The dead stood vigil at his bedside all through the night, determined to rob him of his rest. The bed was too soft, the borrowed room too quiet and the swan-down pillows belonged on the floor. His body ached with exhaustion, but his mind refused to settle. He saw his father, standing in the tower with his bloody shirt. The image seemed burned into the back of his eye. Would he never be free of it? Hovering on the edges of sleep, he looked down at his hands, clasped against the blankets, and blood dripped from his fingertips. Would they never be clean? Slipping back into his dreams, he watched his uncle launch himself from the clifftop, heard Angmar’s scream anew. Grayson peered up at him along a dark tunnel, his eyes wide, lost, betrayed. Tristan grunted in frustration and rolled over, reaching for peace. He found Gaiane instead; saw her tear-stained face and blue-eyed Loholt in her arms, Mordred in miniature. They faded, replaced by the grandeur of the great hall. Tristan held Mordred’s knife in his hand and plunged it into his uncle’s shoulder. His head snapped up. Morgana watched him, her face deathly pale, blood bubbling over the pink line of her lip.

“You want to join the party, Gwythr?” Tristan demanded of the blackness, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

He sat up and reached for the decanter on his bedside table, hands shaking as he tried to steady the glass. Celidon snored on the rug by the fireplace.

Some victory.

A knock on the door roused him from his restless sleep. It was strange, having doors again.

“Enter!” he called, and the door opened. A young man shuffled into the room, carrying a tray. He bowed and set the tray on Tristan’s lap, then turned, picked up his dirty glass and bowed again.

“Thank you,” Tristan smiled, pleased when the boy grinned. With that, he spun on his heel and damaged, leaving Tristan to his breakfast. He tossed a piece of bread to his familiar

As he picked at his food, an older man stepped into the room, filled the silver bowl on the dresser with water from a jug, set the jug down and opened the curtains. Tristan squinted against the glare of the sunlight.

He drew the line when a third man appeared with his clothes and offered to help him dress. Tristan climbed out of his bed and began to dress himself, only to discover that he couldn’t manage to lace the sleeves to his own doublet, and to his irritation, was forced to summon the boy back. How had they made him new clothes so quickly? He’d forgotten what silk felt like.

Finally ready to face the day, Tristan sat down on the corner of the bed and held his head in his hands. The day was as difficult to face as the night. There were things he needed to do, people he needed to see, things he needed to say, all of it difficult. All he wanted to do was sleep. No, not all...he wondered where Elina was.

First things first.

Forcing himself to his feet, he made for the door and left the room behind. When he felt better, he’d go and see the mess Mordred had made of his father’s chambers. But not today. Today was a day of reparation, not destruction.

Celidon, knowing their business, led the way along the corridors and up the stairs. He sat outside the chamber door, his eyes on the door handle. Tristan stopped, steadied himself despite the anxious pounding of his heart, and knocked.

“Gray?” he called, “it’s me. Can I come in?”

Concerned by the silence on the other side, he turned the handle, and found the door unlocked. He stepped over the threshold into the darkness of the room beyond, frowning at the dark shape on the bed. He smiled at Era as Celidon pushed passed him to bump noses with her.

Tristan sunk down into the armchair by the window and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

“I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me,” he said gently, “and I’ve got to tell you, I’m damn comfy.”

put all your faults to bed

TristaN

you can be king again