Sweet dreams are made of this?

It is cold in those frozen lands - those islands between this world and the next. Somewhere, between Japan and Russia, is the place; the dark place, the light place; the end of things place. I know that the frigid frozen north will reveal a land where the time of man will end. This is clear to me. Crystal clear. Clear as the cold skies under which I travel.
How this information came to me, and at whose behest I travel, is a mystery. Those details are irrelevant. All I know is that I'm travelling along a secret path; a path known only to those with universal knowledge; a path that provides a direct route under the ocean and under the sky - a path that will bring me in to conflict with him.
What do I know about him? Nothing. He's as faceless as a long dead ancestor, and as with the ancestor I know he is real but I have no link to his visage, no tangible proof of existence. What I do know is that he must be stopped, that if he succeeds in his mandate all will cease to be. As I travel through the Arctic wastes my thoughts are made clear and laid bare by searing cold: the burning chill of my frozen dream.
I awoke from slumber with the recollection of this dream today... When one wakes up from such a dream one is left to contemplate the reasons for such synaptic firing. What issue would Freud say that I am trying to resolve? What spiritual conflict would the soothsayer allude to?
I have heard on more than one occasion that we only dream in black and white. If this is true, I wonder is our subconscious cleverly places the false memory of colour into our waking remembrance of our dreams. I wonder this because the blue of the sky in my dream last night was as pure, cold, and unforgiving, as the heavenly blue used in devotional paintings from the Renaissance era.