Chapter Text
The moon was high above Treal. Guards stood at the top of a tall curved gate, watching the woods for anything irregular. They were vaguely bored but held back from entertaining each other with gossip or jokes; they knew the price if they missed something dangerous.
Below them, Tristan crouched under the cover of a low tree branch and watched back. He was trying to determine the identity of the guards. It was possible he knew them, but the moonlight wasn't bright enough or from the right direction to see their faces.
He ducked back from the edge of the woods and pulled a tin of thick clear adhesive from his pocket. He opened it and dipped his finger in to draw a thin line of the adhesive across his forehead arching over each eyebrow. He felt the lines begin to dry and twist his skin into what would resemble the scars of a scholar. It felt strangely familiar after so many months of not needing the marks. It felt like safety.
Tristan sat and breathed deeply as his scars cemented on his face. The way into Polis was easy but hidden, and he had to trust muscle memory that had gathered some dust. He walked himself through it in his mind.
He took one last look at the guards at the top of the wall and left his spot, following the wall’s curve at a distance that hid him from it. He quickly came to his destination and almost missed it: an old sewer lid, covered by knee-high ferns that grew up through the gravel of crumbling asphalt. Tristan walked past it, knowing he was about to go too far, tripped over a curb and immediately recognized where the sewer should be. He pushed the ferns to the side and heaved the lid halfway off the sewer entrance, careful not to push it all the way off. He peered down into familiar darkness. “Please don't let them be out tonight,” he whispered.
For the first part of the journey this plea was heeded by whatever high power might have heard it: Tristan climbed down the ladder into the pipes, jogged straight, left, right, right, left (to avoid a part of the pipe that was caved in), then came to the junction with the main line. This line was better described as a tunnel than a pipe. Three people could walk abreast down it. Tristan lingered at the junction, absentmindedly pushing his hands up against the top of the pipe he was about to step out of. He looked left and right. It looked clear, but he knew how easy it was, if someone heard him before he heard them, to hide and spy. There were pipes shooting off both sides of the main line every fifty feet.
Tristan ground his teeth and stepped forward. He hurried along, staying close to the outside of the slightly curved tunnel. It was quiet for a long time. He recognized certain marks on the walls, faded graffiti and cracks in the cement. One of them - a red and blue logo of some organization long forgotten - meant that he was almost in the clear. His heart calmed its frantic pace.
It skipped a beat and double-timed when three voices bounced from the pipe that had just come into view around the curve of the tunnel. Tristan recoiled, backstepping frantically to hide himself. He ducked into a smaller pipe that shot off the main one and flattened himself against the wall. He forced his breathing to slow. The voices rounded the corner moments after he had hidden himself.
“...they said she’s coming here unprotected.”
“That has to be a lie. That would be incredibly stupid. And the Commander is not stupid.”
“They said they’d seen her with her convoy on the road not far from here. They said it was pathetic. They were barely armed.”
“They are. They’re concealing what they have. Definitely.”
By the time the voices were nearly upon him, Tristan had recognized both voices and a third set of less heavy footfalls. These were three smugglers, members of Black Ice. One of them happened to be the boy who had introduced Tristan to this way into (or out of, as it had been at the time) the city. Tristan closed his eyes and held his breath. It would be very bad if those boys saw him here, now. They were decidedly not friends anymore.
But they continued to quietly discuss the rumors as they passed, and didn’t stop as they passed their old friend pressed against the wall of the offshooting pipe. As their voices echoed frighteningly around him, Tristan opened his eyes to watch them miss him. Another pair of eyes was peering in towards him: the third person, Cohal.
He held her gaze, confused that she hadn't said anything. She wasn't a talkative person but she should've told the others. Tristan’s mind jumped to hope that she, of all the people he had lied to in Treal, might have forgiven, might wonder about his well being, might trust that if he was here, it was for a good reason.
“Don't you think we would have heard something? There's no way she's just…”
“She’s too smart to just come out and attack us now -”
“Cohal?” The footsteps shuffled to a halt.
She paused, staring blankly at Tristan. He did his best not to silently plead with her - he knew she would be disgusted by that. He almost imperceptibly squared his face with hers and twisted his mouth into the most determined frown he could muster.
“I just remembered something,” she said finally.
“Is it important?”
“No.” She broke Tristan's gaze and walked out of his line of vision.
The boys waited for her to catch up. Tristan let out his breathe slowly when he heard them pick up the paused conversation.
He waited for their voices to fade before rolling back into the main tunnelway and sprinting as silently as he could back the way he knew they had come. He didn't have time to wonder about Cohal, though the meeting had shaken him. He rushed down the straight pipe until he came to a ladder, which he climbed up, and found himself on a road he knew far too well.
---
The Hall of Books was close to the city center, but the group of students Tristan had fallen in with for his half year there was involved with Treal’s ring of black market smugglers, known fondly as Black Ice. He had done runs for contraband goods through the crumbling network of sewers and underground tunnels, and took various routes through the city to arrive at the very place he was currently standing.
Tristan straighten his shirt as he stepped onto the main road and turned North. He swaggered down the side of the street like he'd grown up on it. It was the only way to walk down the street in Treal. And he knew that his scowl was enough to hide him from suspicion.
It wasn't long before he reached the inconspicuous door of the dorms for philosophy students at the Hall of Books. He wouldn't be using it though - the time was far past curfew. He turned his face away as he passed the window of the door guard, who might recognize him. Around the corner, in a narrow alleyway, a fire escape ladder clung to the side of the building, the lowest rung ten feet up. Tristan put one foot on each wall of the alley and shimmied himself up until he could reach the lowest rung. The window one the corner of the second floor was cracked open. He hooked one arm around the ladder and pushed the window farther open, avoiding the way it squeaked when twisted the wrong way. It opened without a sound and held. He quickly climbed up far enough to swing inside feet first, and slid the window back to its previous position behind him.
Tristan took a breath and rested his arms in the windowpane. It was a lie tonight, but this felt like reaching base - no longer in public after dark, no longer a target of the police searches or at risk of being recognized in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was his dorm. This was where he belonged. No one could question his presence here. He'd made it.
The lie was over as soon as he looked around. So much was the same, but little things proved the passage of time - the rug shifted, different mugs on the table, and strange clothes draped across a chair. One wall that he remembered as having only a long mirror was now nearly covered in a collage of drawings, writing, and squares of decorative fabric. Tristan was immediately distracted, and approached the wall with curiosity as if this was still his bedroom. His gaze flitted from thing to thing, and he picked up a familiar small Meidalkru medallion hanging from a loop of twine on a nail driven deep into the wall. Tristan smiled sadly at the weight of it in his hand, that once had rested regularly on his chest.
“I was wondering when I’d see you again,” a deep voice muttered, still gravelly from sleep.
Tristan looked over his shoulder at the young man picking himself up on his bed. “How’d you know it was me?”
He stretched and grimaced, kicking blankets to the base of his bed. “Black Ice got here before you. You’re not as sneaky as you think. Luckily you don’t have as many enemies as you think.”
“Cohal?”
He nodded and stood. “It’s good to see you alive, Tristan.”
“Thanks to you,” Tristan replied stepping forward to grasp Roan’s wrist warmly before stepping back to let Roan cross to his desk. “It's good to see you too, Roan.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Hoping to begin a peace between our krus, bro.” Tristan pulled a carefully folded piece of paper from the inner chest pocket his jacket and held it out in front of him, his arm fully extended. It hung there. Roan looked down at it with one eyebrow arched sharply, then back up to Tristan’s face, then back at the folded paper. He hesitated, sighed, and took it quickly.
“You’re with the Commander.” Tristan nodded. Roan shook his head and unfolded the paper. His eyes scanned back and forth, his face revealing nothing as he moved down the page.
“My mother will never agree to this,” he said finally, running his thumb up the edge of the paper to flatten it.
“I need her to.”
“You need to convince the Commander not to wake a sleeping dragon. She has been mumbling about your girl’s Coalition for months now, and what she plans to do if she ever approached her as insultingly as she approached the other southern kru leaders…”
“There is nothing but flattery in that letter -”
“Coming from her? The fact that she think my mother cares about her opinion is an insult. You know what we think of the south.”
“I know what you think of everyone who isn't you.”
“Yeah - the south. They're below us for a reason.”
“Is this you talking or your mother?”
Roan scoffed. “It doesn't matter.”
“It does. If it's coming from her, then make this argument to her as yourself.” Tristan gestured at the letter. “Burn that, do not show it to her. Tell her she’s doing exactly what my Commander doesn't want. She will listen to you.” Tristan paused. “But if you really believe what you're saying, then I've wasted my time coming here.”
Roan’s frown deepened. “I have risked everything for you before.”
“And almost lost everything. You think I don't remember?”
“You better.”
“This is not for me. We have been through this - I know this about you. You do not want to inherit this nation as it is. At war, always.” Tristan waited for Roan’s eyes to meet his before continuing. “Make this nation the thing you dream of, Roan - where your people can dream, can live as they like, and others truly envy the freedom you offer.” Tristan almost smiled at Roan’s scowl, because it meant he was winning. “They’ll come suppliant to you, offer you their lives for a chance to share in what the Ice Nation can give them. You know you do not need to be at war to conquer others.” Tristan did grin then. “You’re smarter than that.”
Roan shifted and matched Tristan’s grin. “I’ll think about it.”
Tristan flashed a real smile, and nodded, and said seriously, “Thank you.”
“I’ll send news in two days. Tell your people to expect Cohal.”
---
Getting out of Trial had been easy. Tristan knew that it would be, and carried himself less stiffly after he left Roan. By the time he was near camp, he was practically strolling, letting his mind wander back to Treal. Being in the city brought a flood of memories that put him in a strange, thoughtful mood. He pulled himself out of wondering how his favorite professor was when he realized how close to camp he had gotten. The watch would hear him soon, and he didn't want to approach without indicating who he was. Still, he was walking somewhat leisurely and almost missed the dark figure in the tree just down the hill from where he was walking. He only saw it out of the corner of his eye.
Tristan stopped in his tracks and looked closer. Through the trees, he could see the Commander sitting on the second or third branch of an old maple, leaning against the trunk, one leg stretched out in front of her, the other dangling down. His heart leapt at the sight of her, but he fought his instinct to rush to her and tell her everything he’d learned. She shouldn’t be out here so early and so alone. It was strange. Something might be wrong. But she seemed so calm…
Tristan jumped when soft voice cut through the trees. He turned towards it, and then back to the Commander. She seemed unphased.
“Lexa.”
“I’m here.” She sat forward and turned and swung both legs down off the branch. Another figure emerged from the shadows.
Costia? Tristan was confused. He felt torn between leaving for the sake this clearly being something secret and staying for the sake of his Commander’s safety. Costia wasn’t a danger as far as he knew, but this meeting didn’t make any sense to him. His curiosity and concern got the better of him.
It was hard to see their faces in the darkness, and once they were close to each other he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Maybe the Commander was smiling, and maybe Costia was telling her to come down from the tree. Costia was definitely reaching up and holding onto her shins from below. The Commander definitely kicked Costia lightly in the face - too lightly to have been anything but playful. Then the Commander jumped down to the ground with an impressive lack of sound, and they spoke closely for a minute.
Before Tristan understood what was happening, Costia leaned forward slowly and kissed the Commander. Tristan turned away quickly, embarrassed to have seen something he knew he shouldn't. But then he doubted he had seen what he’d seen, or thought maybe he misunderstood what he’d seen, so he turned back. He definitely hadn't been mistaken. Costia’s hands were resting on the Commander’s hips and guiding her backwards until she was leaning against the trunk of the old maple tree. Tristan blinked. He had seen flashes of her humanity before: when they sparred, she sweat; when she drank, she slowed; when she was insulted, her jaw clenched; when she was hit she bruised and bled. But he had never seen her need or want anything so intensely as she did now, pushing back against Costia like she couldn’t stand any space to be between them.
And then something cold and sharp brushed his Adam’s apple and rested beneath his jaw. He felt his pulse jump. He froze.
A familiar male voice murmured into his ear, “What do you see?”
Tristan swallowed carefully. “Nothing. There’s nothing to see.” The blade didn’t leave his throat, but the pressure eased and the man stepped to Tristan’s side. “Lincoln…”
“Tristan.”
They stared at each other until Tristan blinked nervously. Unsure what Lincoln’s silence meant, Tristan tried to back away, but Lincoln pressed his knife forward and gave him a warning look.
“What do you want me to do, Lincoln? I wasn't spying. I was on my way back.”
“Did you deliver the message?”
“Of course. Not that it’s any of your business yet. I was supposed to report to her,” Tristan whispered, gesturing towards the Commander with his eyes. When Lincoln didn't respond to the annoyed response, he continued. “So what are you gonna do now that I saw something I shouldn't? Kill me for it?” Lincoln frowned in boredom as if he was considering it. “They wouldn't want that. They trust me. And it was accident.” Lincoln didn’t move. “They still need me, Lincoln!” Tristan urged in a more forceful whisper.
Lincoln paused before lowering his knife. “For now.”
“What were you doing out here, anyway?”
“Making sure no accidents happen.”
Tristan frowned. “An accident like me?”
Lincoln nodded and glanced in the direction of his Commander. He shook his head. “You really can’t understand the importance of staying silent about this…”
“I knocked up the enemy, remember? Do you think I don’t wish that could have been a little less public? My child is going to be a constant target. I understand a little about politics and how people can be used.”
Lincoln turned back to him. If Tristan wasn’t mistaken, there was laughter in Lincoln’s stoic eyes. “Get back to camp, Tristan. I’ll see you in the morning.”