The forest extended in all directions; tall pines stood still and unbothered by the breeze. Arn blinked at large snowflakes as they floated down from the sky. The colours around him were muted, just shadows of what they should have been. He took a step forward, but his foot made no impression in the snow. That made sense to Arn. He didn't find it concerning or unusual. In fact, he had expected as much. There were no mountains around him, just the endless forest, the dark sky, and many glittering stars that he didn't recognize. Yet, they seemed more familiar than the sky above Nedreal.

As before, dim light permeated everything he saw with no discernable source. Sounds came to him slowly; they washed upon the forest as the light of morning's dawn. The rustle of the pine needles, scraping of tiny claws upon the rough bark of trees. Swish-swosh of large wings, the dull thump of paws upon the snow.

The latter was something he knew of more than heard. Arn turned towards the thumping and saw the shape of a leopard darting among the trees.

Fear's memory blossomed in him, though the emotion itself didn't follow. It fizzled out, impotent in this place. He gasped, ready to run, but his body didn't react with the expected rush and readiness. Instead, he was calm and at peace.

The green of the pines grew brighter, their vibrancy pushed against the earlier muted palette. Purple and orange washes spread across the snow, saturating the world around him with life and vigour. Yet, the black sky alone remained unchanged.

Something radiated cold against his chest, an incessant sort of feeling that drew his attention. It waxed and wained as waves of the sea, and he finally touched it, only to realize that his chest was bare - nothing but the charm adorned it. The charm his father gave him so long ago, it felt like years, lifetimes even - though, in truth, only months had passed.

Arn opened his eyes to a sky lit by the warm colours of the rising sun. The pendant still felt cold on his skin, even hidden beneath his shirts, coat, and scarf. What was that about, he wondered, then pressed a hand to his chest. The cold faded quickly just as the memory of his dream floated to his mind.

The dream again, he thought. Though he'd never felt the pendant in his dreams before - or were they visions? Arn glanced at his father, still asleep inside the sleeping bag by his side. Should he bring this up? It seemed important, growing in urgency. He decided to broach the matter right after the pass. He wouldn't wait until the capital.

Morning in The Ahotharo Pass was peaceful and near-silent. Cold winter air hung in place as though it, too, just now awakened with the sun's rays. Remnants of the night's mist lingered in the lower parts of the pass, pierced by lone conifers and their dark needles. A sudden breeze disturbed the peace, scattering the fog and blowing cold air in Arn's face.

The air stung, as cold things oft do, upon contact with skin. The others stirred. Arn noticed that the family huddled close to the embers, too close, he realized.

A system was worked out: Arn and his father cooked their breakfast first, as they often rose first. Then, the other family would awaken and follow with their own meals. Thus they did today as well.

Arn and his father sat upon large logs around the firepit. They ate a warm stew of dried vegetables and roots, perfectly spiced with his mother's blend that she had given them. The stew was more of a soup, really, a convenient way to eat and have a warm drink all at once, so his father said.

"Do dreams repeat?" Arn asked his father while the family made a ruckus with their own food preparation.

"How do you mean?"

"Could you have a dream in the same place as another dream you had?"

"Do you mean when one is roused in the middle of a dream, then returns to the same one upon falling back asleep? Is that what you're asking?"

"No."

"No? What then?"

"I don't know."

"I don't think you mean to ask about dreams in the same physical location," his father took a long breath, "I'm not sure I understand what you're asking of me?"

Arn frowned. He briefly considered abandoning his line of questions but, in the end, decided to press on.

"Its dreams that end, then later other dreams happen in the same place. Like a series of dreams in one world. Have you ever had something like that?" Arn asked his father.

Atrel furrowed his brows and gazed out toward the horizon. "Well, dreams are a complicated topic. They do what they will, and are as likely to yield a meaning as not."

Arn's father put his spoon into the bowl, held it down with a thumb, then sipped the stew. Slurping noises drew the scorn and indignation of the family nearby. Arn ignored them but saw a tiny smile flash across his father's face.

"It's nothing then," Arn said quietly.

"I didn't say that," his father insisted, "it may be nothing, but it may be something. What sort of dream was it?"

Arn wasn't sure that now was the best time to speak of the dream. He wasn't even sure why he'd broached the topic in the first place. I wanted to wait 'till the northern tower, so why'd it just spill out of me like that? Perhaps it was for the better, he thought, then glanced at their companions who were just sitting down for their own breakfasts. The noise of preparations was dying down. Arn shook his head.

"Maybe it really was nothing," he said to his father.

Atrel leaned closer to Arn, "is it a sort of dream that you're embarrassed to speak of?" he whispered.

Arn recoiled in shock, but his father laughed. "No, it isn't! It's in this forest, with no wind - it doesn't matter."

His father 'hmmed' loudly, rubbed his chin, then 'hmmed' again.

"What?" Arn barked.

"They say that in our sleep, we visit worlds beyond our own, beyond our knowledge, and with no path by which it can be found in the waking world."

"You think I go to a different world? Are these worlds empty - does anyone live there?"

"Not of a different world," the man from the other family said. Neither Arn nor his father noticed the silence with which their talk proceeded for the last minute or so.

"Of road to worlds, that is the dream," the man said. Arn stared, uncertain how to respond. Could this man be right? Is this some sort of a road between worlds that he visits in his dreams?

"Ah yes, the Aether," his father said suddenly and pulled Arn out of his reverie. "The road between worlds which the spirits travel and mortal men can only reach through dreams."

"It is." the man nodded.

"Quite a legend, to be sure. But we'd have to speak with one of the spirits to confirm it, won't we? No mortal man has stepped there in recent memory."

"But it could be?" Arn said hopefully, looking first at the man, then his father.

"Anything could be, Arn. Take care to remember more of your dreams, and see what else you learn. I wouldn't worry over much about it. Let us focus on the way we should be returning to sooner rather than later," he said and then looked at the family. They scoffed and returned to their meals.

It took another half an hour before the group was back on the path. Arn and his father moved ahead, stopped to wait, and so the process repeated. That morning they were followed by croaks and swooshes of wings, more often and closer to them with each passing hour.

None else gave it much notice, but Arn kept looking after the sounds, though no ravens could be seen. He couldn't wait to leave the pass, as beautiful and serene as it was, something in it unnerved the deepest parts of him.

Unlike yesterday, the young boy of the family wouldn't stay with his parents. He ran this way and that, tripped in the snow, fell, laughed. Finally, his father whispered to the mother, and she yelled out to the kid in their tongue. Arn guessed the boy's name was Athny, though he didn't seem to hear his mother's pleas.

The boy began to climb the trees and rocks that they passed. This seemed to have tipped the balance, and the boy's father joined in the yelling.

"Don't yell so loudly!" Atrel called to them.

"Of our charge our son!" the man replied.

"Your son, yes, but we're still near the woods, and there are many an animal there which we shouldn't care to attract!"

"We are of the land, Kahasar -"

"For Elar'Saga's sake!" his father exclaimed, "keep it down! The animals don't know who is of what land. You can go back to shouting at your child after we pass through Ahotharo!"

At this, the mother made to speak, but the man held her back. He touched the talisman around his neck and whispered something to her. They continued to call after Athny, though not as loudly.

Arn's father gave up after that and made a point of ignoring them. They moved in relative peace until lunch, which passed uneventfully as well. Athny seemed to have been bolstered by the food and rest and redoubled his efforts thereafter. Arn watched a vein pulse on his father's temple. That wasn't a good sign, he knew.