He watches them as he works his way through the trees, the small tokens they leave behind. Broken leather laces and bow strings frayed and shattered. Spears and metal heads, pounded flat with fire and pressure in the dark caves at the edges of the forest, hidden beneath overhangs of rock, the granite features darkened black with soot.

He picks up an arrowhead and runs the sharp edge against his gloved hand, letting it cut into the surface of the leather, feeling the sharp bite as it hits too close to his skin. He knows better than to draw blood - the Woads smell it as easily as the animals in the darkness - but he curls his fist around it nonetheless.

A sound echoes through the night and he turns his sharp eyes to the left, watching the shadows move in the sudden wind. He believes in nothing and everything, knows each person possesses a magic all their own, and he closes his eyes. There are animals around him, watching him with eyes that know, and he nods. There is nothing in the wood tonight that cares for the scent of his blood, nothing that wants anything from him.

He locates the camp in a copse of trees, spies the burned hollows of their fires, smells the strange scent of their magicks and paints. He edges the perimeter, stepping carefully with his eyes and ears pitched for traps of any making. The Woads are not subtle, but he will not underestimate any enemy. Respect and caution for those he fights keep him alive and caution alone keeps him safe from the Romans who occasionally ride at his side.

His eyes flicker across the shift of light and he moves over slowly, letting the night and trees shadow him. It is another arrowhead, this one glinting gold in the moonlight. He kicks it with the toe of his boot and turns it over, his feral grin stretching his skin as liquid drips from the glowing blade.

They are watching him then, or have been. He nods to himself and unfolds the arrowhead from in his fist. He drops it to the ground with the other, fallen weapons as sacred as fallen warriors. He scuffs dirt over them both and nods to the darkness. There are no eyes on him now, but they will return and they will see.

He walks back a different path than the one he followed into the forest, stealing a new trail from between trees and branches, sweeping foliage out of the way, setting aside the verdant mass. He is at home here, as easily as he was at home on the plains. He feels the earth move under his feet and he moves with it or stands still and lets it roll past. He does not miss home as the others do, does not count the days for the promise of it. Instead he makes what home he can here, living every day as if it is his last.

He knows, given what he does, who he is, who he serves, that it may well be. The thought doesn't bother him, never has. Arthur allows him to serve in a way that is unfettered by Roman rules and codes. Arthur places full trust in him, and he has never felt need to betray it. But then, none of those left would betray Arthur. He has earned that from them, if not more.

He approaches their camp in silence. Galahad and Dagonet sleep, Bors keeps watch, his eyes trained on the other side of the camp. Gawain and Lancelot see him, but only Gawain makes note of it with a nod. Arthur sits by the fire and looks up at a word from Lancelot, his ice green eyes seeing nothing in Tristan's expression. He nods once and turns back to the blaze, his darkness blending with Lancelot's in the silhouette of the flames.

Gawain shifts over, freeing space against the tree he leans against. Tristan sits beside him and stretches out his legs, letting his gaze travel skyward, catching the faint, fading shadow of his hawk as she settles in for the night. He closes his eyes, inhaling the damp air of the night, the smoke of the fire, the faint scent of heather on the wind.

This is where his world is different. Gone is the dry air and sweet grass of his native land, replaced by moss and wet, damp and black bark that burns across the countryside. He shifts slightly, moving closer to the warmth of Gawain's body, feeling the heat of ancestry, of sun-burnished skin beneath the smooth hide of leather.

What does not cross the mind of his fellow knights is that this truth that they have forged here, this alliance they hold with one another, with Arthur, is unheard of, untold. When their years of service are up and they're charged to go back to their lands and sire more children for Rome's front line, this camaraderie they hold will shatter. They are of different tribes, of different clans. At home they are Abii, Diduri, Iaxamatae, Saboci, Udae. There they are not the brothers they have become here on foreign soil. At home, they war amongst themselves with weapons given them by Rome. Most of the men, if they return, too broken by service to do much but rise up against another broken man, a former brother in another land, another life.

Gawain's hand touches the back of Tristan's wrist and he turns his head, his eyes narrowed with the threat of sleep, with weariness. Gawain shakes his head and smiles, closing his eyes again and leaning against Tristan, sharing warmth now instead of stealing it. Gawain's voice is rough and thick with exhaustion. "Time enough for thinking in the morning."

Tristan smiles and settles in to sleep. Gawain is right. Morning will come and bring with it all that entails. Another day, another sunrise, another chance of rain, and one step closer to freedom.

Whatever it might mean.