Twelfth Hour
The midnight hours are his time--when everything has quieted down, and everyone is peacefully asleep to wile away the long hours until morning. Only when he's sure they're all dreaming in the barracks does he slip out of his bed, padding on bare feet through the darkened halls. He's done it so many times that he can find his way in the dark by feel, without the lights on--though the first year or so was filled with barked shins and stifled whimpering in the shadows.

The door is always the most dangerous part. He has to be careful to take one of the few swinging ones, avoiding anything he'd need a passcode for. It takes aching gentleness to push it open without making a sound, but then he's free in the garden, the cobbles cool beneath his feet.

Sometimes he stretches out on one of the benches, folding his hands underneath his head and staring up at the starry sky. The wind, kissed with the scent of jasmine, or fallen leaves, or winter's chill, whispers promises in his ears as it runs its fingers through his hair. And even if he can't sleep most of the time, he can still snatch a little peaceful rest in those midnight hours, staring up at the stars and listening to the wind.

Later on, Rubedo would never quite understand why Gaignun was so insistent about having a garden within walking distance of their home, but he didn't have a reason to argue, and so they did.