He and Mor were currently sitting together on the windowsill, back to back. Mor was distracted by a game of cards that he could play by himself, unable to tempt Tristan away from brooding and staring moodily out at nothing, as Mor had put it.
"The fog never goes away," Tristan muttered, "In this hideous place."
Mor hummed thoughtfully, not looking up from his cards.
"It is not so terrible, don't be so dramatic. The Tower is certainly an atrocity of architecture, sure. But plenty of things grow out there in the bog. There are lots of animals, too. You just have to get up close. It's actually quite beautiful, in its way."
Tristan had only ever seen it and a sea of quivering moss and mud.
"What was your home like?"
"The village? It's fine, I suppose. A little boring. When they gave me that message to bring here, I nearly ran the entire way," he laughed, "Not even that arrow could stop me."
Mor had come close to dying before they'd even met. Tristan turned and hugged the knight to his chest, tracing his thumb over the new scar, and Mor leaned his head back for a kiss.
"Why would you want to come to the Tower?" Tristan said as they parted, "There isn't anything interesting here."
"You're here, no?" Mor said, smiling up at him, "The Starling's Cage."
Mor said it like the title of a song, and Tristan blushed, reminded that there were all kinds of rumors about this place, about him. He found it strange and very, very unwarranted.
But Mor just smirked at his reaction and then went back to fiddling with the cards, staring at them with slightly narrowed eyes.
"The way they speak of the Tower, it all seemed like something out of a legend. As it turns out, it's just a place, isn't it?"
"Yes," Tristan agreed quietly, looking out at the gray, "It is just a place."
"Though the prince is still just as mysterious as they say," Mor said, turning again, his hand creeping like a spider towards Tristan's fingers.
Tristan's cheeks warmed. "I'm not."
"And just as beautiful," Mor grinned.
Tristan put his face in his hands. "Stop, Mor."
Mor pulled at his wrists, ducking his head to see underneath them. "You're such a sweet, shy thing. Whoever will you talk to when I'm gone? How I hate to leave you here in this boring old pile of rocks."
Tristan froze and peeked at him from over his fingers.
"You're leaving?"
Mor tilted his head. "Well, I can't stay here forever. I'll leave in the spring."
Tristan felt like the rope he'd been clinging to had just been cut. He was caught in the current, drifting farther and farther from shore. Swallowing, he tucked a strand of Mor's hair behind his ear, revealing another scar that cut through his brow and curled across his cheek and jaw. He was lucky to still have his eye.
How much longer did he have before his luck ran out?
"Mor," Tristan whispered, heart in his throat, "Won't you...won't you stay? Ah, I mean, if you would like to..."
Mor regarded him silently as he stuttered, his dark brows furrowed. A very faint smile tugged at his lips, and he looked at Tristan like he was either the most pitiful or most confusing thing he'd ever seen. He interrupted Tristan's babble by grabbing his chin in one hand, as if to get a better look at which one he was.
"You said it was always gray here," Mor said, "Don't you know why?"
"N-no. Tell me," Tristan looped his arms around Mor's waist, keeping him close while he still could, "Please."
Mor leaned in and whispered the story to him, his breath hot in his ear.
"Long ago, there was a tower, a black and lonely spire that stretched up above the beautiful and sunny moor. A woman lived alone in this tower. She was trapped, abandoned by her family who had bricked up the doors, locking her inside."
"Why?" Tristan asked, "Why did they trap her there?"
"Nobody knows, Tristan. It's only a legend."
Tristan pushed his face into Mor's warm shoulder, breathing in the scent of cloves and smoke. Mor's hand came up to cup the back of his neck, his thumb smoothing over his skin.
"The woman spent her days wandering up and down the tower, searching for a way out. She searched until her feet bled and broke. One night, a fog rolled across the moor, blanketing it in gray, and a man appeared at the tower. He broke his way through the bricks and found the girl standing there, with her bare and bloody feet.
Come, he said, offering his hand. I will take you from this place.
I can't, she replied, terrified of this stranger. My feet are ruined and I can not walk.
I will carry you, then.
The woman was suspicious. Where did the man come from? Where would he take her?
Come, said the man, and he started towards her.
She was so afraid that as he drew close, the woman pulled a dagger from her skirts and cut his throat."
"She killed him?"
"Shh, not yet," Mor chided, "As if unwilling to believe what she had just done, the man pressed his fingers to the wound. When they came away covered in blood, he looked at her with such sadness that she went insane with guilt, and pressed the dagger into her own heart.
They fell next to each other, and with her last breath, the woman begged his forgiveness.
I forgive you, he told her. If you can not walk and I can not carry you, I will stay here with you.
And so, the mist wrapped around the tower, and the sun never shone on the moor again."
Tristan hated the story but didn't tell Mor that. He drew back and kissed him, instead.
"I'll stay," Mor said, smiling against Tristan's lips, "And you won't even have to kill me."
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