By the end of the sixth week, most of the stiffness in Tristan's fingers had dissipated. He could tie knots without struggling, hold a teacup without spilling and even pluck out a short melody on a string instrument without missing a note.
His fingers no longer tremble uncontrollably as before.
But some scars were still there. Not the visible ones.
There were nights, Tristan would still wake up screaming and sweating profusely. His most painful memory was being forced to strip off all of his clothing and then parade naked across the camp. They didn't touch him, but it was no less humiliating. The older miners were made to watch his walk of shame unless they wished to be whipped for disobedience.
"Please…don't do this to me, I beg you." Tristan covered himself with trembling hands. Laughter, mockery, and jeers rang behind him.
On other days, they ordered him to balance his food bowl on his head while they pelted it with stones for target practice. The dents grew into cracks until a hole split the bottom, yet he was still forced to use it for his ration.
"Stop… please stop… I didn't do anything wrong." His voice shook as hard as his body, every clang of stone on metal echoing like another strike against his dignity.
When the guards were drunk, they often stormed into the cells and beat us until we were half dead. If luck was on our side, they'd collapse from drinking before their fists found another target.
"Ouch… ouch… stop hitting me. Please, I'm begging you!" Tristan had cried more than once, his voice breaking against the stone walls.
The blows came without reason , sometimes a kick for speaking, sometimes a strike simply for being the nearest body. Bruises never had the chance to fade before new ones took their place.
On my very first day, I made the mistake of asking for a water refill not knowing that the guards would urinate into your mug. I swore I would never ask again.
"Shss… shss… don't ask for a refill. Here, take mine," whispered one old-timer, pressing his tin cup into my hand. His own lips were cracked and bleeding, yet he still gave away his portion. That small kindness kept me alive, but also left a scar of shame, that a stranger had to go thirsty because I hadn't yet learned the rules of survival.
By the first week, I have learned to manage my water intake. The old miners warned of rations not coming on schedule, and sometimes the water's smell was so repulsive, you would want to puke. Hunger and thirst would drive you crazy, coupled with the moaning sounds coming from dying inmates.
Night time was the worst. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and urine. Men regardless of age would cry out in pain, and spend sleepless nights nursing their wounds, hunger and thirst. The question begging for an answer was… who would still be alive the next morning?
And then Tristan would wake up in his new surroundings. He would find himself lying on a bed made of wood and not on the floor. The room smelled of wood smoke rather than rot. In his confusion, he would expect guards to come running with whips and chains. But then he remembered. He was no longer in the camp. He was in the safehouse. He was free. Thanks to Lord Shannon.
The nightmares have not stopped entirely. Oftentimes, he would wake up with his arms raised across his face to shield himself from a blow. When this happens, Eira would softly call out Tristan's name to wake him up from a bad dream. She would offer him warm broth or tea and wait for him to calm down.
"You could ask me," he muttered one night, his voice rough after a dream.
"I know but I would rather wait until you are ready."
Tristan nodded gratefully for the patience he hadn't known in years.
One morning, Eira handed Tristan a carefully wrapped package.
"That instrument survived a house fire," she explained. "It doesn't look good on the outside."
After a careful inspection, his fingertips brushed over its charred edges and over the strings. "Ping…ping…twang… " The sound that came out was thin and uneven. But it was music.
Or the beginning of it.
"It sounds… wrong," he admitted.
"It sounds," she corrected. "That's more than silence."
By week's end, he could manage a short version of a lullaby his mother used to hum to send them all to sleep. An old one, half remembered. This was before she became cold, distant and uncaring.
He didn't cry. But when he finished, he sat very still, the bow resting on his knee.
Eira didn't speak right away. Then, quietly, "That piece is yours now, if you'd accept."
He wrapped the violin in cloth like it was fragile bone. "Will he come?"
"Shannon?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Soon."
After a moment, he asked the question that had lingered for days. "What's your relationship with Lord Shannon?"
Eira raised a brow. "Curious, are we?"
"Just… wondering. He saved me. I barely know him. But you seem to."
She poured them both tea, sliding his cup forward. "He's helped many. Quietly. Fiercely. We're not blood, but I owe him my life. Same as you."
Tristan sipped slowly. "Does he have expectations I should worry about?"
She smiled into her cup. "If Shannon wanted something from you, you'd already know. What he wants is for you to live. Music is a bonus."
Later that day, Eira watched Tristan from the corner of her eye as he strung beads and tie knots. His fingers are already nimble, showing slow but fluid movements.
He's ready.
That thought left her with a complicated ache. She should feel pride. And she did. But she also felt something quieter.
Emptiness.
The quiet of the safehouse had always been her solace. Her shield. But now, after six weeks of shared meals, sarcastic remarks, bad sweeping performances, and unexpected laughter, it felt heavier. Less peaceful. More alone.
Still, it was a good ache. The ache of having helped someone come back to life.
She smiled to herself and whispered, "Good job, Tristan."
When the knock finally came, the anxious performer picked up his violin and tinkered it.
She opened the door quickly.
Lord Shannon stepped into the doorway in an ash gray cloak. He looked quite tired from a long trip, but still came.
"You're earlier than expected," she said.
"He's later than promised," Shannon replied, his gaze already past her, on Tristan.
Tristan stood in the entryway, violin still in hand. "You're back, My Lord."
"Of course I did."
They stood in silence for a moment. One whole. One rebuilt.
"Why me?" Tristan asked, voice barely audible. "Why not someone stronger?"
Shannon took a step forward. "Because strength isn't only forged in comfort. Sometimes it's hammered in darkness."
Tristan looked down at his hands. They were steady.
"And now?"
"Now," Shannon said, "you play. Or don't. But you live. Not just survive."
They all sat around the porch while waiting for the kettle to boil. Eira brought out three sachets of tea in different flavors-chamomile, green and ginger. The first tea promotes relaxation; the second for detoxification and the third to reduce inflammation. Any of these three works best for somebody who has undergone massage and treatment.
"He still can't hold a full D note," she said.
"But I can make a decent C," Tristan added.
"Progress," Shannon replied, and for the first time, there was a twinkle in his voice.
They didn't speak much. They didn't need to.
Tristan sat quietly with the violin across his lap. He didn't play to impress. He didn't play to prove he could.
He played because he wanted to.
He played because he was tired of silence.
And when he hit his last note, he allowed himself to breathe.
He wasn't perfect. He wasn't even fully healed.
But he was no longer broken.
He bowed.
They smiled and clapped.
Before he left, Shannon paused by the door. "You are always welcome in my house," he said softly. "But I feel that with your talent, you can have anything you desire. Claim it."
And then, he was gone.
Later that night, when Eira was alone again. She stared outside the window.
She thought of his healing journey. The pain when touched, how empty his eyes looked and the missing passion.
Now, he slept in the next room, a violin beside him.
She whispered to herself, "You did it, Tristan. Well, done."
And for the first time in a long while, Eira felt she mattered. She helped.
And though she would miss him terribly, she knew:
He was meant to leave.
She was meant to stay.
And maybe, that was enough.