It was the curse of princes, the universe's price for privilege and power. How many of the men striding across the pages of the history books in Arthur's library had felt it? The apprenticeship always ended in grief and fear. Sorrow for the lost father, and fear of the crown which waited, cold, watchful and unchanging. Tristan had spent hours staring at his father's crown. Like the sword, it sat there, still in the grass, daring him to lift it up and put it on. He imagined the feel of it, the cold of the metal pressing against his temples, a cage for the mind. It was easier to take off than the office it represented. Once that was on it was never coming off. He had read about enough princes who had lifted up their father's crowns, donned them, and been found wanting. There seemed to be a pattern of inferior sons withering in the shadow of their superior fathers.

He sighed as Mace's shadow fell across him, glancing up. His hazel eyes were still so unfamiliar. All he wanted to see was grey. As Mace talked, Tristan remembered. He remembered the beach and the Menekhtites with their guns. He remembered the dead bodies on the beach, scattered around like driftwood. And he remembered charging into danger without a second thought. That person, that Tristan, felt so separate now. There had been no inner voice holding him back, no nagging little whisper in his ear. Someone had needed to do something, and he had done it. That was all there was to it. Had things really ever been so simple?
"He always said I needed to think before I did stuff..." Tristan admitted, plucking at the dew-laden grass. He glanced up at Mace again and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his fringe away from his face. "Now I just wish I could get my brain to shut up."

Tristan shook his head and looked back down at the ground. His gaze was dragged back towards Excalibur's blade. Mace's words washed over him, and he wondered at them. It was strange to hear his life set out like a story; the introduction of a hero into a story. None of it was untrue, but it didn't feel honest. All he'd ever done was what he'd felt compelled to do in the moment. Sometimes he acted because he liked the attention; he liked the boys to envy and the girls to stare. He had a habit of running away from things when he didn't want to face up to them. Sometimes he acted impulsively and made the wrong call. Mace's picture was incomplete. He, Tristan, wasn't a hero. He was just...

Is that what all heroes were? Half-remembered stories with the good made glorious and the bad forgotten?

Tristan heard Arthur's voice in the back of his mind, saw the too-knowing smile and the sad grey eyes. "Yes," the voice said simply.

The heat of Mace's hand on his shoulder grounded him again.

"All I know," he muttered, reaching out. Tristan's fingers skimmed over the leather-bound grip of his father's sword. "Is the world's a worse place without him in it." And it wasn't a hole he could fill. Tristan withdrew his hand again as Mace's reassurances brought fresh tears to his eyes.

"It's too much," he said. "I can't...I can't keep feeling this. Father, the crown, the..." He hesitated. "The blood, the castle. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

Tristan