There weren't any signs of stress on her face. Wrinkles had not adorned themselves above her un-kempt brows, nor did the edges of her mouth sink into an uncomfortable frown. She laid in the image of a faerie tale, dreaming her days away through what appeared to be the most peaceful slumber she'd manage to slip into in months. It was ironic, really; anyone close to her would have been able to tell you that she had been unable to rest in the weeks prior due to plaguing nightmares, and here she was: a beauty, without a prince whose kiss could rouse.

Alba Gale Delores was admitted to the hospital along with the rest of Destiny City citizens that had fallen alongside her. She shared a room with a handful of students, all tucked in sterile white sheets and propped by a nylon-cotton blend pillow. The cover fabric was scratchy to the touch, but what did it matter? Alba's face wasn't the only one lost in a sea of complacency, and by the look of the monitors that trailed behind their beds, it didn't seem possible that any of them would be discomforted by it any time soon.

Or, at least, that was the consensus of those awake. Their own doubts and anxieties draped the room like a heavy curtain as their eyes flickered between the faces of those they missed and their very life line, pulsing faintly besides them on a dimly-lit screen. So many had seen that line draw to a close, and despite all the good news of people waking up, they couldn't help but fear the worst for their beloveds. It was difficult to hang on to hope when they themselves felt so overwhelmingly helpless.

However, this would not be the story of a girl's silent demise. One of the monitors in the room began to beep a little more persistently as Alba fought her nightmares on the other side of consciousness. It was all very clear to her: she and a group of other people were exploring an ominous fortress....or was it a temple? She had placed her hand against a wall that harbored a carved woman, only to jerk away in alarm at its ice-cold touch. They were all very frightened, something was clearly following them and they had only just left a dungeon haunted with betrayal and bones. There were words carving on their own against the stone wall, questions being answered, and then--

The first thing Alba noticed was the smell of disinfectant. Not rotting carcasses, not mold or the metallic scent of blood (that was smeared on her hands and knees), but soap and heavy-duty cleaners used on the linoleum-tiled floor. She gulped a lung-full of hospital air and realized that her ribs were sore. Her heart-beat raced as she slowly but surely moved through the rounds of her body: while difficult, she was able to twitch her fingers and toes into a subtle wiggle. She could hear the monitor's beeping grow louder with every attempt, though not all were successful. She could not move her arms or legs quite yet, and her eyelids were almost too heavy to open.

But open they did, a small sliver of sight, her long lashes protecting her vision from the burning fluorescent ceiling lights. She couldn't make out much, and nothing made any sense after what she'd gone through, but one thing stood out in her mind: the blur of dark, tousled hair that belonged to a Hillworth delinquent, who had either fallen asleep by her legs or had also decided that the lights were too bright to bare. Her heart screamed his name, though sadly, her lips would only produce an awkward croak of a noise in its place.

---

He was asleep. Simon Ferris, in his familiar frayed hand-me-downs, was quietly lurched over the edge of Alba's bed from the little plastic chair he was seated in. He was still very tall. It looked sort of comical; or at the very least, raised some concerns about his physical well being since the way he had fallen asleep looked the opposite of comfortable. The boy looked a mess -- when did he not, though, that was the one way he was distinguishable as a Hillworth student -- and was probably a couple shades of exhausted, given that he was able to drift off in such a way that would guarantee ungodly neck cramps in the near future.

Who could blame him, though; there had been a lot going on. Still was. Even with the veil of nightmares over the city being slowly but surely being pulled away, and people waking up after being in their bizarre sleep for so many weeks, the levels of stress in Destiny City Memorial were still high. There was so much for so many to catch up on, and even more to do.

For Simon and Alba, that would start with their reunion (strange you could call it that, since he'd been visiting her every day), with Simon having a fortunate bout of being a light sleeper and jerking awake when he heard the girl try to speak. It must have been how he'd been sleeping.

The boy looked tired, strained, sore -- and disbelieving, when first he glanced up, and then pulled himself to something of a more upright position to take a second look. His arms stayed where they were crossed over the bedsheets and his head slowly lurched upward, as if pulled up by some invisible cord. He turned his gaze over to Alba and blearily blinked -- once, twice, and after a moment of silent observation confirmed that, yes, she was awake and moving, alive and relatively well.

Simon sat up a little more straight, his arms shifting a bit, until one of his hands gingerly caught the fingers of one of hers: her hand was so much smaller and smoother, and her index finger was wrapped up in that plastic pincher that was connected via a long cord to some machine or another.

"Alba..." he started. His voice was cracked and raspy, he probably hadn't had a drink of water in hours. "It's okay... you're okay."

---

Her hand squeezed the long fingers that belonged to Simon, an almost desperate attempt to further reassure herself that he was there beside her and that no, she would not return to Camelot if she were to let go. There was nothing more real to her than the dark tan of his slender face, or the way his glasses slid half-way down the slope of his nose, or even how worrisome his eyes always seemed to express on a daily basis. Even more so now than ever, Alba observed, and it was then that she noticed the other patients in the room. Their bodies were lying still beneath thin hospital sheets, their chests slowly heaving in time with the beat of each heart monitor.

Were they dreaming, like she had? Were they stranded in a medieval time of iron maidens and crooked kings? Was she ever in a dream to begin with?

What had happened?

Her free hand shook for a moment before she was able to lift it and place it on the mattress, palm facing downward. There was a pause as she recollected herself, and then, slowly, she began to push. Alba knew that straining herself was probably not the best thing to do after waking up from a coma, but as it were, she was tired of lying down and feeling helpless. Her tongue wet her dry lips as she pushed harder, until finally, she was sitting up and facing her beloved friend. She looked into his tired eyes, and though she knew it wasn't her fault that he was in such a state, she couldn't help but feel like she was responsible for at least part of it.

Alba allowed herself to slump against his body, making sure to hide her face within her tangled hair and resting her forehead on his shoulder. "Thank you. Thank you for being here." She couldn't stop the tears from streaming, or for her hands to reach out and clasp behind his back to keep from falling back. However, if she could help it, Simon would not see or hear her cry as she choked back the sobs.