Gustav falls asleep under the open sky. No chanting. No kneeling. Just a ranger’s rest beneath the stars and the trees. The forest does not seem to darken this night. It grows… attentive.

Gus opens his eyes. He is standing in a clearing. Everything is too green. Too vibrant. The air smells of pine sap and fresh rain but Gus does not trust this. He does not trust most magic and this smells mostly of magic. A massive oak tree suddenly stands before him, ancient and knotted. Its bark creaks.

A low voice emerges from the trunk…“Well, this is improper.” Gus blinks. The oak shifts uncomfortably. “We’re not supposed to talk.” From somewhere above, a crow caws. Then in a scratchy voice…“Definitely not supposed to talk.” Gus rubs his eyes. He sighs. More magic. And talking magic is always the worst. “I’m dreaming.” Gus says feeling vexed that this would be the dream he landed in. Surely he could have imagined he was at a nice wilderness inn with a flagon of ale and a bowl of hot…

The crow hops down to a branch just above him, interrupting Gus’s thoughts. “Obviously.” it says. The oak sighs deeply, sounding almost as vexed as Gus…“Very much dreaming.” Gus folds his arms and says indignitaly…“Trees don’t talk. At least not to me. Go bother Red. He likes talking to you.” The oak pauses. “Correct. We do not talk.” The crow nods. “Highly irregular.”

A moment of blessed silence follows. It is not long enough for Gus.

The crow tilts its head. “Do you want us to stop?” Gus hesitates feeling guilty that he does in fact want them to stop..“…maybe…uh yes!” The oak chuckles, bark splitting softly. Suddenly the forest closes in. The trees around him begin murmuring…a low, windlike conversation. Not words exactly. But understanding. Like a murmur of a friendly crowd, cheering Gus on. It is nearly unbearable for Gus.

The crow flutters down and lands on Gus’s shoulder. It is annoyingly familiar. “You are worried,” it says plainly. Gus shrugs. “There’s a storm coming.” it says. The oak hums..“There is always a storm coming.” The crow adds…“You don’t fear it.” Gus looks toward the horizon, and yes, now because they had to mention it in your dream he see dark clouds gathering beyond distant hills. Typical bad luck that comes from unnatural talking things that put storms in his dreams. “No. Just no. To all of it. No to the storm, no to you both talking, and no, of course I am not scared of a storm.” “You fear for them.” the oak and the crow say together. The clearing shifts.Gus sees faint silhouettes…his friends…Alexis studying items for the hidden secret meanings he is so sure exists, Red studying his scrolls endlessly as if the meaning of everything was hidden in the pen strokes on the page, Rask sharpening his blades to precision, and Ca’armine kneeling in prayer.

The crow leans closer. “You are not afraid to die.” The oak rumbles warmly. “You are afraid they might.” Gus swallows. He hates it when the talking things are right.

The forest quiets. The crow hops down. “Prove to yourself it’s a dream.” Gus squints.“…What?” The oak creaks. “Ask for something.” The crow smirks in a very crow-like way. “Something small.” Gus hesitates. He does not like these games. Even if he is asleep he doubts he is getting much rest with all this noise in his head. “…An empty chair.” Gus finally says. Instantly, behind him a wooden chair appears. Perfectly worn. Sturdy. Familiar. He slowly turns, an idea forming in his head…“…A small flagon of ale.” A cool weight appears in his hand. He lifts it. It smells exactly right. “…And a bowl… of hot boiled turnips.” The crow freezes.“…Turnips?” The oak groans. “How did you know he was thinking of that?” The crow fluffs its feathers indignantly. “I did not know about the turnips.” it caws indignantly. A wooden bowl appears on a stump beside the chair. Steam rises from the turnips. Gus stares.“huh…This isn’t real.” The oak responds gently…“No.” The crow nods. “But what it means is.”

The clearing opens beyond Gus as he sits down on the comfortable chair. The forest spreads out untouched, endless, green, alive. No rot. No undead. No red iron. No Dark Hand. No cities! Just wilderness waiting to be walked. Now if Gus could just remember to ask the talking things to shut up this could turn into a rather pleasant dream. The dream spirits really should have led with this. Still, far on the horizon is that terrible looking storm. The talking things said Gus was not afraid of the storm which is true, but it sounded like his friends might be in trouble. That would not be good. They may get wet but he will make sure they stay safe. He always does.

The crow looks toward the horizon. “You will not stop the storm.” The oak adds…“But storms pass.” The crow leans in annoyingly closer. “And trees remain.” The oak speaks one final time…“You are not meant to be the lightning.You are meant to be the roots.”

The chair creaks softly beneath Gus.The ale tastes perfect. The turnips are, regrettably, excellent. The crow sighs contentedly on Gus’s shoulder. Gus is slightly less annoyed now that they have stopped talking again.

“When the shadows in the storm come,” the crow says quietly, “Stand between them and your friends.” The oak hums agreement. “That is enough.” the crow says. The clearing suddenly begins to fade. A half eaten turnip disappears from Gus’s hand before he can take another bite and he drops to the ground as the chair vanishes. Typical. Must be fey nearby. He will need to warn the others when he wakes up. Right before the dream ends the crow speaks once more, even as Gus finds himself wishing that it was the first thing to disappear. “Next time ask for stew.” it caws.

Gus opens his eyes and is so happy to find that his Crow has not in fact learned to talk like a human. The trees are back to being quiet as well, and Gus hopes they have learned their lesson and stay that way. It really is better for everyone and no one has the patience to listen to a tree. Gus is so happy that he isn’t hearing voices from things that are not supposed to speak that he almost forgets about his dream. Almost.