"Nice to meet you," Gawain said, shaking Pete's hand before accepting the bowl from him with a mutter of thanks. The warmth of the soup seeped comfortingly through the wood of the bowl, heating his hands and what remained of his fingers. He caught the boy glance at them, observed the usual double-take and the curious pinching between his eyebrows. Pete however seemed too polite to ask anything further. Relieved, Gawain picked up his spoon and took his first mouthful of broth.

"I have a friend who might show up before morning," he said, half to Mace, half to the cluster of archers on Altair's right side. "I'd be grateful if no one shot him."

"Basically," Altair interrupted him, showing his teeth in a wicked smile, "if you see a bloody great pigeon circling the camp, don't shoot it down." The lynx sniffed, "even though he would keep you all fed for months." He grinned across at Josephine. Gawain threw a small pebble at him.

"His name's Ambrose. He's a thunderbird, and he won't hurt anyone."

The group around the main campfire grew steadily around them until Gawain found himself peering through a second forest of legs and bodes. He was reluctant to let Tristan's tent out of his sight, just in case his brother appeared from wherever it was he had run off to. It was difficult. Every time someone new arrived, Gawain was forced to introduce himself again, until the handshakes and the 'I'm Guy' became automatic. He wouldn't remember half of their names in the morning. Altair held court by the fire, the flames caught the black of his fur, causing it to dance magpie-blue. A cluster of young women seemed to find it particularly enchanting. Gawain rolled his eyes and glanced back at the boy-king's tent. It remained dark and empty.

"The king doesn't eat with his men?" Gawain asked Mace, leaning closer so he could keep his voice low. Their father would have insisted on it. Tristan would know that. So where was he? It was a good sign, at least, that he had not seen hide nor hair of Celidon since his arrival either. At least his brother was protected, wherever he had wandered off to. He considered all the questions he wanted to ask Mace, everything he wanted to know about what had happened. Half of them he could not have asked without exposing himself, the other half required careful re-phrasing which would probably only end up providing him with only a fraction of the information he wanted. It was no use. He would have to be patient and bide his time.

"What can I do to help?" Gawain asked instead, meeting Mace's eye. "I've got two almost-fully functioning hands. Put me to work."

"I thought you said we were on leave!" Altair complained, peering around a girl's legs. His pale eyes gleamed.

"I've never been very good at taking it easy," Gawain shrugged, more to Mace than his familiar. "You'd be doing me a favour if you kept me occupied."

"I, on the other hand," Altair interjected, "am fantastic at relaxing. I will however put myself out and adopt a supervisory role."

Gawain almost didn't hear him. It took every ounce of self control he possessed to stop his jaw from dropping open. A giant green dog, far bigger than the last time Gawain had seen him, stood at the top of the bank, just in front of Tristan's tent. Celidon had frozen too, his head turned towards Gawain, his ears perked, and one front paw lifted free of the ground. His long braided tail held still.

"What the hell is that?" Altair asked, tipping his head enquiringly to one side.
That is Celidon Gawain thought, sending the message along their telepathic connection. He's your brother...technically.

God help me. Altair thought back. Gawain was relieved to see that nothing showed on the lynx's face. He just kept staring straight up the hill.

The cu-sith stared back at them, his tail finally giving a small tentative wag. Gawain had little time to read any more into the gesture as Tristan emerged from the line of trees.

He was so tall! Gawain had known his brother must have grown, it had been ten years, and he had prepared himself for the transformation. Thinking about it theoretically however differed markedly from seeing the change in the flesh. Tristan had filled out well and he, like Gawain had inherited Arthur's nose and mouth. There was a proud tilt to his chin Gawain suspected he had to thank their mother for. Every inch of him however, was Tristan. Except for one thing. His characteristic grin was nowhere to be seen, and little wonder. The prince's hair had grown longer during his exile, and hung untidily around his face. It had achieved a level of ruffled messiness which put him in mind of Mallos. The prince however was in need of a shave.

You're smiling you know? Altair prodded him, people will start to wonder why.

His familiar's words slammed Gawain back to earth.

"The man himself, I presume?" he said to Mace, trying to collect himself. He couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away from the boy, the man, on the slope. Tristan seemed to hesitate, looking between the solitude of his tent and the companionship of the campfire. Gawain held his breath.

Celidon padded around his fairy and pushed at his hand encouragingly with his muzzle. Taking the hint, Tristan picked his way down the bank. The men and women around the fire shuffled around the benches to clear a place for their king, and he settled himself on the log beside Gawain but opposite Mace. He stretched out his long legs in front of him and stared into the fire. Gawain held silent, watching him, fascinated.

"How's your hand, Travis?" Tristan asked the boy beside him, "the poultice make much difference?"

He sounded like their father. Gawain's heart pounded.

Travis, ignorant of the reunion happening right in front of his face, nodded. "It did," he agreed happily. "It's not so hot anymore."

"Excellent," Tristan replied through a smile which didn't quite reach his eyes. "We'll have him back with a sword in no time, won't we, Mace?"

Gawain almost jumped as Celidon appeared at his side. The cu-sith settled himself in the dust at his feet, pressing his great bulk against Gawain's legs. When he looked up he found Tristan regarding him with a curious expression, their grandmother's green eyes flicking back and forth between stranger and familiar.

"And who's this?" Tristan asked, offering him a smile before he glanced at Mace.

"Soup, Your Grace?" Pete asked, pressing a bowl into Tristan's hands. The prince, king, thanked him and then returned his attention to Gawain. He offered him his hand.
Think fast, Altair prompted him silently.

The lie came before he could stop it.

"Guy," he said, taking his brother's hand. "I'm with the alliance, I know Mace from a long time ago."

Tristan seemed to be considering him, and he waited, hardly daring to breathe. After what seemed like an age the king spoke again.

"You enjoy camping, Guy? Tristan asked as he lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth. He blew on it gently before sipping it. "I'm afraid it's all the hospitality I can offer you, but if it's enough, then you're welcome here."

The king turned to Mace with a wry smile.

"There," he said, a little light flickering into existence in his eyes, "is that enough trying for you?"

Gawain met his brother's eye again.

"Mace fancies himself the better angel on my shoulder," Tristan explained, the ghost of his former grin on his face. He found himself smiling back. Gawain turned his own smile on Mace.

"That sounds about right, Your Grace."

Gawain