Tristran Thorn

Seeing the illumination from the inn fills Tristran with a feeling of happiness and wonderfulness he hasn't felt in a really long while -- not since he'd left Wall so many days ago, and perhaps even the coziness of Milliways, all distant memories now.

The carriage pulls up to the little cottage-like building, and while Tristran immediately begins to unhitch the horses (which he knows must be absolutely exhausted), leading them one by one towards the stables located on the side of the inn, Primus bellows for assistance.

There is a white horse, asleep in the furthest stall, but Tristran is far too busy with other things to pause and inspect it -- the horses are obviously tired and hungry. Even moreso than he is. Anything else can wait.

"I'll groom the horses," he tells Primus. "They'll catch a chill otherwise."

The tall man rests one large hand on Tristran's shoulder, a quiet and subtle smile reaching his face. "Good lad," he says, "I'll send a potboy out with some burnt ale for you."

Tristran nods before Primus disappears, no doubt to organize the details of their lodging, thinking distantly of the star as he brushes down the horses and picks out their hooves. Somehow, in the same strange way he seems to know directions and distances of things he had never seen before in his life, he knows that the star is close by -- he'll see her soon. The thought alone is a conflicting one, bringing both comfort and a sense of nervousness (though he isn't sure why). Once they are reunited, what will he say? What will she say?

His thought is interrupted by the silent entrance of a potgirl, carrying a tankard of steaming wine. "Put it down over there," he tells her. "I'll drink it with goodwill as soon as my hands are free."

The girl obeys, placing it upon the top of a tack box before leaving just as silently. Tristran doesn't have a chance to ponder the girl's silence before the horse in the end stall begins to kick against the door, nearly making the young man jump in his spot.

"Settle down, there," he calls. "Settle down, fellow, and I'll see if I cannot find warm oats and bran for all of you."

Tristran finds a large stone in the stallion's front inside hoof, and with care, he begins to remove it, his thoughts straying back to the star.

Madam -- this is how he thinks he might very well start off their conversation -- please accept my heartfelt and most humble apologies.

Yes ... it sounds polite. Proper. And of course, she would respond with something like, Sir, that I shall do with all my heart. Now let us go to your village, where you shall present me to your true love, as a token of your devotion to her --

There is more clattering -- louder and more powerful this time -- from the end stall with the white horse. Except, Tristran realizes quite immediately, that it is not a horse at all but a ... monster! Or some great beast coming to charge after him, horn lowered. Instinctively, Tristran throws himself down into the straw by the floor, covering his head with his arms, waiting in frozen patience for a moment before slowly looking up. The monster is no monster at all, and is in fact a unicorn.

Tristran watches, slowly getting to his feet, as the unicorn stops before the tankard and lowers its horn into the mulled wine, still steaming and bubbling. And it occurs to him then as he studies the white beast (from some long-forgotten fairytale or a piece of children's lore) that a unicorn's horn is proof against...

"Poison?" he whispers, eyes widening a bit. His heart is pounding in his chest as the unicorn raises its head, looking into his eyes, even through him. No, it...can't be.

Tristran runs towards the stable door, then freezing in his tracks, he pauses for a moment. He fumbles quickly in his pocket, looking for something in particular. From his right pocket, he pulls out the lump of wax (which is all that remains of the rather sad, pathetic candle) and the dried copper leaf which sticks to it. Peeling it from the wax carefully, he takes in a breath, and raises it to his ear.

Flashes of lightning flicker above the mountaintops throughout the night. Tristran sleeps, head on a sack of oats, dreaming of ghosts, moons and stars.

That morning, it begins to rain abruptly, drops pouring on them as though the sky had turned to water. Tristran blinks the rain out of his eyes as he steps out, watching as the driver begins to hitch the horses to the carriage for the trip's continuation. He hops down, feet touching the ground, and rushes to help him. Together they manage without much difficulty.

"You could go inside," he calls through the rain. "No point in us both getting wet."

Tristran laughs a bit, shrugging. "It would be hard for me to be any wetter without my first leaping into a river," he says. "I shall stay here. Two pairs of eyes and two pairs of hands may well be the saving of us."

"You're a fool, boy," the coach-driver says with a grunt. He wipes the rain from his face, then transfers the reins to his left hand. "I am known as Primus." He holds his right hand out. "The Lord Primus."

"Tristran. Tristran Thorn," the younger man replies, taking his hand.

The rain continues to fall, becoming harder. The horses begin to slowly clop across the muddy path, which is all very well for Primus, as the rain becomes so heavy it is hard to see through it, almost like a thick fog.

"There is a man," Primus shouts, wind whipping the words from his lips. "He is tall, looks a little like me but thinner, more crowlike. His eyes seem innocent and dull, but there is death in them," he explains. Tristran turns to look at him, blinking through the rain. "He is called Septimus, for he was the seventh boy-child our father spawned. If ever you see him, run and hide. His business is with me."

Tristran nods.

"He will not hesitate to kill you if you stand in his way, or, perhaps, to make you his instrument with which to kill me," Lord Primus warns.

"He sounds a most dangerous man," Tristran replies, just as a wave of rainwater seems to pour down his neck, no thanks to the sudden gust of wind.

"He is the most dangerous man you will ever meet."

"Well, I'll be sure to avoid him at all costs, then."

Primus nods, turning back to the front, watching for a moment, his hands idly holding the reins. "...If you ask me, there is something...unnatural about this storm."

Tristran frowns. "Unnatural?"

"Or more-than-natural; supernatural, if you will," Primus corrects. "I hope there is an inn along the way. The horses need a rest, and I could do with a dry bed and a warm fire. And a good meal."

"I agree," Tristran says loudly, through another gust of rain.

For another long moment, the two drenched men sit, slowly making progress as the horses continue to move. Tristran can't help but think about the star and the unicorn. She must be as wet as he is, and cold. Her broken leg hasn't even healed, and in this cold, wet weather, a broken leg cannot possibly be a good thing to be dealt with.

All of this is his fault.

It is a black coach, drawn by four horses, all midnight black, driven by a pale fellow in a long (you guessed it) black robe. From where Tristran is, the carriage must be about twenty or so paces. He stands there, gulping for breath, trying his hardest to call out to it, but his throat is dry, his wind is gone and his voice only lets out a rather pathetic, croaking whisper. He tries to shout, and he can only manage a wheeze.

The carriage passes by him without so much as a blink to show it slowing down.

Tristran sits on the ground, taking a much-needed moment to catch his breath. Then, afraid for the star, he gets back to his feet and walks as fast as he can manage along the forest path, still breathing deeply, still learning how to swallow again. He hadn't walked for more than ten minutes when he comes across the black coach. A huge branch, its width as thick as some trees he's seen, appears to have fallen from an oak tree and onto the path directly before the horses and the driver, who Tristran notices, is also the coach's sole occupant. He watches as the man endeavours to lift the branch out of the way.

"Damnedest thing," the coachman swears, his long black robe swishing about him furiously. Tristran observes the man for a moment, guessing that he must be around his late forties. "There was no wind, no storm, nothing. It simply fell. Terrified the horses." His voice is deep and booming.

Without a word, Tristran puts his bag down and goes to help the driver unhitch the horses, roping them to the oak branch. Then together, they push and the four horses pull and with their combined effort, they manage to drag the branch to the side of the track.

Tristran looks up for a brief moment, whispering a silent thank you to the oak tree whose branch had fallen, to the copper beech, and to Pan of the forests, then turns back to the driver looking a little cheerful.

"Would it be possible," he asks, "to give me a ride through the forest?"

The driver looks at him for a moment, then rubs his chin. "I do not take passengers," he says.

"Of course," Tristran agrees, "but without me, you would still be stuck here. Surely Providence sent you to me, just as Providence sent me to you. I will not take you out of your path, and there may again come a time when you are glad of another pair of hands."

The coach driver begins to scrutinize him from head to feet. Then reaching for his belt, he grabs a velvet bag hanging from it, revealing a handful of red square granite tiles. "Pick one," he tells the younger boy.

Trstran picks a stone tile from the pile, showing him the symbol carved upon it. The man makes a thoughtful sound before, "Now pick another."

Obeying, Tristran picks another tile from the collection, then one more.

"Yes," the man says, rubbing his chin once more. "You can come with me. The runes seem to be certain of that. Although -- there will be danger. But perhaps there will be more fallen branches to move. You can sit up front, if you wish, on the driver's seat beside me, and keep me company."

Tristran nods, then reaching for his bag left on the ground, he begins to climb up into the driver's seat, glancing into the interior of the coach as he passes to sit, blinking for a moment. He could have sworn that he had seen five pale gentlemen, all in grey, staring sadly out at him. But when he looks once more, there is nothing there. The coach is empty.

He settles himself into his spot before the carriage rattles and pounds over the grassy track beneath a golden-green canopy of leaves. Sucking in his bottom lip, he watches blankly ahead of them as they ride along. He cannot help but worry about Yvaine. She might be ill-tempered, and she certainly didn't seem to like him at all (why would she be so eager to leave, then?) but...when it comes down to it, perhaps there is a certain amount of justification for her negative feelings towards him. As the driver shouts at his horses to move quicker, Tristran hopes that the star will manage to stay out of trouble until he finds a way to join her again.