The light of the early morning sun poured in through the fabric sides of the tent, drowning everything inside in a pale golden glow. Tristan was already awake. He sat on the floor in the centre of the canvas, Excalibur in his lap. Celidon watched him from their make-shift bed, his head rested on his paws. Tristan traced the scrollwork on the locket of the scabbard with his index finger, the gold bright against the richness of the leather. It was a beautiful thing, and Arthur was written into every inch of it. His fingers danced over the chappe, this thumb caressing the gleaming cross guard on the way past. He hesitated, then took hold of the grip. The scarlet leather was soft and gently textured, made to be held. Taking a deep breath, Tristan made his loose grip tight, and pulled the blade free. The sword of peace became the sword of war.

Arthur's blade came to life in the dawn glow. It was unlike any other metal Tristan had ever seen. The steel moved, almost seemed to breathe. The patterns along the flat of the blade were reminiscent of fish scales, of rippling water, the clouds of the sky, and the way breath curled in the air on a crisp winter morning. It took everything he had to peel his eyes away. Tristan glanced back at Celidon, at his own sword propped up against the trunk at his bed side and sighed. He pushed Excalibur back into its casings, slowly, reluctantly, and turned over onto his knees. Crawling back towards the bed, Tristan lifted the layers of blankets and pushed Excalibur underneath. He looked to Celidon.
"I need you to stay here, boy," he told Celidon, reaching out to scratch behind the cu-sith's ear. "I need you to guard this for me, for him. I trust you." Celidon whined, his tail giving a tentative wag. Tristan managed a smile.
"I'll be careful," he reassured his familiar, "I promise."

The camp was just beginning to stir when Tristan stepped out onto the due-laden grasses, his sword strapped at his hip, and the hood of his cloak turned up against the stares. He strode past the tents and half-awake figures fumbling with firelighters and cooking pots. The trees embraced him as a brother, closing up behind him and concealing him in their shadows. Picking his way through the undergrowth, Tristan picked up a familiar trail and followed it, winding his way through his father's forest.

His heart dropped when the west tower loomed into view through the woodland branches, grey and imposing. Tristan stopped and leaned against the nearest trunk, fighting to keep his breathing steady and the memories at bay. The Castle was forever changed. Once it had been a place that inspired feelings of warmth, safety and comfort. Whatever the future held, that certainty was gone forever. The good memories tainted by the bad. It was yet another thing his uncle had stolen from him. Another thing he would never be able to get back.

Tristan managed to get his feet moving again and walked until he hit the wooden fence of the large paddock. Keeping his hand on the railing, he followed the boundary to the east until his keen eyes caught sight of a white shape in the distance. A dapple grey stallion reared up in the middle of the stable yard and struck out at the man who, moments earlier, had held a grip on the lead rope. It swung loose as Hero returned to all fours, his hooves slamming against the cobble stones with a clatter. He snorted, and tossed his head, leaving the rope to soak in a puddle of mud. The ostler sighed and reached forwards gingerly to unclip it. He clapped Hero on the hind quarters, and watched as the horse galloped off into the meadow beyond.

Hiding himself, Tristan waited until everyone had returned to their other duties and then crept towards the fence. He placed his fingers in his mouth and whistled, long and low. Hero raised his head, his ears flicking in Tristan's direction. He broke into a canter, heading straight for the fence. Tears prickled at the back of Tristan's eyes as Hero approached, his throat constricting as his horse pushed his velvet muzzle into his waiting palm.
"Miss me, boy?" Tristan asked, his voice catching in his throat. "I can't tell you how much I miss you!" He hopped up onto the fence and wrapped his arms around Hero's neck, burrowing his head in the stallion's mane.

Mordred might have taken everything, but not everything was gone forever.

"I won't let him keep you," Tristan swore, "I'll have at least one thing of mine. You'll see."

Tristan