The Wretch's screams echoed behind him as he rushed up the spiraling staircases of the Tower, through corridors and chambers where the walls had crumbled, where the ceilings had collapsed, that were barely recognizable to the man who had spent his entire life within them.
He could not go back to the Hall. To double back meant risking meeting the Wretch again or seeing what had been done to the old man who he had mistaken for his father. Tristan was forced higher and higher up the crumbling ruin, searching for a way to finally, finally be free.
Tristan did not think it possible for it to become any bleaker, but the Tower always seemed to meet his expectations for being awful. It had only grown darker and colder in the years (Decades? Centuries?) after his death. Scraps of moth-eaten tapestry hung limp against the walls, so stained with smoke and dust they appeared entirely black. The remnants of broken furniture lay scattered about, waterlogged and rotting, perches for pale fungi and moss that crept in from outside.
Despite his fear, Tristan looked at it all with a smug sort of gladness at its decay. Let it rot. Let the earth take it, brick by terrible brick, and claim it for its own. Let the Tower disappear into the mud and mist that surrounded it.
He was not surprised that it had been abandoned. By the time he died, there had been so few left.
Tristan had surrendered the Tower and their land to the neighboring kingdom the very day he gained the power to do so. It was his first and last order as a king. He couldn't allow more life to be lost by continuing his father's hopeless cling to power.
It was too late, of course. Too late for those who had already died in the bog. Too late for the knight. And it was, of course, too late for Tristan.
He was allowed to stay at the Tower, but also given the opportunity to leave. But he couldn't. He was tethered to it, as if by some invisible string. He couldn't bring himself to leave it or the voice that whispered to him from the dark.
A few remained by his side. Soldiers and servants who knew nothing else continued to serve him, grateful that the fighting was over at last. They brought their families to stay there and, now that they no longer had to cross a battlefield, merchants brought food and the supplies to grow more.
Spring came to the Tower, but Tristan did not feel any of its warmth.
Life happened around him. He often sat in his father's chair, his eyes fixed on the entrance doors. Nest and Bran would sit with him, talk to him, will him to eat.
He will come soon, Tristan had murmured to them on a cold day, With the snow.
Oh, Tristan. Poor Tristan, Nest had cried, and Bran covered his eyes to hide his tears. Where are you now?
"Tristan!" the Wretch called, "Where are you, where have you gone?"
Tristan hurried onwards. His memory may have been broken, but his mind felt clearer than it had in ages. He could do this. This was his chance. He could finally be free.
There were very few windows in the Tower. Instead, there were countless arrow loops, thin slits in the walls that were too narrow to pass. The stone around some of them had crumbled away, and Tristan found one large enough that even he could fit through. It wasn't too high up, and perhaps, if he was careful, he could climb down, find footholds in the stone...
And then what?
The mist of the bog was thicker than he'd ever seen it, but he could see the muddy gray shapes of trees and the pale disk of the sun behind the clouds. He thought of the stories the knight once told him, of the bog haunted by spirits.
I suppose I shall join them, then, he thought wryly.
Tristan reached forward. The freezing air outside the walls was so cold it stung the tips of his fingers, and he flinched. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but he grit his teeth and pushed forward, reaching farther and farther into the mist.
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