Minutes passed.
Two voices echoed from the other room. Marc, then his father. Trystan relaxed and lowered his weapon.
“Noah, ‘tis I, Marc.”
“Trystan’s in his room.”
Shuffling followed, and the door to his bed chamber swung open.
“Trystan?” A soft orange glow fell across Marc’s face.
“I am here.”
As Marc closed the door Trystan cast his bow aside. Marc approached him. He reached up to frame Trystan’s face with both hands and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
No more words were spoken as need and primal urges superseded all else. Marc stripped away Trystan’s clothes before doing the same with his. Limbs tangled, they fell into bed, and Trystan found himself being claimed once again by the man his heart desired.
***
“The time has come for you to remember, Trystan.”
“Mother?”
In the mist, a woman appeared. Long, golden locks framed her face, falling over her shoulders. “Come to the lake, my son. Your father is here as well. We have much to tell you.”
“Which lake?”
“The one by the old willow.” Behind her, the fog thinned, revealing a lake among gently rolling hills guarded by a lone tree, its branches barren and gnarled.
Trystan shook his head. “I do not know where that is.”
“Let your spirit guide you.”
“Spirit? I don’t understand.”
The fog thickened. The woman disappeared.
“Wait. Please.”
Whispered words echoed beyond the mist. “Remember who you are.”
Trystan’s eyes flew open, his breaths coming hard and fast. A heaviness weighed on his chest. He looked down, blinking his eyes hard. An arm. Marc’s arm. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the pillow, and sucked in a deep breath.
The old willow. Spirit. A lake.
Trystan lay in bed and raised his arm to rest above his head. He glanced toward the shuttered window. Dawn had yet to come. The embers in the stone hearth had all but died, leaving ash and a subtle deep orange glow.
The dream taunted him.
He needed to reach the lake. There was something or someone there waiting for him. He sensed it, deep inside. The lake called to him.
Trystan sat up and shifted, setting his feet on the hard, dusty floor. He debated on waking Marc, but what would he say? Would he agree or would he suggest they involve Emrys? Emrys would most certainly insist that he wait as would his father, but Trystan could not wait. Besides, what harm could come from a lake?
The urgency he felt intensified with each passing moment.
He looked toward the window. Outside, the wind howled, slapping at the shutters. Rain pelted the thatch roof and thick, stone walls. Marc seemed to have no trouble sleeping through the rhythmic thump and crack. The warmth and security of his cymara’s embrace begged him to stay and sleep and talk everything out in the morning.
Trystan closed his eyes and slid closer to Marc.
