Nothing registered but the blur of pain. Voices came and went, so did her consciousness. Then came the heat wave, sending her to hell as her shoulder hurt so painfully it felt trapped below the tyres of a truck. Would anyone free her ?

Her body shook, and sweat, impairing the most basics of functions as her muscles were the prow of infection. The cracked ribs throbbed every time she shuddered, the slice on her calf merely stinging compared to the unrelenting waves of pain that came from her destroyed clavicle and shoulder blade. Crushed. That bolt had crushed her entirely. Every once in a while, a foul liquid was forced down her throat, one that made her gag and grimace. Then they manipulated her, and she grit her teeth strongly enough to pop them out, unable to yell such was the crippling hold of her searing pain.

Dagonet, ever watchful, made sure to care for her. He undressed her himself, and never allowed anyone to see her in her sorry state until she was covered from head to toe. He gave her armour to Lancelot so that he cared for it; it had saved her life many, many times, given the slices and indentations that littered the leather.

Sometimes, the other knights came to visit Frances, gazing at her pale face. The day Gawain was discharged, his wounds not life threatening, Galahad was swiping a cold cloth over Frances' forehead. A frown marred his features, his eyes unsettled.

— "She's been silent for three days. Three full days."

— "She's unconscious", the blond knight deadpanned.

Galahad frantically shook his head.

— "Not always. Why does she not talk? Or whimper? Or cry out? Have you seen the state of that collarbone? It is…."

It was Dagonet's voice that answered.

— "Gruesome. The healer has done its best to repair it, but she'll never use it properly. The bones are crushed, the muscles…"

— "And the scar will be horrendous."

Gawain's eyes roamed Frances' prone form, his face desolate. Her wounds were the worst of them all; knowing that it resulted from saving Lancelot's life left quite a sour aftertaste. But they were grateful for her sacrifice. Tristan's loss was already too much to bear.

— "Aye, that will be one hell of a scar. A warrior's. She's a tough lady"

At this, Frances' mind merely snorted. They would never need to know that when in dire pain, she was quite unable to voice anything. Control, to the last level of craziness, that her own body was forcing upon her without any possibility to escape it. Trapped inside her own body, unable to ask for help!

The voices faded in the background; she was too weak to make sense of it. And the searing tear of Tristan's death in her soul prevented her from ever wanting to be awake. Had Legolas been there, she might have nursed her heartache in his arms. But for now, no matter how deep her affection for the knights, there was no one to guide her to the light. Hence she plunged into darkness once more.

— "She didn't deserve it, to be shattered like this. She's shown me such beauty, a new path…"

Galahad's voice was wistful, devoid of anger. And his serenity took Gawain's breath away. As if the pup had eventually accepted the hardships of his life and decided to move on, to pardon.

— "What happened, Galahad?"

— "I think I found my faith. The day she sang the Ave Maria."

Gawain's blond eyebrows climbed to his hair line. Beside him, the young knight's gaze unfocused as his emotions revolved around an inner light. An illumination. A newfound purpose, to love and defend honourably, to follow the teaching of a benevolent God. One who would lead him on the path to righteousness. Arthur would help him understand this new belief, he was sure of it.

Another two days passed. Frances had regained consciousness for good, and moved back to Bors' room at the fort to escape the constant fussing of healers and visitors. She'd been, altogether, quite unresponsive to any friendly banter thrown her way. The only one who had broken her mask had been Lancelot and his heartfelt thanks. To his great dismay, his words of sincere gratitude had broken a dam of repressed grief, catching the knight off guard. Frances had dismissed him between sobs, telling him the shock of the battle was catching up with her, her words laced with a partial truth.

Yes, the battle had been gruesome. Yes, seeing all those bodies, those lives ended, some from her own hand, would haunt her forever. Just like Helm's deep did. But the root of her despair lied elsewhere. Guilt. Tremendous guilt due to her choice. Lancelot or Tristan. Tristan or Lancelot. She'd left Tristan to die, turning her back on him, leaving him to bleed out at the hands of that Saxon brute. Her dear friend, the light fleeing his amber eyes as he expired, his chest stilling below her, a slight smile on his lips. And even more unsettling, the kiss they had shared atop his faithful stallion. This sent her mind in turmoil. Did she love him? Could one love two people at the same time? She'd promised Legolas forever and still yearned for him. It was as if she was split between them, one left in Arda, and another on earth. It didn't make sense.

Her anger at Merlin, for reminding her of her duties in the midst of battle, ate at her. A bottomless pit that could only fester. Lancelot was a great figure of the Arthurian legends, while Tristan was not. There had been no choice, really. But having Tristan' life in her hands, and dismissing it carved a bleeding wound into her soul. The worst she'd ever suffered, for this one was of her doing. Her responsibility. Unlike Legolas' separation, she'd been the instrument of doom, and hated herself for that. No amount of washing in the bathhouse could remove the stain on her skin, the feel of his blood seeping through her fingers, the stench of her choice.

After forty height hours stuck in her room, the young woman eventually asked some help to get dressed, and hobbled painfully in the paved street. People gave her a wide berth; they knew of her connection with the knights now, or couldn't handle her gaunt face. The Ice Queen was back; chasing away any poor soul who would have in mind to approach her. Her legs functioned uneasily due to her numerous wounds, but most of all, her stiff muscles. The fever had been high, and she'd stifled its last remnant with tablets of antibiotics she hid in her bag. Yet, it left her whole body aching from head to toe. And her whole upper left torso was a mess of shards and broken flesh. The pain crippling, only kept at bay with horrible draughts. And when she could keep it away no more, she overdosed on a little morphine to catch up on her much-needed sleep. It didn't help much; her nightmares were plagued with Tristan's reproaches.

This place, and its reminders, were horrible to her now. She only wanted to be gone, to forget. To sleep in the comfort of her blankets and soak in a bath. To run for miles and miles in the countryside and forget about the rest. To ice-skate indefinitely until she couldn't feel her toes anymore. To rest in Legolas' warm and soothing embrace. Why was she still here, facing the fort that nursed her failure ?

At last, the tavern came into view; Frances glanced at the knight's table. There were all here, drinking and eating, a little worse for wear, bruised and banged up. Not merry, no. But alive. All but one. There was no apple on the table, no dagger contest, no screeching in the sky. A surge of despair welled in her chest, her eyes misting over. Frances heaved, the deep breath sending a jolt of pain through her destroyed shoulder. It was just too much … too much. The young lady caught Vanora's stare, the redhead sporting an apologetic look at seeing her state. As she took a step towards her, Dagonet's hand landed on the waitress' arm, shaking his head.

When Vanora's eyes returned to Frances, she only caught sight of her back. The Keeper of Time had run.

How she longed for Tristan' unwavering shoulder to rely upon… Returning to the knight's dwellings, she let her steps guide her through the maze of corridors. Until she ended up in front of the round table oak doors. Arthur was there, alone, his mind lost in one of his many maps once more. Frances' panting and uneven steps called his attention, and he lifted his head to gaze at the intruder. His green eyes widened as he stood.

— "Frances."

His sudden move made her pause. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

— "I'm sorry, Arthur. I didn't mean to disturb you."

The former commander frowned slightly, before he strode around the table to join her.

— "Not at all. I am merely happy to see you well enough to leave you room. You gave us quite a fright."

His tall frame towered over her, but the young lady didn't lift her eyes to meet his. There was so much compassion, so much sadness in his gaze. Too much for her broken heart to handle. And she couldn't afford to lift her head anyway; her trapezius muscle would have her hide.

— "Would you care to join me for a while? I know maps to be your domain."

Frances nodded, her throat tight. His hand appeared before her, and she shakily took it. Warm, strong, too wide compared to Legolas' hand… to Tristan's.

The commander pulled a chair beside him over the map of Britain he'd been studying. A wince escaped as she sat, the heavy wound pulsating annoyingly from breast to hip. She'd need morphine soon. Concentrating her gaze on the map, Frances asked him the reason for his previous puzzlement. Arthur being Arthur, he was intelligent enough to catch her drift, and refrain from asking about her health. So together, they roamed the land of his unified kingdom. Pict territory, former Roman occupation, current villages… All of this, for him to govern? For this is what had been plaguing his mind. At last, a sigh escaped his lips as he reclined in his seat.

— "They want to make a King of me, Frances."

— "Good."

Even now, even there, even half dead, she managed to surprise him. Good. A simple, to the point answer with no diplomatic coating. His startled look must have shown, for she pressed on.

— "Do you not think so?"

Once more, he wondered why he should confide in her. After all, Guinevere waited for him in his chambers, quite ready to take that mantle. Would the Pict dismiss his doubts? Yes, probably. The woman had no issues being in a position of power, she was Merlin's daughter after all and had led her people against the Saxons. So why Frances? Especially in her state of … her sorry state. He'd never seen her so broken. Perhaps because she had never judged him, and supported him every step of the way. Perhaps because she told her truth without beating around the bush, without anger as well. Just the plain facts. She didn't push, didn't disapprove. For now, Frances waited, patiently, for him to organise his thoughts.

— "I don't think I have it in me", he eventually blurted.

Frances couldn't move to meet him across the table, her back as stiff as a board. But her eyes closed the distance nonetheless, pinning him in place.

— "That's the exact reason why it should be you, and no other. Anyone that craves power should never have it. You've led and inspired for fifteen years already. What are you afraid of?"

Arthur stood, pacing back and forth in the back of the room.

— "A King! That means another type of power than being a simple commander. Think of Marius, and the absolute power he held in his hands? What would prevent me from slipping away?"

Frances nodded.

— "Your fears are legitimate. Do you think you will be able to reassess your positions every once in a while? You have, after all, taken quite a U-turn from the last fifteen years."

— "And it took me many people to see it, because I was blinded. What if I make this mistake again?"

The lady seemed deep in thought for a moment, and when her gaze returned to him, a new fire was shining within.

— "Then name your counsellors wisely. Lancelot, for one, enjoys challenging you and will not be afraid to so do."

Arthur paused, chuckling to himself.

— "Very true. He never had issues biting my head off."

— "Because he is your friend. You trust him, as he trusts you."

As I hate him…

Arthur nodded, regaining his seat once more and setting his elbows on his knees. At once, Frances spoke anew:

— "Being King doesn't mean being all mighty. Take your knights, gain others in which you trust, ask them to steer you the right way, continue to heed their word at equality. No one needs to know what passes behind the doors of the round table. And I promise you, Arthur, that the world will remember you at the greatest king of history … on earth, at least."

Her rant struck him speechless, the air thick with her prophecy. He'd not forgotten her words, after her near plunge into the icy lake. She'd said he would make a great King. Wait, on earth ?

— "You've known great Kings … elsewhere?", he asked.

His question called a ghost of a smile upon her pale lips.

— "I have, even if I didn't get so see him crowned. He led his people for fifty years before the war, and will be the hell of a King."

Arthur dismissed the fact that fifty years seemed an awfully long time, and her claim that it wasn't on earth. At this point, none of this interested him more than the man she told him about. She was the Keeper of Time after all, and had probably counselled this great man just as she advised him today.

— "Tell me of him."

— "He was incorruptible, compassionate and selfless like you are. Not afraid to fight beside his kin, but unsure about claiming his heritage as King. A force to be reckoned with. Like you, he feared to be weak in the face of power. An unfounded fear, for I have never seen strength such as his. Aragorn was his name, and he served his people instead of bossing them around. He always was a King in my heart."

Arthur nodded, deep in thought, so Frances continued.

— "Arthur. The world needs your light, the light of your kingdom. As I told you, your principles will be remembered for ages. You need to accept your burden, as I have accepted mine."

Something in her tone nagged at his mind, until he eventually asked.

— "Is this how you lost your betrothed?"

Her hazel eyes lost focus for a moment, sadness and fondness alike pouring into them, the emotions so intense that he wondered how she could keep it bottled up.

— "Aye. This is how. And I know now, that I cannot abandon my duty."

— "Whatever do you mean?"

Her eyes turned to steel, trying, without success, to hide the deepest of scars.

— "It means that rather than running after my beloved, I've been called here. It means that, when faced with a choice, I chose to save Lancelot rather than…"

He understood, right then, right there, what she couldn't name. And his heart bled for her, hoping that never, he would have to choose between his men.

— "Tristan", he whispered.

Tears fell down her cheeks, tracing two deep lines that turned into rivers, until, at last, she covered her face with her hands. Silent sobs escaped her lips, the sound so heart wrenching that Arthur couldn't help but kneel beside her. How badly he wanted to crush her into a hug, but the horrendous wound prevented it. So, he only pried her hands from her face, and held them together tightly. Her pain echoed his so badly that his chest constricted.

— "I'll never thank you enough for Lancelot's life. And I grieve, deeply, for Tristan."

Frances shuddered and winced at the pain. Her 'so do I' answer got lost in her throat. Arthur's calloused hands drove circles on her flawless skin until she regained her composure.

— "If you wish, you can sing at his funeral. I think he would have loved it."

The young woman closed her eyes anew, taking deep breaths to handle the pain. Then, she nodded.

— "I don't know if I will be able to. There are so many regrets."

— "Aye. I've lost so many, and it becomes more difficult with those that remain now. For fifteen years, we've been together, seeing our numbers dwindle, our brotherhood knitting tighter each time. Loosing one of us now, after their discharge. It is bitter."

Frances sighed. Her pain was nothing compared to his; she'd known Tristan for a such a short time that she wondered how he'd made his way into her heart so abruptly. To deflect from sombre thoughts, she seized the opportunity to interrogate him on his plans. Arthur, then, turned to the map anew.

— "I will have to decide more official positions for them, of course."

— "If I may, Arthur. Your kingdom will need to be strong to be established at first. But I advise, in a few years, to give them leave to travel back to Sarmatia."

His shocked face said it all; Arthur didn't feel confident enough to part from the knights.

— "Explain your reasoning", he asked.

Frances bit her lip. Her back ached, her clavicle even worse, and there wasn't a comfortable position to dull the pain. Better to be here than mulling, laying upon Bors' cot.

— "I had a vision. They were reunited around the round table, a few years from now, all accounted for."

And her heart ached, because Tristan wasn't one of them. Her breath caught, and like the reasonable man he was, Arthur gave her a moment to gather her thoughts properly.

— "They served you proudly, as your friends and subjects. But your knights had families. Leaving them behind can only fuel guilt and anger. Mothers are waiting for their sons, fathers and sisters alike. If they return with your knights, they will be free of the Roman empire and servitude. If they miss this opportunity, your knights might come to resent Brittany, and their duties."

Her monologue unsettled him, so much that he slumped in his chair. There was no telling how terrified he was to start this new kingdom with a bunch of former enemies by his side. Frances reached for his hand once more, squeezing in reassurance, begging for him to voice his thoughts.

— "I thought I rode to my death but I didn't want it for them. But now… I need them more than ever."

— "Even Galahad?"

A glint of amusement shone in her eyes.

— "You'll be surprised to see how he has changed in the few days since the battle. But enough of Galahad. I will consider your advice. For now, I think I need Lancelot more than ever. Especially since a great part of my subjects will be woads."

The nickname caused Frances to smirk.

— "Guinevere will have you head if she hears you."

— "Picts. Sorry."

— "Old habits die hard. And I'm sorry you have to marry someone you don't love."

Her comment sent Arthur in deep reflection. He knew the reasons for Guinevere to seek him out, and even if he had enjoyed their little tryst, it didn't mean he wanted to marry her. She was arrogant, and conceited, her ability to love others than herself quite impaired. But she was Merlin's daughter, and held a lot of power in the Picts' tribes.

— "You know I have known love, and lost it. If this brings peace, then I shall gladly do it."

Frances eyed him curiously.

— "I admire your sense of duty, Arthur. You are right, and it irks me. Nothing short of a wedding can bring an alliance solid enough. And there can be affection and respect, if not love"

The future King certainly hoped so. Guinevere would need to grow up, fast, lest she became a hindrance rather than a partner in this new kingdom. But there was hope still.

— "Speaking of which. How are you going to handle mistrust between Britons and Picts? Have you thought of personal revenge? There are bound to be Picts formerly killed by knights, and likewise fathers and sons killed by Picts? Personal vendetta might be aplenty among the families left behind."

— "We will ban murder, for any motive. Revenge cannot happen within my kingdom without being punished."

The young lady acquiesced, a line forming between her eyebrows as she thought.

— "You will need to upscale everything you had here."

Arthur frowned, her modern speech losing him in meanders of questions.

— "I don't understand."

— "Here, you had your knights. Each of them with specific talents. Now, you will have to have different sections of people with those talents, reporting to one head of section and so forth. A Roman like organization."

The word felt sour in her mouth; admitting that the roman had done things right, despite her hatred for their decadence, was like a betrayal.

— "Yes. This is the plan, albeit I was hoping to have something a little more flexible. What did you have in mind?"

— "Have you ever thought about having a head of intelligence? Like an entire scouting section, but from within. Some inside spy?"

Her world faltered, and his green eyes met her disturbed hazel. Of course, Tristan would have been the best to overtake such endeavours. But the idea of internal scouts made sense. They might be able to prevent revenge affairs between Britons and Picts.

— "What about Dagonet? He's silent, reliable, people talk to him. And they won't be able to dispose of him easily is something goes awry"

— "Mayhap."

His thoughtful tone made her backpedal, fearing that she'd pushed her opinions a tad too much.

— "Or anyone else. You are bound to find skilled men and women that will want to serve your kingdom."

But it wasn't her opinion of his new head of intelligence that had silenced Arthur, for after a while, he lifted his head and gave her a soft smile, his eyes shining.

— "You'll make a fine Queen someday."

Frances fondled with her sleeve, her cheeks as red as her dress. She doubted Legolas' people would welcome her with open arms. Being a mortal, and condemning their beloved Prince to death wouldn't probably gain her brownie points.

— "Thank you, for your faith in me, but I'll never be Queen."

— "Are you not betrothed to a prince? Is he not destined to reign?"

Yes. There was a good excuse, thinking that Legolas was not the first in line. It would do, rather to explain that King Thranduil was immortal.

— "Something like that."

And no more was said about him, for she didn't want to explain the dilemma of her love life. They dined on the round table this evening, lost in maps, and strategies. Until Guinevere popped up in the room, half-dressed, and demanding that her betrothed was returned to her.

— "Oh it's you", she said as he eyes caught sight of Frances.

The Keeper of Time stood shakily; Arthur's arm offered to steady her.

— "Aye. It's me."

Frances did not know what to expect, and when Guinevere came to face her, she felt like stepping back.

— "I meant to thank you for saving Lancelot. He rescued me from Cynric, Cerdic's son. The Saxon proved to be more than I could handle."

The Keeper of Time froze, all her pain, her anger, her grief crystallising on this very woman who'd just admitted that the choice she'd faced was her fault. That the very reason why Lancelot had been there in the first place was to save her sorry ass because she had assessed her opponent badly. Frances' jaw clenched, her fingers digging into Arthurs forearm as he eyes stared coldly at the Woad.

— "You", she hissed, "you are the reason I took this bolt. Tristan died because of you."

Startled by this turn of event, Guinevere glared daggers at her accusations.

— "I fought to protect my people, you cannot blame me for your lover's death."

— "Guinevere!"

Arthur's outraged voice was drowned as Frances' free hand landed on the table with a deafening bang, the chock reverberating through her destroyed shoulder. White, hot rage coursed through her veins, the urge to leap at Guinevere so strong that she concentrated on the pain. Shaking with fury, Frances' tone dropped dangerously low, her rightful wrath simmering below the surface like a volcano about to explode.

— "It is your damn pride that leads you, Guinevere, and your damn pride that created that fateful choice. Your recklessness nearly killed Lancelot!"

The young woad's anger shone through her eyes, and she turned to Arthur. The commander took the hint; he was too tired to stand a fight between those two particular ladies.

— "You would be dead by Cerdic's hand by now, Frances. I only have ever defeated Tristan in battle, that Saxon was the worst opponent I'd faced. If Tristan couldn't…"

His argument was brushed aside, Frances' voice trembling.

— "I could have delayed him, could have stabbed him from behind while Tristan held his attention! No matter how skilled, you can't have eyes on two people at the same time. I'm fast and small… I could have…"

Both of Arthur's hand landed on her arms as he regarded her cautiously.

— "Or maybe we'd prepare your body to be buried. You can never know, Frances. Do not lay blame on a fellow warrior, for what happens in battle cannot be foreseen."

He was loath to reprimand her, but she was going too far. In his grief, Galahad often had tried to lay blame upon other's poor decisions to relieve the pain. It was a young warrior's trait, to look for meaning, to find an explanation. Until all senses got dumb and one could grow to accept the meaningless losses of war.

In truth, Arthur had a fair amount of respect for Guinevere who'd fought bravely, and some semblance of affection. He couldn't expose his future Queen to such accusations. Frances's eyes betrayed her disappointment, staring at him in disbelief before she closed her eyes. The young woman heaved once, the pain so clearly written on her face that he winced. Then she turned stiffly, glaring daggers at Guinevere.

— "Beware, Arthur. She is not what she seems to be. As for you, Lady Woad, be cautious not to bring a feud between brothers. Should you do so, I promise to be back to haunt you."

— "Frances", came the commander's stern voice.

The Keeper of Time left with a stiff nod, leaving an outraged Guinevere behind while Arthur mused on her words.

— "What do you think she meant by that?", he eventually asked.

— "I don't know. Come, she's angry, she's throwing accusations in the air."

As the little Woad tugged him to his chambers for a make-out session – no doubt – , the commander couldn't help but feel uneasy at the Keeper of Time's warning. Yes, Frances was young, and hurt. But wise beyond her years. And a seer. As for accusing Guinevere about her pride well … she wasn't entirely wrong. He hoped that, in time, he would be able to get his future wife to behave with more discernment rather than engaging a warrior too skilled.

If you liked it, please review ! It is so difficult not to know if people read, and like, or if I'm ignored entirely :p