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Taking a large gulp of wine to muster his courage, Tristan began.

“My mother Blanchefleur—the sister of my uncle Marke—was beautiful, with soft, silky hair and a gentle, soothing voice. I remember finding comfort in her loving arms and courage in her proud eyes. I loved her so very much,” Tristan choked, swallowing down his pain with another gulp of wine.

“My father was King Rivalen of Lyonesse. He fell in love with my mother when he visited her brother, my uncle Marke, in Cornwall. They were married in Tintagel and settled in Lyonesse, the islands off the southern tip of England, where my sister Talwyn and I were born. All of us lived in the castle le Chateau d’ Or , amidst the villages, farmlands, and fishing ports along the craggy coast.”

They sipped their wine, the ship sailing across the Narrow Sea seemingly transporting the two knights into the past. “I was a squire at my father’s castle, training under the supervision of a knight named Sir Goron.

One day, when I was eight years old, returning from the hunt, my lord and his fellow knights stopped suddenly at the edge of the forest and dismounted, forcing me to do the same.

Sir Goron restrained me, his hand clamped over my mouth, while Sir Konan, another knight, prevented me from running to the castle, which was under attack. ”

Tristan’s body shook with anger and guilt, his stomach clenched in a knot.

“I stood there, powerless, protected by the knights who were defending me—the heir to the throne of Lyonesse—and watched helplessly as the Vikings tore through the village like a herd of animals. They set fire to the thatched roofs with their torches. They slaughtered the people trying to defend their homes. And they took the young, strong men and pretty women as slaves, dragging them off screaming to their dragon ships.”

Tristan groaned, his body shuddering. “The castle had been breached. Two Vikings dragged my father in chains and forced him to kneel before a gruesome giant of a Viking. The bloody bastard made a great spectacle of beheading my father right there, at the entrance to his magnificent castle.” Tristan sobbed, shaking his head as if he could dispel the agony.

“I watched that bearded beast raise his fucking sword high above his iron helmet. He dropped it down like an axe and sliced off my father’s head. ”

Tristan choked, spewing out the hatred which sickened him.

“I was physically restrained from helping Talwyn, my ten-year-old sister. They dragged her behind a section of the stone wall. They took turns.” Tristan gulped big breaths of air as he struggled to breathe.

“I still hear her blood curdling screams. Even now.”

Lancelot placed his hand quietly upon Tristan’s back.

“Two other Vikings held my mother, the beautiful queen of Lyonesse, as she struggled, trying desperately to save Talwyn. She was kicking, shrieking, and biting so much that the bastard who had just killed my father turned around and impaled her with the same goddamned bloody sword.” Tristan bent against the rail of the ship, struggling to catch his breath.

“They dragged Talwyn—my beautiful sister Talwyn—from behind the wall. She was beaten, bloody. Mutilated.” He gasped for air.

“They slit her throat. They threw her on top of our mother’s lifeless body, right beside my father’s corpse.

” Tristan leaned over the taffrail and heaved the anguish from his stomach.

When he finished retching, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and spat on the deck of the ship.

“And me? Did I fight to defend them? Did I die with them? Hell, no—I survived! I was too weak to save them. And here I am now. Alive . By the Goddess, I should have died that day, too!” Tristan leaned against the taffrail and buried his face into his bent arms.

Lancelot placed his hand on Tristan’s back. “You couldn’t have saved them, Tristan. There is nothing you could have done, nothing which would have altered the outcome. Your death would have been both tragic—and futile.” Lancelot paused for a moment, as if to let his words reach Tristan’s ears.

“Although you punish yourself for what you perceive as a failure, I ask you to consider this instead. Perhaps the Goddess herself chose to save you… for a fate which has yet to be revealed.”

Tristan raised his anguished face and gazed into the eyes of this knight whom he respected and served in a sacred oath of fealty. Lancelot’s wise eyes bore into his very core.

“You are destined to rule, Tristan. I will impart to you the very skills I acquired from the Avalonian Elves. I will forge you into the lethal weapon you must become as you inherit the throne of Cornwall. And restore your father’s kingdom of Lyonesse.”

Tristan was infused with strength at the intensity of Lancelot’s gaze and the conviction of his words. The White Knight of Avalon locked eyes with the Blue Knight of Cornwall.

“You were powerless before—yes. You were a child, Tristan. A mere boy.” He placed both hands on Tristan’s shoulders as if to impart the weight of his words. “Rather than despair at the impotence of youth, embrace your fate and empower your sword. Become the king you were destined to be.”

Tristan raised his head as their round ship sailed across the Narrow Sea towards the distant land of Bretagne . He raised his goblet of wine and the two knights toasted the future, the friendship, and the fate which entwined them both.

During the remainder of the ten-day sea voyage, Tristan and Lancelot sometimes fished, played chess, or diced with the other knights on board the ship. Yet, each day, they continued weaving together the ties of friendship that had begun to bind them.

The first time they had shared tales, it had been Lancelot who told of the past, and now, it was Tristan who revealed the present as the two men sipped ale and leaned on the taffrail over the Celtic Sea.

“After the attack on Chateau d’ Or and the slaughter of my family,” Tristan began, “my uncle Marke had me brought to Tintagel so I could continue my training as a squire under his master-at-arms, Lord Gorvenal. It was there that I met Vaughn, a fellow squire a couple years older than me. An expert with the bow and arrow, he’d spent every summer throughout his childhood hunting in the forests of Kennall Vale.

In the east of Cornwall, with his father, Lord Treave.

” Tristan glanced at Lancelot, took a gulp of his brew, and continued.

“At Tintagel, we squires had mock battles, siege attacks, and even jousts. We trained hard, and I fueled the rage burning inside me into my sword. I’d picture that Viking bastard who killed my family, and my hatred drove me to become strong as an ox.

I loved the thrill of competition—it helped me keep the guilt at bay. ”

A pod of dolphins swam by the ship. Tristan smiled wistfully, watching them arc playfully into the waves.

He smiled at Lancelot and took a long pull of his ale.

“Vaughan invited me to go hunting stag with him in Kennall Vale the summer I was thirteen. His parents, Lord Treave and Lady Melora, approved of our friendship. Over the years, as I spent each summer at their estate, they became like second parents to me.” He took another sip of ale, glanced at Lancelot, returning his gaze to the endless sea.

“Vaughan was with me when I brought down my first stag that summer. He taught me to use falcons so we could hunt geese and ducks. We trained as squires together, spent our summers hunting together, and I am a skilled archer today because of him.”

Lancelot nodded, took a draught from his goblet, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Why didn’t you go along with him this summer? What made you decide to stay at Camelot?”

A corner of Tristan’s mouth curved upward. “Vaughan has a younger sister, Elowenn. She took a fancy to me a few summers ago. I kissed her a couple of times. She’s pretty, but when I kissed her…it was just wrong .” Tristan leaned away from the taffrail, stretching his broad back and shoulders.

“Elowenn is quiet and timid—it’s hard to have any kind of a conversation with her. I know her parents are hoping I’ll ask for her hand, because it would elevate her whole family to royal status if she became my wife…the future queen of Cornwall.”

Tristan leaned forward, positioning his elbows against the taffrail.

“But, it’s more complicated than just my personal preference.

” He took another long pull of ale, watching the stern of their ship plow forth across the Narrow Sea.

“As the heir to the kingdom of Cornwall, I know my uncle expects me to marry a princess. Not the daughter of a lesser lord.” Tristan stared off at the horizon.

“I knew that if I accepted the invitation to Kennall Vale this summer, it would be as if I were agreeing to the betrothal. Yet, by declining their hospitality, I have affronted Lord Treave, offended Elowenn, insulted Vaughan, and lost the friend whom I loved like a brother.”

Taking another gulp of ale, Tristan turned to Lancelot and searched his knowing eyes.

“I don’t know if she even exists, Lancelot, but I want a woman who makes me feel alive !

I want her kisses to arouse my passion, her heart to sing to mine.

I want a muse to inspire my song, a lady to whom I would pledge my sword—and my life.

” Tristan shook his head and sighed. “Is such a love even possible?”

The First Knight of Camelot responded with a sad smile. “It is indeed possible, Tristan.” Lancelot turned his pensive gaze to the vast expanse of sea. “In French, we call such a love l’amour fou— a passion so intense… it can drive you mad.”

Lancelot glanced back at Tristan, a forlorn smile reaching his intense blue eyes.

“When you find such a woman, Tristan, the love she gives you fills every empty hollow in your soul. She completes you; she invigorates you; she thrills you. And, when you consummate such a love, the exquisite blend of the spiritual and physical realm will satisfy you more than the finest wine or the greatest victory in battle. The love she gives you with her body will transport you to the stars, and you will never experience a greater joy.”

And, though he smiled, Tristan saw that the First Knight emanated loneliness, suffering, and sorrow. As Lancelot returned his gaze across the faraway sea, Tristan knew that the White Knight of Avalon longed for the beautiful blond queen of Camelot.