Read The Ardent Dead :: The First Day

You left me there.
You left me.
You've forgotten me.
I'll crush your bones up.
I'll drink your blood up.
I'll keep you in pieces next to me,
Tristan.

The tears that fell down the ghost's face were warm, somehow.

Tristan was still wedged in the corner he'd shoved himself in, staring ahead at nothing, lost in the memory of a knight with sunlight-white hair. At the height of Tristan's most miserable years, that man had come to him, had reached for his hand, had refused to let him be alone.

The knight had been so strong, then, despite being so small and his body so broken. His smile had been so bright. But in the end, it hadn't mattered.

I killed him. I killed him.

Tristan recited the admission over and over in his mind until his tears dried and his heart went cold and hardened once again.

It was better to forget.

Shaking off the last dregs of the memory, Tristan stood.

He couldn't hear the Wretch any longer. He didn't know if it was still pursuing him now that it had agreed to his plea for time, but he couldn't risk it. He had to hurry, had to find a way out.

Tristan had thought that he had been awoken to be punished, to be hunted by whatever the Wretch was. But no: This was his chance. Why else would such a monstrous thing bargain with him? Perhaps it was only sent to wake him, incentivize him, and chase him from this grave into a more pleasant one.

He could only imagine that some power was granting him mercy. For how could he find peace if he spent eternity in the place he hated the most?

He shivered and wrapped his cloak around him tight, surveying the room he had run into.

It was the kitchen, or what remained of it, anyhow. The hearth was the only thing left, stripped of the shining pots and drying herbs that once hung there. Gone was the warm glow of the fire, the scent of bread and peppercorn. Gone was the rough oak table and the bench that the knight had once slid across, huddling as close as he could to Tristan's elbow, kissing the taste of fig from his mouth.

He did not realize he was hyperventilating until he realized that his gasps were not the only ones in the room.

From somewhere behind him, a woman was crying softly.

"Nest?" he whispered, voice trembling with hope. He looked around him, but there was no one.

"Don't do this," her voice said, sounding simultaneously close and far, an echo, "He wouldn't want—"

Tristan pressed his hands to his eyes, unable to tell whether the voice was a memory, or if some form of the young woman was with him.

"You don't understand," Tristan replied to the empty room, voice breaking on the words, "I had to. I had to kill him."

Tristan noticed something then, lying in the thick layer of ash and dust on the hearth: Sprigs of plant that shared a passing resemblance to rosemary rested upon a piece of cloth, as fresh as the day they were cut. Beside them was a small, folded knife, shining silver and so, so familiar.

He could smell the stew he'd once made here. Nest hadn't even needed to help him: the skills he'd picked up thanks to the knight being considerate of him had proved useful after all. He could still smell the thick, gamey odor of the mutton, decomposing and rancid, and the deep satisfaction he had felt at a meal well-preprepared.

He had not even choked when he added the not-rosemary.

Despite himself, Tristan smiled at the memory. The expression was strange on him, a lopsided and twisted pull of muscles that didn't suit his face. Hysteric.

Nest began to wail.

"Beloved, beloved," the Wretch called, and Nest's voice faded, "Where have you gone? I am starved for you, my Starling."