The manor fell into silence as Lord Shannon and Tristan left without a word.
Deep inside, Tristan wanted to scream and let out steam. The truth had come out. He had longed to hear them admit their wrongdoings. But before any more accusations or apologies could fully form, it was interrupted.
A welcome interruption.
Tristan looked out the window and lamented. "They were about to tear each other apart."
"Then I arrived just in time."
Tristan turned his head and made a quizzical look.
Shannon's voice was low. "Because you don't belong there."
A pause.
"They broke you," Shannon said. "And now we heal."
Tristan was unsure whether to laugh or cry.
He didn't know this Lord Shannon, is he a saviour or a reaper? He mulled it over.
Tristan was now a skeptic. In the past, he allowed Lady Arriane to sponsor his debut solo violin performance and thought that it was out of the good graces of her heart that she offered. See where that led him? Into the heart of a mana mining pit.
"It's too good, to be true. I am not going to fall for this. Not again." Tristan slapped his face softly for a reality check. Yes, he was awake.
"My Lord, have we met before in person? Tristan is still trying to juggle his memory.
"No. I don't think we've met," Lord Shannon replied. I am one of those nameless faces that night who listened to your music."
"Did you get paid for your performance?" clarified Lord Shannon.
"Huh, No.None. I thought it was a free performance. For charity? Did you have to pay for entrance tickets?" Tristan was surprised.
"Yes, I believe we paid to watch you play. And the opera house was full to its capacity."
"Well done for a solo performance." congratulated Lord Shannon.
He sat quietly while the carriage pulled him away from the house that no longer felt like home.
Tristan wished deep in his heart that these were not good acts in bad faith. Or, his damned. Again.
That night they arrived at the secluded safehouse.
As Shannon walked beside him, Tristan asked, "My Lord, not to sound ungrateful, but… do I owe you anything?"
"No, you owe me nothing," Shannon said.
Tristan couldn't help but ask.
"I am sorry, My Lord." he sighed. " I don't know if I can trust you or trust anyone else. After my own family betrayed me, I've lost the ability to discern."
"I can't blame you. There are no strings attached to my helping out." Shannon shared.
Years ago, our family had fought in a border skirmish between shifter clans. It was before they named me as the Alpha or the leader of the clan . One of the prisoners taken in that battle had been a boy…a half-human omega with nothing but a worn out flute and a scarred back.
That boy had played every night, softly, until the guards took the flute away. Shannon had remembered the look on his face. The sadness that came after the guards took away the only source of hope and happiness. He died a week after from his untreated wounds and melancholy.
Then, years later, in a crowded opera house, he heard another boy play. A violin soloist, telling stories through every touch of the strings. The performance moved me beyond words.
That boy was you, Tristan Mendez.
He hadn't known then that Tristan would vanish weeks later. But when he did, when no posters went up, no search was launched, Shannon started asking questions. He used his people. His money. His time. He pressured stewards from various camps to inform him of his whereabouts until he found the mining camp. With the help of elven officials and a few of Lady Arriane's enemies, Lord Shannon secured Tristan's release and irrevocable pardon.
And finally, he found the specific mine.
They said a young, beautiful boy was forced to work at the mine. He had no ledger, no records, no name. He sang a lullaby at night to fall asleep or until the guards beat him to stay quiet.
Shannon can still feel his rage for such blatant injustice against a minor.
He offered Lady Arriane something she couldn't refuse. Not money…but an exchange of silence for disappearance. Tristan's file was erased. His contract was destroyed. The Steward removed from his post..
And now, here they were. Shannon gazed at Tristan. "The decision is all yours."
The safehouse had a small orchard surrounded by a thin wall of enchanted ivy and protective wards. There were no visible gates nor guards.
Eira stood at the entrance, arms crossed, her long hair tied into a braid down her back.
"Is this the boy?" she asked without preamble.
"I'm not a boy," Tristan said hoarsely.
Eira tilted her head. "Not yet a man either. But we'll work on it."
She approached him, looking him over with the eyes of a soldier, not a healer. "Fingers. Show me."
Tristan hesitated, then raised his hands.
She took them gently, turning them in hers. "Musician?"
He nodded.
"Then we start in the morning." She looked at Shannon. "He'll need sleep. And food. Lots of it. A soul too, if you've got a spare."
"He has one," Shannon said. "It's just buried."
Eira's expression softened. "Then we dig."
Later, Tristan looked around at the safehouse and inside the guest room. He had not had a room as cozy as this. Not even at the manor. There was a stone fireplace, soft linens, well-stuffed featherbed, and lantern light.
There were no paintings, nothing excessive. Everything inside the room answers a necessity. The windows overlooked the moonlit hills. A violin case rested on a table in the corner.
He hadn't noticed it before.
Tristan walked to it, slowly, as if approaching a sleeping creature. It was his. The same violin Therese had kept.
Beside it was a folded note.
"For the music you've yet to write and play …S."
He sat down slowly and closed his eyes.
For the first time in two years, he can hope and dream again.