Conviction

by Peppermint Stick

Medieval Trory. Tristan had Rory's family killed, but she escaped. Years later she's brought to the castle, but until he figures out who she is, who's to say a king can't fall for a fiery peasant who hates him for reasons he can't figure out?

14. Chapter 14

Rory stood next to Logan, shuffling her feet on the dry, crackling grass. Most of the members of the old guard who were at the castle stood behind them, waiting. One of the soldiers patrolling the castle grounds and the surrounding forest had reported that the first returning group of the king's new guard was close to the castle. She wondered who it was, but Logan was much more anxious that she was. Most of the men blended together in her mind, the only ones who stood out were Callum, Nick, and Dorian. There was one more who stood out, McKellin, who'd been lewd and crude and despicable to her in the beginning until Mark, a member of the old guard who'd recognized her talent and respected her from the beginning, had punched him in the face, flooring him in front of everyone. She hadn't seen it, but according to Callum it had been glorious.

Logan stood up straighter next to her, craning his neck, "I see them." He smirked lightly, shaking his head, "Surprise, surprise."

Rory looked up to see four men coming down the path to the castle from the woods beyond the military wing. The first thing that caught her eye was a mop of dusty blonde hair and she almost had to laugh. Callum. He and Nick walked in the front, flanked by Dorian and another of the younger recruits. She couldn't say she was surprised that they were the first back. They looked tired but strong, their walk steady and unhurried. She saw them survey their homecoming party slowly as the four men came up level with them.

Rory smiled hugely as Callum caught her eye, unable to hold it back. He grinned back and she saw fatigue that she hadn't noticed before. Nick, who seemed to be leading them, came even with Logan and bowed lightly. Logan dropped a bow back. When the two stood back up they were grinning at each other and the formal air that had been hanging over the gathering fled. The men of the old guard came forward, clapping the four of them on the back in congratulations. Callum stepped towards her and she laughed out loud as he swept her up into a huge hug, pulling her from the ground and spinning her in wide circles. "You did good." She said, still smiling as he set her down.

He scoffed, smirking weakly, "Give me something hard next time, Danes."

She laughed out loud, "I think if you looked any worse the undertaker would steal you from us."

He shot her a wounded look, "Hey! I have been trekking through the wilderness for the past week. I have the right to be disgusting." He looked her up and down, "You're looking awfully pampered these days. Are you going soft on us?"

"Watch your tongue." She hit his shoulder lightly, "I can't still whip you."

He grinned, "Give me two days and I'll be back in form. I've been living off roots and rabbit for two days."

She rolled her eyes, "Rabbit?"

"Yes, rabbit." He stressed the word, "We would've killed a deer but there was no time, what with the race to get back and the ungodly attacks by the old guard. I swear I thought I might kill myself and save them the trouble if only to put myself out of misery."

She laughed, opening her mouth to reply, but was cut off as Dorian jumped in, grabbing her from behind.

*************************************

Rory sat between Logan and Tristan at dinner later that week, running her fingers along the rim of her cup. She's progressed to the higher table in the dining room, sitting on a long table set up on a platform. This table wasn't rectangle like the others, rather it was long and they all sat in a line facing the rest of the room: her, Tristan, Mitchum, Max, Logan, and the head of the old guard. The old guard and new men sat at two different, lower tables. They didn't normally dine together, but because the men had completed a phase of their training they'd made an exception.

She'd spent the meal poking at her food and pushing it around her plate, drinking her wine in small sips. It was strange, having Nick, Callum, and Dorian back now after she and Tristan had….well, it was just strange. She didn't know what to think. Callum had come up to her earlier, the smuggest of smirks plastered across his face, and asked her what these rumors were that he was hearing about her and the king. He said they sounded more legitimate the ones before they'd left. After telling him that they were indeed true, his expression had changed. He'd no longer been amused, only shocked. And what surprised her most…concerned. Concerned that she didn't want it. That she would get hurt.

She'd assumed that of everyone, Callum would be the giddiest about her and Tristan, laughing and picking on her mercilessly. But he wasn't. His reaction reminded her of how Jess might have reacted: shocked and then protective. He might even have considered ripping Tristan's head off…had he not been king. As it was, he'd watched her attentively, his eyebrows drawn together and his arms crossed over his chest. It threw her off. He was really the first one who had addressed the fact that she might come out of it emotionally damaged. Everyone else was only concerned with keeping her ready and available for Tristan. No one else had so fully implied that it was a bad idea and she shouldn't do it.

That was what had destroyed her appetite, leaving her queasy and unsure.

Tristan was next to her, golden and beautiful and perfect as always, leaning attentively towards Max on his other side, his eyes fixed on the table as his advisor spoke quickly and quietly into his ear. His skin was tanned and flawless. The lines of his shoulder and arm that she could see were hard and muscled. His hair was unkempt. His jaw was strong and perfect; she wanted to scrape her teeth over it and feel him shudder against her.

Rory broke her gaze from him, fuming. She raked her fork through the chicken on her plate savagely, shredding it into wiry strips. Stupid Callum. She was perfectly fine ignoring the fact that this was a bad idea, even without her….lineage, which her friend didn't even know about. Why did he have to come back and make her actually think about how completely and utterly idiotic she was being?

There were potatoes on the plate too, cut and boiled, and she smashed those with the tongs of her fork, grinding her teeth together. Why did he have to be perfect? Perfect. She was so stupid. Perfect and ordering her family killed. Perfect and destroying her life. Perfect and so wrong in so many ways. He was so damaged. She had never met anyone who was so absolutely alone as he was or half so damaged. And he was. In a lot of ways, he was perfection personified, but in so many more he was more damaged than anyone she'd ever seen.

Always in the back of her mind she saw him that first night, so broken. So vulnerable. She hadn't seen him like that again, but she could never get his face completely out of her mind. His face and his eyes that so plainly said that he knew exactly how damaged he was, knew exactly how much he would damage her if he touched her. ….

She wondered when she would start to regret it, this thing she was doing with him. When word got around Stars Hollow? When she saw Rachel crying, as she knew her adoptive mother would? When she had to watch him find a suitable wife and she couldn't find a husband because of it? When a prettier maid or lady-in-waiting to the queen came to the castle? When she walked in on him bending Kira over the desk in his study?

The last one brought a wave of guilt. Guilt for even thinking that of him. Because she knew; she couldn't say how, but she knew; he would never touch Kira again. Rory pulled her cup closer, wrapping her fingers tightly around it but not bringing it to her lips. She just set it on the tabletop, staring at it so intensely one might have thought she was trying to make it catch fire from her gaze. She could feel Logan looking at her curiously but she ignored him, slowly gripping the cup tighter as her knuckles turned white. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Logan open his mouth as if to say something to her, but something stopped him. He sat back into his chair, turning to his other side, where the head of the old guard sat.

She stared at her hands still, her ears rushing. Something at the new guard's table caught her eye and she looked past her hands to see Callum staring at her, his dusty blonde hair falling into his eyes. She returned his stare…..well no, he was staring. She glared back. An apology flashed across his face, not for what he said, she knew, but for what it made her feel. She didn't react to his silent apology; instead she dropped his gaze, turning her eyes back to the table before her.

A tan hand covered hers over the cup and she jumped lightly, surprised. Tristan's hand was warm on top of hers, his voice quiet. "It's already dead, Leigh. Strangling it won't do any good." She turned to face him, confused. He motioned towards their hands and she saw that he was gingerly prying her fingers off of the drink. Uncurling them hurt. She must have been holding it harder than she'd realized.

"Oh." She said quietly, blinking slowly as she allowed him to take the cup from her and set it back farther onto the table.

He looked over at her, concerned, "Are you alright?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Obviously the answer was no, and he wouldn't have asked if he didn't want to know. But she couldn't tell him. So she just shrugged one shoulder lightly, tilting her head, "I'm just….thinking."

His eyebrow arched, unconvinced, as he glanced over to the drink he'd just pulled from her grip, "Of the most fulfilling way to destroy your cup?"

She looked over at it as well, biting her lip as she deadpanned, "Yeah I had a pretty good list going too."

"Leigh." He said quietly. He wasn't touching her, not in front of the men of the guard, but he might as well have been whispering into her ear, his breath hot against her skin or trailing his lips down her neck for the candor and the depth he put into her name. And for the effect it had on her.

She shivered and dropped his gaze, refusing to look at him. "It's nothing."

He looked at her for another moment before turning back to Max, "If you say so."

***

Rory sighed, closing her eyes as she rested her forehead against the cool stone wall, letting the autumn wind blow her hair. She stood outside of the door that led into the military wing, breathing evenly. The men were asleep. They'd all been sleeping like rocks since returning from the border and the old guard was letting them rest since they were more than halfway done with their training. She was sure it wouldn't last long, though.

Callum had said nothing more to her about Tristan but his look of disapproval spoke volumes. Nick didn't seem inclined to speak his opinion on the matter and Dorian didn't seem to have one. She'd gone back with them after dinner for a night practice, still letting them get used to their new swords. She'd worked with all of them but had spent the most time with Callum, Nick and Dorian, but that hadn't been the best plan. Although Callum said nothing else he'd still given her that look and finally she'd snapped at him to keep his opinions to himself and had stalked away from him duel with one of the other men. He'd lost pitifully.

After her anger abated Callum had approached her with his hands up in an offering of peace and told her that he hadn't meant anything by it but was just worried about her. She'd known that, of course, but she was still annoyed. She didn't tell him that, though. She'd just smiled and told him to get a sword and that it was his turn to lose.

That had been several hours ago now. Rory sighed quietly, pulling her head from the stone and turning to lean her back against it instead. She closed her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest against the cold. Callum was right, though. She didn't like thinking about it, didn't want to, but really she needed to.

Rory was pulled from her thoughts when she felt someone moving towards her. She looked up to see Tristan leaning against the doorframe, watching her, his face light. He shifted towards her, pressing his open palm against the wall next to her head. He slid in front of her, trapping her against the wall with his warm, solid body. Rory couldn't help it, she smiled.

He leaned his head down, brushing his lips across her cheekbone, "Can I kiss you now?" he asked jokingly, trailing his mouth closer to hers.

She laughed lightly despite herself, "Well, you are the king. I'd say you can do pretty much anything you want."

She'd expected him to chuckle or smile, but instead she felt him halt. He pulled back, looking at her with a surprise that was rapidly shifting to conniving. His face was bright, amused, "You don't want to say that, Mary."

Rory tilted her head, grinning knowingly, "No?"

He shook his head lightly, a smirk finding its way onto his face, "Definitely not."

She looked up at him, her hands finding their way under his shirt at the waist. "Which part?" she asked quietly, "The one about you being king?" her hands slid upwards, her fingernails scraping up his sides. He shivered, the muscles of his abdomen contracting. Rory grinned lightly, "Or…." She trailed off, leaning up onto her toes; she spoke quietly into his ear, her body pressed against his, "You can do anything you want to me."

He turned his head slightly, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She saw his throat working as he attempted to put his mind in control of his body, "You." He said quietly, sliding his fingertips across her stomach, "Are going to get yourself in over your head."

She grinned, leaning her head back to look him in the eye, shaking her head lightly, "Doubt it."

Tristan's jaw dropped, his eyes widening in playful shock, "Excuse me?"

Rory shrugged, leaning back against the wall, "I think you might be a little too confident in yourself."

This time he laughed, rocking back on his heels, "Mary, really, do we have to review what happened last time we had an argument like this?" Rory's eyebrows arched but she said nothing, shooting him a challenging look. He smirked, leaning closer to breathe into her ear, "I believe, Mary, that it ended with you pushed against a tree begging me to take you." His hips were pushed against hers, pinning her against the wall. He was trying to get her body to heat up. It wasn't working.

She laughed in disbelief, pushing him away slightly, "Excuse me? Really? That is definitely not what happened."

"No?" he asked, smirking.

"No." she shook her head lightly, stepping away from him, "I seem to recall that someone had to stop…." she trailed off and he scoffed in the back of his throat before laughing. She twisted around, "What?"

"Had to?" he clicked his tongue, shaking his head lightly, "Mary, I was thinking of you. Have you ever been taken against a tree?" he whistled quietly, not giving her time to reply, "It's not comfortable, and what with your delicate skin…" He smacked the back of her thigh lightly, his smirk wide at her expression.

She pushed his hand away and rolled her eyes, refusing to rise to his bait, "Talk all you want, Tristan. You said that you could convince me to sleep with you, and I don't believe that the night ended that way, so really, you lost." Tristan smirked and opened his mouth to respond but no sound came out. He stared at her for a moment, his mouth open and one finger held up in the air between them. Rory's lip quirked and she crossed her arms, leaning back. She tilted her head, "Yes?"

He flexed his jaw, narrowing his eyes slightly, conceding with a light voice, "No." she smirked at him, satisfied. His eyebrows arched as he leaned towards her, "But you wanted to." Rory laughed, her head falling back. It was the strangest thing to her when he was cute. She loved it. Tristan grabbed her around the waist, swinging her towards him. She threw her arms around his neck to balance herself, "You did." He kissed her neck slowly, warmly, making her laughter trail off.

"Mmm." She muttered under her breath, closing her eyes. She leaned her head back. Tristan grinned against her skin as he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses along the line of her neck; he pushed her back against the wall, pressing his body against hers. Her hands slid from his neck down his shoulders to rest on his biceps. She felt him bite her neck slowly, one arm around her while the other hand trailed down to slide around the back of her thigh, pulling her closer. She felt the hard line of his entire body pushed against her. Rory's eyelids fluttered, "Tristan." She said quietly, tapping his arm distractedly, trying to get his attention but not wanting him to stop.

He pulled back, looking down at her through clouded eyes, "Hmm?"

She bit her bottom lip, her breath already slightly labored, "I…." she trailed off, flexing her fingers against his arms. He looked at her through a haze of heat, confused. She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against his, "Inside." She said quietly, opening her eyes to look up at him.

His face cleared of confusion and he swept her up into his arms, making her gasp. He just laughed lightly, carrying her inside and up the stairs.

*

And they fell into routine.

Every night, one way or another, Rory wound up in Tristan's bed. After the cool night air had dried their skin and before drifting off to asleep she would wrap herself in his clothes: soft old shirts or loose cotton pants, and curl against his side, his body solid and warm against her. Really it was to hide her crest but she would tell him it was to ward off the chill and he would pull her close, his hands slipping under the cloth to skim warmly over her stomach or back. And she would wake with him wrapped around her from behind, his chest and torso against her back, his arm wrapped around her and his face buried in her hair.

It didn't always result in sex. Some nights he would get in late and she would already be half asleep. He would climb into bed and wrap his arm around her waist, kissing down her neck and pulling her back against him. The first time she'd been about to roll over and engage but he'd broken his lips away from her skin and laid his head on the pillow, whispering, "Goodnight, Mary." into her ear before pulling her tighter against him and settling into sleep.

Some nights she would crawl under the covers after he was already there and go to him, kissing her way up his chest. He would laugh and pull her roughly against him, fusing his lips against hers, and he would just hold her for the longest time, his lips moving slowly and fully against hers, his body pressed against her without demanding more. And they would fall asleep wrapped together, their faces close.

Other nights he barely let her sleep at all, keeping her up until all hours, doing lecherous and lascivious and wonderful things to her body all night. He would push her against the wall or the bed, whisper into her ear or lick his way across her chest, turn her around or hitch her legs up around his hips, hold her hands above her head while she gasped and arched into him. And time and time again, right before she fell, he would shift, pick her up and contort her to another position to prolong them. She never knew whether to laugh or cry or scream when he did that, torn because she wanted nothing in the world more than she wanted that release, but she also never in her life wanted him to stop.

Finally after an eternity he would deliver, stronger and harder and more powerful for both of them each time. And she would fall back or melt into him, gasping and crying out, her body becoming completely pliable against him. And he would hold her, kissing her neck and her face and her shoulders as she caught her breath. And then somehow, after they'd both regulated their breathing and had stopped shaking, one of their lips would find the other's chest or neck or shoulder, and it would be round two. Or three.

And those nights, after finally collapsing against him, her body worn and her skin slick with sweat, she would fall asleep at last, waking up the next morning to a sore body and an empty but still warm bed. Tristan, tired as he may be from those long nights, still had his duties.

*

Tristan stood on the balcony one night several weeks later, staring out at the grounds while the autumn air blew around him. He was on the balcony of one of the lesser used rooms in the top of one of the towers. As a child he'd come here to get away from everyone…when Anna insisted he take a bath or Max insisted he have a lesson. They would spend hours looking for him, but the only one who ever knew where he went had been his father. His father used to come up sometimes with the pretense of making him come down but really, once he got there, he would sit next to him and look out over the grounds, talking quietly or not at all.

After the king had died, no one had ever found him again.

He stood now, watching the new guard as they practiced on the lawn a ways away. He could faintly make out Leigh and Logan by the torchlight that illuminated their fighting space. They were leaning towards each other, speaking quietly and laughing. Logan's hand rested on the small of her back.

He leaned on the thick stone railing, dropping his head thoughtfully. His mind was all a jumble of treaties and arguments and laws and complaints, all of it a constant screaming maelstrom with a single center of calm. Of peace. And that was her. The time that he spent with her, somehow, forced his mind and body to slow…to leave behind all of the stress and weight and worry. Somehow her presence allowed him to let it all go, allowed him to be not a king, but just a person. An individual. A soul. Kings didn't have souls. He thought that, at judgment, God must have a specific set of standards to judge kings on. Or else they all went straight to hell. He wasn't sure which he would prefer. He thought of what Leigh would say if she knew what he was thinking and he almost laughed. She would either tell him that he was so wrong or else she'd say don't be stupid, of course it's the second one. He wasn't sure which would come out of her mouth first.

It was still strange to him, though, how she could make everything just stop. How she made his mind stop screaming and his body stop aching. She didn't know it, but he'd come to rely on her, on that ability she had to calm him, to make him better just by her being. By her life and her existence she made him want to be better. He thought of how much brighter everything was now that she was there. He wouldn't say she was like the sun. She didn't say things so explicitly. She wasn't so abrasive. She was more like the moon, illuminating everything around them in a pale light. And everything was colored by her. The sun dominated the sky during the day, scorched everything with pure light and showed what was really there. And it was easy to look away from it…more comfortable, even, when it hid behind the clouds. The moon, on the other hand, didn't dominate the night sky, not by any stretch of the imagination. But when he went out at night it was the first thing he looked for and at night, when clouds covered the moon, you were blind. It didn't scorch the earth, didn't even illuminate it completely. It bathed the night with gentle light, leaving things to be scrutinized and deciphered. You had to work to see things it showed you. It influenced how you saw things. The sun exposed colors as they were, not changing them; the moon dyed the night so that everything bore witness that it was there, and everything was changed because of it.

Yes, she was like the moon. But he wouldn't have thought it three months ago. Then he would have said she was the sun, and still most people probably would, but that wasn't who she was anymore, not to him. When he thought of her, he thought of two different sides of her. There was who he'd first met, who everyone knew. Leigh, who was amazing with a sword and bright and opinionated and larger than anything else in the world. She shocked you with her forwardness and pulled you out of yourself and made you evaluate your life and who you were and she made you see things you never wanted to think about. She lived life and she pulled you in her wake and you couldn't help but get caught up in those eyes and that smile and that laugh and before you knew what was happening you were fused to her because she willed it. Because that was what she did. She made people love her, not because she wanted it and not because she needed it, but simply because she couldn't help it.

When he thought of her like that he thought of summer heat and rivers and lightning and her hair while she ran and her laughter. He had an image in his mind, though he didn't know where it had come from, of her in a white summer dress, laughing and running and dancing through a field of wildflowers, always of wildflowers, in the middle of a hot summer day. He saw her in slow motion as if he were running behind her…with her…and she was looking back at him, laughing with her eyes and her mouth, her hair flying behind her partly from her speed and partly from a summer wind.…

And then there was the Leigh he knew now. The one that no one else saw. She was still bright and good and more than anyone else in all the world, but she was different. This one, the Leigh he knew now, she was a force of nature, just like the one he'd met before, but whereas before she was a tornado or an earthquake, now she was the movement of the rocks below the earth, the early summer nights right before a storm when the air was heaviest and the earth acquiesced, giving way because there was no other thing in the world for it to do. And the ground was changed, not in violent or sudden ways like from a tornado or an earthquake, but slowly and permanently, quietly and softly. It wasn't her forwardness now that shocked him, but her dexterity and her gentleness and her tact. She didn't say things now as he'd once thought she had. She didn't tell you things; rather, she guided you to them. She showed you the truth rather than making you see it. She didn't force him to evaluate his life and his thoughts and his actions, but by the things she said and the way she moved, by her very life she made him want to see it. He'd also been wrong before about the way she made everyone fall in love with her. It wasn't that she couldn't not do it and it wasn't that she pulled them all in her wake. It was that you couldn't not fall in love with her. It was that it was impossible not to need her after you met her. And she didn't drag people in her wake. They followed. They dove in head first, not looking and risking everything, because that was what it took to be with her. She didn't do it halfway and she didn't do it loudly or blindingly. She did it slowly so that you woke up one day and found yourself in her wake, not because she'd pulled you, but because you would have given anything to follow her.

When he thought of her now he thought of the night breeze and bed sheets and her gentle laughter. He thought of her voice, whispering quietly into his ear. He thought of the rain and the ocean and the smell of wildflowers on his pillow and in her hair.

It was true. Somehow, in all of this, she'd come to be a refuge for him. He didn't want to think about what laid before them.

Tristan was pulled from his reverie when he felt someone behind him. He turned surprised, to see his mother. He didn't move but stared at her, not knowing what to think. She smiled lightly, stepping out onto the balcony, "Can I join you?" she asked quietly. He nodded once, stepping to the side to give her more room…or else to get farther away. She didn't say anything about it, though, and came over to stand next to him, looking out over the grounds. They stood in silence. It wasn't awkward, but it wasn't comfortable either. After a few minutes she spoke, "It's getting colder."

Tristan nodded minutely, his voice empty, "Yes, it is."

He felt her deflate slightly and cross her arms over her chest, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, "Tristan, I came to talk to you…" she trailed off. He didn't say anything or look at her. She hesitated a moment before going on, "I came to talk to you about Leigh."

Tristan's eyebrow arched but he made no other movement, his eyes still scanning the grounds, "Oh?"

"Yes." She said quietly, turning her body to face him. Though he made no move to convey it, Tristan was surprised. Not because of the topic, that was expected from her, but because of the way she was acting. She was tense and antsy…almost nervous. He had never, in all his life, seen Cecilia Dugrey flinch at anything. Never seen her stutter or play with her hands restlessly or bring up a topic uncertainly. He was intrigued. She spoke again, "You aren't going to like what I have to say, but I'm asking you to listen to me before you storm out."

He glanced down at her, his face emotionless, and said nothing. They both knew he wasn't committing to that. He expected her to say more, but she didn't. She just looked up at him imploringly. He lowered his head towards her, "Go on."

She opened her mouth but no sound came out and so she closed it, pressing her lips together. Tristan's eyebrows arched. Was she ill? This was completely uncharacteristic of her. She looked back up at him and this time her voice came out quiet but confident, "Send her back."

Silence fell around them. He stared down at her for a moment, his mind not yet reacting, "What?"

"Send her back." She repeated, this time stronger, "Send her back to wherever she came from."

Tristan looked at his mother, took in her flustered face and her restless hands, and scoffed, turning his face back towards the grounds, "Right."

"Tristan, I'm serious." He felt her cold hand on his arm. "Please, I know you think I'm saying this for my own nefarious agenda-"

"Yes." He cut her off, "I can't think of what good it would do you, but that is exactly what I think you're doing."

"But I'm not." She said earnestly. And Tristan couldn't help but snap his head back around to look at her. He'd never heard her voice with such an absence of ice or malice. Her hand still gripped his arm, "I'm not, Tristan, I promise you."

He shook his head lightly, "Then why?"

She sighed, her shoulders falling, "Because, son, you need to send her off before you fall in love with her." He narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing, uncertain of where she was going with this. "It's already started. I can see it. Max can see it. Everyone can see it, and you need to stop this before it gets worse. The only way to do that is to separate yourself from her. Send her home."

He shook his head lightly, so not wanting to have this conversation with her, "Mother, you've lost your mind."

She looked up at him for a moment before she spoke, "She's in your bed, isn't she? Every night." His eyes narrowed fractionally but he said nothing, "I've never said anything about your mistresses before, Tristan, never made one mention of your liaisons, but I cannot sit by and allow this to happen."

He looked at her, his face drawn in disbelief, before scoffing lightly, shaking his head as if disappointed, "I can't believe I'm hearing this. Even with everything, you're still my mother. I can't believe you would be doing this. Is it really this hard for you to see me happy?"

Her jaw dropped and he was surprised at her look of genuine shock and hurt, "To see you happy? No, Tristan, this isn't about ruining your happiness."

He shook his head, "Then what is it, mother?"

She watched him for a moment, considering, before sighing lightly, steeling herself for something. "Tristan," She started, touching his face gently, "Love, your father was a good man." Tristan jerked his face back from her touch. He now definitely had no clue where she was going with this but he didn't want to hear it. She grabbed him, though, holding him there, "Tristan, please, just listen. You need to hear this. Even if you've never listened to a thing I've said, this you need to hear." He stared at her cautiously but stayed. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes, "He was a good man. A wonderful king. An amazing father. But," She opened her eyes and locked her gaze with his, "a less than outstanding husband."

Tristan shook his head, breaking his gaze from hers, "I don't want to hear this."

She ignored him, "You look so much like him," she whispered, her voice pained. "Tristan, please. Listen. You'll thank me later, I promise you."

"Doubtful." he muttered darkly.

Cecilia went on, "I know that you father loved me. In his own way, in the way that he could, he did love me. But he didn't know how to show it." She broke off, licking her lips distractedly. She changed directions, obviously having a hard time conveying what she meant, "I haven't been the best mother to you. And I'm sorry for that."

He turned to her, surprised, "You don't have to do this. We don't have to-"

"No." she shook her head, tightening her grip on him, "No, Tristan, you need to hear this. I know there's no excuse for the terrible mother I've been to you, but I was so young, and I was so unhappy, and most days it was all I could do to just make myself stay alive. Being happy, playing with you, it was all too much. Not because of you, never because of you. But because of everything else." Tristan felt his eyes widen. He stared at his mother, unable to make himself understand what she'd just said. She'd considered….but no. She never would have even thought of taking her own life. Would she? "I want you to know," she started quietly, "that I always loved you. You can't imagine how ecstatic I was the day I realized I was pregnant with you, Tristan. Me and your father both. Tristan, we wanted you so badly. I wanted you so badly." She touched his face, smiling sadly, "You were so loved, from the moment you were conceived. And your father, I loved your father so unbelievably much. You're the only person in the entire world who I ever loved as much. I was fourteen when your father chose me, fifteen when we married, and sixteen when you were born." She shook her head lightly, "I was so young, Tristan, and I made so many mistake because of it. We'd been married for a little more than six months when I found out about his first mistress."

Tristan froze. So that was what this was about? His mother saw his reaction and touched his arm comfortingly, asking him to let her finish, "I was a wreck, I was barely pregnant with you, and they put me on bed rest for fear that my distress would damage you. Your father explained that the only reason he'd done it was because it wasn't always safe for a pregnant woman to make love, that it could damage the baby." She grabbed his chin gently, making him look at her, "And for future reference, we all know it isn't true, Tristan, not until the very end, so don't try that one on your wife." He was about to respond but she went on, "And so, like the naive girl that I was, I trusted him. Even though I knew it wasn't true I honestly thought that he had believed it. They told me, even, to let it happen while I was pregnant. That it was normal and natural for a man to take a mistress while his wife is with child because she can't fulfill all of his needs." Tristan cringed, not only because he didn't want to think of his parents in that way, but also because the thought itself disgusted him. To take another while your wife was pregnant with your child? It was twisted. "He told me that it had been for the baby, that he was only thinking of us, of his family. He didn't want to hurt me or our child, he didn't know what would hurt us. And so I told him that as early along as I was, there was no danger to the baby. But I was still so hurt, so betrayed, I couldn't look at him, Tristan. And he felt terrible, I know. I know that he couldn't control himself, but in the beginning, each time, it killed him as much as it killed me. He held me and wept and buried his face in my hair and told me that he was sorry, that he was so sorry and he loved me and adored me and he would never, never do anything to hurt me again." She smiled gently, bitterly, "and I believed him. Because I loved him.

"The moment you were born, Tristan, I felt as if this hole that had been in my chest for all my life was suddenly filled. It was like I'd been waiting all my life just to hold you, like you'd been a part of me all along and now that you were in the world I was whole. The moment you were born I wanted to hold you, but they took you away. They handed you first to your father and then to a wet nurse. All I got to give you was a kiss on the forehead before you were taken from me." her eyes were far away and swimming but no tears fell, "I tried again and again to nurse you. It's this…this powerful, innate need for a mother; but they wouldn't let me. Each time they took you away and said that that wasn't an occupation for a queen. And because they never let me, soon I couldn't anymore. So I would just hold you and talk to you. Your father always wanted you near. He would bring you with him everywhere, showing you to everyone and always saying how strong you were and how smart. And how he loved you." She whispered the last part, pressing her lips together, "And because he was king I was queen, he got to choose who got you when. It wasn't my place to go out into the city with him or into his meetings. He was never unkind about it, of course, but I knew as well as him that it simply wasn't done. And he always wanted you either with him or in a lesson, learning etiquette or fencing or languages." She smiled at him, "Your father wanted you to be the epitome of a king. He wanted you to have everything. He loved you, so much.

"I found out about the next mistress when you were a month old. I'm sure he'd been sleeping with her while I was pregnant but had promised death to anyone who let it slip near me for fear that I would lose you. I don't even remember now how I learned of her. But it was that one, and the next that did me the most damage. The rest after that all blur together." She bit her lip, shaking her head lightly, "He never forsook me, Tristan, but I think that just made it worse. We never spoke of his mistresses, the ones he went back to or only had once, but we both knew that I knew. And slowly our marriage became nothing but a show for the people of the kingdom because he couldn't give them up and I couldn't put on a happy face. But we had to be strong for the people. And it was made worse because I wasn't allowed to be a real mother. It wasn't proper for a queen to play on the floor with her child. To nurse her child. To kiss him in public or pick him up after he was two years old. I was desolate, Tristan, with a husband who cared for me but couldn't keep himself from other women and a beautiful, perfect baby boy that I loved so much it hurt but I wasn't allowed to touch. I told you before that it was all I could do just to live through each day, but it was for you and because of you that I was even able to do that. I lived for the moments I could spend with you." She whispered, running a hand along his cheek affectionately, "But then you started getting older. You were so much like your father. You would say the things he said, walk as he walked. And you look just like him still. It got the point that it hurt to look at you because I couldn't stand the thought of you becoming him. I couldn't bear to think that you would ever do that to a woman that you loved. To the mother of your children.

"And I knew that there was nothing I could do to prevent it because I wasn't allowed time with you to teach you any differently. All you ever saw was your father and the way he was and you were raised to see that as right."

Tristan shook his head lightly, "Mother-"

"Shh, shh." She whispered, shaking her head gently, understandingly, "I'm almost finished. I'm not judging you, Tristan. I wouldn't do that. I don't know how much your father loved me, but I know he cared for me even to the end. I was barely able to make myself get up in the mornings and live an empty life that I hated, but I did it because I love you. Because I loved both of you so much that without either of you I didn't know who I was or what I would do with my life." She took his chin in her hand, making him meet her eyes, "But this, Tristan, this is the point of what I am saying, and this is why you must send her back. You were the reason I made myself live, but I'll tell you this moment, the reason I was able to keep my sanity and think straight enough to realize that I wanted to live for you, was because you father never brought a mistress into his bed. No matter what he did or who he touched, he never brought one into our room, never brought one to our bed. I was able to stay sane because I knew that he never cared for them.

"Do you see, Tristan? He cared for me, loved me. He touched them but it was never more than physical. Never more than lust. The reason I was able to make myself go on was that I knew he didn't care for them. If he had cared for them, loved them…." She trailed off, shaking her head, "Even my love for you wouldn't have been enough to make me stay on this earth. Do you understand that? Do you see what I'm saying, son?

"This thing you're doing with Leigh, playing marriage, it will only end in heartache." Tristan stiffened. Shocked as he was at her behavior and her confessions, he still tensed when Leigh's name passed over his mother's lips. She spoke quietly, "It isn't fair to any of you. It isn't fair to her or to you or to your future wife." She broke off, tilting her head, "Have you thought of that at all, Tristan? Has it even crossed your mind? You have to marry soon. Very soon. And it can't be her, so what do you think it will do to your wife when she comes into the situation? Her husband in thrall to a young village girl who for some reason is still in the castle long after the need for her as a trainer has passed? Can you even imagine the pain and anguish of that, Tristan? Your father never loved any of them and I can tell you right now that that is the only reason I didn't lose my mind or push one of them in front of a stampeding horse. But you, you and Leigh? Maybe you don't love her yet, I don't know, but you will. You're growing to."

He interrupted her, "Mother-"

She acted as if she hadn't heard him, "Have you thought of her at all? What are you going to do? Keep her here? Keep this going even after you're married? That would be unbelievably cruel to your wife."

"No I'm not-"

She cut him off. Her voice was becoming harsher, shriller, and colder. She was falling back into her normal self, "Are you going to send her back in a year or so? After this gets all around the kingdom? Who do you honestly expect would want to marry her after this? Have you thought of how extremely difficult it will be for her to find a husband after this, Tristan?"

He closed his eyes, not wanting to think about the pain he would cause Leigh because of this, or of her in someone else's bed, "Mother."

She ignored him, "Or were you just planning on keeping her here as a lady in court or sending her to a manor in the country and going all the time to see her and letting her have your bastards-"

"Mother." He snarled, grabbing her upper arms roughly, "That is enough."

Something in his voice or his face must have warned her, because she fell quiet, pressing her lips together, "I'm just saying, Tristan, that it's something you need to think about. Damage has already been done. The only way to stop it from getting worse is to send her away."

He shook his head wearily, "I won't send her away."

She looked up at him, her eyes tight. She was trying to see into his mind. And because he couldn't make himself say it he looked back at her without guarding himself, without carefully controlling his emotion and blocking his mother out. He looked at her openly and honestly. She looked back at him and after a moment her face changed. "Tristan." she sighed forlornly, her shoulders falling, and he saw that she understood. He wouldn't send Leigh away, simply because no matter how much he might logically know that he should, he couldn't. He couldn't.

**

Rory woke slowly the next morning, shifting in the tangle of pillows and blankets that surrounded her. She sighed heavily, snuggling closer to Tristan. Last night he'd been more attentive than he had ever been before, which for him was saying a lot. Every look he gave her seemed to penetrate through her skin and into her soul, every touch lingered and every kiss was fuller. Every thrust was deeper and every word he whispered into her ear as he drove into her was more broken and vulnerable. Every time he said her name it sounded like he was whispering a prayer. Not of praise, but of repentance. It hadn't been a night like the others, where they would go for hours, moving and shifting and gasping and screaming, whispering challengingly to each other or laughing carnally. No, last night had been….

She didn't want to say it, didn't even want to think the words because she'd sworn that she would never let it be that. Never let it come to that. But if she was being honest with herself then if what they usually did was have sex then last night had been…making love. It was the only thing she could think, and it made her want to scrape off all her skin and boil herself in water, because she would not let it come to that. She would not let herself love him.

Her face was on his chest, her left leg tangled with his. It was cold. Despite the fires that constantly roared in the hearths, the air outside was leaking into the castle and making everything chill. But Tristan's skin was warm. She mewed quietly, burrowing into the warmth of his body and the sheets, kissing along his bare chest in her early morning stupor.

He responded slowly, waking from a combination of her body moving and her lips sliding across his skin and the morning light streaming in through the window. She wondered briefly why Anna had always been in her room when she awoke but no one waited on the king like that. She supposed it didn't matter, though, as Tristan woke, sliding his hands down her sides slowly and kissing her forehead. He looked out of the window and groaned quietly about having to move before sliding out from under the covers.

She stared at his somehow still tanned back as he slid on a pair of light cotton pants, scratching his hands rapidly through his hair. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, watching him. That was it? No carnal suggestion or action or even a real kiss? She couldn't remember one time in the past weeks that they'd woken and he hadn't pushed her back into the mattress or trailed his hands over her or at least kissed her.

He moved thickly, stretching his upper body against sleep, and she watched him, really watched him, and realized belatedly that his movements were stiff and unnatural…tense. "Tristan?"

He glanced over in her direction briefly but didn't really look at her, "Hmm?"

"What's wrong?"

"I'm fine." He said lightly, looking out the window into the clear, cold day.

"Tristan." She repeated quietly, her voice serious. At that his gaze did fall on her. He watched her for a moment from his place against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was far off, though, distracted. His eyebrows knitted together and he turned away. She sat up straighter, pulling the sheet around her and spoke gently, "Hey, talk to me."

Tristan hesitated for a moment, debating internally, before walking slowly over to sit on the very edge of the bed, away from her. Her stomach dropped. They sat in a heavy silence for a stretch before she heard his quiet voice, "You remember a few weeks ago, when you asked me if I'd ever made a decision I regretted?" he asked without looking at her. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He stared at the wall, his eyes clouded and far away.

She shifted closer to him on the bed, pulling the covers higher up her chest. She touched his back gently, resting her mouth against the back of his shoulder blade, "Yes." she whispered against his skin.

He didn't respond immediately, but stared into space for another moment before continuing. "Five days after my father died I was coronated king." he stopped talking for a moment, his forehead creasing in thought. Rory trailed her fingers gingerly over his back, inviting him to continue. He began again slowly, "After the ceremony, I ordered his murderer killed." Rory's hand stilled on his skin. She felt her stomach clench painfully. Her right hip burned. Tristan spoke quietly, distractedly, as if he were telling himself as much as her. "I never...." he trailed off, "I never found out why he did it. He wouldn't say." his eyes narrowed at the wall, remembering his conversation with Max ten years before, "But I was so....angry. So hurt." he stopped thoughtfully, his speaking even and controlled, "After I ordered his death, I ordered that his family die as well. His parents. His siblings. Aunts and uncles. Cousins. His wife's as well." he bit his lip, his expression utterly emotionless, completely guarded. "He had three children around my age." Tristan whispered. He closed his mouth, swallowing hard. His mouth opened as if he would go on, but no words came. He closed it again.

Rory felt as if her body were on fire. Her mind was screaming but at the same time it was utterly silent. Panic and fear and hate and sympathy and self-loathing all fought for control. Fear that he would find her out and finish what he failed to accomplish ten years ago. Panic that her rapidly beating heart would give her away. Hate for the things he'd put her through without even knowing it. Sympathy because she saw the turmoil he tried to hide, the guilt and regret. And self-loathing because she shouldn't have pitied him, but more than that she should never have ever allowed him to touch her. She shouldn't have allowed him to make her forget all the things he'd done. She'd long ago dealt with the death of her family. After coming here, after everything between them, she'd squared herself with the fact that Tristan was who he was and that he'd done the things he had done, and no amount of wishing or dreaming or trying would change that. She would take him now, even with everything that he'd done, because neither of them could change the past. But to give him up, to completely turn away from happiness that she could have now, and maybe even in the future, because of things neither of them could change now….that wasn't something she was willing to do.

Somehow, in her mind, she'd convinced herself that is wasn't exactly her family that he'd killed. It was hard to separate the man who had killed his father from the man who was her father, but she had. She thought of how Tristan must have felt, thought of how she would react if someone killed Jess or Luke or Rachel, and she knew that she would do anything to avenge them. Anything. If someone killed Jess she would spend her life tracking them down and tearing them limb from limb. Tristan had just had more leeway than she would in a similar situation. What Tristan had done had been rash, obviously, and part of her still hated him for it, but most of her forgave him, as hard as it was, because she knew him. She didn't know why he'd done what he had, but she did know that he wasn't bad. He wasn't cold. Somehow…she still wasn't positive how…she'd been able to separate the two halves of Christopher Hayden in her mind: her father, and the man who'd killed the king. It didn't matter why he'd done it. Well, it mattered in moral, really, but in reality it didn't. She'd resolved herself to the thought that Tristan hadn't killed her family. He'd killed the man who had murdered the king. His goal hadn't been to kill her family; his goal had been to erase the Haydens, one of whom had murdered the king. Another of which was her. When she thought about it like that, objectively, rather than as her family, it was easier.

She was ripped from her reverie and back into reality as he continued, "More than fifty people died because of one rash decision that I made." he whispered. The screaming in Rory's head had made her miss the pounding silence around them but now it crashed in on her. Nothing. The only sound in the room was the cracking of the fire. And now that the noises in her head were muted it pushed in on her. "It was the day after my twelfth birthday." he whispered. Tristan exhaled slowly, resting his face in his hands, "I don't know about regret, because I never learned to feel it. But I imagine...." he trailed off, closing his eyes as his body sagged, "I don't think that a child should be given the power to have a decision like that carried out." he finished quietly.

She let the silence swirl around them for a stretch before speaking gently, "Regret isn't something you learn to feel, Tristan. It's innate in all of us. It's what makes us human." Her fingers traced along the smooth skin of his back. She sighed quietly, laying her lips against his shoulder, "What you feel but you can't put a name to, this guilt…it's regret." She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against his temple as she spoke quietly into his ear, "It means you have a soul." She felt his head move and she pulled hers away. He turned to look at her, his expression unreadable. There was something in it though, something of awe and amazement. Rory raised her hand to skim it along the side of his face, "It means you're good."

He reached over to rest a hand on her knee, squeezing it gently, "What I feel doesn't change the things that I've done, Leigh. Feeling something doesn't make you good. It's what you do that makes you who you are."

Rory's brow creased. She was concerned. She'd never seen him like this, "So if you could go back, you wouldn't do it again?"

Tristan exhaled quietly, pulling his hand from her, "Does it matter?"

"Yes." She whispered. He looked back to her. She went on, "If you wouldn't do it again, Tristan, then you're not a bad person. What happened was bad but everyone makes bad judgments, yours just have farther-reaching consequences because you're king." She pressed her lips together, shaking her head lightly, "That doesn't make it okay, but it makes it different."

He stared at her for a moment, his head tilted lightly as if he were trying to figure out a confounding problem. Finally he spoke, his voice quiet, "…how?"

"Well," Rory said thoughtfully, breaking her gaze from his, "since you're the king you have so much more-"

"No." he cut her off, putting his hand gently onto her thigh over the sheet to get her attention, "No, not how is it different for me." He shook his head lightly, staring at her intently, "How can you be so….good?"

Rory's head cocked, taken aback, "What?"

"How can you be so good, how can you be so unbelievably unjudgmental of everything?"

She smiled lightly, "Au contraire, your majesty, I am very judgmental. I just see things differently than others."

Tristan still had that look like he was trying to figure her out, but he let it go, shaking his head lightly before standing. He sighed, flexing his fingers distractedly, "If I could go back." He said quietly, not looking at her, "I wouldn't kill his family." He glanced over at her, meeting her gaze for a moment, "But I'd kill Christopher Hayden slower than they did."

***

As the weather turned colder Rory started waking up more. There were nights that they would drift to sleep, whether they'd torn the room apart or just quietly fallen into slumber, and she would wake in the middle of the night. It was those nights, when she couldn't sleep, that she went to the sitting room to read and he would wake without her there and come to find her. It was those nights, half delirious with sleep, that he would do anything. Give her anything. Do whatever he knew to make her gasp. To make her squirm; to make her scream. He would touch her, push his body against hers, do things with his fingers and mouth she'd never thought possible and grin wickedly, watching her writhe and whimper and sweat and gasp uncontrollably. He would lean down against her ear and whisper all the wickedly carnal things he longed to do to her, which only kicked up the reaction in her body and made her bite her lip, pushing her hips against him to get any friction possible to relieve her suffering. He would grin, touching her in different ways and places, and at her violent reaction he would smirk, arrogantly asking her if it felt good.

But other times, and these were her favorite times, what usually happened these late nights when his guard was down and he surrendered to her completely, he would touch her in reverence, moving his hands slowly and torturously over her body and at her uncontrollable and devastatingly innocent reactions his body would shake and he would whisper into her ear, softly begging her to tell him what she wanted.

It was these nights he would find her sitting on the couch, unable to sleep. He would rub his eyes and join her with sleep hanging over him like a blanket. They would converse for a while, he would ask if she was cold and chafe his hand against her bare calf. She would shake her head and point to the fire in the hearth. Then they would talk for a while. About anything. Everything. Gradually moving closer and closer. Until the talking slowed. No matter how it started out it always, inevitably, led to slow, burning love. He would finally push her back against the couch and lean over her, catching her lips in a devastatingly deep kiss. His hand would trail gingerly up her bare thigh, parting her legs slowly until his fingers slipped to her center and she would gasp, his lips trailing down her neck and his other hand roaming her body until she was ready for him. She would squirm, grasping for him, pushing her body against his. But no matter how she arched into him, how she gasped or ground against him, begged him to take her or whimpered and breathed his name; no matter how she clenched his shoulders or pushed her hips against his hand, searching for anything to relieve her from her torture, he would push her hips back, whispering to her and teasing her gently, grinning against her lips as she kissed him hard enough to bruise.

He would rub her center slowly, alternating pressures until she thought she would scream and break and do anything, anything he asked. It was then, once she was gasping, once he was absolutely positive that she was ready for him and he wouldn't hurt her, that he would fuse his lips against hers and kiss her deeply again, pushing up the hem of his shirt that was draped over her until it bunched at her hip bones. She would push the loose cotton pants he slept in off his hips and drag him close, her body tight and ringing; so ready for him she was nearly shaking. He would smile against her lips, gently spreading her legs further until his hips fit between her thighs. And he would enter her slowly, letting her get used to his width and length as he slid fully into her. She would gasp, her head falling back and her chest arching into him as her mouth opened in a silent cry of pleasure and pain. And then he would move. And the glorious light would start to build…

Over the weeks she also came to realize that Tristan rambled when he was tired. Her mornings were still spent arguing with Anna about waxing her legs and drinking that vile tea and what she had to wear. Her days were spent working with the guard, laughing with Marty or Callum, Nick, and Dorian. Her evenings were spent with Sookie or Logan. And her nights…her nights were spent in various states of comfort and warmth and pleasure and pain and euphoria with Tristan. All with Tristan. He was so different, so different than anyone knew. It had shocked her at first, to learn how much he needed people. Needed someone to reassure him that he wasn't evil, wasn't cruel. That he really was doing what was best for his people. It wasn't that he was weak or needy, it was just that he was human. And she wondered if anyone else let him just be human, or if they expected more because he was king. She wondered if anyone else knew that he was just a man. Just a boy, really, still trying to fill his father's shoes. He didn't see that he was a good king, as good as his father had been….maybe even better.

She did, though. She knew, because she knew him.

She knew him, and there were things about him that she loved, and one of the things that she loved the most, that she found the most endearing, was that he rambled. It happened on nights when he was delirious with exhaustion or woke up in a stupor of sleep, those were the nights she liked him most. Or, if not liked him most, those were the times that he amused her more than any other. It didn't happen often; in the past weeks it had been only a handful of nights. He would be barely conscious and he would call her love, darling, the light of his life, angel. He would pull her close and whisper into her hair, sometimes she caught snippets of what he said; others he would speak so quietly she couldn't decipher anything or he would speak in a language she didn't know and she'd just drift off as he spoke softly into her skin or hair. These times, in the dead of night, the wind whistling outside the window and the fire crackling in the hearth, he became vulnerable. He would say things to her that he didn't remember in the morning, or if he did remember then he never spoke of them.

There were times when it shocked her that he didn't remember. She could barely see him because of the darkness surrounding them, but he would sound completely lucid with only a hint of tiredness in his voice. There was something about him at these times, however, that made her know that he was deliriously tired, but didn't sound it.

Those were the nights, after holding her and touching her and tasting her; after whispering into her ear all the things he wanted to do to her as he drove deeper and deeper into her, pushing her to the edge and pulling her back time and time again; grinning against her lips while she whimpered, pulling him close and squirming each time he pulled back right before she fell; until finally he would bring her to the edge and pull her through into the light, his body moving deliciously against hers while his hands explored every inch of her, at last bringing her to that shimmering, pulsing end that left her arching desperately into him, gasping and crying out, his lips fused to hers to muffle the sound as he continued to rock against her until she rode every wave of it and fell back to the bed, her back damp against the cool sheets as she shivered and clung to his sweat-streaked chest, her forehead resting against his clammy shoulder as she slowly came down, gradually regaining control of her body.

It was those nights that he would hold her close, curled against her back or lying next to her, and he would speak of the future. He would talk quietly, the inflection in his voice telling her that his eyes were closed and he was talking to her as he drifted off, probably not even realizing what he was saying. But if it hadn't been for that small change in quality in his voice, she would have thought he was wide awake. He told her numerous things that she was sure he didn't remember or mean or even realize he was saying out loud. He'd told her that she made him want to be better. That with nothing more than a touch or a look or a word she could make him feel things he'd never felt from anyone before. He'd told her that he loved her. That he wanted to name their first son Janlan, after his father.

It was one of those nights after the cool autumn air had dried the moisture from their skin and they laid together, facing each other with his arm thrown around her waist and her forehead resting gently against his, their breathing slow and in sync, that he'd first broken her heart. That he'd first told her he wanted to marry her.

That he'd never met anyone before whom he'd had the slightest interest in marrying, but now the thought of being with anyone else wasn't worth the time or energy it took to entertain it. He wanted only her. Forever. He'd said that he wanted her to be his wife; rambled on and on about it until she'd kissed him to quiet him and he'd fallen silent, kissing her back languorously until she felt him stop responding and he was asleep, his breathing rhythmic and even.

When he'd told her he wanted to marry her, his arm wrapped around her waist and her forehead against his, so close she could feel his chest rising and falling, she'd felt her heart crack. Not only because it could never happen. Not only because she knew, deeply, that she loved him. Not only because she couldn't convince herself that his delirious ramblings in the middle of the night were sincere. It wasn't only because of the immediate impossibilities that her heart fractured at his quiet, torturously gentle confession that could never come true. It was because of the lie. It was because she truly, honestly loved him. And he might possibly have loved Leigh Danes. But that wasn't who she was. That person didn't exist.

It was the fact that nearly everything he knew about her was a lie. It hurt to lie to him. It was lying next to Tristan, breathing him in after he so freely and copiously gave her the gift that so many women throughout the castle vied for but he now reserved only for her, that glorious, blinding, paralyzing pleasure mixed with pain that he brought forth from deep within her over and over again; it was lying with him after he'd given her all of himself. Because it was true, she didn't know if it was always like this with every man and every woman, but Tristan gave up something of himself every night when he touched her. She felt it in his skin, in his mouth and his hands. She heard it in his voice and saw it in his eyes. That he surrendered to her, conceded everything he had to her and hid nothing. He gave her everything, showed her everything, and she gave him nothing. But he didn't know it. He thought she was true, and that was what hurt most of all. The lie. That he let her in, opened himself and surrendered, became vulnerable in front of one person in all his life, and she was a liar to the end.

And it was worse because he thought she was so good, so innocent, so honest. And she knew part of him hated himself for what he was doing.

There were times she held him, kissing along the strong lines of his jaw and cheeks, brushing her lips over his eyes and mouth while she watched self loathing and guilt burn deep within him. When he hurt her. When he thought he was corrupting her. When he'd done things he thought would make her hate him. When he drove too deep or too hard, making her cry out in pain from the shock of it. When he left bruises or marks over her body from the pressure of his hands or his mouth; she'd tried to show him that she couldn't feel them, she'd left him with bruises too, but he ignored his own injuries and tended to hers. He would glower, drowning in his own self-contempt. She would brush kisses over his face, holding him close and running her hands lightly over his body in absolution, whispering to him how he made her feel, made her live. How he could never, never do anything to hurt her. How she would never hate him. Never fear him. Never turn away from him.

It was this cycle that destroyed them. He cared for her, lost control or didn't pay attention, hurt her, and hated himself for it; she held him, harbored him from himself and swore to him that he would always be vindicated and that her devotion would never waver. It was what ruined them, it was how they inadvertently grew to care for each other far too deeply, how they both came to long for something that could never be.

******

It was a little more than a month after Rory had started sleeping in Tristan's bed every night that she woke one morning and knew that everything was different. She woke with the warmest feeling in her chest. Tristan was still there. Usually when she woke he would already be gone or she would come to half consciousness while he kissed her forehead before he left…many of those mornings ended in her pulling him back into the bed for another round. But when she woke this morning he was still soundly sleeping beside her, their bodies not touching. She turned on her side and propped herself up on an elbow to watch him, his large shirt falling off of her shoulder. He was breathing evenly, his bare chest rising and falling steadily. There was a bruise on his shoulder where she'd marked him. It looked several days old, fading from red to purple. She hadn't realized she was doing it at the time. There was also a bite mark on his bicep; that one she had known she was doing but she'd felt her body was about to unravel from the inside and hadn't known what to do with the sensation…so she'd bitten him. She didn't bite him with the intention of hurting him or pleasuring him. It wasn't for him at all. It was some strange reaction she had to him. She didn't like it, though. She hated it. The bruises were different because she knew they didn't hurt…he'd given them to her before, but the bites, she knew they hurt but she didn't know how to stop herself. He didn't seem to mind though, it always caused a pleasurable reaction in him. But still, she didn't like the thought of him hurting at all.

Tristan stirred and she realized belatedly that she'd been trailing her fingers along the healing bite mark, tracing the indentions of her teeth. He woke but didn't open his eyes. Instead he grabbed her hand from his arm and used it to twist her around so that she was on her side. She felt his chest pushed against her back, his hand holding hers and both of them wrapped around her torso. He pulled her tight against him, squeezing her hand gently, "Go to sleep, baby."

She smiled at his voice, still thick with sleep, and pressed her body back against his, "Wake up."

"Mmm." Was all he mumbled.

Rory looked towards the window to see that it wasn't as late as she had originally assumed. The sky was still a light gray-blue. She sighed quietly, pulling her arm out from under Tristan's to lay it on top of his, lacing her fingers over his. He mumbled something else, tightening his grip on her before settling into silence. She reached around the back of her head and pulled her hair over the shoulder that was against the bed so that it wouldn't be in Tristan's face while he slept against her. She was settling back, not to go back to sleep, she didn't think that would happen, but just to lay with him. Instead she felt his lips against the back of her neck, trailing sleepy open-mouthed kisses along it. She grinned, letting her eyes close as she felt his lips slide down over the skin of her shoulder.

When she spoke, she didn't know where the question came from. It was something she'd wondered time and time again but had never dreamed of asking him. But as often happened in the early mornings before the rational part of her brain awoke, she asked him something she shouldn't have, her voice quiet, "How can it not mean anything to you?"

Tristan's lips stilled on her skin for a moment. He pulled back, looking down at her with surprisingly alert eyes, "What?"

She turned on her back to look at him and he removed his arm from around her, pushing himself up on his hand to look down at her. Rory bit her lip, not sure of what she was thinking, "How can it mean nothing to you? How can you touch someone, sleep with them, and it not mean anything to you? How can you possibly not feel anything?" He watched her without replying, his face calculating. It was as if he thought she may be speaking of two different things and was trying to decipher which she meant. She pushed herself up on her elbows and it brought her face close to his, her shoulder brushing against his chest. "All those girls before, how is it that you never felt anything? How could you touch them and it not mean anything?"

He rolled off of her, laying back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling, "Leigh…" he trailed off. She turned on her side again, up on her elbow with her head in the palm of her hand to watch him. He sighed silently, licking his lips as he stared at the roof above. "I don't know, I just didn't. It wasn't that hard." He said nothing else.

She shook her head lightly, looking down, "I can't imagine."

He turned his head to look at her, his eyes deep, "Does it mean something to you, then? With me and you?"

Rory tilted her head, her eyebrows knitting together…what kind of question was that? "Doesn't it to you?" she whispered, watching him.

Tristan slipped his hand up her arm to touch her face, pulling her closer to him. She thought he would kiss her, but instead he rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes, his voice muted, "Every time."

She smiled lightly, looking at him from an inch away. "Yeah?" she whispered.

Tristan opened his eyes and they were dancing, his voice was warm and amused, "Yeah." He pulled her forward, pressing his lips to hers slowly and fully, pulling her to lay on top of him. She fell against him, her palms flat against the pillow on either side of his head. She felt his hands slide across her cheeks, one trailing down to her jaw and the other sliding back to tangle in her hair. He pulled away after a moment, "I have to leave the day after tomorrow. I'm going to be in Rivenlear for a week."

Rory felt her face pucker in disappointment and though she tried to stop it, she couldn't. Tristan grinned, laughing lightly. She rolled her eyes, pushing herself off of his chest to sit astride his lower torso. When she moved it took her head out of his reach and his hands slid down reflexively to hold her hips. She thought for a moment and he said nothing, watching her with an affectionate smile. "Mmm, it will be so strange to wake up to Anna again instead of you."

His forehead scrunched, "Anna?"

She nodded, looking down at him, "Yes. I have no idea how early she gets up but she's always in my room when I wake up."

Tristan looked up at her consideringly before sitting up, the change in position causing her to slide further down his hips, "You don't have to leave."

Rory turned her head, lost, "What?"

He shook his head, "You can sleep in my bed. You don't have to go back to your room while I'm gone."

Her eyes widened slightly and she stared at him in silence. "You're serious?" she asked after a moment.

Tristan shrugged one shoulder, "Unless you don't want to."

"No, no." she shook her head, distracted, "I do, I just…" she trailed off, shaking her head, "It is more comfortable than mine."

He just laughed at her attempt at an excuse, leaning up to kiss her.

**

The morning Tristan left for Rivenlear Rory was awoken by a gentle kiss on her forehead and someone whispering her name, "Leigh."

She shifted towards the voice, recognizing it as Tristan's, opening her eyes slowly in the dark room. He was leaning over the side of the bed, brushing her tangled hair back from her face. She looked up at him through eyes still squinted with sleep, "The sun isn't up yet. Why are you?"

He laughed quietly, "I'm leaving."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"Oh." she pushed herself up into a sitting position, the covers falling away from her body, "You're getting back in a week?"

He nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed to face her. "Yeah, in about a week. Maybe a little more." He finished, touching her lips gently with his index finger. He leaned down, placing another warm kiss on her forehead, "Max and Logan are coming with me and we're taking half of the new guard, so you might be on your own while we're gone." He said quietly, pulling his face back from hers.

"I think I'll manage."

He laughed from his chest, tracing his fingertip lightly down her lip and over her chin. He kept his eyes locked with hers, the smallest of smirks quirking his lips as his touch trailed lower, skimming slowly down her throat and the valley of her chest. Rory shivered and he grinned wider, his hand passing down the center of her bare stomach.

She looked up at him through hooded eyes, her mouth slightly open. Her voice came out breathier than it should have, "I thought you were leaving?"

"I am." his hand dipped under the covers, finding her center, and she gasped, her hips shifting involuntarily. He smirked, leaning down to place a deep kiss on her open mouth as his fingers moved against her. Rory leaned back, grabbing his shirt to pull him with her. He let her bring him halfway down so that he was leaning over her, one hand supporting his weight on the bed and the other snaked between their bodies, teasing her gently. Not giving enough pressure. He broke his lips from her to kiss his way down her neck.

"Tristan." She moaned, grinding her lower body against him. But he shushed her quietly in her ear, pushing her back down with his own hips. And she could feel him grinning against her skin.

"I have to go." He said quietly and she could hear the smugness in his voice. He laid a loud, wet kiss on her neck before pushing himself off of her and sliding his hand away from her, running it languidly down her inner thigh as he pulled back.

She pushed herself up, leaning back heavily on her hands, staring at him with arched eyebrows as he stood from the bed, "What was that?"

"I have to leave." He repeated, his eyes trailing from her shining eyes and flushed cheeks to her bare shoulders and lower before sweeping back up to her face.

When his gaze came back to her face he saw that she had one of his own smirks in place. She shook her head lightly, "No you're not." and in one fluid motion she slid effortlessly onto her knees and grabbed the front of his shirt, fusing her lips to his and pulling him back onto the bed.

*

Rory walked across the grounds of the castle with Callum a few days later, throwing a stick for her mastiff puppy, Duke, to chase and bring back. He wasn't so good at the second part. When Tristan, Logan, and Max had gone to Rivenlear they'd taken half of the new guard, Dorian and Nick among them. Callum would have gone but had thrown something out in his elbow two days before they left. He would recover in a few weeks, but it was his sword arm and would impede his ability to protect them if anything were to happen. He was livid about it. She'd witnessed the rant that ensued after the physician had told him he couldn't go. He'd almost thrown out his opposite shoulder punching walls and throwing things. He was still touchy and in a bad mood, but not like he had been the first few days they were gone.

They really didn't have much to do, though, with half of the old and new guards both gone they were only doing their morning runs and informal training sessions and Rory and Callum didn't quite know what to do with themselves. So they were out here with her dog, throwing the stick for it and talking. And somehow they'd ended up on the subject of Tristan, which she absolutely did not want to talk about with him. She looked around for something to slit her wrists with. Or maybe his.

"I'm just saying, Leigh, that I don't want you to get hurt."

She nodded lightly, not looking at him, "Noted. Thank you."

He sighed, grabbing her arm, "Come on, Leigh, level with me here, please."

She looked at him, her shoulders dropping inside her heavy cloak, "What?"

"Look, I know I kid around a lot but really, honestly, I'm worried about you here."

Rory shook her head, "You don't need to be."

Callum didn't respond at first, just looked down at her scrutinizingly, "They say you're in his bed every night."

She exhaled heavily, glaring at him, "And this is where the conversation ends."

She turned to walk away but he grabbed her arm, pulling her back, "No, no, no, Leigh, that isn't how I meant it."

"What?"

"What I meant," he explained slowly, "was that you're in his bed. Not sleeping with him; I wouldn't know about your sex life with him; but that you actually sleep in his bed. Even when he's away." He lowered his head so that he could look at her on her eye level.

She wanted to look away but made herself keep eye contact with him, "So?"

"So, they also say that no woman has ever slept in his bed."

Rory scoffed, leaning back on her heels, "I don't see where this is going." Callum said nothing and after a stretch of silence she looked over to see that he was watching her. She squirmed, pressing her lips together, "What?"

He looked at her through narrowed eyes, his dirty blonde hair sweeping in front of his eyes, "Do you love him?

"What?" she blanched, jerking away from him.

He didn't let her violent reaction distract him, "Leigh, do you love him?"

"No!"

"Leigh." He prodded calmly.

She scoffed, shaking her head lightly, "I don't…." she trailed off, looking away from him, "I don't know."

He crossed his arms over his chest, "You don't know?"

"No, okay? I don't know what I feel, Callum. I have no idea." He just watched her, making no move to speak. He was waiting for her. After a stretch she sighed, wrapping her arms around herself, "He's the king." She whispered finally, "I can't."

"Just because you're not supposed to, doesn't mean you don't." he said quietly.

Rory looked up at him, surprised. "I do care about him." She conceded, "More than I should. So, so much more than I should….."

Callum tilted his head, watching her, "But he's the king?"

Her shoulders fell and she nodded slowly, "But he's the king."

***

Tristan sat on the ground where his guard was camping during their stay in Rivenlear, staring at the fire burning in the middle of the camp. He sat several feet from it, the heat washing over him. He could have stayed in the castle, but…..but princess who he'd rejected threw her nose up and her chest out every time he entered the room. She refused to look at him but had the obnoxious habit of popping up everywhere he went. He supposed she was showing him what he'd given up. It was better than the last visit, when he'd actually done the refusing. She'd run crying every time he entered the room during that visit.

The reason they'd come at all was to finish smoothing over his rejection of the marriage. The king was slightly offended, but nothing careful diplomacy couldn't mend. That was the main reason he'd brought Max this time.

He supposed it was thinking of the princess that made his thoughts turn to Leigh. Because if it hadn't been for his conversations with her he might be betrothed to that spoiled brat right now. He'd thought, originally, that she was sweet. That was before he'd invoked her anger. He watched the flames in the fire pit they'd formed, thinking of Leigh. He glanced over next to him where Logan sat, staring into the fire as well.

"What do you think of Leigh?" he asked his cousin, looking back towards the fire.

Logan's eyebrow arched thoughtfully, not breaking his gaze from the fire, "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice even.

"What do you think of her? And me?"

Logan didn't answer for a moment and they sat in a comfortable silence. "I think." He said quietly, a small smirk on his face, "That she is absolutely mad about you." Tristan chuckled lightly but said nothing, waiting for Logan to go on. "I don't know, Tristan, I mean, I've never seen you like this before. I think you're more gone than you realize too."

His lip twitched, "You think so?"

"You're smiling. Do you know that? We're talking about a girl, and it's making you smile. So yes, I do think so."

Tristan bit the insides of his cheeks, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought, "Do you remember Lord Haeron? He was an old baron who died when we were kids? He used to sit with a pipe and a cane, yelling at children and dogs that came too close to his house in the city?"

Logan laughed lightly, his eyes crinkling at the edges, "Ohh yes, I remember Lord Haeron. He's hard to forget. Always rambling on about wars and taxes and idiot kids."

Tristan nodded slowly, "Yeah, he would. And do you remember when he used to talk about his wife?"

Logan's forehead scrunched. He turned to look at his cousin, "Kind of. Why?"

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, exhaling slowly, "He used to talk about how he came here from Rivenlear as a child, with his parents. As he got older he felt something in him was wrong. Was missing. Like there was something of him in Rivenlear." He cracked his jaw, falling silent.

"I don't remember that." Logan shook his head slowly.

Tristan glanced over at him, "He said that when he was 23 a girl that he'd known as a child came to the city here while her family was passing through and the moment he saw her he knew that he had to marry her. He knew that he was supposed to have known her for all his life. That they weren't supposed to have been separated years before. He knew that were supposed to have been together." He sighed quietly, shaking his head, "It's like that with her, Logan. I feel like I'm supposed to have known her, like I'm supposed to always have been with her. Like she's always been a part of me…" he trailed off, shaking his head, "Does that even make any sense?"

"No." Logan shook his head lightly. Tristan snapped his head around, glaring, and Logan laughed, dropping his head, "No, it doesn't make sense. But that's not surprising. When it comes to caring about people, to being with people, it doesn't make sense."

Tristan snorted, laughing lightly. He watched the fire, his eyes stinging, "She asked me the other day, how I could touch someone and not feel anything. How it could mean nothing to me." His eyebrows drew together, "And do you know what? I can't even remember it now. I can't imagine touching her and not feeling anything. It doesn't even…" he trailed off, flexing his jaw, "I can't."

Logan stared at him by the light of the fire, his eyes narrowed slightly, "Do you love her?" he asked, almost surprised.

Tristan didn't look at him but kept his eyes on the flames, breathing evenly, "I don't know." He said finally, quietly, "I would marry her. Now. Today. This moment, if I thought the people would accept her. If I honestly thought she wouldn't be miserable." He sighed, dropping his head, "How unbelievable is it that all these years I've never found anyone that I've had any interest in marrying and now I've finally found her…but she's common?" he shook his head lightly, picking it back up, "Unbelievable."

***

When they arrived back at the castle several days later it was night, most of the inhabitants already asleep and the massive structure silent. Tristan moved slowly down the halls, not wanting to wake anyone. He wondered if Leigh had indeed slept in his room or if she'd gone back to hers. By the time he reached his suite everyone else had gone to their rooms, leaving him alone. He opened the door slowly and looked around the lounge room. Nothing looked any different. If she had been sleeping here then she hadn't moved anything or brought anything in that hadn't been there before. He moved quietly to the bedroom door, listening. He didn't hear anything.

Tristan pushed the door open quietly and the strangest, most ridiculous satisfaction and warmness spread over him. She was there, a fire crackling in the hearth, sitting up with her back against the headboard and a book propped on her knees, wrapped in one of his shirts.

Leigh looked up as he entered the room, smiling brightly, "Hi."

His lip quirked as he stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him, "Hi."

"You're back?" she asked, closing the book and setting it on the night table next to the bed.

His eyebrow arched and he held his arms out on either side of him, giving her a full view of him, "Looks like it." She grinned and was about to say something else but a bundle at the foot of the bed caught his eye. He blanched, "What is that?"

Leigh followed his gaze and bit her lip, pushing back a grin, "That's Duke."

"What is your dog doing in the bed?" he asked as if she'd lost her mind.

"He was lonely." She explained lightly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"You're kidding." He said simply.

"No…." she threw the covers off, sliding out of the bed and for a moment he was distracted by her ridiculously long legs, bare from her thighs down. She came over to him easily, placing a hand gently on his chest, "He was lonely. I couldn't leave him in my room by himself."

"He's not sleeping in the bed."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?" she asked, eyes wide with that look that said she knew she was going to get her way, it was only a matter of how she needed to convince him. Tristan's eyebrow arched and Rory grinned, leaning up, kissing his lips gently, "Please?"

"Leigh." He said shortly, though his tone wasn't quite so strong.

She touched her mouth to his cheek, his jaw, his chin, before sliding it to his neck, running her hands up his chest, "Please?" she whispered again, against his skin. She felt him shake lightly, gripping her upper arms to pull her closer.

"One night." He said into her ear, his voice strained. She could already feel him against her, his body tight after a week apart.

Rory smiled gently, looking up at him from hooded eyes, "One night?"

He nodded, capturing her lips in a deep kiss, one of his hands sliding steadily down to grip the back of her thigh, pulling her closer while the other one tangled in her hair, "Mhmm." He mumbled against her lips, "But not tonight."

Her laughter was muted against him mouth as she wrapped her arms around his neck, letting him lower her back onto the bed.

*

Rory woke slowly the next morning to Tristan kissing her neck, pulling her close against him. She opened her eyes and saw that he was still half asleep, holding her close and settling back into the mattress. She watched him almost sleeping and bit her lip, twisting around in his grip to watch him easier.

Last week Anna had stared at her crest, her face torn. She'd asked what Tristan had said when he saw it. Rory had told her that he still hadn't noticed it and Anna had stared at her for a moment in shock before telling her that she was lucky for that and needed to tell him soon. That she couldn't hide it for much longer sleeping in his bed every night and he was bound to find out no matter how quickly she pulled on his clothes to hide it. And it was true, she was getting too comfortable. It wasn't that she didn't fear him finding her crest, but as weeks passed and he didn't, she learned to internalize the fear and live with it. Eventually it crawled to the back of her mind, curled tightly and constantly. But she lived with it. It didn't keep her up nights or cause her extreme worry. She learned to live with it the way you learned to live with the fear that you would be robbed or that you would lose someone you loved.

She watched him now, sleeping quietly. There probably wasn't a better time to tell him. Not that there would ever be a good time. "Tristan?" she whispered.

"Hmm?" he mumbled, tightening his grip on her.

Her heart was pounding and she could feel her palms clamming up, "I need to tell you something."

His voice was mumbled and she could tell that he still wasn't fully awake. He hadn't opened his eyes yet. "Mmm I need to tell you something too."

She pushed herself up on her elbows, looking down at him, "Yeah?"

"Mhmm." He threw his arm around her and in one swift motion rolled her over, pinning her beneath his body. He kissed her neck again, "I missed you."

She would have laughed, but her stomach was in knots. Her body wasn't even responding to his lips on her skin, "That's what you have to tell me?"

"That." He trailed his mouth down her throat, "And I am eternally in your debt. If it weren't for you I would probably be engaged to that spoiled brat from Rivenlear right now."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, dropping her head back.

He pulled back to look at her, "We were talking the night before I left, and I still hadn't decided what I was going to tell her father. I didn't want to marry her but…" he trailed off, shrugging one shoulder, "I'd given up on finding a wife that I loved." He whispered, kissing her bare shoulder gently.

Rory waited for him to say more. He didn't. "But…" she supplied for him.

He smiled gently, looking at her, "But then you came with your ridiculous ideals of a marriage based on love and you told me that I deserved that too."

She tilted her head, "Anyone would have said the same thing."

He shook his head, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully, "No. No one had ever told me that before. I'd heard other people say that, but no one had ever told me that as a king I was allowed it." He looked down at her, "You never say anything that anyone else would say. You aren't like anyone else, Leigh."

She tilted her head questioningly but said nothing.

Tristan rolled off of her, staring up at the ceiling, "I'm not used to people like you."

"People like me?" she asked, turning on her side and propping herself up on her elbow to watch him.

"Yes, like you. People who are…" he trailed off, searching for a word, "real." He said finally, his face drawn in concentration.

"Oh, right, as opposed to all the imaginary ones." She said lightly, tracing her fingers down his arm.

He glanced over at her, "You know what I mean. I'm not used to people who aren't after anything. I can't think of any ulterior motive you could have, and even if you did have one I can't imagine that you wouldn't have done something about it by now."

Rory watched him quietly, hurt, "I don't have any ulterior motive."

He cut his eyes over to her, not moving his head, "I know." She looked at him uncertainly and he sighed, realizing that he hadn't conveyed what he'd meant, "What I mean is that I'm not used to honest people, people who don't lie to me left and right." He looked back towards the ceiling, "I don't trust people because as far as I can tell there almost isn't anyone who doesn't lie. Except for you." He finished quietly, his expression unreadable. They sat in silence for a stretch, guilt eating at her from the inside. "What was it you wanted to tell me?" he asked, glancing over at her.

"Oh." She swallowed, shaking her head lightly, "Just that Duke likes you."

His eyebrow arched, "Your dog likes me?" She nodded. "That was what you needed to tell me?"

"Mhmm." She nodded, "He didn't bite you. Or growl. Or try to protect me from you. He usually does one or a combination of all three, depending on how big the person I'm talking to is. But he didn't do any of it. That means he likes you." She broke off, realizing that she was rambling.

Tristan nodded slowly, his eyebrow still quirked, only this time it said that she'd lost her mind, "Well that's something."

"Yeah." She nodded, laying back down, "It's a good thing, too. Jackson, the cook's husband, got his hand nearly bitten off."

Tristan laughed lightly, wrapping his arm around her to pull her close and settle back into the mattress.

*

Later that week Rory was working with Logan, writing up training schedules for the men when they were interrupted by Max. He opened the door to the main training room, his face grave, "Leigh can I speak with you?"

She looked up at him from her place on the floor next to Logan, surprised, "Of course. What's wrong?"

He opened his mouth uncertainly and then closed it, shaking his head lightly, "I'm not sure. Come with me."

Rory exchanged a look with Logan before pushing herself off the ground and following Tristan's advisor out of the room. Once the door was closed behind them she turned to him, "What is it?"

He sighed, his face creasing, "It's Tristan. I don't know….I'm not sure what's wrong with him."

She shook her head, "Where is he? I haven't seen him all day." And it was true. She'd awoken wrapped in the sheet and Tristan already gone like he usually was. After she'd gotten up she'd gone on the run with the new guard and had sat with Logan during their daily training session. From there they'd gone to lunch and then to write up the schedules for the following week. She glanced out of a window as they passed it to see that twilight was falling.

Max nodded and started down the hall, speaking as he walked and leaving her to trail after him, "Precisely. No one has seen him because he's spent the entire day locked in his study poring over the records of trials from his first few years as king. He won't eat or rest or talk to anyone. I swear I sat in the room for an hour waiting for him to acknowledge me. Finally he said that if someone wasn't dying and the castle wasn't under attack it would have to wait. He didn't even look up." He shook his head as they emerged from the military wing into the main part of the castle, "I've never seen him like this, I don't know what's wrong with him or what he's trying to find."

Rory followed him up the main staircase, "And you think he'll tell me?" she asked quietly.

Max stopped, halfway between the first and second floor of the castle. He turned to look at her for a moment before shaking his head simply, "Doesn't he always?"

She bit her lip but had nothing to say, and so she followed him the rest of the way in silence. He brought her to the door of Tristan's study and patted her shoulder encouragingly before leaving. She scratched the back of her head, biting her lip again subconsciously as she knocked quietly on the door. There was no answer. She waited a moment before knocking again.

Silence.

"Tristan?" she called through the door.

"I'm busy." was his clipped reply.

She pushed the door open, leaning against the doorframe. His head snapped up but when he saw her his expression became wary, "Of course that wouldn't matter to you. Anyone else would just walk away."

Rory's lip quirked and she shrugged one shoulder, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her, "What are you doing?" she asked, walking over to his desk.

He leaned back in his chair, "Reading."

She came closer and looked down to see that his desk was littered with documents. There must have been records from fifteen trials on his desk. He watched her as she came closer, his eyes trained on her. She looked down at the paper layering his desk, craning her neck forward curiously. Names and titles and accusations and rulings and sentences all listed at the top with a description of the trial trailing down the scroll. She stopped at the side of his desk, only a few feet from him, and reach over, shifting the papers so she could see the names at the top of them; some she knew and some she didn't. Easton. Bishop. Charleston. Samuels….

Hayden.

Rory heard a ringing in her ears. She felt her body heat and her head started to pound. She pulled her hand back slowly, already worried that her thumping heart would give her away. She looked away from the paper, refusing to read what it said as her teeth clenched painfully. She'd seen some of what was written on it, though she'd tried not to….Lord Christopher Hayden, Duke of Noran, is hereby charged with High Treason on the order of Regicide, sentenced to die by being drawn and quartered…

She blinked slowly, raising her gaze to see that Tristan was watching her closely, his eyes trained on her face. She rested her hand on the edge of the desk, away from the record of her father's trial. Tristan glanced at the paper before looking back to her. He stayed silent, his face thoughtful, and for a terrifying moment she thought he would start talking to her about the Hayden trial.

But he didn't. He sat up in his chair, placing his hands on the desk, "Did you need something?"

She shook her head lightly, stepping away from the desk, "Why are you reading these?"

He looked down at the desk, biting the insides of his cheeks, "Because I haven't in a while."

"Isn't it depressing?" she asked, stepping towards the bookshelves along the walls, looking anywhere but at the papers on the table. Tristan didn't answer and after a moment she looked over to see that he was watching her scrutinizingly again. She turned towards him, "What?"

"Why would it be depressing?" he asked, shaking his head lightly.

She shrugged, feeling like she should step closer to him but not wanting to. He was emotionless. Completely and absolutely emotionless. She hadn't seen him like this since the first time he kissed her. And something about him now made her hesitate. It wasn't that he had out the Hayden trial. It was the look he'd given her when he saw her staring at it. It wasn't suspicious…..wasn't angry. It was empty. She didn't know what to make of it, but her feet wouldn't let her move towards him at all. "I don't know."

Tristan watched her silently.

"Max says you won't eat."

"Ahh." He leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly, "Now we get to it."

"He says you won't eat or take a break or leave this room or talk to anyone."

His lip quirked humorlessly, "I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

Rory brushed her hair back from her face, "But you aren't saying anything."

Tristan pursed his lips, lacing his fingers behind his head, "What do you want me to say?" She shrugged, biting the insides of her cheeks as she turned back towards the book shelves. The sound of papers shuffling and Tristan shifting in his chair rang throughout the room. Rory reached up to touch the books lining the walls, reading the titles distractedly. After a moment she glanced over her shoulder to see that he was leaning forward, reading the records. She stared at him, suspicious, before dropping her hand from the shelf. She came closer slowly, standing by the side of his desk. He didn't look up. She realized that she'd been dismissed.

Rory bit her lip, torn between hurt and fear. She didn't know what she was supposed to think. She'd seen Tristan be cruel. Seen him be dismissive. But never to her. He wasn't like this to her. She stepped back quietly, watching him as he forced himself to ignore her. She backed up to the door, reaching behind her to twist the handle. She still watched him, though, waiting to see if he'd look up as she left.

He didn't.

**

Rory jerked awake, her eyes flying open. For a moment she was disoriented. It was dark and she could hear wind whistling somewhere close; through a window. She was laying on something soft…a mattress, and a heavy weight pulled at her feet. She slowly realized that she was in Tristan's bed and wondered why she'd been so confused. She was wrapped in the blankets, Duke's dead weight weighing down the foot of the bed. The autumn wind whistled outside the large window like always and a great, comforting fire crackled in the hearth. But Tristan wasn't there.

She pushed herself up on her hands, looking around the quiet room. It was the middle of the night and Tristan's side hadn't been rumpled or compressed at all. He had never come to bed. He'd still been in his study when she'd laid down. She assumed he would grow tired and slip in quietly sometime in the night, wrap his arm around her and pull her close; either kiss down her neck to wake her up so he could make up for his earlier actions or whisper gently into her ear before falling asleep against her back.

But he never had.

Rory wasn't sure what had woken her: the absence of his body when she knew he was supposed to be there, the chill that assaulted her because she wasn't wrapped in his warm arms, or the fact that Duke was crushing her foot. She thought it was probably the last, but the first two sounded better. She sat up completely, shifting her foot out from underneath the dog. He gurgled sleepily but had no other reaction. She looked around, wondering if Tristan was still in his study. A glow under the door caught her attention and she narrowed her eyes, leaning forward. Light danced in the gap between the door and the floor. There was a fire in the lounge. She threw the covers off, running a hand through her hair as she slid out of bed, swinging her leg over the side. The icy stone stung her feet and made her hop over to the door, her knee-length nightgown swirling around her thighs. She stopped at the door, pressing her lips together. She wasn't completely alert but was still in that stupor between consciousness and rest, so normally she might not have walked out there after the way Tristan had treated her earlier that day. She would have read the warning in his cold dismissal that afternoon and his absence that night. But, as it was, she opened the door.

Tristan was sitting on the couch, his gaze locked on something on the table. He was tense, his face tight and hard. She leaned against the doorframe, tilting her head and smiling affectionately. He looked up at her reluctantly as she entered and his face softened reflexively, ever so slightly. A moment later it was solid again and he turned back to the document before him. She could tell that he hadn't meant for his face to warm at the sight of her.

She realized that it would be wisest to just turn around and go back to bed. But she hated seeing him like this.

Rory came over to the couch, folding herself neatly next to him, her body turned towards him and one leg tucked under her. "Aren't you tired?" she asked, yawning.

He shook his head, not looking away from the paper before him, "No."

"It's the middle of the night."

"I know." His voice was clipped and empty.

Rory tilted her head, her gaze travelling over his profile. He ignored her. She shifted forward and laid a slow, open mouthed kiss on his neck. He didn't respond and so she trailed her lips lower, placing another on the junction of his neck and shoulder, scraping her teeth over the skin. At that she felt him shiver but it didn't feel the same as when he normally did.

He swore quietly, shrugging her away, "Leigh you're distracting me."

She pulled back, annoyed but trying not to show it, "That's kind of the point."

"I'm busy."

Rory leaned back and bit her lip, watching him. Whatever had been bothering him earlier was still gnawing at him. She glanced down to see what he was reading so intently and the world froze. There were several sheets of paper on the table, all comprising one document. Her gaze slid to the top of the first page. Hayden. She closed her eyes, pushing back the words that burned the back of her eyes…Lord Christopher Hayden, Duke of Noran, is hereby charged with High Treason on the order of Regicide…

She slammed her hand on the paper, not even sure which part of the trial he was reading about. In her mind every word listed her father as a traitor. If she had expected Tristan to jump at the crack that resounded throughout the room she was disappointed. He just stared at her hand, covering his reading, before slowly turning his face towards her, his expression bland. She looked at him from behind a sheet of thick brunette waves, "Come to bed." She implored quietly.

His face didn't soften this time, "I'm not tired." He took her wrist in his hand and moved it lightly from the page before him. His shoulders were tight, his entire body tense, and she got the distinct impression that he wished she would have just stayed in bed.

Rory closed her eyes, pressing her lips together. She didn't move. She had no idea what was wrong with him. She didn't think he'd figured anything out. If he had then why wasn't he saying anything about it? She thought, she hoped, that their conversation several weeks before had just made him think about it, because even if he did know who she was now there was nothing for her to do. She blinked, looking up at him with wide eyes, "Tristan please?" she whispered.

She saw his jaw clench and she wasn't sure if he was pushing back the urge to hit her or follow her, "No, Leigh. Go back to bed."

Rory shook her head, exasperated, "What is wrong, Tristan?" her voice came out louder and sharper than she'd meant for it to.

She was rewarded with his head snapping around to look at her. His eyes and voice were dead. "Nothing's wrong, Leigh. Why, should there be?"

She looked at him, her anger fizzing out. Her face was still, her eyes narrowing slightly, "What?"

He didn't respond but locked gazes with her and she was shocked to realize that his eyes were far from dead. He stared at her with an intensity she'd rarely seen in him, as if he were trying to see through her eyes and into her mind, into her soul. But it wasn't the way he usually looked deeply into her. This, he wasn't trying to understand her; he was trying to make her admit something. She wondered what she was supposed to have done to make him act like this. She wasn't sure what to do, but she stared back. She didn't try to read him or figure him out the way he was trying to solve her; she just looked.

Without warning Tristan's body cocked back. He blinked rapidly, staring at her as if he'd never seen her before. His face was enveloped in disbelief. He opened his mouth as if he would say something, but shook his head, turning away, "Go to bed, Leigh." His voice was muted.

She thought about fighting him but decided against it. She bit her lip, looking towards the bedroom, "I don't want to sleep in there."

She looked back at him to see that his eyes were closed, either because he didn't want to look at her or as if he were counting in his head, pushing back his anger so it didn't explode on her, "Leigh." His voice was hollow, "Go to bed."

Rory opened her mouth but something in the pit of her stomach cut off her voice. She sighed quietly, standing in one smooth motion, "Fine. Enjoy your reading."

He snorted humorlessly but said nothing as she went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

**

Rory was with Nick, Callum, and Dorian the next afternoon, practicing with their swords. She felt a weight in her chest and she didn't know what to do with it. She'd barely slept after going back into the bedroom alone, tossing and turning without him there. Not to mention the fact that she'd spent the night driving herself mad trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. When she'd gotten up that morning he was already gone.

The three boys she was with now were trying valiantly to cheer her up, taking their free practice time and doing everything they could think of to make her smile. They'd been at it for nearly two hours and it had just begun to work when they were interrupted by Logan. He approached them cautiously, his face apologetic. Callum either didn't notice or chose to ignore it with all the other stresses and awkwardness that seemed to engulf all of them now. He waved jovially, "Hey Logan."

He nodded, his mouth tight, "Hey Callum. Nick. Dorian." He nodded to all of them in acknowledgement and they nodded back. He turned then to Rory and his expression became more desolate, "Hey Leigh, I need you to come with me."

She tilted her head, her face drawing in concern, "What's wrong?"

Logan shook his head, beckoning her to him, "Come on, you're going to hate me."

Rory felt her eyes widen as she stepped towards him, "Logan, what's going on?"

"Here, let's go." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, leading her away from the three young men who were watching him with looks that suggested they were considering either refusing to let him take Leigh or going along to make sure she was alright.

Once they were out of earshot of the others she turned to him, "What is this, Logan?"

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. His face crumbled and Rory was taken aback at how remorseful he was, "I'm sorry, Leigh, I'm so sorry." Was all he said, his voice quiet.

She slammed her heels down on the dry, brittle grass. She could feel the cold through the soles of her shoes, "Logan, you're scaring me."

He looked at her helplessly, his usually warm eyes sadder than she'd ever seen them. "What did you do?" he asked finally, his voice tired.

"What?" she shook her head, confused.

He looked away from her, putting his fist over his mouth as if trying to think of what to say. He turned back to her, "Tristan just had me brought to his study. When I walked in I thought he'd lost his mind. He was livid, Leigh, livid like I've never seen him before. He told me to come get you and…" he trailed off, his brows creasing.

She watched him, waiting for him to go on. "And…" she supplied.

Logan swore under his breath, looking like he wanted to hit something, "And he told me to take you to the East Tower."

Rory stared at him, saying nothing. Her mind didn't even comprehend what he'd just said, let alone her body. She didn't have the ability to react to it. They stood in pushing silence for a stretch, staring at each other. The East Tower? She wasn't going to the East Tower? She wouldn't. She couldn't. The only people who stayed in the East Tower were criminals. Not normal criminals, of course, they were kept in the dungeon. It was rare, in Hartford, for a noble to commit a crime, and even rarer that they were actually tried for it. But when they were, they were held in the East Tower until their trial. It wasn't dirty, and it wasn't like a dungeon, but that was what it was. She'd never been there herself but she'd heard that the five rooms were furnished and decorated as tastefully and comfortably as any room in the castle. But that wasn't the point. It was a prison. She opened her mouth as if she would speak but didn't. She scrunched her eyes and forehead, shaking her head lightly, her voice came out, half exasperated laugh and half disbelief, "What?"

He looked at her for a moment, tightening his mouth, "I told him I wouldn't do it, Leigh, I said I wasn't going to. I told him that he'd lost his mind and he had no idea what he was doing…" he trailed off shaking his head, "But he insisted. He didn't want a military escort or anything official, he just wanted me to come get you. I wasn't going to but you know how he gets and as much as I don't want to take you….he's the king. I have to do what he tells me. I asked him why and all he said was, 'She knows.' Do you know what he's talking about? Can you think of anything you've done that would get you sent to the East Tower?"

Rory watched Logan, shaking her head lightly, "No." she whispered, her voice small. He watched her sadly for a moment before taking her elbow and leading her into the castle and up a flight of stairs in the east wing. She hadn't precisely told him the truth. She was sure the fact that she was a Hayden was more than enough reason to land her in the East Tower, but as far as she knew Tristan still didn't know. He'd been reading the papers on the trial and he'd been distant the previous day, but she imagined that if he found out who she really was…there would have been more than a day of giving her the cold shoulder. She didn't think he had the patience or a reason, really, to play mind games with her.

Logan led her down a hallway and up several more flights of stairs before stopping in front of an ornate door. It was heavy and sturdy, but the part that struck her most was the fact that there were three different keys required to open in. She watched as he pulled a key ring from his shirt and unlocked the door, pushing it open for her. It led to another hallway, carpeted in a thick, rich red. Tapestries hung on the walls and each of the doors had multiple locks, each requiring a different key. Logan led her down the hall to one of the far rooms. She wanted to feel something….tried to feel something, anything, but couldn't. Tristan had sent her here? For what purpose? Was he putting her on trial?

Belatedly Rory realized that Logan was talking as he unlocked a heavy oak door, "…in years. The last time anyone was kept here must have been at least six year ago. And this is the nicest of the rooms." He pushed the door open and stepped to the side, allowing her to see. She stepped into the doorway, looking around curiously. It was nice enough, just as nice as the room she'd been given, as nice as any spare room in the castle. There was no mirror or closet but there was a bed, a desk with a chair, a few books, and a window with bars running criss-crossed over it. Someone had already brought several of her dresses.

Logan stood behind her in silence. She inhaled deeply, turning to look at him, "Well that's something." She said quietly.

He furrowed his brow, tilting his head sympathetically, "Leigh, I promise you, we're doing everything we can to get you out of this. I don't know what he's thinking. This moment Max is yelling at him, trying to get him to think clearly." He squeezed her shoulders gently, "I don't know what happened, though I imagine you do. You don't have to tell me and that's fine, but we're trying."

She laughed lightly, humorlessly. She really didn't know. She knew a possibility, but she didn't think it likely that Tristan had found out who she was. And even if he had it wasn't like him to involve everyone in the castle. "You don't know?"

"What?"

"Why he would put me in here?" she asked, her voice dull.

"No." he said simply, shaking his head. His expression shifted ever so slightly, "But…" he trailed off, thinking, "I know in the past week rumors have started spreading about you. And Callum." Her eyes snapped wide. Logan flinched, "And Martin." He said quietly.

Rory shook her head, "What?"

He nodded, "I know. Tristan came to me a few days ago and asked what I thought of the rumors."

"And?"

"And," Logan nodded his head from side to side thoughtfully, "I asked if my name was included in that too, because I couldn't imagine they were saying it about the two of them and not me."

"You?" she snorted, still shocked.

A depressing shadow of amusement passed over his face and she was sure that if the situation weren't so dire he would make a comment about her disbelief, but he just went on, "He said that my name was included in the rumors but he dismissed it as soon as he heard it." He shrugged lightly, "I told him that he should have dismissed the others just as quickly." Logan sighed, shaking his head, "I don't know what's gotten into him Leigh…" he broke off, looking at her uncertainly, "You haven't, have you?" her jaw dropped but she wasn't even able to begin her furious reply before he held up his hands, "Alright, alright. I was sure you hadn't but…" he shook his head, "I don't think he believes it. In fact I know he doesn't, he would've done something about it as soon as he heard…" Logan trailed off as if he would say more but stopped, flexing his fingers thoughtfully. He glanced around the room, clicking his teeth, "And uhm one more thing, Tristan wanted me to drop you off here and go straight back but there's something else you should know."

Rory felt her stomach drop. She didn't know that she could take any more, "What?"

Logan sighed heavily, dropping his head, "After he told me to come get you and I refused we got into an argument and…he said something to me about your parents." He looked up at her, his face remorseful, "I'm so sorry Leigh, I never imagined that by now you hadn't told him." She felt herself pale. She felt herself pale so much and so quickly that she was sure she didn't have any blood left in her face. Logan grimaced, "I asked if he meant Luke and Rachel or your birth parents and he…" Logan shook his head lightly, "He was livid before but he became furious. He asked what I was talking about and I told him what you told me when we were on our way back from your home village, about your parents dying and you going to live with your father's cousin and then her dying…and how your parents now took you in."

He broke off slowly, his face tight and uncertain. Rory said nothing, just stared at him in shock. They stood like that for a stretch, silence surrounding them.

"Oh my..." She whispered finally, her hand over her mouth. She slid slowly to the ground, her back against the wall. As if things weren't bad enough. She was sure Tristan wouldn't just dismiss Logan's name from that list now.

He sighed, exasperated, lacing his fingers together at the back of his head, "I am so sorry, Leigh. I swear to you, I had no idea. If I'd thought even for a moment that you hadn't told him by now…" he trailed off, shaking his head. He squatted in front of her so that they were on eye level, "I'll do whatever I can to get you out of this. Whatever it is you did, I can help you make it right."

Rory smiled weakly, pulling her hand from her mouth to touch his face lightly, "Logan," she whispered, shaking her head, "I don't know what I did."

**

Rory was laying on the floor the next day, staring up at the patterns the rough stone made in the ceiling. The room really was comfortable. Thick tapestries hung on the walls, soft carpets littered the floor. The bed was nice, though not nearly as nice as Tristan's, and the bars on the window were placed close enough together to prevent escape, but far enough apart that they didn't obstruct her view of the landscape. There was a fire crackling in the hearth; it had already been lit when Logan led her here the day before and a servant must have come while she slept to replenish it. When she'd awoken a tray of food had already been set in on the desk. She'd ignored it. Someone she'd never seen before, a quiet, subservient teenage girl, had brought lunch but she hadn't touched that either. When she awoke she'd attempted to braid her hair in the tight, clean plaits that Anna did but she was out of the habit of it by now and she had only gotten frustrated, eventually twisting her hair into two braids that fell over her shoulders. They'd come loose now, strands escaping around her face and the braids flowing easily.

So she laid on the soft rug, nodding her head from side to side, so bored she wanted to scrape her way through the wall just to get outside. Just to have something to stimulate her mind. The patterns on the ceiling were changing. She didn't think they were supposed to. Maybe she was losing her mind. That wasn't a good sign considering she'd been in the room for a little less than a day. She'd crack under this kind of isolation. Whatever it was Tristan wanted out of her he'd get if this went on much longer.

She heard locks turning and realized it had been several hours since the girl had come in with lunch. She'd already decided to amuse herself by seeing how long it would take to make the girl talk back. Rory shook her head, even though the girl coming in couldn't see her yet, "Nope!" she called as the last lock turned, "Don't want any. I'm not hungry." The door opened but she didn't shift her gaze from the ceiling. "There's no point in eating when I haven't moved since I woke up. Food is not necessary when you don't do anything with it." There was no response, but she knew the girl was there. Probably staring at her considering she could hear no movement but no one had left. She went on thoughtfully, "Did you know that the stone makes a pattern on the ceiling? Yeah, it does. I'm thinking of taking the next two months and trying to find words in it. Maybe shapes. Or ohh, maybe even animals, you know like people do in the clouds?" she fell silent waiting for an answer. None came. She smacked her lips before pursing them in the silence. "Yes…I think I'll go with animals."

There was another stretch of silence before she heard a voice, "What on earth are you doing?"

Rory's forehead scrunched, "Anna?" she pushed herself up into a sitting position and twisted around to stare at the maid who was holding a tray of food and staring at her as if she'd lost her mind….which, in all honesty, she was on the path for. "Anna!" she jumped up and staggered over, her legs not used to the weight.

The old maid shook her head, setting the tray on the desk, "What were you doing?"

She shrugged, hitching her chin up, "Staring at the ceiling. It's the most responsive thing in the room."

Anna's eyebrows arched, "Are those braids too tight? They seem to be cutting off the blood flow to your brain."

"Ha!" Rory motioned towards her, "She has jokes. How lovely."

Anna shook her head, going over to stir the fire, "Why don't you do something productive, like read a book or knit something?"

Rory's nose wrinkled, "…knit….something…" she spoke the words slowly, as if she'd never heard them before. She trailed off, smacking her lips again. Anna muttered something under her breath that Rory couldn't make out. She followed her over to the hearth, "So how did you get in? Did you have to bribe someone? Threaten anyone? Beat the mute over the head until she gave up my tray?"

"Rory!" she scolded, shooting a glare.

She shrugged, yawning, "I'm just saying."

"Rebecca is perfectly capable of speaking."

"Mhmm, yes, I'm sure, just not to me."

"I'm sure she's been ordered not to." Anna explained, tossing another small log onto the fire.

"One can only hope."

Anna rolled her eyes, shaking her head, "You're impossible." She pointed towards the chair, "Now, sit." Rory did so flouncingly, waving her arms around her head gracefully as she settled back into the chair. Anna slid the tray in front of her, "Eat."

Rory looked down at the bread, fruit, and cheese on her plate, wrinkling her nose, "I'd rather not."

"Eat." She repeated in a tone that plainly said she hadn't asked for Rory's opinion. The younger girl sighed exaggeratedly, ripping off an unnecessarily large chunk of bread and shoving it into her mouth unattractively. Anna turned back towards the fire as she spoke wryly, "Don't choke."

"Thfm schept uu." Rory mumbled around the wad of bread in her mouth.

Anna turned, horrified at her manners, "Excuse me?"

Rory held a finger up, chewing thickly. She nodded her head to the maid, pointing to her mouth before swallowing painfully, "I said," her voice was scratchy, "That's sweet of you."

The older woman scoffed, turning back towards the hearth, "That's not what you said. You weren't speaking in any known language." Rory snorted a laugh before picking an apple off her plate and hitting it lightly on the table, flattening the rounded edges. She still wasn't hungry. "Now." Anna started, walking over to her, "What is this all about? No one knows why you're in here."

Rory smirked, "Well at least I'm not alone, then."

Anna's forehead scrunched, "You don't know why you're in here either?"

Rory held her hands up, her voice light and unconcerned, "Nope."

"Huh." Anna put her hands on her hips, looking around thoughtfully, "Strange." She muttered, walking over to make Rory's bed. "What did Tristan say, when you told him?"

"When I told him what?" she asked, staring at the apple in her hands as she gouged at the peel with her fingernails.

"Well when you told him who you really are, of course." Anna answered, snapping the sheet to get the wrinkles out.

"Oh…" Rory trailed off, her hands stilling on the apple. She felt it the moment Anna's eyes settled on her in a glare.

"You never told him?" she snapped, walking around the bed.

"Well…" Rory shrugged, setting the apple on the table, "Not in so many words, no."

"Rory!" she yelled.

"Ahh, ahhh, yeah I know." She mumbled, cringing.

Anna sighed, watching Rory closely, "You don't think that's what this is about, do you?"

She bit her lip, leaning her elbows on the table thoughtfully, "Well…no, not really. I don't know. He's been reading the papers from my father's trial, but he hasn't said anything to me to insinuate that he knows." She shook her head lightly, "I don't know, Logan told me that Tristan asked him a few days ago about rumors he's heard about me with Callum, Marty, and Logan…but he said Tristan didn't believe them." She grimaced, nodding her head from side to side thoughtfully, "Of course, I'm sure he's even angrier now considering Logan told him about my parents."

"What?" Anna interrupted her.

Rory briefly told her about how she'd told Logan a revised story about her parents and how she wound up in Luke and Rachel's care, but she hadn't told Tristan. And how Logan had assumed that she'd told him. Anna's eyebrows continued to arch further as Rory's story went on. "So now," she said finally, exasperated, "he's going to be even angrier. He'll be livid that I told Logan something I didn't tell him."

Anna sighed, shaking her head, "You have to tell him, Rory. You have to tell him who you are."

"I know." She said quietly.

"Immediately." She insisted, "The next time you see him. He needs to know if he doesn't already."

Rory looked up at Anna, touching the old maid's hand gently, "I know."

**

Rory was sitting at the desk the next day, flipping through one of the books in the room without actually reading or comprehending what it was saying. Anna had left late the previous night, promising that she'd come back, but she'd yet to show. The silent wench had returned twice: once to bring breakfast and once to bring lunch, both of which Rory had refused. It was getting late now, though, and she was expecting the door to open again soon with dinner. She hoped it was Anna. It almost made her laugh, actually, to think back four months before, Anna would have been the last person she would actually hope to see walk through a door.

She was halfway through the book, flipping pages thoughtlessly, when she heard the locks turn in quick succession. Her head snapped up. It definitely wasn't the mute girl. She stood as the door flew open violently….she was betting it wasn't Anna either, then. And she was right.

Tristan strode into the room, slamming the door behind him. She opened her mouth, unable to speak through her shock. Shock that he was there. Shock for the way he was glaring at her as if he thought to set fire to her with his eyes. "Tristan…" she said quietly, surprised.

He didn't falter but came towards her with steady, angry strides, "Lift up your skirt."

She took a step back, confused, "What?"

"Lift up your skirt." He repeated, his voice acidic.

Rory shook her head lightly as she took another step away from him, uncertain of what he was here for, "Tristan, no…"

He was even with her now and her voice cut off as he grabbed her upper arms roughly, his hands vices, "Yes." He snarled.

"No." she protested, trying to push him away to no avail. Her arms pounded where he clenched them and she knew that she'd have bruises in the morning, "Tristan, don't."

His face shifted ever so slightly to take on a hint of disgusts as well as fury as he realized what she was protesting, what she thought he might be doing, "Don't worry, Mary." He growled as he grabbed her skirt himself, shoving it up, "I won't defile you again."

Rory felt herself pale. If he wasn't here for sex then there was only one other reason he'd be lifting up her skirt. She thought about pushing him away but by this point it would do no good, so she just pulled her hands back, fists clenched subconsciously, and bit her, lip, watching him. He was staring at her hip, his eyes wide and his breathing shallow and fast, his gaze locked on her crest. She saw that although he'd expected and known, he'd wanted to be wrong. Silence engulfed them, the only sounds Tristan's breathing and her own blood pounding in her ears. They only stood there for a moment but it felt like an eternity, everything moving in slow motion. Tristan brought everything back to normal time.

"Hayden." He spat as if the word were vile; she flinched. He swore under his breath, shoving back from her and twisting away, raising his hands to his forehead. Her skirt flowed back down to the ground. He stood shaking his head and she could see the anger in the lines of his body.

"Tristan," she said quietly.

"I'm such an idiot." He said, almost to himself as he twisted around, staring at her coldly, "I must have seen your crest at least half a dozen times, do you know that? But it never even crossed my mind that that was what it was." He shook his head, "It was always too dark, too late, to really see it, to get a good look at it. I thought it was just a scar, just like any other burn, and I never wanted to ask you about it because I assumed that you didn't want to talk about it, that if it was important you would've told me." He scoffed, turning away from her, "I assumed you'd tell me the truth on something. Idiot." He muttered the last to himself, pacing the room in front of her.

"Tristan." She whispered again, gently.

"No!" he turned on her, his voice commanding and so heated it almost burned her skin, "No. You will not address me so informally, Lorelai Hayden." She flinched but he went on, "I swear, I was so blinded by something about you, I couldn't see straight when it came to you. I'd seen it but the thought that it was a family crest never even entered my mind until a few days ago when I was talking to Max and Mitchum about the different methods of marking the noble families and one of them brought up the Haydens…." He shook his head in disbelief, "And all I could think was how dense I've been." He looked over at her, his face closed off, "So that's it, then? That's why you're always jumping under the covers and putting on my clothes, saying it's because you're cold? It's not because you're actually cold, is it?"

She bit her lip, feeling very small, "No." she whispered.

Tristan nodded, scoffing as he started pacing again, "No, I didn't think so. And then two nights ago after you fell asleep I looked at it and I didn't…" he trailed off, shaking his head, "I still didn't want to believe it. So I started looking through the old trial records, trying to figure out if you were the right age and looked like the Haydens and how you could have gotten into Stars Hollow, and what do you know, I found a cousin of Christopher Hayden's who lived there." He stopped talking and turned to look at her.

Her eyes were downcast but she raised them slowly to look at him, "Laurel." She whispered.

He nodded, "Laurel Stanford and her husband, Jason. And funny enough, at the time of the Haydens' death they had an eight year old daughter, Lorelai Leigh Gilmore-Hayden. And then in the Hayden papers I found a sketch of the crest." He shook his head, his voice thick with bitter amusement, "And do you know, even after all that I still almost convinced myself that it wasn't true. That you weren't her." He broke off and she heard the miniscule break in his voice though he tried to hide it with his indifference, "And then last night, when you came out to talk to me and I looked you in the eye, you just stared back." He shook his head lightly, "and then I knew. Because the day she died, I stared Lorelai Hayden in the eye, because I had to know why my father was dead." He swallowed and she saw him hardening himself, his voice rough, "And she gave me nothing." Tristan cracked his jaw, his breathing controlled, "And last night, when I looked into your eyes, all I saw was her."

Rory looked up at him, biting her lip. She could feel tears pushing at the back of her eyes. Her hands shook. "They always said I looked just like her."

Tristan choked, looking away from her. She saw his jaw tighten and he shook his head, his mouth hardening into a thin line. His voice when he spoke was saturated with hate and self-loathing, "I thought, for some reason, that you were so good. So perfect. So honest. The only person in all the world who wasn't after anything. You never pushed me for more. You never asked me to elevate your status. You never asked for money or land and I thought, stupid me, that there was a reason for that. I thought that for once there was someone who didn't want me so they could get something, someone who didn't want me just for power or my title or even just my body-" she looked up at that and at her expression he stopped, his eyebrow arching, "You think I was the only one using someone before? Really? You don't think all those women were just using me too, Leigh? You think they wanted more than just my body? You're naïve, then. Even more so that you realize. It's always about money or power or sex…but for once, it wasn't. For once there was someone who wanted me for no other reason than that they cared, or just that they wanted me. Not a king, not a body." He shook his head, disgusted, "But it was all a lie, so that I would be more lenient because I had affection for you."

"No-" she started to protest but he cut her off with a look.

He said nothing for a stretch, pacing back and forth slowly, his head down. She didn't say anything either, unsure of where they stood. After a moment he turned and from the look on his face she knew what was coming wasn't going to be good, "I don't get it."

"Don't get what?" she asked quietly.

"Why are you here?!" he exploded, shaking his head. Up to this point he'd been harsh and angry, but how his rage burned her, it rang in her ears and made her shrink, "What's the point? You say it's not so I'll be lenient, then what? Is this some kind of game to you? 'Tristan is so stupid, let's see how long I can fuck him before he'll figure out who I really am?' Is that what this is to you?"

She flinched, her eyes widening, "No-"

He cut her off, still ranting, "Did you want to see how long it would be? How much shit you could put me through and how much you could break me before I'd realize who you were?"

"No!" she shook her head, stepping towards him.

"I mean, really, why? Why did you do this? Why did you let this happen? The first time when I kissed you and pulled away why the hell did you kiss me back?!" he yelled.

She reached out towards him, shaking her head, "Tristan I never meant for-" she broke off as he jerked away from her, his eyes snapping. She pulled her hand back shakily, pressing her lips together, "I didn't mean for it. It wasn't…it wasn't a game. And I never meant to hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me." He snarled.

Rory licked her lips, her shoulders falling, "Tristan I swear it wasn't a game."

He looked at her for a moment without responding. After a moment he swore quietly, turning away from her, "Four months, Leigh? Four fucking months? And you never told me. How the hell is that not a game to you?"

She scoffed, shocked, "What was I supposed to say?"

He shook his head, throwing his arms out, "Oh I don't know, how about 'Hey, since somehow I find myself always waking up next to you, my name isn't actually Leigh Danes and I'm not really some country girl?' How is that for you?"

Rory bit her lip, looking away from him, "I was going to tell you."

He gave her a look that asked if she thought he was stupid, "When? When Logan finally made you?"

"What?" her head snapped up, "What are you talking about? Logan doesn't know."

Tristan gave her a bitter look, "He knew all about your parents. Logan knew a hell of a lot more than I did."

"That was…" she trailed off, shaking her head, "The only reason I told him was because of one situation, it isn't that I would have told him before you-"

Again he cut her off, "Told him? Told him, Leigh? No, you didn't tell anyone anything. You lied to him. You lied to all of us, you just spat different ones." She looked up at him, saying nothing. He scoffed, shaking his head as if at a loss for words. He turned away, taking several steps from her, forming his thoughts before turning back, "Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered finally, his voice hard but grave. Rory looked away, pushing back tears. She couldn't look at him, not when he tried to hide how upset he was but she could still see it. There was something in his voice when he said that, it was different from the anger and so much stronger. He was hurt. "After all that's happened, after everything, why didn't you tell me?"

"I couldn't tell you." She whispered, feeling tears pool in her eyes.

"Why?" he repeated, his voice shaking slightly.

Rory turned to face him. She looked up at him from behind a sheet of loping waves, biting her lip, "Because I didn't want to die." She whispered finally, refusing to let the tears fall.

Tristan's face shifted ever so slightly. There was a mixture of confusion and shock. He staggered back from her a step, "What?"

Rory shook her head lightly, "I'm so sorry, Tristan, I didn't want to die."

He narrowed his eyes, looking at her as if he'd never seen her before, "You think I'd have you killed?"

She blinked at the shock in his voice, the edge of anger. She shrugged helplessly, "I didn't know. I don't…" she trailed off, shaking her head.

"You honestly think after everything, I could have you killed? That I would ever let you die?" he shook his head, looking at her as if she'd lost her mind, "No, Leigh, no, God help me, that's the last thing I want."

Her head shot up, "What?"

Tristan didn't answer. He seemed to have deflated. He stepped away from her, shaking his head in disbelief. He sat on the desk's chair heavily, rubbing his face tiredly, "A Hayden." He muttered before cursing. They sat in silence for a stretch, Rory watching him without breathing. He stared at the ground before her, leaned over with his elbows on his knees thoughtfully. She watched, her heart pounding as an idea seemed to form in his mind. "A Hayden." He repeated, slowly raising his gaze to her face, "You're a Hayden."

Rory bit the insides of her cheeks, tilting her head forward, "Yes…" she said slowly.

He stood, looking at her cautiously, his voice coming out in a whisper, "So then you know."

She felt something within her freeze, "I know what?"

Tristan took a step towards her, "Why he died."

"Oh." She took a step back, holding one hand up to keep him away, "No, Tristan."

"You know." He insisted, "I know you know."

Rory shook her head, "No, we aren't doing this."

"But you do know."

She exhaled heavily, stepping further away, "Tristan please don't make me do this."

"Tell me." He kept coming towards her slowly, his eyes bright. Rory pressed her lips together stubbornly, shaking her head violently. She couldn't. She wouldn't tell him that her father had killed his after his father raped her mother and sister, not after learning how the act disgusted him. She wouldn't tell him that his father was guilty of it. Her back hit the wall and she had nowhere else to go. "Tell me." He repeated, standing in front of her.

Rory dropped her gaze, closing her eyes, "No."

"What?" she could hear the anger in his voice, "Why not?"

"Because you don't want to know."

"Yes I do." He answered, and she could hear the pain in his voice through the anger, "Yes I do, and I deserve to know. I deserve to know why he had to die. I deserve to know why the only person who had ever really loved me had to be taken from me. I deserve to know why my father was murdered in my own home and why he left me alone." He gripped her upper arms as hard as he had before, "Tell me."

Rory looked up at him and she felt tears in her own eyes. For him. For her. For their fathers. "No." there was a finality in her voice.

She expected him to rage, expected him to yell, but he didn't. When his voice came out it was only broken, too tired of betrayal and lies to get worked up again. It cracked, "Why?"

Rory blinked rapidly, shaking her head gently as she whispered, "Because it will only hurt you more."

"Tell me." He said quietly.

"Tristan, please don't make me. I don't want to hurt you any more."

"Leigh." He said her name quietly, pleadingly, like he had so many nights before. And she knew she wouldn't be able to keep it from him much longer. She knew he had the right to know. He stretched his arms out and put his hands flat on the wall on either side of her, trapping her in, "Please."

She opened her mouth, torn, "Tristan…" he tilted his head forward encouragingly. Rory bit her lip, sighing, "It was….self defense."

His head cocked back, surprised, "What?"

"My father…he didn't mean to. It was an accident. They got into an argument and he killed your father in self defense."

Tristan shook his head, "No. No, you don't understand. My father wasn't…he wasn't violent."

Rory shrugged, "He was that night."

"Leigh, they found my father in one of the conference rooms run through the chest with a sword." She flinched but his voice was emotionless, "That isn't an accident."

"It was." She insisted, "My father went to speak to him." She shook her head lightly, "I don't know how the conversation went but he got defensive and my father said the king attacked him." She shook her head, "I don't know what else to tell you. That's all I know."

Tristan narrowed his eyes slowly, "I talked to Christopher Hayden before he died but he wouldn't tell me anything. All he said was that his conscience was clear and he would do anything for his family. He wouldn't say any more but there was a reason he killed him. There was a reason he came here that night. I know it." Something must have changed in Rory's expression because Tristan's eyes caught on her, "You know that too." She opened her mouth slowly, cautiously, but he spoke again, "And you know what it is."

She shook her head, "No."

"You said it would hurt me."

"It will."

"I have to know."

She shook her head, breaking her gaze from his and looking down, "It's been so long, Tristan. Can't you just leave it?"

He didn't answer. Instead he slid two fingers under her chin, tilting her face up towards his. She met his gaze nervously, "Leigh." He whispered simply, running his thumb along her jawline.

She bit her lip and exhaled slowly. Her mouth opened resignedly, "He raped them." She whispered, her voice small and apologetic.

Tristan's body froze as if he heard her but couldn't comprehend what she'd said, "What?"

"He raped my mother and my sister. I don't know…" she trailed off, shaking her head lightly, "I don't know everything that happened but I know my father went to speak to him that night and…" she broke off, her breath coming out shaky, "Tristan I'm so sorry."

He narrowed his eyes, pulling his hands away from her, "You're lying."

Rory felt her chest constrict, "I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"No, Tristan, I wish I were but I'm not. He did and my father went to talk to him and it got violent-"

"How would you know? What makes you think that your father would say the truth if it would endanger him?" he shook his head stubbornly, "My father….my father wanted Lorelai but he would never have done that."

Rory shook her head compassionately, wanting to touch him but holding herself back, "I'm sorry."

"That's not true." He snapped, stepping away from her, "You don't know what you're talking about. My father would never rape anyone." He spat the word as if it were vile.

She bit her lip, this time reaching out to him, "Tristan."

He jerked back from her touch, "Get out."

"I-"

He spoke between clenched teeth, "I swear Leigh, get out or I'll do something we'll both regret."

She looked at him sympathetically for another moment before stepping around him and ducking for the door. Once she was out of the room she broke loose, tearing through the hall and down several flights of stairs, her fear streaming behind her. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest and hear blood rushing in her ears. She was alive. She was alive. She couldn't believe it. She wasn't sure where her feet were taking her until she slammed the door open to her bedroom, the one they'd given her when she'd first left the barracks of the new guard. Anna, who'd been sitting in the rocking chair mending one of Rory's dresses, jumped and called out something in the name of God.

Her eyes widened as she stood from the chair, "Rory? What in the world?" she looked around before her eyes fell back on the girl before her. She gasped, "Did you escape?"

"No. No." she stepped into the room and realized that she was shaking, "No, I didn't. He let me out."

Anna shook her head, confused, "Wha…"

"He knows. He knows who I am and I think-I think he might kill me now." Anna's eyes widened and she went on, "Not because of that. I don't think he was really as mad about that. It's, it's that I told him, I told him what happened, back when his father died. When my dad killed his father. I told him why…I told him…" she shook her head, pacing as she babbled, "God, what was I thinking? I shouldn't have told him, I should have lied. He'll kill me for it. He'll never forgive me for telling him because now I destroyed his father for him. I broke everything that kept him going, I-"

"Rory!" Anna grabbed her shoulders, cutting her off, "Breathe."

"I can't!" she yelled, "What am I supposed to do? I'm such an idiot! He's going to kill me, honestly, I think he might-"

But she never got to finish. The door slammed open, cutting her off and making both of them twist around. Tristan stood there with his chest heaving and his eyes snapping, one hand still on the door. His eyes were on Rory, "Get out." She opened her mouth, confused. It didn't seem like he was speaking to her.

Anna pulled away from her, stepping between them, "Tristan." She said slowly, calmly; the way one might speak to a disturbed person holding a weapon.

"Don't make me order you, Anna. You know I hate that." His voice was heated, his gaze never leaving Rory. The maid opened her mouth to say something but he cut her off, "Anna!"

Anna closed her mouth, glancing at Rory before stepping towards the door, "Don't destroy your life." She whispered to Tristan as she left.

He acted as if he hadn't heard her. His face didn't change and he didn't look away from Rory. He came into the room, slamming the door behind him, "Is that why you pull away?"

Her eyebrows drew together, "What?"

"Sometimes when you're in my bed, you pull away or you hesitate…or…you get this look on your face like you don't know why you're there." He wasn't mad anymore, she could see that. He was confused and he was lost. She stepped closer to him uncertainly. He went on, "When you think I'm not looking you're different. Is that why? Is that what it is every night when you're in my bed? A rape? Do you feel like you have to? Because I never-"

She cut him off, her eyes widening, "No, no, no, no, no. God, no, Tristan." She came closer to him, putting her hands on his chest reassuringly, "No, never. I swear it has never, never been anything like that with us."

He shook his head, his voice broken, "But if you didn't want to-"

She didn't let him finish, "You've never done anything I didn't want. I've never felt like I had to sleep with you. You haven't once forced yourself on me. Ever." There were a lot of things that she would let Tristan beat himself up over before she would come to his rescue, but this was not one of them. It was something that he'd never even considered until she'd brought it up to him months ago, that he might unknowingly forced himself on women; that they were too frightened to say no because he was the king. It was the first thing that she had ever seen crack him, the first thing she'd ever addressed that she saw made him hate himself. It was the one thing she knew of that bothered him more than anything and she would not let him think he was guilty of it when he wasn't. Especially with her.

She said it with such conviction that he relaxed slightly, leaning back, "Then why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you pull away?"

Rory laughed humorlessly, "Why? Why? Because I should hate you." He watched her steadily as she elaborated, "I should hate you, Tristan. I shouldn't be able to stand the sight of you or your touch. I pull away and I hesitate and I get that look because I know, realistically, that I shouldn't be doing it and I have this guilt and this confusion and I am so torn because I look and you and I know everything that's happened but I can't see you as the person who did all that. I can't see you as someone who has hurt me so much. I know everything that's happened and I should hate you. And I did before, and I tried, so hard, to hold onto that hate, but I couldn't. After I came here I wanted to still but no matter what I did I couldn't. And then it was worse because far from hating you I wanted you. Wanting you is so much worse than hating you." she shook her head, "I pull away because I know that I should hate you, not need you like I do."

She finished quietly, looking up at him, waiting for him to say something. But he didn't. He didn't reply and his face didn't change, but without warning she felt his hand tangle in the hair at the back of her head and his lips were on hers, fused to hers so deeply that she couldn't think. And he was pulling it out, all of it. All of her hate and her pain and her guilt and her confusion; he was taking hers and giving her his and fusing them together and mixing them and spreading them until she couldn't separate his hurt from hers or either of their guilt or hate; and she felt lighter, because even though she knew it wasn't alright, knew that nothing either of them did or said could ever make it right, they were freeing each other from blame.

It was the clearing of the truth and the lies and the hate and the guilt. She felt Tristan wrap his other arm around her and pull her close, the pressure of his lips not letting up on hers. She knew that it wasn't alright. But it didn't have to be.

She wasn't sure what this was called, the escape from guilt and lies and pain. She knew about religion and she'd heard all about God, she'd seen the ministers and the priests and knew all about the Christian religion and she'd always felt that many of them didn't even know what they were talking about; she sure as hell hadn't understood it. She wondered now, though, if this was really what they meant when they said salvation.