The familiar sounds of the camp echoed through the trees. A stick pressed uncomfortably into the palm of Tristan's hand. He remained still, desperately trying to breathe life back into his tired limbs.

He'd been so selfish.

Everything he'd done: fleeing Spain, finding Thea, cornering Mordred, it had all been for him. He'd been granted impossible power, and instead of using it to help his cause and protect his friends, he'd indulged himself following personal whims.

Who knew how much time he'd wasted?

Gathering his strength, Tristan forced himself to his feet. He staggered to his left like a drunkard. Throwing out his hand to stop himself from falling, his fingers slapped against one of the standing stones. It stood fast, cold and unyielding.

Last time he'd been here, he'd fought with Mace. Or not fought with Mace. That had been the point, hadn't it? He recalled the feeling of the leather on Excalibur's grip when he'd let it fall from his fingers into the dew laden grasses.

And how Mace had returned it quietly to his tent without another word.

He was going to have to stop letting people down. And prove Mordred wrong.

And where was Excalibur now? Merlin had sent it off, Lord knows where, and he hadn't even thought to take advantage of his grandfather's body to try and find it.

When had he acquired such a talent for messing up so badly?

Tristan growled his frustration and pushed off from the stone. Just as his hand left it, it seemed to shudder. And then it began to glow. He paused, turning back to watch it as the light flared and died, leaving the clearing as it had been before.

There on the ground at the base of the stone stood a small replica of the Henge. Tristan frowned down at it, and then, slowly, he reached down and scooped it up. Exploring it with curious fingers he examined every inch. It was not some model or statute, it was a perfect reconstruction. The stones were real, aged stone as solid and as ancient as the Henge itself. The grass growing around its base was alive and doused in dew. A tiny bird stood singing upon the centre stone, frozen in place, its voice stuck on an unending loop of silence.

Tristan turned it over and around, trying to find any explanation for its sudden existence. Answers were not forthcoming. He sighed and slipped it into his pocket, setting off amongst the trees.

A protection spell for the camp. Surely he could manage that? Tristan trudged around in a circle, his hands in his pockets. They needed to be able to take it with them when they moved location, otherwise it would be basically useless. He paused, and drew the mini-Henge free. He looked down at it sitting on his palm and concentrated as hard as he could. He thought of every word and feeling he could think of relating to safety and secrecy, and slowly, dimly, the Henge began to hum.

As quickly as it had started, it fell silent.

Had it worked?
They'd have to wait and find out he supposed.

Returning the mini-Henge to his pocket, he weaved his way through the trees towards the camp.

But something caught his eye.

Someone must have missed it. One of Mordred's posters was still nailed to the nearest trunk. It flapped insistently in the evening wind, impossible to ignore.

'Tristan, wanted for the murder of King Arthur.'

He tore it from the tree and pounded it into a ball between his hands.

No. More. Lies.

He stepped into the now-familiar space between words and reappeared in the castle grounds. Tristan strode through the vegetable patch, ignorant of the plight of the cabbages he trampled and marched up to the door to the tower stairs. There was no guard to be seen.

His eyes adjusted magically to the dark as he climbed the steps. Shadows loomed in darkness ahead, the missing guard wrapped up in one of the maids. They broke apart when they saw him coming, but he silenced them with a wave of his hand. They dropped to the floor like puppets with their strings cut. Tristan stepped over them and continued on his way. A dull pain squeezed at his wrist as his grandfather's bracelet tightened uncomfortably.

Tristan ignored its insistence, clenching his teeth.

When he reached the top and stepped out onto the upper landing, he did not take the right to the king's chambers, but left. Counting the doors he made his way silently along the red carpet, sending another two guards to sleep with a flick of his wrist.

"Don't do this, Tristan," Mallos warned him. "You don't really want to do this. You're going to hurt yourself. The bracelet...

Tristan ignored him and continued on his way, massaging at his wrist. The pain crept further up his arm.

He didn't even need to touch the door handle. It seemed to sense him coming and swung wide open, admitting him into the room. His eyes moved from the rocking horse in the corner, to the toys on the floor, and over to the child asleep in the bed.

The pain grew more intense, Mallos' voice more muffled.

In the bed, the little boy stirred. His eyes flickered open. Every inch of him was Mordred, from the black of his hair and the blue of his eyes, to the sharp point of his chin. He was pretty and doll-like, his skin pale and smooth as porcelain, ethereal to Tristan's earthiness.

"He's just a boy, Tristan." Mallos reminded him.

Tristan advanced on the bed. Loholt sat up, rubbing at his eyes.

"I know you!" he announced sleepily, "you're Thea's friend."

Tristan said nothing, but nodded, holding out his hand.

"I've been sent to fetch you," he replied, finally, giving his fingers a playful wiggle.

The boy responded, slipping from the bed, he stepped straight into his slippers and took hold of Tristan's hand. His fingers were so tiny, delicate as bird bones.

Pulling the boy after him, Tristan stepped back into the dark.

The pain that shot up his arm was the most intense he'd ever felt in his life. It pressed in on him as they hurtled through the space, tearing an anguished scream from his throat. He felt Mallos reaching for him, holding out a hand, but all Tristan could do was tighten his grip on Loholt. The boy had started to cry.

Tristan pitched forwards face-first as his feet slammed into the ground. His entire right side felt like it was on fire. He kept on screaming. And it kept on burning.

Until it wasn't his voice anymore. Relief washed over him as the pain subsided. Tristan leaned forwards and threw-up in the grass.

When he was done, he rocked back on his haunches. He could still feel Mallos in his head, but he was further away, his voice still echoing. Tristan was left staring up into Loholt's terrified face.

"Jesus Christ..." Tristan muttered, panic squeezing at his heart. What had he done?

He barely had time to process the thought. Something hooked him from his grandfather's body, drawing him out into the air. The browns and greens of the forest rushed past him, before he was forced down, back towards the earth.

Safe in his tent, Tristan's eyes snapped open, his breathing coming in terrified gasps.

"Oh no..." he muttered, climbing hastily to his feet and charging the tent flap. "Cel!" he bellowed, stumbling out into the camp, "Mace!"

put all your faults to bed

TristaN

you can be king again