Grayson hesitated to walk closer, his balance swaying but in the end his feet moved with his heart towards Tristan.

He looked down at his cousin when he got to his side and frowned as he looked at his hand. Things hadn’t gone very well then, although he had assumed as much with him being here and all. He had just hoped…

He sighed before settling down his opposite side of Cel. Chancing a brief glance at the big green dog, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “We all need a little help from time to time.” Grayson began, “and I don’t appreciate being called a poor sod for wanting to help.” Chuckling briefly he nudged his shoulder with his own. “You’ve got a world of weight on those shoulders Tristan, you can’t be the only one expected to carry it - all the time.”

He grew silent as he looked down at Tristan's hand, and shook his head. “I hope that wasn’t someone’s face and instead some poor inanimate object.” Gawain hadn’t looked hurt, so he’d suspected it was the second part. Regardless, Grayson’s own hand extended towards his, only stopping right before he clasped and looking up towards Tristan for a sign of rejection. There wasn’t one.

Grayson cupped his hands over his knuckles and closed his eyes. He didn’t use magic often - most of his own abilities eluded him. There was no finesse, it was shear raw healing power that leaked from his palm. The outer edges of his hand seemed to ripple across the visio-spacial field which almost made it look like it shimmered. For whatever Grayson was - he always seemed more human than fairy except when it came to this, and each time it shocked him just as much as the last. It was the only power he had any sort of control over.

When he removed his hand from Tristan's his fingers rotated under his palm as he examined it. “I’m told when I heal others they it always feels like its still there for a few hours before the feeling goes away.” He left go of his hand and watched it drop into his lap. “But it’s the best I can do.” He finished.

Then Tristan's words rang out like a gong in his head.

“Tristan…” He said, buying himself time to find the right words to say. The words didn’t come so he settled on a story. “When I was a young lad, after my mother dropped me and my sister off to live at the castle with Nimmy - I didn’t do so well. I wasn't rebellious intentionally but I probably put a few gray hairs of my own on that precious head of hers. I left a lot because I was searching, searching for answers and for my mother, any clues that I could find because no would could tell me why she left us. And that hurt me far more than i’d like to admit.” He paused, ripping off the bandage of his childhood wounds - wounds that still hadn’t healed - and wounds he and his sister shared. But it was he who always left.

He sighed before starting again, trying to muster what he could. “I didn’t travel too far or too long when I was that young, but on this particular trip I’d managed to find myself in Silver Cove. I was young, wreckless, and I shouldn’t have gone alone but I met someone when I was there. A boy older than me - and you might not know this but he was the son of a king and the brother of my best friend.” A faint smile flashed across his face before disappearing.

Grayson looked at Tristan, their eyes meeting. “That boy I met on the shores that day is here, Tristan.” He swallowed nervously, “Guy is Gawain.”

Grayson