It was as if he had dipped his fingers in ink—the biting, frigid air turned them black with frostbite before he could blink.

Tristan snatched his hand away and stared at it in shock. There was no feeling in it. It looked—

Dead.

"Tristan," the Wretch moaned from nearby, too close, "Tristan."

Tristan clutched the frostbitten hand protectively against his chest and stumbled up the spiraling stairs, higher and higher, feeling heavy and hopeless and numb.

Nothing has changed, he thought. The Tower will not release me.

The Wretch's voice followed him. There was only one place Tristan could think to go, now.

He arrived at what was once his own chamber. The heavy wooden door had rotted away, leaving only their rusting iron hinges hanging limply on the frame. Most of the west-facing wall had fallen, and Tristan arrived just in time to see the pale sun set.

There was no false panel hiding a little door, no narrow staircase, no forgotten room he could hide from the Wretch. He ran his numb, ruined fingers along the stone wall where it should have been, wishing to go back, back to the nothingness, to return to that painful tangle of briar he'd awoken in, where he'd been able to sleep so peacefully for all these years. Even if it had only felt like a moment.

"Sh-sh-sh—"

Tristan didn't startle, didn't jump. Heart heavy, he turned. In the shadows of the corridor outside his chamber, just barely illuminated by the moonlight, two rows of pale teeth grinned at him.

"I sh-should have known you would try to hide."

Tristan took a deep, steadying breath. Although he was not wearing it, he could suddenly feel the cold weight of the iron crown atop his head.

There was no escaping the Tower, and there was nowhere to hide in the ruin. The being before him was a wretched dead thing, but so was he.

"What will you do?" Tristan asked it, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice, "If I do not remember your name by the end of the third day?"

The Wretch twitched, clicked its teeth.

"I am only being considerate of you, you awful creature," it hissed. Its voice seemed to echo from around them now, rather than forced from whatever was left of its throat. "Because I love you so. You came up with such an arbitrary measure of time, my Starling. You do know that you are dead, no? Just look at you."

Tristan glanced at his frozen hand. Aside from this, Tristan appeared entirely whole, youthful. Perhaps it could see something about Tristan that he himself could not.

It didn't matter. He wouldn't let it avoid his question.

"What do you want from me?" Tristan pressed, "It is as you said; we are already dead. What will you do if I remember your name? Will you let me go? Will I be able to leave the Tower?"

"Of course, my beloved. That's what we always wanted, wasn't it?" the Wretch's head tilted to the side, "This isn't a contest. You should thank me for being so tolerant of your unending cowardice. In three days, I will drag you from this place, whether you know me or not. I suppose I'll admit that I will be less kind if you continue this cruelty."

Tristan recalled the sounds of whatever the Wretch had done to the nameless old man in the Hall, and swallowed.

"We will rest out there, in the water, in the ditch where they threw me. I will watch you rot," the Wretch told him, "As I did."

A sudden wind passed over the bog. The clouds that had been obscuring the moon shifted, slowly stealing the shadow that had been hiding the Wretch in silvery light, revealing the extent of its horror: its wan and skeletal body was bent and twisted at unnatural angles, bones held together by nothing except leathery, peat-stained skin. It shivered and twitched as if it was an effort to stand.

The light passed over the creature like a curtain drawn, revealing countless, shining scars across its body, until finally revealing its throat and the ragged, black wound that circumvented it.

Tristan covered his mouth, stifling a gasp. He turned away, shuddering, choking down the sounds of anguish that threatened to spill past his lips.

It was him.

It was—

It was—

Who?

He huddled against the wall where that little door once was, where he used to hide from Death itself, crying out weakly as cold arms wrapped around his trembling shoulders.

"Oh, Tristan," the Wretch whispered against his ear, "Perhaps you haven't forgotten me, after all. You know me, don't you? Say my name. Say it, Tristan."

"No." Tristan gasped. No. No. No.