Tristan breathed air and allowed the sun to hit his face. He turned around in a soft circle, savoring the view around him. While it was not much, it was freedom.
"I'm free…Thank you… Thank you, whoever you are…," shouted Tristan..
He was gullible at first, but he is not stupid. Tristan was aware that his release was through a divine intervention of somebody with rank, wealth and influence. Not necessarily in that order. It's possible that this sponsor was touched by his music and longed to hear him play. And word reached him of his unfortunate fate.
The new servants found his behavior strange. They unlocked the main door and ushered him in. They bowed and waited outside.
He'd been given a new lease, and while it felt as though he was about to resume the life he'd been forced to pause, it actually felt more like a restart.
He found everything rather strange, and just the same, everyone found him odd.
What should've been his house felt foreign to him. Even the sound of the gate was as unfamiliar as these new servants who fussed around. They had been courteous, just as required, but after so long of having to watch for violent outbursts, Tristan could tell. They weren't very keen on this, or maybe keen on him.
Tristan undressed.
For the first time in two years, he was shocked to see his reflection in a hazy mirror. His face was dark with pigmentation from pimples and warts. He was stick and bones. You will not think that he had just turned 18.
He gradually peeled off the clothes he had. Slowly as if worried, that his skin will come off with it. He entered the modest bathroom and found that it had water with improvised spouts from the stream. He opened the makeshift valve and filled the tub.
His new servants offered to prepare his bath. But after being deprived of privacy for a long time, Tristan wanted to relieve himself and let go of all the stored baggage he may have- alone. No communal baths, no open pits for leaks and solid wastes.
He lowered himself to the tub and stayed submerged neck deep for a long time. He savored every minute of it. A warm bath and soap after two long years. The open wounds and boils tingled but he endured it.
While deep in water, he played around with his undergarment. The only one he had that stayed with him. He toyed with it and it could stand on its own. Literally, stand on its own.
He found a pair of rusty scissors and cut his hair short. It wasn't a clean cut, but who cares. He just needed to be presentable for grandpa. He continued with shaving his face as well. Looking back at the mirror, he still couldn't recognize the Tristan that he once knew.
Fresh but old clothes were laid on his bare bed. He wondered, "Whose clothes were these? Family members or servants?" Not that it matters. He's used to it.
He had no choice but to wear the only set of clothes he had at the moment. He checked the built-in dresser for his old clothes, but none. They probably burned them or gave them away.
He might as well be given the servant's uniforms, they were clean, pressed and presentable.
The pair of shoes from Terry was too big and soaked wet. Upon careful search of the cabinets, he found an old pair of work boots that fit snugly.
He said to himself, this will do. Better than barefoot.
From the main door, you can see the entire layout of the cottage. No partitions, except for the bathroom that had a view of the woods.
There were no beddings and the only pillow had no sheet. He was used to it, again. Two years of practice, sleeping on the floor with no cardboard, no mat, nothing.
He recalled that at the camp by night time, there was nothing to do but count your fingers and toes. Eventually, he got creative. He would pick very small stones, one piece at a time and bring it to his quarters. He was afraid to bring in too many at a time. Ignorant guards may think he was smuggling mana stones inside his quarters. And get whipped for nothing. Pebble-like stones were used to mark an improvised board game on the floor. His opponent, imaginary.
And at the camp by morning, you get a ration of a cup of water. Nothing more, nothing less.
Your choice if you want to wash your face, gargle or quench your thirst. I learned from the old-timers and got creative. "Gargle the water and then drink it, whatever is left, you wipe your face."
Similarly, food is rationed daily. Catch of the day include insects, frogs, rats and snakes. Otherwise, you settle for stale bread or burnt rice. The guards partook of the food first and the left-overs were given to us.
"I have never felt so humiliated in my life, until the camp." Tristan said to himself.
Now that he has returned to the comfort of his own home, regardless of its size and amenities, everything feels luxurious.
Including having servants give you dinner. Five course meals with dessert and drinks to your heart's desire. There's pork boiled in tangy sauce, chicken deep-fried in oil, fermented salad and fresh fruits. There's rice cooked to perfection.
A few hours later, Tristan could hear the low, crooning sound of the harmonica before he dozed off to sleep. Therese must be playing it for their grandpa.
He still remembered, music brought them closer together. Both were violin and harmonica players, but each of them excelled in one instrument.
Come to think of it, Terry did not play any musical instrument. Nor have they heard him whistle, hum or sing.
One playful afternoon, Tristan blabbered: "Hey Terry are you tone deaf? Can't you hear the tune?" "Come on sing with us."
In one of the market fairs, they found an old piano for sale. The merchant was a nice fellow and allowed mom to play.
It's a free advertisement, he joked.
Their mother was a bit rusty at first, but got a hang of it later. She received awesome tips in gold and silver coins.
True enough, the piano got sold.
Troy, their father could sing. He was fond of songs that told stories, legacies and myths. Unfamiliar songs that grow on you as you listen. At the tavern, he hits more notes when he is drunk than when he was sober.
That earned him the moniker- "drunken Troy."
The manor used to be filled with music, dancing and singing. That all changed when grandpa got sick.
After that, we hardly had any visitors.