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Why was it so freaking difficult to concentrate? He had the blessing of Focus going for him, didn't he? Wasn't that supposed to help with shit like this?

Or was it? He couldn't remember.

He felt himself say something. He had no idea what it was, though. It sounded like he was speaking with a mouth full of cotton. Hopefully it made more sense to whoever was listening.

After that, he just kinda drifted for a while. Thoughts were too difficult to hold onto. His secondary thought process was a bit aware, but it was like being trapped in a murky, gray box. He could sense the box just fine, but that was about it.

He needed rest, probably.

Which was kinda weird, wasn't it? Was Garovel not around? The reaper could've relieved his fatigue in an instant, couldn't he?

Hmm, maybe he couldn't. Hector had never felt fatigue quite like this before.

His soul felt tired.

Maybe that made no sense. He wouldn't have even thought such a thing was possible. But that was the only way his half-conscious mind could describe it.

Eventually, he slept. Or was fairly sure that he did, at least.

It didn't feel normal. At all.

For Hector, sleeping was always just this warm, welcoming darkness. Thoughtless and comfortable. A blanket that wrapped itself around him completely.

But now, he saw things. Scenes. Unfolding before his eyes.

From the Forge's memories? That seemed likely. He couldn't hold onto any of them, though. Even as he watched them, they slipped through his mind like water through his fingers. He didn't have the awareness or strength or whatever was necessary in order to understand them.

It was just... different.

When he awoke, he was in a bed.

His bed.

The one in Warrenhold.

Uh-oh.

He sat up in a rush, looking around.