Gawain had never forgotten his brother's grin. No matter how far away from home he had wandered, no matter how long the nights, whenever he thought about Tristan, he was smiling. It was an infectious kind of smile, the kind you couldn't help but smile back at, the kind that meant you'd forgive him anything. He'd always had the kind of laugh that made you laugh right along with him, even when you didn't know what was funny. The memories had sometimes been the only things Gawain had still had that could make him smile before he slept. The idea that time, and Mordred, had stripped all of that away was almost as painful as the realisation that he'd never see his father alive again.

He had learned long ago that the world could be cruel, had seen the evidence with his own eyes, but it had never stuck so close to home before. This time it was different.

The trees closed in behind them as he and Mace picked their way through the forest. The trunks creaked and the leaves rustled. The further they went the harder his heart started to pound. Gawain did his best to hide it, listening to Mace with a thoughtful expression and nodding in all the right places. Dealing with trauma the way you'd expect in someone that age. What had he been like at seventeen? Ripped away from his home and his family, looking for a way to get back to them and failing at every turn. He'd had dreams about losing his fingers every night, remembering the blade that had severed them. He supposed if anyone could try to understand what Tristan was going through it was him. And yet...

They'd always been different. Where Tristan had always been outgoing and had sought comfort in others, Gawain had always reverted to solitude. His faith had been the light in his darkness, and one father had stepped into the hole another had left. It was the only part of his heritage he'd had left, and he clung to it with everything he'd had. There had been some comfort in that.

His shortened fingers fumbled absently with the rosary around his neck and he pulled his father's crucifix free of the collar of his shirt. Guidance. He'd found that too, not just in his God but in Scout. He'd have been dead if it hadn't been for Scout.

Altair, for once, let him be. The lynx padded along behind with Josephine and left Gawain to his thoughts. Thank goodness for small mercies.

The tents came slowly into view through the trees. Some were plain canvas and others had been decorated by their owners. Gawain's heart pounded all the harder. It was almost time. What would he do when he saw him? How would he introduce himself? Did he scare the kid to death by revealing his true identity on the spot, or did he let him get used to Guy first. Urgh. Life had been simpler on Umbarra II.

Kids, and a lot of them were kids, emerged from their tents to greet Mace. Gawain grinned at him in amusement quirking an eyebrow.

"Looks like you make a good nanny, Mace," Altair purred, slinking past them both and curling up beside the central campfire.

"You'll get us both shot," Gawain told him, nudging him with his foot as they passed. He turned an apologetic smile on Mace.

"What next, boss?"

Altair's ears twitched. "Where's our tent?"

Gawain