Their fingers laced as they crept down the winding stairs of Tower, to the Hall. Tristan could hear the snores of the soldiers and servants who slept there and swallowed nervously, but Mor just led him over to a small door in the corner that Tristan had never paid much attention to. He knew it led outside, and therefore it was irrelevant to him.

Mor opened it and stepped through, but Tristan froze. He couldn't see anything beyond the doorway.

"Come," Mor said gently.

He was watching Tristan's face, searching his face for a sign that Tristan didn't want this, that he wanted to go back. Their joint hands hovered over the threshold, and Mor pulled at him. Not harshly, not demanding. A question.

Will you follow me? Do you trust me?

Tristan grasped Mor's hand tighter. He ducked his head and stepped forward.

The Tower was built on a large, rocky outcrop, and the steep stairs that Mor led him down were carved from the granite. They picked their way down in the dark, curving along the Tower wall, careful not to slip on the muddy slush left from the last snow.

"There it is," Mor pointed, "You see? It isn't far at all."

The knight gestured to an enormous briar bush growing against the base of the Tower, its thorny vines covered in frost and crimson rosehips.

Confused, Tristan squinted until he finally saw it: a crumbling column, the bright marble shining in the moonlight, rising from the twining branches.

Tristan's heart raced as they ducked underneath the thorny vines covering the entrance and into the ruin.

Tristan was immediately struck by a heavy sense of stillness. The air was different here, stale and warm. The silence of the chamber seemed to be a physical thing that weighed down upon him.

Too stunned to speak, Tristan wandered from Mor's side. He studied the crumbling plaster walls, their bright ochre pigment still vibrant, and the remnants of the marble columns hidden by moss and vines. At the chamber's center was a small pool, built from what seemed to be a natural, steaming spring. The water was dark, but the rippling surface reflected the moonlight and Tristan watched it glimmer, awed.

It occurred to him that although they were just outside the Tower, he was farther from home than he'd ever been. Centuries away.

He was too lost in thought to notice Mor until he was in front of him, smirking, something sharp and hungry in his amber eyes.

He pulled Tristan towards him by his belt.

"Thank you," Tristan murmured, "Thank you for bringing me here."

Mor didn't answer. He knelt in front of him but Tristan hated when he did that, so he followed him down, clinging. Mor huffed a laugh but wrapped his arms around his shoulders. An indulgent man, eternally patient.

He mouthed at Tristan's jaw. Maybe not so patient.

"Isn't it wonderful, this place?" Mor whispered conversationally as Tristan slipped his hands under his tunic. "Perhaps giants really did build it. I hadn't thought the Pagans could build such sophisticated things."

"They conquered the world," Tristan replied absently.

"Now that's a compelling thought. Shall we do that as well?"

"No."

"Oh? Not like that ancient fellow you told me about?"

"I'd like to see the world, not burn it."

"Ha! Then I suppose I'll keep the tinderbox away while you marvel, Starling," Mor unpinned the clasp of his cloak, still caught in the circle of Tristan's arms, "Tell me, what happened to him? What's this tragic ending you didn't have the heart to tell me?"

Tristan didn't answer immediately. He traced the thick scars that laced Mor's narrow back, memorizing their pattern with his fingertips. One was very deep, where a chunk of his flesh had been carved out and did not heal well. He held him closer.

"He was on his way back home, but he died."

"Oh? Another battle? Or was he assassinated?"

"A fever."

"Hm. What a disappointing end. I'm surprised they call him Great."

Mor interrupted Tristan's glare by lifting his tunic above his head. The effect of the look was dampened by his ruffled hair, and Mor laughed before capturing his mouth with his own.

"N-no, he…they say he was weakened from the death of his friend some months earlier," Tristan said between kisses. He wanted Mor to feel the weight of the tragedy in the same way that he had. "His heart was broken. He wanted to follow him."

"I see," Mor hummed, tracing Tristan's collar bone. His finger dropped and tapped his heart. "Perhaps he didn't want to rule, after all."

"Not without his friend," he agreed.

Tristan didn't want to answer. It didn't matter, because Mor had moved onto his lap, and the conversation was over.

They lost track of time. Tristan always did, whenever Mor was involved.
Mor sighed his name as Tristan rocked them, careful to avoid the places he knew hurt him still. But Mor was smiling, biting down on his lip, looking blissful despite being about to create a new scar.

"Stop that," Tristan whispered, tracing his mouth with his thumb, "You'll hurt yourself."

But Mor just shook his head and clutched Tristan's shoulders as he shuddered, close.

Tristan grasped the back of his neck and brought him to the crook of his shoulder, offering the muscle to Mor's teeth.

"Please," Tristan said desperately.

Mor made a sound between a whimper and a laugh and buried himself against his neck, biting down hard as he went taut in Tristan's arms.