It's not comfortable, exactly, but it's sleep. It's been so long since he'd slept he falls into it almost like he's jumping from a cliff - immediate with no turning back.

He stands looking into a sea of faces. He recognizes some of them as the knights he's been fighting alongside the for the last couple days. But they're not looking at him blankly now, like the generic face in the crowd he should be. They're looking at him as if he holds the answers, and that makes him want to bolt.

The knights standing at his side are instantly more recognizable. Galahad, Lancelot, Mordred, Merlin. The remaining Great Knights. There are are two other figures that he can't quite see. Which makes him...

The seventh Great Knight.

His heart pounds uncontrollably as he wrestles with this information. Why did they choose him? How could he have possibly put himself in this position, where everyone knows who he is. He's become a spectacle, a beacon to be dragged back to his family.

He's put Chel in danger.

But as the panic starts to narrow his vision and make his breathing shallow a black-clad hand reaches out and grips his shoulder. He looks up expecting one of the older Great Knights, but he's looking at the scarred face of his cousin instead. She doesn't look angry or panicked, she just gives him the familiar look of solidarity that immediately has him relaxing into her touch.

They were in this together. No matter the consequences, they were standing and facing them as a unit, just like they always had.

Chris woke in a cold sweat, the fabric of his dark tunic sticking to his skin. He's somehow knotted himself in the old and worn blanket he'd been using and the struggle to escape it's confines leaves him panting.

He's almost more tired than when he'd fallen asleep, but he doesn't dare go back and risk more dreams.