Title: Crowning Tristan
Author: Sedri
Rating: PG-13 / T
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own Stardust in any way. This is just for fun. Hatha, however, is my creation.

Chapter Three

Some time later, Tristan awoke with a jolt. The carriage had just hit a rather nasty bump and the hilt of his sword had smacked painfully against his ribs. He found himself slumped on Yvaine's comfortable shoulder. "Welcome back," she teased.

Tristan rubbed his eyes, blinking in the light. They were in the woods now, but not far ahead was a clearing and the most northern part of the wall. "How long was I asleep?"

"Quite a while," Una said kindly. "You needed it." The two of them shared a sideways glance, and though drowsy, Tristan was certain that they'd been talking about him. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"Right," he said instead. "Why are we going to the wall? Yvaine has to stay in town."

Una looked at the screen of trees ahead, then peered at him. "How did you know the wall is ahead?"

Tristan paused. "...I don't know. I'm just sure. Why – why are you smiling?"

His mother said, "Because this, if nothing else, proves that you're my son. One of our ancestors must have been a witch because every so often, the talent for finding places springs up in our family. Sextus had it, and I think our grandfather did, too."

"Really?" asked Tristan, fascinated. "How does it work?"

"I'm not sure, but tell me – which way is it to the capital?" Tristan pointed without hesitation, then stared at his hand. Una beamed. "See?"

"That's amazing," he said. Then he looked at Yvaine and grinned. "See? I did know where I was going."

She elbowed him and made a face; he'd won, this time. "To answer your question," she said loftily, "we're going to pick up the caravan before anyone can steal it."

"Ah," said Tristan.

The sun was slowly sinking; it was late afternoon. They arrived at the gap to find it deserted. No guard had returned to fill Mr Edwards' place. Tristan frowned but said nothing as he hitched Sal's brown horse back to her caravan. His mother climbed inside as they began the trip back to Market Town, with Yvaine steering the smaller vehicle while Tristan drove the carriage behind her. There wasn't much chance to talk while so far apart, but both could hear Una moving inside, shoving broken things aside as she gathered anything valuable. "Most of Sal's merchandise is frozen charms," she'd told them earlier. "Flowers and such with magic woven into them so anyone can use it. The people of Stormhold buy charmed items for all sorts of purposes, so we can sell these; they're very valuable." In particular, she was searching for bluebells, which were usually used to keep food from spoiling and could preserve Septimus' body long enough to arrange for a proper burial.

As the road widened and they approached the town, Yvaine slowed to drive alongside Tristan. "How long will you be in Wall?"

"Not long," he promised. "A day, maybe two. It depends on my father. Mother and I will need time to explain all this to him. I really hope he'll come with us. And besides that, I need to pack, and I have friends I want to say goodbye to."

He spoke so lightly that Yvaine blithely assumed he didn't feel all that sorry about suddenly leaving home, and so she shrugged and let the issue drop entirely. "How much does your village know about Stormhold?" she asked. "I mean, you and your father are special cases. What are you going to tell them?"

He shrugged. "The truth, I suppose. I went to find my mother and now I'm going to live in her home town. See, we never really knew much about this place, just that the wall is ancient and that it guards a secret world no one should ever enter, or ever has entered. We have a weekly roster and people volunteer to stand watch. That's it, really. Father says he never believed it until he came here. Most people do, though, and the village council is very strict about it."

"Will you be in trouble?" Yvaine asked. Tristan chuckled.

"Probably. I don't think Mr Edwards – he's a guard, a friend of my father's – I don't think he ever told anyone that I came from across the wall. I'm not sure anyone knows that Father crossed it, either. I'm not going to tell them anything."

At this point they were approaching the town wall, well out of sight of the various gates, and Yvaine knocked on the wood behind her to alert Una. They were going slowly, so when Una came out of the back she jumped down easily and called out, "I found it!"

Yvaine slowed to a halt a short distance from Tristan, who had stopped the carriage alongside a blank stretch of the town's stone wall. Approaching, Una nodded her approval and held up a yellow glass rose from the basket she had filled. "Possession charm. No one will be able to take the carriage, or even find it, except me," she explained, "and out here there's no chance of anyone walking into it by accident."

"What about the one for Septimus?" Yvaine asked, patting the nose of one of the black stallions. Una produced a bluebell and walked to the carriage door. Opening it, she suddenly turned away and took a deep breath of fresh air.

"Just in time, too," she muttered. "Tristan, help me get him out."

Tristan did so, then knelt to watch his mother work, still enough of a small-town boy to be delighted by the magic. She touched the bluebell against his blanket-wrapped head, dragged it down his left side to his toes then back up the right, never breaking contact. She finished by tucking the flower into the blanket's folds. "That's it?" Tristan asked. "How do you know it's worked?"

"I've been doing Sal's menial work for a long time. Trust me, Tristan, it worked."

Yvaine, meanwhile, had freed the horses and tethered them to the caravan, then opened all the carriage doors and windows and whipped a blanket around inside, trying to shoo out the smell of blood. After they lifted Septimus back in, Una 'surrounded' the carriage with the effects of the rose in a similar fashion, then fastened it to her dress.

"What about the caravan?" Yvaine asked.

"Sell it, I suppose. I've already taken anything that might be useful. I'll be glad to never see it again." Una frowned at it, then shook her head and climbed onto the driver's seat. Yvaine and Tristan led the black horses and Septimus' steed, and they continued into the town.

Having worked for Sal for so long, Una knew exactly where to sell both the wagon and the horses for the best price, and went off on her own while Tristan and Yvaine took the royal stallions to the inn where they had stayed before, The Slaughtered Prince, and settled the tired animals into a small stable.

"Oh, back are you?" said the grouchy innkeeper as they entered the main room. Dusk was approaching and he was now acting as the barman, but looked no more pleased than he had that morning. "Settled all this urgent 'true love' business?"

Tristan turned a bit red and Yvaine took his hand. "Yes. We'd like to arrange lodging for–"

"Talk to my wife," he snapped, and turned to serve a customer. Yvaine, who had done all this the night before, recognised a middle-aged woman and briefly spoke with her.

"Of course, dear," she said pleasantly. "Don't mind my husband; he'll snap at anyone who wakes him before noon. Your room is still empty. I'll get you the key back in just a... Una?"

Tristan glanced at his mother, who had just come in. She was smiling widely at the innkeeper. "Hatha," she said, "I'm free."

The innkeeper, Hatha, was a brown-haired, cheerful-looking woman who laughed as she hugged Una. "So that horrid old witch isn't going to come and cause another brawl in my pub, then, eh?"

Una laughed. "Never. Hatha, I want you to meet my Tristan," she said proudly, squeezing his shoulder.

Hatha's brows shot up. "Tristan? Heavens, it's been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Tristan, Hatha was my midwife when you were born," his mother explained. "We've been friends for years. Whenever Sal and I came to town she'd sneak me some extra meals."

"You needed them, you skinny thing," Hatha scolded. "Well, it's good to see you again, lad, though I'm sure you won't remember me. I took your basket down to the wall."

Surprised, Tristan shook her offered hand and said, "Then thank you, thank you very much. I'm pleased to meet you. You already know Yvaine?" he asked, and Hatha nodded.

"Hatha," Una said seriously, "Tristan and I are going to see his father. We might be gone a few days. I must ask you to look out for Yvaine while we're gone. Protect her."

After a long moment passed and Una offered no explanation, Hatha shrugged. "All right. Well, you're safe in my inn, dear," she said to Yvaine, "as long as you stay away from the drunkards. I'll have one of my boys stay up tonight and keep watch. If you need anything from the market, just let me know."

"Thank you," Yvaine said sincerely. "I appreciate it."

"That's quite all right, love. I'll just get you that key and then I must be off to serve the crowd," she jerked her head at the rapidly filling room. Una smiled and bade her farewell.

Tristan took Yvaine aside and pulled the snowdrop from his pocket. "I want you to take this," he said. "Carry it with you all the time."

She accepted it but said, "Tristan, I'll befine."

"I know," he replied, "but this morning four people were ready to kill you. It'll make me feel better if you keep it. Anyway, what use is it to me in Wall? There are no witches there. And," he added suddenly, taking the flower and tucking it into her pale hair, "it suits you."

Yvaine narrowed her eyes. "Are you trying to flatter me into agreeing?"

He bit his lip, caught. "Yes," he said.

She laughed. "Moron. All right, I promise. Now go – go home to your father and come back soon."

Tristan kissed her cheek and left, with Una, for Wall.

Crossing the threshold, Tristan frowned. "There's still no guard."

Una glanced at her son, stepping carefully over broken stones in the poor light of dusk. "That worries you?" she asked. Tristan shrugged, offering a hand to help her balance on the uneven rock.

"Maybe. It might just mean that Mr Edwards didn't tell anyone about this morning."

"You said he saw Sal die?"

Tristan nodded. "It scared him. He left his post. I thought they would have sent someone else by now."

"Well, would you have?"

It was an odd question and Tristan glanced back to his mother, though he could see little as they had just reached the trees, which blocked even more light. "You mean if I were on the council? Maybe. But village guards wouldn't do much good if a witch wanted to pass, would they?"

"Actually, I'm quite sure their magic wouldn't work on this side – they draw power from the land," she added at his look of confusion, "and England is practically a dry well. But even if it wasn't, and there was danger, the mere idea of a guard can be very reassuring."

Tristan's brow remained furrowed. "No magic at all?" he asked. "But the candle worked – it took me straight out of my house."

"Babylon candles are an exception," Una said. "Perhaps the only exception. They carry their magic sealed in the wax and are extremely powerful; a hundred thousand bolts of the best lightning wouldn't come close to matching the energy of just one of them – that's why they're so valuable. But Yvaine told me that your candle was almost gone when you arrived in the crater, right?"

He nodded. "There was only one trip left; otherwise I would have used it to find you."

Una paused to beam at him, still so happy just to be near him. "There is a little magic left in this land – not much, but enough for the candle to work. It probably used itself up just to bringing you across the wall; the rest would have been easy. In any case, I doubt England has enough magic to be drawn up by a human body, so I wouldn't worry your friends about stopping witches."

Tristan nodded, relieved. After a few silent moments, he glanced back towards the town, as he'd done several times already. Una shook her head and touched his shoulder. "She'll be fine, Tristan. I trust Hatha, and Yvaine's no fool."

"I know," he said. "Does Hatha know? About you, I mean. Who you are."

"That I'm the princess? No, she doesn't. I had no reason to tell her, and it was just safer that way. My name isn't common, but enough people mimic the royal tradition that no one will guess."

He nodded again, and they walked on in silence until the trees parted and there, ahead, was the little stone village, lights twinkling as the last glimmers of sunlight reddened the sky behind it. To Tristan, it suddenly seemed very small. To Una it looked quiet and comfortable, exactly the sort of place where she could see Dunstan and Tristan growing up. She smiled and held her son's hand, and he led her to his home, chatting all the way.

"That's the Brown family's house; they farm most of the land on this side. Everybody laughs at their name because every one of them has bright red hair. And over there, that's the road to London – see it, on that rise? Our house is just out of sight, behind the first row. Father will be home by now. He usually works late on Fridays so I always cook dinner..."

He continued his pleasant narration as they approached the buildings, and gave names to the faces they passed, waving or nodding to everyone but speaking to none save for an old lady called Mrs Harper, who frowned, puzzled, but returned the greeting kindly. Una was very aware of their stares, and it didn't really surprise her; in a town this size, everyone knew each other, and everything about Una from her dress to her posture screamed of an exotic origin.

Tristan led her to a line of modest houses attached side-by-side, with a small stream running in front of the path. Without knocking he opened a door, called out, "Father?" and led her inside.

In moments, the village began to talk.

A few streets away, in the Seventh Magpie, half of Wall had turned up to fill the bar with bodies and noise. Drinks were ordered but often ignored for gossip, and the rumour mill, burning steadily since afternoon, had become a fully fledged explosion of wild ideas and ridiculous notions.

"That boy's never left home in his life – where was he, anyway?"

"London?"

"Didn't see 'im on the road."

"Victoria said he went over the wall..."

"That girl's a featherbrain. No one goes over the wall."

"Mrs Mills said there was a woman with him!"

"What?"

"Just now. Not a young lady, either. He took her into their house."

"Outrageous!"

"Who was she?"

"Never seen 'er before."

"Oi, Brown! They say you saw a gypsy caravan."

"Looked like it. You think the Thorn boy ran off with gypsies?"

"Why not? Everyone knows that's where he came from."

"But it was across the wall, and I did see that funny green light..."

"Humphrey's furious – said he's never been so humiliated."

"By what? What happened this morning?"

"He admits it?" someone snorted. "Thought he was so pompous he couldn't feel shame."

"That's my son you're talking about!"

"Ah, well..."

While men sniggered and Charlie Banks glowered at the man who'd insulted Humphrey, other conversations were more serious.

"Sam Edwards swears he wasn't drinking–"

"Not beforehand, anyway."

"–and that people from the other side were killing each other in the meadow! What do you make of that?"

"He's getting old."

"Robert!"

"It's true and you know it."

"Maybe he's having a laugh?"

"Maybe he realised there's nothing to guard but an empty field."

"And maybe our ancestors guarded that wall for a very good reason!"

"Then why have we never seen it?"

"You ever tried climbing the wall, Pete? It's magical. It knows you're trying and stops you!"

"What – you tried?"

"Well, I – Now, I didn't say that!"

And so the village continued to talk, filling the rafters with gossip, old and new. Everyone knew Tristan Thorn had vanished a week ago, but until that morning his father hadn't been worried, and since then he'd been acting very peculiar. But Mrs Monday claimed she'd seen the boy – at least, she said, someone that looked a lot like him – talking to Miss Forester not long after dawn. One or two people had noticed that Victoria was wearing a new ring, but they'd all expected Humphrey to propose so it was brushed aside by the commotion about Mr Edwards – had he finally cracked? Ninety-seven years old, after all, and that wall did strange things to people.

The babble went on without conclusion, with newcomers demanding a retelling and everyone else circling the room, looking for any new snippets to add to their own theories. It was not until one of the reluctant stars of their show, old Mr Edwards himself, lifted his head from a table and cried, "That's not how it happened!" that any semblance of order came to the room.

Contrary to popular opinion, Mr Edwards was not drunk. He'd only been sipping ale all afternoon, and most of the time his head had been buried in his hands or on the table as he tried to make sense of it all. He was worried about Tristan – only a boy, really – and for everyone else in Wall. The image of green fire was burned into his mind and he couldn't escape it no matter how tightly he shut his eyes. Eventually the clamour of his neighbours had grown too loud to ignore, and when some young upstart claimed that there must have been a whole army out there, he had to speak up.

"Tell us, then," said Charles Banks, who fancied himself the town leader and was, to be fair, on the village council. "Tell us what really happened at the wall this morning."

Everyone crowded around his table, climbing on benches and standing tip-toe to see over each other. The room was packed, and outside there were more people, insatiably curious, making their way towards the Magpie.

Everything was set, had they but known it, to stage the most exciting play that Wall had seen for six hundred years.

In the quiet, half-dark house tucked into a far corner of Wall, Dunstan Thorn thundered down the stairs. "Tristan?" he shouted. "Tristan!"

"I'm here, Father," he said, and Dunstan all but fell down the last few steps, turning a sharp corner to reach his son and hold him tight. Tristan was surprised, and took a moment to return the hug. His father was rarely this openly affectionate – not since Tristan had turned twelve and begun to spurn embarrassing things like hugs – and he had never seemed so afraid.

"Thank God," murmured Dunstan, his eyes still closed as they hugged. "Sam said something awful happened, that you were chasing some sot of witches..." he drew back, keeping a tight hold on Tristan's shoulders. "You are all right?" he demanded. "You're not hurt?"

Tristan shook his head, a painfully wide grin splitting his face. "I'm fine," he promised. "Really, I'm fine, Father – wonderful. I found her," he said, more quietly but no less delighted. "I found her, Father, I found my mother. Her name is Una."

Dunstan's eyes brightened as he relaxed, a warm smile spreading across his mouth. He nodded slowly, murmuring, "U... Una. " He looked up. "Is she all right?"

A new kind of smile touched Tristan's lips – a secret smile, a mischievous one. He nodded, grinned, and turned towards the door. Dunstan followed his gaze, puzzlement flickering across his face... and then he stared.

Una – pretty, dusty, tired Una – stepped in from the doorway, hands clasped neatly in front of her blue dress. She smiled. "Hello, Dunstan."

"I... Hello."

He was stunned. Certain that she – Una – would still be a prisoner, Dunstan had never imagined she might actually come back with Tristan. He had vaguely assumed that Tristan would return with a long and detailed story about meeting her, perhaps with a message for him; it was all he could hope for. In the years since they'd met, Dunstan had always hoped that if she were freed, she would cross the wall and come to them, but as time passed he started to wonder just how long witches lived, and faced the fact that he might never see her again.

But... there she was.

For her part, Una just looked at him, smiling softly. It would be a lie to say that she'd missed him as much as she'd missed Tristan, but she'd thought of him often, and there had always been a place in her heart for the kind young man who'd given her their son. He had aged, more than she had, though she was probably older. His eyes were the same, though, and he looked at her now with the same half-awed joy that had drawn her on sight so many years ago.

Tristan felt completely out of place. "Well," he said quietly, "I have some things to do upstairs."

They briefly glanced at him, but said nothing. Though it didn't seem to bother them, the silence made Tristan extremely uncomfortable. He backed up and climbed the stairs softly, avoiding the creaky step. Below, his father finally spoke, but the words were soft and hard to make out, and Tristan didn't try.

He quickly reached his bedroom and closed the door, wondering what was happening, trying not to picture any overly romantic possibilities. They were his parents, after all, and he couldn't really understand their relationship. Maybe they felt as awkward as he did; maybe not. His father had always said he'd loved her, and Tristan believed that. He knew he had somewhat idealised hopes for them, and perhaps he should know better, but was he so wrong to want them to still be in love? That maybe, just maybe, his family would finally be complete?

Seeking a distraction, Tristan looked around. His room was small and a little dusty, but it was welcoming and comfortable and always his. The well-worn furniture was sparse but cared for, and his small writing desk was cluttered with little knick-knacks that all held some sort of memory. Simple things, really, some from school or time spent with his father, and most had no material value whatsoever – a book of dried leaves, a marble, a sloppy wooden carving he'd been so proud of, little things his father had made or bought for him. He'd lived his life in this room, and it was strange that it now felt so far away.

He couldn't imagine Yvaine, with her beautiful white glow, living in Wall as a housewife.

It wasn't that he was ashamed of his life, or that Yvaine wouldn't be happy, but it just didn't suit her. And, Tristan was surprised to find, it didn't suit him anymore, either. He wanted to keep his trinkets, but suddenly the time had come to move on. Even if he hadn't loved Yvaine, this week had changed him too much to ever go back to what he had been.

There were some strong bags tucked under his bed, and Tristan went to fetch them – but paused. Sitting on his bed beside a warm depression was the basket he'd arrived in, a soft toy he'd treasured as a child, and his mother's letter.

Father had been there. Waiting. Tristan wondered what he'd been thinking.

From below, the voices had become a little louder. "...didn't expect it, either. But she died, and my chain was broken."

"Tristan killed someone?" His father sounded incredulous.

"No," said Una, and there was a smile in her voice. "No, Dunstan, you've raised us a wonderful son. Another witch killed Sal."

Tristan smiled, but felt like an intruder. He deliberately made extra noise as he gathered the bags and pulled out his clothes (in his mind he heard Captain Shakespeare say, "so very small-town errand-boy," and smiled), and began to pack.