Celidon led the way through the trees, ranging ahead of the two boys and the one tired dog. They needed to find an alternative route back to camp. Tristan had traded his dog paws for human feet, and the path he had take to the cliff edge was impossible without the surety of paws. The trees shifted around them as they walked, moving to obscure their tracks. Tristan kept Grayson's arm around his shoulders and they moved slowly. Celidon had to keep pausing, looking back for them over his shoulder, a single paw raised off the ground.

Why, when there was so much to say, was it so hard to say it?

Grayson knew nothing of Arthur, or of Mordred. He deserved to know that Saffron had stayed behind and that Nimueh was gone. Keeping silent felt like lying, but he had been unable to say any of it out loud, even to himself. He wasn't ready for that fight just yet.

"Nearly there" Cel told him through their connection. He reappeared on the path a second later, his noise pointing in the direction of the camp.

"Almost there, Gray," Tristan repeated out-loud to his friend. He tightened his grip on Grayson's arm and helped him the rest of the way.

They stepped out of the undergrowth into the camp. The same old tents stood scattered between the trees. The residents had taken to painting their canvases, some with pro-Tristan and anti-Mordred graffiti, others with patterns and forest motifs. Tristan's tent was probably the only plain white one left. He hadn't had the heart, or the inspiration, to do anything with it.

Fortunately for two boys eager to avoid questions, the camp was quiet. It was still early in the afternoon so very few of the residents were in their tents. They were out hunting, or out on errands and missions.

The inside of the tent was cool, shaded by the canvas and the trees. Tristan helped Grayson under through the entrance and lowered him down carefully onto the bed. He crawled across the floor to his trunk and pulled out a blanket for Era. He spread it out on the ground next to Grayson and patted it, smiling at her.

It was a simple space. The litter clutter there was had been pushed to the edges, brushing up against the canvas. Excalibur was by far the most ornate of Tristan's remaining possessions. He had managed to piece together a few pieces of armour, a mixture of plate and chainmail. There was a plainer sword too, resting on top of the old wooden trunk which contained the last of Tristan's clothes. The rest of the clutter consisted of practical necessities; a make-shift head-collar made from knotted rope, a hunting bow, a range of knives.

Tristan rocked backwards and sat cross legged opposite Grayson. He handed his friend a brown bag with more food in it, and then reached behind the wooden trunk. Celidon whined quietly as Tristan pulled the cork from the brandy bottle with his teeth. He spat it out on the floor and took a long swig.

"Fancy it?" he asked Grayson, holding the bottle out just in case.

Taking it back, he took another swig and wiped his mouth dry with the back of his hand.

"You can bunk down with me tonight," he said matter-of-factly, "we'll eat when it starts getting dar and more people come back. Then in the morning we can find you a tent of your own."
He managed to smile.

"I'm glad to have you back, mate, but you can know a person too well in this place, if you know what I mean."

Tristan