I own nothing that seems familar to you in this story, but you know that already.

THANKS TO THE BETA TEAM! Leigh, Jo and Murt you guys have no idea what you've signed on for.

This prologue DIRECTLY follows the events in my other story Eternal Knight. If you haven't read the final chapter of that story you may be slightly confused.

For those of you who have waited so patiently, I hope you enjoy.

". . . solitude is such a potential thing. We hear voices in solitude, we never hear in the hurry and turmoil of life; we receive counsels and comforts, we get under no other condition . . ."-Amelia Barr

Chapter 1 (Prologue)

Tristan's relief at having left the wedding celebrations behind was palpable. He couldn't stand the thought of remaining in that crowed room. The myriad of stale smells and sweaty bodies was enough to make his skin crawl. He preferred the fresh air, preferred his solitude, the chill of the night, and the promise of peace. He took a drink from his wine skin and relished the burn of it as it hit his empty stomach. His pace was languid as he made his way out of the gates, the din from the wall following him but slowly fading as he walked further away.

The restlessness he'd been experiencing of late had reached an intolerable level, even for him. Taking another drink, he was not surprised in the least when he noticed he'd crossed into the darkened, tree-thick forest. This place had always been his haven, yet now it was becoming something he craved. Tristan turned and cast a glance over his shoulder, amber eyes darting quickly and surveying his surroundings. His keen ears were open for any sound, yet nothing came.

For a single startling moment he could have sworn he was being followed. He liked to believe that nothing and no one would have the ability to sneak upon him, but as of late he'd experienced too many unexplainable things in this forest, that the thought of being followed by something just as silent as himself disturbed him.

He turned back, the strange prickling of his senses dulled by the drink and the chill. Ambling at a slow pace, his feet carried him to the outcropping, where the rippling of the pond and stream could be heard and the skeletal remains of an old burned-down poachers hut stood out in stark relief. The moonlight caressed the rotted wood, highlighted what was once a thatched roof. It was overrun now, the woods having crept up to reclaim it, ferns and foliage growing rampant and wild around and over it.

Dagonet hated this place. Refused to even set foot in the glen. When they'd hunt he'd take extra care to give this place a wide berth, skirting around it as if even being near it was too much to bear. Dagonet had said the place was wrong. Tristan had never inquired why; it seemed he was the only person who dared to visit the glen. He secretly liked the fact that this place seemed to belong solely to him, to welcome him as it were.

Even as boys no one wanted to explore the place. It was as if they all knew something that he didn't. Not that it mattered. This was the best place to scout, and the best hunting was always found here. He alone explored the glen and appreciated what it had to offer. He'd trained Fionn here, had come here when he didn't want to be found and had often slept here. Though, he did not like the dreams he'd had when he did.

Tristan shifted slowly to rest against a tree. Bones in his back popped and cracked, old war wounds twinged, but it was nothing he wasn't used to. He reached reflexively for his dagger, ran the tip across his thumb, and felt the familiar weight of it in his palm before he closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the forest wash over him, truly relaxing for the first time in days.

The sound of a woman's anguished scream ripped through the stillness like a knife in his belly. His eyes shot open in a flash, going completely alert in an instant. Sucking in a deep breath, Tristan realized he'd fallen asleep.

The sound hadn't been real. It was more of an echo in his mind, a scream lost in time. He'd been dreaming--again. Taking another deep breath, he took one sweeping glance over the glen and the strange prickling sensation again hit him with such force that he pushed himself to his feet.

Tristan sensed the presence at first. Something was watching him. Keeping his back pressed against the tree and his fist closed around the hilt of his dagger, he turned and looked to his left, a barely perceptible move that he dared before moving away from his spot. If this thing was hunting him he'd show them that he was prey not easily caught.

The wind kicked up at once, and the bare branches of the trees scraped together in the wind, a grating sound to his sharp ears. Tristan's nose twitched: the distinct scent of lavender carried on the breeze seemed out of place, considering it was late fall and the season was dangerously close to winter. Fallen leaves swirled around his boots, dancing across his legs, and he bent to pick one up, studying it, twirling the stem between his thumb and forefinger.

It was a brittle, brown oak leaf. Odd, as there were no oaks in this part of the forest--not for miles to the east. There had been at one time, but that was years before his arrival in Britain and now he was staring at a leaf he had a hard time believing had been carried on the wind across miles into the forest.

The oppressive sense of being watched increased tenfold and Tristan dropped the leaf as he watched disbelievingly as a tendril of mist curled around the trunk of the tree. The night was clear, there'd been no indication of fog and yet suddenly he found himself watching a low heavy veil of mist roll out from the edge of the glen toward him. The smell of lavender besieged him and for the first time in a long time Tristan felt unsure of his familiar surroundings.

Just as he was unprepared to admit that he was afraid of what was happening, he was drawn to the mist again, as he had been that first time he'd witnessed it. Taking one hesitant step toward it, it retreated slightly as if it wanted him to follow. Tightening his grip on his dagger and cursing the fact that he'd had so much to drink this eve, he decided against every instinct he'd honed over the years to do exactly what it wanted.

Every step he took toward the mysterious mist, the further it retreated into the trees. The eerie stillness of the forest made his skin prickle, and the bleak realization that there were no animals brave enough to be in this area should have discouraged him, but it didn't. An intense sense of curiosity overwhelmed him, drowning out any hesitation he might have felt.

Tristan wanted answers and tonight he had a feeling he'd finally get them. The fragile snap of twigs beneath his feet seemed to sober him for a moment. He stopped and as he did so did the mist. It hung, suspended, low to the ground as though waiting for him. He narrowed his eyes: something was wrong here. Was this an enchantment?

There had been no such inclination of witchcraft in the area; in fact Reagan had been one of the closest things to a real 'witch' Camelot had-and that was laughable. The only other suspect Tristan could think of was Mab. An old hermit woman who had wisely sworn fealty to Arthur and who in return had been left alone to live her life unchanged and unchecked. Their paths had crossed more than once, but Tristan respected the crone's need for isolation as much as she did his own. They had never spoken.

This was no witchcraft, Tristan realized, as he watched the heavy fog curl closer and closer to him as if it longed to wrap its ethereal fingers around his ankles.

This was something else entirely. Again he felt that undeniable pull as if something was calling to him. The desperation of it was almost biting, and the force of the feeling was indescribable. Even as he knew it was almost impossible to ignore.

Again he strode toward it, his steps quicker this time, lighter, and once again the fog retreated. He took no heed of where it was leading him, which was a mistake. He stopped only when the tips of his boots splashed into the shallow pond. The same pond where he'd first spied Reagan bathing.

Taking a deep breath, his eyes quickly surveyed the place, the sound of his harsh breathing the only thing to break the thick silence. Then as if sensing his hesitation once more, the mist gathered itself into one area, slowly trailing along a slightly submerged tree that stretched the entire length of the pond.

Tristan followed, his boots slipping slightly on the wet, rotted wood, surprised that it could carry his weight. The swollen trunk sank deeper beneath his feet into the water but did not give way. He watched with narrowed eyes, as the mist seemed to gather in on itself on the opposite bank. It disappeared almost as instantly as it had appeared to him in the glen.

The sense of desperation he'd been feeling faded swiftly. Water seeped into the soles of his boots and Tristan realized what a fool he'd been. He quickly sheathed the dagger he had been clutching in a death grip and began to back slowly toward the shore, mindful of how slippery the surface of the wood on which he was perched had become.

The wind kicked up again, this time more forcefully than before and once more he was stunned to find dry, brittle oak leaves swirling against his calves. They skimmed the surface of the still water, causing tiny ripples as they swirled toward the embankment. His hair whipped into his eyes blinding him for a moment, only a moment, and when the wind abruptly ceased he had the stark realization that he was no longer alone.

He turned sharply to look behind him only to find that a solid curtain of fog had surrounded him. Shapes slowly shifted with in it. He blinked in disbelief, as the shapes seemed to become more solid. A hand, that was ghostly white and impossibly feminine, seemed to stretch out toward him, hesitantly reaching for him.

Then he watched in horror as a pair of warm brown eyes stared back at him through the mist, the only spot of color in the swath of white. Features were slowly revealed to him, as the fog began to gather itself again, this time more condensed and solid than it had ever appeared to him before. All at once he realized that he was staring at the form of a woman, translucent and colorless but for her eyes. She smiled at him as if his terrified, incredulous reaction was all she had waited for. Again that feeling of desperation welled inside him, followed by excitement and triumphant anticipation.

Once more, she stretched that long ghostly white hand toward him, and once more Tristan fought to believe exactly what he was seeing.

Acting on the instinct he had ignored for far too long, Tristan backed away, his usually agile feet failing him. The woman shook her head at him as if in warning. Her deep brown eyes going wide, her mouth opening as if she wanted to shout a warning to him, but no sound emerged.

And just like that, Tristan slipped. Just like that he felt icy cold water swallow him whole, before a bright pain burst in his skull and the entire world went completely dark.

AN: One of my betas calls me a "Cliffhanger Monster" I think she's onto something there. More to come soon I promise. Until then HAPPY READING!

~S