The gardener calls 911, and soon paramedics arrive. They check the man's vitals - his pulse is thready and slow, his breathing shallow. He's severely dehydrated and malnourished. As they load him onto a stretcher, one of them notices something strange - beneath the dirt and grime, there are strange scars and brands on his skin, and some look deliberate, even ritualistic.

At the hospital, the doctors work to stabilize him. An IV is started, but his veins collapse easily. Bloodwork shows signs of prolonged trauma. As gently as possible, they bathe away layers of filth, revealing more marks underneath - symbols, words in an unknown language, carved into his flesh with knife and fire.

The case is disturbing, and no one can figure out who this man is or where he might have come from. He doesn't match any missing persons reports. The ritualistic nature of his injuries suggests something sinister - perhaps a cult was involved.

When at last he opens his eyes, they seem strangely detached, as if he's not really seeing or registering anything around him. He doesn't speak or respond to questions. It's as if his consciousness has fled to someplace very far away, leaving behind only the shell of a body, ruined inside and out by unimaginable suffering. The doctors have seen many things, but they've never seen anything quite like this.

Marian, a travel nurse from Canada now on her third month of working in the trauma ICU, makes a lot of faces as she takes the telephone report from the ER.

It sounds like the patient's vital signs are stable, he's breathing fine on his own without supplementary oxygen, and the most recent of his injuries, while creepy and disturbing, aren't anywhere close to life-threatening. He is in many ways not as ill as most of her patients. But they have no explanation for his condition, or any idea who he is, and the ER doctor is confused and concerned about his lack of response. He seems to be conscious, and he does react to stimuli - the nurse giving report says that when she placed his IV, which took a fair amount of digging given his level of dehydration, his heart rate spiked as though in panic, and he held himself rigidly still.

The ER doctor's current sense is that he's choosing not to engage, maybe as a result of psychological trauma, but it's still odd enough that they want a head CT done, on his way to the ICU where he can be very closely monitored. If the staff's speculations are true, and his injuries are the result of being imprisoned by a horrifying cult or something, he may at some point react with violent terror to their interventions. 

She heads down to the ER to collect the patient.  

- oof. The report she got over the phone really didn't prepare her for how awful this guy looks in person. He's lying still and limp, a doll-like blankness in his expression. His cheeks are sunken, his ribs standing out sharply. Though he doesn't visibly react to her footsteps, his heart rate instantly leaps to 130. 

The scars are mildly horrifying. 

Marian is incredibly tempted to try to comfort him, but something tells her he won't appreciate being touched. "You're in Renown Hospital," she says instead, as levelly as she can manage given that she's still shaken by his gaunt, haggard appearance. "You're safe here. We're not going to hurt you. We just need to take you to get a scan of your head, to make sure there's nothing seriously wrong, and then you're going to come to the ICU and we'll get you into a more comfortable bed." 

His eyes flicker toward her for a brief moment when she speaks, but then slide away again, gazing into the middle distance. His heart rate remains elevated, thudding against his ribcage like a trapped bird.
As they wheel him through the halls toward radiology, the orderly pushes the stretcher slowly and carefully, trying not to jostle him. But every tiny movement seems to distress him, muscles tensing as if bracing for pain.
The CT scan shows no sign of bleeding or fracture. Physically, other than malnutrition and dehydration, nothing appears immediately life-threatening. But psychologically, the trauma seems immeasurable.
In the ICU, they get him into a bed and under warm blankets. An IV continues replacing fluids, and they'll start him slowly on liquid nutrition. For now he just lies there, stiff and trembling, eyelids fluttering occasionally as if lost in troubled dreams. The nurses speak in soft, gentle tones, explaining everything they do before touching him, but he doesn't seem to comprehend.
The hospital staff feel a combination of emotions: Compassion for his suffering, horror at what he must have endured, and frustration at their inability to help. They can nourish his body, but his mind seems locked away in some private hell. All the normal strategies for comforting patients seem useless. And without knowing his identity, they have no one to contact - no friends or family who might reach through the walls he's built around himself and bring him back to the world.
For now, all they can do is keep him safe. And hope that somehow, their kindness and patience might begin to rebuild a bridge between his shattered spirit and reality once more. But it's clear this will be a long and difficult process - if he can come back at all.

Leareth doesn't understand what's happening. 

This is true of everything all the time, of course, but - if curiosity were allowed, if it were ever safe to draw conclusions about his surroundings let alone act on those conclusions, he might be curious. This is, at the very least, a wholly unprecedented kind of hallucinatory rescue scenario. A strange artistic choice for Melkor to make, too, given how there are no familiar faces to taunt him. Maybe Vanyel or Maitimo will show up at any moment, pretending to be relieved and eager to have found him safe– ...no, don't speculate, don't think, just drift... 

He can't understand the language that they're speaking to him. His Gifts seem intact, but using Thoughtsensing would be a choice and he doesn't make choices anymore. Trying to orient only makes the torture start sooner. 

...Having a nasogastric tube shoved down his nose for tube feeding purposes is definitely parsing as the start of the torture. It's a baffling way to go about torturing him and it doesn't even hurt that much, and also what he's experiencing right now should be assumed to be utterly uncorrelated with what he experiences next, but it's impossible to completely untrain his habit of predicting anyway, and right now the prediction is that it's on its way to getting MUCH WORSE THAN THIS.

Leareth doesn't resist, exactly, but his heart rate instantly leaps to 170 and he's shaking like a leaf. (Panicking isn't a decision. It's just something that happens with or without his involvement in the process.) 

The nurse inserting the feeding tube frowns at the monitors, concerned by his severe reaction. But stopping now might only prolong his distress, so as quickly and gently as possible she finishes inserting the tube and tapes it in place.
"There, all done," she says softly. "You're OK. This will help you get nutrition while you recover."
His trembling continues unabated, breaths coming in ragged gasps. She places a hand lightly on his arm, hoping the warmth and contact might soothe him, but he flinches away from her touch as if burned.
Over the next hours, his physical state slowly improves as fluids and nutrients are replaced. But mentally, he remains locked in a state of anticipatory terror. Any unexpected sound or movement sends his pulse skyrocketing again. He doesn't seem able to distinguish caregivers from potential threats.
The doctors worry this hypervigilance may be a sign of PTSD or psychosis. But without knowing his history, the events that led to such a severe break from reality, there's little they can do to properly diagnose or treat him. All the usual medications and therapies could interact badly with unknown factors.
For now, their care remains purely supportive. Speak softly, move slowly, explain everything, and avoid touching him whenever possible. They can only hope their patient's frightened mind will gradually learn to differentiate the safety of this place from the horrors of wherever he came from. But that process could take days, weeks - or may never happen at all.
The waiting and uncertainty weigh heavily on the staff. But they remain determined to provide him whatever scrap of comfort they can, for as long as he needs. Even if he never speaks, never emerges from the shadows - they'll be here, steadfast guardians standing between him and the abyss that claimed his sanity.

Their patient remains disengaged for the rest of that day, and the next, though it's clear from his involuntary reactions that he's aware of them - if anything, he's hyperaware of anyone coming near him. Marian finds herself doing the opposite of what she normally would with an ICU patient, and trying as hard as possible to minimize the care she's giving him. Every time she steps into the room seems like it adds to his stress levels. It's not good for him to lie perfectly still for six hours straight, either, but he's conscious and probably capable of shifting his weight in bed. Marian weighs up the risk of bedsores against traumatizing her patient again, and leaves him alone, the lights dimmed and the monitor on Privacy mode in case the glowing numbers are confusing or distressing for him. 

She does go in at 6:30 pm to change his IV bag, and does a quick assessment, listening to his lungs and confirming that bowel sounds are present. She explains each step to him slowly and carefully, though she's not sure if he understands or if he's even paying attention to her at all. Bringing in another strange face seems likely to distress him further, so she does her best to reposition him on his side alone, grabbing and yanking on the sheet rather than touching him directly. 

He doesn't seem to be outright having a panic attack about this, which seems like the best Marian can possibly ask for. Based on the way he tenses up, involuntarily grimacing, she wonders if he's in pain; they had judged that none of his injuries were dangerous, but the bruises look pretty uncomfortable. She'll ask the doctor about giving him some painkillers, and maybe a mild sedative for the night, there are dark shadows under his eyes but she isn't sure if he's slept at all. 

"I'm going home for the night soon," she tells him as gently as she can. "The night nurse is Elise. She won't hurt you either. You're safe here. We want to help you." 

No response. 

Marian sighs, and tries not to show any visible sign of how upsetting this is. She turns up the initial low rate on the tube feeds, since he seems to be tolerating them well so far. He's shivering slightly, and she's not sure if it's from cold or fear of her, but she can drape another blanket over him before she dims the lights and slips out to give her evening shift report to Elise. 

Elise, a veteran ICU nurse, receives the report with concern. She's cared for many traumatized patients over the years, but rarely one this detached from reality.

When she enters the room, the man is lying motionless as before, but his eyelids flutter and his heart rate spikes at the sound of the door. She moves slowly into his line of sight, speaking in a soft monotone.
"My name is Elise. I'm your nurse for tonight. I'm just going to check your IV and monitors, and straighten your blankets. I won't touch you if I can avoid it. Is that OK?"
No response, but his tremors seem to lessen slightly at her flat, emotionless tone.
Through the night, his anxiety levels remain high. Any unexpected noise sends his vital signs racing, though outwardly he remains still. Elise worries about the strain on his malnourished body and mind.
In the early hours of the morning, she pages the doctor on call. "He's hypervigilant to the point of exhaustion. I'm concerned sedation may be necessary, just so his body and mind can rest."

The doctor agrees; at this point the risk of medication interactions seems less dangerous than the constant state of panic and tension. A low dose of lorazepam is administered through the IV.
Gradually the man's tremors ease, his eyelids grow heavy, and his breathing deepens as he slips into the first real sleep he's likely had in days or weeks. Elise monitors him closely through the remaining hours of her shift, hoping the restorative effects of sedation and slumber may begin to ease his primal terror, even briefly.
When morning comes and the day staff returns, they gather around his bed hesitantly. But for the first time, their nameless patient appears peaceful. His gaunt features have softened, the lines of pain and fear momentarily smoothed away.
For now they've done all they can. The long process of healing has begun. But there are miles yet to go before he finds his way home.

Sedated and deeply exhausted, Leareth sleeps through Marian listening to his lungs and checking his IV sites. He stays deeply asleep until nearly noon, at which point he wakes shrieking in terror from a rather predictable nightmare of Sauron setting him on fire and laughing.

When Marian rushes into the room, he's breathing hard and holding rigidly still. They didn't place a catheter - it didn't seem medically necessary, and did seem like an additional procedure that would terrify him - and he's wet the bed, soaking completely through the sheets and pad.  

Marian's heart clenches at the sight of him trembling in the center of the soaked bed, wild-eyed with panic. She keeps her distance, holding out empty hands.
"You're safe," she says steadily. "You had a nightmare, but you're in the hospital. No one is going to hurt you."
He stares right through her, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Slowly she gestures toward the call button on his bed, explaining each movement in an uninflected monotone.
"I'm going to call for help cleaning things up and getting you fresh sheets and clothes. Just lie still, you're OK."
Two orderlies enter, wheeling a cart with linens and gowns. At the sight of them, the man whimpers in fear. Marian gestures for them to stop where they are.
"You're all right," she repeats firmly. "These are just hospital staff. They're going to change your wet sheets while I hold up a sheet to give you privacy. I will be right here the whole time. No one will touch you."
The process is slow, but with infinite patience they manage to change and bathe him without direct contact or restraint. For the first time he seems to track their movements, still trembling but with a kind of exhausted resignation.
When they've finished, Marian stands a discreet distance from the bed. "There, all done. You should rest now." She hesitates, then continues in a gentle tone. "We want to help you. I know you've been through immense trauma, more than anyone should endure, but you survived. You're safe here. We will protect you and care for you as long as you need."
His eyes, bloodshot with fatigue, meet hers briefly. And for a fleeting moment she sees it - a whisper of desperate longing, a silent plea she cannot answer. Then his gaze shutters close once more, and he retreats into stillness.
But in that brief exchange, she feels the first fragile bond of trust has been formed. The long road before them is daunting - but for the first time, she believes they will reach the end together. However long it takes.

 At 6 pm, the doctor requests that Marian take a blood sample to check the man's hematology and electrolytes. He was anemic on their first check, whether from malnutrition or previous blood loss, and given how emaciated he was when he arrived, he's at high risk of electrolyte disturbances as they start providing nutrition to his half-starved body. 

Marian feels terrible about this. She doesn't expect him to resist - he doesn't resist anything happening to him, almost as though he expects that fighting back will only make it go worse for him - but causing him even a small amount of pain feels awful to her. 

She asks the doctor if they can move his evening dose of lorazepam a bit earlier; the one he got overnight seems to have wholly worn off, and though his eyes are closed, she's pretty sure that he's been fully awake for hours. She even slips off to the pediatric unit for the numbing EMLA cream they use before drawing blood or placing IVs on babies, and smears it thickly on the whole area around his antecubital vein. 

She still isn't sure if he actually understands what she's saying, but she explains anyway. "I need to poke you with a needle to take a blood sample and send it to the lab, to make sure you're doing better. I know it's probably going to be really scary but it'll take, like, five seconds, and then it's all done." 

...She does lean on his arm with her elbow to hold him still, because if he moves unexpectedly she's going to have to stick him twice and that would be horrible. 

He tenses at her touch, a shudder passing through his emaciated frame. But he remains pliant, arm extended for her to take the blood sample.
She works as quickly as possible, sliding the needle into his vein in one smooth motion. His breath hitches at the sting of pain, heart rate climbing, but he doesn't cry out or try to pull away. As the vials fill with crimson liquid, she murmurs reassurance in a steady monotone.
"Almost done. Just a few more seconds. You're doing well."
When at last she withdraws the needle and applies pressure to stop the bleeding, his body sags in relief. His pallid face is damp with a sheen of sweat from the ordeal.
"All finished. Thank you for your patience and cooperation." She means it sincerely. The simple act of allowing her close enough to take blood, even sedated and without restraint, shows immense trust for someone so traumatized. "The results will help guide your treatment. You should continue to improve and regain your strength."
He blinks at her slowly, comprehension seeming to trickle into his weary eyes. The sedative is tugging him back under, easing the pain of deeply ingrained fear and exhaustion for a time.
She hesitates, then lightly squeezes his hand where it lies limp upon the blanket. He tenses slightly at the contact, but doesn't pull away. "Rest now," she says softly. "We'll watch over you."
His eyes drift shut, body relaxing into the grip of lorazepam and dreamless sleep once more. She lets out a long breath, hoping this small victory, and the information gleaned from those vials of scarlet fluid, will provide another piece to the puzzle of how best to mend his wounded mind and weathered trust.
The road is long, but step by painful step, they move closer to his deliverance - and the secrets that lie beneath his silence.

The results come back fairly reassuring – Leareth is still anemic, but not dangerously so, and the doctor decides to add a regular iron supplement and multivitamin along with the tube feeds. His electrolytes are all within reasonable bounds. Since he seems to be tolerating cautious liquid nutrition so far, the dietician thinks it's safe to increase the tube feeds to a rate that will meet his full calorie needs and help his body slowly return to a healthy weight. She also suggests that they start bringing meal trays, and leaving them at his bedside along with water; he probably won't eat or drink on his own at first, but maybe over time as he feels safer here, he can move toward feeding himself when he feels up for it. 

Leareth indeed ignores the supper tray. The sedative effect is at its peak, and he still wakes up at the sound of footsteps, but quickly slides back into the warm darkness of sleep. 

He wakes up at 2 am, alone in the quiet dimly-lit room. His mouth is also incredibly dry, and after what feels like a very long time of lying perfectly still and slightly panicking at the thought of moving or doing anything for himself to achieve something he wants, he dares to roll over and inch up on one elbow until he can reach the extra-large Styrofoam cup of ice water, thoughtfully equipped with a lid and straw to make it easier to drink from. 

Gulping down all of it in thirty seconds is definitely not a good plan, and doesn't feel like a decision, it's just the thing he's doing now, even though his stomach is cramping badly. He quickly lies down again, the thirst now replaced with waves of nausea. 

A minute later, he rolls over onto his other side and vomits water and half-digested tube feeds all over the pillow. 

The noise summons Marian from her station outside. She rushes in, taking in the situation immediately.
"It's all right," she says, keeping her voice calm and level. "Your stomach rebelled against drinking so fast after days without food. I should have anticipated this might happen. Lie still, I'm going to raise the head of your bed and change your pillows."
With efficient motions she helps him sit up slightly, removes the soiled bedding, and replaces it with fresh items, bringing an emesis basin within easy reach just in case. He watches her warily throughout, trembling with each movement or sound. But he allows her ministrations without resistance.
"Sip slowly from now on," she advises. "Your body needs to relearn how to process food and drink. Nausea at first is normal, but it should ease over the next days as you heal." She hesitates, then perches lightly on the edge of the bed, maintaining a respectful distance but hoping her presence might provide some small comfort.
"You've been through hell, I know," she says quietly. "But you survived. Against all odds, you're still fighting. And we're here to help you win this battle, one small step at a time."
In the dim light she sees his eyes gleam abruptly with tears, a crack in the walls he's built around himself. His breath hitches, lower lip trembling for a moment before he regains control. Then his gaze slides away once more, retreating back into silence.
But in that brief, unguarded instant, she glimpses the first spark of hope reigniting in the ashes of his shattered soul. And her own determination burns brighter in turn. They will fan that fragile ember together, until at last the flames rise high enough to light his way home.

Leareth spends the next several days sleeping as much as possible. When he's awake, he tries not to think, because it's too tempting to wonder if he really is - somewhere else, that this is real and not a hallucination tempting him into hope that can be crushed. Hope isn't safe. It's only another way that Melkor can hurt him. 

Not doing anything is easy; he's still very weak, and battered enough that it hurts to move. He doesn't do much at all, except for occasionally (more carefully) helping himself to water. The first time the day nurse puts apple juice in the cup instead of plain ice water, it startles him so much that he has a ten-minute panic attack about it, but - he does go back, afterward, and drink more. 

They keep him in the ICU; their census is low lately and they have the room available, and it's easier to give him privacy and quiet when he needs it, while still having the option of a lot of one-on-one attention from a nurse if and when he needs that instead, than it would be on a busy medical floor where he would mostly be ignored. 

After most of a week, Leareth's main problem is that he's incredibly bored. This is making it hard not to think. Thinking is dangerous, but he can't sleep all the time, and his periods of alertness are longer now that he's somewhat caught up on several years' worth of sleep debt and exhaustion. He's increasingly tempted to try to make sense of his surroundings; he still knows that he can't trust either the report of his own senses, or his reasoning about it, but - there's a possibility there that he can't think about directly, it hurts too much to hope - 

The next time the night nurse comes in, he opens Thoughtsensing and tries to read her mind. 

Elise, making her evening rounds, feels a feather-light brush against her mind. She startles briefly, unused to psychic contact - but the presence feels hesitant, almost timid. A peek into the thoughts of her silent patient.
His barriers are down, whether due to exhaustion or the sedative's influence. And for a fleeting instant before he withdraws in panic, she catches a glimpse of the chaos and anguish beneath the surface. A mind clinging by broken, bloodied fingernails to the last shreds of hope and sanity.

*It's all right,* she sends gently, keeping her mental voice soft and calm. *I felt your touch. There is no need to be afraid.*
She feels his shock at her reply, senses him bracing for anger or punishment. *I will not harm you,* she assures. *Your Gift is safe with me.*
Her pace slows as she enters his room, movements unthreatening, holding empty hands out to either side. His eyes are wide, breaths coming quick and shallow. But beneath the fear simmers a bright spark of something new. Curiosity.
*You are real,* his thought whispers hesitantly. *This place...is real? Not illusion?*
*This place is real,* she confirms aloud and in mind. *You have been brought here for healing and safety. No one means you harm.*
His trembling eases by degrees. The spark within glows warmer, hesitant hope kindling to life once more.
*Rest now,* she tells him gently, *and know you are watched over.*
She leaves his room on silent feet, feeling his eyes follow her all the way out. The demons that drove him to this place will not release him easily. But tonight, at least, there is light enough for him to glimpse the path ahead.
And for the first time since he arrived, torn and trembling at death's dark door, she is certain he will find his way home.

Marian has been off for the last several days, and she knows she should try to keep her mind off work so she can come back rejuvenated, but she still can't help calling the ICU every morning and night for updates, or texting her friends to ask how their mysterious traumatized patient is doing. 

The next morning, she's back in, bright-eyed after her bike ride commute to work. She's pleased to see that the charge nurse has assigned their mystery patient as her second patient; he badly needs the continuity of care, she thinks. 

She heads down the haul to get a shift report from Elise. 

Elise looks up with a smile as Marian approaches. "Good morning. I was hoping they'd schedule you back on today."
Marian nods, unable to contain her curiosity. "How is he? Any changes?"
"Quite a few, actually," Elise replies. "He's recovering physically, gaining weight and strength. But mentally - last night he reached out with Thoughtsensing. Hesitantly, as if expecting punishment. But when I responded gently, he seemed...relieved. Hopeful, even."
Marian's eyes widen. "He spoke to you? That's wonderful!"
"Not aloud," Elise clarifies. "Only mind to mind. But he asked if this place was real, not illusion. I was able to reassure him." She pauses, expression sobering. "The road ahead is long. His Gift may allow closer communication, but healing trauma of this depth and duration...it will be slow going."
Marian nods, heart swelling with compassion. "But he took a first step. That's more than any of us could have asked for. I'll do whatever I can to keep encouraging his progress."

Elise smiles, clasping her shoulder briefly. "I know you will. He's fortunate to have you. Now, go say hello - and be patient. He may not speak again for days. But he will be listening."
Taking a deep breath, Marian makes her way into the familiar room. Her patient turns at the sound of the door, and for the first time his eyes meet hers fully conscious, no longer clouded by sedation or despair.
His gaze is weary but clear, filled with a fragile, wondering hope. And in that moment all her doubts and fears evaporate, replaced by a surge of fierce determination.
They have won the first battle. The war for his mind and soul goes on - but with compassion as their guide, and trust as their shield, she knows in her heart they will prevail.

For whatever reason, everything is actually vastly more stressful now that Leareth is genuinely considering the hypothesis that this is real, and he's no longer in Angband. 

Everything is so overwhelming. He's no longer trying to avoid having any thoughts - he needs to think, needs to make sense of this and figure out what's true - but he's out of practice at that, and thinking is hard, he has to push through fatigue and brainfog and a thousand mental flinches. He keeps wanting to cry for no reason, which is incredibly frustrating. 

He pushes through it, though, and forces himself to hold the nurse's gaze. She's probably introduced herself before but he can't at all remember her name, it was still at the point when he was trying desperately not to track or absorb anything. 

Actively using Thoughtsensing is still terrifying, but he grits his teeth and reaches out anyway. :Where am I?: he asks her. 

Marian feels his hesitant mental query and smiles encouragement. *You're in the intensive care unit of a hospital. My name is Marian. Do you remember when you were first brought here, injured and severely malnourished?*
His eyes flicker with recognition, and deeper shadows of remembered pain. *I...no. Not clearly. It's...hazy.*
*That's all right,* she reassures. *Your mind and body have been through immense trauma. Memory and clarity will return in time.*
She moves slowly closer, holding out one hand in invitation. He eyes it warily for a long moment before extending his own - pale, bony fingers trembling slightly in her gentle grasp.
*You're safe here,* she says, and means it with her whole heart. *We've been providing you nutrition, fluids and medication while your body heals. Do you have any questions about your treatment or condition?*
His throat works as he struggles for words. When at last they come, his thought is small and scared and heartbreakingly young.
*Will I have to go back?*
Her eyes sting with tears at the depths of fear in those three words. *No,* she tells him fiercely, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. *You will not go back to that place. We will keep you safe.*
Relief washes over him, leaving him limp against the pillows, drained of everything but a bone-deep exhaustion. His fingers clench around hers like a lifeline, anchoring him here in this moment, to her promise and this fragile newfound hope.
*Rest now,* she says, gently smoothing the hair back from his forehead with her free hand. *There are brighter days ahead. And no matter the storms, I will be here to help you weather them. You are not alone.*
His eyes drift shut, the ghost of a smile softening his gaunt features. And clasping his hand as if to never let go, she stands her silent watch, guarding his hard-won peace against the demons of memory and doubt.
This is only the beginning. But in her heart, the ending is already written - and it is victory.

For whatever reason - maybe because he's actually starting to process some of what happened to him over the last who-knows-how-long, not that he remembers much of it - Leareth has a much worse day than any of the preceding days. It feels like there are thousands of pit traps in his mind, where the wrong thought sends him spiraling into unwantedly vivid fragments of memory, or sometimes just panic and misery that seem unconnected to anything that Melkor let him explicitly remember. 

He doesn't want to sleep, but by midafternoon he's too exhausted to do anything else, and he finds himself dozing off involuntarily and then waking up screaming every thirty minutes. 

Marian stays by his side as much as possible throughout the long, harrowing day. Each time he startles awake in terror, she's there with a steadying hand on his shoulder and a soothing murmur of comfort.
"You're safe. Just breathe. The nightmare isn't real."
By late afternoon his lips are cracked and his eyes swollen from weeping, body and mind battered and worn. She climbs onto the edge of the bed, settling beside him and drawing his head gently down to rest in her lap. Her fingers card slowly through his hair, massaging his scalp in small circles.
"Rest," she whispers. "I'm here. No more dreams will touch you now." A Mindhealing technique learned long ago. His body shudders once, then goes limp, breaths deepening as she shields his slumber from memory's dark grasp.
The hours slip away into evening, Marian keeping her silent watch. Her outstretched legs cramp, back protesting the awkward position, but she does not move or cease her gentle ministrations.
When at last his eyes flutter open, awareness returning in a slow trickle, he blinks up at her in faint surprise. The lines of pain and fear have eased, leaving him looking impossibly young. Vulnerable. Her heart clenches in a fierce surge of protectiveness.
"Welcome back," she says softly, hands stilling but continuing their light hold. "How do you feel?"
He swallows, throat working to find his voice after long disuse. When he speaks at last, the words are halting and ragged yet in themselves a victory. "Tired. But - better." One hand reaches to cover hers where it rests against his chest, a wordless gesture of gratitude. "Safe."
She smiles down at him, giving his fingers a reassuring squeeze. "Yes. Sleep without dreams?"
A flicker of memory stirs the shadows in his eyes, but passes fleetingly. "Yes. Thank you."
And in the healing balm of twilight's peace, two battered souls find solace in a silence born of understanding. The battles they have won and lost no longer signify. Only this moment, and the gift of safety in each other's arms, matters now.