It was still raining. The water pounded relentlessly against the fabric of the tent and the wind tugged at the ropes. There was a chill in the air, cold enough that Tristan had wrapped himself in a couple of rough woollen blankets. He sat in the centre of his shelter, nursing a half-empty bottle of whisky in his lap. Scrolls of parchment surrounded him, some rolled up and others unfurled and pinned open under rocks. He ran a chilled fingertip over the surface of the nearest and sighed, taking another swig from the bottle. They had spent the last few days tracking the patrols and postings of Mordred's guards, making notes of times and details of the individual men and women sent to watch. Tristan lowered the bottle as Celidon twitched in his sleep and frowned. His uncle knew what he was doing. They needed a plan to fight back, to try and stop Mordred from gaining any more of an upper hand.

It was his job to come up with the plan, but he was letting everyone down because he had no idea what he was doing. The people in the camp were expecting a leader, and he couldn't give them one.

Urgh.

Tristan lifted the stone off the chart and watched with some satisfaction as it sprung back into a roll. Thunder broke over head. The wind tore the tent flap free. He peered out through the gap for a few moments and then climbed to his feet and stepped out into it, bottle in-hand. He was soaked through in seconds, but it felt good. The cold nipped at his cheeks and sent a shiver down his spine; at least he could feel something. He'd spent weeks trapped in a numb fog-like haze. Without a thought for his uncle's guards, Tristan set off alone through the trees. Unscrewing the lid of his bottle he took three gulps of whiskey to fight off the cold, then tucked it under his arm and headed north.

He didn't know where he was going; he didn't care. He just kept walking. As he headed further into the heart of the forest, the trees started to grow thicker and their leaves caught the rain. The prince kept his course straight, phasing through any trees that got in his way. The darkness of evening started to press in around him but he just kept on walking, enjoying the ache in his feet and the growing tightness of the muscles in his legs.

A horse's shrill whinny cut through the gloom. Tristan froze and peered around at the undergrowth. For a moment, nothing moved. Then the grass near him began to rustle and shake. Tristan dropped his bottle and reached for the grip of his father's sword, waiting.

Celidon stepped out the undergrowth looking distinctly unimpressed. He carried a lantern between his and behind it Tristan could just about make out the shadowy shape of his coat. The cu-sith stopped short and whined at him disapprovingly.
"Give-over," Tristan growled back, relieving his familiar of his burden. He shrugged on his coat, lit the lantern and collected his bottle from the leaf litter. The whinny came again. Tristan turned to Cel.
"Can you find it?" he asked. Celidon snorted, his breath turning to smoke as it hit the cold air. Of course I can.

The cu-sith led the way through the trees, and the undergrowth grew steadily thicker and thicker. Tristan found walking increasingly difficult, and was forced to pull out his dagger in order to cut his way through some particularly stubborn vines. Sticks snapped beneath his boots, thorns scratched at his face, and then the plants began to thin again. They emerged from the shrubbery into a mossy area, with a small brook running through it.

The mare was lying on the ground by the stream, her mane reaching out into the water. She was dying. Tristan could sense her fear. His fingers went slack on the bottle and it fell to the floor with a thud. He closed the space between them at a run and dropped to his knees at her side.
"Shhh..." he said, trying to sooth her, running his hand along her neck. An arrow protruded from between her ribs, and blood had congealed in the darkness of her coat. The injury was a few days old. She had been spared the consequences of the initial impact, but it had finally caught up with her. Tristan removed his jacket and draped it over her face, covering her eyes. Gently he moved his fingers to the wound. There was an unpleasant smell in the air, and the flesh around the arrow head burned hot. The mare snorted her objections, moving her head so the tip of her horn brushed the surface of the brook.

"Go and find Thoth," Tristan urged Celidon, reaching out to scratch his familiar's ear, "hurry."

---

Celidon's long legs and great feet made easy work of the woodland and he made it back to the camp in good time. Galloping past the first rows of tents, he skidded to a halt outside Thoth's and squeezed unceremoniously through the entrance. Celidon was much too big for Thoth's tent, he almost filled it and found himself forced to lower his head.

He woofed at the boy, his tail wagging.

"We need your help," he said in his soft voice, so rarely heard, "Tris found a unicorn...I think she's dying."


Tristan
_{the only thing left are the stars}