The nightmares were not, necessarily, getting worse, but they were definitely more consistent. More definite in what was the stuff of dreams and what was the awful reality of what he remembered before the gladiator had stood over him and he had ended up in Darrow, coming aware of himself in bits and pieces.

Tonight was more the latter, something very definite and awful, too real, too full of smells and the taste of blood in his mouth and pain throughout his body.

He became aware of himself in pieces, and a soft, quiet, not-quite there voice that he knew but that was, momentarily, unfamiliar in the haze of his dream because it didn't belong there. There was a soft, cool touch on his hair, momentarily unfamiliar in the haze of waking.