[b]Observatory.[/b]

The awakening wasn't quick. Sidwell shuddered and a blurring sea of vision leaked back into his eyes, but for him, one dream had merely given way to another, for he was well used to shutting the real world out of his mind. Soon, almost forcibly, he dozed again.

When the gentler dreams had tugged Sidwell's drifting body back to the shallows by the shoulder, he began to feel the intrusiveness of his new surroundings. The hardness, pushing his poorly covered bones back into him. He'd slept in worse places, but not for a long while, and this was not the feel of a hammock. His ears opened. Creaking, yes, but no wind with it. Why was his cabin creaking if there wasn't a storm?

His body woke with a shudder of effort, pushed against the floor, blinked wide. Nothing but fuzz. They blinked again, straining. Slits of light in the roof, then walls. Not his walls. Grander than that, and greener. Everything felt green, just softly greening away in the quiet. Sitting position. His eyes reached the floor and found the others.

Shock finally found Sidwell, shaking him, throwing a hand before his mouth, backing up until his shoulders hit a hard surface. He stood, still in the workwear he had fallen asleep in, still pressing against the wall at his back as if it could save him. [i]Then surely I have died, and this is Hell.[/i] For Sidwell had never known any alternative answer to a change such as this. Prayed desparately in his whispers, his free hand made a cross on himself, but his eyes did nothing but gaze at them, the strangers, the foreigners. They were three, all sleeping. A young woman in a red framework mask and two children, one with almost long hair, one completely bald, the first with almost thick enough clothes for a snow, the second in jewels of a noble's son. They were likely no more than fifteen and twelve, by height. Both were from nowhere near Flidais. They had no such look about them.

The fourth object on the floor was his hat. Thoughts interrupted, Sidwell stooped to take it back up, relishing its familiarity. It fit as well as if he had woven it for himself, and he had. It brought comfort.

In a better state of mind, Sidwell saw the curved shape of the room, and turned to follow it. He had been leaning against not a wall but a great pillar, supporting at its head a vast tubular object completely foreign to him. And the pillar, too, was green with vines. Under it was wood. [i]Hell is the place where the worms never die, nor the fire is ever quenched. There is no fire here.[/i] There were even books, under the green- Many, many books, more than he'd ever seen even at a monastery. They brought up poor memories. There was a low table. Sidwell stepped towards it, squinting at the oddly elegant tangle of brass rings and spheres resting on it, unwilling to touch what seemed to have an importance all of its own, and a value likely greater than his own life. He turned further, restless. A man, this one wakeful, with his back to him and his face to a shelf. He wore, like the child, well-dyed and well-made clothes. There were black marks on his arms.

Sidwell removed his hat and took a step, then stopped. He did not know what he'd see if the man showed his face to him. Demon? Or merely another sufferer in this strangest circle of Hell?

[i]What God has ordained, let be,[/i] he thought, and stepped a little closer. "God bless you and the day, friend," he spoke aloud.