Mason awoke in a coughing fit, tears burning in his eyes. There was smoke all around him and the sound of crackling flames and bursting wood. His bedroom was already doused in a flickering orange heat and moving shadows. His mouth tasted like coppery panic and he had to fight down the first strong instinct to just crawl under his covers and wait for someone to save him in order to get out of bed.
He noticed that he was a kid again. His father set fire to the house, only this time he was too drugged out of his mind to remember to get his son beforehand - or he simply didn't care anymore. Gerrit's chest got tight, his breathing stifled by smoke and fear.

It was a dream, of course. It wasn't the first time the night his father had tried to scam the insurance company had haunted him in his sleep - but since his return from there he had learned to deal with the dream. Gone was the childlike terror, he could breathe freely again and he was no longer eleven. He knew he could concentrate and change the dream completely, get out of this memory a lifetime past - the Ogre closed his eyes, tried to picture himself away from his old home and waited.

It didn't work. Something was different this time: the sound of fire slowly changed, gained an insectile quality in its rasping and buzzing. He felt his heart beat faster. This isn't right, I haven't been a target of the Hedgebeast, I should be able to get out of here and-

A scream ripped him out of his thoughts, made him lose his already thin focus. "Mason!" It was her, it was Lisa. She was somewhere in here and she needed his help! Gerrit pushed the fear away, forced his legs to move and all but burst through the door out of his room. He didn't fear the fire - dream or not, he had years of training and experience behind him and trusted his instincts to take over.
Once trough the door, he didn't find himself in the Wilken living room but in the blazing inferno of a forest fire. Although, he realized at the edge of his consciousness, the relics of his father were strewn around the ground: empty bottles, a glas pipe and discarded clothes stained with piss and sweat. "Gerrit, please! Help me!" The voice came from deeper within the forest. Gerrit? She doesn't know Gerrit, Gerrit didn't exist- "Gerrit!" It wasn't his wife anymore - with a sting of yet another loss he realized that it was Cassandra's voice calling out to him.

He pushed on. Cassandra needed his help, for all he knew she was fighting the dream poison injected into her right now and he had to safe her.

Smoke filled the air and turned the sky into a sickly ashen red, into something poisonous. The fire turned the trees around him into barren skeletons, reaching for the Ogre with their bare and thorny branches - but there was a clear path between the walls of flames. I know the way, I can do this - they're depending on me. It was just like during their first patrol inside the Hedge, and he helped them get back. He could do it again.

He felt the heat around him, making his scars hurt like fresh cuts and singing what little hair he had left on his head. His blood was hot, surging through his bruised veins not only from the oven he found himself in, but from his anger inside of him. It felt natural, it felt good.
Gerrit upped the tempo through the twisting turns of openings between burning wood, running as much away from his nature as towards his Courtmate. He didn't want to give in, he was better- "Gerrit, you can't save everyone." This time she sounded almost sad, disappointed - but close. A scream of frustration escaped the Ogre's lungs, he was almost sprinting now.

A final turn and he found himself on a big clearing. The flames made way to burnt grass and above him a crimson moon loomed like an ill omen. In the middle of the clearing stood a thin wicker-man, unscathed from the blaze surrounding it. Gerrit moved closer, sorrow and a sinking feeling turning the blood in his veins cold. It was Ethan, his long arms and legs rooted deeply into the ground and his chin resting on his chest as if he was unconscious - or dead.
Suddenly, the Woodwalker raised his head and in the orange glow of the fire and the red moonlight Gerrit could see dozens of insects walking over the Wizened's face, lazily moving in and out of his mouth, his nose and his hollow eyes. "You can't save everyone." Yes, Ethan's voice, distorted by the buzzing of the Hedge-swarm. Gerrit now remembered - he had been a part of their patrol, had entered the Hedge with Ram, Cassandra and him. But he never left. "You couldn't have saved me." There was no malice in the voice, but pity and sympathy. It was a statement, not an accusation.
Gerrit looked for words, but couldn't find any. He didn't want pity (but this isn't pity, it's absolution coming from within me), he failed Ethan (there is nothing I could have done), and he felt miserable and useless (I am not useless, I can still help). His legs gave out under him and he fell to his knees. He could feel tears welling up inside of him. Finally, he spat out what seemed to be the root of his troubled mind. "How am I supposed to save others - or myself for that matter - if I'm not even man enough to fight?!"
The thin wicker-man didn't answer. Instead, the insects in its eyes and mouth caught fire, covering its face in a dense cowl of smoke.

Gerrit awoke in a coughing fit, tears burning in his eyes.