Hey Guys! Please please please review! If I'm doing something wrong or if you think that my story isn't doing a good job of mixing canon and movie, then please say so. Or, if you like it, OR if you just want to say that all the knights are hot, especially in their leather outfits, just drop a line:)

The next morning, everyone awoke to find flurries blanketing the ground. As usual, Tristan had ridden out earlier to take stock of the situation.

He cursed to himself in his native tongue. It was easier to track someone in the snow, and now that their party had three extra people…The knights had taken the shorter path through the forests, but now it looked as if they would have to take the main road. The advantages to taking the main road were that it was easier riding and that the wind would hopefully blow away their tracks. The disadvantage was that they would be in plain view.

Tristan whistled, and within moments, his hawk Narsigl swooped down onto his arm. "Hey, where do you go so early?" He petted the bird absently as he took stock of their surroundings. "What do you think, eh?"

Narsigl chirped back. "Fine. You want food. With you, your stomach always comes first." The hawk playfully nipped Tristan's finger before perching more comfortably on his arm. It was a rare peaceful moment for Tristan. He enjoyed quiet times such as this, just him and Narsigl. Though the other knights would not believe it, Narsigl was an intelligent bird, solitary by nature, but like Tristan, needing brief moments of companionship.

And though Tristan would never admit it, these moments were almost like being home. Animals were common in his tribe, where some would take dogs, wolves, or birds as companions.

"Boy, come here." A tall bearded man beckoned his son closer. "I want to show you something."
The young boy obediently put down his wooden sword with which he had been practicing. "Yes, Father." He joined his father at the fences that surrounded their village.

His father lifted him so that the boy now sat on the fence. "I want you to watch this."

The boy looked to where a dark mare stood uncertainly away from a young woman. He flinched as he remembered that two days ago, he had tried to mount that same horse. The result was that the boy had been thrown from the horse and almost stepped upon. "Is she taming the horse?"

"No, for one does not tame an animal." The man looked at his son sternly. "Always remember that."

The boy cocked his eyebrow arrogantly – something he had undoubtedly learned from his older brother. "It is just a stupid horse."

"First of all," admonished the father gently, "that mare is far brighter than some who walk upon two legs. She is wise and old because she ran with the free herds in the north. This mare knows where to find fresh water and sweet grass, shade in the summer time and shelter in the winter. She knows how to avoid the wild wolves and bears, and she has taught the young colts her wisdom. But she does not yet know the ways of men." The man placed a strong hand on the thin shoulder of his son. "Sweta has spent several days trying to understand the mare's thoughts, and it has born fruit. See how the mare allows her near? Only a few hours ago, the mare allowed Sweta to mount her briefly. The tribe has decided to gift Sweta with that horse."

"But Father! She is only a girl!"

"The mare does not care whether you are the son of a king or the daughter of a peasant. Nor how many winters you have seen. And this girl has shown far more patience than a little warrior I know." He gave his son a small smile. "The mare only cares for what is in your heart. What they see is far truer than many who are two-legged."

The little boy sighed dejectedly. "I only wanted to ride her."

The man chuckled knowingly. "You wished to fly in the wind and revel in the power and thunder of her hooves. You wished to make that power your own. But that is a power that only belongs to the horse, and they will only gift it to you if and when they wish." The man dropped his hand from the boy's shoulder. "True, there are many that claim this power through anger and fear, those who force the horse to bend to their will. But one day, it will lash back at them, like a strong bow whose string has been drawn too tight."

The man suddenly turned fierce. "I will not have you be such a man, Tristan. The animal folk are our friends. You must understand them if you are to call them friend. And to do that, you must have patience. Like Sweta. This world is a harsh place, too big for men to survive alone."

Narsigl nipped his finger again, thus bringing his friend back to the present. The hawk, not happy with the lack of attention, glared at Tristan fiercely. "Does Vanora know she has a twin sister?"

The hawk preened proudly. "Think you are better looking, do you?" Tristan chuckled. Narsigl's feather coat was dark brown, almost black, with a few spatters of red. He was young, perhaps two years old, and heavy. But like Tristan's own hands, his talons were light, slender, and strong.

The pair rode into camp soon after to find that the rest of the party was awake. Lancelot, Bors, and Cathmor were getting the horses ready while the women prepared breakfast. Tristan dismounted and walked towards the fire, his stomach grumbling for food.

He took a seat on a log and quietly watched Iseult and Brangaine put food on the thin metal plates. He took this moment to run his eyes over Iseult's golden frame. Though the princess thought otherwise, he did remember her. But he had chosen to keep her in his dreams, something beautiful and soothing to flee to when the world grew harsh.

She came to him now, sweet as the morning dew, with a plate in her hands. For a brief second, he allowed himself to fantasize they were elsewhere, just the two of them, and that she was serving him his meal out of an emotion greater than gratitude.

"Knight Tristan." Like her demeanor, her voice was soft and soothing. "It is not much, but Brangaine and I caught a few rabbits this morning."

He nodded his thanks. "This is far better cooking than we are used to." Tristan eyed Bors meaningfully.

The big knight placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Tristan, are you trying to make a point?"

"I only mean to give the ladies thanks for their efforts," he said with a small smile.

Iseult smiled in return. "And here are some scraps for your bird." She held out a small bundle. Narsigl looked over the bundle critically, and then hopped off Tristan's arm to perch next to him on the log.

"Feed yourself," said Tristan. "I am hungry too."

Iseult chuckled as she opened the bundle. "May I feed him?"

Tristan looked up from his plate. "You ought to be scared." He looked at the other knights. "They are."

"When I was a little girl, my father would take me down to his mews. He had all sorts of falcons there." Iseult smiled at the memory.

"They were caged," said Tristan flatly.

Iseult looked startled. "I suppose they were." She held out a strip of rabbit meat to the ravenous bird and did not flinch when his beak nipped her. "Your bird, he is not yours?"

Tristan chewed for a while. "He is not mine. He comes to me when he wishes. Often he leaves for long periods of time, I know not where. But then he comes back to me. But he never calls me master."

"Oh." She went back to feeding Narsigl. Tristan, enjoying the food, the company, and the weather, filed this memory away.

"You should eat. You will need the strength."

Iseult looked up at him. "Is everything…alright?"

Tristan nodded briskly. "Everything will be alright if we leave as soon as possible." He looked over the other knights. Lancelot was busy flirting with Brangaine, Bors was still packing, and Cathmor was eating as well. Tristan rose and made a hand signal to Lancelot. Hurry up.

"Thank you for the food, Princess." He allowed Narsigl to fly up to his shoulder.

Iseult held out the leather bundle. "In case he gets hungry again."

Tristan took it. "Thank you for that, as well." Without another word, he went towards the back of the encampment to finish the remaining packing.

The main road was a well-traveled one. But like any area of Britain, it was still dangerous. Tristan hated traveling in plain sight of anyone lurking in the forest, and he wished once again that they could take the forest path. But though Cathmor was a good rider, the women in the company were not. Truthfully, he was surprised that Anguish's daughter had no martial skills. The women in the North, like the women of Sarmatia, tended to be warriors. He made a mental note to ask her.

He was startled out of his reverie when Cathmor pulled up next to him. "You seem concerned," remarked the Irishman.

"Open road," was all Tristan said.

"The forest?"

Tristan glanced back at the women in reply. "Why is your sister not a fighter?"

Cathmor shrugged. "It is not in nature, I suppose. Father never discouraged her from taking up arms, but she chose not too. That is why Father gave her Brangaine – to protect her. Isuelt says she does not have the stomach for it, for all the blood."

"She deals with the blood as a healer."

Cathmor shrugged again. "It is not the same."

The two men rode in companionable silence. Narsigl flew overhead, periodically swooping down for food or some petting. "Why did you and your father keep Marcus Publius's true nature from the princess?" asked Tristan abruptly.

The prince looked guilty. "We wanted to tell her…but we did not wish to make her unhappy."

"You cannot avoid her unhappiness. And now you have lied to her."

Cathmor grew defensive. "Why are you so concerned? It is not your business."

Tristan slanted him an even look. "I am alive because I concern myself with other people's business." He looked away for a moment. "Besides, I would not wish Marcus Publius upon anyone."

"Perhaps his disposition will change."

Now Tristan shrugged. "You may wish for it. But that is all that it will ever be. A wish." He grew distracted for a moment. "Stay here with the others. I will be back." He spurred his horse off the path and into the forest.

Lancelot rode to the head of the party. "Where did Tristan go?" he asked Cathmor.

"He did not say."

"Damn!" Lancelot looked back at Bors. "He always does this." He held up a hand and signaled the three riders behind him to stop. "I think Tristan is suspecting something."

Bors moved his horse so that he was in front of the women. "Woads?"

Lancelot and Cathmor also moved into positions around the women. "Perhaps. You know Tristan, he leaves us to assume."

Cathmor turned his head and saw that Brangaine had unstrapped her bow from the horse. "Good girl. Iseult, take the sword."

Iseult made a face. "I am more likely to strike myself than be lucky enough to hit an enemy." But she did as she was told and gingerly drew forth the sword from the scabbard strapped to the other side of the horse.

The party remained as such until a few moments later, when Tristan galloped out of the forest. "Woad scouting party. There are ten of them."

"We can take them," said Bors confidently. He looked at Cathmor. "Can you hold your own?"

Cathmor nodded. "Aye, I can."

Tristan looked into the forest. "I can feel them coming." He held forth his bow, with an arrow ready to fire. Bors brought his horse alongside his, his own bow at the ready. The other two men remained in front of the women.

"Iseult, let us exchange places," said Brangaine suddenly. "With you in front of me, I cannot see as well."

The princess nodded. "Very well." She waited for Brangaine to dismount before moving further back, and then she held out a hand to her maidservant. Brangaine remounted herself and held her bow in front of her.

They seemed to wait forever, but soon, they were rewarded by several longhaired men emerging from the forest. Tristan, Bors, and Brangaine began shooting arrows into these strangers covered in blue body paint. Within moments, most of them were dead, and the few that had passed the shower of arrows died under Lancelot's and Cathmor's swords.

"That was too easy," frowned Lancelot.

"These are scouts." Tristan kept his eyes on the forest. "There is one more." He knocked an arrow. "He does not know whether to attack or flee." They waited a while longer until Tristan finally lowered his bow. "He has fled."

Cathmor sheathed his sword. "They are…Woads?"

Lancelot patted his mare's neck. "Yes, native Britons. They are called Woads because they cover themselves in dye from the woad plant." He flashed a smile at the three Irish. "It helps them blend in." He focused his gaze on Iseult's maidservant. "My lady, you make a good soldier."

She inclined her head. "Thank you, Knight Lancelot."

"We must continue. We are only a few hours from the Wall."

"Will we go in…as we are?" asked Iseult uncertainly.

Tristan's lips twitched. "There is a hidden glade near the walls. We will stop there in order for us to refresh ourselves."

She sighed in relief.

Thankfully, the remainder of the ride was free of any danger. They made good timing, and within two hours, they had reached the hidden glade that Tristan had spoken of. They allowed the horses to drink their fill of water and secured the area. The ladies retreated to the privacy of the forest to get changed. Cathmor also changed his dress, for as a prince of his nation, he could not appear at his future brother-in-law's door looking unkempt.

Lancelot, Bors, and Tristan washed away whatever blood was upon their persons. They had done their job, and as soon as they arrived at the Wall, the responsibility of their guests' well being would leave their hands. "You know, I think Vanora might be pregnant again."

"How do you know?" asked Tristan.

Bors's face grew soft for a moment. "She has been having mood swings lately. And been eating a lot."

"I wonder if the child's looks will favor Vanora or me?" asked Lancelot wonderingly.

Bors glared at his friend. "Lancelot, one of these days, I will run you through my axe." He scrubbed at his face. "This will be child twelve."

"Eleven," corrected Tristan.

"Bors, what will you do with so many children?" Lancelot stretched. "You only have two hands."

The big man chuckled. "Well, the way I figure it is this. "There are five other knights, plus Arthur. I was thinking of giving each of you one child each, which would leave Vanora and me five children – far more manageable."

"And then when child number twelve comes along?" Tristan removed the leather braces from his forearms and applied a soothing salve to them.

Lancelot did the same. "Probably keep on distributing them."

Bors smiled. "You know, I like all the little bastards. Maybe I will keep them all."

"So you say," laughed Lancelot. "But-" Lancelot broke off as his eyes fell on Iseult. "Oh. Perhaps I ought to start siring bastards of my own."

Tristan turned his head to see a more elegantly dressed Iseult. Surprisingly, he was not as moved by the sight as Lancelot was. Perhaps because now she looked like a princess, one that lived in circles beyond his own mere existence, with concerns far greater than his. She did not look like the woman who had saved his life years ago, the woman who had haunted his waking dreams ever since. She did not resemble the woman who had fed Narsigl, nor even the woman who had served him breakfast this morning.

So he got up and bowed formally. "Princess, we can leave if you are ready."

She gave him a startled look as she registered the formality. But Tristan's face was carved in stone, and she could read nothing in the darkness of his eyes. "We are ready." She looked back to see Brangaine and her brother dressed in more formal clothes.

Lancelot and Bors rose, bowed at the prince and princess, and then went to their horses. Cathmor helped Iseult and Brangaine to mount, and then he did the same. Tristan whistled, and both his horse and Narsigl appeared. Tristan mounted and then held out his arm for Narsigl. "Ready?" mouthed Lancelot. Tristan nodded, and then Lancelot led the procession out of the forest. Cathmor and Bors rode behind him, with Tristan following with the two women.

"After your term of service is over, what will you do?" asked Iseult curiously.

Tristan shrugged. "I do not know. I may not survive until then."

Iseult nodded in understanding. "It will be a death filled with much honor, I am sure."

"Perhaps. But I do not fight for honor anymore."

Brangaine gasped. "But you are a knight. Honor is supposed to be a code among the knights."

"I cannot speak for the others, but for myself, I can say that I care not. My father had taught me that death is always preferable to dishonor. That our honor is all that we have, all that makes us, all that we are." He grew quiet for a few moments. "Some would say that I have forgotten that lesson. But I have not." Tristan laughed disparagingly. "Honor. The Romans have taught me a greater lesson. I have learned that honor is for those who have the luxury of choice, for those who think of war as glorious, as something to be won and not something one must live through. Honor is for those who are free."

"Then what do you fight for, Tristan?" asked Iseult.

He bared his teeth in a feral half-smile. "Now I fight because I like it."

Iseult watched Tristan ride ahead. Secretly in her heart, where she kept her girlish fantasies alive, she wished that Tristan were her intended, not an old man that she had never met. But she knew that her marriage was necessary to keep the Romans out of Ireland, for Marcus Publius had agreed to inform his superiors that Ireland was a waste of Roman resources in exchange for the wergild that Anguish was paying. Furthermore, Tristan did not want her. She knew it in her woman's heart. He would never accept her as she was. In fact, she doubted that he would ever accept a woman as a companion. Too long had he lived a solitary life, from what she had heard from Bors and Lancelot.

But still, she could not help the secret infatuation with this knight whose life she had saved so long ago. And no man, no matter how strong, could always be alone.

We women have a secret. Through the ages, we have been able to comfort the men in our lives. No matter how far we go in our lives and how much respect we demand and command, we will always have that secret. We will always know the secret of getting close enough to offer comfort, yet retain our distance lest we upset the delicate balance of our roles. It is bred into our bones, engraved on our hearts, and it gives us our strength. We are the nurturers. And sometimes even the strongest men need the softest of touches...

Her mother's voice echoed in Iseult's mind.

She fought to clear her head of these thoughts. I am about to be married. I ought to think of my betrothed. She took a deep breath and allowed her eyes to rest on the Wall in the distance. I will be happy in my marriage.

Once past the walls, the knights rode in front of the guests, as protocol demanded. Awaiting them in the courtyard was Arthur and the rest of the knights, as well as Lucius Gustus. But no Marcus Publius, noticed Tristan.

After the Irish had dismounted, the three knights followed suit. Lucius came forward. "Princess, I am Lucius Gustus, second-in-command to Marcus Publius. He sends his apologies for his absence."

Cathmor and Iseult exchanged looks. For Marcus Publius not to be here, when the garrison was in a state of low alert, was an affront to Iseult. But she took it as gracefully as she did all else. "Of course. Marcus Publius has many pressing matters on his hands that he must attend too."

Lucius smiled sadly. "Yes, he must." He beckoned Arthur forward. "This is Arthus Castus, captain of the Knights that have so gallantly escorted you here."

"My lady," bowed Arthur.

"Thank you, Captain, for sparing your knights. They are valuable to you, I know, and were probably needed for more important matters."

He smiled. "To be in the company of one so kind and fair is hardly a harship." He ran appraising eyes over his knights. "And they appear none the worse for wear."

Lucius cleared his throat. "Marcus Publius has set the wedding ceremony for tonight, so if you would follow me, I will show you to your chambers." The two women and Cathmor followed Lucius out.

Arthur turned to his returned knights. "Any trouble?"

"We ran into some scouts, but that was it." Lancelot allowed Jols to lead his horse away.

"And the Irish?"

Bors opened his arms as two children ran to him. "Where is your mother?"

Lancelot smiled as he continued reporting to Arthur. "The man, Cathmor, does not like us, but that is to be expected. The princess is a good woman. I like her, Arthur. She does not deserve Marcus Publius."

Arthur smiled sadly. "No, she does not."

"And," continued Lancelot, "it turns out that she is Tristan's mysterious healer from the Irish wars."

Tristan refused to speak, so Lancelot continued. "Tristan did not recognize her, but that was because he was unconscious when they first met."

Arthur looked at his ever-silent knight. "I will have to hear this later." He clapped Bors on the shoulder. "All of you should get ready. There is a wedding tonight."

Brangaine surveyed their new quarters with distaste. She had expected more for her mistress, but then again, this was a garrison. "Iseult," she called. Iseult looked up from her trunk. "I will go and find someone to bring some bathwater here," said Brangaine.

"Alright." Iseult went back to unpacking her belongings.

Brangaine made her way to the servant's area and told a kindly faced woman who her mistress was, and if she could have someone bring bathwater. The woman, whose name was Duilwyn, did as she was asked and also gave Brangaine a tray of food for Iseult and herself. She made her way back to the rooms, but on her way, she stopped by the servant's courtyard and saw a partially bald-headed man in a Roman uniform fondling a young girl – against her will. With a sense of dread rising within her, Brangaine asked of the nearest servant, "Is that Marcus Publius?"

When her worst fears were confirmed, Brangaine set down the tray and thought about how to tell this to Iseult. She would be crushed, and whatever hope she had in her marriage would disappear. Perhaps she would keep this from Iseult. Perhaps, Brangaine hoped, Marcus Publius would be so moved by Iseult that he would change.

With this weak hope, she picked up the tray – only to see Iseult coming towards her. "Brangaine, where have you gone for so long?" Iseult moved to take the tray and finally saw what Brangaine had been staring at. "Is that Marcus Publius?" she asked, echoing Brangaine's own question moments ago.

"Yes." Brangaine's heart clenched at the look in her mistress's eyes.

Iseult nodded sadly as she returned to her, Brangaine following dejectedly half a step behind.