Mor pressed goblets of spiced wine into their hands and tricked them into conversations by asking ridiculous questions or making statements so shockingly ignorant they were impossible for even the most stoic of the soldiers to ignore. He didn't seem to mind playing the simpleton if it got people out of their heads, and he wouldn't stop the charade until the Hall rang with laughter.
For Tristan, Mor seemed to become his shadow. He draped himself in chairs where Tristan liked to sit, took his meals when Tristan made a rare show of eating, lingered in the corridor just outside Tristan's door, never quite close enough to have a conversation. His voice would trail after him as he tried, but Tristan would hurry away every time, pretending not to hear.
Being ignored didn't seem to deter him. He laughed and told stories, sang songs and wrestled, gambled with dice and cards as he drank, but always Mor's burning eyes would trail him.
One morning Tristan found Mor sitting with a small group of women in the Hall, chatting with them as they worked on a new tapestry. Tristan couldn't help but listen as he nibbled at his food. The knight's voice took on a gentler pitch with them, and Tristan had to lean forward to hear the conversation.
The girls were more or less interrogating him, curious about everything from his home village to if he was married or in love. He respectfully evaded each of their many questions, asking them instead of their own families. He caught them off-guard by asking about their embroideries, even wanting to try a few stitches himself. Tristan wasn't sure if it was a clever distraction or if he was just charming, but it stopped the questions.
The women blushed and handed over their hoops, watching him carefully. They seemed mesmerized by his long, crooked fingers as he held the needle, fumbling with the bright, red thread.
"My hands aren't as nimble as they used to be, broken as they are," he told them, his eyes wandering over to where he knew Tristan was listening, "But I can hold a sword just fine, still."
Tristan could feel his ears warm. Mor's lips twisted into a triumphant grin.
Mor eventually excused himself when Bran entered the Hall, and Tristan was shocked by the difference between the groups. With the men, he was loud— but while the others bragged about their accomplishments on the battlefield, Mor never said a word about himself. Instead, he'd lead the conversation, baiting others to tell his stories for him. They'd misunderstand this manipulation as humility or even self-doubt and repeat what they'd witnessed on the battlefield. Their voices brimmed with admiration, but there was a hint of something else running beneath their words during the more brutal scenes.
"He doesn't look that strong, with that face," Bran said, clapping Mor so hard on the back the small man almost spilled his wine, "But I've seen him fight. The little creature has no mercy. He'll slit a man's belly and then laugh about the face he makes when he looks down at his guts."
"It was the timing," Mor said darkly, smiling, always smiling.
"He was twice your size!"
"Oh, Bran. I've never been intimidated by size."
Tristan finally left the Hall, cheeks burning, leaving behind the warmth and fire-glow and the sound of voices. He hurried down the cold, dark corridors back to his chambers, where he could slink into the hidden room and be alone.
The corridor was shadowy, and the weak light of the candles was only enough to keep Tristan from running into the walls. The heels of his boots clicked against the stone of the flagged floor, echoing against the walls.
And then, with freezing clarity, he realized that there was no echo.
Tristan froze, and the footsteps behind him sounded once, twice, before stopping as well. Tristan's heart thudded against his chest. He could see his breath, little wisps of fog as his breathing quickened.
He turned slowly.
It was too dark to see, his breathing too loud to hear anything. But he knew. Somewhere, a few paces back, Mor was watching him.
"What do you want?" he said, but Tristan knew exactly what he wanted. He imagined Mor's hand on his dagger, somewhere in the dark.
Of course, the question was met with silence.
Why would he save you during the battle just to cut your throat in the hallway, a few yards away from a room full of soldiers?
Tristan knew that it wasn't logical. But anxiety knew no reason; it wound tight around his heart, over and over, the paranoid thoughts looping, always coming back to that day in the summer, when he'd gone to his mother's room to sit at her feet and watch her sew only to find it cold and empty.
There was no reason the day his mother disappeared, either. There was no evidence of any wrongdoing, but logic and reason could not persuade his father to mercy. No, for one of his possessions had been broken, and he no longer saw any value in it, so burn it, erase it from memory—
But there was still Tristan. Tristan remembered, refused to let him forget, for he looked like her, the dark-haired son who was weak-willed and reluctant. Did he have any value, either?
These were the thorns that lodged themselves deep in Tristan's chest as he stared into the darkness, certain that at any moment, Mor's hand would reach out from the shadows and catch him in the throat with a blade—
—season his food with hemlock and wolfsbane—
—drag him from his bed for a sham trial before taking him out to the bog—
—seduce him with sharp, red smiles, only to smother him as he slept—
Tristan's head spun. Mor was a knight, loyal to Tristan's father before anyone else. He thought of the man's bright, laughing face in the Hall, the way he so carefully held the delicate needle between his broken fingers. How they must have ached after he spent the better part of an hour stitching a wobbly little rose that he'd held up for Tristan to see from across the room, his smile surprisingly sweet and proud.
Mor had a duty, but he did not seem cruel.
"Please," he whispered to the shadow. He somehow managed not to choke, "Please, if you're going to... at least let me be asleep."
There was a sound, the faintest intake of breath.
"There's a false panel in the far corner of my chamber," Tristan continued, not knowing how his voice was as steady as it was, "There's a room behind it. I'll be there."
He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that welled and spun before Mor could see them. His cloak billowed behind him as he hurried away, and his footsteps did not echo this time.
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