It was all for naught. Barren knew this, and yet he couldn't stop the frantic beating of his heart. The pale, thin shirt he wore was drenched with sweat, and he petulantly grabbed it by the hem and dragged it up and off of his body, feeling the cool breeze of the night air against where he had apparently been laying in his own sweat.
Well, that's certainly attractive.
It was the nightmares again. Those damned things. He cursed them over and over again, in thirty different languages and ones he had made up for just situations like this. People were less apt to accuse you of foul language if they were unaware that you had just called them a Foxte lam if they had no idea what that meant. Barren wasn't entirely sure what they meant himself, only they seemed to curb his anger when he shouted them at people.
The worst thing about the nightmares was that he could never remember them. Many people would assume that such a thing was a blessing, but if there was anything Barren could not stand, it was not knowing.
It was the reason he was here on the forest floor, miles away from his kindly home back in Toren. Every night, there was one thing he would remember. It was rarely very specific--sometimes it was the smell of peppermint, others the baking heat--but every so often he would get a glimpse of a place. About two weeks ago, he had woken with the memory of being surrounded by trees--big, tall things, with a canopy so high and vast that he could scarce make out the stars above them. There was only one place in Vauder with a forest like that, if the stories were true.
So he had set out to find Rickern Forest. He had some coinage in his purse, but for the most part he had gone on foot, camped under the stars, and foraged his own food. His makeshift bow and arrows sat next to where he lay, reminding him that he needed to make some more arrows before leaving the forest.
His supply of them had run unbelievably low in the last three months, rarely having a good pick of wood. Too much of it in the towns and cities was flimsy, or reserved for firewood of the coming winter, and that which was not was too pricey for his pockets.
When he had first decided to make out of Toren, it had been under the memory of dampness; and after consulting with his local librarian (Forbel was the proper term for a man who devoted his life to history and words, but growing up, visiting the library, this man was much more librarian than a stately Forbel), they had determined that the dampest place in all of Vauder was the Vauderian Swamps, about fifty leagues east of their village.
Then, when he was only half the way into his journey, he had made camp one night and awoken with the memory of crisp air. Despite the contradiction of dampness and crisp air, Barren knew that the dreams were of the same place (and for this reason he was very happy he had left Kali at home, for she would have quickly called him insane for believing that these dreams were "interconnected"). And after attempting to remember the legends and stories he had grown up with, he soon decided that going north would be his best option for finding such a place.
Another fifty leagues or so going north, and he had yet another dream, this time of peppermint. However, knowing that the peppermint plants were also north, he could happily stay on course--wherever that was. His next dream brought him to the Rickern Forest.
It was fortunate, he supposed, that he remembered a place tonight. It was much darker than the place he currently rested, leading him to believe that he must be looking for a forest much, much bigger than the one he slept in. Unfortunately, this was the biggest place he could place his finger on, and this knowledge meant that soon enough, he would need to get to the nearest city. Which, if he remembered the map he had studied briefly correctly, was another thirty leagues away.
He sighed. If only towns had libraries, where he didn't have to pay for a map. And if only city Forbels were kinder, so that he may copy the map down. Or at least if they were less vigilant and didn't breathe down his neck when he studied.
Still, there was nothing he could do at the moment. He would leave on the morrow, after having some food and finding some water, and fashioning some new arrows.
Turning back over onto his stomach, Barren ignored the feel of the forest floor beneath him as he cursed this quest he had set upon himself. Who had ever said it was a good idea to follow your dreams?
And just how foxte lam must you be to follow your nightmares?