Lancelot was wandering, feet echoing on the corridors' stone. He'd gone around the building a few times, and was now stalling in Tristan's empty room. He missed him, that damn scout ! They never exchanged more than a few words, but his watchful presence had always been there. He'd been part of the scenery, for fifteen years, and his death left a gaping hole in his life. Lancelot felt … unbalanced and exposed without Tristan.

He'd kept vigil over his body the past nights, and just wrapped him in a shroud. He owed it to the man, and would not forget his still, lifeless face. There had been nothing left of the man, Lancelot surmised, in this cadaveric rigidity. There would be no more than a memory left behind. And many knights who would have died if not for his watchful guard.

Lancelot sighed. Badon Hill had, surprisingly, only claimed one life. And what a life!

The funeral was ready, the breeze gentle, the sun shining brightly. How ironic that Tristan should be burnt to the ground on such a beautiful day. Even if he didn't laugh much, didn't hoyden around or express his feelings, the scout had been full of life. Like a cat, ready to strike, controlling every part of him, coiled like a string too taut.

And now, Lancelot had taken upon himself to complete the next task of devotion to honour his brother. To care for the woman left behind. He didn't want to face her, she who had taken a bolt to save his life because he was too engrossed in Guinevere to pay attention. The fiery woman who seemed to have lost her heart in the process.

He didn't understand the bond between the scout and the fairy – as he used to call her. She'd rejected him, the most charming knight, claiming she was betrothed … but he was sure Tristan had been in love with her. And she …? If he had lived, would Frances have caved under the pressure and abandoned her previous engagement? Or crumpled the scout's heart and left?

Who cared ? He was dead, now.

Lancelot knocked on Frances' door, and waited. There was a slight shuffle, and the young woman opened the panel wearily. A flash of burning anger flashed in her eyes, so intense that the knight recoiled.

— "Are you ready?" he eventually asked.

Stupid question. Who could ever be ready to bury a friend? The anger receded from her gaze, leaving two empty pools of molten chocolate in their wake.

— "Aye," she responded, voice dead.

She looked terrible, with dark circles under her eyes, bruises fading from purple to yellow, and bandages around her collarbone covering all her left side. But even more worrisome was the lack of light in her eyes. As if a part of her had died as well. He knew that feeling all too well; they'd all experienced it as they lost brothers in their fifteen years of service.

Lancelot offered his arm, for support as much as reassurance, and they made their way slowly. Frances seemed to hesitate, then took it. She didn't talk, she didn't smile, nor acknowledged anything that happened around her. A statue, unfeeling, unbreathing. The ice queen. At last, Lancelot gathered his courage.

— "How do you fare, Lady Frances?"

— "I've been better," came her clipped response.

That's it, he'd had enough. Turning to face her so that he could stare down, he almost yelled.

— "Well, that's the understatement of the century!"

His outburst made her flinch, and he regretted it at once. He'd never seen her flinch before a man. Not even when she faced Tristan in his full wrath. How far had her fiery mind fallen? But then, a spark ignited in her irises, something akin to anger that she flung right back at him.

— "What do you want to hear, Lancelot? That I'm struggling not to pass out from the pain? Do you want to heart how my heart is in shambles? My mind broken? Have you any other question?"

Gaping, Lancelot started walking anew. He had not expected this brutal honesty, and truth be told, it was a dire resumé. He knew women were prone to poetry in matters of the heart, exaggerating to have their way and create guilt in men's hearts. But Frances' words did not seek to elicit any response. It was the pure, honest truth.

— "Well, that's a start…"

The paved street seemed so much longer than usual; they progressed at a snail's pace with her injuries. The wound was gruesome; she did not deserve it. For a while, nothing more was said, until Lancelot felt brave once more.

— "It is a sad day for us, to bury one of our brothers again. Especially Tristan, who was the most skilled of us all…"

Frances didn't react.

— "Life has robbed us of many brothers, left many widows and girlfriends in its wake."

— "I didn't know you to be such a poet," came her flat voice.

Lancelot tightened his hold on her arm; that stupid woman refused to catch any of his lines! At last, she glanced at him.

— "Ask away, Lancelot, don't waste your breath on falsities."

— "What happened, Frances? You are so despondent! We knew it was a possibility, all of us. Tristan was a knight, he died in battle !"

Frances bit her lips, her eyes stubbornly set upon the ground. A wake of anger surged within him, her pain echoed to his. To the pain of losing so many brothers over the past fifteen years, or losing Tristan on the day he was supposed to be free. What was she hiding, that blasted fairy?

— "Why you can't look me in the eye?" he asked.

Silence. Lancelot set his hands upon her shoulders, and was just about to shake her when he realised his mistake. The dark knight dropped her as if burnt. He'd been about to hurt her again … she was in this state because of him! What was he expecting, a nice welcome when he should be dead? When she had lost the use of her arm in his stead?

Shame flooded him, and his anger took another route as he shouted.

— "Look at me! Frances, why can't you look at me?"

Something ignited in the young woman, and she lifted her head defiantly.

— "Because I sacrificed his life for yours."

Her low tones were scarier than anything else she could have done. Dangerous and deceptively calm, the same cold anger that Tristan used to summon. And the blow hit him just right.

— "What?" he breathed.

— "You heard me. I faced the choice to go to you, and take that bolt. Or go to him, and help him with the Saxon leader. I sacrificed him."

Lancelot's throat tightened uncomfortably; he'd been chosen over his brother by a woman who couldn't stand him. Deep uneasiness settled in his chest, cold dread running down his spine… Somehow, he was responsible for Tristan's death. That knowledge hurt more than the loss.

— "Why?" he whispered. "Why would you do such a thing?"

The young woman watched him, her eyebrows scrunched in despair, sadness pouring out of her like an overflowing river.

— "Because Arthur will need you."

Disbelief topped his anger.

— "What … so you know the future, now?"

— "I have been called for a reason. I think you were this reason, Lancelot."

Is that what she thought she was? A fixer of some kind? Arthur had mentioned praying to the Gods, and Frances being sent, but he didn't believe a word of it. Frances was flesh and blood, just like them, and obviously more unstable than he thought.

— "You are crazy!"

The young woman reached for his arm, and squeezed with more force than she should have been capable. That damn woman used her pain to fuel her strength … just like Tristan.

— "I wish I was! I wish I could have chosen differently. Such is my burden, and I hate it!"

Lancelot shook his head, he refused to believe a word of that bullshit ! And so, he channeled his anger in biting words.

— "You can only be angry at yourself, Frances! I didn't ask for anything, but Tristan did. Did you at least give him a night's pleasure?"

Smack !

The slap stung like hell; he deserved it. Deserved her wrath, for desecrating her and Tristan's bound. Anger slipped away, replaced by sadness that ran so deep that it infused the ground itself. But he wasn't about to apologise, Frances was a liar. To the knights, and to herself, if she thought she didn't love Tristan in the first place.

Who cared, it was all for naught; Tristan was dead. Dead and about to be burnt to the pyre. So Lancelot huffed.

— "I lost a brother too, and I knew him for fifteen fucking years. What right do you have to be angry at me, uh? I didn't choose, you chose for me."

Her eyes misted over and she nodded, accepting the truth if his words. Then, lips pursed, she started walking again, watching straight ahead.

The sun shone – traitor! – the trees were dancing in the breeze, calling them to the lush grass of the cemetery. But a dark cloud hung over her head as she hobbled uphill.

— "Tristan died because of me. Because I stayed, he shouldn't have been there."

Lancelot scoffed.

— "What about us?"

Silence. The young woman seemed to consider his words, his reasons for fighting alongside Arthur.

— "Tristan would have fought with us. Don't go down this road, Frances."

— "Which one?"

The question was genuine, for once, and Lancelot gave her a sideways glance.

— "Guilt. We'll all been there, with the numbers we lost. Tristan has, because of his little cousin. Of Bedivere. He never got out of it. But guilt never brought anyone back. What ifs are useless."

— "Still…"

The dark knight cut her off.

— "Just don't. And I'll have you know that Arthur has the monopoly on guilt anyway."

His jab should have brought out a laugh but none came. She was too deep in thought, too far gone to respond to his gentle jesting. So they walked in silence, and reached the others in their sad little cemetery.

On the hill, Arthur stared at the straw rolls that had been placed over Tristan's wrapped form, sharing a look with Guinevere. Lancelot bristled. Damn that woad for making his body yearn for feminine company in such a moment!

Frances's shaking form beside him grounded him, taking his mind off the dark-haired beauty and future Queen. When Galahad gave the burning torch to Arthur, Frances flinched, and clung to his arm fiercely. The fire caught. They all felt the same; the loss of hope as they purposefully disposed of Tristan's body. And since Frances had saved his life, taking the bolt for him when it would have landed squarely in his chest, Lancelot kept his arm looped with hers. No matter the wisdom shared, he couldn't deny that it ate at his insides as he considered the consequences of Badon Hill.

Guilt.

But another feeling replaced it soon enough. As the flames consumed his brother's body, Lancelot came to a realisation; Tristan's fairy had saved him for a reason. And if she was right – and not completely nuts – it meant he had a role to play in this new Kingdom. And so as he watched him burn, he swore to Tristan that he would serve that purpose.