I may not always know what's right, but I know I want you here tonight.

Being pushed away was akin to being stabbed. Both began with a sharp intake of breath before the pain kicked in: a quick burst to the heart before slowly spreading outwards. Tristan’s hand was sharper than a knife. Mallos released him immediately, dropping one hand to his knee and lifting the other to his head. He’d already run his fingers through his hair with such frequency in the last twenty-four hours that they slotted into pre-existing grooves. As the tips of his fingers touched his scalp, he felt a slight tremor in them. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep his breathing steady and not wince out loud.

Mostly as a way to keep moving, he shifted his position slightly. He put one hand on the ground behind Tristan’s back and leant heavily against it, shifting his legs to a slightly more side-down position. Silence stretched between them. Mallos made a concerted effort not to fidget.

He waited, letting his grandson find the words. When they came, it was like another knife wound.

“Tristan.” Mallos fought the urge to hug him again and closed his eyes for a brief moment. He’d always been good with words – had always known exactly what to say – but now they just wouldn’t come. After everything – the murder, the betrayal, the eviction – he blamed himself. “It is not your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His mouth felt like sandpaper. The words sounded hollow, even to him – probably because he understood, to a certain extent, what Tristan was feeling. In his mind’s eye he was back in the centre of the Earth, amid the chaos of useless smashing bottles and soaring bat-creatures. He remembered, as clearly as if it had only happened moments before, locking eyes with Aura and seeing the answer there. He remembered chasing her across the shifting floor, closing in, fingers an inch from her waist – right before she leapt over the side. He didn’t remember being pulled back from the edge by Allianah, but he did remember the aftermath. The alcohol, the fights, the unnecessary risk-taking. Anything to forget. Anything to distract.

What had he needed to hear, then? It hadn’t mattered much. He’d locked himself away from almost everyone and hadn’t believed the few who had been able and willing to share words of comfort. It wasn’t until he’d re-worked the scenario in his head a thousand times – seen it from every angle – agonised over every detail – that he’d been able to find some acceptance.

“There was nothing you could have done.” He said softly, echoing words Sperantia had once told him. “If you’d stayed you would have died. If you’d died – ” his throat caught; it didn’t bear thinking about “ – part of me would have died with you.”

Mallos
I've learned enough to know I'm never letting go