You might as well surrender now, you'll never hold that stance

He hasn't had a nightmare in a long time. That's not what this is.

He descends into dark places. He falls into deep pits, slides down shafts of steel and stone, goes down and down stairways that extend forever into blackness. There's blood in these dreams, and sharp things and screaming and monsters without faces, but for the most part he regards it all with either simple enjoyment or cool interest. Even the dreams that aren't fun are at least interesting. It's interesting when he's burned, when the flesh is torn off his bones. These things have already happened to him. There's nothing left to be afraid of.

So they aren't nightmares. And he's not even sure this is a dream.

The grass is cool under his feet. Clouds are passing over the moon. The house is behind him, silent and asleep, but the forest is alive with shadows and the lake is a vast pool of ink. His garden, coming in very well, looks colorless and dead. The leaves are whispering, but he knows it's not the leaves.

Yes, he listens to that voice too much, but it's getting so hard to ignore. What it wants. What it's demanding.

Who are you?

He doesn't know anymore. He did.

Past the garden, near the woods and the path down to the lake, he stops, lifting his head. There was a tree here, the girls' tree, the treehouse he promised them now underway with the change in the weather. But it's not there now.

The Tree is there now.

Massive. Black. Wreathed in fire. Its boughs curling down like snakes to tangle with its roots. Pale, howling things are caught in its branches and between its roots he can see clutching, bone-white hands and arms. Bodies swing from it, hanged men. Yggdrasil, only not. Not her Yggdrasil.

His.

This is what's been pulling him. The thing he met down in the ash came from it, was birthed by it, but this is what was truly there, what's been there the whole time. He came from it and he'll go back to it and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

This is not right.

He's not afraid, but this isn't what he wants. Behind him he can feel the feeble tether of the house and what's inside it, but it isn't strong enough. He can't look for help there.

Except he can.

He blinks, and the tree is gone. It's just him, naked in the yard, his feet damp with dew and the breeze sending goosebumps across his skin. He looks down at his hands and half expects to see them blackened and cracked with fire.

This is not sustainable.

He closes his eyes. "Neil."