As usual, please review if you liked it. Not many changes on that one, the major one is that Tristan can keep his pride; he doesn't end up on the ground.

Vanora's beautiful voice wove a web as she performed a duet with another of the tavern girls. Briton words, their sonority so foreign, rose and fell in an entrancing dance as Frances stepped in, her arm caught in Arthur's who had, gallantly, offered to walk her to the tavern. The Keeper of Time paused, eyes shining, her body attuned to the beauty of their song. She'd left Tristan in his room in company of her mp3 player as the sun travelled down; Vanora had a strict program laid out for them ere the celebration started. She'd been bathed, clothed with a revealing burgundy dress, and her hair styled in a heavy braid that crowned her head by one of Vanora's friends as she, herself, had to prepare for the proceedings.

The celebration consisted mainly in making merry. Singing, a little dancing, some music to enlighten the evening, and lots of ale and food. The presence of Arthur made it even more memorable; he that nearly always dined and broke his fast in his chambers with maps for company. He wouldn't have missed it for the world. After fifteen years of slavery, his men were free. At last! his heart wrenched when he took in the faces at the knights' table. Only six of them left, out of thirty. And Dagonet had very nearly succumbed; he wouldn't be here if it were not for the young woman holding his arm.

— "I thank you heartily, my lord, for the pleasure of your escort," she said with a smile.

Arthur bowed, releasing her arm. How she could switch from colloquial rambling to court speech was a wonder. There was as much of a lady than of a knight in her heart, a woman who could stretch to both sides of power and remain steadfast.

— "The pleasure was all mine, Lady Frances."

— "Somehow, I very much doubt that"

Arthur laughed at her good-natured jab, and he sat at the head of the table, Frances slipping on the bench at his right. It usually was Tristan's seat, but the scout had yet to show. Unbeknownst to them, amber eyes had been following them along the street, a shadow concealed among shadows. He only needed to make sure that Frances would not wander alone. Especially dressed and coiffed like a queen. For she looked like one, walked like one, and possessed this inner strength, and nobility, that would make her a good sovereign. There was no compassion like hers, no understanding of human nature deeper expect for Arthur. She was educated and clever, fierce and wise; a uniter of people, a force to reckon with. A good match for his commander. The scout's eyes lingered on the Pict woman as, she too, blended in the crowd, her dark gaze filled with anger. Jealousy painted her face with a sombre hue, transforming the plain goat into a dangerous witch.

Yet he understood her plight. How could a woman like her hope to ensnare Arthur when the Keeper of Time claimed his company? So bright, so genuine, so adorable when Guinevere… well. Better not to dwell on her poor assets; she wasn't meaty enough for his taste. At last, his commander and Frances exchanged pleasantries, and sat side by side. The genuine smile she sent him stirred something within his chest. For he remembered the words she had told Arthur. "You will make a mighty King someday". And she could be a devoted Queen. Her little fairy, Queen of the land, the forest and the sea. Where did that leave him? He would be her servant knight, a devoted protector and dear friend, a man who could care for her, love her from afar, but never touch her. No, he didn't deserve to taint such light. But Arthur did. Too bad she was already betrothed. None of it could come to pass. And she would go away, taken to the spirits knew where by her Gods… perhaps reunite with her betrothed ? He certainly hoped so.

As the scout claimed his seat beside her without shaking the bench, Frances turned with a hopeful expression. There it was, this blatant openness that she now bestowed upon him. Trust. As if her guarded nature had disappeared entirely. The disapproval of his ways was gone, replaced by renewed understanding. Baffled by her welcoming smile, Tristan greeted her with a nod. And then, his mischievous side decided to take a leap of faith, as he bent a little closer to her hear.

— "I have found that your tastes encompass some puzzling noise."

The sentence was sibylline enough so that anyone listening could not understand their meaning, but Frances' eyes widened all the same. Head held high, she stifled a laugh.

— "Oh. You've probably wandered in places you shouldn't have."

— "I am a scout."

As if this little sentence could explain his curiosity. And somehow, it did. If he'd been listening to NickelBack or Iron Maiden, she was surprised he had not dumped her mp3 player into a barrel of water or impaled it with a dagger. Tristan shifted beside her, catching a tankard of ale from a passing wench, and Frances almost felt sad at the loss of his breath on her face. The biggest loss, though, was the light in his eyes and the concealed smile on his lips. Beside him, she felt safe in this crazy world. Easy banter flew across the table, jokes, jests and memories of fallen knights blending in a bittersweet conversation.

Frances observed Galahad getting into his mug, Gawain silently watching by his side, his blue eyes glazed over by a veil of sadness. Bors was his noisy self, Dagonet his silent self, musing about lost lives and slavery probably. Yet, there was a glint of hope in his blue eyes, and his nod, directed to Frances told him of his gratitude.

Lancelot, sitting directly across her, was strangely subdued this evening. There was turmoil in his dark eyes. Guinevere, perhaps? Or the prospect of a freedom he didn't think he'd reach? Something tugged as her dress, and Frances turned around to find a flock of Vanora's brood with expectant faces. Beside her, Tristan harboured his trade smirk.

— "Yes?" she asked the children, ill at ease.

Silence met her question, and she turned around fully to face them.

— "Is there anything you need?"

— "Ar' ye a princess?" came a little girl's shy voice.

Taken off guard, Frances wondered what she could answer that. But the hope shining in those eyes told her it was time to quench their curiosity. The fact that they came to her, in numbers, sold their determination. And Vanora had been complaining all night about their behaviour. Maybe she could help.

— "Nay, but my betrothed is a Prince. The Prince of the forest of Greenleaves"

Behind her, Arthur Castus and Tristan shared a startled look. A prince. Well, that was new.

— "What is he like?"

— "And he's a big castle?"

— "The Queen, she is as beautiful as you?"

The flurry of questions sent her mind reeling, and she suddenly gripped Tristan's arm by her side for support. The face of Legolas flew before her eyes, his tales of Greenwood, King Thranduil and his beloved wife's death still fresh in her memory. The scout froze at her touch, and she addressed him an apologetic glance.

— "I don't know," came her tentative reply. "I have not met them yet."

Yet. Would she ever meet them, King Thranduil and his famous glittering halls?

— "Oh, tell us"

— "Yes, of yer prince"

— "Yes!" came five little voices at once.

And she was shoved from her bench and dragged into the kitchen, sending a hopeless look to the knight's table. Tristan only addressed her his signature impassive expression, and Gawain waved her goodbye with a smirk. As Vanora passed like a blur, Frances protested to the young mother.

— "Hey! You know I'm not good with kids!"

— "Sing to them" she yelled before disappearing around the corner.

Frances took a shuddering breath, utterly at loss. Talking of Legolas was too painful to make a merry tale, and this evening was about freedom and hope. Maybe, instead of recounting tales – a skill she didn't possess – she could steer their attention to something different. A smile crept on her face, she had an idea.

— "All right. What do you say to learning a new song?"

And learn they did, surprisingly well at that. Albeit they sang words in a foreign language – English – it didn't matter for they caught the hang of it quite easily. Frances marveled at their ability to form a makeshift choir, and for the good part of an hour, they learnt a very simple Gospel chorus. Bors' children were much more disciplined that their modern counterparts, that was for sure. The oldests kept the youngest in check, and let them like little generals, replacing Vanora when she couldn't be here. Somehow, the brood looked after themselves. The perks of living in a hostile environment with their knight of a father. Frances wondered, for a moment, if she was missing anything of the celebration. Somehow, she didn't think she had earned her place there. Fifteen days out of fifteen years still made a coefficient of 365 short.

Later in the night, it was a very tamed group or nine children who reintegrated the tavern with serious faces and stage fright.

— "There you are!" Exclaimed Vanora. "Time to release the poor lady now. Hop into bed, little ones!"

— "Wait!" they responded. "We want to sing!"

Their mother whirled around, eye them suspiciously when Frances appeared by their side.

— "It's all right Vanora, I've taught them a new song."

The redhead frowned slightly, and for a moment, Frances wondered if her little plan would be welcome. And then, she smiled at her youngest, and motioned for them to get in the enclosed courtyard. The little ones lined up neatly, forming two rows with the tallest behind. Bors' shouting match suddenly quieted as his proud gaze roamed over his children, the baby in his lap. Fortunately, most of the tavern ignored them, a few of the knights turning around to follow Bors' glance, the rest of the patrons too engrossed in playing dices, drinking, or groping women. Frances stepped in front of the group, a little self-conscious, but the happy faces that watched her clear her throat were enough to give her some heart. How badly she wanted to share hope and joy with the knights, yet she always wondered how it could be received.

'Well, to hell with that', she thought. Too late to bail now. As is sensing her discomfort, Arthur stood up and strode to her.

— "A little singing?" he asked, his eyes gentle.

Frances nodded, her throat dry.

— "What is this song about?"

The young woman motioned for him to come closer, and lifted on her toes. If the intimate gesture surprised him, the commander didn't show.

— "To you, I'll admit that it is about our lord Jesus Christ."

Turning to the others, who had now their attention fixed on the little group, she said more clearly.

— "Bors and Vanora's children wanted to share this song with you. It is about hope, and faith as well, whichever it is. It also speaks of redemption. That we all deserve it"

A heavy silence fell, deadened weight settling on the knight's shoulder, and Frances didn't wait lest she lost her courage.

— "Are you ready children?"

Various exclamations rose in the air, a mix of yes, aye and yeah quite distinguishable. Frances chuckled, and lifted her hand to gesture the commands of when they needed to sing. Damn, if someone had told her she would direct a makeshift choir of medieval children… And then, she started rather shyly.

"Oh happy day"

Her hand motioned to the children.

— "O – a pee day", they responded, just as shyly.

— "A little stronger!" she told them. "Again"

"Oh happy day-ay !"

Her voice had gained a little more confidence, and so was the response. Three other rounds of 'happy day' were necessary to give the rhythm.

"When Jesus washed"

Another command, another mumbled response with difficult lyrics. But she didn't mind, the tone was there, and so was the strength. Beside her, the knights were starting to pick up the game.

"When Jesus washed"

"Wane Jesus wooshd", the kids responded.

Frances smiled again, putting a little more force and variation in her voice.

"When Jesus washed."

Wane Jesus wooshd

"He washed our sins away."

Another gesture and the kids reverted to the previous line. Frances grinned like a fool; she was so proud of them for remembering! The message was clear; they could do anything together. Anything.

"o – a pee day"

All right. It was time to give it a little more punch. Frances stood taller, and unleashed her voice.

"Hey, it's a happy day."

The young woman clapped in her hands. The kids followed … and so did Bors and Galahad. And very soon, a good part of the tavern had stopped playing, womanising, and fighting to come a little closer. A new round of 'happy days' started, with more voices in the background.

— "All right children, people. Time for vocalisation!" she shouted.

And they were ready.

"La la la la la la la la la"[1]

Only the children responded this time. She shifted to the second pass.

"La La La La La"

This time, some people in the tavern played the game.

"La la la la la la la"

Bors was singing, so was Galahad! Frances grinned.

"LaLaLalala"

There, Lancelot and Gawain had joined the group. Frances's cheeks flushed with satisfaction as she finished the last ones. Whoopy Goldberg would be proud of her! But not the historians such was the anachronism. Who cared, people were having fun!

"Lalalalala"

Frances braced herself for the solo, this part had been too difficult for the kids to learn, so they would just be keeping a note while she sang. She was so riled up, she didn't realise her voice would carry so far, so strong.

"He taught me how

To watch

Watch and pray

Watch and pray"

Tristan watched, fascinated, as the little fairy brought his brothers into the game. Even Arthur, standing poised by her side, was clapping his hands now. It was a strange song, that one. Not so beautiful as the Ave Maria, her voice powerful, but containing variations that he didn't like as much. The rhythm, though, caused him to tap his foot. He didn't turn around fully, a hidden smile on his lips, one of his legs hooked up on the bench. An apple in his hand, the dagger slicing even pieces, he could only watch the grins on his brother's faces, the awe in Vanora's eyes, the hope in Arthur's glance. Even the Woad was dancing slightly. The strange song went round again, Frances's voice straining to cover the clapping of dozens of hands, the children jumping and yelling altogether, until she started to quicken the pace, and, at last ended it with a mighty final.

There was loud cheering, and praises being flung at her. Gawain hugged her, and so did Dagonet. Lancelot's arms, she avoided by twirling around effortlessly. The scout smirked at her deceptiveness; she could definitely use this in battle. She'd gathered a lot of attention, but everything in her posture told him she wanted to disappear now that her deed was done. So Tristan grabbed her sleeve as she passed, and tugged hard enough that she sank on the bench. Her face was flushed, her eyes alight, her shyness returning and he swore she'd never looked more beautiful. With the braid forming a crown upon her head, her features weren't hidden by loose strands; her whole profile exposed to studying. He was so close that he could discern the freckles on her upturned nose. He handed her a piece of his apple cut neatly, and she accepted it with awe. Tristan almost frowned at her expression, before he realised he'd never done it. Share his apple. That was friendship. Real friendship, not brotherhood, not companionship forced by the circumstances. And for once he didn't recoil from it, for he trusted her not to take advantage of this little gesture.

And when the agitation died down in the tavern, and most of the knights had passed out or made their way back, he tugged at her sleeve once more, and they walked, tasting the silence, until they found themselves on the stairs leading to the wall. The night was almost agreeable; the icy polar wind had eventually settled, and a few clouds populated the sky. Stars shone brightly, their slight twinkling casting their benevolence to the humans below. Despite the fair conditions, Frances couldn't help but feel uneasy. Her dream about King Arthur and his knights had been running through her mind, the absence of Tristan haunting her thoughts.

— "How's the leg ?", he asked.

Frances seemed surprised.

— "Better, thanks."

— "Then quit fidgeting, woman, and ask already."

The young woman sighed, putting her hands on the rocks to take in the drop below, her cloak slightly bellowing behind her silhouette. What if this was just a dream? Her imagination dreading for her newfound friend, without any hand from above? The fears of a stupid girl?

— "Will you go back to Sarmatia?"

His breathing seemed a little heavier, such a contrast with the brief moment of silence. His lips were pursed, his eyes scanning the landscape that scarcely showed under the waning moon. There, standing like a shadow, he almost felt intangible. A ghost from the past. At last, his smooth voice graced her with a response. Words that seemed almost empty.

— "I wonder, sometimes, what is left is Sarmatia for me to find…"

It was a yes, as well as a no.

— "A Normand's response, as we say in my country."

Her little jest did not amuse him, for he was watching her intently. The eyes of a hawk, looking for the tiny mouse unlucky enough to cross its path. Frances wondered, for the umpteenth time, how he could muster such a commanding presence by standing still. As if, by the mere effect of staring, he could extract her deepest secrets. As if he projected his whole being, his soul into her. It was fortunate that she had nothing to hide from him. Except for now.

— "Why are you asking?"

Busted. She was so badly screwed, unable to sustain his questioning gaze. How could one lie to Tristan? It was close to impossible … especially when you were, in the first place, a terrible liar.

— "You asked for a little warning next time. There it is."

Seing that she had his undivided attention, she told him of her dreams, and the turmoil it created in her mind since the scene refused to be forgotten. Tristan nodded in understanding; he wasn't one to dismiss unnatural things as sorcery, especially when it came to his little fairy. Her skills as a seer had saved Dagonet, after all. Then, something akin to acceptance shone in his eyes, their colour almost grey under the timid moonlight. The scout took a step closer, capturing her in his gaze.

— "Frances"

And the name rolled on his tongue like silk on bare skin.

— "Yes"

— "If you face a choice. Don't save me"

Frances braced her hands on the wall, trying to rein her breath. His words struck something deep within her, the horrible sensation of a future already set. A fleeting vision of a bloodied battlefield slammed into the darkness of her mind, and she closed her eyes. Tristan wasn't done yet, she could hear it in the tone of his voice. Any interruption would ensure he'd never explain his revelation. And she needed to know why he was so prone to accept death. The scout's eyes were on her still, the warmth of his body nearly tangible by her side.

— "I'm broken, not fit for a life apart from fighting."

There not much sadness left in his voice, only acceptance. And this, only, broke her heart in tiny pieces. Turning to him, Frances took a step closer to be able to meet his eyes.

— "But you would name your children, right ? I know you would."

Her hands were trembling and she closed them into fists to prevent him from seeing how this discussion affected her. She shouldn't have bothered, for Tristan's eyes were lost in the darkness., far beyond the wall, far beyond the land.

— "I'll beat them as well, probably. Naming them doesn't mean loving them."

— "Tristan"

His name came out as a plea, and she tentatively reached for the sleeve of his leather. The scout swatted it away with an angry move, staring at her with fury. With his height, he towered over her easily, and she could nearly feel how his body simmered in angst. Frances' body tensed, ready to flee as if under attack. She forced it to relax to face him squarely.

— "I am ruthless enough to have killed my best friend, Frances !"

Why did he want her to see him like a monster ? Was it what he though of himself, or did he just want her to step away ? Frances, though, refused to hear such stupidities. Thank Dagonet for filling her in on this episode. The young woman breathed in slowly, trying to find the right words.

— "What you gave Bedivere is priceless, and this is why he asked you and no other. You have done for him what you would have wanted for you."

The scout froze in his tracks, his menacing posture melting under the fierceness of the little fairy, under the strength of her trust. That name… Bedivere. The knights avoided speaking it in his presence, they knew how deep the scar in his heart. Tentatively, Frances offered her hand once more. Her little fingers trembled, and she kept her gaze firmly fixed upon it until he relented and squeezed her hand. The contact was not as foreign as it used to be, comforting, even.

— "Your heart is in the right place, Tristan", she whispered.

The knight scoffed at that, his tone bitter as he muttered back.

— "Apparently not"

— "What ?"

Would she ever grasp the stirrings of his heart ? It didn't matter… no, it didn't. Especially if he was about to die. Rest, at last. Peace, perhaps ? Squeezing her hand one last time, he forced himself to let go and look into her wide eyes. Never before had he spoken so much, but he needed his message to get across.

— "You don't understand, Frances. I won't ask you to. Just make the right choice when the time comes, the choice that makes the most sense for the future and this damn island."

The rest of his sentence was left unsaid. 'Even … even if you make me feel alive again.' But he kept that information for himself; Tristan didn't want to burden the little fairy. Not with his well-being, not with his peace of mind. She had given so much already, to him more than others. Companionship, understanding, a little magic whenever her voice called to him … a vision of beauty when she laughed, hope… His brothers as well deserved her care, her dedication.

Suddenly, Frances invaded his personal space, her face inches from his, anger shining in her eyes. Or was it tears?

— "Don't say that! Damn it! I don't want to hear it!"

Her fists shook, her breath coming in short rasps. The fit of a woman who could not accept the truth. Eventually, she would have to shed the veil, and take a proper look at his damaged soul.

— "I only state the truth. Can you not see?"

Her eyes narrowed, her hand tentatively reaching out to touch his chest. His heart beat beneath her palm, a strong thud thud that reverberated through her open fingers. Warmth spread at her contact, a strange sense of belonging that he never thought he would feel.

— "I see a good man, Tristan! A broken man, but a good man nonetheless. For once, you are the one who is blind."

The words flew his mouth before he could filter them, and he cursed himself when her eyes widened.

— "If you'd stayed to keep me in check, maybe I'd been a better man."

The young woman staggered as if he had run a sword through her chest. They both knew she couldn't stay, and this discussion was getting too close to home. He needed to backtrack at full speed, to take her mind of the revelation that had slipped involuntarily. Tristan stepped back, putting distance between them as he tried to embed the notion into her thick skull, calling forth the rage born from his damaged soul.

— "You cried over those people, Frances. I didn't. I didn't even feel the need to!"

At the mention of the burnt village, her face turned shameful.

— "None of you have cried over it, Tristan!"

The young woman shook her head, refusing to relent. Damn her stubbornness!

— "You're all broken, don't you see? Even Galahad, especially Galahad"

Her words struck a chord; she was more perceptive than he gave her credit for. Granted, most would rather stay blind than see the truth. He wasn't used to people observing so acutely. This is the reason why, instead of storming off, he accepted her plea.

— "You just show it differently. This world is too violent for you, Tristan. I wasn't subjected to the same hardship, so we don't have the same level of sensibility. But I think you are the most sensitive of all of them, hence your harshness."

— "I'm the most ruthless of all."

How impressive he could have been, if he'd stood tall and proud, his eyes impassive, his mask carefully in place as he said those words. She might have fled, been scared away. But for once, he wanted to be seen. Her hazel eyes, enlightened by the moon, told him that she did. And then, something extraordinary happened. She wrapped her arms around him, laying her head upon his chest, her touch light as a feather. And there was nothing else he could do but embrace her back, his heart hammered so strongly that his breath came short.

It felt incredibly good, to be held without expectations, her warmth permeating through him, the soft curves of her body welcoming his strength, and weaknesses without judgement. Her touch was almost shy, but she held fast. For the first time in ages, Tristan's muscles relaxed, accepting the comfort like a gift given by the Gods. Inside his head, a little voice was screaming to release her that it was inappropriate since she was another man's betrothed. But when she pulled away, it took all of his strength not to gather her back in his arms and lever let go. The coldness of the air after her sweet presence riled him up.

— "Tristan" she said softly. "You've set walls around your heart to prevent yourself from going mad! It's a coping mechanism."

A sudden surge of anger crushed his conscience, and he grabbed her arms strongly.

— "Am I not? Mad? Look at me, woman. Tell me I am not mad!"

When he talked to Bedivere, saw him even, wasn't he entirely mad ? The ghost of his friend haunted him, and many more. Where was his snanity now ? Gone… gone with the wind, gone with the flow of the rivers. Way beyond Rome. His fingers crushed her soft flesh and he knew it would leave marks. Wasn't it demonstration enough? His inability to control his emotions, right there, right now? Frances met his gaze squarely. Albeit he could see the panic in her irises – he was powerful enough to kill her in a heartbeat – she did not back down.

— "Anger is sadness in disguise, Tristan. You have accumulated sadness for a thousand years at least."

Something snapped in his mind, and suddenly, his hands released her. Aghast, he took a step back, hoping for the world that Frances' wouldn't sport the shape of his fingers upon her lovely skin. She should remained untainted, unlike him. Yet, the greatest of wounds were not to the flesh, albeit he sported so many scars they wove a pattern on his skin.

— "You know, at home, you'd be allowed to be cured. Maybe you could have a normal life. Plenty of soldiers have suffered from survival's guilt, and other syndromes. There are solutions now"

Tristan huffed.

— "Nay. I'm too far gone now. The scars, they'll never leave."

Suddenly, the rage was back, and Tristan yanked at her arm so strongly that she yelped. The scout narrowed his eyes, his sharp features smooth like stone once more.

— "Do not give me pity, woman!" he spat. "I'm content with scorn and fear."

A heavy sigh escaped her lips, and she turned away.

— "There is nothing pitiable about you, Tristan. Nothing"

And she strode away, leaving a bewildered scout behind. As she stepped down the stairs, an intense shriek startled the guards on post as a flurry of wings passed their heads none too gently.

— "Hey Lady Hawk!" greeted Frances, her voice laced with sadness.

Her dejected tone stirred him harshly; how he hated himself! The bird answered the lady with a slight squeak before it landed on his shoulder. Seizing one of his strands with her beak, she pulled at his hair in reprimand. At last, Tristan chased her away and sighed, his eyes set once more on the greys and dark shapes of the landscape.

— "I know, Isolde. I am a fool."

[1] Based on 'Sister act 2" Happy day version.