honeydew and chocolate with malt and a cherry
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Sleepwalking
Rating: G
Challenge: Honeydew #17: sleepwalking, Chocolate #20: caution
Toppings/Extras: malt, cherry
Wordcount: 524
Summary: Rosalind Ashdown dies young. Edward Ashdown is older than he should be.
Notes: Trick-or-treat prompt from Roisin Farrell: I remember that cold December day/ When I got the news/ I will never forget/ I will never forget. (The General’s Boombox, Street Dogs)
Rosalind died near the end of December. We shouldn’t have been surprised-winter was always hard on a brittle body like hers, even though her spirit never wavered for one minute. I only met her a year ago but even so I could see how different she was from her brother. She was a gentle optimist, naive and cushioned because of a lifetime stuck in her bed. What she imagined the outside world to be like must have been about the same as a baby in the womb.
I guess it was a good thing in one way. She never saw anything terrible, Rosalind Ashdown; never suffered much aside from her illnesses, which she soldiered through intrepidly. She always thought men were honourable and people were good and life was peachy.
It must have been nice.
Edward Ashdown locked himself up in his study all day. It was a strange day for me, without orders to follow, without much to do with myself but flounder. I cleaned my knives and drifted around the manor like a lost ghost. And I felt bad about Rosalind for all the things she never got to see. I’d miss her.
Midnight I decided to go and see what Ashdown was actually doing. Not a lot, I imagined, but he still hadn’t surfaced from his study and the domestic staff were too scared to intrude.
The door opened with a small squeak and I looked into the room. The fire had gone out and the room was cold. Ashdown was fast asleep with his face on its side against the wood surface of the desk, and somehow the sight amazed me.
Sometimes I forget he’s younger than me.
He was eighteen years old. A child. Who could expect a teenager to take care of a business, a household, a family fortune by himself? I wouldn’t have known where to begin and I was twenty-five at the time.
I’d only ever treated my young master with distance and respect, as would be expected of an aide and bodyguard, a servant in his household-but that night I walked to the desk and eased him to his feet, grasping him by the collar like a street urchin. I knew the grief-stricken boy would scarcely remember anyway; he was still half asleep as I dragged him to his feet, mumbling about something.
It was the first time I’d ever seen him acting in any way human and it worried me. He’d always been a strange, capable machine to me: isolated and calculating and disenchanted.
When I dumped him onto his bed he crawled under the covers fully-clothed and I felt like maybe I should say something. Where would I even begin though? I didn’t even like him that much: he was just my employer and a condescending one at that. We didn’t get on. How could we? He found me on the streets, hired me knowing perfectly well that nobody would know or care if I died in his service. Besides, he fell asleep instantly.
I left as fast as I could. I was meant to be a bodyguard.
Not a friend.