Tristan du Bois has taken up steel in the name of honour and family, in defence of king and kingdom. This is the first time he's ever done so in the name of vengeance, but there is nothing else for it. One way or another, he is going to kill Uther Pendragon. Crown be damned.

As he saddles his horse, hands trembling on the buckles, grief twists up in him, heavy and solid in the pit of his belly, a counter to the blaze of fury that is roaring away in his chest, high and hot as a wildfire. Tears sting in his eyes, blurring his vision, and he curses as he slips for the second time, swiping at his face with his sleeve. A wretched sob catches in his throat. Tristan leans against the mare's flank, head bowed until his brow is pressed against the firm leather saddle, gasping in great ragged breaths. Behind his closed lids, he can still see Ygraine as she was as a girl, young and fresh and beautiful, fair as a spring lily.

"Tristan."

His head comes up sharply, twisting towards the sound of that voice, that damned voice. In an instant, he can breathe again, and he draws his sword with a beautiful hiss of steel on leather. He'll have her head off first, practice for Uther. "Murderess, you let her die."

"Hold, my lord! If you ever held love for Ygraine, hold and hear me!" Nimueh cries as he strides towards her, holding up a hand. No magic sparkles in the air about her, and her slender fingers are visibly quivering.

Tristan raises his sword in warning, leveling the blade at her. High Priestess or not, she is not impervious to castle-forged steel. It may not kill her, but she will bleed nonetheless. And it will make him feel enormously better. "Stay there, and keep that forked tongue of yours in your mouth," he snarls. "I'll hear nothing from you. Get out of my way, or I will run you down."

"Then I will not speak. Just look." Nimueh reaches up and raises her hood, tilting her chin up to look at him, and Tristan hisses through his teeth. Her face is lurid white, lids flickering, and her eyes…her eyes are full of blood. The whites of her eyes are scarlet with it, bloody tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, sticking in her lashes. And when he brings the lantern closer, her pupils don't dilate, she doesn't blink from the brightness of it. "The price I've paid for my folly," she whispers, understanding his silence.

"What have you seen?" he asks in a low voice, lowering his sword to his side. He holds no faith with seers and prophets. Not because he has no faith in the gods—he's felt the grace of the Old Ones, and he has stood in places of mystery—but he knows the tongues of men and women are not so pure. However, he also can recognise their touch in this. One does not weep blood without good cause.

She takes a shuddering breath. In fact, every inch of her is shuddering like a sapling in strong wind; the silver bells and gemstone beads tied in her braids click and jingle softly against one another, she's trembling so hard. "Blood," she whispers. "The entire kingdom, drowning in blood and fire. Uther…he is blaming magic for Ygraine's death. Not only myself. Everyone. My sister priestesses, the Druids, even the Dragonlords. I cannot bear to think what he will do, but…the wrath of a king is a terrible thing, my lord."

"What do you want from me?"

"The child. He must not remain with Uther. He mustn't." She takes a step closer, hands reaching out for him, missing the first time she grasps for him, but when her hands curl around his arms, her grip is cold and clammy and firm as iron. "Tristan. Have no care for me, it matters not now, but for Ygraine, for the love we held for her…we must act. We cannot leave him with Uther."

The child. He had forgotten about the child. His beloved sister, all that is left of her is to be found in this boy. Ygraine's son. Tristan lets out a sharp breath and sheathes his steel, though he keeps his hand on the hilt. For as great and terrible as his rage is, suddenly the idea of leaving the babe in Uther's grasp makes bile rise in his throat. "Very well. But hear me, priestess." He takes her arm, digging his fingertips into the soft flesh of her bicep. "Should you play me false in this, I'll finish the task your gods have begun and scrape those eyes out of your skull. The rest of you, I'll leave for the wyverns," he warns, voice dark and intent.

Nimueh's voice is low and full of such aching sorrow, and he knows her tears are not only the result of her visions. "If we fail in this, my death is yours."

"Then let us go."

Camelot is the city of white walls, but in all truth, Tristan has never cared for it. It is too crowded, too dense and contained, as though the weight of it will smother him. He's been here only twice, for Uther's coronation and Ygraine's wedding. However, he does not need to know the citadel now; the enchantment that Nimueh has laid on him lights his path, if only to his eyes, a path of lingering brightness traced upon the air before him.

If she has led me wrong, I'll haunt that hexing slattern until the next age, he thinks, slinking around a corner, making swift progress to the far end of the corridor before the guard turns back his way again. Supposedly, he won't be seen if they do happen to look his way, their attention sliding off him like grease, but in his experience, when someone looks at him, then he will be seen.

The nursery is surprisingly unguarded. The citadel is still in disarray, a tangled mess of conflicting emotion: relief at the birth of their prince, grief at the death of their queen, confused unease at the rage of their king. No one knows what to do. Still, he's heard snatches of conversation on his way through the citadel. Balinor and the other Dragonlords have fled the citadel with Kilgharrah; the Druid elders have been evicted from Uther's council. Nimueh is right. The wrath of a king is a terrible thing, and he is beginning to gain an idea of who that wrath will be aimed towards. Blood and fire.

When he eases open the door, the nursery is dark and quiet, the only light a single candle beside a woman, reading in a chair near a cradle. A wet nurse for the infant prince, no doubt, there to attend him should he wake. The wet nurse isn't a large woman, and she is giving no thought to her surroundings, not expecting anyone to have come past the guards. Easing up behind her, he slides an arm around her neck, tightening his grip before she can even get breath in to scream. She squirms against him, hands scrabbling at his arm uselessly; he can feel her feet kicking at his shins, jacquard slippers barely felt. He exerts only enough pressure to render her unconscious, loosening once she goes limp against him, and he pulls her aside, lying her in the antechamber. Hopefully Uther won't have her executed as well.

He steps up to the cradle, leaning over to peer in, bringing the candle closer. The babe is fast asleep, breathing almost imperceptibly, small chest rising and falling. His hair is white. An invisible band tightens around Tristan's chest when he sees that, even as a great warmth blooms in him, pressing against his ribs, his heart, as though it might well break him open. Ygraine had looked just the same when she was born, the first time he'd ever lain eyes on his sister. "Time to go, nephew," he murmurs.

If there are any gods who still listen to his prayers, they are certainly listening to him tonight, for he retraces his steps without pause, seeing hide nor hair of a single guard and without the babe stirring the slightest in the makeshift sling he's fashioned from his cloak. By the time the first toll of the warning bell sounds, he is outside of the city walls.

Nimueh is waiting for him at the edge of the Darkling Wood, lurking in the darkness. With her bloody eyes and drawn expression, she could be some terrible witch from a child's nightmare, ready to snatch up an unwary passerby to be butchered for her cook pot. "You have him."

It isn't a question, yet he nods, then answers aloud once he remembers she cannot see him. "Aye, I do."

"Well done, my lord. Now, quickly, the Dragonlords are moving towards the west shore, I will—" She takes a step towards him, her hands extended. As if to take the babe from him.

He takes a step back. "Did you think I would let you have him?" Tristan asks. The arrogance is almost humourous. Aren't priestesses meant to be humble? "My sister's son, he will stay with me." He shifts his grip on the babe, hearing him squeak faintly in his sleep, and again, he feels that great expansion in his chest, pressing against his heart. Raising his eyes from his nephew, he finds her bloodied gaze fixed on him, or rather, on a point somewhere beside his left ear, and he knows she shan't let this be. "What is it you want from him? I give no weight to your seer's scribbling, you know this. If it is something to do with your so-called prophecies, I will have you speak no word of it to me or to him."

"He will need to be taught. He must learn. He must not be left ignorant of the Old Religion."

Tristan touches the top of his nephew's soft head, stroking his thatch of silk-white hair with one fingertip. Just like Ygraine's. "You may teach him. That much, I'll allow. But he stays with me."

She turns her head slightly, blind eyes flicking about. A shaft of moonlight falls across her face, and in the strange wash-out of it, the scarlet in her gaze could almost be a trick of the light, and he can see the echo of beauty beneath her battered weariness. "Very well. The boy is yours. But I will teach him."

"So be it. Now go on. Your work is not done in Camelot, I am certain. I'll be waiting with the Dragonlords at the western cliffs." A part of him wishes to take the boy and begone from this place entirely, priestess and all. However, he knows she will find him. Blind or not, she will surely see wherever he goes, the damn conjuring wench. Still. The priestess had been beloved of Ygraine. There must be something worthy of it, and he won't do her dishonour now.

A cool wind ruffles his hair as Nimueh conjures herself away, but he pays it no mind. "Arthur," he murmurs under his breath, rolling the name over. Ygraine had chosen the name, he knows. She'd written as such to him, months ago. Arthur, her little bear-prince. "Well, cub, shall we go?" Carefully shifting his hold, he reaches down and picks up his knapsack, easing the strap over his shoulder; all the possessions worth anything in his life, stowed in that one bag. All the rest…let Agravaine have it. His little brother has always had a desire to play lord of the manor.

Against his chest, little Arthur yawns and resettles against him, warm and soft.

"Game for the adventure, I see," he chortles. "Good lad. On we go to our new life."