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1170
He curls up in the bed that used to belong to his parents, pressing his nose into the sheets until he can just about smell them, and he squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that his lids ache. This is not his home anymore. By this time tomorrow he'll be out in the streets, and a new family with parents and money will have taken his place. He's not old enough to make money; he's barely old enough to count it. But he is old enough to know what happens to children who don't have a family or a home.
He doesn't want to fight. He doesn't know how to. He's seen the men and women with their hard clothes and pointy sticks, red splotches coating the metal, and he's always been too scared to get near them. He remembers how his mother would pat his curls when he hid himself away behind her legs. He sniffles.
She is gone, and his father is gone, and soon he will be marched to the mountains and forced to fight for reasons that he doesn't understand. The freedom of sleep is the only thing he has left: when his body finally relaxes and his mind stops turning in circles, and he falls into a slumber that is far too short, he no longer remembers all that has been snatched from him. For those few hours, he can wrap himself in his parents' scent and pretend that they are still there to protect him.
When he is five years old, Cyril sleeps to forget.
1173
The mattress is rock hard beneath him and the pillow is little better, but he knows from experience that it's still preferable to sleeping on the ground. Fresh bruises ache all across his body; the scabs on his knuckles sting; his head hurts where the commanding officer hit him for backtalking. He hadn't seen it that way, he'd thought he was only telling the truth, but no-one cares what he thinks. It's only the labour he provides that they care about.
He considers running away. He knows what happens to the children who try to escape their duty- he thinks he'll always be haunted by the sounds of their bones being broken. But he is fast, and he knows the area, and he knows when the officers are paying attention and when they are distracted by food and banter and pictures of scantily clad beauties. Maybe, just maybe, he will be the child who makes it.
But then where would he go? Almyra is very large, and he knows but a tiny part of it. He doesn't know anyone who would be willing to care for a runaway orphan. The chance that he will die is very high, and though he doesn't fully understand what it means to die, the thought of it still scares him. His fear keeps him grounded and his sleep keeps him going, even knowing that the next day would just bring more bruises to replace the old ones.
When he is eight years old, Cyril sleeps to recover.
1177
He doesn't cry anymore, because it only invites more pain, but sometimes he'll curl up as small as he can and breathe so rapidly that he feels close to fainting. He'll rock back and forth and stay in that world of light-headed movement until he feels strong enough to return to the real one. Then he will lick his wounds and resume his duties in the household, counting down the hours until he's screamed at again, or dragged by his hair or wrist into one of the backrooms for a beating.
Every night he curls up in his small cot and curses himself for not escaping the Almyran army when he'd had the chance. For falling in battle and waking up to the greedy eyes of the enemy. He could've bit their hands when they grabbed him and ran until he felt a spear in his back. The thought of death still scares him, but it is hard to remember it some days when he's barely able to stay conscious through the pain and exhaustion.
Now there is no way for him to be free. House Goneril is too well-defended for him to slip outside. There is no-one whose ear is sympathetic to him. And his fear of death and what it may bring stops him from grabbing a knife when no-one is looking. He is trapped, and he will be trapped forever, and there is only one thing left that brings him any form of comfort or peace.
When he is twelve years old, Cyril sleeps to escape.
1179
Tomas doesn't mind that he comes into the library to sleep. In fact, sometimes he'll wake up to the warmth of a candle burning low in its chamberstick. Tomas is nice and always seems interested in Lady Rhea, a topic he's happy to speak about. The other people of the church whisper about him when his back is turned, and roll their eyes whenever he brings up Lady Rhea, but Tomas simply sits in his wooden chair and nods along to what he has to say.
It's nice to be listened to. He finds himself coming into the library more often, both to sleep and to talk to the librarian.
His life is better now. By some miracle he was plucked from House Goneril and settled instead at the monastery. He doesn't have a room of his own, he always has to work hard, and there are many people who make their distaste towards him quite clear, but he gets a meal every day and is always kept warm. It's easy to live here. Though there are people who glare and mutter, none of them lay a hand on him. He is aware that he's still not wanted, but if it ever gets to be too much then he can simply retreat back into the library, where a kind ear and a comfortable sleep await him.
When he is fourteen years old, Cyril sleeps to ignore.
1182
He's spent much of the year flitting from town to town, camping in forests and along well-worn trails. The days of warm food and warmer sleep are fast becoming a distant memory, though his current situation isn't the worst that he's ever found himself in. He still eats frequently, and there are many nights when the clouds part and allow him an unrestrained view of the glittering stars and waxing moon above. In its own way, the travelling lifestyle is enjoyable.
And yet, the more that he travels, the deeper that his heart sinks. Days pass into months and still they hear nothing of Lady Rhea's location. The Knights leave no stone unturned, and yet they can't find a whisper of the archbishop who used to lead them.
What will happen if she's truly gone forever? The question haunts his every waking moment. The Knights are kind to him- Alois regales him with terrible jokes, Catherine and Shamir take turns training him, Flayn seeks out his company while her brother offers him counsel when he needs it- but he doesn't expect it to last. If Rhea is gone, then they'll have no reason to play nice with him anymore. There'll be nothing stopping them from casting him out into the streets, abandoning him like so many have before.
When he is seventeen years old, Cyril barely sleeps at all.
1185
Claude finds him in some corner of the monastery, staring listlessly at a battle-beaten wall. The Alliance leader doesn't speak, which is odd for him, his silver tongue having been his greatest weapon during the past five years. Instead, he feels Claude's hand splay across his back, rousing him gently from his idle daydream.
Lady Rhea is dead. So is Edelgard, and those that slither, and hundreds of more people besides them. Their names blur together in his head. So many dead. He can't count them all, and nor can he grieve for them. He is simply hollow where once was despair and anger. He had often wished throughout his life that he could be rid of the emotions that wracked him as readily as an open wound, but... not like this.
Claude guides him away from the wall and into the caféteria. Talks to someone in the kitchen and returns with cold soup and slightly stale bread. "Eat up." He doesn't want to. "If not for yourself, then at least for the people that care about you."
When he is twenty years old, Cyril sleeps with those words in his head.
1???
His body is sunk deep in goosefeather and wrapped loosely in cotton. He has felt this warm before but the comfort of his bedding seems to magnify it tenfold, until every inch of his body is pleasantly toasty. When he had been young, he'd taught himself how to sleep stilly so that he'd receive no complaints from the other children in the barracks. But now he has a bed and a room all to his own, and in the minutes leading up to sleep he twists and turns so he can enjoy anew the feeling of the sheets against his skin.
It had been a long day of work, but a satisfying one. His muscles ache and his feet are sore from standing all day. But his pride in his work mitigates the pain, and his warm bed balms it further. For the first time in a while, if ever, he has a smile on his face as he lulls himself to sleep. He is not trying to forget, nor is he trying to escape; he has no wounds to recover from, and no harassment to ignore. He sleeps soundly, and deeply, with nothing in his head but anticipation for what tomorrow may bring.
When he is older, Cyril simply sleeps to rest.