did it was barely surprising.

— "And you call yourself an old man!"

The knight retrieved his leather vest on the frozen floor, settling it upon his broad shoulders with a shrug.

— "Aye. Maybe not yet," he deadpanned as he fumbled with his belt.

Frances gave him a crooked smile, remembering Galahad's jealous quip on the way to Marius's estate.

— "So this is why Galahad is so jealous?"

Giving her an amused stare, Tristan proceeded to adjust the sheath to his back.

— "Galahad has two left feet when it comes to dancing."

— "You obviously don't, it was beautiful. Do everybody dance like this in your home tribe?"

Tristan paused, his fingers hovering over the buckles of his Dao's. Did he want to go that way? Down memory lane? Frances had talked, at length, about her world, but it didn't entail him speaking about his. Yet … he wanted to share, just for once, those memories long gone. His eyes were unguarded, for once, when he met Frances' gaze.

— "It is custom where I come from that we perform the dance for guests."

There was a hidden meaning in his words. Did he consider her a guest to his tribe ? Was this a welcome token ? What would have happened, her they met differently, in the depths of the Sarmatian steppes ? As she watched his face intently, Frances suddenly wondered what the tattoos meant. An image sprang to her mind; a family with a tall girl, a boy with long unruly hair and two smaller ones - twins. The woman's features were blurred, but the man sported the same arrows on his cheekbones, his gaze hard, even harder than Tristan's was. A leader. He shared many features with his son… Snapping out of her trance, Frances gave Tristan a curious look.

— "Are you high born?"

Tristan took her question in stride, his eyes gleaming with some sort of relief. As if, at last, she had managed to puzzle him. As if she'd had the answer all along, but never cared to look.

— "The tattoos mean I should have been the next chieftain. It will never happen now."

— "Don't say such things"

Frances nearly kicked herself for the platitude, for Tristan's smooth voice crushed her hopes without an ounce of hesitation.

— "I know it. No use to dwell on it. My cousin had probably replaced me already."

— "Why not your little brothers?"

This time the scout started, his mouth slightly agape. If her deduction of him being or high blood wasn't extraordinary given her education – the Romans knew whom to address in the Yazigues – she couldn't know of his brothers.

— "What do you know of them?"

His defensive tone caused Frances to lift her hands in peace.

— "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I think… I have seen them, just now. I think it was your family. Your father had the tattoos as well, although they are slightly curvier than yours. And your sister is a tall blondish woman, but I had trouble seeing your mother's features."

This time, Tristan couldn't help but purse his lips. There was nowhere in the world she could have gathered this information except from the spirits. Perhaps his mother was still looking after him from the heavens. The scout nodded, his chest tightening painfully.

— "Aye. She was a shaman, you can't see her. But you are not much of a seer if you've seen my brothers"

Anger, to shield the pain. Frances recognised it at once and didn't take offence, choosing instead, to be honest.

— "I am not … accustomed to this gift. I don't master it at all. Why?"

— "They are dead and buried."

Dead. Another set of brothers dead. How much loss could a man sustain?

— "I'm sorry," she whispered.

— "Don't be, unless you sent us the disease that killed them, you are not responsible."

They were both standing now, facing each other in the clearing with not a clue on how to escape the icy mood that had settled between them. Tristan was the first to speak. Always the courageous one.

— "Should I bring you back to the Wall?"

Frances considered his question seriously. Maybe they'd be shielded from the cold, but she didn't want to go back. Not yet. She needed this calm before the storm.

— "Nay. I will stay awhile. It might seem stupid, but I always loved to be able to see further away than a piece of wall"

Tristan nodded; he couldn't agree more.

— "Then I shall stay as well"

Frances bit her lip to prevent her doubts from being voiced; she was perfectly capable of walking back to the wall by herself, and didn't know if Tristan stayed out of obligation to the lady knight she now was. Truthfully, she didn't intend to point it out, far too content of the present company. Settling down with the help of hos sturdy grip – funny how his touch was now familiar - Frances fished out her mp3 once more.

— "I have some other songs that you might enjoy from the same people. I think their music quite agrees with you."

— "How does this work?"

His smooth voice was a little unsure, his expression unguarded for once.

— "Well. We have devices that record what people play, and then, other devices, like this one, that use the recording to replay it. Is that a suitable answer?"

— "Partly"

Of course, Tristan would want to know the workings of this great device she owned. He was a man who demanded what, how and when. To this unfortunately, Frances had no answer: she was hopeless in electronics!

— "I'm sorry I don't know the particulars. Honestly, I wasn't educated in matters of technology."

— "There are many things you seem not to know."

What the fuck? And what about what she knew? Maths, biology, physics, geology? Quelling her first reaction to lash out, the young woman stole a glance at the scout. Stupid pride of hers ! Tristan looked stricken by his own wording; his features set in stone to brace for the sneer that should come her way. A hurtful comment, then a scowl. This is what people saw from the scout. It was no wonder, given the Roman's pride, that he was considered a barbarian when their silver tongue could coat any insult in honey. But if you looked a little further, and considered Tristan's words carefully, one might realise that he only stated the plain truth without any intend to harm. The world as he saw it, with perceptiveness and the naivety of a child.

Frances chuckled then, understanding his meaning. In the fifth century, she was a highly educated woman. Even in the twenty-first, she was considered by French politicians as part of an "elite". But given the sheer amount of knowledge in the modern world, there was much more she didn't know.

— "Yes. The world has evolved so much, you wouldn't believe it. In the fifteen century, we had some mathematician-philosopher-physicists and all that jack. Knowledge was still scarce enough for a human being to grasp it."

— "There are some Romans like that."

— "Yeah, a few still. And Greeks, and French a thousand years from now. Although they cultivate their ego just as much."

Tristan grunted in assent as she went on.

— "In my time … it is impossible. There were too many discoveries."

— "Of what kind ?"

— "Of any kind. Can you believe that a man has walked on the moon thanks to a flying machine ?"

There was no answer this time as Tristan lifted his eyes to the sky.

— "People have to specialise, and even then, we never know all of it. Healers can work forty years and still discover some diseases. We have sections, tropical diseases, and infectious ones, and surgery…"

The scout paused for a moment, trying to grasp the sheer amount of subjects that one could possibly study, and failing. A fifth-century man couldn't possibly project himself into things that didn't exist yet. And what was an infectious disease anyway? Weren't they all?

— "It seems … overwhelming."

— "Yeah. We have to accept to use things that we will never know how to build or repair. And accept that we'll be ignorant of most. For the record, I am considered rather educated," she quipped.

— "I have no doubt."

The cold wind brushed Frances' locks away and she retracted her neck to lessen the bite. The knight shifted a little closer, extending his cloak around her shoulders to share body warmth as she fondled once more with the commands. Her body tingled from his proximity, and Frances tried to redirect her attention to the device.

— "Still I couldn't tell you how this works. I suck at electricity"

His shoulder bumped with hers gently.

— "It doesn't matter, little fairy. It is amazing all the same."

His voice was so close, nearly brushing her ear. Frances shivered, then she found the song she as looking for; "Amazing grace." And for a while, there was only the sun, the river, and the music as they listened, unmoving, to the beautiful compositions of "The Piano guys". For once, even the emptiness of her heart, the missing piece that belonged to her elvish prince, hummed in contentment at the moment shared with a friend.

So, plenty of new information shared, and a little fluff. I hope you liked it, even if I have trouble writing the cold when I'm dying from the heat in my house: p