Tristan took a deep steadying breath and stared into the mirror. After spending months living rough in a forest, wearing borrowed trousers and faded shirts, and washing in streams, he barely recognised himself. The castle staff, the cooks, the gardeners, the maids and the tailors had outdone themselves, decking the palace, and Tristan, out from head to foot. He was clean shaven at last, his long scraggly hair chopped into submission so he no longer looked like he’d been dragged through several hedges backwards. The royal tailor – who was a thing that existed now, apparently – had made his green tunic without being given any instructions in regards to colour. He’d disguised the hems beneath thick strips of embroidered cloth, worked with golden thread in the shape of trees, leaves, vines, and, most impressively of all, tiny Cu-Siths. His boots were new, black and green leather, which he’d insisted on having ready a week in advance so he could wear the damn things in a bit. He hated new boots.

Turning back to the bed, he unfastened the string on the fabric-wrapped parcel sitting on top of the covers and pulled his new coat free. It was like nothing he’d had before, long and well-tailored, the sleeves laced into place. The black fabric revealed metallic green shapes as it caught the light, complimenting the tunic hems. Tristan turned back to the mirror as he tugged his cuffs into position and pulled the coat straight. How was it he looked both older and younger than he had in the forest?

I think... Celidon put in tentatively, I think it’s more that you look new, Tris.” His braided tail wagged hopefully, “and cared for. A new start and better things.”

Tristan smiled and reached out, setting his hand on his familiar’s head.

They were almost ready.

Collecting Excalibur from the bed, Tristan strapped it to his new belt beneath his coat. He set his hand on the pommel, studying his reflection again, and nodded, satisfied.

“Your turn, Cel,” he smiled, gesturing his familiar towards the desk. The Cu-sith put his front paws on the seat of the chair and sniffed at the wooden box waiting nearby. Tristan picked it up and slowly folded back the lid with a creaking of hinges. Celidon wagged his tail again, as Tristan extracted the collar from the velvet cushions, all gold and braided leather in black and green. He fastened it in place and then retreated a few steps, making a point of studying his familiar, grinning from ear to ear.

“You’ll do,” he teased, voice bright.

It left one thing.

A second box stood waiting on the dresser. Tristan steeled himself, crossed the room again and slowly, reluctantly, lifted the lid. His father’s crown stared up at him, cold and metal and shining. With trembling fingers, Tristan lifted it from its cushions and turned back towards the mirror. This was it. His arms took some convincing to help him raise it to his head. It was heavy, and pressed insistently against his temples, not painfully, but inescapable present. Arthur, he suspected, had designed it that way.

A knock came at the door.

“Are you ready?” Morgana asked, appearing in the doorway in a gown of deepest red, overlayed with black, and Kraar perched on her shoulder.

“You look beautiful,” Tristan told her, “and yes, as ready as I’ll ever be.”

He lifted the crown free again and set it back in the box, closing the lid.

As if on cue, a boy dressed in the new green and gold livery appeared in the doorway. Tristan gestured him inside, and the boy collected the box reverently, turned on his heel and disappeared again.

Morgana smiled, her dark eyes shining, and slipped her arm through Tristan’s, steering him out into the corridor, Celidon on their heels.

“You’ll be fine,” Morgana reassured him, giving his wrist a squeeze, “you’ve done the hard part.

This bit’s supposed to be fun.”

“The after party’s supposed to be fun,” Tristan argued, “the first part’s more like torture.”

---

They were fortunate it was a bright sunny day. The great hall was still out of commission. It had been cleared of rubble at last, but was still missing a wall and part of the floor was past repair. Tristan had kept his staff busy trying to find stone masons, architects and masons to get the castle back in order, and free of Mordred’s influence. There hadn’t been enough time to get anything substantial underway, and clearing the family apartment had been the first priority.

The ceremony had been set-up in the Castle gardens instead, and the wider grounds opened to the public. There were flowered arches, fountains, topiary, benches and a wooden dais, with Arthur’s throne, taken from storage in one of the castle’s many attics, where Mordred had concealed it. Tristan hadn’t asked what had become of his uncle’s replacement. He hoped they’d used it for firewood. A light canopy had been stretched over the platform, in case of rain, but it was otherwise visible to the crowds. Tristan regarded it out of the window, his eye travelling out across the manicured lawns, taking in the growing crowds. His stomach gave an unpleasant flutter.

“Oh there you are!” Morgana announced suddenly, as a shadow fell across the threshold. Tristan turned and found his brother hovering in the doorway. “I thought maybe you’d got lost,” their aunt continued, hurrying over to Gawain. Together, they looked at Tristan.

“There’s something we want to do before all of this,” Morgana explained, “to try and clear things up a bit for everyone.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. His aunt hesitated.

“Morgana wants to show everyone what really happened in the tower,” Gawain put-in, his expression grave, “to clear your name once and for all. And we both think that’s important.”

Morgana nodded, her expression encouraging.

“But neither of us thinks you should watch, Tris,” he said gently, “you lived it, you don’t need to see it again.”

As unwanted memories threatened to surface, Tristan managed a stiff nod of agreement.

“Do it,” he said, “they should know for father’s sake, if not for mine.”

Gawain returned the nod, approached and gave Tristan’s shoulder a squeeze.
“This is still your day,” he smiled, “father wouldn’t want to overshadow you. Ignore this part, we’ve got it.”

Morgana opened the door, and they disappeared through it, leaving Tristan alone with Celidon.

Alone, but not for long – there was a quiet knock on the door.

---

Morgana smiled at Mace as they emerged onto the dais, blinking against the brightness of the sunlight. He was holding something wrapped in a white cloth, and stepped forwards as she approached. Taking a steadying breath, Morgana reached out and unfolded the fabric to reveal Mordred’s knife. She felt Gawain stiffen beside her, and gave his arm a quick squeeze.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Morgana asked, scanning his face. He clenched his jaw and nodded, so reminiscent of Tristan a moment before she had to stop herself from laughing.

“Take my hand then,” she said gently reaching out to him with her right hand as she collected the knife with her right. As soon as her fingers closed around the handle she felt the steady pulsing of its memories as they reached for her magic, and she closed her eyes for a moment, forcing them back, as she and Gawain established a connection of their own.

“Thank you all for coming today,” Morgana said, raising her voice until it carried out across the castle grounds. She paused, turning her attention to those nearest, those who had lived and fought with Tristan in the forest.

“The king will be arriving shortly, and together we can celebrate everything you fought for. Today is a day for rejoicing; your one true king restored to you, and justice and good rule returned to Shaman.” Morgana paused, waiting for the cheering and clapping to subside. She glanced across at Gawain, and then to Mace, just visible at the edge of her vision.

“But first,” Morgana continued, “I wish to address you all. There have been many stories of what happened to King Arthur, my dear brother who we all miss very much. The usurper, Mordred, told you many lies, and some of you might still harbour suspicions against King Tristan. It is our hope that we can lay those suspicions to rest once and for all.”

She raised the knife above her head, angling the blade so it flashed in the sunshine.

“This is the knife Mordred used to kill King Arthur, and my magic, combined with my friend’s, will allow me to show you what really happened in the tower, all those months ago.”

Morgana drew breath. “I warn you,” she said, “it is a distressing thing. If you’ve brought children with you today, I would advise you to shield their eyes.”

Gawain nodded, and extending his free hand out in front of him, he conjured a small ball of light. Morgana adjusted her grip on the dagger, and allowed the memories passage, channelling them through her mind and into Gawain’s. The ball of light grew, larger and larger until it was light no longer, but a flickering moving picture of Mordred stepping out of the vanishing cabinet.

---

“Thoth!” Tristan smiled, glad of something to focus on which wasn’t the sound of his aunt’s voice. Thoth slipped into the room frowning, tugging uncomfortably at his new shirt. Tristan winced.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sinking down onto the edge of the bench behind him. “You can change as soon as we’re done, I swear.”

He waited for Thoth to shut the door behind him.

“I know this isn’t your scene,” Tristan continued as Thoth hopped up onto the bench beside him, looking down at his feet. “I know you don’t like the attention, but I’m really glad you agreed. There’s no one I’d rather have up there with me than you.” He offered Thoth one of his best, genuine smiles and pulled him into a hug.

“Morgana’s going to do all the talking,” he continued, “so all you’ve got to do is not drop it, and find my head.” Tristan snorted, grinning again. “I’m told its big enough, so you shouldn’t have a problem.”

Thoth managed a small smile, glancing at Tris, away again, and out of the window.

“What’s going on out there?” he asked.

“Ana and Gawain have my back, apparently,” Tristan replied, taking Celidon’s head in his lap and scratching behind his ears. “They just don’t think my back should actually be present.”

He shrugged, biting his lip. “They want everyone to know what really happened to father,” he conceded finally, “and since I already know...” Trailing off, he coughed, clearing the lump from his throat as he offered Thoth a smaller smile.

“If it makes you feel better about the shirt,” Tristan said, changing the subject, “I have new boots, and you know how I feel about those.”

Someone knocked on the exterior door, and seconds later it opened to reveal Mace, in full dress uniform. Tristan met his eye, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I’m not the only one dressed up like a horse on parade, I see,” he teased.

Mace gave him a look, and then a nod. “Your Grace,” he said pointedly.

Tristan chuckled.

“You good, Thoth?” Mace asked, “We’re ready for you.”

“You’ve got this,” Tris told his friend, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be there in a bit, and we’ll do it together.”

And this time, when the door closed, nobody else came.

Beyond the glass, music began to play, a single instrument at first, gradually joined by others. His heart hammered, and his palms grew sticky. Tristan closed his eyes and set his head against the cool stone of the walls, keeping his breathing steady. He could do this. This was what he did. He was the grandson of Mallos; he was genetically programmed with the ability to put on a show.

The next knock on the door was for him: Mace reappeared.

“Let’s get this over with then,” Tristan grinned, rising to his feet.
---
The sound of the crowds buzzed in the air as he stepped out into the daylight, growing louder as he emerged into the open air, Celidon at his side. The guards lining the central path stood to attention, raising Tristan’s standard as the trumpeters began to play. Taking a final steadying breath, Tristan nodded to Mace and strode forwards, stepping onto the path which cut through the centre of the crowd in a straight line to the dais. He could see the red of Morgana’s dress, and of Gawain’s shirt, Thoth half-in shadow beneath the canopy, and the empty throne, waiting for him.

One thing at a time.

Tristan began to walk, waving to the crowd as he went. Flowers fell beneath his feet, thrown by the over-eager onto the path. He smiled, pausing at intervals to reach past the guards to accept offerings of small tokens which were handed off to a boy in livery as his hands grew full. The walk wasn’t long, but it felt it, and by the time he reached the throne, his cheeks ached and his ears thrummed.

Finally he caught sight of Thea, immaculate in her pale gown, her light hair resplendent in the golden glow of summer. Tristan had a smile left for her and, with his back still to the crowd, he widened his eyes, as if imploring her to save him. With a final twitch of his mouth, he forced himself to turn away, back towards the crowd as another cheer went up. Another boy hurried forwards with a hassock of red velvet and placed it down centre stage, and in full view of the crowd. Tristan approached it, as Morgana advanced on him from the right, Thoth behind her.

She raised her hands, and gradually, the crowd went silent.

“The King will take his oath,” Morgana announced, “a promise to you all.”

Tristan closed his hand around the crucifix, sun and raptor tooth on the chain around his neck, crossed himself like his father had shown him, and raised his head.

“I, Tristan, son of King Arthur and Queen Lilith, solemnly swear to uphold truth and justice, to maintain Shaman as a place of sanctuary, and to defend my people from those who would harm them. I will serve them, from this day, until my last day, as my father did before me.”

As he fell silent, Thoth approached, chewing his lower lip, Arthur’s crown held tightly in his hands. Tristan smiled at him encouragingly, and then lowered his eyes as his friend slowly, gently, set the crown upon his head. It pressed against his temples again, as he rose to his feet, turned and walked the last few steps to the throne.

“Long live King Tristan!” Morgana said, and the crowd took up the cry as Tristan sat, the carved back pressing uncomfortably against his spine; another of Arthur’s little reminders.

---
So begins the reign of King Tristan! Long live the king!

You are all warmly invited to the coronation party, and may post your party threads in reply to this post. Your character may attend the part as an invited guest, a member of the public, an interloper, or in any other capacity you prefer.

The castle grounds have been opened entirely to the public for the evening, but the guard are out in force, so thieves beware.

Furthest from the castle you will find small fires where the ordinary folk have set-up camp. The castle has distributed food and drink fountains (both alcoholic and non-alcoholic) have been set up at intervals around the area. There’s likely to be plenty of dancing and increasing rowdiness as the day and evening roll on.

Once you reach the castle lawns, you find a rather more refined kind of guest. This is where the nobility and the king’s friends, family and household are having their celebrations. You are welcome to move between the two at your leisure. The gardens have been decorated especially for the occasion, complete with ice sculptures and lights in the trees. Again, there is free food and drink for all.

There is an open timeframe on this event, finish your threads in your own time.

Have fun, Shamanites!

put all your faults to bed

TristaN

you can be king again