At first, he neither knew, nor cared, where he was going. He could hear Celidon running through the undergrowth behind him, but it wasn't enough to make him stop. His vision blurred, he could hardly see, and his mind was so full of possibilities and denials, he couldn't think straight. He just walked.

A pain was building in his chest. Tristan set his hand to the base of his ribcage as he marched on through the trees, trying to stifle yet another sob. Why would someone choose to tell a lie as big and as hurtful as this? 'I'm your brother, I spoke to our father.' He couldn't have thought of anything worse if he'd tried. His brother was dead. His father was dead. Perhaps they had been reunited, but not anywhere Tristan could reach them.

His feet picked up a familiar trail without him noticing. This areas of the forest was familiar, he'd travelled this was so many times before. The sight of the Henge through the trees, gave him pause. Tristan took a deep, steadying breath, and adjusted his course towards it. His long legs made short work of the barrow, and he sunk down into the grass at its summit. The stones formed a defensive ring around him, cold, dark and unyielding.

Tristan lay back, flat on the ground, and stared up at the canopy. The branches and leaves swayed in the same breeze fussing at his hair. He took another deep breath. It couldn't be Gawain, it couldn't.

But he looked so much like Arthur. The nose, the chin, the pale eyes. The name he had chosen in his exile, and the story he'd told to explain his missing fingers. They'd stopped looking so long ago. Oh God. They'd stopped looking. He wanted it to be true, to have a little piece of his father back, a shred of the family he'd loved...but it was such an awful truth too. Another wrong done to them that would need to be reckoned for.

He was sick, sick of people taking things from them. His father, his family, his home, and his brother.

He's lying. Its him. It can't be. It is. I don't want him. I need him. He's trouble. He's here to help.

Frustration forced him back to his feet, and a bellow ripped itself from his throat. He kicked at the nearest stone, again and again and again, and finally, stupidly, threw a punch.

His knuckles popped, and he cried out as his finger broke and blood stained the rock. He dropped to his knees, cradling his hand against his chest and rocked sideways against the stone. When he looked up, he found Celidon watching him. Silently, and without judgement, the cu-sith scaled the barrow and lay down beside him. He rested his great head on Tristan's leg.

They sat there together, until a familiar, gentle voice brushed through the dark.

Tristan barely looked up. "Hey, Gray," he muttered to the grass, wincing as fresh pain threaded its way through his hand.

"Is it your turn to pick up the pieces this time, cousin?" Tristan sighed. "There always seems to be some poor sod lumbered with the job of sorting me out."

The frustration that admission provoked was always enough to set him screaming again.

"He...Guy...he says he's Gawain...What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?"

put all your faults to bed

TristaN

you can be king again