He ran through the forest, weaving through the trees and leaping over fallen tree trunks and enjoying the sweet taste of freedom. His dog body was strong and his paws made easy work of the uneven ground. Celidon ran with him, his great green bulk passing silently through the undergrowth. They moved closer together until they ran shoulder to shoulder and their magic guided them through ever obstacle that thought to guard their way. They moved like ghosts, enjoying the strength of their bodies and the cool whisper of the air. The trees themselves shifted and changed around them, joining in the dance as they closed up the paths behind them, keeping them from any who dared to follow. Tristan breathed deeply enjoying his moment of peace. He and the land had come to an understanding, a oneness he couldn't quite explain.

He helped to soothe his troubled thoughts a while.

The strange tree was a shock of colour amongst the greens and browns of the woodland. His father's colours seemed lost in this place. The gold and scarlet of Arthur's arms belonged in the Castle, on the floors of the corridors and the banners mounted on the walls of the great hall. Tristan slipped from dog to man as he stepped over the trickling stream separating him from his destination without breaking stride. He fell to his knees at the foot of the tree. Others had been there before him. The tree had become a shrine of sorts, bunches of flowers lay scattered around the roots, some woven into wreaths, others with their stalks bound together with ribbons.

The only grave Arthur had.

Closing his eyes, Tristan set his hand against the rough white bark of the trunk. He bowed his head, his chin falling against his chest.

"Are you disappointed, father?" he whispered. "I haven't been doing a very good job of things so far, have I?"

Celidon appeared at his left elbow and pushed his great head against the side of Tristan's face. The prince, king, smiled despite himself and reached up to scratch behind his familiar's ear.

"I don't even know where to start..." Tristan resumed, "I'm not him, I never thought about how to topple a king. Where are you now, father?" He raised his eyes to the skyline half-hoping to hear an answer on the breeze. Sighing, he looked back to the earth. "I need you."

They stayed at the foot of the tree until the sun began to set, companionable in their silence. As dusk fell, Tristan climbed back to his feet and followed the line of trees, keeping close to the edge of the forest. He kept walking until the towers of the castle loomed large on the horizon. Folding his arms across his chest he leaned against a tree and stared out across the field at the world he'd had stolen from him. He wanted it back. Every stone of the castle was imbued with memories of his father, every twisting corridor, every hidden passageway. It was their home, the physical manifestation of Arthur's legacy.

Celidon whined at the thought, fixing his fairy with a sad look. Not the castle, brother the cu-sith thought as he set off back through the trees.

Tristan sighed and followed after him, taking a meandering route towards camp. He knew every route now, every rock and every stump. His kingdom had shrunk significantly from the one he should have had, but at least one part of the land remained his.

He nodded to one of the border patrol as he passed them, but he didn't make his way to the tents at the heart of the camp. He wasn't ready for company just yet.

There was a glade nearby where the canopy thinned and the stars shone through. Tristan found his way there despite the darkness. He remembered sitting on the castle roof, it seemed an age ago, staring up at the same constellations, trying to remember which was which. They were different, his father had told him, to the ones found on earth. He'd like to see them, to see the world where his father's story had begun, anything to feel that connection to him. It was all of it so, so precious.

Behind him, Celidon began to growl.

Tristan turned and set his hand on the cu-sith's back. Cel's hackles were up, a growl rumbling in his throat.

A young woman prowled towards them from the darkness, her skin sun-kissed, her eyes bright. She moved with a cat-like grace and regarded him with a feline hunger. There was something familiar about the turn of her mouth, the way she regarded him from at the cusp of disapproval. Tristan's hand drifted to the blade at his belt. His fingers danced close to the grip, but he didn't take it.

Holding his ground, Tristan stared back at her steadily. His chin tips upwards, guided by the ghost of his pride. He doesn't flinch. When he spoke, his voice was calm.

"That rather depends on who's asking."

Tristan