Dark.

Unfamiliar, strangeness, a hard surface underneath you broken by what feels like straw. A blanket reeking of damp and dust and frequent use. It smells of stone and grass and... blood? In the darkness, you can't quite be sure what it is you cross as you crawl forward, unsure of direction. Only a moment and then your head bumps abruptly against what is obviously a smooth stone wall, a few roughnesses that seem to be carved into it revealing a few words to your fingertips - 'sorry' and 'hate' and 'forever' seem to be repeated.

Awareness.

You know the feel of that wall, of the other three as you carefully press along them in turn, finding the expected door in the fourth wall. Wood, dry and rough and full of splinters. By now you're certain the pile in the center of the room is indeed straw and half-dry grass, certain as well that the lack of light is not due to the hour or to some power failure, but simply to the whim of whoever's hand is at the control for the inset light in the ceiling. You trace the tiny hinged panel in the base of the door for a moment, leaning against the wall and biting your lip roughly, hoping to awake to something else, somewhere else...

...footsteps, two sets, pass down the hall outside the closed and locked door and on into silence.

You know this room. You know what usually brings you here. This time, though... this time you don't know, unsure of what you might be expected to learn, no way of understanding. No real hope other than the one constant in your life: even suffering, even in the depths of failure, even in the silences, you are still wanted and still prized.

It's been hard to hold on to that, some days. Finding yourself here, though... it's almost a kindness, a reassurance that you are the focus of attention even if the attention is not what you'd hoped for. Somewhere, you know she's watching. Somewhere...

...hopefully...

...another set of footsteps makes its way past and you can feel yourself tensing slightly, even though it's doubtful that the door will be opened any time soon. Shivering, you pull yourself away from it and slowly make your way back to the center of the room; your clothing makes a pathetic heap against the tiny slot. The ratty blanket manages to shield you against cold and fear both, setting a firm image in your mind. You've spent hours picturing yourself wrapped in just such a scrap, serving in silence, your body aching with pain and need both, knowing that every moment of hell was savored as if they were priceless gems.

Patience. You mutter the word, almost a curse. Patience... how much longer will you have to hold to it, strain for it? How much longer before this dreamstate will turn to something real, to a voice and two strong hands and leather wrapped around your skin, just as the silence and empty hours became this familiar, half-terrifying and half-soothing world?

Patience.

Darkness.

It's so cold...