a/n: Thank you for all the reviews! I really appreciate them, and love to see more! I've noticed some of you are concerned where I'm taking this story in regards to Jaelynn, but just trust me—this will remain a Tristan-centric fic, with some romantic elements from various characters added in. And on to the story:

Just Another Day

Gawain cleared his throat loudly, producing a garbled, phlegm sound that made Lucinda, Gawain's gal, cringe. She sent him a chiding glare. Gawain grinned.

The morning chill was in full force even though the sun was up now. Lucinda tried to tip-toe through the snow as she and Gawain took baskets of goods to the market. Lucinda sold food there, and Gawain helped her every morning. It was sweet, and she loved it. It was something she didn't see in Galahad or even Bors—and especially not Tristan.

The knight in question came into the grounds. Tristan galloped by on his horse, and nodded at Gawain. Lucinda tilted her head to the side as he drove by. The man was such an enigma. He moved on to the stables, and Lucinda turned to Gawain.

"He needs a hobby," she said. She put a basket down by her spot at the market. Gawain shrugged.

"He has one—scouting."

Lucinda rolled her eyes. "He needs a better hobby."

-0-0-

Tristan swung the axe over his head and slammed it through the wood. The wood popped and collided on top of a messy pile of logs. Tristan swung again, feeling the familiar pull on his muscles and joints. Sweat covered his arms and torso, and even though he'd dispensed with his coat, his long-sleeve shirt still seemed too much.

He heard the soft footsteps behind him and paused mid-swing to see who it was. Arthur didn't stop, even though he knew he was caught. He offered a modest grin.

"We have enough firewood, Tristan," he said. Tristan grunted. The scout swung the ax overhead and split another log in two. Arthur watched, and when Tristan swung again, Arthur grabbed the handle of the ax mid-air. Tristan struggled for a second before he realized what Arthur was doing. He relinquished the ax with a question in his eyes.

"Tristan." The way Arthur said it, it was half a reprimand and half a friendly remark. Tristan stepped back and put his hands on his narrow hips as he caught his breath.

"What?"

Arthur sighed. "Why do you not rest?" A few flakes of snow fell before his eyes, and Arthur looked up to the sky as if to confirm it. "It's snowing again, and you're out in the cold, gathering a resource we have plenty of."

Tristan clenched his teeth together tightly, and reached for his coat. But Arthur kept going.

"It's like the scouting. We have plenty of scouts from the native Britons, and yet you insist on going," the king said. "Please—rest."

Tristan sighed audibly. "The only rest I need is from everyone's nagging."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and half-smiled. "You were out for two days in a snow storm."

"I came back alive," was the scout's clipped reply. Arthur dropped the ax to the ground and crossed his arms against the cold.

"Why do you feel you must keep this up?" Arthur was getting cross now, Tristan could see. He had that wide-eyed, angry look in his eyes. Tristan hid a smile.

The scout turned to survey the Wall and the village therein. What people he could see were moving indoors—the cold was too much for them. Tristan turned back to Arthur.

"What else can I do?"

Tristan grabbed what logs he'd split, and took them to a storage pile. He could feel Arthur staring after him, puzzled.

-0-0-

The tavern's normal patrons graced the tables and barmaids. Vanora no longer worked here, understandably. She had a brood and household of her own now, and Bors, for whatever he was worth.

Tristan eyed the knife-throwing competition with little interest. Gawain and Galahad still tried their best, and they looked to him for some involvement. He shrugged them away. The game always ended the same way, and he was tired of winning.

He leaned back in a dark corner with his ale, numbly watching the activity around him.

It was a slight figure that caught his attention. A new barmaid, he suspected. He watched her—something was familiar, and he wanted to know why. She moved stiffly from table to table, and the way she ducked her head down and tried to stay out of sight suggested how uncomfortable she was.

Men at one table noticed her as well. One man, the town drunk and womanizer, grabbed her by the elbow. Ale spilled from the pitcher she held, and she gasped as the man forced her to sit by him. As she turned, Tristan saw her face.

He almost dropped his ale.

"Jaelynn," he said. Gawain heard it and looked at Tristan from his target game. But Tristan just stared at the girl. The man held her fast even though she struggled to get free. He leaned towards her face, no doubt trying to steal a kiss.

Tristan stood and crossed the tavern courtyard quickly. The man was oblivious and his hand snaked up Jaelynn's side. The girl looked frightened, but she loudly ordered him:

"Let me go!"

The man just laughed, and that's when Tristan interfered. With lightening-fast movement, Tristan caught the man's hand and pulled it away from Jaelynn's body. He grabbed her with his other hand and whirled her away from the drunken man.

"Leave her alone," Tristan muttered. It was a quiet growl, but it was loud enough to make the entire table freeze. From there, the hush spread. The drunken man pulled his hand away, and Tristan let it go. The drunk stood.

"Stick to your own business, scout," he hissed. He reached for Jaelynn, but Tristan just pushed her behind him protectively. Suddenly a blade nicked the drunk's throat. Gawain stood there, his sword in hand, joining the confrontation.

"She is our business," Gawain said. "And you've had enough for the night." He lifted the sword, forcing the man up and back with its tip. The man glared at the knights, but stumbled away from the table. The knights stayed put, but it was when the man was far enough away to escape that he tried his last jab.

"Assassin scumb."

Tristan stiffened at the words, but he didn't let anything show on his face. The drunk retreated quickly. Tristan let out a slow breath before turning to Gawain.

"Thanks," he said, and Gawain nodded.

"That was fun," he said with a crooked grin. He returned to his table, leaving Tristan with Jaelynn. As if he suddenly remembered her, Tristan whirled around and took her by the arm, leading her from the tavern.

"Tristan," she tried to object, "I have to work!" Tristan led her away from most eyes before he pounced.

"No," he hissed, gripping her arm a little too hard. She winced, and Tristan let up a bit. "What were you doing? Vanora knows you're here?"

Jaelynn's head dropped down, and Tristan had his answer. He headed for the stables, with Jaelynn in tow.

"How'd you get here?" he asked gruffly. Jaelynn still couldn't look him in the eye.

"Walked," she answered quietly. Tristan rolled his eyes and mounted his horse. He lent her a hand and pulled her up behind him. He didn't miss the slight thrill in her eyes.

They rode silently for a good five minutes before Tristan spoke again.

"What were you thinking?" He sighed. "Working in a tavern . . . the men expect certain things from bar wenches."

He felt Jaelynn shrug behind him. "Vanora worked there, and she was fine."

"She's older, and she has Bors. He'd kill any who touched her," Tristan said.

She didn't answer right away, but it didn't take longer either for her to come up with a reply. As she spoke, there was a certain familiar spark—defiance, even—that Tristan recognized.

"I'm sixteen now, Tristan," Jaelynn said. "I can't live off Vanora's charity forever. I'm a woman now."

Tristan snorted.

"Vanora likes having you there, to help." He heard Jaelynn sigh. Her breath tickled his ear, and it made him shiver.

"I need my own life eventually," she said, "and I have to find a way to live."

Tristan huffed. "Warming men's beds at night isn't a way to live."

Jaelynn let out a frustrated screech, making Tristan's horse start a bit. "I worked at the bar! Not as a—"

"They want more than ale, Jaelynn."

"Well, maybe you knights should set a better example and stop taking the wenches to bed." She'd said too much, she knew, but one of Jaelynn's traits lately was not knowing when to shut up. Tristan missed the days when she was a shy survivor of the Saxons' carnage. And she wasn't always like this, but it seemed she had no problem showering her temper and words on Tristan.

There was a good five minutes more of silence, with the crunching of the snow beneath the horse's hooves as the only sound.

"Thank you for stepping in," he heard her say. It was so quiet and meek, quite the change from her flare before. Glancing over his shoulder, the moon showed him a slight blush of embarrassment on her cheeks.

He grunted her thanks away, and spurred the horse faster.

-0-0-

A Saxon approached him. Tristan eyed him warily, but didn't move. The Saxon backhanded Tristan, who promptly fell with his face to the dirt.

The group roared with laughter. . . .

Suddenly he was grabbed from behind.

Someone seized him by the hair and yanked his head back. He felt a sharp blade at his neck. The Saxon said something in his guttural language, but Tristan didn't understand. The Saxon said the same words, this time shouting. He couldn't answer, and the Saxon withdrew the knife and pushed him roughly forward.

Tristan landed on his chest, inches from the fire. He rolled away from it, again amidst laughter. . . .

One of the drunken Saxons stood. He clambered over to the villagers, and grabbed the man. Before the man could realize what was happening, the Saxon removed a dagger and slit the villager's throat.

The girl screamed. Tristan blinked—and the Saxons roared with laughter.

The villager fell to the earth, blood spilling from his neck. The girl backed away from him. Tristan knew how the eyes of the dead or dying haunted the living. The girl's screams dissolved into wails. They were soft in comparison to the raucous laughter of the Saxons. Tristan's stomach twisted, and he looked away.

He had to . . .

What? Help? What good are you? You got captured. The girl's wailing grew louder, and Tristan looked back to see a Saxon grab her. The Saxon held the sword to her throat as well, but glared at Tristan.

Now what?

They shouted something at him. It just sounded like grunting and hacking coughs, but Tristan knew they wanted him to speak. He just didn't know what. The Saxon shouted louder and started to press the sword into the girl's skin. Her shriek pierced the air.

Tristan hit the ground. His eyes shot open, and he felt stunned for a brief second before he reached for his sword. But it wasn't at his hip.

Tristan sat up bewilderedly. Looking around, he saw he was in his room—on the floor. No noise sounded, and with a glance at the window, he saw it was still night.

Nightmare, he thought. Tristan closed his eyes, annoyed with himself. He sighed and got back on his bed. The memory was yet another thing that haunted him. If only he could have saved Jaelynn's father . . .

He never talked to the man, but Tristan figured seeing a man die at the hands of savage conquerors was enough for him to feel guilty, as if he were a friend. If nothing else, that tragic moment had made Tristan responsible—for Jaelynn.

Realistically, Bors and Vanora looked after her. But the burden of guilt weighed heavily on him. He felt he should do something to make things right for Jaelynn. It was how he felt about his actions in Rome—shouldn't he pay for his actions? All the blood he spilt and life he took?

Maybe that's why he scouted, trying to keep more people safe—the villagers, Woads (or Britons), and any others who found Britain a suitable place. As for Jaelynn, it certainly didn't make things easier for Tristan that she fancied him. Maybe if he reciprocated her sentiment, it would be enough . . .

He shivered, disgusted with the idea. Perhaps it was the protective role he'd assumed of the girl that forbade even the idea from his mind. No matter what it was, Tristan just couldn't consider Jaelynn that way, despite all of Bors and Vanora's hints and jokes.

Or could he? After all, everyone at the Wall whispered behind his back about needing a woman. In Tristan's mind, Jaelynn hardly qualified, but the girl was right. The other women at the tavern were hardly older than Jaelynn—maybe just by a year or two. Vanora started in the tavern when she was fifteen.

Tristan stared at the wooden ceiling, willing his mind to be as blank as his face normally was.

-0-0-

"So Jaelynn told us what you did for her," Bors said to Tristan as Arthur and the other knights found their seats on the round table. Tristan barely looked up from the table.

"Stupid lass," Tristan grumbled. "Going to the tavern alone."

"She needs to start working," Bors said. This made Tristan's head snap up.

"You sent her there?" he asked. Bors quaffed.

"Not there, but she's been talking about finding work," Bors said. The other knights were seated and waiting for them to quiet. "Thanks for watching out for her."

Tristan closed his eyes, recomposing himself. When he opened his eyes, he kept his face blank, and said simply:

"Someone had to."

Arthur cleared his throat before Bors could catch on. The king shot a look to Tristan, and the scout settled back in his chair, his mouth shut as they all were accustomed.

"Knights, word has reached us about strangers in the land," Arthur began. "No one knows who they are, or has even seen them, but tracks have been found around villages."

Galahad and Gawain exchanged looks.

"What if they're passing through?" Galahad asked.

Arthur's expression hardened grimly. "If they were passing through, I'd feel easier. But villagers have reported . . . unease. As if they're being watched."

Gawain snickered at the idea as if it was preposterous, but a look from Arthur silenced him. Gawain sobered up and cleared his throat.

"Where are these villages?" he asked.

"To the north."

"What do you want us to do?" Bors asked. Tristan felt Arthur's eyes on him before he met the king's look. He nodded.

"Tristan," Arthur began, "will scout ahead. See if you can find them, Tristan." The scout nodded at the command, and he couldn't deny he was relieved to have an actual assignment from Arthur. "You should take someone with you."

Tristan shook his head, sending his hair back and forth before his eyes. Arthur's head tilted to the side, his usual sign of contesting.

"It could be dangerous."

"So?" The knights laughed—Tristan would have his way on this one.