He turns in his sleep, his dreams disturbed by other dreams of other dreams he dreamed. Finally, he manages to roll onto his (fortunately sheathed) sword and is rudely awakened by the impression the shell guard makes on his stomach.

He reaches for the empty flagon and finds it empty, tosses it away.

His head hurts, and only another flagon of...let's see...sack will do. Yes. A flagon of sack. The drink of Falstaff. Yeah. A sagon of flack. The very thing.