Englecon Mine, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

Pain.

Matthew's eyes fluttered as he came to consciousness. He was no stranger to pain, yet he sucked in a sharp breath all the same when it consumed his senses. Sharp jolts pounded in his head and stole his breath away when he shifted. His whole body ached. His broken wrist burned. His mouth was as dry as a desert.

It took his disoriented brain several seconds to realize where he was. Cold stone pressed against his back, slanted, his long legs somewhat tangled beneath him at the bottom of the pit. There was no level ground to speak of. He slid down a bit further as he struggled to sit up. The pain in his head was so severe that he grabbed it, a shuddering moan escaping chapped lips. Everything hurt.

He could barely see by the light of the torches above, but he could make out the outline of his hand before his face. Shifting, he forced himself to look up. The wall was probably fifteen feet high.

It was also streaked with blood.

"Abby." It was barely more than a groan. He swallowed, struggling to wet his dry tongue. "Abby!"

His raspy voice echoed through the room and gained no response. Matthew ducked his head, resting it on the cold stone, tears of grief and pain gathering in his eyes and tumbling down his cheeks. It hurt to cry, but it hurt so much more to try and hold it in.

Please don't be dead, he pleaded. You didn't deserve this. It should have been me.

He didn't know how long he had been passed out for. Had it been hours? Maybe days? The ever-present pain told him it couldn't have been very long, as his wounds were not yet healed. But then, he had never broken a bone before. His wrist was just that, and his skull might have been fractured as well. He hadn't seen what the Overseer had hit him with. Maybe a rock. Either way, it had done some serious damage. Possibly damage beyond his self-regenerating abilities.

That thought terrified him. Rolling onto his back, he slid down the wall until he was sitting, his legs curled up beneath him. He rested his broken wrist in his other hand, his sight blurred with his tears. His wrist was soft, nearly burning to the touch — the Warmth was hard at work, yet spread so thin between his wrist and his head that little was being achieved beyond dulling the pain to a bearable level. Sucking in a trembling breath, he tried to focus on his wrist. Rarely had he mentally tried focusing on healing his wounds. When the pain was severe, concentration for any length of time was nearly impossible. He tried anyway. He drew everything he had into focusing on his wrist, drawing every ounce of the Warmth to the fracture. As soon as the Warmth left his head, the agony strengthened and his concentration wavered. The world spun. He didn't know what he was even trying to do. Reset the bone? Was it even possible, with what little Warmth he had left?

No. The stabbing pain in his head forced him to stop. He dropped focus, taking several shaky breaths as the Warmth slipped from his mental grasp and returned to its prior state. The ache in his head dulled ever so slightly.

"The people see you as their saviour, boy! I suppose it's time to prove them wrong, isn't it?"

Well, he had proven them wrong, alright. Kylie and her comrades were dead. Abby could very well be dead as well. Matthew was stuck at the bottom of a pit, wounded beyond repair, having done nothing to help anyone.

Why hadn't he? What did he have to lose, in the end? His life? His life was forfeit anyway. So why was he so scared?

I don't want to die.

That was it. That was the truth. Matthew didn't want to die, it was as simple and as selfish as that.

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But what was there to live for? Was it possible that somewhere deep inside of him, Matthew hoped for something? Hoped for change? Could he really be grasping at the same string he scoffed at everyone else for holding?

There had to be more to life than this. He knew there was. He had experienced it — perhaps that was his downfall. He knew what it was like to have once curled up on Lily's bed, reading aloud a story from an old book while Lily played with Jules's hair. Calm. Carefree. He knew what Lily's laugh sounded like, how she had always tousled his hair. Their parents had warned them about the law against smiling and laughter, and yet it had never truly seemed to dawn on Lily although she was the eldest. She had smiled a lot. Taught Jules how. Made Matthew laugh.

Laughter. He had experienced it, he knew what it was. He had nearly forgotten its sound. Nearly. He could still hear Jules in his mind, hysterical as Matthew and Lily teamed up on her in a tickle war.

Matthew knew there was more. He wanted more. Maybe, in the end, that was why he was the Boy Who Wouldn't Die.

Sucking in a breath, Matthew gripped his broken wrist, gritted his teeth, and mentally pulled on the Warmth once more. His head pounded fiercely, a stab of pain accompanying every beat of his heart — a painful, glorious reminder that he was still alive. He concentrated, pushing everything he had into repairing the broken bone. He imagined it whole, welding back into place, renewed. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Fire had taken hold of his wrist.

It snapped. Matthew cried out as fiery pain exploded in his arm, echoing through his whole body. In an instant, the pain in his wrist was gone.

Panting, Matthew lifted his hand, rotating it at the joint, flexing his fingers. His wrist was normal. The pain had vanished. The bone had healed. He didn't know whether to be happy or relieved. He settled for the latter, dropping his aching head into his renewed hand. He fought to calm himself and steady his breathing as his whole body quaked from the effort. The Warmth seemed to be weary again. He was exhausted.

But he wasn't done. He fingered the back of his head. It was crusted with dried blood, and the wound had clotted, but it felt much worse inside than out. The pain was incredible, but the Warmth was dulling it. He tried to focus it all on the pain. It dulled a bit more. Whatever the Overseer had smashed him with, it had done a number on him — but if he had managed a broken bone, surely he could heal a battered skull.

So, once again, Matthew focused. He imagined his headache gone, his wound sealing itself. A fire stoked to life inside of his head. It blazed, adding to the pain. Shaking and trembling, Matthew slid down the wall further, his head in his hands, struggling to breathe. The fire raged within him, eating away the wound, eating away at him, doubling the pain until Matthew thought for sure he'd pass out. Lightning flickered across his vision; he heard someone sobbing far, far away — was that him? He was in deep, deep inside his mind, being burned alive, fighting against everything inside of him.

Please!

A loud snap exploded in his ears. His mind shattered. He found himself face-first on the bottom of the pit, his legs tangled beneath him, his cheek pressed against stone. For several seconds, he couldn't remember what had happened or where he was. Everything felt lighter as if he'd suddenly float up and away without warning — he felt empty, but strangely whole all at once.

The pain was gone. Gone! He had done it!

Breathing raggedly, he pushed himself to his knees. The back of his head felt normal — in fact, he felt no scar of any sort on his skin. His headache had ceased but his head felt fuzzy. Sitting still for several long seconds helped clear it. He took deep breaths, staring down at his hands. The Warmth within him seemed a bit stronger than before, and as he coaxed light to his hands, they glowed a bit brighter. The light was comforting. He closed his eyes, letting the wetness of his tears dry on his cheeks.

Oceania's voice echoed in his mind: "You're so much more."

She had seemed so sure of herself, so serious. Were her words spoken from her feelings, or from her knowledge? Matthew lifted his head, suddenly remembering the conversation he had overheard between Sabine and Oceania weeks before:

"Are you still having those dreams?"

"Yes."

The more he thought about it, the more he began to suspect they had been talking about him all along. Kylie had said there were Dreamers among them. Matthew put two and two together almost immediately: Oceania was a Dreamer. But what was a Dreamer? He had never heard the term used before, but he knew what it meant: Oceania knew a lot more about him than she was letting on. But why him? Why was he singled out in these dreams? Or rather, visions? The only explanation was the Warmth. His magic.

He had to talk to Oceania. But how?