tristranthorn | [023] OOM - The truth about his birth

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[023] OOM - The truth about his birth

Tristran can vaguely remember the Seventh Magpie being so crowded -- it's happened only once before in his lifetime, and he had been very young then. When he makes his way back through the bar, he has to move carefully, weaving his way past people -- Wall-folk and other strangers alike -- eating (lambchops, bacon, mushrooms, fried eggs, black pudding) and drinking (ale, mead, lager) to reach the exit.

The conversation had gone strangely. Or - well. It went a lot more differently than he ever would have expected it to have gone. His original vision of this fateful day was as follows:
He would get himself back into Wall with a celestial rock in his pocket and find Victoria at her house. Or maybe in front of it (it didn't really matter so much, so long as she was there). He would bend down on one knee before her and reveal the star to her in a gallant fashion like some grand hero. And she would beam and giggle and smile at him. She would wrap her arms around him and he would kiss her and ask her to marry him and they would live happily ever after from then on.

Now, everything is different. Now not only is that dream far away, but it is nonexistent. And the very thought makes him unimaginably happier than he would have believed many months ago. Imagine being stuck here -- in some place where he really doesn't belong -- with Victoria, knowing she would never truly be happy with him. And he with her. He realizes now, quite clearly, that he really could never be happy with all of the things he once wanted. It was all a dream, an ideal his foolish mind had woven because he was young and infatuated and silly.

He is now a man, and he is a man in love. It just so happened to go all -- well, wrong (unplanned), and unexpected (a complete surprise) and ... strangely, he doesn't mind at all. His heart feels lighter.

He wants to tell her. He wants to shout it to the world --

"Tristran."

As he whirls around, his eyes land on a man far older than him rising as they meet eyes. He comes over to younger man and clasps him on the shoulder without speaking.

It is Tristran who breaks the silence. "Father," he says. "You -- you look good."

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He picks out the letter, addressed to him, and begins to straighten it. The scrawl is smooth, flowing and feminine. It's the hand of his mother. His mother...

He looks up, however, at his father's comment (feeling such a rush of gratitude for the other man), suddenly unsure what to say. All his life he'd think his mother loved him less for some reason he could never fathom. And once he'd discovered his true birth, he thought he knew then, why she favoured his sister over him ...

Turning his attention back to the letter, he clears his throat.

"Dear Tristran," he begins to read.

Please know that I only wanted the best for you. Had my mistress allowed it, I would have kept you in a heartbeat. I hope that you will understand and forgive me. My dearest wish is that we will meet someday ...

He can almost hear her in his son's voice, and as Tristran continues reading he just smiles - because he can see her in him too.

That extra bit, that something else.

"... and believe me darling when I say that I will think of you every day, for always ..."

He begins to roll the letter back up, slowly.

"Your mother."

His heart is pounding, and he has to swallow before he can speak. "The glass-flower you gave to me," he starts, and now he knows from whom his father had acquired it from, "it did bring me luck."

He's quiet for another few moments.

"It is good to know that it was useful as well as lovely then," he replies. "Well worth it, I am thinking."

Another smile, sudden and amused.

"I do think you should tell your sister that we are harboring fugitives up here."

Tristran begins to laugh.

"I think I will," he says, once more grabbing the blanket from the basket.

"Do you mind if I take this with me?" he asks.

"Good," he says. "Your mother wouldn't be pleased with me if I tried to."

He shakes his head, as if surprised that he needed to ask.

"Certainly not - it's yours, after all."

He tucks it into one of the inside pockets of his coat, thankful that it is thin enough not to create a huge bulge at his side, then nods.

"Thank you," he tells his father, then. He isn't sure that those words are good enough to express just how grateful he is to him - for now, and for all the times he'd gone through any sort of trouble during his life.

"I also have something to confess. I'm afraid I lost the flower while on my travels."

"It was yours to lose," he shrugs and clasps his son's shoulder - quickly and affectionately, before levering himself upward. "It was something freely given - something I was glad to give."

It was something he was glad to receive and if it proved useful then it had more than served it's purpose to him. The flower wasn't what he had needed to begin with.

"And if you sufficiently traumatize your sister, we may just let you get back to your girl."

He lets out another laugh as he follows suit, getting to his feet, though with slightly less straightening, due to the slope of the roof over them. The attic is a lot smaller than he'd imagined (then again, he had imagined there would be an entire kingdom up here) as a boy.

"I do think I should be returning to Yvaine soon," he murmurs, more to himself. He shouldn't have left her there, alone. He wanted to take her into Wall, but he didn't want to overwhelm her - or anyone else, for that matter.

"One mustn't leave a lady waiting," he returns knowledgeably as he makes his way back down into the hallway. "They scream - and often throw things with surprising accuracy."

Then lower, in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Especially your sister."

"Ah, yes," Tristran says, faking solemnity, "I do remember that quite well."

His smile widens as he follows his father down the hall and towards the kitchen once more.

He also remembers the very first time he'd met Yvaine and is suddenly struck by the similarities his sister and the star share.

"I think somehow Yvaine and Louisa would get along," he says amusedly, "especially if I ever did anything to wrong the two of them at the same time."

"Hopefully they wouldn't be holding potentially damaging objects at the time."

He laughs as they enter the kitchen and glances over toward his wife and daughter, who are still washing dishes.

"Like plates," he adds. "Any wrongdoings should wait until after there are plates."

The younger of the two women doesn't even turn around, but her voice is cheerful as she replies.

"You really shouldn't be telling Tristran about incidents with plates, Daddy."

She flashes a bright smile over her shoulder, "Especially when you know that they aren't true."

Tristran grins, then goes over to join them, pulling up his sleeves and picking up one of the drying rags. He accepts the wet plate that's just been handed to him, courtesy of Louisa to his right, and wipes it down dry.

"So what have you two been doing, disappearing for so long?" Louisa asks, bumping Tristran in the side with her hip, teasingly.

"Mummy and I were beginning to suspect the two of you were plotting something."

"Your brother and I were having a consultation with the fugitives in the attic."

His voice is factual and the response comes without any hesitation, much like the effortless motion away from the reach of her towel.

"You would have been impressed with his skills in negotiation," a grin. "Especially when the topic of your room was brought up."

"Don't tease your daughter," Daisy's quiet voice states, a bit sternly but just lightly enough to know that she's not too serious about the matter.

Another dish gets rinsed an passed down.

"Though you may take her - as I have more than enough help now."

Tristran laughs quietly at the exchange, drying off the next dish without comment as he tries not to look in his mother's direction. Knowing too much suddenly seems a disadvantage as much as it is a good thing.

Louisa wipes her hands off on her apron and steps away from the kitchen sink to join their father at the table once more, while Tristran remains where he is.

"I wouldn't believe you anyway," Louisa says haughtily. "I'm not five years old, you know."

"Could have fooled me," Dunstan replies with a laugh - and Daisy rolls her eyes indulgently as the two of them continue to bicker mildly in the background.

She hands him another dish, voice still that same low patter of speech - but a bit lighter now, more cheerful.

"I do hope that you treat your young lady more politely than that one does."

"I do," Tristran replies automatically, hair falling into his face as he looks down at the rest of the dish stack. "Well, I try, anyway."

He takes the dish, grateful to have something to do with his hands - it alleviates a lot of the awkwardness. And it doesn't particularly faze him that she knows things.

"I didn't expect any less," she smiles.

Her chin stays low, back straight, nothing short of proper.

"You may ask questions, you know," she continues, with a great deal more effort than the simplicity of the statement implies. "I am, perhaps, not as good at all this as your father, but I will try."

How exactly does one ask the woman who's taken care of him all his life just how she dealt with it, knowing he was not really her son?

"I - I'm not really sure what sort of questions to ask," Tristran admits, his voice low. "I suppose I always just assumed that ..." His voice trails off. That she didn't love him so much as tolerated his presence.

He unknowingly continues to wipe the same plate dry, his mind lost in thought.

"I think I worried more that she would come back for you," she replies, answering his unasked question with an easy sort of accuracy. "For him too, a bit."

She laughs quietly, a shared nervous habit, and her hands still in the soapy water.

"Him I could hold, perhaps. But you? You were not mine, and I - I worried."

She does that often.

His heart slowly begins to pound in his chest upon hearing that. It is clear how surprised he is, how unexpected those words are.

But somehow he's ... well, the feeling is quite unexplainable. All these years ...

He puts the dish down, and with it, the rag.

"You don't have to worry," he says, turning his head to look at her now. "Mum."

She reaches out carefully and squeezes his fingers lightly with one soapy hand, glancing briefly upward, clearly satisfied with what she sees.

"You worry too much, Tristran," she says, and then smiles slightly. "You get that from me."

Her chin tilts again and she pats the back of his hand once more before continuing to wash - she's never really been one for very many words.

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