On one afternoon, despite Tristan's lethargic, despondent nature, Mor managed to tempt him into a spar. Swords wrapped in layers of linen, they circled each other as Mor chattered. He liked to fill Tristan in on the various scraps of gossip and stories he'd accumulated from the week, still as social as ever.

"And then he said—" Mor deepened his voice in an impression of Bran, "'Morgan, you'll never grow if you don't train.' Wait until I tell him that I got you to train with me. I'm not convinced it'll help, though. I'm already twenty-seven. I think the only growing I have left is out, not up!"

Tristan waited for Mor to laugh at his own joke and then lunged, but Mor blocked him easily. Despite Tristan's height bearing down on him, Mor was stronger, forcing his sword back up against him. He didn't let up, pressing inch after inch, until their faces were so close that if Tristan leaned just a bit further over their swords—

"Speaking of Bran," Mor said, his grin slightly feral, "Did you know? He and Nest are having an affair."

His eyes widened and Mor took the opportunity. Tristan's weapon flew out of his hand, spinning across the flagstones and clamoring to a stop against the far wall.

Tristan watched it go, his chest heaving.

"Is that true?" Tristan asked breathlessly, "That's—"

"Rather dangerous game for them to play, I know," Mor smirked, "Bran must be as brave as I."

Suddenly Mor winced, sucking in a sharp hiss of air through his teeth.

"Oh!" Tristan gasped, going to him, "Forgive me, did I get you? Mor?"

"Ha! You wish."

He held out his sword and Tristan took it without having to be asked, setting it aside. When he returned, Mor used one hand to steady himself on Tristan, the other to clutch at his shoulder.

"It was broken, once, never healed the same. Someone crushed it while I was down."

Mor cursed, turning away from Tristan, and made his way over to sit in some of the hay.

"Let us take a break, shall we? Come here."

Tristan hurried over to him, bracing an arm around his shoulders for support. Mor immediately locked into his side, like he was made to fit there. He rested his head on his shoulder.

"You overdid it." Tristan chided softly.

"Just wanted to show off for you, my Lord," Mor said. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his shoulder. "Ah, it burns. My shoulder, my arm, my legs… they've all been broken. Or shot. Or stabbed. Or burned. If I overexert myself it sometimes feels like they never healed at all."

"How in the world do you fight like that?"

"Ah, well, on the battlefield, your blood runs so hot you can't feel much of anything, can you? I'm sure you've felt that."

Tristan had. The rush of blood in his ears, making it seem as though he was underwater, the sounds around him dull and warped as he watched men fall around him—

"Yes. Yes, I've felt it."

"Bran says that I must be immortal, with how many wounds I've survived. But the pain always catches up. I try to make myself scarce when it gets like this."

"Why? We have doctors. I'm sure they could give you something to help."

"I have a reputation to uphold. I like that they call me immortal," he grinned, "Doesn't it make me sound like some kind of hero? That's how I want them to remember me. To kill a man like me, why, you'd have to cut off my very head. And even then, I think I could pull it off, running about blind."

Tristan recoiled.

"I'm only joking, Starling," he said, "Don't look at me like that."

"You shouldn't say such things. What an awful vision."

"Oh? I think it's rather comedic." He took Tristan's fist, and used his index finger to draw a line across his own throat. Tristan winced, tried to take his hand back, but Mor held it firm.

"Imagine how frightened the enemy would be, Tristan," he whispered, rasping low in Tristan's ear, "The ones I didn't kill would go back to their homes and tell everyone about the knight that would not die. Maybe he's still out there, wandering the battlefield, they'd say. Maybe they'd write a song about me, too."

Tristan brushed a lock of hair from the man's face, frowning at the dangerous expression he was wearing.

"I'd rather one about you while you were still alive."

"We can't all be as mysterious and compelling creative subjects as you, Starling. You know? When I first saw you, I was delirious. I had been out in the snow for hours. All I could see was white. And then, when they let me in...the Hall was so dark, and you were sitting there, half in shadow. I knew who you were right away."

"What?" Tristan said quietly, marveling. "You were the one that blew in with the storm, like you were the snow itself come to life."

"Oh, now that's some poetry—Was I so very striking?"

"It would make a much better song than a beheaded knight."

"Are you sure? What about if it was about the both of us? The Starling and his knight, fighting by his side even in death. A song about two shadows. Hmm?"

Tristan cupped the side of his neck, appreciating the contrast of his darker skin against Mor's pale. He slowly pressed his thumb into his pulse, felt it flutter wild and warm beneath him.

"I hate that idea."

Mor laughed.

"Oh, Starling. How different you are than I thought you would be. You may be a shadow, but you're so kind. Even now, holding me like this. Why?"

"Why?" Tristan repeated, lost. Then, incredulously, "A shadow?"

"Yes, always skulking around in the dark corners of rooms. It's why they call you what they do. But you're so gentle. Still...I mean, look at me," Mor tucked himself into Tristan's broad chest, hiding his face, "You don't have to be so...So careful. With me. I'm not used to it."

Tristan could hear just the slightest tremble in his voice, and a wave of clarity crashed through him.

He pressed a firm kiss to Mor's hair and pulled him out from his hiding place. Holding the man's face in both hands, he desperately searched for the words to convey what his heart was nearly bursting with. Mor was strong, stronger than he'd ever be, in more ways than one. He'd saved him that day on the battlefield, and he'd pulled him out of hiding. Did Mor have anyone to do the same for him?

For once, Tristan did not feel useless.

"Mor," he whispered, "Mor. It's okay. You don't have to hurt anymore. Not here. I won't hurt you. I promise."

I love you, he didn't say, I'll protect you.

Mor stared at him, his mouth wobbling, seeming not to know what expression to make. He closed his eyes tight and pressed a smiling kiss to his lips.

Mor wrapped his arms around his neck and Tristan held him close, as close as he could bring him. He held the body that had been broken and burned and cut to pieces, then sewn back together just to be sent out to be shattered once again. He felt Mor sigh shakily, going limp and relaxed in his arms.

"A relief," Mor whispered, "To have something that doesn't hurt."