Yes. Tristan's hands, they were crawling over his shoulders and soothing down his back. The release of tension. And the relief of knowing.
He wasn't dead. Nor was he abandoned. Tristan, he didn't leave him!
He could have easily left him…
Sobbing. Who was it that was sobbing? There were tears that were leaking. And fists that were clenching.
Tristan's back. It was soft. And steady.
He clutched at it without knowing; desperately closing his eyes to the reality. Of course the dead was still there. Waiting. Those bodies…
The ones he killed. And the children that were just like him.
"Tris—"
His neck stiffened. And he felt an urge to attack—
"It's okay. Everything's okay. They're not going to hurt you. They won't do anything. Everyone, step back. Don't get any closer or you'll scare him—"
"Him?! You should worry more about him attacking us, Tristan!"
The injured.
"We can't possibly take him with us."
And the weak.
"Does he even have anywhere to go? I think—"
"Forget about that for now! We should be leaving—'
Tristan pushed him behind him. And stood securely before him. "I'll take him. I'll take responsibility for him."
He put up a hand defensively. "My Father. He'll come. I know he'll be out there somewhere looking for me. I'm the young master of the Bitter Cloud Sect. They won't stop searching! If we can just meet them—! If we can just tell them we're still living—! I'm sure he'll come for me. I'm certain he'll be there!"
He took a deep breath. "We don't know where we're going. But it's better to leave now, right? We'll take the front. If anything happens, you guys can fall behind. And find another route to go…We can do this. We can get out of here. All of us. Together…"
Silence. And the sounds of muffled breathing. The tension was real. And so was the stillness.
An impossible task. It was a dead end.
That was what they were all feeling.
To predicate their entire escape on the belief of a father coming…
Completely and utterly useless. The hubris. And essentially, the madness. He was mad…simply relying on a single man that wasn't coming…
But why was hope desperately clawing it's way through their party? What was the use of surviving if they had no hope of living?
He didn't care. Those words meant nothing to him. He had nowhere worth going.
But that back, it was glowing somehow. Somehow, it was bigger than it seemed.
He reached, trying to catch that incandescent light—
But in that moment, it moved. And he couldn't quite catch it even as he followed so pitifully; a tail that didn't quite fit left straggling forlornly behind—
Dazed. Abandoned. And confused.
Tristan. Tristan!
His hands began shaking. And his vision became blurry. Gasping. And the sounds of wheezing.
That light. It was leaving—! He couldn't catch it no matter how hard he tried!
Something. Someone. Anything. Anyone—! Tristan, he was leaving!
"What are you doing? Hurry now! Follow me!" Tristan, he was watching. Beckoning.
He ran. And caught a rare glimpse of something in Tristan's eyes. Just what was it? That glimmer…
How pretty. Beautiful. And rare.
But it wasn't what he thought.
Much, much later, it became a subtle, dire warning…
***
Where did they go from there? The infinite darkness was broken by dim, very dim light. And yet they were treading the void as if daylight had found them.
Cautiously. Softly. They were stealthily walking. The stairs. They climbed them, feeling the wall as they ascended.
Carefully, quietly, they were breathing.
He followed Tristan closely. Because the others, they weren't worth following. Only Tristan glowed freely. Only he…
Around corners, Tristan peeked, hurriedly motioning them forward as he found nothing to alarm them.
His hand pressed against Tristan's back. And Tristan turned, quickly pushing his finger against his lips to quiet him.
"What is it?" Tristan whispered beneath his breath.
He shakily released Tristan's shirt. And opened his mouth to speak—
But only a silent whimper slipped. He couldn't speak. It was like losing his humanity…
Trembling, he reluctantly shook his head. What could he do but let go?
Tristan turned back around, peering intently into the darkness.
He wanted to cry but didn't know how to cry. Because danger, it was just around the corner and Tristan wouldn't listen anyway and the boys behind him were restlessly fidgeting—
He couldn't stop remembering the corpses behind him. The mess he made of them. These hands, were they truly his own? Did he really…?
But it didn't matter. Not really. Tristan was beside him. And he had someone to care about him. And there was no time for reminiscing—
There were footsteps. In the darkness.
Frozen. Fearful. They held their breath, waiting. Hot, tortured breath streaked across the back of his neck. There were noises in the distance. Voices.
The air, it was unbelievably heavy.
Were they coming—?
The footsteps faded.
And Tristan spoke quietly. "There's two paths here. I remember hearing that the exit was… over there…"
"We can't follow them! We'll die. Or worse be captured again. "
Murmuring. Mumbling. They were whispering as if they were in mourning.
"But more of them will be patrolling. We can't risk going the other way just because we're scared when we already know where the exit is!"
Hands. Hands. There were hands desperately grabbing Tristan. "I—I'm scared! What are we gonna do now?! Tristan! What do you think, Tristan?! What would your father do? What should we do, Tristan?! You're a noble, aren't you?! Tell us what to do—!"
The fervent eyes. The racing hearts. And the heated chill that was creeping. What was the use of hope if that hope was slowly, torturously dying?