There is a state that exists between consciousness and sleep. One's eyes are not fully open, nor are they closed to the world- everything exists instead in a dull, slow world of gray fog, thick like mud. Thoughts are made known but distant, held in stasis as a seed in frozen ground awaiting spring, awaiting something. Some find this state comforting, like a warm cocoon of being, a time to dream and wish. For the Matron Ka'vanth, it is torturous.

It is certain that the woman presents a strong and steady image of herself to the waking world- to all but very few she is careful to paint herself as indifferent to the problems around her, and within herself. A bloodied handkerchief is as easily hidden as blood is washed up from the paneling of her floor. She understands the neccesity of hiding both her blood and that of others- there are things which have no need to be known, and the woman is adept at keeping secrets. Her cold face and indifferent demeanor, her distance from the common troubles that plague others is interpreted as strength, and she herself is convinced that she is a strong enough woman to deal with anything that is thrown her way.

Then there is the realm before sleep, in which the figure we have molded ourselves into slips away. Shadows grow and constrict, taunting from afar... Ghost images float in the Matron's head, and in her mind she screams out at the pain that they bring- thousands of tears are shed each night, without a single drop of water. Who would comfort her? No one exists in this world, but herself and the pain.

Tonight she is plagued by a child- one in her womb, and one that is not. She sees one as a gift, and one as her gift, and knows the sacrifice that has been made, and will be made for both. She sees the faces of many, dipping into the past, wanting to change it, wanting to hold onto the presant, wanting... Yes, in this state she wants, with a deep, intense passion that is not known in her waking hours. To want... Such a foreign word. To truly want. She has wished, but always been content. Discontent... Tenses up the muscles, makes things... So unclear... Makes things... Makes the mind... Hazed with obsession, like a curtain, thick... Thick... Driven and... Yes, blind. Blind to the world, unable to hide, so important... To cover. To cover them, their figures entwined together... No... Her mind is screaming again, she promised... She promised she could handle it... Yes, she can... She can... But there it is, like a whisper in the back of her thoughts, taunting like a faraway child. There is her son, cradling her like she is a child... Yes, he has always brought her comfort. She has brought him pain... There is an immense wave of guilt, a choking sensation. Above all the dinn there is one thought that is always everpresant, and high above the others: Am I a horrible mother?

She cries out audibly, on the verge of waking. Perhaps there is someone there in the room comforting her, for mercifully soon, she slips out of one existance, and into the deep darkness that comes with sleep. In the morning she will wake, and turn a stern face to the sun, thanking Drakkara for another day. She will put on her mask of indifference, and give herself tirelessly to whatsoever presents itself to her.

She will ignore the pain in her body. She will ignore her discontent.