 He focused on the trickle of the tributary as it wound its way through the trees. His canine ears picking on the splash of a fish's tail as it broke the surface of the river, and the footsteps of the hunter wading through the shallows further upstream. The birds were singing, just like they always had, the soft tweeting of the wren drowned out by the squawk of the outraged magpie. Nothing ever changed. Every day he woke up in the forest, and everyday he heard the same sounds. The place had probably altered very little since the day his father, uncle, and aunt had found it.
Thoughts of his family brought him to a halt as the knot in his stomach tightened. The forest was amaranthine, eternal, unfaltering, immortal. Tristan wished with all his heart that the same could be said of other lost, forsaken things.
Looking to ground himself he left the leaf litter of the river bank and stepped into the water. The tributary did not run deep. It lapped against his fur half-way up his legs, making each step harder. That was good. Hard was as it should be. He kept up a steady pace, following The King's twists and turns, his claws clicking against the pebbles of the river bed. Slowly the trees began to thin, the large imposing pines and oaks giving way to smaller, younger trees with thinner branches. The sunlight brushed against the copper-red of his back and he took a deep lungful of fresh cool air.
One tree was not like the others. It was neither light nor delicate and it was instantly clear that it didn't belong. In eschewed the subtle browns and greens of the woodland for white, red and gold. Tristan's mind turned unbidden to thoughts of home. The scarlet of the banners on the walls, of the golden dragon with its wings outstretched, the candelabras, his father's wine goblet sitting on the mahogany side table. He felt sick.
Tristan turned away, stepping clear of the water, but something caught his eye and drew him back. Someone had left a bunch of white roses lying amongst the tree's roots. He caught the scent of them on the breeze. They were fresh, only recently cut. The tree meant something to someone else, conjuring images of lost corridors and remembered rooms.
He ran. The hard ground felt good beneath his pads and he gloried in the strength of his four legs as they carried him through the undergrowth. This was freedom.
It didn't last. His traitorous feet led him back to the camp in the centre of the forest, just as they always did. He was able to pass through the modest crowd unimpeded; few knew of his new power yet. Celidon looked up from his place on the groundsheet when he entered, and his tail started to wag. Tristan transformed from dog to boy...man? And sat down cross-legged on the floor. He reached for the handle of the sword protruding from beneath a rough wool blanket and draws it into his lap, his fingers hesitating over the chill of the steel.
He can't just sit.
Celdion follows him from the tent and Tristan carries the sword through the camp and back out into the forest.
He makes for the quiet solitude of the Henge.
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