Mace's expression changed, hardening. Gawain's stomach dropped. He looked, suddenly like a man demanding answers.

And then he didn't.

In the blink of an eye Mace had adopted his previous demeanour, as if nothing at all had happened. He might have wondered if he'd been imagining it, if Mace hadn't suddenly lurched back into action. Whatever he wanted, Gawain was sure it had little to do with tents.

"Unless he's planning on stabbing you with a tent peg, of course," Altair suggested helpfully, "those things can be sharp.

"Not now, Altair.

"Now?" Tristan asked, frowning. Gawain watched his brother carefully as he glanced between him and Mace. "He's not finished his soup."

Anyone who had been unfamiliar with their father might not have seen it, but Gawain knew. Tristan was assessing the situation, trying to work on what had changed. There was so much Arthur in him! Tears burned the back of Gawain's eyes, threatening to spill. Pride stirred, deep in his chest. His brother was all he'd hoped he'd be! It was a strange, unfamiliar kind of joy.

"Fine," Tristan conceded, waving his hand and breaking the rather tense silence, "take him. But make sure you bring him back again. If he's as good as you say, we need him." He stretched his long legs out in front of him and stared into the fire. "And I promise not to revert back into a hermit in the next ten minutes." He sighed, and for the first time since Tristan had sat down, Gawain caught the faint buzz of liquor beneath the wood smoke.

Perhaps not all he had hoped. His heart sank again, and he fought every impulse he had which was screaming at him to pull his brother into a hug. Instead, he rose reluctantly to his feet and edged away from the fire. He paused at the edge of the firelight ad turned back to Tristan with a smile.
"I'll see the state of the tent before I make any promises, Your Grace," he teased. His brother grinned back.
"I like this one, Mace," he said, leaning forwards a little to peer around Gawain to find Mace in the shadows. "Don't lose him."

Mace had a strong grip, and it grew stronger the further they venture from the fire. Gawain didn't try to shrug him off, but his heart pounded against his ribs.

"Do you need me?" Altair asked, suddenly all seriousness.

"Stay close," he thought back as Mace steered him into the deeper darkness beneath the trees. "Odds on him murdering me?"

Altair snorted. "Not on my watch, kid."

When they finally stopped, Gawain found his back pressed up against the trunk of a particularly old and gnarly tree. Mace stared across at him, scowling intensely, but Gawain held his eye. He waited, neither prompting or challenging. The silence dragged on.

And then.
Gawain sighed, running his fingers through his hair, combing it back away from his face. There was little use in lying now. He'd been a little too careless, a little too eager. And Mace was neither stupid nor blind. And...had he been on Shaman with Arthur this entire time? Whilst he had been planets, universes away?

"I'm who I always told you I was," he insisted, imploringly. "But..." how to put it? He paused, his mind racing. "But I wasn't always." Pausing again, Gawain looked around at the silent trees. It felt like they were leaning in, ready to eavesdrop. Why was the truth so hard to say? There'd been a time when he'd stood on an empty planet and screamed it to the skies.

And then he'd had to learn to let that part of him go. It felt... He had no word for how it felt. It was almost painful to lay claim to that identity again. When it came to it, he found the words 'I am Gawain,' impossible to say.

"He's my brother," he managed instead, imploring Mace to understand. "Tristan's my brother, and my father asked me to come here to help him." Gawain lifted his chin. "And I don't know about you, Mace, but I make a point of not ignoring the wishes of the dead."

Gawain