Poor Nest, he thought, not for the first time. After what Mor had told him, the girl was the subject of tonight's worries. He barely knew her, but she had been kind to him, and anyone who had to suffer his father had
Tristan's pity. And she was like family to Mor.
It was dangerous what she and Bran were doing. He knew how easily his father threw people away, and for far more innocent transgressions.
Still, Tristan thought, Bran is kind. A good man. If they can manage to keep their relationship a secret, it could be alright. Good for her.
He closed his eyes and scooted closer to Mor, more than ready to fall asleep.
A blissful moment of peace passed before his eyes snapped open again.
Did Nest tell him herself? Or did Mor hear about the affair through the Tower's gossip? The knight liked to talk, but he wasn't foolish enough to spread a rumor like that around.
Of course not. If Mor couldn't keep a secret, he wouldn't be in Tristan's bed.
His heart like ice, Tristan wondered how the knight had managed to evade any kind of suspicion regarding their own relationship.
They'd been inseparable in the last weeks, and that was definitely out of character for Tristan. That alone would have been fodder for gossip, but the two also kept to themselves, out of sight. Mor still made the rounds, made an occasional appearance for a game of cards or whatever the Tower's residents did to pass the time. But for someone as extroverted as Mor to disappear with Tristan for days at a time...
"You're thinking too loud," Mor groaned. The man flipped over and fixed Tristan with a concerned stare.
"You're awake," Tristan said intelligently.
"Yes. Please go to sleep. I can't sleep until you sleep."
"Why not?"
"Because I worry for you, of course. I can't exactly go off to dream and leave you to languish. What are you fretting over, anyway?"
"Mor," Tristan started, unable to stop the worry that tore at his chest, "Mor, how did you find out about Nest and Bran? Does anyone else know?"
Mor raised a single eyebrow.
"Of course not. I figured it out myself," he said, "The two of them should really be more careful. It's obvious. Or it would be, if anyone in this place would bother to look anyone in the eye. You know, people are friendly enough here, but there is a rather trepidatious atmosphere. Strange place, overall."
Mor seemed to get lost in thought for a moment. He'd taken one of Tristan's hands and was rubbing it between his own, warming it. Tristan hadn't realized how cold he was.
"I only told you because I trust you, Tristan. If anyone found out...they'd both..."
Tristan's stomach turned.
"I know."
An uncomfortable silence fell between them, the horror of the potential bearing down upon them. Tristan watched Mor bite his lip as he worried for his friends, and a wave of guilt crashed over him.
Tristan had let his anxieties bleed out, infect the closest person, and now they were both consumed by fear.
Just as he opened his mouth to apologize, Mor looked up at him. His eyes were clear and determined, a slight smirk curling the corner of his mouth.
"They'll be fine," he said definitively, "No one will even spare them a second glance. They're far from the most exciting story going around, after all."
Tristan swallowed. "You and I?"
"That's right, Starling. We're giving them enough material to last weeks."
"Wh-what do they say?"
"They think it's good that you have a friend," Mor said, his smile mischievous, "And I am just so charitable enough to keep you company. How kind of me to humor you, they say."
Struck with shame, Tristan felt his face burn and tears prick the corner of his eyes. He shifted deeper under the coverlet.
"I...I didn't know they hated me so."
"Ha! Oh, stop. That's not it. It's just that they mistake your silence for coldness. They only like the idea of a charming creature such as myself rubbing off on you. What do you think? Is it working? Ha."
Mor brushed the back of his fingers along Tristan's jaw, holding his gaze. Tristan wanted to turn away and bury himself in the bedding, but he held still for him.
"I don't know how they don't see it," Mor said wonderingly, searching his face.
Tristan could take it no longer and turned his head into the pillow, hiding.
"See what, Mor?" he asked, voice muffled, "How miserable I am? How wretched?"
Mor laughed, not unkindly. He stroked the back of his head and leaned forward to whisper in his ear.
"Your eyes. How they watch every little thing. How they burn. You want so much, I know, I can see it," Mor kissed his temple, "There's so much for you to see. I can show you."
Tristan finally turned back to him, peeking above the covers to meet the knight's eyes.
"Exactly," Mor breathed. He pulled Tristan fully out of hiding and kissed him.
Later, they curled together under Tristan's blankets, legs tangled and worries forgotten. Mor seemed to be about to nod off, but the knight was still adamant that he wouldn't sleep until Tristan did.
"Say, Tristan," Mor said from where his head lay on Tristan's chest, "Have you read all those books in that little room of yours?"
"Not all. Some are in a language I don't understand, and some are so old I am afraid they may crumble if I try to open them."
"How thoughtful," Mor replied, his smile soft, "Tell me about your favorite, then."
Of course, Tristan could not tell him about the stories about Death personified leading maidens to their demise. Only Tristan could find comfort in such a grim thing.
But there was one poem, an epic about an ancient king, a Greek, who had conquered the world long, long ago.
He told Mor as much as he could remember. Mor listened, eyes sleepy but warm and attentive. He gasped at frightening moments and laughed at the humorous. But the story was very long, and Mor grew heavier and heavier, so Tristan kissed his forehead and pulled the covers more securely over his shoulders.
"No, no," Mor protested, stifling a yawn, "Please, I'm not tired. Keep going, my love."
Tristan smiled. It was faint, but Mor's eyes widened at the sight and immediately kissed it as though it was a rare and precious thing to be captured.
"The ending is a bit sad, anyways," Tristan told him, "Maybe later."
Mor made an irritated little sound, a quiet huff.
"As you wish. A Pagan, hmm," he whispered, eyes closed again, "Reminds me of the bathhouse."
"Bathhouse?"
"Mmhm. The Pagans built it. You know, the Romans. Or giants, depending on who you believe," he nuzzled into his chest, finally closing his eyes.
"I'd like to see it someday."
"Wait," he said slowly, "What do you mean? You've never seen it?"
"I...No?"
Mor looked at him strangely, his brows furrowed as if he was trying to solve a very confusing puzzle.
"But...but it's right outside. The Tower is practically on top of it," Mor said, "Ah! Is it because the soldiers bathe there? My Starling, so shy."
"N-no. I've... I've never even heard of it."
Mor sat up, all sleepiness shed in an instant. He wiggled out from the blankets, gathering the clothing that they'd left littered across the floor.
"Well, come then! You must see it. And there won't be anyone there at this hour. We'll have it to ourselves," Mor said, his eyes glimmering in excitement.
Tristan blushed, seeing something a little warmer underneath the look.
"I...I can't. I can't leave the Tower."
"Hmm?" he said, busy with his belt, "What's that?"
"I'm forbidden to leave, unless my father sends me to fight."
Mor's fingers stilled, and he slowly looked up to meet Tristan's eyes. He searched them a moment, his head tilted to the side, something he tended to do when Tristan said something he found especially perplexing.
"And why would that be?"
"I told you what happened to my mother. After that, I tried to run. I didn't get far," Tristan said, "I haven't been allowed outside since."
Mor looked like he very much wanted to say something, but whatever it was, he bit it back.
"Let's risk it. It's practically part of the Tower, so technically you won't be leaving," Mor said, throwing him his cloak, "Don't worry, Starling. I'll take full responsibility."
Comments (5)
See all