DRAKENFELL — INFIRMARY — EARLY MORNING
Fin woke up holding a pillow.
His arms were locked around it with the full-body commitment of a man whose subconscious had been protecting something all night and whose something had been swapped out for cotton and polyester at some point during the operation. The pillow smelled like her. The pillow was categorically, objectively, insultingly, a pillow.
He released it. Sat up. His ribs complained.
The room was grey with pre-dawn light.
Dexmon was in the chair to the right, chin to chest, blanket pulled to his collar, a pillow wedged behind his head that Fin was certain hadn't been there when he fell asleep. His fists were loose now, whatever sleep-battle he'd been waging resolved in a ceasefire that left his face almost peaceful.
