𝐼 𝔗𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔲𝔰 𝔢𝔡𝔞𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔯𝔲𝔪

Even with his eyelids squeezed shut, he could anticipate the moment before a rumbling cobalt wave tried its luck and lashed against the wall of rock in its way.  The sea would scream and wail, letting out one last cry before ending off with a hiss once its rage had nowhere else to go but back where it came from. The cycle repeated. Eventually the cliffs would give into the sea’s childish slapping. That amount of tantruming would wear anything down, no matter how immovable it seemed. 

One foot moved forward.

When his bare sole realized it was meeting nothing but night air, it screamed at his brain to retreat. But the breeze thought of his cowardice and scoffed, huffing out a gale that shoved at his frail shoulders, and finalized his choice. The waves below hissed and retreated, then screamed and wailed, all drowned out by chill air sinking its fangs into his ears and filling them with his own blood. Every racing thump of his heart shook the world around him on his arm-flailing descent. 

A descent that was taking far too long… 

“My lord,” the velvety voice struck him from behind, and Valentine released his breath. His eyes cracked open to the darkness ahead, and below him. The daunting sea glared with pale moonlight and topped with foam was just as far away as it had been when he closed his eyes moments ago. “What are you doing up there?”

Valentine tasted sea moss when he inhaled deeply. His shoulders that were draped in white cotton ruffles dropped, and he glanced back at the finely dressed, dark haired man staring blankly at him from the balcony door. If it wasn't for the lantern dangling in his hand, the man would've appeared as nothing but a shadow with pale skin. Flame highlighted the man’s sharp features, as well as the gloomy and unimpressed bags under his unpolished, gold eyes. 

“Sightseeing,” Valentine answered boredly, still perched on the stone railing around the balcony. It wasn’t deep enough for him to comfortably stand on, which was obvious by the way his feet flexed to hold on.

“Is that what you call it?” Rhys’ heels clicked closer. His gloved palm reached up, not as an offer, but as a demand. Valentine could overlook the sea from behind the barrier. He could’ve stayed in his room, where Rhys had already put him to bed half an hour prior, and gaze through a window if he wanted to. Instead, Valentine lured Rhys out with a blanket and a light, in the middle of the night, to drag him out of harm's way. At least Valentine wasn’t perched on the roof, like he had been last week. Rhys kept his eyes lowered as Valentine accepted his palm and was guided safely to the balcony floor. The blanket over Rhys’ forearm was wrapped around Valentine’s shoulders in a vain attempt to shield the young man from the cold. 

“You should’ve brought my slippers,” Valentine dragged the hem of the blanket along the ground and walked into the warmth of the manor. Every part of the body sensitive to the cold cursed at him for his behaviour–as Rhys was as well, he was sure–and he had to endure the annoying shivers, pins and needles, and muscle cramps the second his body felt a bit of heat.

“I will keep that in mind the next time I find you teetering over the balcony wall after midnight, during winter,” Rhys professionally replied and with amusement, he eyed the uncomfortable limp Valentine thought would be hidden by his blanket cloak. 

“My lord, while you were sightseeing, did you happen to think of a response to Monsignor Adam Sterling’s invitation?” Rhys asked. His stride stayed one length behind Valentine’s, so he missed the way the young man’s face scrunched tightly. He could imagine it, though. His left eye would squint more than his right and it would look like a thread was sewn into his left brow and lip, then tugged on to make them move in tandem.

The invitation, written on extravagant parchment, still laid on Valentine’s desk in his study. After Rhys read it to him the morning of its arrival–two days ago via a crow–Valentine promptly folded and placed it back into its envelope. In an attempt to make it vanish from the world without turning it to ash in the fireplace Rhys would have to sweep up the next day, Valentine placed his sketchbooks atop the grievance. It almost worked, until now. 

Attending a gathering with people who were acquainted with Adam was listed so far down Valentine’s Want-To-Do list, it was scribbled in tiny, indistinguishable letters underneath ‘attend Sunday mass’ at the very bottom. He didn't know exactly who would be at the party, except for one family he truly didn’t want to see, but if they chose to go to an Adam party it wasn't someone Valentine wanted to know. On the other hand, if he didn't accept the invitation, wouldn't it upset the Monsignor?

“Isn't he the one who told me to stay at this manor, out of sight from everyone, and live in bliss?” The shorter man retorted against the questions in his mind. 

“I do recall that being what Monsignor Adam Sterling said,” Rhys had no choice but to agree. The day Monsignor Adam sent Valentine away by carriage to the middle-of-nowhere Nidus House, he told the young man to live and enjoy his life away from him. The only person trusted to assure Valentine wouldn't rot away in the manor and knew of the connection between him and Adam, was Rhys.

Valentine pushed open the door to his room, discarding the throw blanket on the floor before he climbed back into bed. The fire crackled happily with its fresh log Rhys had fed it before fetching him. Rhys relocated the pitiful blanket as he followed him and sat the lantern on Valentine’s bedside table.

“So why would he want me at his fancy Christmas party?” Valentine questioned as he yanked the bedding to his chest. “You worked for him, did you not? Shouldn’t you know what is going on in his head?” 

“I’ve worked for you for the past six months, and I still haven’t the faintest idea what’s on your mind,”  his tone was even and unbothered, Valentine still glared at the butler for his poor try at disguised snarkiness. That glare melted when a light went off behind Valentine’s grey eyes, followed by a chuckle. His head tilted back to get comfortable in his down pillow.

“You’re just as confused as to why I’m being invited then. Should’ve said that rather than being a prat about it,” still uncomfortable with his sleeping position, Valentine turned on his side as he talked. 

“It’s not my job to question Monsignor Adam Sterling’s decisions, and it’s in your best interest if you don’t either,” Rhys reached down and turned the knob of the lantern. Compared to the fireplace, snuffing such a tiny light out had no real impact on how lit the room was. 

“Goodnight my lord. Should I expect to find you in your bed in the morning, or will I have to go searching-”

“Oh shut up, I'll be here,” Valentine scoffed and narrowed his eyes at the faint smirk on Rhys’ trained lips. 

“Very well,” the butler put his hand to his chest and bowed. The hint of humor was wiped off Rhy’s porcelain face as soon as he turned his back on Valentine with a less composed set jaw and furrowed brows.

Valentine saw it in a mirror Rhys didn't think to look out for. It wasn't like Valentine needed to witness an expression like that to know what Rhys was thinking at that moment. 

Six months ago they were introduced to each other as lord and butler. For one-hundred and eighty-eight days, that face was the only face Valentine had laid eyes on, unless oil paintings and pictures in books were considered. It would have been more odd if Valentine couldn't read Rhys' expressions. No matter how much the butler painted his real thoughts over with servant scripts and a perfectly fitted masquerade mask. 

It was almost funny how Rhys avoided his question and thought he was clever for it. As if the tension any human or animal could detect wasn’t tugging at his tightly bound, puppet strings. Valentine had seen the questions inside the man’s thick skull the moment he hesitantly, then quickly accepted the envelope from the crow’s talons, to the cogs clunking around as he read the letter aloud to the young man. It would’ve been funny if it didn't also piss Valentine off. The way Rhys pretended as if Valentine was the only confused one here, belittling him because he had the gall to question the Holy Father’s Gift Sent by God Himself to Save the Sinful and Deliver Us to The Kingdom of Heaven, Monsignor Adam Sterling. Yes, Valentine had heard on three separate occasions clergymen refer to the Monsignor that way.

“Liar, you’re bitter,” teased Valentine with his mischievous,  cloudy eyes poking out from over his blanket. It should've been quiet enough to go unnoticed by the retreating man, and yet he still addressed Valentine by pausing and arching his eyebrow at him. 

“Oh?” he hummed unseriously, like one would if a child on the street said their hat was ugly.

“You’re easier to read than you think you are, Rhys. Goodnight then,” Valentine promptly flipped to his other side and ignored the look being drilled into the back of his head by the other man. 

Only when Valentine was left alone with just the spitting flames behind iron bars did he allow himself to bury his face in his pillow and scream away the anxiety that clawed viciously at his ribs.