thirty. He was stressed. Sleep wasn't coming to him easily, not when he worried about how things would go for Percival and Echo, for all the common folk. For Patroclus and Eve who were his half-siblings, siblings not born within wedlock but loved so fiercely. Guarded so fiercely. Even for landowners and nobles like Horus who appeared to be a likely ally.
But Tristan did not utter a word to offer any idea of his secret intentions, at least not to someone who he could not trust. He blamed his fatigue on work and left it there, trying not to think about what was said behind his back. He'd even once (God forgive him) said he had been thinking of his wife too often. Damaris would forgive him for using her, wouldn't she? Wouldn't she understand that he couldn't have this go wrong? That it was that important?
Understand now, dear heart. Forgive me, please, he prayed, clutching a chain in his coat pocket, something that once had been hers. Be my shield.
Yet, in the presence of Gawain or Daphne, he had allowed some of his guard down but made no mentions of names or exact thoughts or even plans. He just confessed as much as he would allow himself, that he was working on things for the common people, that he would like to see improvement. That wouldn't it be lovely if people had access to better medical care and support when they were down on their luck. That the queen wouldn't mind when he presented the plans, not the way he had in mind. And then he would trail off, distracted.
Maybe one day when it was over, he would see Uriel and confess everything. The man seemed ideal for confessions.