It was tempting to raise petulant protest of sleep, but Oliver's touch was more cogent then any argument could've been. Edmund readily followed his lead. He could have made his grave in that bed with Oliver wrapped around him, the kisses on his neck teasingly stirring, and the warmth slowly pulling him deeper into sleep. But-
"I hate to do this." Edmund begrudgingly began, prying himself from Oliver. "But I need to take off my shoes. And belt. And shirt. And close the curtains." Among other things, like empty his pockets and move what he'd already discarded. As quickly as his state would allow, Edmund did as he'd listed. He jerked his belt and shoes free, shed his shirt and laid the them neatly to the side with his coat and formerly pocketed miscellany. The curtains were then seen to. With each one closed, the room became progressively more tenebrous. At the last, Edmund appeared only as a black silhouette against the pale of night. Then he closed it.
And the room was swallowed by palpable, impenetrable darkness.
It must have been divine intervention that Edmund returned to bed without accident or delay. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he leaned over Oliver's somnolent, potentially sleeping, body and kissed him one last time. It was off-center, tired, and felt like goodbye. But Edmund wasn't leaving. He settled in tight beside Oliver and pulled the covers protectively over them. Nothing could violate the safety and comfort of that cocoon. Reality felt so distant. And between heartbeats, Edmund sunk into restless sleep.
It was hard to say he slept, let alone dreamed, but in that seemingly transient time of unconsciousness, there was a single, dreamed scene that would cling to Edmund's memory upon waking. In it, he was in his mother's tenement. It felt like the heart of a conflagration, searing and pricking heat surrounded him while he lay pinned in bed beneath patchwork blankets. His sister, Edith, was doing needlepoint by the fire. She was still sixteen in Edmund's memory, but her eyes beget a perspicacity granted only by senescence. The cold of her gaze cut like a knife as she looked across to him.
How long had it been since they shared each other's company. Edmund and Edith. Mama's little eddies, can't never not cause a ripple. Always stirring trouble. He was fourteen when he left for good. He'd lost track of the years. He wanted to tell her, your witchcraft can't save mother. But before he could, Edith answered.
'It's not gonna save you either, mud-rat.' She warned, her needle making an audible puncture. 'You're tracking footprints.'
The heat of the fire swelled, but its glow narrowed to a cold white point, and then-
Edmund awoke, his body on fire. The alcohol had since left his system and the restriction of his veins relaxed. Blood pulsed through him in waves of heat. It was suffocating and he needed water, badly. At the edges of his perception, a headache was starting to intensify. Carefully, Edmund slunk from bed, hoping he hadn't disturbed Oliver. In the pre-dawn dark, he pulled on his shoes and shirt and left for the kitchens.
The air was still cool and wet. The kitchens had only just begun morning preparation for breakfast, their fires yet to burn the morning dew. Edmund filled a mug from the water barrel and drank like a fish. From his periphery, he noted one of the staff eyeing him as they pulled dough from the proving drawer.
"Morning." Edmund greeted succinctly after swallowing.
The man smiled in return. "Nice chain you got there."
Edmund instinctively looked down and noted the necklace he'd failed to hide. He dismissed it passively, half-lying. "Hell of a night, yeah? Nobles have a way with gifts. Not that I remember much. I feel like I was kicked by a horse. Fucking hungover, under and over again."
"Y' certainly look it." he laughed in agreement.
"Don't suppose you could fill me in on anything happening to Oliver Van Haver."
"Van Haver? You mean Oliver Van Haver the king of-"
"Yeah, that one." Edmund interjected, motioning for the man to get on with it.
He paused though, eyeing Edmund up. "You wouldn't happen to be his butler, would you?"
"Something to that effect."
"And you found the time to get plastered?" He asked, incredulous and delighted.
"What can I say. The lad likes his independence and time to brood." Edmund lied smoothly, duplicity practically his birthright. "Can't blame me for taking a bit of a vacation."
"Can't say I do." the man confessed, looking to his dough knowingly.
"So..." Edmund drawled, refilling his mug with water. "Anything of note happen."
He chuckled before divulging conversationally, "Well, Oliver's father isn't much to live up to in times of peace, so most figure the king's more likely to fill a hole than a role. Know what I mean?" Edmund smiled fictitiously into his mug in acknowledgement. Internally he seethed. "And after last night, bets are on Lady Geneva. That the king left the reception early, after their dance, seems to bode well for such. Or, that's what they're saying at least. I don't think she retired with him, but hey, people can hope. Nothing like royal brats to boost the economy, no?"
"Nothing like." Edmund parroted, setting his mostly empty mug aside. "Thanks for the update. I'll try to pass along a good word for you...?"
"Todd Larson." he clarified.
"Todd. I'll remember that." Edmund wasn't going to say shit. "Thanks again."
"Any time."
Edmund instead cataloged the woman's name into memory. He wasn't familiar enough with nobility to recall her family, status, and degree of importance. But, if necessary, he'd learn it. Though, until Oliver made his decision, none of it mattered. Without dallying further, Edmund surreptitiously returned to Oliver's room and closed the door gently behind himself. The lock, however, clanked damnably loud into place.
