The wedding was beautiful, held in a sacred circle above the sea. The great standing stones emphasised the solemnity of Merlin's words as they echoed above the surroundings hills, simple and meaningful. A pagan ceremony, not a hint of Christianity in sight. Would Arthur's faith consider this marriage valid ? How about his feelings ?

Despite the fantastic setting, Frances couldn't help but worry. About this, and about the future of his kingdom, for at her arm stood Lancelot, his eyes hungered by the sight of the lovely Guinevere. In her floating dress, flower in her hair, she was a beautiful Queen. Arthur's smile, though, didn't reach his eyes when he kissed her. And a shiver ran through Frances' spine when the Pict enclosed her fingers around Excalibur's hilt. She didn't like it one bit, this alliance for Britain.

Bors let out a boisterous war cry, and many around them doubled him by yelling Arthur's name. Frances couldn't lift her arms up, but she answered with as much fervour as she could to greet their new King. As arrows of fire ran into the sky, Bors kissed Vanora vehemently, stating that now, he would have to marry his little flower. She slapped him back on the arm with a "who said I'd have you", that made Frances laugh. One true, genuine laugh. The first one since Tristan's death.

Lancelot turned to her, dark eyes shining with mirth. Oh, she knew that mischievous expression, and tackled him instantly.

— "If you kiss me again Lancelot, I swear I'll wear your balls as a necklace."

Bors's explosive laughter was met with a few more. Gawain, for one, barely contained his tears at her retort.

— "You never disappoint, fiery lady."

— "You certainly do not," said Lancelot with a sigh.

His arm tugged at hers as the people started to disperse around the hill. Ever since the battle, Lancelot had been by her side, taking care of her. She wondered if his guilt was to blame, and bend closer to him as they walked.

— "While we're here, sharing nice feelings and all, you don't have to be my companion because I took this bolt. You owe me nothing, Lancelot. I chose my fate."

The knight paused, shoulder stiffening.

— "I am wounded."

— "We all are."

This time, dark eyebrows got lost into his dark locks. That was such a loaded statement, one too heavy to discuss at a wedding.

— "Do you not appreciate my company ?"

This time, Frances took her time before answering. Now that it was clear that she wanted nothing to do with him, romantically wise, Lancelot had somehow opened up to her. And the genuine knight was nowhere as annoying as the flirty one.

— "Strangely, I do. I just do not wish it to be an obligation."

— "No obligation, fiery lady. You are my friend, I'm happy to be by your side."

— "Thank you, Lancelot, this is actually very sweet."

Then she lifted a tentative hand to pat his cheek, something improbable such had been the roller coaster of their relationship in the past.

— "You're a good man, below this flirty exterior, you know ?"

The knight snorted.

— "Of course, I know. I'm lovable in every way."

Frances chuckled, and they slowly but surely descended in the large spot of grass that had been prepared for the festivities. Tents sprouted like mushrooms, banners with the dragon floated in the wind, and tables had been erected to welcome the roasts presently cooked on the numerous fires. It was a magnificent sight, a historical one that would never be recorded anywhere. Of course, there were musicians, minstrels that might sing of it for years before it fell into oblivion. No ladies of the court with fluffy gowns, no castle or dais, no thrones. It was a simple, genuine celebration for people to remember why they lived still. One that no amount of lace, silk and brocade could ever rival.

A line of people formed from the top of the hill to welcome the royal couple. Lancelot and Frances joined their friends, at the very bottom, awaiting King Arthur and Queen Guinevere to join the feast. An important moment, where Picts, Britons and Knights alike awaited their new sire. The very first official act of reconciliation.

Frances still wore the burgundy dress from the knight's celebration day; she had no other. Vanora had insisted, once more, to do her hair, choosing to leave most of it down to hide the horrible scar. The mother of eleven had blanched at seeing it so blatantly exposed - the bandage was peeled off - but Frances has soothed her mind, telling her it would get better in time. That her betrothed wouldn't mind a scarred woman for it meant she had lived to see another day.

Vanora had muttered something about 'weird strangers' and had carefully avoided touching the raw flesh and bone. Still, the tavern woman had worked her magic again; Frances knew she looked good when she caught the other's admirative gaze. Bless that woman for being so nice to her. Deep in her heart, she wondered if Tristan would have complimented her. What a stupid notion ! He had never said anything about her dress, or looks. The scout wasn't one to flatter.

One single lustful look from Lancelot to the royal couple called Frances back to reality, and she suddenly grabbed the knight's arm forcefully.

— "Lancelot. Please don't break Arthur's heart. Be careful"

— "Whatever do you mean Frances ?" he murmured.

Frances frowned, reluctant to speak about Guinevere. The mere mention of an affair with her could be the very same push that could steer him in this direction. If she so badly wanted to prevent that particular fiasco, better to appeal to Lancelot's loyalty than to warn the knight against it. She feared to create the very same situation she wanted to avoid, to plant the seed in his mind. Biting her lip, she stuttered slightly.

— "Just. He's hurt as well, as much as you all are. He will need you by his side, he will need your loyalty to be a good King, to know he can trust you. He can't do it on his own."

— "I've always been loyal to him," was his sincere reply.

— "You'll be his pillar."

Something akin to disappointment passed into Lancelot's eyes as he stared down at her.

— "Is that why you saved me ?"

— "I had many reasons to save you."

His gaze was redirected to the couple who approached.

— "Right. Keep your secrets, Seer"

The window of opportunity closed at the very moment Guinevere caught Lancelot's gaze. Pleasantries were exchanged, none of them as heated as the look that passed between them, and Frances felt like banging her head on a board. Repeatedly. Unfortunately, Arthur was standing before her, his commanding presence asking for her attention. She couldn't give away her suspicions, not now. Not on their wedding day. Not ever ? Merlin would have to be the sole recipient of the warning, since she couldn't confide in anybody else on the matter.

— "Lady knight," came Arthur's deep voice. "You have my thanks for attending our wedding. You are very welcome to stay, should you choose to be part of the community of knights."

Frances refrained from uttering a sarcastic reply. Would Guinevere make her feel welcome ? She very doubted that. Instead, she chose to give the new King a genuine smile of her own.

— "I couldn't have missed such a historic event for the world, dear Arthur. It was my pleasure."

He caught her double meaning all too well, his green eyes disappointed.

— "But you will not stay."

The young woman caught his hand, her fingers pressing his own in an affectionate gesture. His warmth felt foreign on her cold skin; she had trouble regulating her temperature ever since the battle. Probably a side effect from the exhaustion.

— "I feel the time is drawing near for me, Arthur. I am loath to part from all of you, but my duty calls me elsewhere."

The tall man nodded in acceptance. No one better than him understood the meaning of duty. And if a sly glance from Guinevere – she was still wary of Frances after their latest encounter – remained partly unnoticed, he couldn't miss her insistent tug on his arm.

— "You will keep a dance for me, lady knight ?"

— "Be sure of it," she told him as he was dragged way.

Way to go, Frances ! She sighed as she glared at Guinevere's back. Make an enemy of the new Queen even before she is crowned. Her self-flogging was short-lived, as Lancelot, whom she had absolutely forgotten, lifted an elegant eyebrow in her direction.

— "You don't seem to love the Queen very much."

Her answer came out without a filter.

— "That's right, I don't."

— "Well, I rather do. She's a good fighter and knows what she wants. She won't crawl at Arthur's feet"

Of course you do, you idiot!, she felt like yelling at him. But she only scoffed this time, refusing to let her anger get the best of her.

— "If you'd been more attuned to the fight and less to her form, I wouldn't have had to save your sorry ass from that bolt ! Stay away from that woman, she's trouble."

And just like that, she walked away in the direction of the knight's table where Vanora acted as the general of her troops. The kids were running everywhere, grabbing food here and there and returning to headquarters – the table and their mother - to report on the state of the youngest ones. Damn, that woman knew how to run a household, manage eleven kids, and keep Bors in line. She had her utmost respect.

Truth be told, Frances had never been at ease with women. She'd grown up with seven boys, her brothers and the neighbour's. Men, she knew how to handle. But women ? She'd mistakenly trusted friends, back home, until they turned back on her in high school, and she had realised that two out of three actually mocked her anytime her back was turned. Ever since, she was wary of women. But Vanora… she bestowed her motherly love to anyone, even if she was barely older than the Keeper of Time. Her warmth felt good, her smiles genuine, and her temper more frightening than a dragon's wrath. She would miss her.

The sun had kissed the surface of the sea a long time ago, yet no one showed signs of wanting to turn in. Night had settled, music swayed from group to group, some Picts attempted a few traditional songs before another set of musicians took over. Their melodies were so foreign to Frances' ears, but lovely. The voices seemed to come from the depth of earth itself, as if their goddess spoke through the performers. The Keeper of Time felt humbled by those women, knowing that she was greatly outmatched in her skills. Of course she could sing quite beautifully. But THIS, this was altogether otherworldly. So deep, so down to earth, almost magic.

As they sat at the knight's tables, Bors refilled her goblet many a time. She was slightly tipsy now, and when Galahad pulled her to her feet to dance – once more – in a circle in his inebriated state, she couldn't help but chuckle at his enthusiasm. Sweet, sweet Galahad and his smile. He held onto her like a drowning kid, his washed blue eyes slightly glazed from the alcohol until the circle caused her to change partner. Despite the pain on her shoulder, she had been dragged away by all the knights this evening. Expect for Bors, who could not keep his hands away from Vanora. Gawain had twirled her around, mindful of her arm. He laughed, and smiled, but his eyes lingered on a blond-haired lady.

Frances was just a bait to call her attention – he sheepishly admitted – and she laughed it off when he eventually found the gall to speak to said lady. Good old Gawain. Dagonet followed, sweet but sturdy – and worried as his hands barely touched her. Still, his presence gave her solace; like the warmth of an elder brother watching over her. Despite being tipsy, his arms kept her grounded. Lancelot… was Lancelot – she walked away after half the dance only, fed up with him. How she longed to dance with Tristan and his intoxicating presence… to feel the fabric of his tunic clenched around her fingers, his beating heart under her palm, the intensity of his gaze upon her face. Would he have danced ? Maybe not. And he was dead, lost to this world. Sigh.

Her thoughts turned to her betrothed. Legolas surely would have led her all night, dancing merrily at those otherwordly songs, his steps light on the ground, his blond hair shining golden across the fire, his glow shining through his skin as he laughed. Just as she was about to regain her seat at the table, Arthur appeared before her.

— "May I have this dance, my lady ?"

Frances' cheeks reddened slightly. Such a formal address ! By the groom himself on a one dance, those were scarce. And didn't he look dashing this evening ! He'd shed the Roman armour he wore at the ceremony for an outer jerkin, embroidered at the hem and collar. The absence of war attire only emphasised his new title. He was now King, not a commander of the Roman army. And he bore it with grace. The young woman curtsied, feeling every bit the subject in awe of her new King. His hands landed on her arms at once, his face alarmed.

— "Why do you bow to me, lady knight ? Are we not friends ?"

Frances straightened, giving him a dazzling smile.

— "I wanted to greet you truthfully, because you deserve a little bit of formality at least once. You are now King, and it could be no other than you. I give my respect heartily"

Arthur slightly coloured at that, grateful that the light was so dim, now. Then he gathered the woman in his arms and twirled her around, careful to no jolt her shoulder as he did so. They'd never been so close, not since she'd showed up, and he discovered that she was like any other woman to the touch. A little slender, soft skin a tad too cold, the contact just plush enough to give away her gender. But her movements were as controlled as Guinevere's were; the mark of a warrior. And a little stiff as she stumbled slightly to the steps, probably from exhaustion.

In the end, Arthur tightened his hold on her, at loss for words, and they found a slow rhythm to which they only swayed gently. They shared many glances, but didn't talk. Everything had been said already. She only smiled softly, enjoying his proximity as he enjoyed hers. Friendship and trust. A tentative and compassionate moment between two people unsure of their future endeavours. An understanding that took them out of time.

Until her collarbone started shining with an eerie blue light that was altogether absolutely unnatural. Arthur started, and she stopped swaying altogether. The young woman gasped, her hand reaching for the necklace hidden in her décolletage.

— "Damn. I am being called home."

Arthur froze, struck by the reality of the necklace's magic. All this time he'd accepted her as the Keeper of Time. But not once he had questioned how she'd come to cross their path, and the actual workings of such a mission. Now stood the evidence of her God's magic, shining under his very eyes.

— "Is this how you travel ?".

Frances nodded tentatively, trying to gauge his reaction. But instead of freaking out, Arthur actually sighed.

— "It is so soon."

Frances smiled sadly, her eyes meeting his. She didn't hold back this time, her expression open for him to see. Arthur had no knowledge of what awaited her on the other side, but he could plainly see that despite the pain, despite the heartache and all her complains about the fifth century and this place, she wasn't ready. And truth be told, he wasn't either. She'd been there to support him, and save his knights' lives during the last days of his servitude. Her reassurance, her knowledge of the future, her views had sustained him on this new path. And now… now he would be truly and utterly alone with his ideal.

— "Can it wait tomorrow ?"

The young woman frowned, her hazel eyes terrified of what it entailed.

— "I don't know. I have never tried to disobey. Wouldn't dream of it."

Arthur straightened, offering his arm soothingly.

— "Your Gods are calling. Let us not offend them. I have, for my part, only thanks to convey for bringing you here."

A watery smile answered his statement, and the new King took a moment to study his friend. The dark circles under her eyes had receded only barely; the consequence of blood loss and heartache. The wound that marred her collarbone restrained her movements and pained her; he could see it in her gait. And her big, hazel eyes held so much sadness that he felt like weeping. This world had broken her, just as he had broken himself and his knights. Maybe she could heal in her own. It was easier to let go that way, to think she would be happier away from them. Just as he kept hoping his brothers in arms were happier in heaven. They deserved peace, so did she.

— "Thank you, Arthur. It means a lot to me."

— "Come, let us assemble the knights to you can say your farewells."

Her arm trembled against his, and he secured his other hand over hers. It was sometimes difficult to be reasonable; he was King now. More than ever, he would have to set the example. And it started now, on his wedding day. A pity.

Arthur asked Lancelot to gather the knights, and even if Gawain and Galahad seemed worse for wear, it didn't take long for them to unite at the table. Then he announced that Frances would leave at first light on the morrow, that she was needed elsewhere. They might have looked less dejected had he stabbed the knights himself. Grumbles and protests were heard; couldn't it wait ? Couldn't she ask to stay with them ? Couldn't… She handled them with tears in her eyes, but a resolute face. It reminded him so much of the fateful evening, the one he'd found them drinking to their freedom only to enroll them in a suicide mission.

Blast. Would peace ever come ?

As usual, Dagonet was the first to come round. He greeted the lady a very fond farewell, and she hugged the tall knight tightly before releasing him. Bors and Vanora jumped her bones a moment later, a little too tight for she released a whimper of pain. Dagonet slapped Bors on the back of his head, to which the knight grumbled an apology before going away. By then, Frances was sobbing in Vanora's arms, shaking silently as the red head held her.

At last, Gawain had had enough and gathered the young woman into his arms, bestowing a brotherly hug and whispering something that made her laugh. Galahad eventually joined him, like a set of brothers saying farewell to a beloved sister. The youngest knight was fairly drunk at this time, and he watched as the situation reversed. Frances gently caressed his hair, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. It took all of Gawain's force of persuasion for him to let go; the alcohol didn't help.

Arthur's heart clenched at the realisation that Tristan wouldn't get the last hug. Not that he would have accepted it… wouldn't he ? Then they all stood there, a watery smile on their faces, and Arthur dragged Frances away from the celebration. Each step felt heavier than the last as they trod to her tent. In the dark, they could barely distinguish her bag. Beside it, Tristan's bow awaited its new mistress. Frances froze, and Arthur sidestepped her to pick it up. Holding the weapon reverently, he turned to her.

— "You are its guardian now, put it to good use."

Her tentative fingers grabbed the wooden weapon, claiming it as hers. And they set off for the forest, pausing on top of the hill to take one last long look at the celebration. He knew her eyes drank in the sight of the knights, all assembled at the table except for Lancelot who probably gallivanted about. Then she exhaled forcefully, and led him into the forest under the dim light.

— "I am sorry to dampen the mood."

Arthur shook his head.

— "We were going to turn in for the night. And Galahad is so drunk already I wonder how he can keep on his feet. Nay, Frances. It is time for us to part, and I am glad I got to know you."

The young woman paused to face him. Under the trees, the light was so scarce he could barely distinguish her features.

— "You have no idea how mutual this feeling is."

She grabbed both of his hands, and squeezed them tightly with her little fingers.

— "This world you dreamt of, you're the one creating it. You need to accept to lead, you will be a great King"

— "Thank you for your trust, Keeper of Time"

Tears fell down her face at his final farewell, and she was suddenly hugging him close, her arms tightly woven around his waist. She was so tiny against his tall frame, almost like a child, and he couldn't help but embrace her. They stayed awhile in the forest, sharing warmth and comfort until she untangled her limbs and took a step back, looking a little sheepish. Arthur chuckled at her expression. Sometimes, it was too easy to forget how young she was.

— "Now go, find your betrothed, marry him. Be happy, you deserve it."

A cloud was chased away by a gush of wind from the sea, and the moon casts its silver rays upon them. A look of renewed determination illuminated on her face.

— "I will find him. Farewell, Arthur"

— "Farewell, lady knight"

And she fished the necklace from her dress, its light shining brighter in the forest, casting shadows of blue like the ocean on its floor. Her hand grabbed the pendant; the light pulsating stronger and stronger in the forest. A piercing cry – a hawk – echoed in the sky, and just before the light engulfed Frances entirely, Arthur's eyes caught sight of a form beside her. Hand outstretched, the familiar silhouette seemed to reach for her. Arthur started; he would recognise his knight anywhere. Shaggy mane, braids intertwined haphazardly, a tall and strong built encased in a patched leather coat. The light became so strong that his eyes closed for fear of being blinded. And in an instant, she was gone.

When Arthur's eyes opened, there was no one in the forest but him. Nor Frances, nor his scout – was he turning mad? – were in sight. She was gone.

— "Farewell, Keeper of Time," he muttered in the silence. "You've been a mother, and a daughter to us all."