The Dreaming was a curious place, abound with mysteries and vague hints at the real world it played in parallel with. Ephemeral haze seemed to bleed from its seams at random intervals, and the first step through was always an unnatural dark. Morus found himself once again traversing through its weave, his body awash with the heaviness of slumber he'd just slipped from. It would wane in time, that physical feeling, to be replaced by the unnatural calm that came with watching a vision unfold before him. Though his senses were still dim, he could faintly smell and taste something familiar in the air – some distant memory he tried in vain to recollect. It was never a good sign to enter The Dreaming confused, lest you become more lost in questions than when you came in.

Slowly the haze lifted and darkness receded as Morus padded further into the ether. A red glow engulfed the scene, as he stood before what remained of a village in disarray.

Grim skeletons of buildings loomed to either side of him, blackened by soot and broken by embers. Beneath his feet was sickly brown grass, so warm to the touch that he again felt the discomfort of the physical, if only for a moment. And the familiarity of that smell that seeped into his mouth and rested on his tongue, was smoke and char of wood and flesh. This was the boy's home once, a long time ago, preserved in The Dreaming in its last dying breath. The fires around him seemed cooled a bit, if only by the trickle that ran down his cheeks.

“It is as you remember?” Rang a voice from nothing, slow and deep and alien. The boy's head pivoted from side to side, his eyes widened in shock. He knew that voice, it came to him whenever he didn't consciously enter a dream. And every morning he'd wake from it, he found himself slick in a cold sweat.

“Show yourself!” He tried his best to sound commanding, but the words wavered and cracked in his throat – one of his hands clinging to his shirt collar as reassurance. A hum appeared in the air, eerily quiet at first before growing in intensity to a low growl in the ear. Before him, the formless gained form in a swirl of night-black ether twisted into a tall, sallowed wraith of a man. Not five feet from the boy stood a new slender shape, hunched just slightly enough to peer one red eye down at Morus.

“As always, as you command.” Absent moonlight seemed to play on his pale face, and a wide and toothy smiley shone through. One crimson eye followed the boy with the playfulness of an uncle, the other was hidden behind long strands of greasy black hair.

The boy felt himself backing away, his heels slipping slightly on the ash-slick grass beneath his feet. The Dreaming, he thought, was a mistake tonight. He hadn't steeled his will enough to come face to face with the spirit he'd met those many years ago.

“One and one half,” the spirit spoke, inching it's black garbed form closer, “but it feels like an eternity.” There was a warmth to his voice, like the roar of an open hearth or the rustle of a sun-drenched rapid.

“Have you come to collect?” The boys words were spat behind gritted teeth. He felt his body tremble, a mewling shake calmed only when he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“Morus, you are luckier than most. You know how and when you'll meet your end.”

“At your hand,” the boy yelled back.

“As you willed. As you agreed.” With a flick of long, thin fingers, the spirit summoned up more visages – not from the ether this time, but from the fires around them. Flames danced and licked to form men in boiled leather with scraggly beards. Twenty or thirty, the numbers kept rising, and all had one thing in common. The held weapons aloft and brandished looks of near ecstasy on their faces – smiles hid behind battle cries and scowls. “As they did.”

Behind Morus now stood the tallest figure. All over him were bound scraps of steel and iron haphazard in armor. His face was full with scars, and his bare broad shoulders bore many more. The boy twisted in place and threw a punch straight into its stomach, only to be met with a sharp crack and a dull ache in his hand. The figure never moved, nor did the dribbles of spit that flew from its mouth.

“You killed them all,” Morus choked. “You twisted their bodies till their cries ceased.”

“On your word.”

“You'll steal from me my soul when I am older.”

“On. Your. Word.”

The boy felt his tears turn to boil on his face. His body no longer trembled, but shook with a familiar purpose. “They deserved it.”

“All do.” The figure danced towards him now with nary a stride, towering above. His claw like hands patted the boy on the head, though Morus felt nothing to the touch. “Justice at any price. Vengeance by any name. I delivered.” Around them both, the memories of bandits and ruin faded away, until only the darkness surrounded the two. “Have I not?”

The boy couldn't speak, he could barely breathe. He gasped desperately against the nothing, hoping something would calm his pounding heart. After minutes went by, he managed a slight nod, and the spirit smiled.

“When the time comes, when I come again,” he soothed, “you'll find a voice to speak. And scream.”

With that, the ephemeral around them receded, and Morus felt as though he fell through the air. His eyes shot open, and around him was the warm glower of a fire, real this time. He was back in the shack he slept in, surrounded by worn planks hastily patched together. He'd thrown the makeshift blankets he slept in all over the ground, and felt the sweat that soaked into his pile of hay. Above all, as he curled up, he felt himself holding back sobs and whimpering into his bedding.