At first he’d thought it was his imagination. Of course Meduseld would seem dark and gloomy after having been riding in the fresh, open air for weeks. It was a bright, sunny day outside, which only made the progression from outdoors to indoors all the more noticeable. But soon Thengel realized that the feeling of gloom was coming from more than just his own perceptions of the darkness. An almost tangible heaviness hung over Meduseld, and it was easy to recognize the wariness in the servants scurrying past. They were frightened of something.

It was apparent, from the way his brows were drawn together, that Silfren had sensed the same thing. Of the three of them, only Théoden seemed unaffected.

Wanting to talk with Silfren without worrying his son, Thengel urged, “Théoden, why don’t you go find your mother, hmm?”

Théoden grinned at the idea, immediately darting off ahead. He’d enjoyed the trip, but it felt wonderful to be home—and he was dying to tell his mother all about the journey.

The moment he was out of hearing, Silfren spoke, “What do you think is wrong?”

“I was hoping you might have an idea.”

“None whatsoever.”

“I hope Eothald hasn’t done anything regrettable. Like get himself drunk,” Thengel stated darkly. He knew Eothald was harmless enough, but he had a nagging feeling that leaving a “harmless” person in charge might not have been one of his wisest decisions. He was anxious, now, to find out how Eothald had done in his absence. “Let us find him, and see how he has performed his duties while I was away.”

Silfren nodded grimly, and followed him towards Eothald’s private chambers. “I have a bad feeling about all this, your Majesty.”

“Well you could have told me that before we left,” Thengel growled.

“I’m still working on perfecting my foresight, Majesty,” Silfren responded, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. They’d had this conversation, in varying forms, and on varying subjects, many times before.

Thengel knocked on Eothald’s door.

“Enter.”

Eothald, with Heolstor across from him, sat around a round table, situated to one side of the room. Heolstor rose immediately, Eothald responding to his presence at a slower rate.

“My Lord,” Heolstor exclaimed in surprise.

“My Lord!” Eothald echoed him. After an awkward pause, he added, “We did not expect you back so soon, but it is good to have you back, my Lord.”

Thengel smiled, and only Silfren noticed the uneasiness that lingered in the tightness of his features. “Yes, well I dare say we made the return trip a little more quickly than we need have, and thus shortened the journey by a day or so.”

Another long pause followed, as Eothald continued to blink rather blearily at them.

The tightness in Thengel’s face ebbed a little. Apparently, there was no emergency… “It is good to be back.” Testing his words, he probed cautiously, “Has anything happened while I was away?”

A look of unease flickered across Eothald’s face. “Well…uh…there has…”

Thengel’s gaze roved between Heolstor and Eothald. He could feel Silfren supportive presence close behind him. “Well? Report,” he commanded sternly. If something had gone wrong, then he wanted a full explanation as soon as possible, not this cowardly stalling.

Heolstor spoke up softly. “I’m afraid something has happened, my Lord… Thorongil…he…” His voice trailed off miserably.

“Will someone tell me what is going on? What about Thorongil?” Thengel demanded. He was now suddenly distinctly aware of Thorongil’s absence. Surely word had spread by now that he was back. Why wasn’t Thorongil here reporting to him, as he’d always done so promptly? “Eothald—speak now.”

Eothald gulped, but drew himself up, all of a sudden looking not quite so timid. His voice was unwavering, and held even a tinge of confidence. “Thorongil has been arrested.”

Thengel and Silfren stared at him.

“And what, pray tell, has he been arrested for?” Thengel asked, his voice deceptively devoid of emotion.

“On the grounds of treason.” Eothald stated it almost proudly.

“Where is he?”

“In prison, of course, awaiting his trial.”

Thengel’s voice remained colorless, his face frozen in barely registered and controlled shock. “Trial. I see. Eothald, you are relieved of your duties as of now.” His eyes drilled into Eothald. “Would you care to explain your reasons for arresting him?”

Eothald’s mouth worked silently a few minutes, as he cringed under the sweltering anger that emanated from Thengel. “I-I…” He swallowed and lifted his chin determinately. “I have my reasons, but they are too elaborate to present at moment’s notice. I wouldn’t have arrested him if I didn’t have a number of good reasons.”

It took all Thengel’s powers of self-control not to do physical damage to his brother—by law, thankfully, not blood—at that moment. “The ‘trial’ will take place in ten minutes. Bring the…prisoner to the Golden Hall. Along with your evidence.” Then he turned on his heel without another word.

Silfren followed him out of the room. He didn’t dare say a word until Thengel chose to speak to him. He recognized the bland tone the King was using, and knew to respect it and hold his peace. He knew the kind of explosion such false “calmness” could be a forerunner to. With Thengel, it was always the calm before the storm. And so he only followed, practically jogging to keep up with Thengel’s long strides. That wasn’t a good sign either, he decided, with an inward grimace.

“Come, Silfren, we must talk.”

Silfren didn’t waste his breath sighting in relief, but hurried to Thengel’s side. “Yes, your Majesty?”

“Don’t start being discreet and diplomatic now Silfren—I need you to talk to me. What on Arda has possessed them all? I need answers, Silfren, and I need them now.”

“I don’t know the answers any more than you do, my friend…”

Thengel was silent again. They had reached the Golden Hall. He strode up the short flight of stairs and sank onto the throne in the center of the dais. Silfren took his place on the seat to his left, and waited patiently.

Thengel was leaning on one elbow, running thumb and forefinger repeatedly over his beard. “Treason, Silfren, treason. And Thorongil of all people… What madness is this?”

Knowing his lord’s moods well, Silfren only nodded, waiting for the opportune moment to give input.

“It’s as if the moment I turn my back all Mordor has broken loose! What accusation could they possibly have against Thorongil? What plausible accusation could they possibly have?”

“I can’t think of any, myself,” Silfren said quietly. “We shall just have to wait and see.”

To his relief, Thengel appeared to be calming. “Aye, you are right, of course. But this whole thing seems like a farce or an elaborate joke. Not an amusing one.”

“It’s bound to be a mistake, my Lord. All shall be explained.”

“Yes, it shall.”

People were beginning to drift into the hall, trickling in one by one. Word had spread, either of the King’s return, or of the trial, or probably of both. Curiosity and concern showed on the faces of most of those gathering. They hung back in the shadows of the pillars, watching and waiting for something to happen.

“Thengel!”

Thengel’s head snapped around at sound of the familiar voice. He rose when he saw Morwen coming towards him, along with Théoden, Araedhelm, and Captain Anborn. To his confusion, two guards were with her as well. One was timidly supporting her… Then he realized she was limping.

“Morwen?”

Morwen disdainfully stepped away from the guard, shooting him an annoyed glance, but then turned a brighter countenance on Thengel. “Thengel, thank the gods you are back.”

Thengel held out his hand to her. “You are hurt…”

She brushed it off. “I only sprained my ankle—it is nothing, truly.” She glanced around at the gathering crowed. “What is happening?”

“Oh, nothing, my dear,” Thengel’s eyes too wandered over the murmuring clusters of people. “This is all one big joke of some kind. The trial,” he spat out the word. “of Captain Thorongil will soon take place.”

“Then you received my message?” Morwen leaned towards him, still furtively keeping watch out of the corner of her eye. “I was hoping I could also be the first to talk to you, in private, as soon you’d returned, but certain…limitations have made it quite impossible for me to know anything of what goes on outside my rooms these last few days, and—”

“Limitations?” Thengel looked at her in confusion. “And what message?”

Morwen instantly regretted having used that particular choice of words. Thengel would never let it drop, and right now she only wished to be filling him in about Thorongil’s predicament. “I sent a messenger to warn you of circumstances here.” Thengel’s frown deepened. They were definitely going to have to look into the whereabouts of the messenger. Later. Morwen had a bad feeling about what could have happened to him, but there was no need to jump to conclusions. The man had been intelligent and responsible and efficient—she wouldn’t have sent him otherwise—but he could have gotten…lost. She blocked other thoughts of reasons for his failure momentarily from her mind, not wanting to dwell just now on any more sinister possibilities. “I’ll tell you about it later, right now it’s the Captain I’m worried about.”

The sound of a throat being cleared nearby alerted them to the presence of Captain Anborn, who stood patiently before the throne, with Araedhelm just behind him.

“Sire, things have been somewhat…chaotic since your return. Forgive me for interrupting but, what is all of this? Do you wish a formal report…now…here?”

Thengel almost smiled at Anborn’s obvious bewilderment. “Oh, no, no, Captain. No need for a formal report. This… Well, I’m waiting for the ‘prisoner’ to be brought to trial.”

Understanding flooded Anborn’s face in an almost comical rush. Araedhelm, behind him, burst out with a “But my Lord he hasn’t done it—”, which was quickly cut off by Thengel, as well as Anborn’s immovable arm holding him back.

Responding to them both, Thengel said resolutely, “Do not worry, Lieutenant, whatever ‘it’ is, I’m certain Thorongil hasn’t done it. He will have a fair trial—and a quick one if I have anything to say about it.”

“And, being the King, Sire, you do have some say in the matter.” Silfren smiled encouragingly.

Anborn looked over his shoulder, as loud footsteps heralded the approach of soldiers. “I believe the… prisoner has just arrived.” He bowed to Thengel, and hauled a still-adamant Araedhelm to the side.

Eothald and Heolstor approached first, and when they parted, moving a little to either side, Thengel received his first glimpse of the accused. He wasn’t entirely sure of what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this… This bedraggled version of his friend. His attention turned from the threadbear tunic he was wearing, to the chains manacling his wrists, to the bruises that marked his haggard face. He hadn’t had enough time to pause and actually consider what being imprisoned might entail, other than limited freedom and humiliation.

He looked over, briefly, at his wife. Morwen’s usually gentle eyes were fiercely lit. Théoden, by her side, looked ready to attack the guards that flanked Thorongil, restraining his arms. But Morwen held his hand, and he could but watch his hero’s humiliation, and clench his small jaw in childish indignation.

Thengel turned a stony face back on the small procession, aiming his specific attention towards Eothald, who squirmed satisfactorily. “State your charges against Captain Thorongil, and show your evidence, if you have any.”

Eothald rallied his courage at hearing the questions. “The charge is simple, my Lord. He is a traitor.”

A ripple of surprise waved over the still ever-multiplying crowd of onlookers.

“And your evidence?” Thengel inquired with deceptive coolness.

Eothald motioned to Heolstor. “Bring it.”

Heolstor looked miserable, but he complied, handing him a small stack of paper.

Eothald took the paper on top, the one from a man called “Halbarad”, unfolded it, and began to read aloud, emphasizing certain points. He concluded, “Nothing so sinister as these next letters I am about to show you, but it does imply a great deal, does it not? Obviously, the good Captain had lofty ambitions from the very start.”

Thengel raised an eyebrow. “So now those with high aspirations automatically fall under the category of traitors?”

Hesitant laughter came from the crowd, and Eothald’s face flushed red. “No, of course not, I merely point out that he may not be so very humble and ready to serve as he’s led us all to believe.”

“I’m still waiting for the evidence,” Thengel said, voice frigid.

“Very well, then listen to this,” Eothald shoved the previous letter back at Heolstor and energetically held up the next letter. “You see this?” He walked closer to the dais.

Thengel looked. And shrugged. “All I see is a letter, written in some elvish script…”

“Exactly! Elvish. What business does he have conversing with elves? He’s always kept his past very close. Haven’t you ever stopped to consider the reason? Maybe there are secrets there he can’t afford to have anyone know, maybe—”

“Maybe the Captain simply prefers to keep his private life private.”

Thengel concurred wholeheartedly with Araedhelm’s outburst, but he had to keep this “trial”—however ridiculous—somewhat formal. If only to get it over with more quickly. He nodded to Anborn, who helpfully gripped Araedhelm by the shoulder.

At the same time, Thengel took a moment to glance over at Thorongil again. He stood stolidly between his guards. Thengel noted the way his shoulders had begun to slump since Eothald had begun to read the letters, and the way he closed his eyes, wearily bowing his head just slightly. Dark hair fell forward to hide much of his features, but he could still make out the unmistakable look of dejection on his face. No guilt, no fear, just a sad kind of resignation.

It was then that Thengel realized exactly what this must be doing to the private, quiet captain, who even in his moments of honor had always preferred to take a back seat, sometimes almost to the point of appearing shy. Now, he was being purposefully, and publicly humiliated, having his until-now carefully secret past paraded around for all to see.

Feeling his anger building, he decided the sooner they ended this the better. “Lord Eothald, if this is all you have to show…”

Eothald interrupted the King eagerly. “Oh no! That’s not all! That not nearly all I have to show.” He unfolded the last letter. “Here I have a letter—would you like to hear how it begins?”

“Only if it bears directly on this subject.”

“Yes, of course.” For a second, Eothald donned an almost apologetic expression. “I must ask the Queen’s pardon for using this particular evidence, since it does bring her into this unfortunate business, but since his Majesty won’t accept—”

Thengel set up rigidly. “What do you mean by that? What about the Queen?”

“I pains me to have to tell you this, but while you were away, this traitor attempted to seduce your wife. No doubt to further his plans by taking advantage of your trust.”

“How dare you bring such accusations!” Thengel exploded.

Eothald waved the paper in his hand, holding it aloft as if the very sight would win his case. “But you have not heard this yet. This is a letter which may cause you to think differently about what I say.” Before Thengel order him to stop, he began to read, starting with the tender address, “My Dearest,” and after many tender but vague endearments, ending with, “Your future queen.”

By now, Thengel was ready spring from the throne and mete out justice, personally, on Eothald. But Eothald, in his drug-induced frenzy, wasn’t nearly finished.

“What about this?” he almost yelled in triumph, now holding out a lock of dark hair. “This was also found with the letter.” His wild eyes flew to Morwen. “A lock of dark hair—obviously a woman’s.”

Morwen could bear it no longer, and rose stiffly. “And you say it is mine?” Before Thengel could react, she’d briskly stalked forward and snatched the lock of hair from Eothald. She held it close to a strand of her own wavy locks. “Look!” She smiled disdainfully at Eothald. “They do not even match.” Next to each other, it was easy to see the difference: the lock of hair held against Morwen’s was obviously darker, as well as straighter. She grabbed the letter from Eothald’s suddenly nerveless fingers, placing the lock of hair on it and refolding it with reverence. “This belong solely to Thorongil—and was not penned by me.”

Thengel didn’t bother to cover his own contempt. “I believe this trial is at an end.” His attention couldn’t help but continue to wander back to Thorongil. Although he was obviously trying to hide his emotions, they had been all too plain when Eothald had opened the supposedly damning love letter. Even now, the mortification had not left his expression, and in the aftermath he looked unusually vulnerable. “Release the prisoner.”

Eothald didn’t know defeat when he saw it. Desperately, he ordered Heolstor to hand him the last piece of evidence. When he held it aloft, he finally received the shocked silence he’d been searching for.

Morwen stared at the gold and green chain of office that dangled from his fingers. “Where did you get that?”

Thengel was on his feet. Silfren frowned. All of them recognized the piece of jewelry as the prince’s royal chain of office.

Eothald smirked. “I found it in Captain Thorongil’s room, in his desk. Now do you begin to see my reasoning? Captain Thorongil has been playing a double game: smiling and charming to your face, and plotting to take your kingdom behind your back.”

Thengel was frozen. He didn’t know what to think. Thorongil couldn’t be guilty of Eothald’s mad accusations, he just could believe it… If the look of dazed surprise on Thorongil’s face was any indication, he was just as confused as any of them. But how had this come into his possession, then? After the recent attempt on his life, he was inclined to think it might have been purposefully planted. But by whom, and why…? Eothald was acting completely out of character—he was like different man—but surely he still wouldn’t have done such a thing.

Eothald, exultant in his success, was still gloating aloud. “He’s quite a skilled deceiver. Who knows what his plans were, but in time, no doubt, he planned on slitting your throats, or hiring someone else to do it.”

“Liar!” The youthful voice rang out with righteous anger. Théoden scrambled down the dais to his mother’s side, glaring all the while at Eothald, and looking frighteningly like his father. “Thorongil didn’t steal it or…do whatever it is you’re saying he did. I know he didn’t!”

“Théo, do you know something about this? Do you know how this came to be in Thorongil’s desk?” Morwen took him gently by the shoulder.

In his wrath, Théoden was too worked up to care that Morwen had used the embarrassing abbreviation of his name in public. He nodded vigorously. “Yes, I do.” Feeling the eyes of so many people on him, he shifted a little nervously from foot to foot. “I…put it there.” He rushed to explain, “I put it there because…well…I-I knew it was worth a lot, and I wanted to give Thorongil a surprise…for his birthday.”

For the first time, the silence in the room was not caused by strain, but rather the opposite, as many tried to conceal their amusement. And relief. It even wiped the anger of Thengel’s face for a moment.

The King’s face hardened again when he spoke to Eothald. “I think my son’s word is trustworthy evidence, enough to shatter this last bit of ‘proof’.”

Eothald’s face was completely devoid of color by now. “B-but I…I was sure he…had to…”

If he hadn’t been so blindly furious by now, Thengel might have actually felt a touch of pity, for the man was genuinely confused now. He’d been completely convinced that his case was a just and true one.

But Thengel wasn’t in a forgiving mood. His eyes burned into Eothald’s miserable form, as he spoke with a barely-controlled voice. “Release Captain Thorongil. This trial is over.”

The chains rattled for a few moments, as the guards hastened to obey. During the trial, they’d both begun to realize the possible danger of their position, and were quick to let go of Thorongil.

For the second time, Thorongil’s eyes met the King’s. He offered a wan smile. A very wan smile. If his smile lacked cheerfulness, however, his eyes didn’t lack gratitude. The contact was broken when Thorongil began to sway slightly. Opportunely, Araedhelm was already at his side offering support. Thengel’s premature relief was clouded with concern, and he too rushed forward.

“Captain, are you well?” Araedhelm asked, allowing Thorongil to lean heavily on his shoulder.

Thorongil nodded, but the gesture was feeble at best. The sudden cough that wracked his frame instantly belied his answer. Araedhelm wouldn’t have been fooled anyways.

“Don’t even start telling me you’re ‘fine’—you’re shaking, Captain,” Araedhelm whispered fiercely, as he began to support Thorongil as they continued down the long hall. He knew that if his Captain were shaking, it wasn’t from fear.

Thengel walked at his other side, and a small and worried procession formed behind him, Morwen and Théoden included. The crowd began to disperse, but some still watched them leave with open concern.

Araedhelm wasn’t paying attention to anyone but Thorongil. He hadn’t failed to notice the way his captain was becoming more and more dependent upon him for support—or the way he simultaneously seemed to flinch away from contact. Araedhelm was almost as relieved as Thorongil when they reached his room, and Thorongil slumped down onto the bed. Araedhelm took to eyeing him with redoubled anxiety when an ill-concealed moan fled his lips as he leaned back against the headboard.

“Captain, how much did they hurt you?” Araedhelm asked point blank.

Behind him, Thengel was listening with mounting alarm. He stepped closer to the bed, watching Thorongil just as closely as his lieutenant. “Are you hiding wounds, Captain? Or should I say trying to hide wounds? It’s obvious you’re hurt in some way.” Without turning, he called for Neylor.

The call was unnecessary, for, by quickly spread rumor, or pure instinct, Neylor was already shuffling through the door. By way of explanation, he only muttered as he set his supplies down on the bed stand, “I had a feeling you wouldn’t stay healed for long. Reckless men like you never do… Now, let’s see what the damage is.”

Thorongil looked the epitome of embarrassment, glancing from worried face to worried face, yet all of them unyielding in one regard. Even Théoden, holding tight to Morwen’s hand, was watching him evenly. With a soft moan, he relaxed into the softness of the pillows behind him. Eru it felt wonderful… And, Eru, did he feel old and tired. The throbbing of his irritated skin was incessant, and all he wanted was to lose the pain to unconsciousness.

“No sleeping quite yet, Captain.”

Thorongil blinked, realized he had in fact begun to drift off. Upon opening his eyes, he realized that the room had cleared out, with only Araedhelm and Thengel remaining. No doubt thanks to some of Neylor’s ‘magic’. He stared wearily into the old man’s craggy face, hearing him talk, without actually listening. Dismally, he realized that the draught of nameless drug Rador had given him early that day had yet lose its last effects. He forced himself to pour all his limited attention into focusing on Neylor’s voice. At least it was something to focus on, other than the pain.

Neylor was looking intently into his eyes, placing a cool hand against his temple. “Just as I thought. It would appear you’ve managed to get yet another concussion. If you ever fully recovered the first time.” He frowned disapprovingly.

“It wasn’t like I asked to be repeatedly hit in the head…” Thorongil muttered. Had he looked up, he could have seen his lieutenant, fairly bristling with anger.

Neylor’s frown of disapproval melted into frown of concentration. “Be that as it may, here you are, in a sorry state once again. I don’t suppose you gave that knife wound proper time to heal, either?”

Even in his tired state, Thorongil knew not to push his luck with a healer, but his mind overflowed with sarcastic retorts. Of course not, reckless patient that I am, I tore out the stitches the moment you turned your back. After that, I decided prison might be a good place to recuperate…

Neylor shook his head. “Let’s get it over with, and have a look at it.” He motioned to Araedhelm. “Get his shirt off while I retrieve the water. It should be hot enough by now.”

Araedhelm, who’d had more experience dealing with a wounded Thorongil than he cared to think of, knew better than to assume his appointed task would be simple. He took courage in the fact that his captain hardly looked capable of putting up much of a fight. He was even more encouraged when he actually managed to loosen the first couple laces of Thorongil’s shirt without having his hand swatted at.

Of course, a complaint was still in order. Thorongil murmured something about being “perfectly capable of undoing his own shirt”—and then promptly proved himself wrong by failing in the simple task of sitting up straight.

“Captain, just relax,” Araedhelm urged.

Thorongil obeyed at first, but the next moment his whole body tensed. Araedhelm halted, staring as the source of his pain was revealed in part.

Neylor was back, looking over his shoulder as he set down a bowl of steaming water. His face was very sober as he unceremoniously pushed Araedhelm out of his was to get a better view. “I think your dagger might be of use once again, Lieutenant,” he said calmly.

The only healing experience Araedhelm could claim had come from the battle field, and this was unlike anything he’d seen there. But if he was any judge, the redness that covered much of the skin on Thorongil’s chest looked suspiciously like burns. More blisters were uncovered as Neylor cut away the rest of his shirt. Thorongil shivered as the comparatively cool air made contact with his skin. Noticing it for the first time, Araedhelm saw that there was even a red mark under his chin, streaking across his jaw. It made him flinch just to look at it.

Neylor was looking dismally at the inflamed knife wound, which had obviously been healing well—until recently. Now it looked to be infected. Neylor began his work without comment, glancing at neither king nor lieutenant.

Unwilling to do nothing as he had last time, Araedhelm hovered close behind Neylor, trying to contain his emotions for the time being, but feeling for all the world like running from the room to hunt down Eothald. He’d dearly have enjoyed squeezing information out of that man—such as who’d done this to Thorongil. If Eothald had personally done it, then the worse for him. Much worse.

Neylor spared him a precious second, taking the time to shoot him an irritated glare. “You’re making me nervous. Do something useful for a change. Take another cloth and wipe his face.”

Araedhelm moved to comply.

“No,” Neylor snapped. “Use the bowl of cold water—keep his face cool. He’s running a bit of a fever. And give him some to drink, too. We don't want to have dehydration to worry about on top of everything else."

"A little late for that, I think," Thorongil muttered.

Then it was Thengel’s turn to hover. The minutes ticked by slowly, and when Neylor didn’t come up with something for him to do, he began to pace, running a distracted hand through his hair. He didn’t know who he was angrier at: Eothald, or himself. How many days had he wasted in getting here? How many times had he slowed his pace to a leisurely one? He couldn’t have known, but it tore at his heart to think of what had been going on while he was gone. Not only had Thorongil suffered, but undoubtedly Morwen had as well. He was dying to talk to her, and hear everything, but he had to know about Thorongil first.

Araedhelm was in just as much turmoil, trying to ignore the occasional moans of his friend and captain, as Neylor continued the painful, but necessary, job of cleaning his wounds. He turned the events of the last few weeks over and over in his mind, and kept coming to a dead end whenever he tried to think of something he could have done to prevent this. That didn’t mean he couldn’t blame himself. Guilt, at least, was a change in emotions from anger.

Thorongil was finding it increasingly hard to stay awake. At first, even Neylor’s gentle care felt brutal on his irritated skin, but when he began smoothing some cool ointment over the burns it felt wonderful—so wonderful, he found it difficult to keep prying his eyelids back open. He felt more coolness, touching his face, and could easily guess who the other someone at his side might be. He wanted to talk to Araedhelm, but knew his energy was too far spent to do so yet. He just relaxed, fighting against sleep with all his remaining willpower. The last thing he remembered was finally being released by a voice somewhere to his right.

“We’ll have to wake you periodically, but you can go to sleep for now, Captain.

It was all he needed to hear.