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The other two had already gone to sleep. Though Sarmenti had struggled to let Barristan convince him to rest despite how tired he was. Had him ask, then beg, then plead, and finally bargain for the jester to let sleep take him. To not have him stay awake all night to be on guard for them. The man at arms had to promise him with a fine bottle of scotch for the jester to finally give in to the caring man. And oh how the jester regretted that he had let himself be convinced. Regretted letting himself rest against the knotted bark of a tree in the weald. Regretted letting his eyes grow heavy, and limbs heavier. Regretted letting himself sleep. He only slept where he felt safe. And he was a fool to let himself be tricked into thinking that he could ever be safe, most of all here…
Nightmares gripped him, like they always did. Like he should have known it would. Like he should have expected. Visions of hurt, of blades, the sound of ringing of laughter. The taste of poison and blood. The feeling of blistering heat against skin, the lurching rush of fear deep inside him. What a fool he was to think that they wouldn’t come. The jester had woken with a harsh jolt, gasping and shaking, clutching the dirk he always had in reach, knuckles likely going ashen from the tightness he gripped it with. He sputters for breath, like a drowning man far from the surface trying to fill arching lungs with anything but water. Pressing the butt of the dirk hard against his brow, still he struggles to breathe evenly, not taking in anything but gasping breaths that make his head light. He doesn’t hear the shifting of weight. The clanking of armor. The crunching of leaves underfoot as he vainly tried to slow a thudding heart, rid himself of the visions of the court that dance in front of tightly closed eyes. But oh how he jolts, eyes snapping open, the edge of the blade he clutches so tight pressed hard against an exposed neck when a hand is placed upon a trembling shoulder, the tension inside him as tight as the strings on a lute before the jester realised who is truly before him. Who he could have killed if he had so much as twitched.
“O!...Oh gods, I-I-... I didn't mean- didn't know-” Sarmenti stammered over the words, blade hurriedly pulled away from the neck of the man he loves like a father, shaking hard enough that the bells he wore rang.
A vision of Barristan's blood spilling from a gapping wound and pouring all over trembling hands, warm and wet, bright and clear flashes by. Something that hadn’t happened, but could have. The older man's expression is soft. Strangely understanding. As if he hadn't nearly been killed.
“It's alright, sonny.” Barristan's voice is gentle, caring, calm in a way that leaves the jester feeling even worse. “I should have known better. Don't blame yourself.”
But Sarmenti did . The feeling festered in the pit of his stomach. made him feel sick, ashamed. He couldn’t bear to look at him, staring at the dirk he still clutched so very tightly. The dirk that he had already spilled so much blood with.
“What do you want?” Voice still shuddering, he gripped the handle harder to try to steady himself.
He should have never agreed to go on this mission. Never.
“I wanted to see if you were alright.”
The words grabbed at Sarmenti’s chest and clawed at the inside of his ribs, a rush of feelings suddenly choking him.
“I’m fine-” The jester managed to force out, past the knot nearly strangling him, hoping desperately that the man at arms would leave it be.
But like always, hopes are never heard here.
“You don’t seem fine son.” Barristan said gently, resting a hand on the fool’s knee, as if trying to give him a feeling of comfort.
Which it did anything but. The jester squirming away from the contact.
“Never been better-” The jester’s voice cracked in a way that revealed the stress he tried so hard to hide, the tightness in him only growing.
There was an itch to run, born from the weakness shown, but he's stuck in the man’s gaze. And it just made him all the more terrified.
“Sarmenti.” The edge of concern to the older man's voice made Sarmenti wince. “I’m just concerned for you is all.”
He couldn’t help but to laugh. Because he knew it’s true. Which just made it hurt all the worse.
“You really shouldn’t be.” He giggled, hating how the laugh forced its way out.
A habit forced upon him that he will likely never lose.
The old soldier knitted his brow together, worry written all over him. In words, in face, in movement. In only making the pain lodged in the jester ache all the worse.
“Well I am.”
More laughter forced its way out, wheezing and gasping between bouts of it. Sarmenti wouldn’t have been surprised if he ended up waking the others, tittering and giggling as he was, as if taken utterly by madness. He knew that he’s only making it worse for himself, laughing as he was. But he just. Can’t. Stop.
“You don’t get it!” He cackled, shaking and trembling with the force of it. “You really don’t get it!”
"Sarmenti, you're being ridiculous. Now tell me what’s-" Barristan seized his wrist and-
It’s too much. It’s just too much to bear.
“GET AWAY FROM ME!” the fool shrieked, shoving the man away from him as hard as he could, to force him away, only realizing what he's done once it’s too late to take it back.
The image of Barristan sprawled back, a look of surprise carved into his face was burned into the back of Sarmenti’s eyes, even as he covered an already masked face with horribly shaking hands. He couldn’t stomach to see what that surprised expression changed into, face whatever he had brought onto himself, cackling still. He’s sure to get punished for this, either now, or later.
And for a moment, all he was given back is silence. Painful, agonizing silence. Though the pain wasn’t eased when his father finally speaks, the sadness in the man at arm’s tone causing pain worse than any beating Sarmenti had ever suffered.
“I… Alright then. I'll… I'll leave you be. Apologies.”
The sound of armor moving and shifting didn’t do anything to calm his pounding heart. It should have brought him relief but it didn’t. None at all. All it brought him is thoughts and feelings that swirled around inside him, leaving inside him a horrible mess, as he giggled and jolted. Pain born not from his body, but a deeper part of himself, aching so harshly. He can hear the others murmuring and muttering, all about him. All about what he’s done. And all he can think about is how he made Barristan worry.