Hello dear readers and welcome to this fiction. As per my last review, I realise I have been remiss in indicating a few facts that might enlighten you regarding this story. Frances had inherited a magical necklace that makes her 'The Keeper of Time' (see story bearing the same name). Her first travel, to ancient Roma (movie Gladiator) wasn't the best of vacation.

Her second adventure took her to middle earth, Rivendell. She fought in the war of the ring, fell in love with Legolas, and was taught by the twin sons of Elrond to wield a blade and track in the wild. Unfortunately, she had to get back to earth as the injuries she'd sustained at the black gate nearly killed her. Ever since, Frances is trying to get back to Legolas.

The extend of Frances' travels and adventures is listed in my profile, don't hesitate to take a look and ask questions about it. And now, on into the story.

For the life of him, Tristan wouldn't tell what he had seen. Blinking a few times, his greyish eyes strained on the spot that had been, a mere moment before, an empty patch in the woods. Yet, now laid a young woman, a slip of a girl really, sporting a battle-worn leather armour, a bow strapped to her back, a sword at her hip. The strong wind coming from the cliff, loaded with snow flakes, engulfed in her cloak, playing with the reddish strands of her hair. The rest of it, secured in a tight braid, tumbled down her back to her waist. She looked like a vengeful spirit as she knelt there, regaining her balance from … her arrival?

Tristan blinked once more, holding his breath. That was it, all those years of service had eventually finished the job; he was hallucinating. Madness had overtaken his mind, for there was no other explanation possible. In Sarmatia, they believed in ghosts and fairies, in demons and spirits. Shaman taught them from infancy to fear evil spirits and revere the God of fire the greatest of all. In the Yazygue tribe, red hair was scarce, but revered for its link to fire. Tristan grew up with those stories, before those horrid Romans took him away. Yet, he had never come across a spirit. And this girl looked suspiciously alive, from flesh and bones. She couldn't be human, though, he was sure of it, for she had just appeared in a blinding blue light. The slight tingle still burning his eyes was a blatant testimony.

The girl stood, taking in the surroundings, her feet planted in the ground. Unmoving, her gaze intense as it roamed the forest. At first hopeful, her features gradually turned sad. And then, unexpectedly, her gaze found his, albeit he was concealed behind branches and trees. She held it, her hazel eyes firm, nearly commanding him to come out. And, enthralled by the possibility of her magical power, the scout complied. The girl's hand gracefully leapt to the hilt of her sword, but she did not unsheathe it. Albeit terribly confused, Tristan seized his dagger. It would take barely the time for her to exhale before he could bury it in her heart, just one flick of his wrist and she'd be dead. Unless … she was a witch.

Her eyes roamed across his equipment, his garment, and at last, his face. Her expression, unreadable at first, changed to disappointment as she spotted his bow. The fear he seek to instill with his ruthless appearance reflected in her gaze. Good. Still, she didn't turn around to flee the coldhearted killer that he was. Tristan's feet stopped on their own, away from the girl, assessing her level of threat. Should he dispose of her before the arrival of his fellow brothers? Or let her live? Arthur would, without a doubt, be furious if he harmed a young woman without any proof. For she was no wench, with such posture and refined feature. No Woad either, of this he was sure – the high cheekbones, the reddish hair, her thick clothes didn't match – yet she had been using blue magic.

Her voice eventually called to him, its quietness surprising for he was expecting something more … hysteric? Girly? Noisy?

— "Good day, sir. Could you indicate me where I am? I am afraid I got lost."

Tristan nearly snorted. Got lost indeed, in a haze of blue light? But he refrained from doing so, still wondering if he had gone crazy, and was imagining things.

— "You are just south of Hadrien's wall, twenty leagues from the first village to the east."

Blood drained from the witch's face, her eyes losing their sharpness as she seemed to struggle for breath. She took a step back, and another, as if impaled by a spear. Tristan flinched, and the woman froze, ready to fight, ready to die, her jaw set in a fit of rage he could not understand. Her voice was deadened as she struggled to utter more words, a little bow addressed to him. It was so strange to witness politeness in a spirit.

— "You have my thanks"

And then she left, turning from the dusty track, disappearing along the cliff. Stunned, Tristan let her go. Obviously, the woman was crazy. The scout's eyes followed her silhouette as she progressed, snowflakes dancing around her, her feet nearly silent on the frozen ground. Had the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach not bothered him, Tristan might have praised her ability for stealth. His own feet followed cautiously, as if stalking his prey, silent and unseen. A piercing cry let him know that Hawk was calling. The bird had probably spotted something; he needed to go.

The young woman didn't even flinch at the shrill cry, admiring the view of his friend circling high in the sky, above the fall, away from the summit of the tallest trees. From the smallest moment, Tristan though she was going to fling herself from the cliff but a sharp movement backwards sent her to her knees. And then she collapsed, shoulders moving silently, sobs muffled into her fists, as if despair had, this time, gained the upper ground. Her cloak[1] settled around her, shielding her from prying eyes as it seemed to reflect the colours of the forest. How peculiar! Never before had he seen such good concealing garment! It left no doubt now; she was a witch !

Nonetheless, Tristan couldn't linger. Not that he wanted to. The scout snorted. The lady probably wasn't the biggest threat on their path, no matter how incredible her appearance had been. If she truly was a spirit of the forest, let the forest take care of her. She'd be buried in no time in snow; her well-being was none of his business.

Frances stayed prostrated for hours, the few snowflakes dancing around her as she cried. She had known, the instant she landed in this cursed place, that she wasn't in middle earth. Her link to Legolas, interrogated at once, did not tingle; it was as weak as ever. Three years waiting for the Valar to send her back to middle earth, to grant her to see him once more, to dull the ache in her bones, in her heart from his absence! Three years waiting, and the crazy hope that had engulfed her at seeing the gem from her necklace shine again, crushed at the very instant of her arrival! Frances wanted to scream, to yell at the Valar for being so cruel, for asking more of her when she had nothing more to give. For a moment, she almost flung herself down the cliff. Death would have been a nice release, a welcome respite after the last three years of dull life in her own 21st century. But the memory of her loved ones – her family would never know how she died - stilled her movement at the very last moment, and she landed harshly on the ground. Her parents, her cousin, her friends would have to take the mantle of sadness. She couldn't do that, especially to her father who had lost a brother already. Life would be life, and she had to endure it for them, completing this mission before she got back to the modern world.

Her anger dissipated, leaving in its stead crushing despair. Frances crumbled down, sobs wracking her body as she harshly bit on her own hand to prevent from wailing like a child. No matter the extend of her grief, she wouldn't make an easy target of herself. The twins'[2] training and Aragorn's, during her time spent in middle earth, had ensured that her reflexes of survival were embedded deep in her skull. When in unknown territory, do not let people know you exist. Tears leaked, falling on either side of her cheeks as she wept. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the face of the silent man she had just met appeared. He knew she was there, but seemed indifferent. Yet, he was dangerous, it oozed out of him, this edge that threatened to make him a psychopath. Frances was vulnerable, alone in the woods of Britain.

One question kept nagging at her mind though. The man had sported tattoos on his cheeks, and wore a recurved bow on his back. His eyes, slightly slanted, resembled those of Mongol fighters of old. What would a Mongol do in Britain? The man's steps had been practised, his gestures graceful and scarce, not unlike Aragorn's ones had been. How she longed to have him by her side, her skilled ranger! The man who should have been king, the quiet mentor of her days in Arda. How she missed his soothing presence ! They had only known each other half a year, but he would forever linger in her heart. Had he accepted the crown, at last? Aragorn had been a brother, he would protect her, and sooth her anguish. He would tell her Legolas had survived their separation and not lost his inner light! A wave of longing hit her anew, and for once, Frances couldn't seem to call her survival instinct. Still as a statue, she let the tears fall as snowflakes danced around her. Time passed in the silence of the forest, the bitter wind numbing her extremities. Yet, she couldn't force herself to care. She was dead inside.

The sound of several voices shook her out of her trance. Frances sighed, cocking her head to the side to pick up on the different tones. Horse hooves banged the ground as the horses negotiated the steep descent, and their riders were conversing. Men, at least four different ones. One of them was laughing, such an ill-fitting sound in the depth of her despair! Yet, she was there for a reason. No matter the extend of her anger against the Valar, she still was the Keeper of Time, and must to act as such. In the past, the first people she had met after her appearance were always the ones she needed to help. Perhaps she would find the strange man again, but for now, she would have to take her chances with the group coming down the mountain. Frances braced herself, and shook the snow crusted on her cloak. Her hands were numb, as was her nose. She couldn't shoot her bow with frozen fingers, but would still be able to hold her own with the sword. Time to go.

Slinging her leather backpack above her shoulder, Frances retreated on the cliff path, sniffing the pure air of north Briton. Snow and pine trees, a little moist and harsh cold. The freezing ground couldn't release much more of its fragrance as it was, but the young woman enjoyed it nonetheless. Granite and acidic grounds always created this sort of vegetation. Her mind flew to happier times, to dawn in the mountains as she went skiing with her family. When she wasn't heartbroken, and struggling every morning to find a meaning to her life. What would her mission be, this time? How important, how meaningful to earth, and history? Would she manage, or get killed? Fortunately, she had called her cousin Cécile before going. If she died here, her family would at least know that she died with honor on a mission for the Valar. As she walked, her elvish boots silent on the uneven ground, the voices got louder. And when she came out of the road, a mere hundred feet before the group of riders, she could observe the knights before a set of green eyes spotted her.

There were six of them, lined up on the rocky road by pairs. All of them stumbled to a halt when the man in front lifted his hand. Disciplined, she surmised, and dedicated to their leader. The commander was tall, with a crimson cape and a Roman armour covering his torso and legs. Frances' jaw tightened immediately. Damn, she hated Rome! Her first mission with the necklace had ensured that never again she would set foot in Rome. She'd lost Maximus there, to the infamous Emperor Commodus. At least, he got what he deserved! That son of a bitch, he would have killed Cicero if she had not been there! She'd spit a hundred times over his grave. Frances exhaled slowly. She needed to let go, and get in the good graces of this Roman commander.

The young lady gave nothing away, but her inner self started at that. What was a Roman commander doing so far north in the Middle Ages? Unless … this period predated the Middle Ages. Damn, she'd have to ask for the date. The other knights, for they wore chain mail and armours as well, did have a very different style. Long hair or bald, beards, and a very intimidating posture that screamed of 'warriors'. She had known enough of those to recognise the wariness albeit they seemed unafraid of her. The Roman commander leaned on his horse, eying her with this unnerving gaze that few people possessed. Fortunately for Frances, she had survived Aragorn's looks, as well a Lord Elrond's and Gandalf's stern gaze. After that, she was better equipped to face people demanding answers.

Bracing herself for the confrontation, Frances was totally dumbfounded by the commander's first words.

— "Do not fear. I am Artorius Castus, and those are my knights. Do you require assistance?"

Wow. The man met a woman armed to the teeth in the middle of nowhere, and he offered his help. And this name … it rang a bell, but she couldn't remember what she had read about it. Now, she needed to convince them to let her tag along, and from the looks of it, this conversation was looking better than anticipated. Behind Artorius, a dark-haired man harboured a seductive smirk.

— "I'd be happy to offer a ride to the lady."

The other knights laughed, and Frances' cheeks coloured slightly from the double meaning.

— "Lancelot…", came Artorius's warning.

Frances gasped, her eyes opening wide.

— "Lancelot? As in first knight Lancelot?"

— "See Arthur, she has heard of me already."

Despite her reeling mind, Frances couldn't help but quip back.

— "Not in the way you think of, I'm afraid."

The knight snorted, his beautiful dark eyes flashing as he regarded her from atop his horse.

— "You're an exotic beauty I'd gladly have a taste of."

Spooked, Frances lifted a shaped eyebrow. How dare he! The gall of that man, to assume that any lady would fall into his arms! He'd learn his lesson, this one.

— "You're cute, but I am promised to another. Go and take a bite elsewhere."

A knight laughed at that, a wide man with a bald head. Lancelot's gaze sparkled with mischief as he quipped.

— "Then where's your betrothed? Leaving you alone like this, it is not unseemly?"

— "Lancelot!"

This time, the commander's tone brooked no argument. Frances' eyes turned hard and her fist trembled, thinking of what Legolas would have done with the knight. Sushis ! Skilled or not, no one could hold a candle to the deadly prince of Greenwood … if he lived, still… Her rage knew no bounds as she turned an icy stare to the offensive charmer.

— "Be thankful he isn't there, knight," she growled. "He'd so enjoy wiping the floor with your ass."

Lancelot's smirk faded at her words as the big man guffawed, the others regarded her with mixed looks of awe, incredulity and suspicion. Frances took a step back; she needed some time to think before she launched herself at the arrogant man. There were problems more urgent to solve that her anger at the Valar for separating her from Legolas. Like the names they called themselves with.

Lancelot and Artorius. Could it be the roman for Arthur ? It couldn't be true. Was there a Gawain in there? THE Gawain against the green knight? Galahad maybe? Percival ? And Arthur being a Roman, this definitely rang the bell. She had, not a year ago, presented a lecture on the Arturian's legends in her English class. Yes, it all made sense now, as historians seemed to agree that King Arthur was, in fact, a Dux Bellorum in the first place. It meant then that the Roman empire was on the brink of falling. And try as she might, she couldn't remember when they had left Hadrian's wall. Damn! She'd never been back so far away in the past, expect for Rome of course. The culture shock it would be! Time had come to appease the tensions; she'd get nowhere picking a fight with the infamous Lancelot if she wanted this to work. The elvish greeting passer her lips before she could hold it back.

— "Well met, all of you. And thank you for your offer. I am thoroughly lost, and in great need of guidance."

Definitely, she had a knack for meeting future kings on a rocky road.[3]

[1] Elvish cloak given by Galadriel to the fellowship's company in Lothlorien

[2] Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond

[3] Innocence's journey will enlighten you on the meaning of Frances's ironic musings.