Hey. Lots of dialogues here because Frances had to come clean regarding her status if she wants to keep Will as a friend. Let's see how poor Will swallows the news of time travel, shall we? This chapter is rather long, I hoe you enjoy this time with Will and Frances.

Anyway. Among my 15 new followers, will any of you leave a review ?

To Koba: no, no cliff diving this time. But I trust you won't see it coming either way. Or so I hope.

— "Are you calling my driving dull?"

Will's mock outburst sent Frances into a fit of giggles and she relaxed in the passenger seat. There was nothing common between Will's car and Hannibal – standard and smell included – and nothing remotely similar regarding their driving. Where every single move from her husband was controlled, Will's driving bordered on carefree, his trajectory tilting when he wasn't careful. It didn't matter much, though, for the design of the road and automatic gearbox rendered driving as easy a child play. Somehow, it irked her.

— "Nah. It's not you. It's just … those straight roads that never end, and your cars bigger than horse butts … and this automatic gearbox … it's like you don't even have to drive anymore."

— "It's convenient," he replied, eyes leaving the road to take a peek at her frustrated features.

She almost looked childlike as she pouted.

— "It's boooooring. Boring to death. There's no control with an automatic, I hate it when a machine takes decisions in my stead … but it's not like you need any on those endless roads. I bet the Victoria falls are narrower than your motorways"

Will's eyebrows climbed to his hairline, surprised by the unexpected venom in her voice. The empath wore his emotions on his sleeve, another streak that couldn't be more opposite than Hannibal's. As for Frances … she could be as open as him, or closed off like an oyster with a poker face that rivalled Hannibal's. It had taken a while for him to get used to her duality and it felt like he was coming close to the conclusion. Somehow, the mask had a purpose. And in his presence, it tended to drop to reveal the real, chatty and slightly emotional Frances. Especially when she ranted about the US.

— "Driving is dull anyway … it takes you from point A to B, right? What do you need control for?" he said.

— "I don't know. I just… My car is my tool, you know. I take care of her, and she responds to my desire. An extension of my will…"

— "So is mine. A tool. Just a machine"

Taken aback, Frances tried to make sense of the anger that simmered under the surface. Her silence was misinterpreted as Will's fingers drummed on the steering wheel.

— "Say it. You hate my driving! That's why you insist on shaking me like salad in a bowl in your blue devil of a car."

The sudden plea shook the cogs of her mind and she jumped in her seat to swat Will's arm.

— "No! Silly. And my driving is energetic, not salady!"

Will gave her a sly look.

— "So you say, my stomach disagrees."

— "Ah shut up. You're just a baby… I just miss Europe."

The empath smirked, satisfied that his mock offence had coaxed her into spilling her guts.

— "What do you miss?" he asked, trying to impersonate Dr Lecter's tone.

It worked, for Frances started talking animatedly, her hands flying as she described her beloved continent.

— "Everything. The historical buildings and ruins you will find at every turn, the cobbled streets and narrow roads, the stone churches and old farmhouses."

— "Yeah?"

His interjection was just for show… Frances wasn't even present anymore as she described places from memory. Things of the past that seemed out of her grasp altogether, and brought her as much joy than sadness.

— "It is magnificent, you know, so different from one place to the other. A mere five hundred kilometres and the world is different. France, Italy, Scotland… The Alps, with their high peaks and rough granite, drive a few hundred kilometres south and you get lost in a field of olive trees with cicadas driving you mad and the Côte d'Azur."

— "I'd love to see that."

Frances paused, cocking her head aside as she considered the possibility.

— "I'd love to give you a tour."

— "Where would you take me?"

There wasn't a shortage of answers; Frances loved travelling, and had visited many countries with her parents as a child. She retained from those times many fond memories.

— "The mountains, for a while. We would get lost in a refuge for a few days, watching the sun paint the peaks ablaze and walking on a glacier. Then south of France, crossing to Italy down the coast, all the way down to Sicily and the Eolian Islands. Then we would tour England, Stonehenge, Tintagel in Cornwall, then up to Scotland to see the lochs. Perhaps up to Norway, I'd love to visit there. And I'll take you to the best chocolate maker I ever tasted…"

Will listened to her ramblings with a smile on his face, shaking his head from left to right. It was easy to forget the reasons why Dr Lecter married such a young and passionate woman; from the outside, they looked nothing alike apart from their classy appearance. But from the inside… They both revered good cuisine, spoke many languages and enjoyed the fine arts. Literature, music, dancing, painting… The two of them were European to the core, rejecting entirely many American habits that didn't appeal their old-fashioned mind. Especially bagels…

He would never forget the day he had offered Frances a bar of Hershey's chocolate. She had gagged, her horrified gaze turned to Hannibal as her nose scrunched. "Why does it smell like vomit?" she had blurted out. And while he retrieved his offering with ill humour, Dr Lecter had patiently explained how the 'Americans' – it sounded almost like an insult at this point – had incorporated some butyric acid into their chocolate, a component that was created in the stomach through digestion. His uneasy expression, though, sold him out. The smell did assault his sensitive nose just as much.

Will shook his head at the memory.

— "You and Hannibal make quite the pair," he eventually said.

A sly smile quirked Frances' lips, giving her a catlike expression.

— "You know that man has pickles in his fridge."

— "So do I"

The young woman scoffed.

— "No! Ugh, no! Not those horrible sweet-sour giant things that you call pickles. Real French ones from Dijon! I never found some anywhere, but he's got some and keeps them for me now"

Will blinked.

— "All right, this is weird," he chuckled.

And Frances' own giggle joined his as she dove into another memory.

— "My grandmother, from burgundy, she always threw a fit when I stole pickles as an afternoon snack. I used to dip them in mustard."

— "This is gross."

By now, Will was shaking with laughter and Frances couldn't help but exaggerate to keep him going, describing how the mémé spoke, her accent so thick that even her granddaughters had trouble understanding her. She even imitated her deep rumbling 'r' that resembled Scottish so much that Will had trouble driving in straight line. After a while, they eventually recovered from the fit, Frances brushing tears off her cheeks. It was so good to share this moment of mirth with Will. His shoulders were relaxed, his eyes connecting with hers more often, his teeth showing as he openly laughed.

— "Burgundy, man! Pickles from Dijon, in burgundy. The place they make the best mustard in the world."

— "Definitely Dr Lecter material," Will stuttered as he regained control.

— "Yeah, we were just meant to be."

Three hours later

The sun reflected in the ripples of the river, its light creating lines and sparks in the transparent water. Entranced, Will watched the waves that passed his legs, sensing the strong current that caused him to brace against it. Beside him, Frances watched her fishing line intently, her hair slightly dishevelled by the wind. There was nothing like water to soothe her mind, and she enjoyed this moment just as much as he did. Even if, for now, the little fish they had caught wouldn't be sufficient for lunch.

The image of an unsettling dream suddenly lashed before Will's eyes and he startled; he had forgotten about it.

— "What's wrong?" Frances asked as he repositioned his feet on the pebbles below the surface.

— "You know. I had this weird dream recently where you swam in the waves with a medieval night shift."

His musings caught her attention at once, and her warm hazel eyes searched his for a second before she returned to the float bobbing in the current.

— "Oh, really? tell me about it"

— "I was on a cliff… Somewhere on a shore, with big waves. There was a blond knight beside me, the same as before…"

— "Long tangled hair?" she asked.

— "Yes."

Frances nodded, a fond smile quirking her lips.

— "Gawain"

The name rang a bell deep within his soul. Yes, Gawain. His brother in all but blood, the closest friend he had in this forsaken time. Once more, Will wondered how Frances could remember so much when he barely caught glimpses and visions, ignoring names and places. Something didn't add up, but he continued with his story.

— "Yes. He was yelling beside me that you were going to catch your death but you still swam. Your shoulder was bandaged, so you couldn't use your left arm. And there was someone … this ghost on shore, waiting for you. The tall knight … the scout"

Frances suddenly froze, her knuckles whitening on the rod. Her sharp intake of breath betrayed her as she searched his gaze, the line of her face plainly shocked.

— "I … saw him too. I thought I was mad … but when I came close, he just disappeared."

Will nodded, fishing forgotten as he lowered his own rod. The time had come to demand answers.

— "How do you remember all of this, Frances? Have you had dreams for long? Visions? I have only a mosaic of things, but you seem to remember everything so easily. What is the difference between you and me?"

The young woman sighed, for once fleeing his gaze to put her attention on the line.

— "Don't you have memories when I'm not there?"

— "Some. Yes. But you didn't answer my question."

Frances took a deep breath, her fingers shaking slightly upon the fishing rod. A solemn atmosphere suddenly fell upon them, as if nature itself was holding its breath.

— "This is the moment where I swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth."

The teasing tone was there, but her voice slightly shook.

— "I'm ready"

— "Don't be so sure, Will. What I'm going to tell you is much, much weirder than believing in past lives."

— "Humour me"

The young fiery observed him for a moment, stunned to find such determination in a man who usually shied away from conflict. Yes. He definitely was ready, and coming clean would give her more leeway regarding their future interactions. She was sick to death of lying. Frances nodded then, her jaw tightening slightly as she thought about how to break the news. She dearly hoped she wouldn't lose him that his friendship was strong enough to resist this. The words tumbled from her lips in disarray.

— "All right. So … erm. The reason why I remember all those moments of your past life is because I was there."

— "So was I?" came his puzzled response.

— "No. I was there, not my past self."

— "Explain"

The intensity of this little world reminded her of Tristan so badly that she smiled. Who knew the 'pup' – aka Galahad – would become so forceful in his future life? So focused, so dedicated?

— "I am not, like you and Hannibal, a reincarnated soul. I met Tristan and Galahad, a year and a half ago roughly. I travelled through time, and met you in person"

Will's face invaded her personal space so suddenly that she nearly tumbled backwards. Rough hands kept her from falling – the grip strangely firm – encasing her shoulders as his clear blue eyes searched her soul. She knew he was using his gift, right now, to assess whether she was plain crazy of lying to him. A different approach from the clinical Dr Lecter – pure empathy at work – but just as efficient. And he found… Nothing but the truth.

— "You are telling me that time travel is real," he whispered, the words nearly covered by the stream's chanting.

— "It was, for me."

Will released her shoulders and Frances repositioned her legs in the water. His eyebrows, though, were still scrunched in thought.

— "Was?"

— "I was the Keeper of Time, Will. But I don't hold the title anymore."

The empath repeated the title under his breath several times. 'Keeper of time,' he muttered, and she wondered if he was going to laugh or yell. But his next question was borne of curiosity, and Frances marvelled that he hadn't called the psychiatric ward to have her committed yet. Will was made of sterner stuff than people believed. Or perhaps he was gathering the facts before he would form an opinion. An FBI approach.

— "Why not?"

— "I'm … a copy of the Keeper of Time"

This time, Will huffed, his sight getting back to the fly bobbing up and down in the current.

— "This is going to be a long day."

— "If it is too much…"

He interrupted her with a hand up.

— "Tell me everything, I want all the facts."

And so she did, starting at the beginning, and explaining about how she became the Keeper of time, about the worlds she had visited – middle earth included – and how she came to be cloned by Loki, an alien of the Asgard race, then dumped into a world without magic nor a Stargate to get her home. Another fish caught their line, and in the time it took to take him off the hook, Will tried to regain his bearings.

The sheer amount of information was rattling his brain. But it took its toll on Frances as well as she started shaking in the stream. The cold, perhaps, or the emotional strain of reviving those memories that were not so distant. Friends, family, life discarded because a little grey butt – damn Loki! – wanted to study the Keeper of Time. But on the other hand, finding her friends anew, Tristan and Galahad, was priceless … with a cruel twist indeed. From ruthless knight, Tristan had become a serial killer… But this she couldn't share. One last secret that would remain hers until death. The identity of the Chesapeake Ripper. One more lie. A big, heavy lie that gnawed at her conscience day by day, especially since Will was on the hunt. Hopefully, the absence of recent kills would him them off Hannibal's scent. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to be caught in those awkward discussions anymore, wouldn't be the ham in the sandwich of Tristan and Galahad's ill temper again.

Still weakened by the pneumonia, Frances felt the cold creep up her limbs, stiffening her gait until the old ache stirred at her collarbone. The young woman tried to massage her shoulder to ease it up, and her gesture called Will's attention.

— "That's your old wound. The bolt you took to save Lancelot."

— "Yes. It never quite healed properly."

Will's eyebrows got lost in the mop of dark curls atop his head.

— "Even though you are a …?"

The words were missing.

— "Clone, copy?"

— "Yeah"

— "Even though my body was created by the masters of genetic manipulation in the universe. I think a memory embedded itself there."

The empath mused on the notion and, taking advantage of the quietness, dragged Frances out of the river to build a fire. He showed her how to prepare the fish on a spike, and she could only regale him with tales of their camping in the Brittonic weather fifteen hundred years ago. As the fire crackled gently beside them, Frances scooted closer to warm her hands.

— "And Hannibal … he believes it?"

The young woman bit her lips, remembering how her beloved husband had dubbed her crazy. Or traumatised. Or schizoid in the first place.

— "He had trouble at first."

— "I can understand why. This is batshit crazy."

Her laugh tinkled in the relative silence, but as usual when Hannibal was mentioned, a fond expression blossomed on her face. Will couldn't help but soften at this.

— "I know … especially for a man like him."

Will nodded, thinking about Tristan. The age difference didn't mean shit when it came to those two; Frances had seen war and death, her experience giving her the advantage of experience. She had every right to stand by Hannibal's side. Her understood now why she held her ground so forcefully, why she fought like she did. Why she never flinched under Dr Lecter's glares; that goddamn woman was the Keeper of Time. She had tamed Tristan for God's sake, the untamable scout of King Arthur. Wow!

— "Do you believe me?" she eventually asked.

— "As crazy as it seems … yes. It explains a lot. I will still need some time to wrap my head around it."

— "If you need some time away from me…" she started.

— "No. I just need time, that is all."

Her face fell then, and Will couldn't help but ache for her. There was so much sadness buried in her soul… The aftermath of war perhaps? Or was it something else? Her revelations were a lot to take in, and his mind was swirling around the implications of it all.

— "Yeah, it was less than two years ago."

Suddenly, the realisation crashed upon him.

— "And your family …?"

— "Is lost to me, but they live on with the other Frances."

Her voice cracked a little then, and Will's chest tightened for her. Her understood now, what she had tried to convey on that fateful day in the snow. Family, friends, life, purpose. There was nothing left of her except her memories and her soul in this foreign world. He couldn't fathom how it would feel, to be uprooted and planted elsewhere without warning. Scooting closer, Will lifted his arm for her to nest against him, and she cuddled in his warmth.

— "I'm sorry"

Frances nodded against him, the move reverberating in his chest. And for once, the empath didn't feel so ill at ease with human contact. Somehow, the young woman didn't send bells of alarms in his body like the others did. Well, all the others except for Alana.

— "I was hoping you and Hannibal could be my family now," she eventually said.

Will latched onto this line of hope with all his might, desperate to find something positive in her ordeal.

— "I'd be a great brother," he said with conviction.

— "You ARE a great brother," she responded.

And his dreams and visions swam before his eyes once more, Galahad's soul speaking to him in earnest as he hugged the former Keeper of Time to his side.

— "And you got Hannibal… See you've found Tristan again. And for the record, I knew something was fishy between you two."

Frances lifted her head from his shoulder, her eyebrows comically scrunched together.

— "Uh?"

Will tapped his temple playfully, his incredible eyes twinkling. So easy to read…

— "Galahad. He knew something was going on."

— "Right. I'm not one for one life stands."

The notion forced a chuckle out of him. One life stand.

— "Good one. How did the knight greet your humour back then?"

— "Very well. It was a good era for humour. Arthur and the knights had plenty of it. Nothing like the renaissance and all its falseness,"

Will smiled then; he couldn't wait to ask for more anecdotes about the knights. But first, a thought was pulling at his brain.

— "Hey. Speaking of one life stand. You think Alana and I were married back then?"

— "I don't know, you were so young when I left, and not free to marry yet. I don't recall seeing her at the fort but honestly, I didn't get much time to bond."

The empath nodded under her piercing stare. Alana and he were getting close, and he hoped that she might accept … him? Frances chose not to pry, giving him space until he decided to speak of it plainly. He appreciated it and, unhooking the trouts from their spike, he stirred the discussion back to the fifth century. He couldn't wait to know more.

— "My writings are almost finished," she said. "You will be able to read it soon."

The fish was delicious, smoked by the fire and perfectly cooked despite the absence of fancy herbs and presentation. A nice change from Hannibal's cuisine which could, in the end, be slightly overwhelming such was its finesse.

— "You know, Gal… Will. I think you remember much more from your ancient life than you let on."

— "What do you mean?"

— "The fish over a campfire, for example. It is what we ate before Arthur's wedding."

The empath gave her a lopsided smile; his mind had trouble wrapping around the fact this woman, her very flesh and bones, had attended King Arthur's wedding. And danced with him. Wow. Questions after questions formed in his mind, and caught in the discussion. He couldn't even remember half of them as he asked about Briton, about women and fellow knights, battles and food, about Arthur the great King and legends. Frances answered to the best of her abilities, laughter barely contained as she described the companionship between their tight group of knights. But sadness always lingered. And on and on they talked until a familial mop of red curls invaded the place and Will stood up like a clown springing from a box, his foot kicking at the embers in his haste. Frances jumped to her feet, alarm bells ringing at once.

— "Freddie Lounds" he said, a mere breath away from a hound's growl.

— "Damn!"

The journalist stalked up to them like she owned the place, and Frances doubted that she was in full possession of her wits for she didn't stop more than three feet away from them. Everything in their posture was hostile, threatening even in Frances' case. The young woman was already gritting her teeth now; that woman had dubbed Will 'a psychopath' for God's sake. But Freddie Lounds didn't seem to care about body language as she quipped.

— "How funny that the girl with no past ends up tangled with you. What would her lover say?"

— "We are hardly tangled."

Will's stern voice called a smile to Frances' lips. Trust the empath to take Freddie's words literally. Was he hoping to take her off the Keeper of Time's peculiar arrival?

— "You know this is not what I meant, but I might reconsider my opinion. You two seemed awfully cosy."

— "Not that's it's any of your business, but I know what my HUSBAND might think, he's just too polite to tell you to fuck off. Me, on the other hand…"

Unfazed, the journalist just gave her a saccharine smile.

— "Ow, insults, really? When I think I was coming here to offer to write a book for you."

Frances scoffed openly, sharing a glance with Will who was content to let her vent her frustration on the woman.

— "I can write on my own, thank you very much. And I, at least, check my sources."

The jab sent a smile to Will's lips. Given what Frances wrote at the moment… Who could possibly claim to have direct information about the knights of the round table? Their shared amusement caused Freddie's eyes to narrow.

— "So do I"

— "If you still think Will is a psychopath, I hardly think so."

How could that woman be so stupid? Too focused on Will, the last bit of conscience of the knights of the round table, the most luminous of them all, when she couldn't see that the Chesapeake Ripper was at her doorstep? How could they all ignore the predator looming behind the indifferent look and classy suits? Had they not seen the fangs he sported when he smiled? In the past, at least, people knew to stay clear from Tristan.

No one would ever know that from tender and tame, Hannibal's ruthlessness held no equal when he took control? Could a woman be more fooled on appearance than that despicable piece of journalist? Did she not see past the pristine three piece suit that adorned the psychiatrist very taut body?

Seeing Frances' incredulous look, Freddie Lounds actually pouted.

— "So I take it you are not interested."

This time, Frances laughed mirthlessly, eyeing the dangerous woman in front of her. Today, people fought with words, influence and politics. Give them a sword and they would all crumble to dust. Freddie Lounds was no better than a low-class politician, and it called her anger. How she despised people like this!

— "I wouldn't trust you if you were the last woman on earth, Scarlet fever. Your presence is a disease to this world, your lies poisoning minds like copper imbibes the soil."

— "And a poet as well. My my…" she nearly purred, her voice slick with saccharine.

Will's eyebrows shot up at the venom contained in Frances' words. He had never seen her so riled up, and was starting to worry. The panther was on the prowl, her body coiled as she slurred.

— "Now if you could just disappear from our sight, it would make the evening much more enjoyable."

Freddie Lounds sneered.

— "I have every right to be here, this is a public place."

Will pinched the bridge of his nose wearily.

— "Freddie…."

— "No, I won't be deterred. Did you know that your friend here appeared out of nowhere? That she doesn't even have a country of origin? That even the air force interrogated her? Doesn't it make you curious?"

So she had interrogated the nurses at the hospital… Damn woman. Frances didn't know if it was Freddie's shrill voice that send her over the edge, but her patience had reached its end. Where she should have brushed the woman away and packed her things without a word, the former Keeper of time let the anger, the rage consume her and grabbed Freddie's collar, levelling her the fiercest glare. This time, the woman flinched and backed away, surprised by the intensity of her wrath.

— "Hey!" she said, tumbling back.

— "Lots of people get drowned in public places," Frances ground out.

— "Frances…"

Will's voice was drowned by Freddie's shriek.

— "Is that a threat?"

— "A promise, Scarlet fever. Don't get caught trespassing … or you'll find yourself scattered to the wind before my husband can sue you for harassment."

And in this very moment, Frances could actually see crimson ashes dancing in the wind, the remains of the most stupid journalist of humanity, and she relished in the thought. Maybe she could launch Hannibal on her … he would enjoy the challenge. A warm hand over her forearm prevented her from drowning in the fantasy.

— "Don't, Frances. She's recording everything."

The young fury turned to the journalist with a feral grin.

— "Is that so?"

Freddie Lounds never knew what hit her; even before fear registered in her brain – that ghost woman was scary as hell, no wonder the airforce wanted her – her handbag was torn from her hands. The young fury strode to the stream so swiftly that both she and Will Graham had issues following.

Frances didn't pause at the bank, her feet splashing the water as she went further into the river. Without waders, the coldness ensnared its icy clutches over her legs; she welcomed it as it kept her attention away from the yelling banshee onshore. Fumbling around useless items – make up, rouge and whatever shit the journalist owned – Frances extracted the recorder and launched it into the river. The device disappeared with a little splash, dragged away by the heavy current. The phone followed under unbearable cries and threats, thrown with so much force that it travelled even further away. Then Frances launched the handbag back to its owner with such force that the content spilled on the grassy bank. Panting, fists clenched, Frances watched the journalist fish for her belongings. By then, her wrath started to abate a notch. It was fortunate; it prevented her from hitting Freddie when she spat in anger.

— "I'll sue you for this."

Frances' voice dripped with sarcasm as she stalked out of the stream, avoiding Will's eyes to prevent from going down her anger high; it was the only thing keeping her together at this point. Hoovering over the knelt journalist, the young woman talked slowly. Deliberately, her tone as deadly as a sharp blade.

— "Please do. You've got no proof, and I can file you up for harassment. My means are greater than yours, my husband's determination just as dangerous. With your legal record, I'm sure you'll win that round."

Freddie Lounds tried to lift her chin in defiance now, but her big eyes couldn't contain the fear.

— "We'll see about that."

Frances stood, giving the woman a harsh glare before circling around and leaving. Though she couldn't help but call over her shoulder.

— "You're welcome to try. Now get the fuck off our lives."

And they both gathered their belongings to leave. Will didn't say a word for a long time, his hands stuck on the wheel as he drove them back. For her part, Frances was feeling the after effect of the adrenalin rush and slowly sunk into her seat, ashamed of herself. What was it with this woman that called for so much anger?