He awoke in a pool of sweat, his nightclothes drenched and redolent of the scent
of fear. His entire body trembled like a ravenwood leaf in an approaching storm,
and a single tear oozed from his right eye. With a shaking hand, he flicked it
away, ashamed of his weakness.

For more years than he could count, he had been waking up like this, ridden
with terror from a nightmare that he never remembered afterward. Sometimes,
during the day, he would run across something that recalled a horrible snatch
of memory, tugging at his thoughts. Otherwise, the nightmare was lost as soon
as he awoke. A small voice inside his mind whispered that perhaps it was best
that he never remembered, if only because then he never had to face the source
of that maddening fear.

Angry at himself, he clenched his jaw and silenced the voice in his mind. He
was Ebonguard and strength was his lifeblood. All his life, he had sought to be
as cunning as Crow, as subtle as Night, and as inexorable as the Wyrd itself. He
would endure, and someday he would overcome these terrible unremembered dreams.

If only he could remember what these dreams were trying to tell them, he
thought in frustration. If only he could understand what about them terrified
him so much, he could find where his own weakness lay.

Beside him, he felt the blankets stir. "Dearest?" his wife whispered. "What's
wrong?"

"It's nothing," he said quietly. "Go back to sleep."

She shook her head, refusing to be dissuaded. "It's those dreams again, isn't
it?" Heedless of his denials, she continued "You must let me help you. You
can't go on sleeping like this."

The Ebonguard heaved a sigh. This was not the first time she had insisted on
trying to alleviate his nightmares. After all, his wife was not only a
Blacktalon druidess whose skills in combat equalled his own, but also a
powerful Dreamweaver. Even he had to admit that, if anyone in the world could
possibly help him overcome his nightmares, she probably had the best chance of
doing so.

Before, he had always refused her, not wanting his problems to become hers. But
now, between the fear and frustration that still gripped him and the loving
compassion in her face, he slowly relented. "All right. Do what you must."

A smile stole across her face as she considered the task before her. "To be
able to help you, I must first put you to sleep and then take the form of a
dreambody. Only then can I enter your dreams and heal them from within. Do not
be afraid when you see me thus in your mind. I will be there so that I can help
you dispel what troubles you.

He snorted. "I am Ebonguard. I fear nothing."

His wife glanced pointedly at his sodden sheets and nightclothes, but
restrained herself from commenting.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she gravely placed her hand on his forehead
and began to chant softly in a low voice. He obediently closed his eyes,
letting the slow rhythms of her voice wash over him in soothing waves. A drowsy
mist seemed to float over him as she concluded her chant, lulling him deeper. In
moments, his head slid back onto the pillow as he fell fast asleep.

At first, he slumbered peacefully, breaking sometimes into snores.
Occasionally, small flashes of dream slipped through his mind without
interrupting his sleep. Images of Brennan Stormcrow holding up a great crow
feather melted into a dream of a wonderful feast full of exotic delicacies like
merian fillets and taurian steaks, before shifting into yet another about
leaping from Mount Avechna's edge in an exhilarating surge of destiny.

Gradually, the Ebonguard became aware that he was not alone in his dreams. A
tiny mote drifted alongside him in the darkness of his mind, radiating comfort
and familiarity. He recognized it as his wife. As he watched, the mote expanded
and flared with brightness as she gathered power, as though girding herself
against an enemy.

With a shudder, he slowly turned about, already anticipating who the enemy must
be. The nightmare had returned.

He was standing in Ethereal Glomdoring, surrounded by the tenebrous forms of
shadow hawks and the Daughters of Night. The archway of wicked thorns leading
to Faethorn loomed before him, looking impossibly tall and terrifying. In his
hands, he was carrying a clumsy-looking claymore that felt too heavy for him,
hardly suitable for a true warrior. His armour was almost nonexistent, just a
pair of leggings and a leather vest. Even his body seemed too small for him,
hardly able to take a blow, let alone endure through significant hardship.

Through the archway, he could hear the pounding footsteps of invaders from
Serenwilde. With a shock, he realized he was the only one left to defend the
Glomdoring. No one else was there to stand at his side; no one would answer his
calls for help.

At that moment, the Seren invaders entered through the archway.

In his dream, the Ebonguard fought grimly and bravely. He laid into his
enemies' bodies with his bulky claymore, slashing them so that they bled and
swore. Beside him, the Daughters, the nighthags, and the shadowlord widowriders
fought to protect their home and, in fighting, died. There seemed to be no end
to the Serenwilders, all of whom seemed towering, powerful and destructive
beyond belief. They filled the base of the Master Ravenwood, until all he could
see were their smirking fae, glowing glyphs, and stag-horned heads and all he
could hear was their mocking laughter as he fell to the ground, bleeding from a
dozen wounds, and died.

When he returned, he didn't even bother to put up personal defences. He simply
marched back in and threw himself at the Seren despoilers. Weak and young as he
was, he had no hope of driving them away; all he could do was hold them off long
enough to save his beloved forest from the worst.

Howling with rage, he fought. Howling with pain and defeat, he died.

There was no safety for him and no rest. Terror and fury drove him on while the
last of the nighthags and Daughters perished, leaving him all alone. Even the
great Avatars of Night and Crow had been slain or were perilously close to
death. All the while, the relentless invaders pressed forward, demolishing all
the lay in their path.

If he had had the time, he would have wept to see the ruin they left behind.
Instead, he flung his small, useless self at the mass of Serenwilders in a
futile attempt to stop the unstoppable.

And in the end, all his efforts were for naught. He could not kill them. He
could not even hinder them. All he could do was die. Even then, their mocking
laughs echoed in his ears as they laid waste to Glomdoring.

Suddenly, in a corner of his vision, a tiny mote of light exploded into
blinding radiance. A voice thundered in his mind, "Enough!"

Letting out a gasping breath, half-choking on it, he sprang to wakefulness,
leaving the nightmare behind but not its dizzying panic. The Ebonguard bolted
upright in the bed, willing his pounding heart to slow and his vision to clear.
Shuddering, he ran his hands over his face. Beside him, his wife gazed at him
with compassion, and he knew it was she who had interrupted his nightmare.

"Do you wish me to tell you your dream?" she asked softly.

He shook his head. "No. No, I remember."

"It often happens, when the dream is caught in the making." She hesitated. "If
you want, I can make it so that you never have that nightmare again. I can heal
your memories so that it never haunts you anymore."

For a moment, he thought about it. The dream lay clear in his mind, a memory of
the past when he was young and Glomdoring only newly formed. Back then, he
remembered, death had truly been more common than life. They had been days of
terror, faced with the terrible enmity of the mighty Serenwilde, who viewed
them as an abomination to be stamped from the earth.

Now he knew why he woke shaking with fear. Deep within himself, he was afraid
those days might return again. Even in these times of peace and prosperity,
with the Glomdoring full of power and he himself a fearsome warrior, he could
not forget how it had once been.

"No," he said at last, his voice gaining strength. "No. Let it be."

"Why?" his wife asked. "You could sleep freely. You don't need to be disturbed
by it anymore."

"On the contrary," he answered, "I want to have this dream as often as
possible. I will no longer call it a nightmare in the future. It is not some
rude phantom come to trouble my sleep. It is a harbinger of the past, sent to
remind me never to take a moment of the present for granted. It is a warning of
what once was and what must never be again. As thus, I will treasure it."

Grimly, he bared his teeth in a harsh grin. "From now on, I will become
stronger and more merciless than ever, so that the forest will never be left
defenceless in the future. And it will be because this dream has inspired me."

Slowly, a look of comprehension dawned on his wife's face. She smiled at him.
"Glory be to Glomdoring."

He knew she would understand.

"Glory be to Glomdoring."