It would finally be me. Marke would pronounce me his second. For once, I would be worth people's glances. For once. I could taste it.

I wanted to believe that he would choose me. Yet, I already knew he would not. After Tristan's sudden raise from the dead, my own blood wouldn't even spare me a passing glance.

Marke stood slowly. "I give you Tristan of Aragon," said he.

So, there it was. Not surprising in the least. But maddening. It's just that…I am, and always have been, better than him. This isn't fair…why must it always be Tristan?

A/N: Have I ever mentioned before how much I freaking love Melot? My favorite character in the film. I have a thing for characters with tons of flaws in their character…don't ask. And, in the same respect, I freaking love 100 word drabbles. They're good to get me out of writer's block for my other stories, which admittedly, I have. Badly. :D Well, please pop in a review, if you'd like.