A/N: It's taken me a goddamned long time to continue this story. Been very busy. But I tell you, I will finish it if it's the last thing I do. This chapter will be extra long to make up for the mess I've done. Or more like, for the mess I have NOT done for a rather long time. Anyways, thanks everyone for the reviews. :) Enjoy! (Kungfuchick, your review was very useful, and you were not an insufferable know-it-all! LOL Here, have a cookie!) :) Many hugs to all reviewers!

It was strange how only two people could make so much noise. Amazing, but true. Gaheris and Gareth, similar in body and soul, had been singing since their first drink. One could have thought that, by now, they would have been fed up with the ancient songs from all possible places of Sarmatia –but no. If they were unable to come up with a new one, they asked Vanora. If that didn't work either, they'd repeat one.

Galahad's head was starting to hurt.

He desperately tried to come up with an excuse to leave, but every time he got up from his chair, Gawain pulled him onto it again and tried to make him join the conversation he was having with Bors. The only one who seemed able to understand him was Dagonet –Galahad suspected that his head hurt too. Vanora kept bringing more beer and cold drinks, and the twins' stomachs seemed to be bottomless pits. Honestly, that was their twentieth pint.

Enid got them some meat and bread. She was a young, pretty girl, about to marry Geraint, who sat behind Galahad talking to some roman soldiers. Her hair was a long flow of honey curls, and her green eyes shone above her constant smile. She even got some cold water with herbs for Galahad and Dagonet so that they got rid of the headache. What she didn't know is that it would act as a laxative – she noticed the effect it had on some roman soldiers three seconds before the knights could drink, and she snatched the mugs away from them as if they were filled with snakes.

''…Enid…'' Dagonet was puzzled.

''I'm sorry, I think I got you some alcohol, I'll be right back.'' She shot them a nervous grin and disappeared into the tavern, cursing herself for being so thoughtless. Of course, it's not as if she really pitied the Romans. She happily let them take off, emptying a table. Her soon-to-be husband sent her a puzzled look, but she just shrugged as she got some cold drinks for the two knights – if they didn't want to drink them, she'd just pour them over their heads. Maybe the cold would make their brains freeze and hurt less.

As she headed back to the table, she accidentally bumped into a woman. The contents of one of the mugs spilled over the twins' heads and Galahad's skirt (A/N: Yes, I know it's a kilt, but it's still a skirt. LMAO.) The young knight freaked out slightly, but at least now he had a reasonable excuse to get off his seat. Although Gawain never quite stopped laughing – he was unable to – he followed Galahad out of the tavern after a quick goodbye for everyone else. And surprisingly enough, the twins had stopped singing. Maybe because of the sudden cold on their heads. Enid didn't even bother to apologize.

She was busy looking at the woman she'd just bumped into. Morgause – Arthur's sister as well. She was married to King Lot, someone that Enid didn't particularly like. Actually, she didn't like him at all. Morgause was one of those slender, frail women, very lady-like, and blessed with a delicate, fair beauty that Enid would never have – maybe because she had to work and could not remain still á la wallflower.

But she did not envy her. Her husband ignored her, absorbed as he was in his own business. Her children had been taken by nannies. She had no job and no responsibilities, and sometimes that can be worse than being very busy. She did not visit Hadrian's wall too often, but when she did, she had the habit of visiting the tavern, only to know what everyone was doing in there. Enid knew that, if someone asked her, she'd say her name was Anna – her husband would not like her hanging around with people who were not the highest nobility.

Enid had fallen into the name trap herself. She'd met Morgause one evening when the tavern was mostly empty. She'd been surprised to see a richly dressed lady in such a place, and had watched her golden locks from afar. She'd served her some wine, and when the lady had lifted her head, she'd taken a step back.

Purple.

Yes, Morgause's eyes were purple. Or some sort of blue that shifted strangely under the fire's light. She'd been amazed. She'd heard stories of how Arthur and his family were not totally from this world – she rarely saw Morgana, but was terrified of her, even if the knight's stories of her dark beauty entranced her. Arthur was going to lead them all, some said, he was going to become the greatest hero that Britain would ever have. And Morgause… Enid guessed that she was no exception. Anna, she'd called her, until Arthur had told her of her disguise. Of course the lady had apologized for it, and whenever she returned she sat alone in a table until Enid could talk to her.

But this time it was slightly different. She sat down at a table at the corner, but Enid was not the only person who observed her. Dagonet, lost in thought, had seemed to sink into her purple eyes. Enid was about to start plucking her hair out – they all knew about Lot's viciousness. Then again, they also knew about Kay's, and still they teased and joked with him. Enid put a hand on the knight's shoulder, and sent him a warning look.

''Dag…'' She started. He looked at her for a moment and nodded, understanding. It was someone out of his reach. He simply turned around and started talking to Geraint.

Enid had known about this for a while now. When the knights had met Morgause, the most surprised one had been Dagonet. She smiled slightly at the fact that none of them had wanted to be recognized when they'd first met – she'd called herself Anna, and he'd hidden as Lionel. But of course when Arthur had decided to introduce everyone to her, the knight's face had been priceless. Things they'd felt had been buried deep inside their souls… But never forgotten. They'd prevented another meeting since then, until now.

It must have been fate. And when fate calls, you have to answer.

But the lady stood there frozen in place, sitting at her table as if she'd never seen the knight. Usually she would have greeted Enid, not simply bumped into her with no word. But it had been Dagonet's presence that made her remain silent. The young bartender sighed. There was nothing she could do to save them, either.

''Shut up already!'' She bellowed at the twins, as they engaged themselves in the fifth time they sang a lullaby called 'Golden Starlight' in who-knows-what language. They blinked and observed her as if she'd grown another head. She just snorted – more like, growled at them, and simply headed off to serve some men who'd just sat at an empty table.

The twins, a bit stunned, ended up shrugging and started singing once again as if nothing had happened. There was an 'Argh!' from Enid that of course everyone heard… but them.

Isolde could not sleep. Or didn't want to, she couldn't really tell. Although she was tired, she felt there was something left to do, something that she could not get away without doing. For a moment she thought about checking on Tristan – who wasn't sleeping either, judging from the noise of footsteps up and down the house.

For a second she thought about waking up, but she decided against it after a moment. What would she tell him, anyway? There was just so much that you could talk about to a person you were hopelessly attracted to, and still could never have. After a whole day of standing too close to him, of watching him, of wishing she could stay with the Christians that she hated that same morning, she wasn't really ready for peaceful, normal conversation.

And still. She couldn't sleep, so what was the point of remaining there and staring at the ceiling when there were so many things she could be doing? She tried not to think about all 'those things'. First, because Christians seemed to think it was an irremediable sin – despite the fact that they were all in the world because of it. And second, because if she did she wouldn't stay in bed for too long.

At least not in hers, that is.

After a while of twisting and turning in one's bed, we all know it gets boring. Or tiring, it depends. But you are lucky if after so many turns you fall asleep – when you're stressed, though, it doesn't happen. No matter how much you try, you remain staring at the ceiling into nothingness, with your mind apparently empty but still filled with your problem. And that was exactly what happened to Isolde. A part of her wanted to meet Tristan, and a part of her wished that she didn't have to do anything and he just showed up in her room instead. I don't think I'll be that lucky. She thought. At least she was realistic.

Then the sound outside stopped, and it seemed as if Tristan had finally gone to bed. There was no noise for a moment, and then if she paid enough attention, she could hear the steady breathing of someone who was asleep. She was about to get up and slap him then for being so lucky – the bastard could sleep and she was stuck with… insomnia. And several moral dilemmas.

After a while more of twisting and turning, she decided that it was about time she took a walk. At least if Tristan was asleep, she would not have to deal with her problems somewhere she could be seen. She rose from the bed and walked to his room to make sure he slept – he did. Swallowing hard, she walked around. A noise outside caught her attention, and she looked out the window.

Well, at least it seemed that she was not the only one who could not sleep. Kay stood downstairs, in some sort of stable, apparently fixing his weapons and polishing a bow. She watched him for a minute, and then headed downstairs.

She found him easily, sitting with a heap of weapons around him. She tried not to make a noise, even stopped breathing for a second. And then he turned around, to stare right at her. He smiled slightly.

''I heard you.'' She suspected it was not true, but didn't dare telling him that. So she just walked to him as he returned to the sword he was polishing in silence. ''Couldn't sleep, could you?''

''Would I be here if I could?'' She answered quickly.

''Not unless you were deaf. The twin's songs are getting louder every minute.'' Kay snapped back. It was true, Isolde realized. They kept getting louder, and at some point someone would soak them with water if they didn't let everyone at the wall sleep.

There was an embarrassing silence between them. It seemed that neither of them had much to say – Kay probably didn't want to say anything either. Once he was done with the sword, he turned his attention to the bow he'd just fixed. Isolde watched the carved wood, the tight string, and the arrows that lay sprawled over the floor. Kay must have had a good shot, she assumed. During the journey there hadn't been the need to prove it, but she'd been told that in the region of Sarmatia where Kay and Tristan came from, archers were specially good, able to shoot a man from miles away and not miss for an inch.

''Did you make that?'' She asked him, curious, taking the bow from him when he offered it. She ran her fingers over the carvings, the design on the wood, and the tensed rope.

''Yes.'' He answered. ''But during our last trip to the Woad lands the thread broke. I tried to fix it tonight, but I'm not sure it worked. I should try tomorrow, and let's hope it doesn't snap on me again.''

''I could try it for you.'' Isolde answered quickly, happy to have started some conversation – hey, Kay had seemed much worse when surrounded by the others. Now she looked into his eyes in the dim stable and noticed for the first time that it was his dark hair and the glare that made his eyes seem so dark – actually, they were of a rather stunning blue. The braids were almost all gone now, and his long hair fell over his back with the elegance of a lion, or more like – of an untamed beast. Even his smile (the first one he'd uttered since she'd met him) was rather feral, with slightly bigger, pointier fangs. He seemed amused when she offered to try the bow.

''You have some guts.'' He answered, not losing his ironic smile for a moment. ''I wouldn't let you, you may get hurt.'' The only hurt thing around was Isolde's pride. She felt insulted – how dare he? She was a Celt, a warrior. She could probably shoot as good as him – if not better. When he held out his hand to take the bow from her, she refused to give it back, and instead picked up an arrow and with amazing skill shot a wooden column in the dark. The arrow hit its target.

But the thread snapped. In a split second, Isolde's forearm was bleeding profusely from the whip-like thread that had swiftly cut her flesh. She was lucky it had not been her eye. She didn't even scream, she just gasped, and then dropped the bow. Kay had seemed to panic for a moment, and quickly got up and tried to find a piece of cloth to close the wound. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be one around, and even if there had been, he had a serious lack of skill in healing. Hey, you can't have everything.

''I told you so.'' He said finally finding a dirty piece of clothing that he'd rather not cover the would with. Isolde, on the other hand, wasn't as scrupulous. She tried to clean the blood with the cloth, and didn't seem to mind the dirt at all.

She didn't answer him at first. He was trying his best to apologize now, in his own way – this meant, he tried to get the blame off himself, like many other men do. She kept cleaning blood and blood, but it seemed to be a rather deep cut, and even though she would not be seriously wounded, she may have to deal with the blood loss, superficial as it was. It probably looked worse than it really was, she mused, and that's what she told Kay, who finally shut up after he saw she was alright after all.

But before she could really nurse the wound herself, footsteps behind them ended their conversation. Tristan stood not too far away – he'd either heard the gasp, the conversation, or the racket Kay had made in his quest for some rags. That didn't matter much, judging from the look on his eyes.

The look of a hunted animal, of someone defending his territory, and over all – of a jealous lover. Kay was about to make a wisecrack about that, but decided against it just before the words came out of his mouth, since something he did not want to lose today was his head.

''What was happening?'' Tristan asked, and quickly made Isolde drop the dirty piece of cloth that would surely end up infecting the wound if she pushed it into the flesh. He watched both the Celt and the knight, and seemed to be expecting an answer – when he got none, he grabbed Isolde's unharmed hand and started going back into the house, leaving Kay there on his own, looking at the floor and pretending he wasn't even aware of the presence of anyone else – as if he'd never seen or even heard Tristan at all.

As they left, his eyes fell on the floor, on the trail of blood that had been left behind. As he picked up the discarded piece of bloodied cloth, he remembered the warm eyes, the pride in them, the lioness that possessed them. He lifted his eyes for a split second to catch the shape of the warrior maiden, dragged back home by one of his friends. As they disappeared in the shadows, Kay dropped the fabric angrily and snorted.

He most definitely did not like her, he kept telling himself.

''I don't expect you to explain anything.'' Tristan said, as Isolde started telling him about the broken bow and the cut, about how she meant no harm or to make him worry… but she was interrupted, and soon she knew that nothing she could say would fix the wound.

No, and she didn't mean the one in her hand.

Tristan cleaned the wound quickly and started applying some sort of herbal remedy over the cut, then covered it with a clean stripe of fabric. He didn't say anything else at the moment, and didn't look at Isolde in the eye. He pretended to observe the candle that was slowly burning on the table, consuming itself. Just like passion that should never exist – it burns and then slowly fades. That was how he saw all this mess: as something that should not be, and would not be as far as he was concerned.

''…''Isolde wanted to say something, but words somehow decided to go on strike on her brain. What would she say, anyway? ''I was safe, really…'' She muttered, thinking that the knight's greatest worry was her safety.

''With him?'' Tristan asked, as if mocking what she'd just said. ''Safe with Kay? You hardly know him, and yet you say you are safe with him.''

''I also think I'm safe with you and I've known you for as long as him. Actually, he was first.''

''He'd be a murderer without remorse.'' Her eyes were screaming 'And so would you.' Tristan decided to change argument, because that one didn't work. ''I told you that it was better if you didn't hang out with Kay alone. Arthur himself suspects him sometimes. Maybe not his loyalty itself, but his reasons for loyalty. He's not one of those people you trust.''

''You trust him in battle.''

''In battle. Not necessarily out of it.'' He answered. ''Isolde, believe me when I tell you that he is like a wild beast. Don't put too much trust in him.'' He shook his head and started to head back to his room. He thought about what he'd just said, and realized it was only partly true. He did trust Kay. Suspected his reasons sometimes, but didn't believe he'd betray them at all. So then, why was he reacting like this?

Isolde seemed silent for a moment, then she started walking to her room again, bumping into Tristan on her way there, and not muttering an apology or not even a complaint. She just passed him by, and their eyes met for a moment.

''I thought lone wolves were never jealous.'' Isolde muttered, then got into her room, leaving a speechless Tristan behind. She was offended this time, and not because her value had been put to test. What gave Tristan the right to lecture her like that? She could do whatever she wanted, could she? Kay was not a danger to her, so why was he reacting like that? And, over all, why should she care about what he said? Who had given him permission to make that sort of comments?

She sat in silence for a moment, at the edge of the bed. Maybe, she mused, she had.