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Tristan is waiting when Lancelot returns to their barracks. He stands silently as one of the shadows, cast long and haunting by the fall of the moon. He doesn't say anything as he falls in step with Lancelot, moving past the long grey building and heading for the pasture where the horses roam restlessly. There is change in the air, and the animals sense it. Tristan's hawk flies in spirals above their heads and hooves paw at the ground as they draw nearer to the fences. "I won't speak of it." Tristan simply nods and settles next to Lancelot, his foot planted on the sturdy wood of the fence, his arms draped over the top. "No." "What I do is of no business to any of the others." "No." Tristan agrees again, hiding the hint of a smile as Lancelot casts a glance in his direction. It is clear Lancelot sees it regardless, his own snort of laughter ringing in the cool air. "No. No. No. You're the only man I know who agrees by disagreeing. It's a most unpleasant trait." "Arthur would disagree." "That you're the only man or that it is unpleasant?" Tristan shrugs and closes his eyes. "Does it matter?" "No. I suppose not." Lancelot kicks the fence post and watches as the horses skitter further away. "You think I'm a fool." "No. Not that." Tristan's voice is distant, as though he is holding the statement at arm's length, examining it as if it were a sign, a portent. "Not a fool." "His fool then." "His fool. Yes." There's no ridicule in Tristan's voice, no judgment. "But we are all fool for someone." "Even you?" Lancelot asks, eyebrow raised skeptically. "I find that hard to believe." "Even me," Tristan's voice carries on the wind as he moves off toward the stables, his fingers ghosting over the back of Lancelot's tunic. "Even me." |
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