Nightmares

[st_unning]

Alcuin had been at the hotel for over a month now, and had not been sleeping much better than he had when he arrived. He would frequently wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, or feeling a scream dying on his lips. Sometimes he remembered the dreams. Sometimes they were memories - of the attack, of blood and pain, of the light dying in Anafiel's eyes. Of Bouvarre, his greedy hands and eyes, the knife sliding into Alcuin's skin. Or worse, dreams that were more dreams, and even worse than the reality had been.

Often he could never hope to go back to sleep after, and so he'd turn on the lights and write in his journal or read whatever (likely terrible) book he'd found in the hotel gift shop. Though at least even bad books were a distraction.

But sleepless nights meant that he sometimes spent the daytime exhausted. This was not the first time he'd fallen asleep by accident, this time underneath a tree not far from the stables, where he'd been sitting and reading. The book had fallen to the ground beside him, and once he'd fallen asleep he had curled up in the soft grass by the tree.

Even now, in the sunshine and the safety of the inn, a nightmare came to him, a particularly bad one. In his sleep, he stirred, fingers digging slightly in the dirt, and cried out in distress, still mostly asleep.

Comments

[st_abby]

If Vax'ildan had taken special interest in the comings and goings of those he'd kindled familiarity with at the inn thus far, it was, in all honestly, boredom that was most to blame. There was so little to do around the grounds, after all, and surreptitiously tracing their routines (or lack thereof) was rather deeply ingrained in him. So he had a general sense that Percy was making headway in tearing apart every machine that hadn't been nailed down to figure out its workings, that Steph still drove the welcome wagon, and that if MacCready kept cleaning his guns at that rate, he might buff the markings right off of them.

And maybe he had noticed that Alcuin looked tired, and kept some odd hours when most would be asleep. But it wasn't so unusual, in this place and under these circumstances. He'd had his own fits of restlessness, for sure.

When he spotted the familiar figure curled under the tree in sleep, book aside him, Vax had mostly been thinking not of rousing him, but of making him some small amusement for Alcuin to discover later. Balancing the book on a tree limb above, burying him up to the chin with leaves, weaving him a flower crown, that sort of thing. But then came the cry that hurried his silent step, and the closer he got, the more trouble he saw across Alcuin's fair features, the lines of discomfort drawn taut through his limbs.

He knelt to look over the boy, and seeing no clear sign of fresh injury, decided to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Alcuin," Vax tried.