the quick release || masquerada: songs and shadows || chapter 1
(a/n: i'd like to give a big ol shoutout to the masquerada discord for being absolute lads and a constant source of inspiration. y'all are awesome, bless y'all. the chapter number is a very rough prediction - i have about 8,000 words written, but i want to break it into manageable chunks and edit it. this is unbeta'd, by the way, so any and all mistakes are my own. feel free to leave comments/criticism!
work title from Red Sparrow by Mree.
please enjoy ♥)
also on AO3!
“So this is what Salting is like,” Tristan says, as if his vision isn’t tripled and he can feel his legs. The bridge seems impossibly long, so much longer than what he thought, and he dimly feels himself turn, puppeted by the need to keep moving, because if he stops he has a feeling that he’s never going to move again.
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.
Almost as soon as he decides that sleeping might actually be a good option, he’s already dozing.