Hello! You must tell me how to fix this madness! I'm not good at this romantic crap. The only romance that I have ever had in my life has been with chocolate. Really, I could use some help here! Please? (Author flutter's her lashes) I'll be your bestest friend forever!

Tristan was heading back. The caravan was in sight, but even if it hadn't been, they were making enough noise to wake the dead. Didn't these people know anything about stealth? If he got killed over this, he would be very upset. As he neared, he caught sight of Arthur. His friend looked troubled, and he was only going to add to his worries. Well, he might as well get it over with.

"Arthur. We should stop for the night. We need everyone alert for tomorrow. We have to cross the lake, there's no way around it. It's mostly frozen over, but, all the same...I'm not sure it will hold." There. It was out, and Arthur would know what to do. He always did.

Arthur continued to stare stonily ahead. More bad news, just what he needed. One more obstacle, between his knights' safe return to freedom. What Lancelot had said was true. If they ran into the Saxons, a fight was inevitable. Crossing the lake would be slow, and he could all but hear the war drums pounding behind him. To give himself thinking time, he fell back in line, next to the wagon. Guinevere was sitting, propped up against the side of it. She was wrapped in furs, and was watching him.

"My father told me tales of you..." She spoke with a slightly ironic smile on her face.

"Oh yes? And what did you hear?" He was interested in her response. What would a Woad know of him?

"Fairy Tales. The kind you hear about people who never exist. People so brave and selfless they cannot be real. Arthur and his knights. A leader both Briton and Roman. Yet you gave your allegiance to Rome-to those who take what does not belong to them. The same Rome that tore your men from their homeland." She watched him closely, as she always was now, her expression cold. Well, her father had told her not to grovel...

Arthur's self control vanished. This was personal. This person dared to question him? What did she know of it?

"Do not pretend to know anything about me or my men." His voice full of annoyance, and anger. She had no right, no right at all to speak with him in that fashion.

"How many Britons have you killed?" She continued her interrogation calmly, rationally.

"As many as tried to kill me. It is the natural state of any man to want to live." It was true. All of his killings had been in self defense, with the exception of the monks he had walled back in yesterday, but they probably weren't dead yet, so that hardly counted.

"Animals live! It is the natural state of any man to live free in his own country! I belong to this land. Where do you belong, Arthur?"

Ah, that was the question. Arthur had thought it was Rome, but after his meeting with Marius Honorius, he was not so sure. It certainly wasn't here. Rome was leaving this island. The Woads had no love for him, and he could not see his knight's families putting up with him for too long. He would have to think hard upon this later. Searching for a change of subject, he noticed her hand, peeking out from the furs.

"How is your hand?" he did want to know. It was more than simply covering up an awkward silence.

"I'll live, I promise you." She did smile then, he really was all right sometimes, for a Roman. Arthur smiled too. She was all right really, for a Woad.

"Is there nothing about my land that appeals to your heart?" It came out sounding more flirtatious than she had originally intended. What was she doing?

"Your own father married a Briton. Even he must have found something to his liking."

Arthur didn't know how to respond to that. It was true. His mother was of this land, and when he thought no one was looking, he would smile at the thought. The land's weather may be foul, but it was so green and alive, that he could see why so many Woads had given their lives to defend it. But some Woads fought and killed the innocent, he reminded himself. He remembered his mother's screams and shook himself. He couldn't think of that now, he had enough on his mind as it was.

Tristan's return had not gone unnoticed. Rebekah's eyes followed him from the wagon. He was troubled, but his face was remarkably skilled at concealing emotion. Most people wouldn't have noticed it. Rebekah wasn't most people. What was wrong? Soon, the caravan stopped. It was growing dark, but Rebekah had assumed that they would continue on, through the night. The Saxons would be moving quickly, and they could not afford to linger. Rebekah needed to know what was going on. You could not plan properly without reliable information, and she knew just the reliable man to ask. Rebekah left the wagon, and approached Tristan, who was setting up his own camping supplies. His hawk was nowhere to be seen. His back was to her, and he showed no signs of acknowledging her presence. He knew she was there. He could hear her soft breath, the quiet rhythm of her footsteps. Rebekah cleared her throat, hoping that he would turn around. When this failed, she walked around to face him.

"Why have we stopped?" This man would not appreciate pleasantries, and Rebekah saw no need to waste his time or hers.

"What is your name?"

Rebekah had forgotten that they had never yet spoken. It had been a long couple of days, and she felt like she had known him for quite some time.

"Rebekah. I heard the others call you Tristan."

"They were right."

His answer was short and crisp, yet he still hadn't answered her question.

"Why have we stopped?" If he didn't tell her soon, she would scream. She had fine self-control, up to a point, but as earlier events had indicated, that self-control had a limit. She had been charged with protecting the knights, and she took that job very seriously.

Tristan studied her with his cool grey eyes, noticing her frustration and annoyance. She would not want the facts sugar coated. She wanted the facts plain and simple. Those facts might take a long time to lay out.

"Perhaps we should sit down." Tristan said, indicating a log to his right.

Rebekah eyed it suspiciously, as if this was some sort of test. When she could think of no reason for Tristan to trick her, she assented.

Once they were settled, Tristan began.

"How much do you know of this area?"

"Not much, we haven't been above ground for the majority of our time in this pleasant district."

"Then you wouldn't know about the lake."

"What lake?"

"The one that's directly in our path. It's mostly frozen over, but it will be dangerous enough crossing in broad daylight, let alone in the dark."

The thought was reasonable, she had to admit.

"And what of the Saxons? Will they be taking a break as well?" She knew this wasn't his fault, but no one else was around to blame.

"No. How are you with your weapons?"

Rebekah raised her eyebrows. Most men didn't bother to think that women would even consider fighting, even those who knew better.

"I am quite competent, I assure you. I've been training with weapons since the age of six."

"And how old are you now, you hardly look old enough to fight."

"I will have you know I am nineteen. I've been fighting with my tribe for over four years."

"Good, we have another fighter with battle experience...what of the others? Do they fight as well?"

"Yes. Guinevere is a year younger than me, but she has been fighting for over four years as well. Sera is twenty. She has been fighting for over seven years. She can heal as well."

"That will be useful. I fear we will have need of a healer before the end."

They sat in silence for a while. It was not uncomfortable; they had both had their share of talking for now. Rebekah looked toward Tristan's things and noticed his bow. It was different from hers, and her fingers itched to try it. Guinevere might be able to beat her in archery, but she was no slouch.

"Tristan, may I try your bow?" The question was hesitant. This surprised both Rebekah and Tristan. Rebekah was used to people offering to do her favors, so it was a new thing for her to ask for one.

"I suppose." He picked up the bow, and carried it into the center of the clearing. He selected an arrow, and handed it to Rebekah. He indicated a tree that was far out of range. Rebekah looked at him, questioningly.

"There's no way I'll hit that."

"Poor archery skills?" He knew this was not the case, but always enjoyed to watch people's expressions as they saw the range of a Sarmatian bow.

Rebekah squared her shoulders, and adjusted her stance. She could do this. She would not give this foreigner the satisfaction of seeing a Woad warrior fail. She pulled the bowstring back, past her ear, and let the arrow loose. It flew quickly and was deeply imbedded in the tree. Rebekah stared at it in wonder. Her jaw had dropped, and she did not bother to close it. She wanted this bow. She really wanted this bow. Tristan had gone back to sit on the log and she followed, still clutching his bow. She made her decision, and prepared herself for humiliation.

She sat right down in Tristan's lap and began to twirl a braid around her finger. She looked deeply into his eyes, and said, her own eyes wide,

"Tristan, have I ever mentioned how increasingly attractive I find you?" Her voice had a flirtatious edge to it, yet his face was still unreadable.

Tristan stared back at her, stony faced. Women tended to look at him, but few approached. He knew he exuded a forbidding air, and most were slightly scared by it. He was not fooled, however. Rebekah wanted the bow. That was all she wanted. Finally, he let out a small chuckle.

"If you want a bow, you'll have to ask Jols for a spare. You're not getting mine."

Rebekah let go of his braid and sighed.

"Oh, well. It was worth a try." And with that, she extracted herself from Tristan's lap, and went to find Jols.

Tristan watched her go, an amused expression on his face. That had been interesting. It had been a long time since any woman had dared to sit on his lap, and then, it had certainly not been because she had liked his bow. He was so preoccupied with this thought that he didn't notice right away that his hawk had returned. She looked rather annoyed at this, and squawked.

"Are you jealous? My, this has been a strange night."

And it had been. Tristan did not usually socialize with people he didn't know. Hell, he barely talked to his friends. Generally, he had his longest conversations with his lovely and talented hawk. He had a feeling that this would not be the case any longer. So did the hawk, as she took off, in search of someone else to appreciate her genius.

Rebekah returned to the wagon with a smile on her face. Jols had given her a spare bow, and she cradled it to her body, as she would a child. Guinevere saw this, and rolled her eyes. Really, that was one of the most pathetic things she had ever seen.

"If you could spare a moment, Fulcinia is giving us all baths and a dress." Guinevere sniffed Rebekah, and grimaced. "It smells like you could use one too."

Rebekah stopped, and gawked at Guinevere. She hadn't even considered her appearance or stench before she had sat herself down in Tristan's lap. She was so used to men being unable to resist her looks that she didn't even think about it anymore. What would Tristan think of her now? Why did that matter?

Guinevere raised an eyebrow. What was wrong with Rebekah tonight? One moment she was all happy and starry eyed, the next she looked ill. She really did need a bath. It would do wonders for her mood.

"Come on, no more stalling." And with that, Guinevere dragged Rebekah into the wagon. Fulcinia was already at work, washing Sera with a damp rag. Sera was staring hard out of the sheer curtain. Lancelot.

Lancelot was outside the wagon, looking in. He had wondered earlier where Sera's tattoos were. He had seen Rebakah's on her cheek, and Guinevere's on her legs, but before now, he had never seen Sera's. He saw them now. Her whole back was a mass of swirling color that looked like wisps of smoke. Sera had noticed his stare, and returned it. He knew he shouldn't be looking, he knew it was improper. He had seen a lot of naked women in his lifetime, and had never felt his gaze to be improper before. Then he realized, he didn't want to put Sera in the same group as all the other women he had slept with, and never seen again. He wanted her to be different, for reasons he couldn't comprehend. Was this love? Was he starting to see the ever-elusive gods in her?

When Rebekah looked out of the sheer curtain and saw him, he looked away. What would she be thinking? What would Sera be thinking? Damn. He had never been so confused in his entire life. He had never really cared what anyone else thought about him. What was going on here?

After each girl had been bathed, Fulcinia handed her a dress. Sera's dress was a mint green, Guinevere's a blue-green. Rebekah's dress was a light blue-grey. They were each given slippers, so they no longer had to wrap their feet in rags. This was a welcome change.

Rebekah smiled. She felt better now, more herself. She didn't smell! She wondered if Tristan would like the dress. Well, she would find out soon enough, Lancelot had promised Sera a good sparring session, and it was likely the other knights would like to see it too.