"Lancelot! What are you doing out here?" Tarra demanded.

"I was about to ask you the same question," Lancelot returned with a smirk, stepping out from behind a tree and sauntering towards her.

Alright, what was going on here? Tarra knew that Lancelot was a flirt---a big flirt---but he was exerting himself quite a bit for a man who had never in his life needed to put any effort into chasing a woman. Oh, but that was just absurd. Tarra wasn't even his type. As a matter of fact, when had Tarra ever been anyone's type?

Oh well. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he was certainly not her type. Perhaps there were some girls who fell weak at the knees, succumbing completely to his pompous air of self confidence and unnaturally perfect ringlets of curls, but she was not one of them. So what if he had soft, round, almond-shaped brown eyes and a smile that crept seductively up his face one corner at a time? That was not enough to tempt her.

Besides, she had more important things to think about like assassinating British kings, not to mention escaping afterward before she got caught. Her life was very complicated right now! Actually, her life was always complicated in a take-what-you-want-regardless-of-the-consequences kind of way. She wasn't the type to get distracted by a member of the opposite sex, especially one as full of himself as Lancelot. No, she had priorities and goals; and besides, romance was for fools who deluded themselves into believing that a person could actually care more about someone else than they cared about his or herself.

"I just wanted some time to think. That's all," Tarra said.

"Surely," Lancelot replied, continuing to advance towards her until only the slightest bit of distance separated them from each other, "And was your endeavor successful?"

Tarra gulped, "Endeavor?"

"Your thinking."

"Oh, right…yes…it was….successful, I mean."

"I'm glad," he whispered, closing his eyes and leaning his head down towards hers. Tarra snapped back with a jolt, backing away from him. He looked at her inquisitively. She reminded him of a vulnerable child with her arms crossed protectively over her chest. Tarra returned his gaze, locking her eyes with his as though her stare could influence him to remain where he was.

Lancelot straightened his posture, and for the first time she noticed how tall he was. "I'm sorry," he offered, trying to ascertain where to go from there or what his next move should be.

"For what?" Tarra asked, pretending to be oblivious to what had happened---to what had almost happened.

"For trying to---"

"Oh," Tarra interrupted quickly, "Forget about it." She then turned from him and played nervously with her hair. 'Pull yourself together!' she thought, 'Of all the perilous, inescapable situations you've faced and THIS is the one that unnerves you?' She felt Lancelot approaching her from behind; and though she could not see his face, she knew it wore a predatory grin.

"Do I make you nervous?" he teased.

"Don't flatter yourself!" Tarra answered with a crack in her voice that betrayed what she was trying so hard to hide. She added quickly in explanation, "I don't like people touching me, remember?"

Lancelot's smirk broadened. "What makes you think I'm going to touch you?"

Tarra turned to Lancelot with narrowed eyes. "You're an ass," she said.

Lancelot laughed, "Ok, ok. I'm sorry. Just---tell me---"

"What?"

He paused for a moment. "Why don't you let anyone touch you?"

Tarra furrowed her eyebrows. "I---I don't know," she said, "Why do you even care? I don't care. I've never even really thought about it."

"Never really thought about it?" Lancelot repeated in a way that demonstrated his astonishment.

"No, why would I have?"

Lancelot blinked, "Tarra, everyone gets touched at some point or another."

Tarra shrugged, "Not me."

"Well, of course not if you don't allow it."

"Why do you even want to know in the first place?"

"I just want to understand. Is that so horrible?"

"I don't think you could understand."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't think I even understand it myself!"

For the first time, Lancelot had no witty replies. She had completely stumped and puzzled him. Tarra sighed, "When I was a little girl, the gypsy woman who looked after me told me the myth of a greedy king who was granted one gift by the gods. She told the story much better than I can, but I'll try my best anyway. This gift of the gods was the power to turn anything into gold with a single touch. The greedy king touched a flower in his garden and it turned to gold. Then he touched a tree at the garden's edge and it turned to gold as well. When the king's daughter inquired about what he was doing, he told her of his gift and said, 'Isn't this wonderful?' His daughter, however, thought that it certainly was not wonderful. She was overwrought and said simply that she liked the flower as a flower and the tree as a tree. The king reached out to comfort her, but to his everlasting horror, she too turned to gold at his touch." (see footnote)

"Tarra," said Lancelot, "You surely can't believe that if you let people touch you, you would turn into gold."

"No, of course not," Tarra laughed, then added more seriously, "But I think it would change me all the same."

Lancelot stood stunned. She had rendered him utterly speechless. He cleared his throat, stumbling for words. "Well," he said finally, "I'd never want to change you."

Tarra let out an unforgiving laugh at him. "You really are a smooth-talker, aren't you?" she snickered.

"Don't pretend to be immune to my charms," Lancelot countered in his usual cheeky manner, "I see through your icy exterior."

Tarra raised an eyebrow. "If that were true, I'm afraid you would have discovered there's nothing beneath it."

Lancelot gave her a sly smile. "Hardly," he said.

They stood staring at each other awkwardly for a moment until Tarra finally broke the silence. "So," she began, "Should we be getting back to the others?"

"Yes," he answered, "That's probably a good idea." He watched as Tarra fidgeted awkwardly, scanning her surroundings and then looking back at him in anticipation. "You do know your way back, don't you?" he asked provokingly.

"Of course I do!" said Tarra adamantly, "It's---well—it's this way." Tarra pointed in a random direction and treaded ahead at that bearing.

Lancelot followed close behind with an amused look on his face. After several minutes, Tarra stopped and spun her head around, studying her entire perimeter at a glance. "Are you sure you know where you're going?" Lancelot asked.

Tarra bit her lip. She never liked to admit when she was wrong, but at the same time, she was completely clueless as to where she was or where she was headed. "You really should pay closer attention to your surroundings," Lancelot teased.

"I'm not lost!" she protested, "But if you're so confident, why don't you lead the way!"

"I will!" responded Lancelot. She watched as his eyes skimmed along the line of trees and his face twisted in deep thought.

Tarra smirked. "You really should pay closer attention to your surroundings," she mimicked.

"Very funny," he grumbled, "I'll have you know I know exactly where I am going."

"Is that so?" asked Tarra mockingly, putting her hands on her hips, "By all means, show me!"

"Gladly!" Lancelot countered and began walking in the opposite direction that Tarra had lead him.

This time, Tarra followed close behind, taunting him. "Ah yes," she said, "This is clearly the right direction. I recognize that tree over there. You know, the one with the green leaves."

"You're not helping," muttered Lancelot.

"Would a compass help?" Tarra inquired.

"Yes! Immensely!" he answered in eager anticipation.

"Oh," she responded coolly, "It's too bad we don't have one then."

"You're incorrigible."

"Thank you!"

Lancelot rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. Tarra found herself trying to suppress a smile that kept crawling across her face, a smile whose source she could not quite pinpoint. "So Lancelot," she said nonchalantly, "We've talked about me. Now it's your turn. Pray tell, sir, why are you the way you are?"

Lancelot laughed, "To answer that question I would have to first inquire as to how it is that I am exactly?"

Could a more perfect opportunity have presented itself? "Well let's see," Tarra responded provokingly, "There's arrogant, egotistical, pompous, pretentious, vain, profligate, over-confident---have I left anything out?"

"You certainly have!" answered Lancelot, "What about dashing, handsome, charming, irresistible, fetching, charismatic, shrewd, courageous---"

"You're proving my point."

"Just being honest," he said with a laugh and a shrug of the shoulders.

"You don't take anything seriously, do you?" she asked.

Lancelot grinned. "We're much alike in that respect don't you think?"

Tarra smiled suspiciously in return. "If you say so."

Lancelot and Tarra trudged ahead in that same general direction for a good half hour until Lancelot suddenly ducked behind a tree with an alarmed look on his face. "Shhh!" he warned, putting a finger up to his lips and motioning Tarra over to his side. Tarra obliged, hastening over to where Lancelot stood.

"What?" she whispered, peeking over his shoulder to catch sight of what they were hiding from.

"Saxons!" Lancelot whispered back with urgency. It was then that Tarra noticed Raywold the Saxon wearing that same fur covering that made him look like a giant, overstuffed squirrel.

"Curse whoever taught him to swim!" Tarra muttered to herself, remembering how she'd thrown him overboard on her crossing to Briton.

"Beg pardon?" said Lancelot, confused.

"Long story."

Raywold stood authoritatively, surrounded by ten other Saxons dressed in the same outdated caveman attire. They appeared to be in some kind of conference, huddled together in deep discussion.

"They're going to attack the village!" Lancelot said suddenly.

"What? How do you know that?" asked Tarra.

"Come!" ordered Lancelot, ignoring her question, "If we hurry, we can beat them there!"
"But you don't even know where you're going!" Tarra protested.

"It can't be far now," responded Lancelot, "Come on! We have to warn them!" With that, he took off hastily into the trees, Tarra following close behind him. They could not have been running for more than a few seconds when they heard a voice shouting after them, "You there! Stay where you are!" The sounds of trampling Saxon feet and clamoring Saxon weapons grew louder at their backs. To Tarra's dismay, Lancelot suddenly stopped in his tracks, drawing the two twin swords he carried on his back.

"Go!" he cried to her, "I'll stall them. Go! Warn the others!"

Tarra paused for a moment simply staring at him in awe. "Go!" he repeated. She hesitated only a split second more and then took off running into the trees. She looked over her shoulder once to see Lancelot bravely engaging the ominous Saxons in combat and quickly picked up her pace.

So there she was, racing off to the rescue of those that she either didn't give a damn about or that she was supposed to have killed in the first place. She wondered how in the world her plans had gotten so off course. She swore that after this ordeal was over, she was going to take a nice, long vacation---perhaps someplace warm. She couldn't take this rainy, cool weather much longer.

Oh, damn it all! Lancelot could be dead by now, and she was thinking about the weather! It wasn't that she cared about Lancelot or anything---of course she didn't---but he had better survive or else everyone would blame her for abandoning him. Yes, of course that explained it. She didn't care about Lancelot. She only cared about herself.

Her heart leapt with joy and relief as the village's campfire appeared in the distance. All of the sudden, she felt her arms waving widely in the air and she heard her voice shouting, "Help! Hurry! Anyone! Saxons! Lancelot! Hurry!"

By the time she reached the village, the knights were already up and about with weapons in hand. Even Tristan had left Jillian's side, carrying his curved sword with him, to see what the commotion was about. They ran over to meet Tarra who was gasping for breath with a look of panic on her face.

"Tarra! What is it?" asked Arthur, his eyes filled with worry and concern.

"Saxons…forest…Lancelot…" Tarra said neither able to catch her breath nor form coherent sentences. The word "Saxons," however, was enough to send the knights into a state of alarm and frenzy.

"Lancelot's in trouble," Arthur declared, forming the sentences for her, "This way!"

Tarra watched as Arthur led the knights into the forest in the direction from which she had just come. She let the air slowly in and out of her lungs and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She'd done her duty, gone the extra mile even. She'd warned them about Lancelot being in trouble, what else could she be expected to do? Damn it, who was she kidding? "Wait for me!" she called to the knights, sprinting back into the forest after them.

------------------------------

Footnote: Reference to the Greek myth of King Midas to whom the god Dionysus gave the gift of being able to turn anything into gold with a single touch.