"You look like you could do with a drink."

"Hm?"

Tristan looked away from the crackling flames of his solitary camp fire as a glass bottle was pressed forcefully against his chest. She barely gave him chance to move his hands before releasing her grip. He'd have been covered in cheap wine if he hadn't moved quickly. Too quickly. His bandaged hand twinged uncomfortably. Grayson had done a good job, but something of the injury seemed intent on lingering.

"Truer words have never been spoken," he laughed bitterly, raising the bottle to his lips. He gulped it down, savouring the bitterness and it rolled over his tongue. He finally got a proper look at her as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Her face was unfamiliar, her smile provocative, teasing. She had a pointed chin, full lips and blue-green eyes, alight with life.

"I don't think we've been introduced," Tristan smiled, offering her back the bottle. She grinned, shook her head, and produced another from the floor by her ankle.

"We haven't," she confirmed, taking a few long gulps of her own. "I'm Elina."

She offered him her hand, and he took it, recognising the sword-calluses on her fingers.

"And I know who you are," Elina continued, setting a deliberate hand on his leg, just above his knee. She paused, then looked up at his face, holding his eye, waiting for him to object. The corner of his mouth twitched. She shuffled closer to him.

"They tell me you're a king," she half-whispered. Her fingers twitched, edging a little further up his thigh, and then back again.

"Not much of one," he replied, taking another drink, "a king without a kingdom isn't much of a king."

Elina smiled, unperturbed. "Seems like a romantic kind of a notion to me," she said. His leg felt cold as she reclaimed her hand and climbed to her feet.

"You need more than a drink, Your Grace," Elina continued, taking hold of his hand. She pulled him up so they were standing almost chest-to-chest. "You need some fun. Too much frowning's no good for a face as pretty as yours. Come on."

She led him a short way through the trees, and as they went, the sound of music grew louder. Soon, he could see dancing figures in the dark, half-illuminated by the dull light of old lanterns. Judging by their apparent abandon, most of them were incredibly drunk.

"I'm not sure I'm in the mood for this, Elina," Tristan warned. She tightened her grip on his hand.

"You will be when I'm done with you, sugar," she promised, "and you'll thank me for it in the morning."

"You promise a lot," he teased her, smiling in spite of himself. She turned to face him, walking the final distance backwards, her eyes encouraging.

"I do," she laughed.

---

The more they drank, the more the music seemed to take them. She, to her credit, kept them supplied with an endless supply of bottles, occasionally appearing to procure them from nowhere. At first, the dances were quick, the fiddler at the centre of the clearing moving his bow at an almost-impossible speed, his body jerking in time with his strings. As the evening wore on, and some of the dancers sat down at the edges of the party, falling asleep against the trunks of trees, the music slowed. Some couples crept away hand-in-hand into the dark, disappearing into their tents and taking their lanterns with them.

Elina pressed herself against him, her arms thrown around his neck. His hands strayed to her hips, and she looked up at him with a sharp-toothed grin, adding a little extra sway to her steps.

"I knew you could be fun," she laughed rocking up onto tip-toe to plant a kiss on the line of his jaw. The scent of the wine buzzed on her breath. The softness of her chest, pressed insistently against the hardness of his.

To hell with it.

Throwing away any remaining caution, he moved his right hand lower, pulling her closer still, and dropped his chin, kissing her full on the mouth, urgent and insisting. She giggled, her lips yielding.

"Atta boy," Elina laughed, steering them around in a gentle circle. The music continued to play, she and it filled his senses, his thoughts, silencing the flashes, driving back the memories of his father's face and Guy's confession. All were forgotten as he pushed her up against the trunk of the tree behind them, their lips locked. Her hands ventured lower too.

She pulled her head away, and he tried to follow after. Smiling, she sent a long finger to his lips, pushing him back. On tip-toes again, she whispered in his ear.

"I've always wondered what it would be like to fuck royalty," she purred, "you going to show me?"

---

When he awoke in the morning, she was gone, the rumpled sheets the only indication that she'd ever been there at all. Tristan pushed himself into a sitting position and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his right temple. A shadow passed over the entrance to his tent. He glanced over, half-expecting to see her step across the threshold, that teasing smile on her face.

It was with no small amount of disappointment that his eyes settled on Celidon's shaggy head as he forced its way through the tent flap, the handle of a bucket of water clenched between his teeth.

"Morning!" the cu sith thought brightly, setting the bucket down where Tristan could reach it. "How are you feeling?"

"Fan-fucking-tastic" Tristan replied, reaching for his horn cup. He plunged it into the water, passed it over to his bandaged hand, and drank his fill. He scratched Celidon behind the ears with his free hand. His familiar wagged his tail, beating the sides of the tent in his enthusiasm.

"I supposed I had best go and find you some breakfast," he said, out-loud.

Tristan recovered his trousers, tunic and boots from the floor of the tent and, squinting against the brightness of the day, stepped out into the campsite.

Just as he straightened up, a commotion erupted at the southern edge of their encampment, raised voices and alarmed exclamations , half-lost in the hubbub of the crowd. Tristan and Celidon exchanged concerned looks, and ran side-by-side through the clearing.

"What's going on?" he asked, pushing his way to the front. Some people saw him coming and stepped aside, but others were too busy shouting.

He found Alex standing at the front of the crowd, holding a piece of paper in his hands.

"What's happened?" Tristan demanded, extracting himself from the crowd. His friend, apparently still pleased to see him, handed over the poster. He scanned the text, reading quickly.

"Shit..." he breathed, glancing to Alex for confirmation, "all of them? He got all of them?"

"According to this," Alex replied, nodding gravely. "All sitting in a dungeon at His Majesty's pleasure."

"He's going to have us on the run soon," observed a voice in the crowd, "it's getting harder and harder."

Tristan handed the poster back to Alex.

"There's something I've got to do," he explained, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Organise a meeting would you, everyone here, tonight. I'll be back by then."

"Back?" Alex wondered, "where are you going?"

"I have no bloody idea," Tristan replied, "but I'll know when I've found it."

---

The main problem with starting a journey when you have no idea where you're going, is deciding which direction to start walking in. What would Merlin have done? Tristan shook his head. That wasn't a rabbit worth chasing, the old man hadn't been in possession of the most predictable of minds.

"No chance you'll be able to sniff-out a sword, is there Cel?" Tristan asked, turning west on a whim. He headed in the direction of the lake. His familiar trotted along beside him.

"In this forest? he asked regretfully? "I'd probably find hundreds. And at least two that smelled strongly of you."

Tristan snorted. He had developed something of a habit.

They continued on, still not entirely sure when they needed to go. They ventured north for a while, then east until they hit the edge of the forest. Tristan paused, looking out over the hills to where Mordred's banner of blue and silver fluttered at the castle's summit. He clenched his fists and turned away, heading south.

"What if it's not even in the forest?" Celidon ventured, his paws were growing as weary as Tristan's feet. "It could have gone anywhere."

"No," Tristan insisted. It's here. The old man had a thing about places meaning things. There are two places on the planet I associate with our father. One is the castle, where he'd know I couldn't possibly go without ending up dead and buried in a ditch, the second is this forest." He sighed, running his hand through his hair in frustration. Think, think think.

"Merlin, you wanker," he swore, aiming a kick at a nearby rock, and sending it flying.

It hit the water with a splash. Tristan looked up. They'd reached the edge of the lake. It wasn't lake Lilith, but the calm surface reminded him of home.

"I need to clear my head," Tristan told Celidon, scanning the shore. His eyes settled on a rocky stack, resembling a very tall island. It had even managed to grow a solitary tree at its summit. Tristan began to wade out into the shallows.

"Where are you going?" Celidon thought after him.

Tristan turned his head to smile at him.

"To get a different perspective on things, Cel."

The climb was hard, but rewardingly so. When he'd first found himself in the forest, once the initial surviving part had been taken care of, he'd found it so hard to even get out of bed, he'd slowly lost condition. It had been slow going, his progress had been steady, but he was the fittest he'd been since he'd left the castle, perhaps more so. Camp food wasn't as rich as the dishes served as castle feasts.

His legs and shoulders burned, but he made it to the top. He looked down over the opposite side of the stack. The water below him was far from shallow, it was grey, dark and clear of rocks. Think, Tristan, think. How would Merlin want you to find it? What would he be up to. What was it he had said? You'll find it the way you'll need to.

Something flashed over the surface of the water. Tristan sat up, and leaned forwards over the darkness. The flash came again, and then slowed, coming to a stop. A pair of bright eyes looked back at him from beneath the water.

"Merlin...?" he breathed.

The eyes winked at him, and then flicked downwards pointedly.

"In...in the lake? You've got to be kidding me?"

And just like that, the eyes were gone. Of course they were.

Tristan began to remove his boots.

"Tris..." Celidon warned, uncertainly, "What are you doing?"

And excellent question, all things considered.

He jumped feet-first into the icy water. It closed over his head, the spray from the impact disturbing the surface. Tristan turned his back on the mayhem above, and kicked down, reaching for the lake bed. It was further down than he had expected. Gathering his strength he kicked on, pressure growing steadily in his chest. Something silver glinted in the sand. His heart leapt in excitement and he quickly set about digging it out. It didn't take him long to discover that it wasn't a sword. It was completely the wrong shape. Lungs screaming for air, he pulled a metal teapot free.

What the hell, Merlin?

Someone grabbed hold of him around the waist. Tristan tried to wrench himself around to get a better look at the perpetrator, but all he saw was movement, water and bubbles. He fought back, trying desperately to wrench himself free as he was forced back to the surface. As they broke the surface he caught sight of the too-short fingers gripping his arm.

He took a gasp of air, and then quickly:

"For fuck's sake Gawain!" he roared, finally dragging himself free of the older man's grip. "What on Shaman do you think you're doing?"

"What am I doing!?" Gawain shouted back, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him towards the beach. "I'm not the one trying to drown myself in the damn lake, Tristan! What in God's name were you thinking!?"

"I wasn't trying to drown myself, you idiot!" Tristan told him, incredulously, "I was looking for something!" He pulled himself free again and waded out of the shallows and onto the rocks where Celidon was waiting. Gawain splashed along behind him.

"Looking for something at the bottom of the lake?" Gawain demanded, standing square.

"Yes, Gawain, at the bottom of the lake! Not that it's any of your motherfucking business, but yes! I could have done without your interference. Now I've lost the teapot!"

"You've lost the...?" Gawain shook his head. "What the hell's going on?" He hesitated, looked down, blinked, and looked up again. "You...you called me Gawain. Twice! You believe me then?"

"Well obviously," Tristan snapped, "I don't make a habit of calling people name's that don't belong to them. That has nothing to do with the fact you've screwed everything up!"

"Not the first person to tell me that," Gawain muttered.

Tristan ignored him.

"What on earth made you think I was trying to drown myself?"

Gawain hesitated.

"I saw you last night, Tris. You were a mess. The wine, the girl...after everything that happened, and your hand! And then I saw you sitting on that rock, you looked...you looked..."

Tristan snorted. "You've not got anymore perceptive in a decade, have you?" he asked, "or anymore intelligent. I was thinking Gawain. I need to find father's sword, because I got put on a quest by a crazy old wizard in the world-between-worlds, only he wasn't considerate enough to give me a map before he pushed me through a portal."

Gawain ran his hand through his hair, looking abashed.

"As for the wine and the girl, that what I do Gawain! It wasn't out of character, it wasn't a cry for help, it was just me, alright? Sorry if I don't live up to your standards, but that's just who I am."

"I'm sorry..." Gawain said, "I'm sorry, Tris. I'm a bit at sea here."

"You're a bit of an idiot, is what you are," Tristan sighed. He followed it with a groan of frustration. "But a well intentioned one, I suppose." He made his way tentatively over the rocks, wary of the damage they could do to his bare feet. Turning back to Gawain, he adopted a half-smile.

"Don't suppose you'd like to make yourself useful and retrieve my boots?"

---

The forest grew thicker as they forged their way forwards. Gawain drew his dagger to try and cut his way through the undergrowth. Tristan rolled his eyes and threw his arm out to stop him.

"No," he said, "you'll upset the trees. I kind of need them on my side, you know?"

Sighing, Gawain sheathed his blade.

"Well, would they like to lend a hand now?" he asked.

"No," Tristan rejoined, "these a shrubs Gawain, not trees." He smirked.

"Oh, go to hell," Gawain snorted, elbowing his way past him.

"Next time an old man steals something from you, make sure you ask for more precise instructions."

"Nah," Tristan said, shaking his head, "if I'd have asked, he'd probably have just thrown something at me. Pretty sure he was about half-way off his rocker."

"Oh, very encouraging!" Gawain sighed, using his shoulder to push his way through a particular stubborn set of vines. "I feel much more confident."

"Nobody asked you to come," Tristan reminded him. He found an easier way through, and laughed triumphantly as he managed to overtake his brother. They were, he noticed for the first time, about of a height, but he was a little taller. Excellent.

"Ow! Shit!" Gawain complained. He dropped back suddenly. Tristan looked back over his shoulder. Gawain was wincing and rubbing at his forehead.
"I think I've found it," he groaned.

"There really wasn't any need to use your head quite so literally," Tristan told him, back-tracking. "You're sure this is the place."

"Pretty sure," Gawain replied, ignoring the jibe. "It's a little hard to tell with all these stars, but I'm pretty sure. I camped here for a night when I was trying to find your camp the first time."

Standing beside Gawain, Tristan reached out, avoiding the low-lying rock which had dented his brother's head, moving behind the curtain of spindly green vines. On the other side, a narrow path weaved it's way along a rocky outcrop. They shared a look, adjusted their packs and began to follow it.

---

"This is starting to feel like a wild goose chase," Tristan sad, as they rounded yet another corner. They had been walking for hours, edging their way along an increasingly narrow ledge. For the last half a mile, they'd been forced to crawl sideways, like great two-legged crabs. He'd have laughed if he hadn't been so tired.

"Urgh!" Gawain grunted. The noise was followed almost instantly by the sound of falling rocks. A collection of boulders rolled past Tristan's left ear, and Gawain dropped from view entirely.

"Gawain!" Tristan shouted after him. Grabbing hold of a rock protruding from the rock face, he leaned forwards and peered down urgently into the gloom. There was no reply.

Tristan opened his wings and stepped off the ledge. He flapped them intermittently, slowing his decline, until he landed at the bottom with bended knees. Gawain was lying on the floor nearby.

"You alright?" he asked, bending down to help him to his feet. His brother groaned.

"I am never following you anywhere ever again."

Tristan's mouth twitched.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," he teased. He waited for the answering laugh, but it never came. Frowning, he looked back at Gawain. He was staring off into the middle distance. Tristan turned slowly, following his gaze.

"Oh my God," he breathed, closing his hand around the pendants around his neck. The points of Mallos' sun cut into his fingers. And, for the first time in months, it had a little warmth to it. There, on top of a rocky outcrop was a stone, and buried deep in its surface, was Excalibur.

They advanced on it together. Tristan ran his hands over the smooth surface of the stone. Words had been carved into the stone. His fingers shook.

"I suppose you'd better give it a go," Gawain prompted him, with an encouraging smile. "We both know how this goes. He who pulls the sword from this stone...

Tristan glanced up at him. "What if it doesn't work. What if...what if it's supposed to be yours?"

Gawain looked sad. "Tristan..." he began, "this wasn't my quest, I'm not the one following the riddles of a strange old man with portals. I think all of that definitely suggests that this is meant for you." He smiled again. "Try it."

Tristan stepped round to the back of the stone. Squaring his stance, he reached out and curled his fingers around the leather grip. It felt familiar. The sword began to vibrate, he fancied he could almost hear it sing. Had that been what Merlin had meant.

Taking a deep steadying breath, he steadied himself and, heart pounding in his chest, he pulled. The sound of steel on stone scraped through the air, as the sword came slowly free. As Tristan raised it, something fell out of the front of the stone, hitting the ground with a thunk.

"A boy's hand will grasp it," Gawain translated, running his finger across the latin, "a man raise it high."

Tristan barely heard him. He crouched down to collect the medallion from amongst the leaf litter. Engraved on the surface, a sword in a stone, supported by cats.

His ren.

put all your faults to bed

TristaN

you can be king again