Something moved amongst the stones and a man's shadow fell across the mound. Tristan wasn't as alone as he'd hoped. He hesitated, thinking. He could change back into a dog, run back into the trees and leave his father's sword in the grass. It was tempting. He wouldn't need to come back for it, could leave it for the forest to claim with vines and leaves.

Guilt stirred in his stomach. It was a familiar sensation. He was failing at everything. He was supposed to be leading a defiant rebellion, and he wasn't. He was supposed to be fighting back against Mordred, and he wasn't. He was supposed to be protecting his father's people, his people, and he wasn't. He was supposed to be living up to people's expectations as the heir of King Arthur. He was supposed to be making his father proud by honouring his memory.

And he wasn't.

He couldn't drop his father's sword, but he couldn't raise it either. It felt heavier than the sum of its parts. It wasn't just metal, the steel wasn't the only thing lending it weight. It was so much more than that. It was a destiny he wasn't ready to embrace, a future he didn't want to make real because it meant letting go of everything he had loved. It meant growing up. It meant saying goodbye to his father. It was Arthur's legacy.

And it hurt.

Tristan looked up at Mace and scowled. His gaze drifted to the blade in his hand.
"What?" he asked sullenly as he stepped towards the Henge, Excalibur limp at his side, "so you can knock me out again?" Resentment crept up on him, nudging some of the guilt aside. Mace had made him leave the castle, leave his father, leave his grandmother. He should have stayed where he belonged, where he was needed. Tristan felt his temper rise.

He tightened his grip on Arthur's sword. The grip still felt alien to him, as if it had been made for larger, more capable hands. The last time he'd held it...

The pirates had been waiting half-way down the stairs. He hadn't been able to make out their faces through the gloom and his tears. He hadn't had a choice. Grief had driven his hand. He'd killed them. And they'd only been the first. Tristan growled in frustration, slackening his grip on the blade again. He wasn't ready. It was too heavy, the sword, the memories, the burden, it was all too much.

"I'm not going to fight you, Mace," he said with a grimace. "I didn't come here for that. I came..." Why had he come? For the quiet? for peace? Both had been in short supply for months, and he'd never had much time for either option before. It was just somewhere to be. His father had found the Henge years ago when parts of Shaman had still been unexplored. Sometimes, when he stood amongst the trees staring at the stones he could imagine he was Arthur, seeing it for the first time. There was comfort in that. But it wasn't the reason.

Tristan shook his head and dropped Excalibur in the dew laden grass. He turned his back on Mace. "I'll see you back at camp."

Tristan