I'm going to be on a road trip to bring my sister to college in Arizona. We live in Minnesota. It's a long drive. We'll be back next Monday, but I'll try to find a computer so that I can update before then. I will also try to retain my sanity. It's no joke, being stuck in a moving vehicle with one's entire family. I do not recommend the experience. Who knows, I might even run out of chocolate! (Bum Bum Bah!) Now I'm just feeling sorry for myself. I'll stop now. Don't cry for me, Argentina. Well, I'm off to the wars. If I do not return, wear my handkerchief beside your heart forever. (Note. That last part was a line of Cleon's From Tamora Pierce's Protector of the small series. I never really liked him after he started dating Kel, but this was during the pre-Kel era, so it's all right. It is an excellent line to use amongst one's peers.)

At long last, it was time for the highly anticipated sparring between Lancelot and Sera. Their friends were cheering them on, all smiles, wondering who would end up on top, so to speak.

Sera had hiked up her skirts, and tied back her sleeves so that they would not be in the way. She was slightly apprehensive about this sparring match. She kept on seeing Lancelot looking at her through that sheer curtain, wondering why he was looking at all. Sera was not a conventional beauty. Most found her near black hair and sea green eyes odd, not to mention unattractive. She had bedded other men before, but it had never been for any other reason than to kill time before a battle. She did not try to fool herself into thinking that these men had found her attractive. She was available, while other beauties were not. She didn't blame the men. They were who they were meant to be. Lancelot was who he was meant to be as well. It was just a question of finding out what that was. Why did he look at her like that? He was a devilishly charming and handsome man, who could have any woman that he wanted. Why was he wasting his time with her?

Sera selected her weapons. She chose a short sword and dagger. If she wanted to show off, they would have been throwing knives. She wanted a more strenuous workout, however, and so here they were, preparing to spar in Lancelot's strongest battle skill. She would not have to kill anyone tonight; it would simply be a great chance for movement, and display of skill. She smiled. Her dreams would be untroubled tonight.

Lancelot had already removed his armor. He would not need it, and it was heavy. This would just be a friendly match. That was it. Just a friendly match. He exhaled. Would he be able to land a hit? No, he answered himself, he would not. Her face was still marred from her unhappy side trip, and he had no wish to add to her injuries. He knew her well enough, however, that he realized she would not appreciate him holding back. He would have to be very careful that she did not find out. He picked up his twin swords, and prepared to be beaten by a woman.

They circled each other, identical reckless smiles on their faces. This would be fun. Lancelot feinted to Sera's right, and when she moved to block him, he swung to her other side. She blocked that as well. He was being so obvious that even a first year swordsman would have picked up on his intent.

"You're not going easy on me, are you Lancelot?"

Damn. He supposed that was rather obvious. He wasn't used to pretending like this.

"Whatever do you mean, my lady Sera?" His face, the picture of innocence.

She wasn't going to let him get away that easily. She attacked him mercilessly, hoping that he would react instinctively, rather than think about everything first. Gradually, it worked. Sera smiled. It was about time.

Lancelot was beginning to gain the upper hand, when he remembered that he was supposed to be going easy on her. He started to ease up, but her eyes stopped him. Her gaze was so sharp; she hardly needed the weapons in her hand. It was a look that clearly communicated 'If you even think of letting up on me, I will cause you serious harm.' Lancelot happened to like his body the way it was, and had no desire to lose any body parts. As he was thinking about this, however, Sera's leg snaked around his, and she had him flat on his back, her sword at his throat.

'Well, I'm glad this isn't humiliating or anything...' Lancelot thought as he stared up at the warrior that was Sera.

"I yield, my lady Sera. That was some nice foot work."

Sera lifted the sword from his neck and helped him up.

"You were holding back." She pouted, a scowl on her face.

Lancelot looked at her, and came to a decision. It was now or never.

"You're right. I was holding this back." And with that, he dragged her towards him, and covered her mouth with his.

His arms were around her waist, one hand dragging a lazy finger up her spine. 'This was alright,' Sera thought. 'He's really not all that bad at this.' Lancelot knew at that very moment that there was nothing else in this world that he wanted more than Sera. Not to see home again, not to see God. She was everything. There was nothing else. Eventually, they remembered that they were not alone. Bors yelling obscene comments interrupted their reverie. The other knights were whistling, being used to Lancelot's antics. Rebekah and Guinevere, however were gaping at Sera, not sure what to think. Sera never did anything like this. They had never heard her speak of any man in particular, so it was a complete shock to see her go all starry eyed over some knight that had crossed their path. That was really odd. She looked so happy, though. They had never seen her that happy. If this Lancelot fellow did that for her, he must be all right. If he did anything to hurt her however, they would personally see to it that he never had any children. (With the possible exception of number three.) As they came to this unspoken agreement, they smiled. It would be all right.

Tristan watched from the other side of the fire, his face not showing his amusement. So, Lancelot had charmed himself a Woad. It didn't surprise him really. Lancelot simply loved women, even if they tried to kill him, as this case showed. If he was not careful, one of these days they would find him in bed with his throat slit. Tristan did not think that this woman meant his friend any harm, however. She looked a bit dazed at the moment, and would not be fit to kill anyone for several hours. That was fine with him. She would be fully recovered by the time they crossed the lake, should any trouble arise.

His eyes swept the rest of the group and landed on Rebekah. At first she had looked rather shocked by the spectacle in front of her, but now she was grinning like a fool. What was it with this woman? Couldn't she ever decide what to feel? He studied her closely, noting that she had bathed and changed out of that dreadful shift. He hoped she had burned it. It would not evoke pleasant memories. He realized that he was taking far too much interest in a woman that would probably get him killed. He had not forgotten about the Saxons, as everyone else seemed to. He saw Rebekah sit down in the grass, as a light snow began to fall. She was enchanting, staring at the stars, seemingly oblivious to his gaze. Suddenly, her eyes locked on his and held. He remembered the first time he had looked into those eyes. She had been a wild animal then, just as likely to snap at help as harm. Now, her eyes held something different. Calculation, curiosity, yes. His eyes held the same emotions. They did not need to speak. Words would be tedious at this point, they were unnecessary. Tristan wondered how many people were able to conduct conversations this way. Probably not many. It was a sign of astute observation that few possessed.

Rebekah stared right back at Tristan, daring him to look away first. His gaze never faltered, and Rebekah smiled. He wanted to play, did he? She turned away, heading in the direction of the wagon. Tristan followed, just as she thought he would. When he reached her, she smiled again.

"Jols gave me a bow!" she didn't even bother to hide her excitement. What was the harm in him knowing that?

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

"Did you sit in his lap and play with his hair too?"

"No, his hair isn't nearly long enough for that." She said, deliberately not answering the lap question.

"Ah." He really didn't want to ask it, but then again, he wanted to know. You could never have too much information, right? "So, did you sit in his lap?" there. He had asked. Now, all he could do was wait for an answer, and hope that if there was a God that he would show no signs of embarrassment. He didn't think he could handle her knowing how uncomfortable this was for him.

"No, I most certainly did not sit in his lap. He wasn't sitting down. I simply pouted a bit. That generally works for me. When it doesn't, I start threatening people."

She said it so matter-of-factly that Tristan started. This was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted. She knew how to get it too. On anyone else, the lap and braid routine would have worked like a charm. Well, she had gotten what she wanted in the end. You had to admire that. She didn't just pout for what she wanted, she fought for it too.

"You should rest. You will need your strength for tomorrow." He said, and abruptly left. He had spoken more to this woman in one night than he had spoken to everyone else all week. That could not possibly be healthy. He was loosing his mind. That was the only explanation. It was not a happy thought, however, so he forced his addled brain to other less depressing matters, such as their impending doom. Damn. Was he getting sarcastic with himself? If he kept this up, he would start acting like Lancelot, letting everyone know how he felt. Lancelot had done that tonight, all right. No one was left to wonder how he felt about that Sera girl. He could do with shielding his emotions every so often.

'I'm glad that wasn't confusing' thought Rebekah as she returned to the wagon. Guinevere was already inside, looking pensive. She looked up as Rebekah entered, and her expression changed into one of mixed amusement and mischief.

"So, you sat on Tristan's lap and played with his braids, did you?"

"You heard that?" asked Rebekah, looking horrified.

"Of course I did. Please tell me this was after your bath."

"No such luck. I really wanted his bow..."

"You sat on his lap because you wanted his bow...Is that the best excuse that you could come up with?"

"What?"

"You two have been staring at each other since you first met. It's a bit frightening, actually. So, what does he smell like?"

"How would I know? And we have not been staring at each other. We're supposed to be protecting the knights, remember?" The first part was a lie. She knew what he smelled like. It was a combination of pine and earth that was oddly pleasant, though not overpowering. He was a scout, and couldn't smell too strongly. It was a nice scent...Agh! Why was she thinking about Tristan's scent? That was simply odd.

Guinevere smiled as her friend's emotions played across her face. It was amusing, really. Rebekah never liked to be side tracked by anything. She had a single goal. To return Briton to the Britons. She didn't like to have anything in the way of that. Rebekah hadn't yet realized that one could find love without everything else being put on hold. Guinevere might be a year younger, but she knew that already. She would bring Arthur to her father tonight, and hoped that he would follow. Short of abducting him, she really had no ideas as to how to lure him into the forest. Then she remembered his eyes on her. Yes, he would follow her, if only to satisfy the curiosity that he tried so desperately to hide.

Sera and Lancelot huddled together at the edge of the clearing, trying to ignore everyone else around them. Sera reached for his hand, and linked their fingers. Lancelot brought their joined hands up to his lips, and began gently nibbling on her knuckles. She was so happy, that she didn't rebuke him for being gentle. She didn't mind that so much now. She had a slight smile on her face, and moved in, nuzzling his neck. He drew her into his arms, and just held her. It was nice really. Usually, all he had to do was grab a wench, and that was it. This was new, and he liked it. He held her hands again, examining them closely.

"I don't care who fixed your hands, I'm just glad they're feeling better."

So, he still didn't believe her about her fingers. Her head snapped back, and she searched in vain for a proper reply to such a statement. Could she trust him?