Cauchemar
by Lily Maxwell
There were nights, only certain, but random nights, when nightmares came.
For he, too, dreamt.
Of blood and the scent of death. Of horror and burning pain. He thrashed and cried silently in his sleep, to eventually wake up to the sound of his own racing heart. Half-awake, half lost in the images his brain forced upon himself.
Not before long, a hand would wipe away the cold sweat in his brow. One could never hear or see him coming. He was, simply, by his side. He never said a word. Sometimes he gently pushed the young Earl back onto his pillow, his soft touches the only calming lullaby. Sometimes he let him grip his arm, or his hand, or held him in place while his master slowly came to his senses. As many senses he had while being half-asleep.
But there were times when it took a lot more for the images to go away.
To cradle him in his arms, soothing him with unknown, mumbled words. The smaller one – so fragile, as if he could break at any moment – trembled, cried, shivered into the night. Into his arms. An unknown and unheard of impulse took control of him – and he never tried to hold it back. To lay his lips onto his eyelid. As if whispering a promise to the promised eye.
And as if by magic, the panic would slowly drift away. The tears would dry on those pale cheeks. The young master's breathing would slow down, and the grip on the butler's shirt would loosen up.
A single, evanescent moment of weakness.
In the next morning, he would be greeted with dark, cold blue eyes. Eyes that accused him, as if he were the responsible for an unsightly crime. The words would slip from his tongue, at the same time those eyes would look away.
"Do not come when you're not summoned."
A sip of his tea.
A bow, and an imperceptible smile.
Sebastian knew his master. Sebastian knew what eye-contact meant, and he also knew what it meant when it was not made. For that was his job. Sebastian knew everything about his master. Sebastian served his master.
And Sebastian hunted down his dreams on lonely nights.