#the quick release

He feels something sigh in the back of his mind, and while he pushes himself ever further, feels the black creep in at the edge of his vision and his arm twitch at just the wrong moment, he spares a thought for what feels like something   else in his mind. He doesn’t get long, though, because there’s a sword coming down on his arm, and then there is no arm.

Pain like ice lances through his body, and he falls to the ground in a scream, convulsing. It’s the most terrified he’s ever been, and he wishes, for a brief moment, that someone will kill him quickly.

He has never been so lucky.

The despots who are left kick him to the edge of the broken bridge and then further, and he plummets to the dark water below. Just before he breaks the surface, he dreams he can hear someone screaming “No!”, and then all that’s left is ice.

He does not know how long passes. For a long time, all he knows is cold and sand and multiplicity - memories he does not know, cannot name, run behind his eyelids. He screams sometimes, when he wakes, but his throat grows raw and bloody and he cannot scream anymore.

Eventually, he tires and sleeps once more.

The world becomes warmth and light, at some point, but there are too many jagged edges in his mind, too many people speaking too many things he does and does not understand, so he does his best to try and ignore it all.

Tristan opens his eyes to a wooden roof. He blinks for a moment, two. Thinks: I should be dead; and then: Thank the Ages I’m not.

“Easy now,” comes a voice from his left, and he instinctively turns to face it, regretting the decision as it jostles the stump of his arm-

Oh. That. He winces sharply, and the voice chuckles.

Tristan recognizes the blue of the Sorelle before anything else - Kalden, his name was. He fights to get his tongue to cooperate, but when he tries to speak, there’s a jumble of vowels and not much else.

“Do you remember Salting?” Tristan nods, not trusting his voice. He remembers the bridge, and the burning cold, and -

He’s struck by violent tremors, then, and Kalden rests a hand on his arm to steady him. “Easy now, Valencio.”

It takes him a long moment to order his thoughts, longer still to try and steady his tongue enough to speak them. “H-h-how l-l-”

“How long have you been asleep?” Kalden finishes, and Tristan nods. When Kalden sighs instead of responding, Tristan’s heart clenched in his chest. Surely it can't have been that long…?

“A month, give or take. We found you a few weeks after the battle, under the river, surrounded in ice. Seems you saved yourself from death, even Salted.” Kalden sighs, and Tristan gets the distinct feeling that it's not the end of the story.

“You've woken several times, but this is the first you've been lucid enough to try and speak.” Kalden pats his complete arm. “We've had to call Vasco in every other time. He seemed to be the only one who could calm you down.”

The name throws him for a moment, until he remembers the dark-haired flute of a man who'd Salted himself for Cicero after -

Well.

After that .

Still, it makes him wonder - why would this Vasco, this man who'd saved Cicero when all Tristan had done was follow orders , spend his time helping him?

Kalden lets him think in silence. The man's presence serves to soothe, even with as little Tristan knows of him. At least he knows he's trustworthy.

“C-c-c-”

“Cicero?” Kalden supplies again, and Tristan nods once more. He has a feeling this will quickly get infuriating. There's already a headache buzzing behind his eyes, a swarm of thought like hornets in his brain.

“He shouldn't be busy today. Surprised he hasn't checked in on you more, to be honest.”

Tristan isn't surprised at all, but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting. At least Cicero is alive. He nods to Kalden, who stands and ambles to the door, poking his head out for a moment.

Tristan takes a moment to take stock of himself: his toes are responsive, confirmed by the wiggle at the end of the sheets. He clenches his left fist once, twice. He can feel his right fist move with it, even when he looks down and sees nothing past the elbow. Ice swims behind his eyes, and he does his best to breathe through it.

He must be lost in his reverie longer than he thinks, because he’s being jolted out of it what feels like seconds later by a soft touch and a gentle, “Tristan?”

“Good morning, hero, ” Tristan says, and at the confusion on Cicero’s face, he realizes he must not have spoken Ombrian.

“I think you said hello, right?” Tristan nods. “Hello to you, too, then. Still having trouble with the languages?” Another nod. “Well. You’re twice as smart as Vasco, so you shouldn’t have a problem-”

“I heard that!” comes a petulant yell from the doorway, and Vasco is there, seemingly from thin air. There’s a mischievous smile on his face, almost matched by the grin on Cicero’s. Airbrands, he thinks, exasperated.

“I think he’s just jealous that he doesn’t suddenly know an ancient language. ” Vasco’s voice flows smooth with the Dimenticate, and Tristan smiles despite himself. He finds his eyes drawn to him, all the languid grace of someone of the purple guild, and though Tristan has his own squabbles with that guild, it’s easy to put them aside. Especially since they stayed.

“Perhaps, ” Tristan responds, and the smile on Vasco’s face is blinding.

“- As I was saying,” Cicero continues, “you shouldn’t have trouble speaking again. You’re one of the strongest people I know, Tristan.” There’s something lurking under the surface of those words, a conversation that’s waiting to be had, and Tristan doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready for it.

Still.

Cicero’s hand gives his remaining arm a firm grip at the elbow, and he smiles down at Tristan. He’s already exhausted, just by this minimal interaction, but he doesn’t want to rest. He wants to move around, get back up, back on his feet, be a part of what’s happening, but he knows if he tries there’s no doubt they’ll all just shove him back in a bed again.

“Good to see you back, old friend.”

“G-g-g-ood t-to s-s-s-”

He stops, impatiently patient, and Cicero waits like he’s got all the time in the world for Tristan to find his words. “Seeyoutoo,” he breathes out in a rush, and feels both humiliated and proud that he can speak. Cicero’s answering grin as he brushes past Vasco to leave only intensifies it -

Vasco. The man had slipped his mind for a moment, but now that he’s the only other living body in the room, it’s hard not to notice him. He walks over from the door, shutting it behind him, his walk making Tristan think of the cats that stalked the alleys of the Citte, hunting whatever poor rodent was unlucky enough to get in their way. He drops into the chair next to the bed in a single fluid motion, lounging like he’s been there for hours.

“So. Tristan Delzole.” There’s venom in his name, and he is remorseful enough to wince. “Back from the dead, in a fashion almost as miraculous as our d-dear Cicero’s.”

He feels like a viper staring down a mongoose. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say, only feeling shock as he registers Vasco’s words. He lets the shock show on his face, hoping Vasco will answer his unspoken question.

“Not going to speak for you, Valencio. You’ll have to sp-speak for yourself.”

Damn. There goes that idea, then. “W-w-wha-t-t hap-p-p-pened t-t-t-t-”

Vasco waits for him to finish with an enigmatic smile, and it makes Tristan want to swat at the flower vase that’s sitting on the bedside table. Lucky that’s his missing arm’s side, then.

“T-t-t-o Cic-c-c-c-ero?” he finishes, and the little clap Vasco gives makes him scowl.

“Very good! And, as a reward, here’s your answer: he died.”

Tristan stops. Looks at Vasco. Waits for the sign that it’s all some terrible joke he’s being played by.

Vasco laughs sarcastically. “I wouldn’t joke about that, Delzole. I think the universe has given me the best possible punchline it could, T-t-t-t-t-ristan.” He plays up the stutter on his name, and now Tristan sees why Vasco is so hostile: Tristan is the reason he Salted in the first place. And now, Tristan is here, in the same place he was weeks ago, having Salted for the very same man. It’s a type of cruel irony, and one that Vasco is enjoying immensely, by the looks of it.

“G-g-g-g-lad yo-o-ou’re hav-v-v-v-ing-g-g f-fun.” His voice is more tired than he expects. He is more tired than he expects. He’s far, far too tired to parse exactly what all this means: that Cicero died but clearly didn’t stay dead, by the looks of it. That he, for all intents and purposes, should have followed the man into the dark.

“Only a little,” Vasco admits, and Tristan doesn’t believe it for a second. Instead, he turns on his side, the side that still possesses an arm, and pulls the sheets up around himself as if to sleep.

“Don’t be in-salt-ed, Valencio.” He groans at the pun, and then remembers he’s supposed to be sleeping. “I’ll have you speaking p-properly in no time. I did have a fine tutor, myself.” His tone gets distant, misty, but Tristan doesn’t bother turning to see if his expression matches. He hears Vasco stand, pushing the chair back from the bed, and walk to the door. There’s a pause then, as if he waits at the door, but Tristan shuffles more resolutely under the covers. He hears it click, swing, and click again, and Tristan is alone once more.

When they leave, he quietly summons his mascherine. Sometimes, he just looks at it, smoothing his hand over its surface and wondering: who were you? Did you ask for this? Will I ever speak to you properly?

Sometimes, though, he puts it on and thinks of ice, of water, of cold and time.

The first time he tries it, he damn near almost gives himself a heart attack with the panic that floods him, the memories of falling and ice and pain that make his missing limb spasm and ache without relief. Kalden finds him not an hour later, biting his lip bloody to keep from yelling and alerting anyone.

Kalden eases him down from his panic, guiding him to “Breathe, Tristan. Easy now. Breathe with me.” until he didn’t feel like the world was collapsing and his arm didn’t feel like it was being cut off all over again. Kalden looks at the mascherine on his face with a soft accusation, and warns him against using it until he feels better.

He keeps using it, simply because it’s the only thing that makes him feel like he’s at least doing something . He just makes sure he keeps quiet.

In the afternoons, he gets a visit from Vasco - never longer than an hour, but never shorter, either. Vasco doesn’t make him speak, but engages him in idle conversation. Whenever Tristan has a question or a response, Vasco makes him say it. It’s infuriating, but it’s an effective enough speech trainer. Sometimes, he’ll make him repeat himself, making Tristan irritable, but even he’s surprised by the progress he’s made in a week’s time.

One day, Vasco is an hour late for their meeting; they’ve never set a time, but Vasco always appeared around the same time everyday. Tristan sneaks a glance at the clock, confirming the thought.

So, Tristan holds his hand out in his lap, thinks about waves, and feels his mascherine settle in his palm. He’s always loved the thing, the bright red and silver lines edged in gold. He grips it tight, feels the material of it flex in his hand, and lifts it to his face -

- Ice, and cold, and fire, and he isn’t sure how the fire fits until he feels his arm burn white-hot-painful under the maskrunner’s steel, and his head is already fuzzy-hot with static and pain, but he can’t stop, he can’t stop, he’s falling to his knees but he needs to keep moving, Cicero needs him, the Citte needs him, the Citte-

“Tristan!”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, the one missing its arm, and he focuses on the weight, feeling his heartbeat in his throat.

“Tristan, can you hear me?” He’s shaking too hard to nod properly, but he thinks they understand because they don’t repeat the question. There’s a blur of purple movement on his right side, a smear that coalesces into a human form that eventually becomes Vasco. “Breathe, Tristan. Can’t have you dying on me now.”

He would laugh, if he didn’t feel like that is exactly what’s happening. He grips his left hand tight, hard enough his fingernails bite half-moon crescents into the skin of his palm.

“V-v-v-v-v-” He tries, but the words won’t come out right, and he can barely breathe as is.

“Don’t try to speak. Just breathe, Delzole. In and out, that’s it.” Vasco doesn’t touch him beyond the hand on his shoulder, and he doesn’t know whether to be grateful or to weep.

Eventually, the shuddering breaths subside, and Tristan lets his fist unclench, wincing at the blood that wells in each of the little cuts. Vasco tutts lightly, his hand moving from his shoulder to grab Tristan’s own. Regret fills him at the loss of contact, but he bites it back - the less he feels right now, the better. Vasco’s flautist’s fingers examine his palm carefully, clinically, grabbing a cloth from a drawer in the bedside table and wiping away the little red specks with a gentle hand.

“Now, what brought that on?” Vasco asks softly, his voice sounding a beat away from a laugh but no less genuine in its concern.

Tristan takes a moment to breathe again, and then another, and finally speaks. “T-the w-w-water is not always k-k-kind.” He can’t quite meet the other man’s eyes, and so he settles for watching his hands instead.

Vasco does laugh, a soft huff of a thing. “I suppose not, hm, Valencio? You’d know better than most.” He sees Vasco’s fingers twitch towards his mascherine, a half-aborted movement caught too late.

Tristan’s hand moves to his face, the mask that still rests there. “W-will I ev-v-ver u-use this ag-gain?” He pulls the mask from his face gently, stroking the red inlay with his thumb. His voice is far more sad than he’d like. He doesn’t want to give Vasco any more fuel for his backhanded comments and petty jabs.

Instead of responding, Vasco simply summons his own mascherine to bear, letting it rests in his hands. Purple and red play within golden borders, making swooping lines and deep impressions in the mask itself. It’s a playful mask, one suited to a man like Vasco, and it makes Tristan’s mouth sour with regret.

“I still don’t know her name,” he says. His voice is dangerously soft, filled with a vulnerability Tristan doesn’t think he deserves to hear, but Vasco keeps speaking. “I don’t know if I ever will. Maybe she doesn’t know it, either.” He looks up at Tristan, and Tristan finds his eyes inexorably drawn towards Vasco’s, as well. “Everything doesn’t become suddenly clear because we’ve Salted. It just means we have another set of memories in our heads. Incomplete, fallible, and just as human as the men who hold them.”

Vasco’s mouth cracks into a smile. “I know, surprisingly deep for a man of so many jests. Feel free to hold your applause.”

Tristan smiles despite himself, the panic in his chest almost forgotten. “N-not that surprising, Tessit-t-tore.”

“I’ll have you know I spend a lot of time cultivating my happy-go-lucky attitude, thank you, and I’ll not have you squander all that hard w-work.” He points threateningly at Tristan, but there’s no heat in his words.

Tristan laughs, bright and clear. He’s glad he hasn’t forgotten how to do that, at least. Vasco pouts for a few seconds longer before dismissing his mascherine with a smile. Tristan does the same, letting it fade to a shimmer in the air.

“I wonder where they go when we aren’t using them,” Vasco wonders aloud, and Tristan shrugs. “Do you think the fey would know?” Another shrug. “Gah, you’re useless.” And another.

Vasco finally gives up on trying to get Tristan to speak again. Honestly, he’s feeling exhausted by the whole ordeal. He already can’t sleep at night. He doesn’t want his nightmares chasing into his waking hours, and if that means never using his mascherine again - never using any mascherine again -

Well. He’ll handle that when the time comes.

Vasco flops backwards on the bed, laying horizontal on the foot of it, his feet still touching the ground. He’s more lax around Tristan than he’s ever been before, and Tristan can’t say he minds it.

“Have you spoken to Cicero about it?”

Tristan shakes his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

Tristan looks down at his hand again. “I d-d-don’t s-see him of-t-ten.” It’s easier to say than I don’t deserve to see him.

“If you asked for him, he’d come.”

Tristan shakes his head. “Don’t want t-to bo-bother him.”

Vasco sighs. “You’re both idiots, then.”

Tristan jabs Vasco in the side with his toes. He winces and glares up at Tristan. “I’m not wrong! Y-you’re both doing nothing but moping around. Very sad, really.”

Tristan just sighs. Vasco does the same.

He spends the rest of his time answering Vasco’s inane questions (”What’s your favorite color?” “B-blue.” “What’s your favorite drink?” “Lemonade.” “What’s your-”) before Vasco hops up from his reclined position and darts out of the door with barely a goodbye.

Tristan doesn’t have it in him to be mad. He’s already half-asleep, anyway. He stays awake long enough to drink a few spoonfuls of the broth the Sorelle nurse brings him for dinner before falling asleep. He dreams of a cathedral, impossibly large, and of a sea dark as night, filled with stars.

The next day he wakes, it’s to a hushed argument in low tones outside of his door. He wakes almost irritable at the intrusion, sure it’s far too early to be woken, but a glance at the clock on the wall tells him he’s actually slept in much later than he usually does. He rubs at his eyes and catches snippets of the conversation that drift through the door.

“-should talk to him, Cicero.” That’s Kalden’s warm rumble, barely perceptible through the door for its baritone depth.

“And say what? That I’m glad he almost died for me? That he’s another person who had to sacrifice himself for me, just so I could-”

“Cicero.”

“It’s true, Kalden, no matter what you say, alright? I don’t think - I don’t think he wants to see me, anyway.” Cicero sounds hurt when he says it, and Tristan is half a second away from calling out for him before Kalden speaks again.

“We’ve had this discussion a thousand times, Cicero, and I’ll always tell you the same thing: we followed you because you are worth following, Cicero. We could never leave you behind. We all knew what we were getting into.”

There’s a moment of silence then, and when Cicero speaks, his voice sounds muffled, as if pressed against cloth. “Thank you, Kalden. You’re too good for me.”

A chuckle. “You’re right, I am.”

Cicero’s voice sounds mock-hurt through the door. “You rude oaf! I ought to-”

He’s cut off suddenly. Kalden is the next to speak, and his voice sounds rougher, deeper, just barely audible through the door. “Doesn’t mean I won’t stay by your side.”

There’s an exchange of words he can’t hear, and then the click of the door. He’s just quick enough to pretend to still be waking, scrubbing at his eyes with his hand again and shoving himself upright.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.” Cicero seems to barely hold back a laugh as he enters, Kalden just a step behind him. Cicero moves toward the chair on his left, almost unsure, before Tristan sighs and pats it with a grin. “How are you?” he says as he settles into it.

“Fine, I th-think.” Tristan shrugs. “Hav-ven’t died y-yet, so I m-m-must be doing someth-th-thing right.”

Kalden settles on the only other bed in the room, just behind and to the right of Cicero. “Good. You seem to be recovering steadily, as well. I think you’ll be back on your feet in no time. Maybe within the week, if all goes well.”

Tristan nods, pleased to hear it. His recovery from Salting has mostly been mental; most of the bedrest has been from being encased in ice for the better part of a month. He can feel his strength return in strides, though he’s not excited about the prospect of limping around like an invalid for a few months while he remembers how to walk again.

“Tristan…” Cicero starts, and there’s something in his voice that makes him think this conversation won’t be quite as easy as he was hoping. Still, he knew it was coming. It had to happen sooner or later.

“Y-yes, Cicero?” He does his best to sound fondly exasperated.

Cicero gives him a weak little half-smile, but it fades as he continues. “I don’t think we ever really talked about what happened, did we?”

Tristan remembers a quick, uncomfortable conversation made in the rush of impending battle, remembers setting aside his feelings about duty and honor to try and mend what he could between their broken trust, remembers hugging Cicero tightly with both arms and promising to have his back ‘just like old times.’ It was what they needed to get through the night, one neither of them thought they’d both truly survive.

Tristan sighs deeply, leaning against the pillows piled behind him. “N-n-not much to s-say, Cicero.”

“That’s a lie, Tristan, and we both know it.”

“Is it?” he counters. “We b-both know t-t-too much has happened. I don’t regret w-w-what I did. Neither should y-you.”

Cicero is silent for a long moment. “I wish it could be easier.”

Tristan grins. “N-nothing easy is ever w-w-worth it.”

He’s suddenly reminded of what Vasco told him a week before: ‘ He died. I wouldn’t joke about that. ’

Cicero must notice his change in demeanor, because it’s not but a few moments later that he’s asking, “What’s wrong, old friend?”

“Vasco t-told me s-something.” He doesn’t know a delicate way to say it, so he doesn’t try. “D-did you really die, Cicero?”

Cicero pales, and Tristan knows instantly it was the wrong thing to say. Kalden, instead, speaks for him. “He did, yes. We’re not sure why or how he’s back, but he is. We think it was fey.” He lists it off like a grocery list, and Tristan nods.

He also notices the way Cicero’s hand seemingly absently searches out Kalden’s own, and Kalden takes it without even looking down. He files that away as a question for another day - he’s already asked enough.

“G-guess that’s another t-thing we have in com-m-mon now, eh, Cicero?” He says, nudging him with his elbow. Cicero breaks out of his reverie and laughs a little, just once. Not perfect, but better.

“I suppose so.” He flashes Tristan a smile. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. I’m sure Vasco will be here soon, and he’ll probably yell at me again about interrupting ‘very important tutelage of the h-highest calibre.’”

Tristan nods. “And I’m sure the h-hero of Ombre has pl-plenty of duties to attend, hims-s-self.” He waves his hand at the door, shooing them out. “Go on, out of h-here.”

Cicero is laughing as he leaves, giving Tristan a wave. His other hand is still holding Kalden’s as he leaves.