Tristan stared up at the ceiling, Celidon breathing heavily on the mattress beside him. The darkness pressed in, the air oppressive and stale. Sighing, he shuffled out from beneath the covers, tiptoed across the floor and opened the window. Leaning out into the fresh air, he stared down at the drop below and took a deep breath. The night winds cooled his cheeks and ruffled his hair, and he lingered there until his eyes began to water from the cold. Withdrawing back into the room he turned and found Celidon watching him. Offering the cu-sith a smile, he sat down on the bed and scratched the cu-sith’s ears. A growl of pleasure rumbled in Cel’s throat. Tristan smiled, scanning the room.

It was plain and small, but serviceable. He hadn’t had the stomach to visit the family rooms. Everything about the castle was wrong. The staff had finally finished taking down all of Mordred’s banners and portraits, and the paining of Arthur had been restored to its rightful place in the entrance hall, but it still didn’t feel right. He was a guest in his own home, his father’s presence all but erased. Anger stirred deep in his gut. There’d be no sleeping now. Quietly, so as not to wake Thoth, sleeping quietly on a trundle bed perpendicular to Tristan’s four-poster, he began to pace.

It was no use.

“Thoth!” he hissed, crouching down beside his friend and shaking his shoulder. “Thoth! I need you to get up. I can’t sleep.”

When he was satisfied Thoth was awake, Tristan climbed onto the trolley and sat cross-legged by his friend’s feet.

“I think I’m making myself crazy,” he complained, fidgeting with the hem of Thoth’s blanket. “Or Mordred’s making me crazy from beyond the grave. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

He sighed and flopped back against the foot of his bed, using it as support for his back.

“I need this place to stop feeling like its his,” he continued, Celidon snuffling at his ear. “I need to feel like father’s here and that everything’s the way it was supposed to be.”

He growled in frustration as hot tears bubbled up behind his eyes.

“Fuck’s sake,” he snarled, batting one away as it crept down the side of his nose. “When’s it going to stop feeling like shit, Thoth?” he asked, snatching his hands back and digging his nails into his palms. His gaze drifted to the decanter in the corner of the room.

“Come on!” he said suddenly, jumping to his feet and striding to the door. He threw it open and gestured Thoth through it. “Let’s go destroy stuff.” Tristan grinned, boyish and bright, almost entirely his old self.

“Wait!” he enthused, bouncing to his bedside table. He pulled open the drawer and produced a box of matches. “Now we’re ready,” he beamed, padding bare-foot into the corridor beyond, Celidon on his heels.

put all your faults to bed

TristaN

you can be king again