"Come on out," Tristan shouted, whirling around. He was alone, staring at the same dilapidated shack he called home. A small, tattered coat laid in one corner of the room. The fireplace was ashen with the remains of dead fires. Two other chairs, dusty from lack of use, sat to the side. In a cluttered pile, the broken remains of a shattered chair rested, forever a reminder of what could have been. Two water jars sat by the door where three once were. That was all he had to call home. It was the same as any other day, but for some reason, something was off.

A scratchy feeling tingled up and down his spine, circling around his neck, and rushing through his arms and legs. In a clenched fist, he held an old chair arm. His knuckles were pale. "I know you're there," he barked. His bloodshot eyes darted around the room, sure he would catch a glimpse of it this time.

He saw it three days ago at the Blessing of Prospero. It was late. He needed water for his jars. Since their argument, Ur avoided him, so Tristan worked alone. It did not bother him. He had to do most things by himself since his parents died. However, when he drew the water, he wondered if he would always be alone or if one day, he might share his life with another. Such thoughts made drawing water a dreary task. He pushed his thoughts back to the task at hand, making short work filling the first two jars. When he drew water for the third, that was when he saw it.

In the water's reflection, a form appeared behind him. It was the face of an unknown man. Crying out, he spun around, breaking the third jar in his surprise. What he found behind horrified him. Nothing. He was alone at the well. Fearful of what he would see, he turned back to the water's reflection. His blurred face was alone. He stared in disbelief. "What was that?" he muttered. That was the beginning of his waking nightmare.

He was being watched. The tingling sensation of piercing eyes burning into his flesh never left. Desperate to be free, he sought out this unseen observer with obsessive intensity. No other thought occupied his mind. It was difficult to eat. He forsook companionship. Sleep was a luxury he could not afford. He had to find the man that wished to torment his soul.

Each day, he was sure that he caught a glimpse of him. A part of his robe here; the tip of his finger there. He was sure he saw the man's dark hair when he lifted his head quick in the fields. Still, he could not reveal the man's presence. Every time he thought he saw him, he gave pursuit only to find nothing. There was no point in mentioning these strange encounters to anyone. All he ever received was sideways glances. If he did not wish to be considered mad, he would have to keep these matters to himself, and reveal the truth once he caught the man by the ear. However, such a fear was impossible.

It's as if I'm chasing a wizard out of Herodotus's stories, Tristan cursed when he saw the man's back for the first time. The man wore a bright green robe. Dark black hair covered his head, bushing around his shoulders. It was a peculiar look for someone inside Ariel, but he gave no thought to that. As soon as Tristan saw him, he cried out in triumph. "You can't get away," he shouted, running as fast as his legs could carry him. His teeth grinded in frustration as the man stayed just out of reach. He ran as if his feet had wings. Tristan chased him throughout the streets of Ariel, much to everyone's confusion, but he never lost him. Ariel was his home. No one could escape him.

That was until they reached the Tree of Prosperity. It was hard to believe what happened if it had not happened right before his very eyes. The man vanished as fast as the sun does behind a cloud. He was just within arm's reach; in the blink of an eye, Tristan was running after the wind. Slamming his heels into the dirt, bringing himself to a skidding halt, he sought out his prey. He has to be somewhere.

To his dismay, no matter where he looked, the answer was the same. The only ones under the tree were Tristan and Prospero. "Sorcery," he exclaimed in utter disbelief. "No," he spat at once. That was something he would not believe, could not believe. Everything in stories was just that. Stories. He turned to Prospero. The god's eyes looked on the young man with cold indifference. Furious, Tristan spat. "Go ahead," he muttered. "Mock me. We'll see who's laughing."

At last, in his own home, he would bring this game of lurking snake and cautious mouse to an end. He was alone. For the man to see him, he had to be inside the room. As soon as Tristan saw him, there would be no escape. The room was small. Two steps and he would have him in reach, whether he came through the door, slid down the chimney, or came through the wall. Whatever this wizard did, Tristan's makeshift club would bring his game to an end. Once he would have thought a weapon was an extreme measure, but that was before he vanished into thin air. What sort of man could do that? In his frenzied state, he did not care. No man could disappear if a club knocked against his head.

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"Come on out," he challenged again, slapping a palm against the table. He raised his club above his head, ready to strike. "Let's have this over and done with. Don't you grow tired of slinking around like a worm? I know I'm tired of chasing you. Hurry up and show yourself. I have a friend that wants to meet you." The challenge was made. All he had to do was wait.

He stayed still, not moving an inch from his spot. A growing burn coursed through his body for holding this statue-like posture for so long. His eyes blinked, his fatigue catching up to him for the first time in days. He ignored it all, refusing to give in when his victory was at hand. In the room, he lost track of time, forgetting how long he waited for the man to show himself. Through the cracks in the boarded window, he saw the sunlight fading. Darkness began to fall on Ariel. Tristan made no attempt at making a fire. He could not turn away from the task at hand. The moment he looked away was when his foe would show himself. He maintained his watchful vigil until the last rays of sunlight danced away from the world and the stars and moon waltzed across a black sky.

It was then that Tristan lowered his club. His arm burned from holding the pose for so long. His legs ached from not resting. It was over. No matter what he did, he could not blind his eyes from the truth. He was no closer to discovering who the man was or why he haunted his footsteps. This was his new life, plagued by the piercing eyes of a vanishing man. "I might as well get used to it," he realized with a begrudged grin. "He won't be tired of this game for a long time." Laying his club aside, he rested in his chair, the intense burning beginning to dull in his weary muscles. Tilting his head back, he hoped that sleep might accept him into its arms for a change. It might have, but a strange twist of fate robbed him once again.

"Hello Tristan," a voice blurted behind him. With a yelp, Tristan leapt from the chair, fumbling for his club. He raised it for the decisive blow. A bearded face filled his vision. He had no time to rationalize the situation. Instinct took over. Without a word, he swung at the face, not caring if he caved the man's skull in. Frantic fear had a tendency to do that. Despite Tristan's skills in combat, courtesy of Ur, the blow would not kill any man. The most it would do was stun. His club was old and had little chance of holding against a strong impact, but such an impact never came.

A scream burst from his lips as the club passed right through the bearded face, as if he swung at empty air. Following the force of his strike, Tristan stumbled forward, falling to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he readied for another attack, hoping to attack before the man retaliated when a thought occurred to him. He froze, blinking. When he fell, he passed through the man.

"Yes," the bearded man said. "You can't touch me; well, you could if I let you, but why would I when you keep swinging that pitiful stick around. Is that what passes for a weapon amongst mortals these days?"

Tristan broke through his paralysis, backing away from the man. He wore the same bright green robe, wrapped around his body. His feet were bare of boot and hair. Thick hair swung down to his shoulders. Curious blue eyes flashed against the olive dark face. "Odd," he murmured, more to himself than Tristan.

"What?" Tristan asked, his voice quaking in growing fear. Glancing down, he realized that the strange being floated mere inches above the ground.

Scratching his thick black beard, the being floated closer to Tristan, glaring into his eyes. "How strange. I have looked into the eyes of those who can't see me before. They look no different from your own, but you can see me." His lips curled into a smile that grew wider by the moment, to where it looked like it was about to swallow his face.

"What?" Tristan stammered again, taking a few steps back. His head bumped against the wall. He had nowhere else to go. It was then that he realized that he could see through the floating man, seeing the stone behind him. Horrified, Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. I'm seeing visions, he told himself. It is all from lack of sleep. Open your eyes again, and he will disappear. His eyes popped open again, releasing another scream from his lips.

The phantom rubbed his ears. "Thank you for that," he said. "Nothing like the screams of the new believer to remind you that your ears are fine. If you want to walk up the whole town, feel free, but I would prefer if you calm down now."

"What are you?" Tristan blurted. "A phantom?"

The strange being laughed a jolly chuckle. "That's the best joke I've heard in years," he exclaimed. "I should think that is obvious, isn't it?" He floated a bit higher and announced with a bow, "I am a god!" With that revelation, on that night, Tristan's fate changed forever, whether he wanted it to or not.