[attr="class","dec2"]
Wolly needs a minute to wake up

His rest was not peaceful.

Vaguely, the Warrior was aware that he’d passed out. Yet, as he drifted from dream to dream, from nightmare to nightmare, they all felt so real. Some of the nightmares were familiar; long, arduous battles against the menace, Garland, where the Warrior was felled and life was slowly bled from his body. Occasionally, he enjoyed the warmth of a pleasant dream, reliving memories shaped by his friends, relishing in his time with them.

Now, there was something new. The loud, vicious, angry cry of dragons and the spark of magic. That laugh echoed in his mind, those piercing eyes, the crackle of energy that burned his skin. Each nightmare was different, but they all ended the same. The Warrior, crushed by dragons, ripped apart by magic. In each, he failed to destroy his enemy, he failed to stop the inevitable. Dragons surged forward into the world, causing immediate destruction and chaos, killing people he recognized, people he loved. All while Kuja’s voice taunted him as he lay, broken and battered, in a pool of his own blood, a dragon leaning down to take the final snap and end him as his friends cried for his help.

They all mixed in together, in and out, as he struggled to fight for consciousness.

Finally, other sensations began to creep their way into his somewhat-conscious state. The smell of fresh, cotton linens. The sounds of voices, muffled, but still audible. Aches and pains cried out from his body, particularly from the deep wound he’d sustained in his torso. His mind was racing, doing its best to command his limbs to move, his eyes to open. However, everything was sluggish. His body moved as if it were drugged, movements small and unsure, clumsy. He shifted in the sheets, drawing in a chestful of fresh air to attempt to wake himself.

Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and staring upwards. His right arm flew out without warning, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his ever-familiar blade. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his consciousness, the Warrior thanked Oran for remembering to keep the blade by his side. The knight was known to fly into a panic upon waking without his weapon.

Oran’s voice called out softly to him, "Welcome back, friend."

The Warrior didn’t respond immediately. He was still grappling with his waking state, fighting to take in everything he could. His eyes began to properly focus, realizing that he was staring up at a ceiling of sorts -- not one of wood or stone, but of a thick and sturdy cloth or tarp. It was light, but not overly bright. The fingers of his left hand scratched at the sheet under his fingers, groggily coming to the conclusion that everything around him was very real.

The knight moved his head slightly, eyes searching for the man he knew would be by his side. There was a most familiar and most welcome face; Oran, his dear friend, the white mage that had apparently been tending to his wounds. The Warrior stared at him for a few long moments, crystal blue eyes temporarily in and out of focus as the fog dissipated from his mind. It was taking too terribly long for him to reset as it were; how long had he been unconscious?

He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly closed it as he realized sound wasn’t coming out. His throat felt dry and scratchy, and his body felt like it had lost a battle with an iron boulder. Slowly, he released his grip on the hilt of his blade, letting it rest on its own next to his cot. He blinked, running a tongue over his dry lips as he gave speech another go.

“How long … Have I?” The Warrior’s voice struggled, barely a whisper with the occasional crack. He cut himself off, wanting to say more, but knowing he’d said enough to get his question answered. It was the first thing that had popped into his mind -- how long have I been asleep -- because every day unconscious was a wasted day. He had work to do. People to avenge.

Right?

The knight attempted to sit up, but quickly gave up on such a thing as a hot pain seared across his torso. He laid back down, hissing in feral pain, a hand moving to cover the already bandaged and healing wound. It wouldn’t bleed, thanks to Oran’s expert work, but it was still very tender, and very sore.

He turned his eyes back to Oran, brief glimpses of what had occurred in days past flashing in his mind. Oran had saved his life more than once now, it seemed, but the Warrior couldn’t find the words he wanted to say to his friend in thanks. They were too hard to summon under the pressure of the crippling guilt he felt for putting Oran in such danger to begin with.

Instead, he silently turned his blue eyes back to his dear friend, and hoped the words would soon come.

I refuse to believe, that I’m nothing more than a machine
I refuse to believe, that we can’t learn to see
The truth was in a dream
I will not kill
No I will – believe.