It took a while for Tristan to make up his mind on whether he should join the others at the campfire, but when he finally did take a seat at the edge of the fire, he saw that Toril still hadn't appeared from the wagon. There was quite a bit of good-natured ribbing coming from the other knights, especially Bors, but he let it wash over him without acknowledging it. His mind was still fixed solely on the wounded expression in Toril's eyes when he had snapped at her, and the memory of it was doing strange things to his heart.

Tristan had made a career from being the mysterious, silent scout who nobody knew anything about, and that suited him just fine. He would rather be silent than speak; you learned more about a potential enemy when you let them do the talking. And the fewer conversations you had with someone, the less attached to them you got and the less you suffered when they died. It was one of the standards Tristan lived his life by.

But he himself knew how fallible that standard was...he had grown attached to the knights he ate, drank, slept and fought with, just by being around them for the last fifteen years. Hell, he had been attached to them since they first set foot in the dreary territory that was to be their post, ripped from all corners of the vast land they once called home. Some of them still harboured hopes of returning to Sarmatia after their tour of duty for Rome was at an end, but not Tristan. He stopped looking ahead after the first of their comrades died in battle. For Tristan, there was only the twang of his bowstring, the feeling of his sword in his hand, the deadly dance of death that he had perfected over the years. For Tristan, there was only the here and now.

And here and now was where Toril was...

She puzzled him, with her piercing blue gaze, mysterious looks, and the way he felt so irresistibly drawn to her, right from the first moment he had crouched to see her pale blue eyes looking back at him from the horrors of a Roman torture chamber. Riding through the forest that day with Toril in his arms, it wasn't hard for Tristan to imagine, or even long for, riding forever like that, not ever having to stop. She was quickly becoming a touchstone for him, something to think about on his lonely runs into the forest as he patrolled endlessly; making sure the other knights and their charges would be safe.

Tristan shook his head and drew his curved sword from its sheath to sharpen it. His life was too perilous to attach himself to someone else emotionally; there was always the threat of death at anytime. Always.

And yet...this was the last mission they were to undertake for Rome. When they returned to the fort, their discharge papers would be waiting for them and they would be free. Tristan didn't trust the Roman bishop for a second, he was too smart for that, but like the others, especially Dagonet, he trusted Arthur. And Arthur promised them their freedom upon their return.

That was good enough for Tristan. Now all he had to do was stay alive for one more day, for only a few more hours' traveling with the Saxons breathing down their necks.

They could hold them off for a few more hours.

And then...when he was a free man, then what? He had never looked ahead far enough to think about what he would do with his freedom. Return to Sarmatia? His family was all dead and gone, slaughtered by Romans and rebels and whatever other manner of vile creatures thirsted for human blood. Stay at the Wall? With the Romans gone, the Woads would descend upon the Wall with a vengeance. Not to mention that the Saxons would easily overcome any who resisted.

No, Tristan didn't know what he would do. Probably follow the rest of the knights wherever they went...after fifteen years of serving together, their presence had become natural to him. He would miss them if they were gone, even if their constant arguing and talking made it difficult for him to hear the sounds of the forest around them, sounds that told him where the enemy was.

And now there was Toril. Her pale blue eyes, her low voice, her lilting laugh, the way her body fit against his...all of these things and more made him think that he would like to have her around for the rest of his life, to have her to talk to, to have her to listen, to have her to ride with, to have her to come home to...just to have her. Now with the end so close in sight, Tristan could almost see how the next few days could pan out. He could almost see them returning to the Wall safely, receiving their discharge papers, and then leaving for Sarmatia. He could almost see Toril riding beside him, heading east with him, as his wife.

But for fifteen years Tristan hadn't looked ahead, and now when he tried to, he found that he was so out of practice that he couldn't see further ahead than putting his sword back in its sheath after sharpening it. And even that seemed too far.

The suddenness of silence drew his attention back to the fire and the other knights, and his gaze automatically went in the same direction that theirs did, his grip on his sword tightening. But it wasn't an enemy that they saw, no Saxon or Woad or even a wild animal. It was simply Toril. But such a Toril that they had yet to see...she had disappeared into the wagon wearing Tristan's clothes and still covered in dirt and blood from her time in the dungeon, but now...now she was clean, her skin fresh and glowing and her hair shining in the light, pulled into a thick braid down her back. She was wearing a dark green gown of Fulcinia's, very simple in design but very elegant at the same time; her figure was fuller than the Roman woman's, so she filled out the dress very nicely. Her gaze met each of the knights' in turn, with a beautiful smile for each of them, and she sat gracefully between Gawain and Galahad, accepting a hunk of bread from Jols. Only Tristan noticed the way her eyes darkened when she looked at him, the split second of sorrow that covered her face before it relaxed again. His heart clenched inside him and his hand tightened again on his sword. Maybe he couldn't look ahead and plan for the future, but he could apologize to her and make things right in the now.

Tristan stood abruptly, his sword ringing as it slid back into its scabbard. His voice was low, rough.

"Toril, may I speak with you?" Her surprised eyes met his, but she tossed the bread back to Jols and rose without question to walk with Tristan, his hand feather-light on her back as he guided her several steps into the forest. When they were out of hearing range of the knights around the fire, Tristan dropped his hand and Toril turned to meet his eyes, waiting.

For a long moment there was only the sound of the wind in the trees as Tristan tried to gather his thoughts and find something to say, a long moment where his heart raced and Toril waited patiently, just looking at him with her solemn eyes that held some sort of an expression that Tristan didn't recognize. Vulnerable, he realized finally, and his heart seemed to steady inside of him. He would not destroy this further, just because he wasn't used to being in this situation. His jaw clenched once, and his gaze dropped away from her pale eyes, his voice so quiet that even he could barely hear it.

"I did not mean what I said earlier, Toril. It wasn't my intention to hurt you, ever. I apologize." His eyes lifted once again to her face in time to see a single tear slip down her cheek, and his hand reached to brush it away before he had time to think. His fingertips stilled on her smooth skin and he watched her eyes closely, for something, anything, that would tell him he was forgiven, surprising himself with the intensity with which he desired it. After what seemed like forever to Tristan, Toril reached up to cup his face in her hands, stood on her toes and placed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Her voice was sweeter than he could ever have imagined.

"I forgive you, Tristan." The barest smile crossed his face and he leaned down to press his forehead to hers, his hands slipping around her waist to hold her close. She grinned playfully.

"But don't do it again." Tristan shook his head emphatically.

"I never intend to, Lady. I fear your bow." Toril laughed out loud, filling the air around them with joy.

"If you fear my bow, you must be terrified of my sword. Or did you not notice that my palms are calloused as well?" Tristan's lids drooped over his dark eyes. He had been so enthralled by the length and slimness of her fingers that he hadn't looked at the rest of her hand.

"No, I didn't notice. But don't tell anyone else. They'll think I'm losing my touch."

Toril chuckled again. "Never fear, Sir Knight. Your secret is safe with me."

Tristan's eyes narrowed again, almost playfully. "And can I trust you?"

Toril shrugged, the joy in her eyes being replaced by something more solemn.

"I cannot answer that for you, Tristan. Do you think you can trust me?" Tristan's only answer was to tip the corner of his mouth up into a wry smile, grasp Toril's hand, and lead her back towards the warmth of the fire.

They arrived in time to hear Galahad grumbling that they had not yet glimpsed the Saxon army behind them, only heard the ominous sound of their war drums as they left Marius Honorius' land. The other knights were giving him a hard time about it, albeit good-naturedly. Bors' voice was rough, as always.

"If you want to put all this behind you, you seem awfully eager to find someone to fight, youngest." Galahad grew indignant.

"I want to know the manner of my enemy before I have to fight him, Bors; that way I'm not surprised." Gawain pushed Galahad aside to make room for Toril to sit down, and was in turn pushed aside by Tristan who sat silently and pulled Toril into his lap. Her bell-like laugh captured everyone's attention, and her voice was merry.

"That's good, Galahad...but these Saxons? They can smell fear just by looking at you..." she leaned across Gawain to capture Galahad's chin in her strong grasp. "...So keep quiet." The circle around the fire was quiet for a second before erupting into laughter at the conflicting statement. Galahad looked confused for a moment before his face relaxed and he chuckled as well. Toril sat back against Tristan, her mouth turned up at the corners, and once again accepted the hunk of bread that Jols tossed to her, tearing it in half and handing one piece to Tristan. Bors' attention turned to the scout.

"Have you seen them yet, Tristan?"

The dark haired man shook his head. "Only signs. No actual soldiers." Bors shrugged, trying not to look too hopeful.

"Eh, maybe tomorrow." Lancelot looked at Toril from under his dark eyelashes.

"Now that you're actually awake, Toril, we can let you know what manner of man Tristan is." Toril rolled her eyes at him and smiled with the other knights, then schooled her face into a study of concentration.

"By all means, Lancelot. What manner of man is Tristan?"

Bors snorted. "He's bloodthirsty, that one. He kills for the sake of killing, for the pure joy of it."

Gawain nodded. "His weapons are his most prized possessions...no living creature gets the same attention as his sword and bow."

Dagonet's quiet voice spoke from the other side of the fire. "And he only ever talks to his hawk."

Tristan shot Dagonet a look, his voice low. "Which is more than we can say of you, sometimes."

Gawain and Bors made a show of falling over in shock, and Tristan just shook his head in disgust, his arm tightening around Toril's waist as she spoke through her laughter.

"Is this all you can tell me? I expected some dire news, Lancelot; some tall tale of how he was more monster than man, or something of that sort."

Galahad's eyebrow rose. "Obtaining pleasure from taking life is not monstrous to you?" Toril shook her head.

"There is nothing as artful, as beautiful, as...poetic...as the ability to take another human's life. What can compare to that?" Galahad looked at her with shock written all over his young face.

"You're as disturbing as he is." He stood abruptly and left the circle of the fire. The other knights whistled and catcalled after him, but he didn't turn. Bors sighed heavily and looked at Toril, shaking his head.

"Kindred spirits, you are." Toril just grinned cheekily. Lancelot frowned.

"Kindred spirits or no, I think it rather strange that you would ride off with someone you hardly knew. I would hate to find someday that you were...attacked...because you were too trusting. Falling asleep and letting your guard down is not very smart, Lady." Toril's mouth widened into a predatory smile and her gaze turned sensuous.

"Mmm, yes, Lancelot. I thank you for your concern. But how do you know when I fell asleep and for what reason? Maybe I was just too exhausted from...riding through the woods."

There was silence for a moment before the circle erupted into calls and whistles again as the knights caught her implied meaning, and Gawain threw an arm around Toril's waist to draw her towards him.

"I think tomorrow you should come riding with me, Toril." Tristan glared at the younger man and pulled Toril squarely back onto his knee again, but Toril looked at Tristan and then at Gawain with an agreeing expression on her face. Her voice was abnormally bright.

"I think that's a good idea, actually. I get so exhausted riding with Tristan. I'd at least be able to stay awake with Gawain." Gawain's mouth hung open in shock, and Toril turned to Lancelot.

"Or I could ride with Lancelot and be wide awake for the next three days!" Her expression turned perplexed.

"Or I could fall asleep from boredom..." Yells and jeers echoed around the circle once again, and Tristan just shook his head as Toril laughed out loud at the look on Gawain and Lancelot's faces. Lancelot stood up in mock anger and left the circle grumbling under his breath, and Toril laughed again. She was about to say something else when they heard Lucan cry out from his bed underneath the wagon. Dagonet was instantly at his side, soothing him, and Toril's gaze grew pensive.

"He dreams..." She shook her head in sorrow, shooting a death glare towards the other fire where Marius Honorius was sitting with his guards. Tristan shook his head and pulled her closer towards him, turning her slightly so that she rested with her head on his shoulder. Toril looked into his face with a gentle smile, and then looked up to where Dagonet suddenly appeared beside them.

"He asks for the singer. He does not know if it was you or Guinevere who soothed him in the night." Toril nodded immediately and stood.

"It was I. His nightmares woke him, so I did the only thing I could to calm him down." She shot another glare towards the Roman.

"His whole life was reduced to a nightmare." Dagonet stood aside so that she could walk towards the small boy, and then took his place beside the fire again. There was no more talking among the knights now, as their ears all strained to hear Toril's low voice singing to Lucan. They couldn't make out the words, but they could hear the melody as she sang - not perfect, but it was haunting and soothing at the same time, reminding them both of home and of loss. In a way, it reminded them of the song Vanora sang before they left for this mission, but it was somehow wilder. It caused them to think of Sarmatia and of the fort, of friends and family that they had left behind and also found in the last fifteen years. They thought of all the comrades they had lost, and of the freedom that awaited them when they returned to the Wall.

They were still lost in thought when Toril returned to the fire, standing beside Tristan with her hand resting on his shoulder, her back straight. Her voice was low when she spoke to Dagonet.

"He asks for you now, Dagonet." The gentle giant immediately rose, and they watched as he crouched beside Lucan, covering him with his armour, tucking his sword where it would be easily reached, and settling himself down beside the small boy. Toril shook her head, her voice soft.

"It amazes me that a warrior such as Dagonet could behave so tenderly towards one so small and still be so fierce. Galahad seeks to leave one life behind in search of another, but Dagonet can reconcile the two. He can be warrior and healer, attacker and protector, all at the same time. Not many people can achieve that." She smiled softly, looking down at Tristan, her gaze tender.

"It is late, and my bed calls to me. Rest well, all of you." The knights bade her good night in low murmurs, and then watched as she disappeared into the wagon above Dagonet and Lucan. Bors turned to Tristan, his voice uncommonly quiet.

"She's a good catch, that one. If I didn't have all my bastards, I'd be after her." Tristan snorted softly.

"If, Bors."

Later than night, Tristan propped himself up against a big oak tree, letting his mind wander over to the woman sleeping in the wagon on the other side of the camp. He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts, but knew that he would have no peace that night. He had only known Toril for a day and a half, but she had already wormed her way under his skin and into his heart like no other woman ever had. He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face, then rose silently and began to make his way towards the wagon. If he wasn't going to find sleep that night, at least he could check and make sure that Toril was resting peacefully.

When he reached the wagon, his keen ears instantly picked up the sound of two people breathing rhythmically. He frowned. Toril, the Roman's wife, and Guinevere...there should be three. His heart already sinking in his chest, he poked his head into the wagon far enough to see that Guinevere and Fulcinia were the only ones there. Toril was gone.