When Arthur turned to her, his face expectant, Frances could only shake her head in shame. Her throat was too tight, her tears flowing freely down her cheeks, unable to speak a single word. She couldn't sing, not here, not now… not ever, it seemed. And when the last ashes had dispersed in the wind, and a fresh mount of earth had covered Tristan's last resting place, his sword embedded within, Lancelot turned to Frances to drag her back to her room.

She shook her head, a silent plea, to leave her be for a while.

The knights fled the place where so many of them were buried, intent on getting drunk together this evening. For a while, Frances was forgotten. Many hours passed before Dagonet asked of her whereabouts, and the knights decided to search for her, all a little worse for wear, tipsy to fairly drunk. She wasn't in her room, nor in the tavern, nor in the bathing house. At last, it was Gawain who found her as he climbed the wall for a better point of view.

Frances was standing, motionless, beside Tristan's tomb. His sword embedded in the earth, his armour resting beside it, a mourning fairy by his side. The wind caught a few notes; she was singing. Her hair flew in the wind, so did her burgundy skirts. A lady of fire, for an unforgettable scout.

— "She looks like a Sarmatian wife," said Dagonet.

— "Aye, that she does," answered Gawain in awe. "Come, she cannot stay there after nightfall, she'll catch her death. And there's something I want to give her, if you all agree"

Expectant faces lifted up to Gawain, and he dragged his fellow brothers away from the wall.

The words flew her mouth easily; now that she'd stopped crying, it was easier to gift her present, this song, to Tristan in his resting place without people around. She wondered whether he was happy, or angry to be buried and burnt in this soil. And she couldn't fathom why she chose that particular song, but it seemed to fit quite well to the callous and strong-headed scout.

"Oh God, I apologise. I didn't knock when I arrived."[1]

"Oh God, I apologise. I didn't say goodbye last night. Oh God."

Frances sang the guitar notes, humming them in the wind, her voice a little rough from all the crying.

"Now I guess you have your way

As I taste the earth today."

"Now I guess you have your way

As I taste the earth today."

The last bit was sung at the higher octave, and she gave it all her strength, all her anger, releasing the control of her voice and nearly yelling them in the wind. She welcomed the pain it created in her chest, to sing so strongly. Anything to numb her mind, anything…

"Now I guess you have your way

As I taste the earth today

Yeah, Yeah"

Then she collapsed on her knees like a fallen angel. She was spent, but at least, some of her sorrow was expelled. How she hated that weakness that prevented her from singing at the funeral ! Arthur would think her a sentimental woman, and he'd be right. Tristan well… he might have understood, or snorted at her. He was… had been so impredictible, yet lenient with her. She wondered why his harsh words had so scarcely been thrown her way.

Lancelot's warning ravaged her mind still. Guilt, sadness, regret. Had she done what was expected of her ?

If she'd saved Tristan, instead of Lancelot, what would have been the consequences ? Damn, her head kept swimming with the pain medication; and for a while, she just sat there, too dizzy to stand. The sun was setting, it wasn't cautious to stay outside. Just as she was about to struggle to her feet, the knights appeared in the cemetery. Dagonet rushed to her side, propping her up and covering her shivering form with a cloak.

— "Your skin is frozen, Frances," he answered her startled gaze.

— "Good, it takes the pain away."

Gawain snorted, cursing about the blasted weather of this forsaken island, while Galahad smiled at her drunkenly.

— "Come on, Lady Frances. You will catch your death, and the whole point of surviving this battle would be lost."

— "I'm keeping company to the one that didn't."

Gawain, who seemed in a clearer mind than Galahad, knelt beside her, a bow in his hands. His startling blue eyes searched her lost gaze, and trapped her there as his soothing voice called her back to reason.

— "The best way to honour the death is to continue living. Tristan would be pissed that you throw your life way."

Frances scoffed, thinking of another elf that would certainly scold her for such a childish behaviour.

— "Don't be so dramatic. A cold is the only thing I risk out there."

Lancelot shook his head, refraining from mentioning wild animals, wayward Saxons and drunk men.

— "This is a dangerous place at night, Frances."

Her eyes widened at that, and she grabbed Dagonet's hand to stand. How many times had Tristan told her that this world was not the same at hers ? That dangers lurked about, ready to eat her alive ? She kept forgetting; as a child, she'd spend countless days and nights roaming the countryside on her own without worrying for her safety. Feeling self-conscious, she suddenly cleared her throat.

— "Anyway, I merely wished to pay my respects."

— "By freezing to death on his grave ?" came Bors's reply, his boisterous ways a little dampened by the alcohol.

His hands still held a mug of mead, and he reeked of it. Frances wondered how Vanora could handle it; maybe her sense of smell was impaired. Everything smelt bad here, from the damp moisture of the rooms, to half-rotten food, and the rancid fragrance of horses and sweat upon the knights. Ugh! Frances levelled Bors a glare before she answered.

— "By singing the song I promised, and failed to deliver at his funeral."

— "Well, then, you did, let us get going now. I'm freezing my arse here !"

Something snapped in Frances, and she shouted at him.

— "I'm not detaining you, you are free to go as you please !"

Bors was too drunk to keep his temper in check, and he yelled right back at her.

— "You are an infuriating woman ! I wonder how Tristan didn't kill you."

Blood drained from Frances' face, remembering the day he almost did. Remembering the loving and passionate kiss he'd given her before… before hell. Straightening, the young woman gave the knight such a withering glare that he winced.

— "How can you all look so unaffected ? Tristan is dead, protecting me, on the battlefield."

— "As you protected him" came Dagonet's calm voice.

— "As if he needed protection," came her derisive reply.

Somehow, Dagonet's intervention calmed Bors who merely grumbled in a corner. Seeing that quiet was restored, the tall knight turned to Frances.

— "I've seen you fight together, after his horse fell. It was…"

Before he could find the words, Galahad bounced at the memory, stumbling a little.

— "Incredible ! I've seen you too, it was like a dance. And I nearly got my head chopped off so I had to kill a Saxon, and many after that and I lost sight of you."

Lancelot snorted at that, a regretful smile quirking his lips.

— "Damn, I missed it."

— "You were too busy flirting with Guinevere, uh ?"

Her quip held a dangerous edge that Lancelot caught easily despite his inebriated state.

— "No lady, I was only saving her life."

Frances' quick wit was resurfacing, and he wondered if he didn't prefer when she was depressed. Galahad, utterly drunk, had lost the course of conversation and was mumbling in a corner, his eyes stuck on Tristan's Dao planted in his grave.

— "We never saw eye to eye, but he deserved a long life, maybe a wife, and children…"

Frances reached for him, a gentle contact on his arm in hopes to anchor him to reality.

— "You all do. But Tristan didn't want it"

Galahad dropped his head aside, his dark curls touching Frances' red waves as he rested his brow upon her shoulder. Dark and fire mingled for a moment of reverence shared over the fallen warrior.

— "Why do you say that?"

— "Because he said so."

A short moment of silence spread on the hill, the sunset sending its reddish colours to paint the worlds in crimson hues. All the knights reflected on that revelation, some of them wondering if Tristan had been crazy, or if his unimpaired vision of reality applied to them as well. At last, it was Dagonet who broke the silence, his strong voice carrying in the wind.

— "We all owe him our life, one way or another. Let us honour it."

Gawain stepped forward, shaking the pup to remove him from Frances' shoulder. The young woman exhaled a sigh in relief; his weight had been quite a strain on her sore upper back. The blond knight presented her with the bow he'd been holding to.

— "This is Tristan's bow. Will you care for it on his behalf ?"

Frances's breath caught in her throat, her chest painfully throbbing from the onslaught of emotions. Tristan's bow; one of his most precious belonging. And they offered it to her! She that could not shoot as accurately as them on foot, let alone on horseback. She could never measure up to the task of such a weapon! She didn't know how to string it, how to care for it, how to… A shrill cry pierced the air, and Frances lifted her eyes to the sky. Lady Hawk was circling the cemetery, once, twice, and eventually, a third time.

Isolde.

The bird left, powerful wings taking her away forever from her master and this forsaken place. Frances smiled, wishing a very fond farewell to the bird who's rendered all of this possible, by marking her trustworthy in the first place. It seemed like a lifetime ago, when it was, in truth, just a few weeks past. Gawain still held the bow, and Frances reached for it, her decision made by a bird.

— "Aye. I will gladly honour his memory. Thank you, Gawain. All of you"

The next month brought a change of scenery. Most of the wall's inhabitants had relocated, for the week, to the seaside in honour to Arthur and Guinevere's wedding. The former commander, and future King, had once more shown wisdom. After days of burials, and reorganising the fort to handle the losses, he had organised festivities to lighten up his people. They'd lost so much, and this little trip to seal his fate, as well at the Pict community, was welcomed heartily.

Frances, for one, wasn't one to complain. She had even been able to mount by herself, confiding the reins to Gawain, Galahad or Dagonet as they travelled. Leaving the fort behind, she couldn't help but sigh in relief. Tristan's memory was everywhere. In the tavern, in the bath house, in the dark corridors of the knight's quarters. Every time she saw a shadow, every time someone ate an apple, her heart clenched painfully. She couldn't accept his death. He'd been her anchor from the first moment she had set foot on this blasted island, in this blasted period.

And even though the other knights took care of her – she was grateful for it since she wouldn't do much on her own – she missed Tristan's constant presence. Anything she noted, she wanted to discuss with him. Every time she suspected something, or watched Guinevere's flirting with Lancelot, she thought of him. Her mind kept running in circles, refusing to acknowledge the absence of the scout beside her. Lady Hawk, too, had disappeared. It was her only consolation. They were both free.

She'd spent some time with Arthur, an awful lot, thinking, challenging his ideas, devising strategies for his future kingdom. Not that she would admit it, but it prevented her from spending too much time in the tavern. And the intellectual challenge helped her mind. More often than not, Arthur dismissed her proposals; too unattainable, too advanced, too difficult to enforce. Still, her input forced him to think outside the box.

Sometimes, too tired to work, they ended up drinking wine, and reminiscing. He usually dragged her back to her room, especially when Guinevere showed up. Still, Arthur couldn't miss that Frances was more subdued. Her usual wit was missing. The idea to marry on the seaside was as much for her as for the rest of his people. He couldn't miss how the mere mention of the Ocean had lightened up her countenance at once.

So when they camped near a village perched on a cliff, Frances knew what she had to do. For miles, the sea breeze had been taunting her, coaxing her to come closer, soothing her heartache. As soon as Galahad retrieved her horse, she set off for the coast. Taking the fisher's trail down to the beach, Frances breathed deeply. Her shoulder was still a mess; muscles and tendons having healed improperly, scars red and ugly on her upper chest. Albeit she couldn't lift her arm nor move it backwards, she didn't care much for it; it would all be repaired when she returned home. For the time being, it hurt like bitch and she was getting low on morphine. It gave her an idea, though, of what people suffered in this unforgiving world. At last, her feet touched the sand, the strong roll of the waves welcoming her.

Frances smiled.

She took her time, studying the currents, evaluating the tide – coming in – before she stripped to her shift and ventured into the endless sea. The waves were strong, but not strong enough to be dangerous. Of course, the ice-cold water – it probably wasn't over 13°C – caused the young woman to release a string of French curses. A huge wave suddenly came at her, and she met the wall of water with her good shoulder bent forward. The position fended the wave easily, the subsequent pain was more difficult to handle. Damn… was she going to die, crippled by pain ?

Fortunately, the icy water turned it soon to a dull ache. Frances released her hold on the ground, and surrendered control. The waves carried her around, trying to get her back to the beach, but she wouldn't let them. As time passed, moist filled her nostrils, the marvellous feeling of the sea surrounding her like a cocoon, its freezing temperature numbing the ached of her destroyed shoulder.

It would be easy to drift away into the Ocean, her senses numbed, until her body couldn't respond anymore and she sank into the waves.

For a long time, Frances allowed the sea to cure her ailments, until she felt that her life was ebbing away. The intense cold was seeping into her bones. The water dragged her to the shore, its gentle caress warning her that, if she didn't wish to live anymore, it would swallow her whole. Why not, after all ?

The Ocean would take care of her.

And up above on the cliff, a white sorcerer and his daughter watched the lone form, just a slender woman flickering in the waves.

— "What is she doing ?", Guinevere asked derisively.

— "Bathing".

The young woman snorted at the deadpan reply.

— "There must be a more efficient way to do it".

Merlin gave her an eyeful she knew well; the same scolding look she used to receive as a child when she had done something awfully stupid.

— "You have fine eyes, yet you do not see", he responded laconically.

This was a lesson, like many he had taught her before. But try as she might, Guinevere couldn't make sense of Frances' plunge into the sea.

— "I do not understand".

Her humble tone caused Merlin to nod.

— "The sea holds great power. It washes sins and hurts, provided you ask for it. Like the earth, it hums with infinite power".

Squinting her eyes to see the small form of the injured woman down below, Guinevere wondered what she might have missed. Picts were taught in the way of earth and water, of fire and air. Even if she was a warrior, the future Queen couldn't ignore what beliefs governed her people.

— "Look how she doesn't go against it", Merlin spoke again. "The power is too great, so she navigates it without going head on. As Arthur's wife and representative of your people, you will have to learn to yield and relent".

Indignation suddenly swelled in Guinevere's chest at being called on her reckless behaviour. At being compared, once more, to that fiery woman about whom the knights spoke daily.

— "Not you too !", she exclaimed. "That woman had already accused me of Tristan's death. War is war, I did what I had to do."

— "THAT woman", he responded sternly, "is the Keeper of Time. She had more ties to the past and the future of the very earth than you do".

Jutting her chin forward, Guinevere refused to be scolded like a child. Frances would fade away, even in her husband's memory, while she took her place and became the most important lady of this kingdom.

— "It is about to change, father. I'm to be Queen of Camelot".

Merlin plunged his deep, unsettling gaze into her eyes. Suddenly, he seemed to grow in stature. As if he floated in in clothes, a spirit and a man at the same time.

— "Good. Serve your kingdom well, and do not make me regret the day I vouched for you".

Guinevere gasped; many a time, she and Merlin had not seen eye to eye. But it was the first time he ever mentioned it so bluntly. That put more pressure on her shoulders, but she was up to the task. She would be a mighty Queen indeed.

[1] Elegia, K's Choice