Note: The question asked was, "Did any of your younger siblings seek comfort in your presence when they were faced with night terrors, Lord Frederic?"

My time in my childhood home has a significant disconnect with my siblings: Claude was not born until I was ten years old, and all of my subsequent brothers and sister came soon after. My years at Dodgson's Point came soon after Claude's birth, and then, came the finalization of my… particular training skills… and subsequent education in diplomatic politics and international affairs. I was twenty-five years old by the time Elly was brought into the world—old enough for my youngest brother to be my own son (and more than once together we had been mistaken as such).

As a result, for much of my life I have felt like an only child, and my younger siblings more like my peers at school, perhaps, or children of a close colleague to foster and observe, rather than knowing that they are of my blood as well. I maintained my own household and kept to my own affairs once I came of age, traveling as part of my duties both familial and national.

Perhaps because a majority of my life has been spent in this manner, my perspective of my siblings is unintimate or distant in ways that I think they do not share amongst themselves. I know, all in all, I am meandering around a simple question: whether I was there for Claude, Ernest, Vanessa, or Elliot when they needed some sort of… familial comfort. My father, I understand all too well, can be a cold and disciplined man, and Mother, while kinder and gentler, was a busy nobleman and wife of an esteemed and powerful man, which left her duties as a caretaker more in the hands of nannies and governesses—such is the ways of nobility, understand. I preface this all so you do not judge them, nor judge me.

I was not there for my brothers and sister in ways that smaller folk may be. I hold no memories of everyday playfighting or carousing. I did not take them to festivals or national celebrations. I was not there during childish arguments or squabbles.

I was present for all of their birthdays and name days and Coming of Age ceremonies (except Elly's, which won't be for another few years) — and with four siblings that is quite a lot. I was (or plan to be) there for every graduation ceremony from Lutwidge. I taught Vanessa how to ride and gave Elly his first wooden sword. I was by Claude's side when he told Father he would not undergo the Raven's Trial and I pulled Ernest out of that underground gambling ring before he had sunken too far.

But night terrors? As far as I can recollect, none of my siblings suffered them except Claude, after he was forced (he may have volunteered to go, but I will always think of it as coerced) to undergo his Trial. He suffered a great deal after he entered the Gate, and remained bedridden with his injuries for months. The psychological scars were worse and lasted much longer.

I was at home for the hunting season (grouse is always better in the north than the south where I resided), and hadn't noticed trouble with Claude until my second week in, when I heard screaming from the west wing. Instinctually, I investigated to see the doctor emerge from his rooms.

"The demon bird haunts him," our old family physician explained with a shake of his head. "I've given him some laudanum to ease his mind."

I never approved those sort of drugs. The next day, I asked Nessa during our morning ride how long this has been happening.

"A long time, Fred," she replied, somewhat guilty, as if she had been to blame for his troubles. Nessa gazed off toward the hills with a contemplative air. "Father pretends he doesn't have them," she said in a quiet tone. "And Ernest teases him. He thinks that it proves Claude's coward nature. I don't," she added with a sigh. "Claude believes him, though."

The next evening, I did what an older brother would do: show up at his suite with a bottle of cognac and a box of cigars. "I'm in need of good company," I told him, "there has been a lack in decent society in my time away."

Claude scoffed (he always had a reluctance to socialize with me, since I am the polar opposite of him in many respects), but I elbowed my way past his door and settled before the parlor fireplace. "Your studies in history going well?" I ventured, knowing that would pique his interest the most (oh, Claude, the squirrelly, diligent scholar!). Sure enough, he delved into the lore of the country and his investigation into the relationship between Sablier and the Abyss ("Father's also asking about this lately," he boasted), until late into the night. He excused himself to bed, but, oddly enough, allowed me to continue to read through his collection while he retired.

I stayed, sipping my drink and flipping through the latest chapters about a supposed bloody lapin from the mountains when the shouts were heard. I peered around the doorway to see him muttering in bed. Night terrors for a man of age would be shameful to admit, true, but very real nonetheless (I have known soldiers with these same experiences—they referred to this as "battle fatigue").

In cases such as these, I have learnt it was best not to wake the subject suffering, but to wait until they wake themselves, and sat by the bed until, sure enough, Claude stood up and even then, his eyes darted about and his frame shuddered in ways that I knew he was still in the dream, though his eye remained open.

Some minutes passed with no sound but his gasped breathing and then, he leaned forward, the sweat profuse all over his body, and he made a sound much like retching. He pressed the heels of both hands to his eyes and then, turned and moaned, before I placed my hand upon his shoulder, whispering, "Claude, Claude…"

Wide dark eyes flickered and registered my presence. "Wha…"

"I'm Fred. Your brother," I assured him, feared that the demons were still in his view. "I am your brother. I'm here."

A moment passed, and he paled entirely before collapsing. I wondered if I did the right thing, having stayed and thought to ring the bell for the doctor or fetch the bottle of laudanum from the bedside table, until Claude's thin hand clutched my sleeve.

A strange stirring in my heart overcame me, and let him grab hold of me, and grip the front of my jacket with both hands and in a burst of emotion, bury his dark head into my front. Shaking sobs came from him, and I remained for a long time in this way, holding my arms around my poor brother and feeling the rasping of his breath and his voice run through me.

Much of the night passed and the sky outside was slowly turning shades of gold and red before he spoke anything more. "I am…. a fool," he croaked. "A fool and a coward and utterly weak and helpless."

"Brother-"

"I shouldn't have come back." A dead tone. "I should have let the Raven kill me. Then Father wouldn't have been shamed to see me again."

My hold tightened. "None of us should have come back," I replied. "But we did. I did. So what are you going to do about that?"

Claude didn't reply. I smiled grimly, knowing how heavy the lie weighed in my chest (I didn't care about the damned Raven anymore—I moved on. But would it be possible to tell Claude that and have him believe me? Or at that moment, had I unlocked a part of my schoolboy self who would always believe himself to be inadequate, no matter how much I have achieved since then?)

"A Nightray is never useless," I told him. Dawn had fully flushed out her rosy cheeks by that point and sleep was befalling my younger brother once more. I slowly disentangled myself from him and eased him back onto the bed. Tucking the sheets around him like a nursemaid, I told him, "We will always need you."

Later that day, well beyond noon, I saw Claude again in the library. He had his nose buried in a history book, as usual, but he did lower the volume to share a look, unspoken, as I entered.

I only pray he had taken my message to heart.