Hey Folks ! So this comes directly across the latest chapter. I had to cleave it in two pieces because if was getting big. Last one before the battle and I have to say, I'm rather proud of this one.

Another day passed, another day of preparations for the battle to come. Apart from Arthur, none of the knights knew that Frances intended to fight. Or not. She still was unsure about the path to choose. Fighting alongside Arthur? With the Picts? Following the knights? Which was the road the Valar intended for her to take? The question roamed her mind all day long. When it wasn't occupied by Tristan. The scout had not shown at all during the day, and Frances found herself strangely bereft. She had gotten used to his silent presence by her side, but after last night… well, she wouldn't blame him if he never spoke to her again.

So when Galahad, Gawain and Dagonet invited her along to a training session in the late afternoon, she welcomed the distraction. They spoke of their future departure, of the grassy hills of Sarmatia, and the women they hoped to find there. Galahad even took the time to correct her posture with the bow, and show her a few tricks, especially since, being a woman, she held less strength than he did while shooting. He was sweet, so young in his manners, and so angry. But he treated her like the most prized of treasures.

Frances treaded careful, refusing a sparring match with her sword to prevent damage to her stitches. The gash was much better now, but the thread still pulled at her flesh. At worst, in two days, she should be able to rip them off if needed without dire consequences. Meaning, it would sting like bitch but not impair her fighting… much. As the knights demonstrated their skills – she was impressed, but after middle earth, nothing could faze her as much as seeing the elven twins spar – Frances gently, but surely stretched all her muscles. She aimed at improving her mobility, and getting her leg used to working properly again.

At last, it was time for dinner, and Frances wondered how Tristan would welcome her presence this very night. Would he ignore her entirely? Would he even show up ?

Since she rather liked the dress, she wore it again this evening. She'd be in breeches soon enough to fight, or flee. No. There was no way she'd leave Arthur on his own. Damn, she would be going to her death ! Stuck before a meagre mirror, Frances huffed, and pushed her hair back. Too bothersome to pin it in an elaborate do, and the heavy waves kept her warm. And hid a little of her too generous decolleteage – the only issue with that dress.

Frances arrived at the tavern on her own this time, her wobbly steps a little more assured even if the stitches still stung. The kight's table was full, and she hesitated before walking to her usual seat. Once more, she was proven wrong as Tristan accepted her beside him without a hint of tension. He had been roaming the countryside with her mp3 player, the music soothing him, bringing a smile to his lips. This device of hers really was incredible, and it gave him time to muse about their discussion. Until the blasted thing stopped functioning entirely... Would she be cross with him ? As she sat, accepting the bowl of stew from Vanora, he couln't help but spot her tense shoulders, and handed her a piece of his apple as a peace offering. Frances gave him the most dazzling smile ever, and he knew, then, that she wasn't angry.

After a quiet dinner at the tavern – most of the knights refused to repeat the hangover from their raucous celebration – lady and scout naturally made their way to the wall. Funny, how it had become their little habit in less than tree days. For a while, they stood in silence, each of them lost in their musings, replaying the conversation of the previous night. The reprieve was short-lived, as Frances scrunched her rose.

— "Smoke," came Tristan's smooth voice, confirming her suspicions.

And very soon the northern landscape lit up with dozens of campfires, sending a shiver through Frances's spine. The Saxons had laid siege, and with them came the moment of the ultimate choice. Shouts reverberated along the wall, the garrisons calling for Arthur Castus. Both scout and Keeper of Time stayed still, like two statues considering the future in the darkness. Very soon, the whole Roman garrison was standing against the wall, and one by one, Galahad, Gawain, Bors and Dagonet joined them, sitting on the steps, awaiting for Arthur to come. Lancelot was last, his dark eyes sparkling with something akin to bloodlust. The knight merely nodded to Frances and Tristan, the only ones standing, cutting quite a striking figure together. Dark braids and fiery waterfall swinging in the breeze to compensate the stillness of their silhouettes. When Arthur showed up, Frances couldn't help but snort at Guinevere. The young woman was hot on his heels, her Roman dress off her pale shoulder. Like there wasn't enough distance between their rooms and the wall to pull the strap properly. What a slut! Showing herself so blatantly in public! Ugh!

— "Sooner than expected."

Tristan's smooth voice was directed to Arthur. The commander nodded, trying to look dignified with his chemise slightly askew. Frances didn't react, deep in through. Both their calculation and estimations were short; the Saxons had been marching with the whips of their master at their ass. Merlin's words echoed in her head; this particular Saxon leader, aside from being completely nuts, seemed pushed by a malefic entity. Something akin to an enemy of the ascended. Possessed, perhaps ? It did not bode well.

The scout watched his commander and friend as his disgruntled features contemplated the inferno below: darkness, ashes, smoke and fires. Then his gaze turned to the villagers down the wall, all expectant faces, all of them looking up to him. And they were right; there was no better man than Arthur, no one who would defend them with more heart than he. And his knights. His beloved brothers in arms, his only remaining family. Tristan noticed the dejected look in his eyes as he wished them a long a fulfilling life. As he said goodbye.

He'd known it all along, of course, that Arthur wouldn't leave with them all. His continued meetings with Merlin and the Keeper of Time had taught him as much. But to hear it, to witness the pain it caused him, this steered something in Tristan. The look of surprise on the other's faces, though, was heart wrenching. As Lancelot ran after Arthur, hoping, maybe, to sway his mind, the scout realised how close the commander had become. They nearly were of even age, the two of them. They'd struggled together to keep the knights safe, and failed spectacularly, together as well whenever a new burial mount had to be built. To see him walk to his death because of that stupid goat of a Woad, well… It fuelled his anger. And he knew another blow to be coming, for Tristan had no shortage of intelligence.

The scout turned around, and slid down the steps to escape the crowded wall. Sharing a knowing glance with his brothers, he addressed them as he passed.

— "I'll see you tomorrow."

With one gesture of his hand, Frances followed him to the deserted stables. His strides were wide, his pace fast as his long legs covered the distance, not caring about the lady that matched him step for step, ignoring the pang in her thigh. His feelings were getting the better of him, his heart all over the place. All those years for nothing! To abandon the Britons to the Saxons! All his fellow brothers dead, his commander soon to be. And the fairy, the most recent light in her life, to be extinguished as well by the burning blazes?

At last, he made it to his mare's stall, and turned so abruptly that Frances almost bumped into him. The dim light painted her in the darkness, her cheekbones and full lips defined by the orange glow of the torches.

— "Anything profound to say, little fairy?"

— "We're screwed?"

Her attempt at humour chafed him the wrong way, albeit her choice of words was rather feisty for a maiden. But she was avoiding his unspoken question, and he ground out. Surely, she could give him more information than that; the little fairy had a knack for understanding the big picture.

— "Anything else?"

She sighed so profoundly that her chest shuddered. In her hazel eyes danced more than the flames of the torches, their depth almost black in the night. Regret, sadness, longing. At last, she whispered a few words for his hears only.

— "There is not much I wish to say, expect goodbye, my friend. I might see you in the afterlife."

At once, rage fuelled his body as his hands grasped her biceps. Frances winced at the harshness of his grip. The damn woman was going to launch herself in the middle of a fight she couldn't win! Startled, she lifted her wide eyes to him in a silent question.

— "You cannot, Frances. You simply cannot!" he growled.

His patience was running low, his control ebbing away for the first time in years. He was weak, tame, and depending on another's well being fuelled his rage even more. Stuck in his painful embrace, Frances tried to jest.

— "And leave Arthur on his own? Please! He'll get killed. That man had no sense of self-preservation."

This time, anger got the better of him as he shook her, yelling in her face.

— "This is no game ‼! Don't you see? This is your end!"

His hands trembled on her forearms such was the depth of his wrath. Fifteen years of killing, awaiting his freedom, the damn papers that now sat on his bed! It was supposed to be a blissful day, the first day of the rest of his life. A life with no shackles nor captain. All of it in shambles! He'd longed for it, yet didn't care once it was in his grasp. His heart was in pieces, his mind at his breaking point. Perhaps his nerves were failing him, now that the pressure had lessened. Now that he was free. But instead of relief, he got … he didn't know what he got. More death? More heartbreak and loss?

Stuck in his unrelenting grip, Frances met his gaze squarely.

— "I am not afraid of you, scout."

Her whole body shook now, her eyes challenging, her mind wary as she calculated his next move. She knew he was stronger than her, and more skilled in combat. She was at his mercy.

— "You lie," he said slowly, lips curling in distaste.

Frances shrugged.

— "Yes and no. My body considers you a threat, especially in your rightful anger. But my mind refuses to do so. I trust you with my life, Tristan."

His name rolled on her tongue so smoothly, her accent making it softer. Then her hands came to rest upon his wrists in a strangely soft gesture. For a sweet moment, Tristan closed his eyes.

— "If this is my end, then so be it, Tristan. Everything I have done here had led me to this moment. I do not deserve your anger."

Suddenly, she twisted both of his arms in a forceful move – courtesy of self-defence training at Interpol – and twirled away from him. She's used an unknown trick to free herself, her eyebrows lifted up in a smug expression.

— "I am not as defenceless as you think. I've fought bigger men, stronger men than you, monsters even. The sword is not the only way."

The scout suddenly deflated, swallowing the lump in his throat in hopes to free his chest from the weight that crushed it. It didn't work though, and he straightened his back to tower over her small frame. She was so tiny, so small compared to him, but she let him close the distance. He knew – with pride - that she could be dangerous even unarmed. His anger had not abated yet, and he considered how to solve this riddle.

— "You infuriating woman, I'll lock you up. In the fortress"

Frances shuddered.

— "Please, you know better than to keep me there, my fate would be worse than dying on the battlefield should the Saxons prevail"

Tristan's mind suddenly went blank, blood draining from his face. She was right, damn it! Better to die in battle than to be left behind, offered to the conqueror for raping and beatings. As a woman, there would be no mercy, no respite from her fate. Especially with her beautiful body! No. He couldn't fathom a man laying his hands on her! The solution popped into his mind like a snowball on Galahad's face.

— "All right. You win"

Frances' eyebrows met her hairline, her eyes wide with disbelief. Had she missed the smirk that adorned his lips ?

— "All right? You accept it?"

— "Yes. You will fight. So will I"

Blam! He'd launched his own attack, and it landed true. The young woman staggered backwards, right hand flying to her chest, her body bending as if pierced by a spear.

— "No…" came her haunted reply. "No. Please, no"

The satisfaction to have prevailed their little verbal joust was much hampered by her distress. But at least, his freedom would be put to use; he'd be here to protect her from harm.

— "Well. If you are stubborn and want to get killed, I'll fight beside you."

It was her turn to shout at him, but her anguished yell held no anger, only despair. Never before had someone pronounced his name with such emotion. Never.

— "No, Tristan, no!"

Her face had paled considerably, so much that he feared she might collapse. She was still staggering backwards, her breath stolen, and her eyes seemed to mist over.

— "You're free! Damn it, scout! Like hell I'm going to lead you to your death!"

— "Don't flatter yourself, I am deciding of my own free will. As you are. There is nothing you can do."

Struck speechless, he could only contemplate the look of utter devastation on her face as she looked for support, her arm flinging wildly by her side. He couldn't possibly fathom why his decision caused her such distress, but the effect was daunting.

— "I'll beg you if I have to"

The words barely registered in his mind before she fell to her knees, wincing as her bent knee pulled at the stiches. Horrified, the scout couldn't move, his eyes locked with her wide pleading ones.

— "Please. I beg you. As my friend, as a free man, as a Sarmatian's chieftain. Do not…"

Her voice broke with emotion, and Tristan's chest constricted painfully. Her show of respect stunned him; had she no pride, to kneel before him like a slave to its master ? In his fifteen years of service, he had never accepted such humiliation. But to see her, dejected, her eyes brimming with tears as she literally BEGGED… He just couldn't handle it. So he extended his hand.

— "Don't do that, little fairy, I'm not worth it"

Her eyes coloured with anger.

— "Tell this to your tribesmen ! Tell this to your father. Tell them that your life is not worth begging for !"

His voice wavered slightly, and Tristan's tongue darted over his lower lip, his arm trying to reach her.

— "Not by the Keeper of Time"

— "By anyone !", she shouted, before her voice became just a whisper. "Anyone, me included."

Frances' haunted eyes tore at his heart, her trembling more obvious now. Eventually, he approached her like a wounded animal, setting his hand on her shoulder, keeping the rest of him inaccessible in case she retaliated. His calloused fingers came to rest upon the creamy skin of her collarbone, where the dress dipped to reveal her beautiful curves. The contact shook her out of her painful trance, and she barely gave him a glance before grasping his hand. The scout heaved her weight easily, and was thus surprised when she launched herself against his chest.

Tristan was so tense that he barely refrained from pushing her away. But her intention was not to harm. Crushing him in a tight hug, she buried her fiery head in his tunic without shame. The long waves of her reddish hair fell on her back like a curtain, shielding her from his eyes as his arms shyly surrounded her. The knight was aware of the very few layers of material that separated them. His shirt only, and her dress; his leather vest, opened, enclosed them in a cocoon of privacy. Not so much, for a man used to wear a heavy armour all the time. Her shaking caused him to embrace her fully, hoping to share his body warmth. It was for naught, though, as her trembling had nothing to do with the cold. She was warm against him, eyes squeezed tight, like a child who refuses to see a painful scene, her grip insanely strong. Once more, Tristan could only marvel at the sensation of her body against his, and he brought his arms a little closer, his embrace a little stronger, her hair tumbling over his sleeves.

— "This is full-scale battle, Tristan.", she mumbled in his chest. "We're outnumbered so badly it feels like Morannon[1] all over again… There is only one way it can end!"

The young woman pulled away slightly, and Tristan stared in her eyes. She was so close, her breath fanning upon his collarbone. Surely she couldn't care for him the way he cared for her ? What would happen, if he dipped his head and… ? No. He needed a distraction.

— "You survived, last time, didn't you?", he said.

— "It was different," she breathed, taking a step back.

Out of reach. Disappointment had no time to settle as she snaked her fingers around his face. The scout froze, a moan stuck in his throat. Tristan was not foreign to a woman's touch; plenty of tavern wenches had dared doing so. But her caress was so different, so shy, so full of light. Reassuring and very soft, like a feather upon his skin. His whole body sagged when she let go; how he longed to kiss her truly, his own lips caressing her tongue, grazing her skin. It took all of his restrain not to give in to the urge. He would lose her respect and her friendship. No matter what happened, he loathed the very idea of her walking away. So he endured. She was silent now, her eyes unsure, arms crossed on her chest. For sure, they didn't hide the comely swell of her cleavage.

Tristan swallowed nervously. He needed a distraction.

— "What happened?" he eventually asked.

Frances gulped, her gaze getting lost in the memory. He knew that look, he'd seen it many times on his brothers' face, and probably sported it himself from time to time.

— "I should have died. Our odds were terrible on Morannon. 6,000 against 60,000 at least, if not more"

Tristan addressed her a shocked look. He'd never witnessed such a full-scale battle in all his years of service.

— "60,000", he whispered, disbelief laced in his voice.

Not that he didn't believe her, but such an army… There were talks, legends about the Persian that attacked the Greeks a long time ago with numbers equivalent to those. And to think that his little fairy had stood amongst the tiny group, facing those odds… A shiver ran down his spine as she went on:

— "Aye. I lost the count. I would have died if… Legolas had not sent me back to save my life. But he couldn't join me, he would die in on earth, so I went back home, alone, and the magic repaired me so that I could live. This is why I have no scars"

Her could almost hear her heart break as she struggled to recount her tale. His hand squeezed her shoulder gently. He was starting to wonder if Frances' betrothed wasn't dead. For how could he possibly survive such odds? Tristan wasn't one to sugar coat reality, and for once, he almost wished he did he knew how to. The words came out before he could attempt something more diplomatic.

— "Are you sure he is alive?"

The young woman sent him a harsh glare; he didn't blame her fit of temper. Removing his hand from her shoulder, he saw her body shiver. Her statement, though, only called incredulity.

— "Yes, he lives still. We won the battle."

— "How?"

This time, a slight smile quirked her lips. Good. If she was getting her wit back, his heart would stoop bleeding for her.

— "A friend cast a ring into a volcano."

— "Eh?"

Frances smiled frankly at his disgruntled face. What kind of an answer was that?

— "Long story short. The ring was a magical token. Big evil 2[2] was eradicated, the beasties working for him got lost in a massive earthquake. And I lost my beloved,"

Tristan frowned deeply. She was reverting to her odd manner of speech, and he didn't understand half of it.

— "Beasties? What are you talking about? And why couldn't he join you?"

Frances's nose scrunched slightly, the way it did whenever she was concentrating on something. It was amazing how her facial expressions were so easily readable to him, how she didn't hide from his questioning gaze. Her mask has slipped many nights before, only to return whenever others showed up. In public, she was the Keeper of Time. With him, just Frances.

— "The dark lord's legions were not human, hence the beasties. As for Legolas, his physiology is not adapted to earth. The magic of his home place is what allows him to live. I know he didn't get hurt in battle, he is honestly next to unbeatable. But he might fade away from my absence"

Tristan's sharp intake of breath told her he was shocked beyond imagination. She wondered why she had thrown all those notions in his face. Of course, he wanted to know. Deserved to know, even. But he was a fifth-century warrior; how much could he take before mental breakdown? Honestly, not that she thought about it, the nervous breakdown was probably already accounted for. His eyes were boring holes into her, searching for fallacy, and finding none. The scout seemed to ponder whether she was absolutely nuts before his curiosity won over.

— "Frances. What kind of place on earth was that?"

— "Not earth. Another world, Arda. Created by the Valar, the people I indirectly work for."

Tristan nodded, and Frances marveled at the flexibility of his mind. His next question, though, puzzled her. Trust the scout to find the capital information.

— "And your betrothed is there…. Is he even human?"

A sigh escaped her lips. How she missed him, her bright Legolas, in this despairing world! How she longed to have him by his side in this battle, his twin blades twirling around to deal death to his enemies. Modern earth was a hard place to live in. But fifth century Briton came close to her personal hell. But even with the gaping hole resting in her chest, she was lucky to have found Tristan. Somehow, he soothed the ache a little.

— "No. Legolas is no human. He is an elf, and has seen more than five hundred winters already; I just hope he doesn't die because of me."

— "An elf…"

— "Yeah. Immortal, weightless – he can walk over snow – agile as a cat, a badass warrior. And his skin glows, yes. Like a beacon of light"

Stunned by her revelations, Tristan let her go. And she drifted away from the stall, lost in her memories, the cascade of fire brushing her hips. The gait of a princess, for aside from being an immortal being, Legolas was a prince. There was no competing, how could he? Out of respect, he would not seek her out, even before death. She deserved better than him, and had found it. It was just a matter of keeping her alive so that she could get back to her elf. One quick glance in the stables told him that she was gone.

Tristan's hand roamed across his horse's flanks, fingers grazing at the soft fur in a soft motion. The scarce light gave him some space for thinking, the graceful caress soothing his mind. Time seemed to flow, and Tristan knew he ought to get some rest, but his thoughts refused to relinquish control. All this time, he'd thought Frances a fairy, but he understood now. Her betrothed was the fairy, she only being his intended. A princess to his kingdom, she would become. The warrior sighed, his chest tightening at the thought of her married to another. He, for one, was not worth her affection. When she would leave, he'd get back to his lonely life, with animals as companions. Speaking of which, he wondered where his hawk was, and his eyes lifted absently to the window.

— "Tristan"

The scout almost jumped, startled by Dagonet's greeting. The older knight frowned slightly; he'd never been able to sneak up on Tristan. This was the first occurrence, and it worried him greatly. Should he talk to him about what he'd overheard as they yelled at each other? Or let him brood in solitude? Eventually, the tall knight made his decision.

— "I'm sorry that her heart lies elsewhere. It is not often that you find your match."

Tristan snorted derisively.

— "She outmatches me by a world, and so does her betrothed."

Self-loathing and despair. How had it come to that? Dagonet's eyes shone with determination as he came close.

— "Surely not on the battlefield"

— "Do not be fooled, Dagonet. I think this creature of hers could kick my ass to hell and back."

Dagonet shook his head. He didn't understand why Tristan would mention her intended as a creature, but the expression surprised him.

— "To hell and back?"

A trademark smirk graced Tristan's expression, but even in the faint light, his brother knight could see how strained it was.

— "So she says. An expression of hers"

— "She has the utmost respect for you," he stated, remembering the daggers Frances had glared at Galahad at the tavern.

Tristan's hand paused on the flanks of his horse, and he rested his braided head on the animal. He'd never seemed so tired, even after days of scouting. Silence stretched, and Dagonet was about to take his leave when the scout's voice stopped him in his tracks. It was muffled, and not once, Tristan lifted his head to glance at him, as if, hidden in the embrace of his horse, he could voice the unspeakable; his feelings.

— "She does not see her worth. Her light, her mind, her spirit; everything about her outmatches me. Should I live ten hundred years I'd never reach her wisdom and depth of heart. I hope she finds her sun, so that she can be happy. I… I could only bring darkness in her life."

There was so much sadness in Tristan's usual smooth voice that Dagonet felt like cursing the woman. But he couldn't; she was everything that Tristan said, and even more. Frances couldn't fight her nature; she was a beacon of kindness in this harsh world. No wonder that people were burnt by her flame, especially one so deprived of brightness than the scout. Eventually, Tristan straightened, and his usual aloofness shone in his amber eyes once more.

— "I can't have her, Dagonet. Not now, nor ever. She has given her heart, and I will abide by her wishes."

The tall knight nodded; new respect found for his silent comrade.

— "Yet you will fight with her?"

— "I will fight to ensure she gets to reunite with her soulmate. At least, she will have a chance to be happy."

The rest went unsaid. Tristan craved no happiness for himself; he didn't deserve it.

Frances' wobbly steps led her away from the stables, her heart clenching in pain at the realisation that she might never see Legolas again. If she died tomorrow, she could only hope that Aragorn and the Greenwood people would manage to lessen the blow. Would King Thrandhuil manage to fill the gap ? Her thigh ached from all the walking, a stitch had ripped as she followed Tristan's hasty retreat to the stables. Tristan… Frances lifted her eyes to the starless sky. Would the Valar hear her prayer? To prevent the scout from falling in battle, because of her? Wasn't it enough to lose her betrothed? Would destiny be cruel enough to seize the scout in its clutches as well?

Too tired for anger, the young woman could only taste the irony of her plight. One knight she saved, another one she condemned. Suddenly, a hand landed on her arm. Whirling around in a flurry of skirts, the young woman twisted her attacker's wrist and stepped back to give momentum to her move. The man stumbled on his knees.

— "Ow! OW!" he yelled as he collided with the harsh cobblestones.

Lancelot stared at her from the ground, his dark eyes rounded like saucers at the aïkido move she'd just floored him with. Releasing her grip, she pulled him to his feet hastily.

— "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Oh Gods, I'm sorry."

The dark-haired knight rubbed his abused wrist, eyeing the young lady with wary eyes. He'd never seen her so flustered, and he could swear that he's seen tears in her eyes. She looked exhausted, defeated. Not unlike his own frame of mind.

— "You are certainly more dangerous than I gave you credit for," he ground.

Her eyes widened slightly, and she dipped her chin, chastened by her actions.

— "Thank you. Er. Sorry, again. Do not surprise me, I have a few reflexes by now…"

— "By now…"

Lancelot mused on her words.

— "How long have you been fighting, Frances?"

She did the math in her head, starting from her internship at Interpol, to the missions through the stargate, including her time in middle earth.

— "Not so long, roughly seven years and a half"

Lancelot nodded, his eyes conveying respect to the woman.

— "Half of my time serving the Romans then"

— "Yeah. And yours it at end"

This time, the knight wouldn't fight the fit of despair that washed through him.

— "And you will fight alongside Arthur."

— "Yes"

It was but a whisper, one he couldn't help but overhear. Not that he ignored it; Arthur had told him so.

— "Come, Lady Frances. Let us get back to our quarters. Both you and I need some rest."

— "Yes. You wouldn't happen to know how to remove stitches, would you?"

His answer was a little tense, and she did not insist.

— "I'd rather not…"

— "Never mind, I'll do it myself."

Lancelot nodded, and offered his arm to the lady. For once, the knight didn't seem in a flirty mood, and it felt quite good, the little bit of human comfort that he gave her. Despite his womanising ways, Lancelot was a decent person. One that challenged Arthur tooth and nail, backing him in a corner more often than not, forcing him to dig deeper into his beliefs. His friendship was probably one of the reasons Arthur was the great man he had become today. They did not exchange pleasantries, nor idle chat about what was to come. Both of their hearts too heavy to converse about anything other than death, and heartbreak. Slowly, the dark knight and the lady passed through the fort, like a pair of shadows, ignoring the panicked people hurrying in the streets.

When at last, Lancelot let her go, Frances realised that she faced Bors's door. As he turned away, she stopped him by seizing his sleeve.

— "Thank you, Lancelot. You are a good man, a man worth knowing. I am glad I have met you."

His dark eyes widened slightly, before he answered.

— "Likewise, Lady Frances. You have my gratitude for saving Dagonet, and Gawain."

Frances bowed her head to him.

— "You will look after Arthur for me, right?"

— "I will certainly do my best."

And then, the knight bent forward, and kissed her. It was but a forceful peck, as quick as lightning, so much that she didn't even know what his lips tasted like. Lancelot smirked at her stunned expression, and turned on his heels right away. It took her a few seconds to react, an indignant shout echoing in the corridor.

— "Lancelot!"

Laughter answered her from afar.

— "Sorry. I had to do it!"

The sound of his footsteps disappeared as his door clang shut. That damn knight! He was insufferable, but she was glad to have been able to say goodbye. Albeit she'd preferred a hug to… this! She hoped Tristan would never hear of it… he might very well kill his brother in defence of her virtue. And Legolas… well, Legolas would probably laugh at her dumbfounded expression. The elf knew that her heart belonged to him anyway.

[1] Also known as the battle of the black gate, in the Lord of the Rings.

[2] Frances dubbed Sauron 'Big Evil 2' knowing that 'Big evil 1' was Morgoth, its master.