He felt it in his lungs. Heavy, overwhelming, never stopping, and so very cold. Tristan knew many awful things in his long life. His father's hand, fear for his sister's safety, unable to be the man he wanted to be, quite literally being stripped of his own identity, and yet--- even on dry land he still felt a chill like ice seep into his bones. As if he was unable to be dry, to even move without the burden of a shiver, weighed down by everything he couldn't forget. Probably because he was still there. It was too unlikely for Aurora to find him. No coordinates, no way to locate him in the vast ocean. That is to say, if the Mikaelsons hadn't already killed his sister or found a similar brutal way to punish her. This in itself was an extension of Tristan's own prison, his mind breaking beyond it's limits. Even in his own hallucinations he could not know peace. A hand on his shoulder, and he snapped out of trance to face the touch. He was probably trying to wake up, in reality. "Please don't," Tristan spoke, a quiet to his voice. He knew his pleas would fall on deaf ears but nonetheless. "I know this isn't real," It couldn't be. "I don't want to go back. I'm not ready." Even if he shivered in this hallucination, even if it was imperfect, at least he could breath.
