Ever since Quent could remember he had been suffering from night terrors. Throughout the years, he had studied the phenomenon and taught himself how to handle the demons of sleep. As a result he hadn’t encountered any of them for years. That was until now.
They always came in the form of guards. Faces obscured helmets, swords upon their backs. Not always did they wear the same clothes, through time it had changed and warped into something that resembled the Citadel’s Guard outfit. Now they were wearing different garments, Royal Guard garments.
What was most tormenting was that Quent didn’t know whether it was real. It felt like a night terror: the iron clasp around his throat, the heavy weight upon his chest, total paralysis. But that could just as well be the work of a sorceress keeping him bound. Was it Myriam? Had she told the Archsorceress of his failure? He tried to find her amongst the dark figures that stood around him, yet his paralysis limited his eyesight. Incapable to move and incapable to breathe as the blades were raised above him, Quent cried out with all his force.
“Don’t make me regret allowing you to sleep on the ottoman.” The prince’s face floated above him as he snapped out of the nightmare, his sight all blurred by his tears. The man was looking at him with annoyance, his pupils dilated by the dark.
Quent quickly sat up, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. What a display. This time it was not for etiquette’s sake that he averted his eyes, but out of sheer shame.
“Forgive me my prince,” she stammered, realising his night shirt was drenched in sweat. A shiver went through him and he resisted the urge to flinch.
He had been appointed a lavish ottoman at the foot of the prince’s bed to sleep on. Quent had supposed it was to make fun of him, letting him sleep there like some dog at its master’s feet. The ottoman was however much more comfortable than the thin matrass behind the dividers that was to be his actual bed. And he had to admit, the closer he was to the prince, the easier defending him would be. Still he had the feeling that was not the reason why prince Oweahen had chosen this to be his sleeping place.
A smirk was creeping up, replacing the somewhat tired expression of the monarch. He was enjoying Quent’s embarrassment.
“You woke me. You were tossing and turning and moaning. I watched you for a while. It was quite fascinating. Then you suddenly froze and shouted in my face. Do you know what the penalty is for shouting in my face?”
Quent was not in the mood for these kinds of games. He had had a terrible nightmare for the first time in five years. He had experienced the pang of mortal terror for the second time those 24 hours. And on top of that he hadn’t been able to have his usual evening tea. From what he had learned today he knew the prince was fickle, but seemed to be too delighted in having an exotic mage to showcase around.
“Most probably flogging my prince, possibly followed by death.” he answered sullenly.
The prince bit his lip. “That is correct, mage.”
Quent closed his eyes. His body ached for rest but he had to admit that he was still too scared to return to sleep. “I will sleep on the floor if his majesty pleases.”
“That’s not necessary.” What was that faint tone in the prince’s voice?
“I insist my prince. I have offended you. The floor would still be too good for me considering my failures.”
“You really are a masochist aren’t you?”
Quent looked up. “I don’t enjoy pain.”
It was true. He didn’t. As a matter of fact he was scared to death of it: death being his primary fear, pain his secondary. He was just trying to please this man so he would be left alone. Grovelling always seemed to work when it came to getting powerful people to stop pestering you. It wasn’t gratifying, that was for sure, but it was so much better than pain. Or death.
“Yet you’re so eager to lick my boots.”
“Licking boots isn’t painful my prince.”
“It is to your pride,” the prince tilted his head, golden hair falling to one side. “Considering you have pride. Which you seem to lack…”
“I take pride in serving you, my prince.”
Wouldn’t this man just stop? How much more sucking up to did he need? Also, shouldn’t the guy be sleepy? It was the middle of the night and even though the prince hadn’t had half as much a rough day as he had, Quent had to admit he wasn’t a slacker either. Behind the screens the monarch would complain, but when in the presence of significant people he kept perfect composure. The only ones who got to endure his agitation and childish whims were servants and the Archsorceress’ name.
This time the monarch kept silent, just studying him. Quent looked away. Whereas he didn’t mind grovelling, he hated to be a subject to study. To any form of attention really.
“Fine. Go back to sleep. And see my doctor tomorrow. She has great ointments against nightmares, though they stink of camomile.” With a thud the prince let himself fall back in his pillows. “You can also have that ugly scratch looked at. Big chance of meeting her greatness the amazing Archsorceress tomorrow. Wouldn’t want my new guard to be sent away because he looks like an alley-cat.” He yawned. “After all I’m not done with you yet…”
With those words the prince sank back into oblivion, finally shutting his mouth. Quent stayed up to stare at the man for a moment, trying to figure out what was the deal with him. All he could look at were the other’s features however, now relaxed. Like this the prince looked a lot younger and Quent realised that this tyrant was five years his junior. Oweahen was nearing his late twenties, though he now nearly seemed to be on the lower half of it. Surely, there were some hints of where future wrinkles would form, but the peaceful expression did miracles to his visage. That look, combined with the long lashes that the man possessed, made him seem almost innocent and angelic.
How appearances can fool, Quent thought. What was beautiful by moonlight was ghastly when exposed to the bright beams of the sun. A sleeping dragon was a splendid sight to admire, but if awake, it would be a fearsome creature disfigured by its lust for destruction. Quent reminded himself that he should never, for one moment, start considering the prince as human. After all, it was not like the prince thought of him than more as a shiny new toy to play with and to show off. Hopefully the veneer of his newness would soon fade and he could just be a normal guard. Unseen as and not anything to meddle with.
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