I sank into a series of nightmares.

Sometimes, I surfaced with effort, trying to open my eyes without success—my eyelids felt glued shut. 

Was I already dead?

I heard voices in the distance and wanted to call out—to ask something... but what? I couldn’t remember. Either way, I couldn’t open my mouth. It was too dry. The voices faded, and I slipped back into unconsciousness.

I saw the shimmering surface of a vast lake. I was lying on the shore, deeply asleep. 

I must be dead. 

I couldn’t even hear my own breathing. But it didn’t matter anymore—on that shore, I felt calm, at peace. A light wind rippled the water’s surface. I let myself sink deeper into this serene sleep.

Then a disturbing sensation crept in—something pulling me back into a nightmare. In the dream, someone leaned over me, an indistinct figure, checking my pulse and shaking me.

Damn it. Leave me alone. Go away.

They wanted to wake me, but the dead can’t be woken—it was ridiculous. I tried to laugh, but only managed a groan. The person shouted something incomprehensible, and others rushed over. They grabbed me under the arms and lifted me, triggering an excruciating pain. I didn’t like this nightmare. I wanted another. I wanted to go back to the lake. But I couldn’t. They were dragging me away.

Leave me. Leave me alone!

The pain was unbearable—but a dead man isn’t supposed to feel pain. It made no sense. People were talking, but in a language I didn’t recognize. Was it Slavic? Italian? Spanish? I couldn’t tell. I only perceived the tone: urgency, panic.

A jolt, and I moaned. Someone was pressing a cloth against my wound—hard. Too hard. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to push the hand away, but someone brushed my arm aside like it was nothing. I had no more strength than a child. Darkness claimed me again.

I awoke, sweating, lying on a bed. But where? A hospital?

Someone was leaning over me, tending to my wound. Other men moved around the room, shadows at the edge of my vision. No... this wasn’t a hospital. It was somewhere else.

I tried to sit up. A voice called out, “A little help here, he needs to stop moving.”

A massive figure approached, and a weight like a cement block pinned me down.

I groaned. I had to remember something important—but what?

Images swarmed my mind—armed men in combat gear. They were about to enter. We had to act. They were going to attack. I tried to warn them.

“They’re here—we need to...”

My voice was hoarse, barely audible. Still, I pushed.

“They’re here. We need to prepare, we need—”

“He’s delirious,” someone muttered.

“He’s burning up with fever,” said the man holding me down, his grip like iron.

No. I remembered now. The men weren’t coming. They were already here. They had killed them.

“MURDERERS!”

My voice roared with a strength I didn’t know I had. Even to my ears, it sounded a bit melodramatic.

The man trying to restrain me muttered, “Calm down, kid, we’re trying to help.”

From the corner of the room, a commanding voice replied, “It’s no use, Nicolaus. He’s in full delirium.”

I was pinned down again. Someone placed compresses on my side.

“I’m done,” said a calm voice. “I’m giving him an antibiotic injection—and something to help him sleep.”

I had to resist. I couldn’t let them sedate me. If I spoke, everything would be lost. But I was too slow. I felt the sting of a needle in my arm.

“I will protect, I will serve, and if necessary—”

The words spilled from my mouth on their own, familiar and comforting. A voice next to me quietly finished the sentence:

“...if necessary, I will die.”