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A loud scream wakes Julien from his restless sleep, and it takes several seconds to realize it's his own. Five days have passed since he returned home, and each night he has woken up screaming. The first night one of the servants, one he does not yet recognize, had burst into his room, and he was told after he had calmed down enough that they thought he had been attacked. Julien had thanked them, and brushed off the occurrence as merely a fluke. But it has happened four times since. The second time he was also awoken, and that time he told them that if it were to happen again to simply leave him be. There is no need to bother them while they do their duties just because Julien has started to act like a scared little boy again.
Shame curls low in his gut as he wipes the tears off of his face for yet another night. It’s not even the first time tonight. Julien regrets telling them to leave him alone now. The shadows of his room are long and frightening, and he longs for nothing more than someone to be here by his side, the same way his mother was when he was still a child. Julien is a man now, but the urge for that protection has never fully gone away. Even in the deepest hours of the war he found himself longing for his parents most nights, though then it was at least justifiable. Every soldier longs for their family on the battlefield, but once they are home, it is supposed to be over. He thought it was all over.
Yet every night still, he returns to the battlefields. Not all of these nightmares wake him screaming as he usually wakes several times a night, but even those that do not inspire screams are haunting him all the same. He is exhausted from so many nights of poor rest, every day is a struggle to stay awake, but by the time the night comes for him, he is finding it harder and harder to let sleep take him into her embrace. When he finally succumbs he wakes time and time again, screaming himself hoarse.
Julien does not want to fall asleep again, especially not with predawn starting to peek over the horizon, the gentle rays barely breaking over the mountains, turning the sky into a beautiful foggy blue. Instead he untangles himself from the sheets, still damp with his own sweat, and climbs out of bed. He does not want to take a bath at this hour, instead opting to use the pitcher of water he left out last night to wet a cloth and freshen up.
The clothes he puts on are made for simple sparring, light and durable enough to handle the movement and attacks from a fellow swordsman. Julien has several personal practice weapons stored in his room, but one draws his eyes in particular this morning. It is simpler in design than his actual sword, with none of the flair he is known for, just a simple silver handle twisting around, a far more utilitarian mimicry of his fathers sword. It had been gifted to him at nine, and though it was a bit too large for him at the time, he had insisted on using it, proudly declaring that he needed to practice handling a rapier similar to the one his father carried if he ever wished to wield it some day.
Back then the concept of carrying Sprezzatura himself had seemed close. He now wonders if he ever will be given the honor. Shaking the thought from his mind, Julien grabs the small rapier, testing the heft and balance in his hand. It is not perfectly suited to him now, a bit small in the same way that it was once too large, but it will still do for today.
Sneaking out to the garden is easy work, Julien’s careful steps muffling the sound of his boots on the stone floor. He feels strange sneaking through his own home, but it is easier than risking having to explain why he wanders the halls with a weapon far too early. Even just a practice weapon looks odd at the hours of the night he has been up, and he would loathe for his mother or father to get the report from a servant that he has taken to wandering with any sort of weapon at night. They already must think him strange enough with the lack of sleep. Once he is outside he can be less cautious of the noise he makes. Even if he is caught, the guard out here is an older one, and one that knew Julien to be out here at strange hours even as a child. It is comforting in some ways how at least some things have stayed the same.
The sun is further into the sky as he steps into the garden and the pinks and reds illuminate the world around him. It is easier here, alone and with a sword in hand to deal with the shadows that have taken to haunting him as of late. Julien lets his racing thoughts and terror melt to the wayside as he loses himself in the simple drills. Each one is ingrained into his muscle memory, and the routine does wonders for regulating the straggling threads of terror that had not quite left him yet.
Each move is fluid and purposeful as he runs through, the moves practiced and natural as breathing. These drills honed him as a soldier and kept him alive in many battles. From the most simple footwork that he was shown as a boy to the more advanced techniques he had been taught by his father before the war started, then to those his commanding officers trained into them before they left for the front lines. Julien does not know how long he spends repeating the same drills over and over, letting himself follow the moves to a one person dance. It is the only time he feels at peace recently.
The serene scene is broken by a loud cough behind him, and Julien swings around on instinct, pressing the dulled weapon to the throat of the intruder before he even registers who it is. Upon the look of slight surprise on his father’s face, Julien quickly sheathes his weapon, ducking his head to hide the embarrassed blush that he can feel spreading across his cheeks.
His father gives him some measure of grace, not calling out his lack of attention to his surroundings, nor his borderline attack.
“It’s early Julien,” is what father says instead.
They have been dancing around each other in a tense unease for days now, and the tension is not absent here either. Neither man wants to fight really, but every topic of conversation is laid with a dozen traps that are so easy to stumble into if care is not taken. Julien does not know how to respond to this without walking face first into one and he almost wishes he paid more attention to his speech tutors because of it. He always hated those lessons about reading someone's face, but they feel like they would be useful now.
“I have taken to rising with the sun as of late,” is the answer he settles on eventually. It takes a second too long, but this is another slight that his father seems to forgive.
“From what I have been hearing, you have been rising long before. Is this true?”
Julien freezes slightly at the thinly veiled accusation, before forcing himself to relax. Seeing no reason to try and lie, Julien nods, “Yes, it's true,” a moment passes and father raises an eyebrow in a clear sign for Julien to continue, “I have not wanted to wake you. So I spend my mornings out here. It helps.”
Father looks Julien in the eyes, and Julien tries his best to hold the gaze, even as he feels his father yet again picking him apart, no doubt seeing the exhaustion in his eyes, dark circles not yet hidden with powder for the day.
“Would you like to spar?” Father asks, an odd quality to his tone.
A burst of warmth fills Julien’s chest. He can feel his expression betray his surprise and eagerness before he is able to school it into something more appropriate. Even with that, he cannot keep the hope out of his voice, “Only if it does not interfere with your duties. I don’t want to pull you away. But, if it would not, I would enjoy that.”
Father’s brow twitches, expression unreadable at Julien’s reply, and he wonders if he said the wrong thing. But father does not elaborate on it, just gesturing for Julien to follow. It's an easy order, and Julien finds himself getting lost in another familiar routine. It has been a very long time since father and him sparred, but it is an activity that Julien remembers well all the same. They first do a few more drills together, and though Julien has already done them himself a few times already, he follows one pace behind his fathers steps.
The spars themselves are tremendously difficult, his father still a better fighter than he is by far. But the years apart have taught Julien many things, and he is able to hold his own every time. They spend the whole morning trading blows, barely a word between them. By the end Julien is sore and bruised, and father shares a decent amount of scrapes himself. Julien has been laid flat on his ass more times than he would like to admit this morning, but he had done the same to his father a few times, each time filling him with a hesitant sort of pride, only dimming the longer his wins went without acknowledgement, and flaring up brightly again when at the end of their last spar, Julien wins, and he is given a small smile. The joy is the best thing he has felt since first entering the home, and for a moment he wishes he could stay like this forever. But time has run out and Julien will not ask for more.
They walk back inside in silence. Julien wishes he knew the words to say, the questions to ask, the actions to take. But he does not and his father has returned to the stone-faced man Julien has started to know more and more with each passing day. The brief smile Julien had earned is replaced with stern blankness. Father accompanies him all the way to his room, giving a brief tilt of the head as he pauses at the door.
“Thank you…” he trails off, not knowing how to finish the sentence, unsure on how to communicate how desperately he needed that. How desperately he wants it again. It's all gotten so complicated between them, and he knows this peace between them will not hold up, it crumbles a little more each day. No amount of dancing changes that, but Julien wishes it would.
“I will be in my study if you require anything. Go check on your sister after you change. She doesn’t like her tutor today and she tends to try and run off.”
Julien swallows, and for some reason feels the urge to cry, “Of course father.”
—-----
That night when Julien retires for bed after his bath, there is a decent sized bottle of sleeping draught. It is a higher quality than what you can buy at most apothecaries in the city, at least without spending more money than even Julien is ok with. Under it is a note and Julien unfolds it, reading the familiar script
To rise with the sun.
The dosing cap is easy enough to use, and Julien knocks back the sickly sweet medicine quickly. There is no doubt that it will work quickly. Crawling into bed, Julien lets his eyes fall shut, already feeling some tendrils of sleep starting to pull him down.