He'd let himself fall asleep, in front of the knight. Mor was curled with his back to him, his breath deep and even in sleep, a ball of warmth pressed against his side.
Relief flooded through Tristan's veins like a balm. Mor had made the same mistake he had.
Tristan got to his feet, careful not to wake him. There was just enough light to make out the bundle of Mor's clothing strewn about the floor. Tristan knelt on the cold stone floor and pieced through it, his breath trapped in his throat, his fingers trembling.
Surely, surely…where is it?
And then, just as he thought: from the pile of linen and leather, he pulled a small, folded blade, glinting silver in the dark.
I knew it.
As if the intensity of Tristan's stare was enough to wake him, Mor stirred, opening one eye to peer up at him. He startled.
"Tristan? What are you doing?" he whispered, "Stop looming and come down here. What's wrong?"
Tristan grit his teeth.
"Why didn't you do it?"
"Oh, I thought that I very much did." Mor sat up, frowning, "Your eyes are so cold. What, are you unsatisfied with something? Come down here and I'll make up for it."
"Why do you have this?"
He tossed the folded blade in his direction. Mor caught the knife in his open palms and stared at it until his eyes widened by a fraction. His smile lost its wolffish edge, turned mean. With a quick twist of his wrist, he snapped the knife open with one hand.
"Well. I have to shave my beard, unlike you, my Lord," Mor said as he flicked the knife open and closed, open and closed, "I'd let it grow, but the scars make it patchy, you see."
Mor closed it a final time and threw the blade back to him, though not so forcefully that Tristan couldn't catch it in time.
"Why don't you keep it, for now. It was my father's, but I'd rather you not have any ideas that I'm going to cut your throat while you sleep. Fuck, Tristan."
"…Forgive me," Tristan whispered. He looked down at the little knife. There was a subtle geometric pattern decorating the case that the blade snapped into, and it was suddenly so obvious that it was a cosmetic item.
His face burned.
Mor only huffed in response. There was a rosiness to his cheeks as well, but Tristan couldn't tell if it was from indignation or embarrassment. In fact, he couldn't bear to look at him. He couldn't meet Mor's eyes. He could only stare at the floor, feeling wretched. The silence between them stretched until Mor clicked his tongue.
"Won't you come here?" he said, offering his hand.
Tristan didn't move.
The night before, Tristan had been weak. Looking at the manuscripts always made him so. He had wanted to cling to something, the hope of something more than all of this. Mor was a novelty, a dream. But it was morning, now.
Mor dropped his hand.
"Tristan," he started carefully, "Do you really still think I'm some…some assassin? I told you last night. The rumors are just rumors. Your father has said nothing to me, aside from allowing me to stay until my wounds healed."
But Tristan only shook his head. Years of solitude had caused something dark to twist itself between Tristan's ribs, around his heart. Something suffocating, something sharp, twines of thorny briar left to grow unchecked over the years. It hurt, but Tristan didn't know any other way to be.
"You didn't need rest," he said, feeling sick and stubborn and foolish, "Not after you were shot, not after the battle. It's been a month. Why aren't you gone?"
They stared at each other until Mor exhaled something like a laugh, but it was hollow. He wrapped his arms around his knees, all the bluster and confidence Tristan knew him for drained from him. He looked small.
"What a grim thing you've made me out to be," he murmured, running a hand through his hair, "It's ironic, considering how you're looking at me right now. There are songs about you out there, you know. They're very compelling, like something out of a fairytale. You play the part of the prince locked up in a tower, the son of a queen so mysterious that he may as well have been born from the shadows."
"…That's ridiculous."
"Maybe, but that's the reputation you earn when you refuse to wear color or speak more than ten words at a time. It's your silence that allows others to fill in the spaces with their dreams," Mor said, and a shadow of his usual smile curled the corners of his mouth, "I jumped at the chance to come here, you know. To meet you. You're not quite what I expected, though."
"What," Tristan said bitterly to the floorboards, "Disappointed that I'm not some fairytale?"
Mor surprised him by laughing, genuine and bright.
"You're as much a mystery to me as you were before last night," Mor said, "Well, not everything."
He smirked. Tristan sputtered and turned away from him, but Mor reached up to take his hand before he could get far.
"Please don't be afraid of me," he said, serious again. "Please don't think the worst of me. I just—I only want to know you, Tristan. I...I think you're...."
Tristan watched Mor stammer out the confession, watched as a flush crept up his neck and face with every word. All the scars turned white over the pink. Whatever had wrapped around his heart loosened.
"You said they tell stories," Tristan said quietly, "You said they called my mother mysterious."
"She did disappear, didn't she? I'd say that was very mysterious."
Tristan swallowed the lump in his throat. He had never spoken to anyone of this. But suddenly he wanted, with great, burning certainty, for Mor to understand. For him to know.
"She…she wasn't. Mysterious, I mean. And she didn't disappear. My father just didn't let anyone see her. She fell ill and it…it changed her face. She was half paralyzed."
Tristan took a great gulp of air, steadying himself.
"He locked her away for most of my childhood. Then, he…when I was still young, he made up some ridiculous charge, accused her of adultery. He had her executed. No one is allowed to speak of it."
Tristan felt breathless with the confession of it, and suddenly sick. Mor said nothing for a long time, regarding him quietly, his face betraying nothing. A minute passed, and just as Tristan began to regret everything, Mor finally spoke.
"Please," he said once again, "Won't you come here?"
Tristan hesitated, then sank to his knees in front of him. Mor brushed a lock of hair back from his forehead, his gracile fingers like ice as they traced the sharp bone of his cheek. Tristan flinched at the touch, not from the cold.
"Oh, Tristan," he murmured, "You're still afraid?"
Tristan hung his head in shame, pulling at his hand half-heartedly, but Mor just gripped it tighter. Slowly, watching his face very carefully for any sign of true distress, Mor brushed the hand that wasn't gripping Tristan's to brush his thumb against Tristan's high cheekbone, tracing the curve.
"Is this alright?" The question was just a murmur, more of a breath that Tristan felt than heard.
"Yes," Tristan breathed.
"I don't want to scare you."
"I'm not afraid," he ground out stubbornly, but his voice sounded half-hearted and petulant.
"It's alright," Mor soothed, holding his face between both hands now. "It's alright, Tristan. I won't hurt you."
Lower and lower Mor pulled him, until they laid alongside each other. Mor kissed him, and Tristan felt something bleed away from him. He gasped a dry sob and clutched at Mor as years of fear and loneliness, delusion and paranoia pooled beneath them.
Mor didn't let him go until the flood was forgotten.
“I don’t think I’ve seen anything like this. Where did it all come from?”
“This room was a chapel,” Tristan replied monotonously to the rafters. A little starling had flown in and was fluttering to and fro among the beams, lost. “Or a library. A long time ago.”
“Hmm. Strange. Wouldn’t it be better used tactically? We could station archers here,” Mor stopped when he caught sight of Tristan glaring at the ceiling. “Or not! Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
Mor curled up on the windowsill, fitting better than Tristan ever did. He was small, probably as underfed Tristan was, and Tristan could attest that Mor’s bones felt as sharp as they looked. He balanced the book on his knees, his eyes bright as he looked through the pages.
“Look at this!” He stopped at one illustration of some exotic, long-necked beast that Tristan did not know the name of, or if it truly existed at all. “It’s so bizarre! Does such an animal really exist? And look, just look at how small the man is in comparison! Do such things really live in the world?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Ahh, it’s so strange, I’ll have a nightmare about it. I’d like to see it myself one day. Can you read this? Does it say where it is, where to find it?”
He pushed the page towards him.
“Most of these are in a dead language. I don’t know what it says.”
“Is that so? That’s a shame.” Mor’s smile turned soft, and Tristan stared at him, flummoxed, as Mor traced the dark lines of ink.
“You know, the Tower is the farthest I’ve traveled from my home. So far you’re the strangest creature I’ve met,” Mor winked at him, “Oh!”
The starling that had gotten lost in the ceiling flew down to the sill beside him.
“Hello there,” Mor said to it, “If you’re here, then spring must be on its way. Look, Tristan! Your title becomes you. He really does look just like you.”
Tristan looked over at the little bird. Its feathers were iridescent black, and it stared at Mor with doleful eyes.
“I’m sorry, little starling,” Mor cooed over the top of his knees, “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to eat.”
The bird escaped between the shards of stained glass and disappeared into the mist. Tristan’s stomach rumbled, and he thought Mor was going to fall out of the window he laughed so hard.
Mor set the book aside and went over to where Tristan still lay, gathering Tristan’s dark cloak as he went.
“Come, my strange creature, my overgrown starling,” he said, offering a hand, “Let’s find something to eat.”
Comments (9)
See all