Regret. Regret. Regret.
He broke the surface, sobs heaving his chest, great mourning gusts he could not control.
Tristan.
His name sailed by, threading through the wind.
And then again . . .
Tristan, Tristan . . . where are you?
Who called him?
An angel?
His mother, perhaps?
He supposed hewasthat far gone.
Floating on his back once more, he let the waves pummel his body.
“Eccomi,” he whispered in Italian.Here I am.
He was a boy, racing down the stairs of Hawthorn into his mother’s waiting arms.
Tristan! Caro!
Allie clinging to him, sobbing goodbye before the carriage took her and their mother away.
Tristan! Don’t leave me.
“I’ll find you,” he promised.
I’ll find you.
Isolde! Isolde!
Tristan! Come back!
He wanted to return.
To become Tristan once more.
To be Tristan with his Isolde, love potion be damned.
“Isolde,” he gasped.
Tristan.
Just once. Just once to hear his name on her lips.
Waves topped his head, and he let them push him under.
I need to fight.
That was his thought as he sank into the deep.
Fight. Fight.
