they thread through the featureless ground like ( tree roots ) veins, thrumming gently to a heartbeat that isn’t your own — yet in the same breath, is yours like nothing else could ever hope to be.
the first tendrils to shoot through the ground come in a lovely rose gold color. you watch, from your nest of camellia flowers, wondering why the shade invokes such a sense of peace. you feel protected, in a way you can’t quite explain, and the sensation of feeling anything at all is such an odd thing that you actually stand up to investigate. you trace translucent fingers across the roots invading your empty space, and a wave of warmth washes over you in return. it’s revitalizing, and you suppose that should be a good thing ( you were starting to become awfully tired ) but for the strangest reason, there’s a feeling of dread stirring within your chest. you aren’t sure why, but seeing this scares you. words rise up in your throat, but you lack the will to voice them.
rose gold is soon joined by lavender — and this hue also invokes that odd sense of familiarity in you. more importantly, it brings with it fresh strength and anxiety in equal measures. you ball one hand into a fist and smack the side of your head, once, twice, three times. remember. you have to remember. ( stop. ) you almost do, until coral red suddenly shoots through the ground, intertwining with the others. it’s the final push you need.
for one, fleeting moment, oberon is in control. he is conscious — so horribly, painfully conscious of everything going on around him. what it means. what is happening. and he is seething.
❝ LET THEM GO! ❞ massive cracks shoot out from where he stands, violently ripping gouges through the featureless ground. the entire dreamscape shudders from the influx of his white-hot fury, as if threatening to crumble around him. ❝ STOP HURTING THEM! THEY HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS! YOU WANTED ME! ❞ but that is just the problem, isn’t it? the tangle wants oberon — yet its favorite child is a fragile, mortal thing. human, in a way many of his reflections aren’t. even the weight of glimwood’s magic is nearly enough to crush him into powder. it’s a bit like taking the batteries out of one toy to replenish another — using their lifeforce as kindling to fuel oberon’s own flickering flame. a necessary sacrifice, to preserve its prized possession.
he hates it. he screams incomprehensibly to vent his fury, ripping the dreamscape ( ripping his prison ) to shreds. the air is on fire — cinders whirling through a scorching, howling wind that only exists now because oberon wills it to. lightning strikes the shaking earth at random. the holes in the ground fill with sizzling magma, then spill over. in the real world, the tangle’s vines shudder from the sheer force of his anger as oberon does everything in his power to break free.
and you do. you sink to your knees — sink to the pristine, undamaged ground immediately. your mind is just as blank as the floor, and you struggle to remember what you were doing beforehand. ( you struggle, until you decide to stop struggling altogether as the will quickly leaves you. )
you trace a fading hand across the colors, and wonder why they feel so familiar.
