Nevin's eyelids fluttered open, showing white as he fought against the weight of the disconcerting nightmare. He groaned, but only a soft gurgle escaped around his dry, swollen tongue. His stiff jaw hung wide.

Something rough grazed the back of his head, and a wave of pain ripped through him, rousing him to full awareness. He tried to cry out, but only managed to choke on his swollen tongue. He lifted his head and looked around, flexing his jaw and licking his teeth to get the saliva flowing.

Wilted leaves and drooping branches crowded in on him from all sides. He frowned in confusion.

Why am I in a tree?

Various aches and pains fought to make their presences known, but two in particular stood out: his right shoulder and the back of his head. Just like in the dream, his right arm was again extended awkwardly overhead, disappearing not into the feathered shadows of a burning barn, but into the tangle of leaves and branches above. He hung by his wrist, the weight of his upper body being supported by the strained and sore muscles of his strong side.

No wonder his shoulder hurt so badly. Nevin tried to flex the fingers of his trapped hand, but too long without adequate blood flow had left him with zero sensation past his wrist.

Nevin shifted his attention to the pain in his skull. He gingerly probed his scalp, half-expecting to discover a ragged hole of flesh boring nearly to the bone. Dried blood matted his tangled hair, but he was surprised to only find some slight swelling and a small scrape embedded with bits of tree bark. More blood and scrapes caked the back of his neck, but none were serious. Relief washed over him.

Branches zigzag-ed around him, many of them snapped or dangling from strips of partially green bark. He pushed aside the branches nearest his face and looked down. With his legs extended before him, only his heels touched the ground, digging crescent-shaped channels in the moist earth and decaying leaves as he listed from side-to-side. The rest of his lower body floated, being held aloft by his aching right arm. Behind him, the curled ribbonesque bark of a silver maple ran parallel to the ground, likely the unfortunate victim of a recent Waking thunderstorm. Silver maples were notoriously weak trees with shallow, meandering root structures, making for a dangerous choice of temporary shelter during the unpredictable early year storms.

He swept aside the branches hugging his face. Overhead, a wide leather strap tightly encircled his limp wrist. The skin of his fingers had grown plump and discolored from lack of blood. His wrist was definitely swollen. His eyes followed the strap skyward, catching a glint of metal through the lazily shifting leaves.

Bronze.

Instinctively, he jerked his free hand back, the wilted leaves settling back in around him like a stage curtain. The fear from his dream returned, honing his senses to a razor's edge and spurring his heart into a frenzied gallop. The rapid spike in blood pressure threatened to reopen the freshly coagulated gash in his skull.

Somehow, without even seeing the object hidden above, he had known exactly what it was, that bit of bronze that rested just at the end of the taut leather strap, just beyond a curtain of twigs and slowly disintegrating foliage.

Why in the Numbra do I have Dalen's canteen?

“Okay, think,” he breathed, trying to quell the storm of emotion. “You've probably got a really good reason for having it. Just calm down...and think. What's the last thing you remember?”

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He looked around again. Leaves and branches covered him like a patchwork blanket. Wrensong and the gravelly cry of ravens played against one another, hidden within the emerging canopy somewhere overhead. Damp earth and the sickly-sweet scent of honeysuckle hung on the breeze, punctuated occasionally by the copper twang of drying blood. A hint of wood smoke tickled his lungs, filling him with near constant desire to clear his throat.

The last thing he remembered was bedding down in the barn last night. He scrunched his face. Had he really hit his head hard enough to blackout the entire morning?

“Work backwards, Nevin.” The familiar voice welled up through the anxiety clouding his mind. “If you can't start at the beginning, start at the end.”

Ishen. After nearly a decade of weekly lessons at his secluded cabin, Nevin often found himself mentally conversing with his wizened mentor, especially when contemplating topics of a particularly scholarly or philosophical nature. Sometimes, when he couldn't count on Aidux to dissuade him from a risky or ill-planned activity, Ishen's voice would rise up from the shadows of his subconscious to question those decisions, and while Nevin made it a point to not always give in to his chiding, he would at least proceed with increased caution.

Nevin chewed the edge of his lip. What I wouldn't give to have Ishen here now.

The voice continued. “All things emerge from a path.”

Closing his eyes, Nevin called up what he knew, following the advice of the voice. Work backwards.

Bits of tree bark in his scalp. Hanging by the leather strap. His bleeding head wound. His unconsciousness. He had to have hit his head, but not on a low-hanging branch. The placement of the wound suggested the blow came from behind. It would be hard to hit a branch with enough force to knock himself silly whilst running backwards.

A slow, rhythmic pounding arose in the base of his skull. Nevin saw himself planting a hand on a fallen tree and jumping, but the moss beneath his palm gave out and...

He winced. That explained that. Okay, but why hadn't he just gone around? Jumping a fallen tree was dangerous, especially one of this size. The tangled branches could be hiding any number of dangers: holes, roots, broken sticks, even animal burrows. The chances of escaping injury, serious or otherwise, were low enough that Nevin, given the option, would have chosen to circumvent the hazard.

So why hadn't he?

He turned his attention to the soreness in his legs. The muscles were stiff and aching, but he felt like that had nothing to do with the uncomfortable position he found himself in. No, this was a soreness he likened to a full day hauling carts packed with freshly picked apples along the road to town.

He could see himself jogging through the woods, but jogging felt wrong, insufficient. Sprinting felt more realistic. Nevin stifled a low groan as the thrumming in his skull intensified. He saw himself stumbling, skidding across the soggy earth left behind by that morning's rain, carried forward by momentum and adrenaline. He pumped his arms and legs to their limits. His joints screamed at the abuse, but fear had taken control of his senses and his only concern was of escape.

Fear? He frowned. There it was again. What was I so afraid of?

Beads of sweat sprang from his brow as his headache sharpened, piercing his thoughts like a dagger thrust to the beat of his heart, over and over and over. He could picture the brass canteen now, slapping the outside of his thigh as he ran, its leather strap somehow able to avoid getting snagged on the rapidly passing foliage. Scratches and dings decorated its already dingy exterior, but it was the sizable dent at its oval base that caught his attention.

His breathing grew heavy now, and each stab of pain brought more of the mental image into focus, pulling his attention deeper and deeper into the unfamiliar blemish at the base of the canteen. He remembered that dent from the nightmare, a rounded crease that Nevin was certain hadn't been there when he last saw it in Dalen's possession. Even worse, a dark substance colored the folds of the dent, and a crimson streak rose up one side.

Nevin's eyes flew open.

Dalen's canteen was covered in blood.