#action posts.

AND YOUR TOXIC AIR SHALL KILL NONE. AND THE PLANTS AND GAME SHALL BE EDIBLE. YOU SHALL BE THE VESSEL OF A NEW ERA, A CRADLE. SO MOTE IT BE.

The protective Law around the flotilla expands, shimmers, and vanishes. There is no outward change to Zephyr itself outside of a slight hint of glow surrounding its new colonizers. The continent in the distance, one you spotted from high above, thickly forested and teeming with life, looms closer.

“MICHAEL!!”

Your arms fling up in front of your face, defending yourself, and the movement that felt so foreign and distant from your actual self was enough to snap you back into your body. A hot fleck of bile rose in your throat, filling your lungs with thorns.

“I-I’m sorry, please don’t-!”

You fully expect a lap on the face, or more yelling, or for them to grab your arm and yank you up out of your spot. Instead a cold hand sneaks its way up onto your cheek, cupping it gently as it wipes a few of your tears away with it’s thumb.

“It’s Henry, take a deep breath Mikey. Do you think you can do that for me?”

“Where, I don’t know where I am” Your voice felt tinny and distant, your chest burned like someone dropped a hot iron in it and it was melting your lungs. “I want to go- home, I want- to go home. Where’s my dad.” There’s a quiet huff of breath, like Henry was struggling to breath too.

“We’re in my work office, and we’re the only two in the building right now, just us. Let’s take a moment to breath, ok?” You can hear the distinct noise of glasses being flicked open, and suddenly Henry's hands are back next to your face, placing your coke bottle glasses back on. “I made you some tea and apple sauce. The teas still warm, it was for you after your shift.” Henry takes your hand and guides it to the cup of tea, the mug feels abnormally hot causing you to flinch.

The real heat was grounding, you were able to see and feel your hand move, but you could make the choice to move your hand back. You’re in control of your hands again. Little by little, step by step.

As you continue on, flipping to new pages as necessary, her unmasked face twitches into something approaching a relieved, almost fond smile. She crosses her arms, leans back from where she’s seated on the floor with you.

“There you are. I almost lost hope for you.”

Your head tilts and you don’t even have to write out a reply before she catches on.

“I’ve lost hope before, in good Heirs who turn out to be terrible Kings, good to know there’s an exception... I’m going to cut you a deal, Gladiolus.” That’s... you. That’s you. You have a title instead of a name but that title is solely you.

“Get the Collector-- the Alchemist to create the Panacea, give him a message from me that tells him what an overdose will do, he won’t believe it from you, but he will from me. I will send you back with a dose from the second you left. And in exchange...”

“I will take you back in a week, their time. And you will distribute the cure, fix what you broke as the King of Thorns.”

A portal opens up, and a pale hand drags you in before you can slap it away. You’re in the Clock Room-- Were in the Clock Room-- Are going to be in the Clock Room? Ouch, your tenses clashing like this kind of hurts, and you feel nauseated for a few moments as time contracts and dilates all at once.

It’s time to go back.

And you hope Drifter lives long enough for you to find a cure.

Bidding him farewell is hard enough, but it’s temporary, you hope, hah. Hope. You haven’t felt that in a while, not since you hoped that killing the King would somehow alter events on the Island. There’s an overwhelming chance your hopes will be dashed now just as it was then.

Best not to think of that, now, best to concentrate on the creaking timbers of your tiny boat, the skies ahead, and the strong wind billowing in the ship’s sails. Your freshly purloined corpse is strong and rot has yet to touch its musculature, and your purchased charts and compass point the way.

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