Title: Crowning Tristan
Author: Sedri
Rating: PG-13 / T
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.
Disclaimer: I do not own Stardust in any way. This is just for fun. Celeste as a character is mine, but her name comes from the screenplay in the Visual Companion.
Chapter Five
Yvaine was bored.
True, thirty million years in the sky would do that to anyone, but it wasn't a feeling she ever got used to, and now, from her warm wooden bedroom at the inn, she couldn't even find some interesting scene to watch down on Earth.
The fallen star was sitting at a table, idly fiddling with a spoon from the supper she'd long since eaten. She rested her head on one hand, leaning sideways, gazing at the fireplace. Once alone, she'd asked for hot water and taken yet another bath, soaking and scrubbing away the feeling of filth left by the witches' house. It had been wonderfully relaxing, but eventually turned cold, so now she sat in a long white nightdress she'd borrowed from Hatha. Her layered blue gown hung on a chair.
The fire was dying down.
She'd spent a lot of that evening watching the market below, full of bright colours and loud voices, and her first urge was to simply wander around in it, soaking in all the life this place had to offer. But Tristan was worried, and she'd promised Hatha, so she stayed put.
Now it was late, and there was only the occasional noise below. Nearly everyone was asleep, even the son Hatha had sent to sit outside her door. Yvaine saw no need to wake him; she wasn't tired yet, what with her body still unused to this new sleeping cycle.
Her thoughts kept returning to the idea of 'home' and whether or not that still meant the sky. Yvaine had known the moment she'd accepted Tristan's proposal that it meant staying here, on this dangerous world, and that was all right; the happiness she'd found was worth risking death. In the back of her mind she knew that someday she would return, but for now she was far from her sisters, and missed them.
For the third time that night, Yvaine opened her window and leaned out, looked up at the heavens and asked, "Do you hear me?"
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but she knew they would hear if only they knew where to look; a star could focus on any part of the world below, but never all of it at once. Her sisters would be able to see every hair on her head, but only if they could find her. Twice before Yvaine had called, without luck; she'd waited, but the lure of a hot bath and food had called her back. Now she had nothing else to do.
There was no way to know how long she stood there, but it was long enough for her feet and arms to turn numb and the fire to go out entirely.
"Yvaine." It was a whisper on the wind, breathy and distant as the sky always is, but she heard it and smiled, surprised. This wasn't one of her sisters; it was the brilliant white moon.
"Mother," she said. "Have you been watching me?"
"Yes. You are not hurt?"
"I–" Yvaine blinked, startled by the fear in that voice. "I'm fine."
Her brow furrowed in bewilderment; the Moon, her mother, had always been a distant figure, rarely showing any emotion; certainly, she loved her daughters, but with so many of them scattered throughout the heavens she rarely spent time with any one of them, save for those young enough to need nurturing through their childhood. Once a star was grown, they were all given the same strict set of rules – to protect them, as she never really considered any of her girls true adults – and otherwise left alone. It had been millennia since she had spoken to Yvaine about anything, save to scold her.
So the sudden urgency was surprising, if understandable, and Yvaine wasn't quite sure what to say. But for the moment, at least, the Moon seemed satisfied; there was a long pause, so Yvaine took the chance to ask about something that had worried her all week. "The unicorn you sent, is she all right?"
"No. She did not survive the witch."
Yvaine cringed – another death, all for her damned heart. Though as immortals, stars were used to Earth creatures dying all the time, it was easier to be aloof when living far above the world. She suddenly scowled, fiercely irritated by her mother's return to cool and detached tones. Not only had the unicorn saved her life, but it was a creature who served and was particularly protected by the Moon. And she could still hear the shrieks as it was burned by green flames...
"I honour her," said the Moon calmly, "as must you. Escape the dangers from which she rescued you. Come home."
"It's all right now," Yvaine assured her, and she shook her head sharply, trying to let go of the memory. "The witches are dead. I'm safe."
"No fallen star is ever safe," the Moon said sternly. "A warlock in the town of Hop has a Babylon candle. Use it. Come home."
"No, Mother. I'm staying here."
There was a heavy hush in the air. The few times their mother gave a direct command, stars obeyed without question. The Moon was utterly inflexible in her rules, and her rare bouts of fury could scare even the oldest girls into line. Though Yvaine had often been lectured for misbehaviour – always being much too close to Earth, which was why the stupid bloody necklace had hit her in the first place – she'd never argued, merely waited until no one was looking to try again.
Now she stared back steadily.
"You promised to tell me stories!" cried another voice, this one much younger. Yvaine turned to a small star tucked beside and almost hidden by their mother's glow.
"Celeste?"
"You promised!" Celeste whined. "You always tell me stories!"
"You don't belong there," their mother decreed. "Come home."
"I'm staying. I'm marrying Tristan."
There was a brief silence of total surprise, until another star – far to the west – scoffed, "Are you mad? The boy chained you up!"
"He was an idiot," she agreed, "but I love him. I'm not leaving."
"Yvaine, think about this," urged a third sister, and Yvaine turned a little south to look at her.
"Selena?"
"Yes, it's me. Yvaine, do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into?"
In truth? Not entirely. "I know you were happy when you lived down here."
"For a time," said Selena. "For a very short time. Then everything went wrong. You know I can't bear to watch Earth anymore."
Yvaine shook her head; having never heard the whole story, she'd never understood why. "Look now, Selena. Look at the way they can love. Is it so bad?"
"Humans are petty, hateful creatures. I loved one once. I regret it."
"They aren't all like that. I'm happy," Yvaine declared. "I wish you would just be happy for me." This last line was directed to their mother, whose blank face watched coldly.
"And when he dies?"
Yvaine's eyes narrowed, and for a long moment she was silent, thinking. Yesterday in the caravan she had begun to suspect something; she'd struggled to find words to express her feelings to Tristan, and found herself describing a heart that no longer belonged to her. She'd started to wonder if maybe that wasn't a metaphor; a physical red heart beat in her chest, but the starlight within it... There was no way to describe that feeling to a human, but Yvaine could sense a change. The energy was different, only half there, yet it wasn't at all like the drain of misery. In contrast, she felt even more complete.
"Tell me something, Selena: This human you loved – how long did he live?"
There was a very long silence. At last she said, "Long enough to resent needing me to stay alive."
Yvaine flinched at the pain in that voice, but rounded on their mother, ranting, "Tristan will live as long as I love him, won't he? Why didn't you tell us? While we're on the subject, why didn't you just happen to mention that I'd die if I landed on human soil?"
"There was no need. My daughters do not belong on Earth," said the Moon.
Yvaine threw up her hands. "Fine! Fine, be that way. I can't make you like him. But I'm not going anywhere."
There was no response from her stony mother, but Celeste sniffled loudly and said, "You promised!"
"I'm sorry," Yvaine said sincerely, winding down from her anger. "I didn't ask to be knocked down. I'm sure Nomi or Ina can..." She paused, struck by an idea. It was a bit silly, really, and tempting the Moon's outright fury, but it would make her sister happy. "Celeste? Why don't you watch me at night, and I'll tell stories from down here?"
"Really?" asked the girl-star.
"Really," said Yvaine, and looked cautiously at their mother, sure she would object. There was no reply.
"Now?" Celeste pressed.
Glancing at the weather, Yvaine said, "Just a short one; there are clouds coming in."
"And tomorrow?"
"I might not be here tomorrow," Yvaine said, and there was a quiet wail from above. "We're going to travel to the city, and I don't know how long it will take. But I'll try," she promised. "Keep looking for me, all right, Celeste? I can't come out every night, but I'll try. All right?"
"...All right," she pouted.
"Good. Now, I'll tell you the story of..." she hesitated, then smiled, "of Princess Una, who ended the bloody tradition of killing for the throne of Stormhold..."
Yvaine didn't realise, but Celeste was not the only star who listened.
The Moon did not.
By late morning, the village of Wall was shrouded in a light cloud of rain; a spring shower. Water pattered on every rooftop, and in the attic of his home, Dunstan Thorn was trying to be as quiet as possible.
His family was still asleep, and he didn't want to wake them – Tristan especially; the meeting had completely worn him out. As they walked home he'd said, dully, "I shouldn't have done that," and from his tone it sounded like he meant the entire meeting.
"You shouldn't have lost your temper, no – though that's not to say I don't appreciate what you did for me," Una had told him, smiling. "You did rather well for a first try, especially as I haven't had a chance to actually teach you anything yet."
Tristan had nodded, accepting the compliment but clearly unhappy with the result. "What if it didn't work? What if they... I don't know, burn us at the stake?" That particular worry was exaggerated, but the fear in his voice was not.
Dunstan felt pained then, wishing he could lighten his son's burden, but he couldn't always predict his peers either. The best he could offer was, "You did get through to them. Sending guards is a good idea; it's exactly what they needed to hear. It calmed them down."
"What do you think they'll decide?"
He could only shrug. "I don't know."
At that point, as he had reached to open their door, Dunstan had taken a closer look at his son's face and realised that the apparent dismal mood was half due to utter exhaustion. Tristan was almost asleep on his feet, and didn't argue when Dunstan sent him straight to bed.
He and Una had kept talking, filling each other in on the details of their lives, trying to get to know each other... it would be nice to say "again", but the truth was that they hadn't spent much time talking that night. Dunstan told stories of Tristan's childhood – the embarrassing sort that parents love and children hate – and she had laughed. Una told him about Stormhold and magic and her own girlhood, though he had the distinct feeling that she was avoiding a lot of the darker parts. This, of course, led into him talking about his parents and youth, how he'd never believed there was more than a field over there, how he'd sent scientists a letter and how dramatically that opinion had changed. They talked of many things, like the use of magic (actually, England hadn't always been a barren land, and the ancient presence of magic was probably responsible for most of their country folklore), the mysterious Yvaine ("delightful girl. Sharp sense of humour. I like her"), whether he wanted to come and live with them in Stormhold ("Of course!"), the logistics of it ("take along anything you want, there's bound to be room") and, of course, Tristan's future.
It was impossible, after only a few hours, for Dunstan to imagine his son as a king. He'd supported Una's conviction in a practical, slightly detached fashion, and as they talked he'd tried to digest it fully. Tristan, as a king. His son, whose clothes were always slightly frayed, who'd been bullied by the other children, who'd cried when he couldn't understand a school math lesson, and who'd come home one day at the age of five, covered in mud, manure, and – somehow – ink.
That boy, as king. Endless wealth and precise formalities. Etiquette and diplomacy. It was intangible; the picture refused to form in his head.
Talking to Una, it became a bit more real, if no less daunting. Sipping wine, she broadly described Stormhold's politics and their government structure, explaining how a great amount of actual work was distributed among advisers and local noblemen and what issues a king did have to deal with. She was reasonably confidant that Tristan could do it, but admitted to some doubts. "If all else fails, our laws give him the right to abdicate and leave ruling power to me, to hold as a regent until one of us has a son of age to inherit. But I don't think it'll come to that."
She'd gone on to describe all the legal modifications made over the years to protect female heirs and restrain their power while Stormhold's princes killed each other, and that had begun a whole new discussion. It was only when Dunstan almost dropped his glass, slumped in his chair somewhere around two o'clock, that they retired. He insisted that Una take the upstairs bedroom, and himself slept quite comfortably on spare cushions and blankets.
The rain had woken him hours later than usual, and he'd lain there quietly, thinking. He did not, for one moment, reconsider agreeing to leave Wall. Though he had friends, and knew he would never have the same life-long relationships with anybody else, he loved Tristan completely and wanted to be near him, help him along, watch him raise a family... And then, of course, there was Una. He wanted to spend more time with her, too.
But as always, practical thoughts rose up and Dunstan found himself mentally going through the contents of his home, everything from pictures to pastries, deciding what he wanted to keep and what simply had to be discarded.
Eventually he got up and was soon in the attic, kneeling beside dusty chests and looking through generations of Thorn family keepsakes. He'd never much cared for any of it; as he'd once told his mother, "I don't know these people. What use are their wedding clothes to me?" Yet it had been her prize collection and he'd never had the heart to throw it out. Now, as he sorted through Grandmother Regina's diaries and Great-Uncle Wilson's beloved snakeskin belt, Dunstan wondered if Tristan would want any of it.
But what use would most of their things be? Why take spare blankets or water jugs to Stormhold? Why not sell them? Una had said, carefully, "You... you won't need the money, you know," but he was quite sure there was no need for their old furniture, either. Not if they would live with Una in... well, it would probably be a palace, wouldn't it?
Dunstan looked around the small, musty attic, and shook his head. It was all very unreal.
Still, he would deal with what he could. Most things could be sold, if there was anyone in town who wanted them. That small rocking chair he wanted to keep, though, and the handcrafted oak cradle; it had been his once, and Tristan had loved it until he'd outgrown it. There were a number of books that he was sure would never be published in Stormhold, a few tools that were always handy, some carved figurines he was rather fond of...
Shortly before noon, Frank Monday was to be found on the far side of Wall, leaning against the side of a house, facing the open countryside. The drizzle that fell on him was light, almost misty, and he rather enjoyed the fresh, cool breeze. This was a quiet spot where he and Tristan had often run off to as children, escaping school and work and their fathers. It wasn't in direct sight of any windows, nor paddocks where people regularly worked, and if slightly muddy, it was at least peaceful.
Scattered pieces of childish games were half-buried and rusting in the ground. Frank kicked idly at a short metal stick that he knew was the last remnant of their once-elaborate map of the world (mainly composed of twigs and old, broken forks), showing all the places they would someday go. That one had been Tristan's idea; he'd always been the dreamer.
When his friend walked away from the meeting last night, Frank had been too surprised to follow, and stayed to listen while the issue was argued. He was a loyal chap, and when someone made rude suggestions about why Tristan really went travelling, he defended his friend so vehemently that the errant loudmouth wound up thoroughly humiliated.
Still, he wasn't happy. Tristan had changed a lot and Frank just didn't know why. He couldn't imagine what might've happened in the last week, or how finding his mother could have possibly–
"I thought you'd be here."
Frank turned. Tristan stood at the corner, still dressed in those fancy, slightly travel-stained clothes. They were a marked contrast to his own – and Tristan's old – worn brown ones. He looked uneasy, and there was a brief, awkward silence.
"Sorry Father fired you," Frank said at last. "I tried to talk him out of it."
Taking that as the invitation it was, Tristan came to join him and they sat on some old, upturned buckets that had been rusting there for years, each taking the same one he'd claimed when they were boys. "It's all right," said Tristan. "I deserved it. I shouldn't have followed Victoria home – it was always hopeless anyway."
"I could've told you that," Frank replied with a playful smack. Tristan laughed.
"You did tell me that. Often."
"Well, you never listened."
They chuckled again, but it was half-hearted and ended quickly. The misty rain swirled around their faces.
"So... you're really going to leave Wall?"
Tristan nodded.
Frank ran a hand through his damp hair. "Tristan... Tristan, this is fast."
He sighed. "I know. Too fast. I... I had an adventure, Frank, and it was fast and wild and terrifying, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."
"Because you found your mother?"
"And Yvaine."
Amidst all the other things that had been said last night, that was the one Frank hadn't been sure he'd heard right. "Then you are getting married?"
Tristan's face split into a silly grin for which, at any other time, Frank would have teased him mercilessly. "Yeah. You'd like her, Frank, she's..." He shrugged. "She is who she is. I love her."
"Enough to just leave?" Frank wasn't scolding him, or angry in any way, but he was hurt. "You always talked about travelling but... Well, I didn't really think you'd just pack up and go."
"I didn't mean for it to happen so fast," Tristan apologised. "It just did. It's not just Yvaine or Mother, it's... I don't belong here, Frank. Now more than ever." He gestured to the town, to where people had neglected work all day to talk about him over and over, still unsure, still unhappy, still afraid.
Frank nodded; that was true. Though he could see now that Tristan was still basically the same bloke, some of the changes in his friend were so unbelievable that even if he wanted to stay, it would never really be the same again. And more so, his mysterious mother – Ona, right? – definitely wasn't a housewife. Watching her yesterday, Frank had the distinct feeling that she didn't belong any more then Tristan did. She was just different.
"I'm sorry," said Tristan. "I don't want to choose between my friends and my family."
To his surprise, Frank snorted back laughter. "If your girl's anything like Victoria, there's not much of a choice."
Tristan reddened. "That's not true. I'm still going to miss you." Frank shrugged, and from years of knowing him, Tristan could read right through it; his friend felt second-rate, the loser of a fight he'd never even known about. "I mean it," he added forcefully. "You're welcome to come with us to Stormhold. It's a really... big place."
Frank shook his head. "I'm not one for big places, Tristan. You're the one who always wanted to travel; I like Wall. Anyway, the council forbids it."
Apparently that wasn't something he'd heard about. "Why?" he asked, flicking his hands in frustration. "Why are they so scared?"
"Lots of reasons," Frank said calmly, "and some are really good– Oh, don't look at me like that. Of course I trust you. But that place is strange, and it scares the hell outta people. That's not going to change just because you yelled at them."
"They insulted my mother," Tristan snapped.
"Fine, fine, you had good reason. Then. And no one's stopping you from going back – they're writing an official message for your king about those guards, by the way – but they'll never let me visit."
Tristan nodded, but he couldn't help hearing the words "your king" over and over in his mind – "your" king, not "ours" or "theirs". His. There was already a gulf forming between them, and how could he possibly tell Frank that he was meant to be that king? This morning's more objective reflection told him that last night hadn't gone too badly, but he still felt completely unprepared. Frank had always been, besides his father, the best person to turn to for advice, but this... Tristan just couldn't bring himself to say it.
"I still want you at my wedding. You should meet Yvaine. You'll like her."
Frank shrugged. "So have it here."
Tristan shook his head. "We can't," he said. "Just over the wall, maybe, but not here. Yvaine can't cross it."
"Why not?" asked Frank simply. Tristan shifted on his seat.
"She's... she's not completely human," he admitted. Frank stiffened. Tristan added, nearly repeating his mother; "Stormhold has magic in the earth and water and air, but England doesn't, so it can't keep her alive."
"So... she's some sort of fairy?"
"Something like that."
Frank shook his head and gave a long, low whistle. "Well... don't tell the council."
"I won't."
Pause.
"There really is magic over there..."
"Yeah."
Frank smiled. "Wow."
Across town, Una was working in the kitchen when there was a knock on the door. Dunstan was still in the attic – she'd gone up and offered to help, but there was little space so instead she'd promised him breakfast – so it was only natural that she wiped her hands on a dishtowel and opened it.
Their visitor was the same old man who had nearly started a riot against her last night. He stood very stiff. "Good morning, madam," he said.
Una raised one eyebrow and simply said, "Dunstan's upstairs." She turned and walked in. He followed, but as she went to call or walk up the stairs he let out a quiet, strained cough, and she turned around.
Having calmed down from his tipsy hysteria, Mr Edwards was extremely aware of his rudeness at the meeting, and her cold lack of greeting was Una's way of pointing it out. "As a village elder, I speak on behalf of everyone in Wall," he said solemnly, "and we owe you an apology for what was said last night."
She was silent just long enough to make him uneasy. Then; "I accept. Thank you." And if it didn't sound completely sincere, at least the forms had been observed, and for the rest of his visit Una was unfailingly polite.
Dunstan's footsteps broke the tension. He appeared on the stairs saying, "Sam! I thought I heard your voice."
"Morning, Dunstan. What've you been up to?"
He gestured to the dust streaks on Dunstan's shirt, and the younger man absently brushed at them. "Packing," he said. "Do you know if anyone would be willing to sell us a wagon?"
"No, can't say that I do," replied Mr Edwards, lowering himself into the offered chair. "I should've known you'd be going with him. I was sent to find Tristan, but I trust they won't mind if I tell you instead."
"Tell us what?" Dunstan asked, helping Una set the table (rather hampered by the half-sorted items spread out to be packed), at which his friend sat but politely refused a share of food.
Mr Edwards described the official letter Frank had mentioned to Tristan, and finished by chuckling and saying, "Charlie Banks insisted on writing the whole thing personally; took him hours to be happy with the wording."
Dunstan laughed. "Well, I'll be sure to put my resignation in writing. Should make his day."
Mr Edwards sighed and said, "It won't be the same here without you, Dunstan. Your father was my dearest friend. Funny that your grandfather hated me."
He smiled fondly, and Dunstan – who'd heard this story many times – gave a standard, though very friendly reply. They went on in this vein for some time, talking about old friends and family, and enjoying what they knew would be their last conversation for a long time.
Una excused herself. She went to pack.
As soon as the rain stopped and the ground had dried enough for a young lady to walk without soaking her hem, Victoria was out. She was tired of being stuck indoors with nothing to entertain but the same, frustrating thoughts that – despite her best efforts – had nothing to do with Humphrey.
Victoria felt cheated. Despite her wonderful engagement, which should have been the talk of the town, things had gone all wrong since Tristan came to wish her a happy birthday. Even after that humiliation ended, her entire day had been spoiled, and was made even worse when Mr Thorn had come pleading for any word on his son. Humphrey had patted her hand and made vague assurances, but Victoria hadn't quite been able to let go of her fears until she'd seen Tristan standing tall and confident at the town meeting. He'd even smiled at her.
Then he'd had the nerve to casually mention meeting someone else while searching for her star. Someone who was probably having it made into earrings right now.
That was infuriating, and just... just wrong. She – she! Victoria Forester! – had been prepared to keep her word and marry Tristan (and damn that wonderful champagne for making her agree in the first place), but then he had let her go – literally – for another woman.
Oh, it wasn't as though she was jealous of this – this tart who just waltzed in and stole Tristan's affection. After all, she was engaged to Humphrey Banks, and there was no better man around! No, no she wasn't jealous.
But she was hurt. A little.
Not that she would ever admit it. Victoria's wounded pride fiercely denied the very notion, and instead she put all her energy into planning her own, increasingly elaborate wedding; she'd already scribbled enough details on flower arrangements to cost her father a fortune.
The purpose of her walk was to speak with the grocers about how long it would take to order all the rare delicacies she'd just decided were absolutely essential, but as she moved through the streets, the chatter of her neighbours constantly brought Tristan and his strange family back to mind. She tried to ignore them.
Striding towards the square, Victoria cornered Mrs Monday, who had been changing some numbers on her husband's storefront sign, and began a very loud conversation about recipes for her wedding dinner, flailing her left hand in the sunlight at every opportunity.
The twinkling ring caught some eyes, and her own voice was loud enough to block out chatter about that gypsy woman, but Victoria's luck on this day was no better than that of the day before. Her conversation was about to be interrupted by two laughing young men who were, at that moment, walking up a nearby quiet street.
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
"But that's impossible!"
"I know, but it happened. Strangest feeling, really; being furry, and having a tail. Everything was so big."
"You were a mouse." Frank's voice was deadpan.
Tristan shrugged. "Yeah."
"You were a mouse."
"Or something like it; I didn't exactly have a mirror. Yvaine told me."
"You were a MOUSE?"
"Shh! I can't let everyone know – you promised not to–"
"I know and I won't, but... she turned you into a mouse!"
"Not Yvaine. The witch – Sal, I think."
Frank shook his head. "And you still say you're not afraid of witches?"
He had a point, but Tristan shook his head. "I'd agreed to be her passenger; I didn't realise that meant I was putting myself in her power. If we'd just passed by on the street she couldn't have done it."
Actually, it was a little more complicated than that: The witch who'd chased them had been free to use any magic she wanted, but Una had explained that the three Lilim sisters were ancient, and had once been queens who ruled Stormhold; that long-empty title gave them the loopholes to do practically anything, unless they swore – as Sal had – to or to not do something. But they were dead now and, with very few exceptions, what Tristan said was true of all of Stormhold's magical folk.
As they rounded a corner into the busier village square, Frank saw his mother talking to Miss Victoria, and veered toward the shop, calling, "Mother! You remember that cabinet of Mr Thorn's you liked so much?"
Puzzled, Mrs Monday turned from Victoria to say, "Yes, dear, what of it?"
"We're selling it," said Tristan, joining them and smiling at Victoria in greeting. "We're selling everything, really – you're welcome to take your pick. The rest will go to Mr Robinson to sell in the other villages after we leave," he added
"You're–" Mrs Monday bit off a choked cry. "You're all leaving? Your father...?"
Tristan nodded, aware that her loud voice was attracting attention. He addressed his reply to all the nosy villagers who were closing in. "Yes, Father's coming with us. We're packing now, and selling the rest. You should all feel free to come and look around."
Frank watched his neighbours start to talk again – in the same half-angry bewilderment that had made him speak up the night before – then noticed Tristan's uncomfortable look and loudly added, "Yeah – and come before I help haul it all to Robinson's so I don't have to drag it back again!" He grinned and continued their walk towards Tristan's house. "Come on; Father has me working in the storeroom later. Not got that much time..."
So Frank cheerfully helped Tristan and his parents as they churned up dust, dragging bags and boxes around the house, cleaning and organising things to be kept or sold while searching for ways to pack it all. As neither Dunstan nor three generations before him had ever properly moved out, this was no mean feat.
The first neighbours came by almost immediately, several purely out of curiosity, and they added yet one more element to the chaos. Eventually Frank produced paper and a pen for actual buyers to write down details of what they wanted and how much they were offering, but to decide such things they first had to walk around, examine everything, and discuss it with the rest of their family, resulting in a house crammed full of people. Meanwhile, Una stacked the foodstuffs they would be taking, Frank and Tristan heaved a never-ending supply of old trunks from the attic into the crammed space that was once Tristan's bedroom, and Dunstan directed the entire operation from wherever he was currently sorting.
At mid-afternoon Frank had to leave, and made a forcefully normal goodbye to his oldest friend. "I'll see you sometime," he shrugged, and then – quietly – added, "I figure if you can cross the wall once without anyone knowing, you can probably do it again."
Tristan hadn't thought of that, but with the apparent scarcity of Babylon candles, it didn't seem likely. "Maybe," he said gloomily.
Frank bit his lip, thinking. "The council didn't say anything about stopping letters from crossing..." he pointed out, and suddenly Tristan grinned.
"No, they didn't. I'll write," he promised, "and send it with the guards. I'll tell them to throw it over the top with something brightly coloured if they can't just hand it through."
Frank laughed. "Perfect. I'll do it, too. Rub that in Humphrey's pompous face," he added gleefully, with no scruples about laughing at the son for the father's oversight; they'd always done that, and he didn't mean to actually say it – just imagine.
At that moment, Mrs Hempstock and her young son arrived with a mind to buy Tristan's bed frame, and any chance of a private and probably fairly awkward goodbye was lost. Frank said, "Well, good luck with... whatever. Be happy. Tell Yvaine I wanted to meet her," he added, then accepted Tristan's own good wishes, waved and walked off.
Tristan went inside.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a wild haze of sore arms, stubbed toes, noisy visitors, missing items, found items, forgotten items, and items that had been borrowed years ago and were long overdue for return. There was one case that Tristan bruised his shins on four times in four different places, which he privately dubbed the Trunk From Hell. It was staying behind.
It was clear that their job would not be finished in one day; at least one more was needed. Dunstan promised that there was order to the madness and helpfully pointed out his complex arrangements – his bedroom for everything that would definitely go (except for the furniture he'd asked for help removing), Tristan's room for all that would stay and be sold ("aren't those the bags you packed to take?"), half the kitchen for items that were almost certain to be bought by neighbours (except for anything on that chair), the near-empty attic for all that he was sure would go to Mr Robinson ("but I think Mrs Harper wanted that mirror..."), and most of the sitting room for whatever was in transit (with several spaces left for exceptions). Tristan and Una just nodded and kept putting things where he told them to.
As dusk approached, the senior Mr Comfrey arrived and inspected the house itself for suitability as a wedding gift to his granddaughter. Una, who by now had heard the entire story of the famous Victoria, found this highly amusing.
Tristan, however, kept glancing towards the trees and the wall beyond, and at last he said, "Father, I want to go back now. I promised Yvaine we wouldn't be very long." He paused and added, "I don't like her being there alone."
With a fond smile, Dunstan wiped sweat from his brow and nodded. "Don't forget to pick up that letter for the king from Mr Banks; Samuel came by this morning to officially inform you," he explained – then hastily added, "Oh, and Tristan? I have something for you. Follow me."
Dunstan's bedroom was, normally, nothing remarkable. Much like his son's, it was simple and comfortable, and there were few items of interest – even fewer now, as most of it was packed or emptied, waiting to be moved.
Sitting in one open bag amongst plain and practical clothes was a small silver box in which was kept all of their family's irreplaceable keepsakes. Tristan was honoured, if not completely surprised, when his father held out the silver ring that had once belonged to his own mother. "For Yvaine," Dunstan clarified, as though it had a hope of fitting Tristan. "I always planned to give it to you, though I didn't it would be going to a star."
He grinned and Tristan laughed. "Thank you," he said earnestly. Then, as words didn't feel like enough, he hugged his father. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he returned, patting Tristan's back. "That ring's been waiting here for years, and I know your grandmother wanted to pass it on."
Tristan could say little to this; he'd never known any family beyond his father. His grandfather had died of old age shortly before he'd been delivered, and his grandmother fell to sickness when Dunstan was twelve. Both had been only children, so he had no cousins. The claim wasn't quite true, though – Tristan knew who Grandmother Violet had meant that ring for.
"What about Mother?"
There was a cold pause. Dunstan gave him a steady look and said, "We're not ready for that, Tristan. Not even close." Aware that he was being a bit harsh for a well-meant question, he added, "I also have my grandmother's ring. But don't you worry about that. It's not your–" business "–problem."
Tristan nodded and toyed with the ring. It was simple, a silver band with a tiny sapphire, and probably the most valuable thing they owned. It was small and elegant, and seemed perfect for Yvaine.
He wanted to say more, apologise perhaps, but couldn't help but glance out at the sunset. Dunstan saw this, smiled, and clapped his shoulder. "Go," he said, giving Tristan a little shove. "We'll be along in a few days."
Tristan left Wall quietly, looking back at his old home with fondness, but no regrets.