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To Elias, whose true and liberated joy in this town has only just begun to grow.
Kyle swears, were he to let his Reach swell any greater, he could feel the private joys and comforts of every single person in the whole town, from one dusty, happy end to the other, a chorus of long-awaited contentment, belongingness, and peace, like music to his heart.
Epilogue.
I Am Your Blood.
—·—
Tristan stands by the window of the tower, staring out.
It’s his favorite place to stand.
Favorite place to stare.
Perhaps it is because it’s the one place where Markadian’s illusions don’t touch. A spot at the top of the tower, where the tendrils of illusion give way to reality. This unexceptional, old room with no furniture or fancy décor or magic tricks. Tristan stands at the window, gazes out at the real night sky, the real stars that blanket it, and the pale, deathly moon.
It’s full tonight.
Somehow, that feels significant to Tristan.
“Dear me, what in heavens do you find appealing about this drab shithole of a room?”
Tristan smiles. It’s a friend at the door. Her name is Raya. She is Lord of nothing. Director of nothing. Unimportant as unimportant can be.
It’s why Tristan likes her.
Despite her unimportance, she carries herself like a queen.
That’s why Tristan likes her more.
Long black and white hair interwoven into a thick braid that comes down her left shoulder, skin like milk, creamy and flowing, eyes black as night to match her lips, always black, and wearing at any time of day or night a matching skirt and bustier of black lace with stockings and spike heels.
Considering said heels, it’s a wonder Tristan never hears her approach. Need something, my dear Raya? Has someone died?
“Sadly, no,” she confesses, “but I was feeling so bored, and Lord Marky is in one of his moods, and Miss May is busy, so I thought I would come to you for entertainment.”
Tristan turns from the window. I seem to be quite low on your list of people to seek entertainment from.
“That’s because you come to rooms like these and stare out of windows.” Raya pouts her lips into a tiny black heart. “Can you rescue me tonight, Tristan, oh please?”
Of course, Tristan decides rather quickly. But only if you will accompany me on a small errand.
Raya’s black heart lips twist into nearly a V of a grimace.
Nonetheless, she follows Tristan as he moves away from the window, through the door, and down the spiral staircase. As they descend, the barren walls around them slowly adopt their illusions, turning into grand white marble. The creaky wooden steps at their feet, into polished oak. The further they descend, the more grand the appearance of this tower.
“What is this horrible errand?” complains Raya.
Tristan only continues descending, hands clasped in front of him, bouncing almost playfully on his thighs with each step.
At the foot of the now-marble tower, Tristan and Raya pass through an archway together, and are immediately in a large glass dome filled with artificially-enhanced, vividly green trees and thorny vines and bright glowing butterflies. Tristan ignores every trace of beauty around him as if it isn’t even there. A colorful butterfly lands on his nose, which he also ignores, until it flutters away like a fairytale, forgotten. He heads down a path of shiny colorful cobblestone, turns abruptly to the left down the path, then passes through another archway.
At once, they are in a bright chamber where nurses wander around busily, clipboards in hand, tall hats with big red crosses upon their heads. Their outfits, like caricatures of nurses. Their existences, all illusions, not one of them a real person.
“Oh, dear heavens, I hate this place. Are you punishing me? Have I wronged you, dear Tristan?”
Tristan stops at the doorway to one of the rooms.
He doesn’t dare enter the room. He merely stands there, peering in. A hospital bed is inside, upon which rests a body—a body Tristan happens to know.
Raya senses it, takes a step back. “What kind of errand did you say this was again?”
I didn’t say.
The bed sheets are soiled with blood, with real blood.
The body is silent, still.
“Is that a new one?” asks Raya, confused. “Why is he here? Does someone have plans with him? He looks quite gone.”
Tristan stares at the body for quite some time. From this vantage point, all he can see is from the waist down, long trails of blood drawn to the toes, stains and spots and spatters across the legs, long since dried over, like red paint.
Like red, red, red paint.
Red on the blades of a ceiling fan.
Red on the kitchen tiles.
Red on Kyle’s mother.
Kyle’s father.
Kyle’s …
Have you ever just … wanted to start over? Tristan asks the question in a perfect deadpan, his thoughts elsewhere, his heart elsewhere, his eyes on that body. Do you ever just … want to let it all burn … and start over?
