At first there was only darkness, and pain so powerful that his mind shrank from it, allowing the waves to carry him away to safety, back to the ebb and flow of nothingness.
The tide turned. The pain seemed gradually less unbearable: he became aware of soft light, of voices like music. The sound of water was not only in his mind...
More time passed. It took too much effort to fight the undercurrent which pulled him back into heavy sleep—not dreamless, though the memory of his dreams eluded him; he had not the strength to recall them, nor the will to hear their secrets.
He continued to drift, in and out, letting the musical voices and the careful, gentle hands tend to his injuries, cradled by the dark waters of oblivion.
Until, finally, drifting to the shores of consciousness, he awoke, beckoned by a voice he had come to recognise as that of his caretaker.
"A last quettanya a cuiva Gwaelion. Nadath nâ i moe cerich."
