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They say that when you have insomnia you are never truly asleep and never truly awake. With insomnia nothing is real; everything is a copy of a copy of a copy. Now imagine not being able to sleep ever, damned for eternity to never know rest of any kind. Under those circumstances, it’s a miracle that anyone would be able to hold onto a semblance of sanity. But Hrothbert of Bainbridge wasn’t just anyone.
At the beginning, not being able to sleep was almost a gift. For without sleep there were no dreams, and without dreams there were no loving moments with his wife only to awake and realize anew that she was gone forever. So, no sleep could only be a good thing. After all, no dreams also meant no nightmares.
As time passed, weeks fading into months, months into years, and years into centuries, Hrothbert realized what a punishment never sleeping was. Without sleep, things began to blend together, and a certain detachment formed. Devoid of a natural break, time became meaningless, consequences unimportant. What did it matter what happened tomorrow, when there was no end to an eternity of servitude insight. Indeed, the very idea was laughable.
One might argue that sleep is not necessary for dreams, helpful, but not essential. However, Hrothbert was lacking one other necessary ingredient. Hope. Without hope there can be no dreams, and hope was much too dangerous an emotion for someone in Hrothbert’s position. In the right circumstances hope could drive a person insane, especially when there was not a chance in hell of it being fulfilled.
Despite all this, Hrothbert kept on, not that he had a choice. Passed from generation to generation, he served his masters as he was cursed to do, and amused himself when he could. Time and monotony disconnected him from reality to an extent. Until one day a little boy changed everything, and brought reality snapping right back into focus.