Chapter Text
Some were simply born to wander. That, without a doubt, was Wilbur’s case.
His skin, dark and blue as the night sky and tethered with sparkly dots resembling the stars, crawled under the notion that he could stay still for a single moment. When he stopped on his tracks, it wouldn’t be long before the lantern’s fire started to waver and the spirits started to cry, motioning him to take the road again.
As he traversed a dense tempered forest, colored orange and yellow from autumn, he heard the faint whisper of water. Straying from the path he couldn’t ever guess he was following, he pushed through bushes and twigs to reveal a river, which ran with water so clean he could see its deepest parts without trying.
“ Oh, tranquility ...” He rasped, surprised at the sound of his own voice.
For some reason, the ghosts that accompanied him, who always whispered in the galleries of his mind, went silent, with bated breath.
The sudden serenity turned the pang that came much, much worse. He couldn’t remember the last time he heard his own voice, and even less clear was the day someone was there to answer him. The spirits, the lantern and the responsibility of being a totem to all humanity were his only friends.
Who wants to be a god, huh?
Alas, he redirected himself back to the path he was following before, discomfort crawling at his guts. This was the longest the voices ever went without whispering, bickering, or even spamming nonsense through his mind. And as he watched life flourishing and perishing all around him, he found himself appreciating the natural beauty he saw time and again through new eyes. The little lines of a leaf, all connected and never the same. The reflection of the moonlight on dewdrops sprawled across the petals of a flower. The multitude of colors one single piece of wood could show. It all struck him with no warning.
He didn’t stop walking, afraid that the chattering would come back if he gave them enough reason, but if Wilbur took slightly slower steps whenever he had the chance of hearing the buzzing of a bee or feeling the damp leaves sticking to his feet, that was only for him to know.
He extended his left hand, the one that wasn’t occupied by a lantern that burned cold, and watched as deep blue met various shades of brown. He felt vividly the touch of the ancient tree’s bark against his skin, as if all those eons waltzing from one place to another where nothing more than a lucid dream.
He kept his hand extended, feeling everything that his fingers could touch as he motioned forward. Suddenly, he realized that that same hand was stained with golden drops.
He used his fingers to follow its tracks, tracing it all up to his face.
Where those... tears?
The snap of a twig made him turn his head to his left, forgetting about the golden stained tracks. He was faced with the dark eyes of a stark black doe.
It moved slightly, as if calculating the risks he could provide. Apparently, he passed the test, as it moved on with its walk, not baring him a second glance. Feeling his childish sense of wonder penetrating the very rock he stepped on, for only a moment, he felt as if he were almost whole.
It all came down moments later, when he realized that no one was there to share this moment with him.
It shouldn’t be a surprise, not really. It’s always been like this. Wilbur was a Totem, he was the incarnation of dreams and hope. For all that humans clamor and worship him, he always has been lost. It’s ironic, really. The god of hope, completely hopeless from birth.
He felt a cold sensation ripple down his spine, much like cold water in the chill of the morning breeze, and the ghost hands he was so used to were... patting him in the back?
He realized he had stopped, completely frozen from the realization of his utter loneliness. His tears had formed a golden pond, having his feet completely submerged. Somehow, the spirits weren’t impatient with his stop, they weren’t motioning forward in senseless directions. They were... comforting him? It was a poor attempt, a cheap imitation of the warm touch and love of the living, but anything was leagues above perfect for one who never felt warmth.
Despite his inhuman height, enough to reach the sun if so he wished, he never felt so small. He never really felt anything before, he realized. He just lived and walked, nothing more than an animal following its prime instincts. Somehow, the sight of that river made something click within him, freeing dome of the contents hidden from the surface.
It must be something devious, to make him realize his own loneliness.
He perked up, tears still streaking down his face. Maybe, if he went back to the river, he could find the thing that caused this awareness to awaken. Maybe he could revert it and go back to being a emotionless wanderer.
This perspective did nothing to dampen the hurt in his heart, the wound bleeding fresh and tender. Nothing could be done about the bleeding, for it wasn’t tangible, but he could focus on something else and go back to never feeling again.
Never hurting again.
He nodded, agreeing to his own logic, and turned back from the way he had come. The hands comforting him retreated, not vanishing from his senses, but allowing the scene to unfold, like an audience waiting for the show to start.
As he walked back, he tried not to focus on the feeling of his feet touching the earth, or he would go back to crying from the idea that he never would feel like this again. He clenched his fists, determined. He just had to find what caused... this. Then, he could fix it.
The cold glow of the lantern made him pause for a second, watching as the blue light made the dots on his skin shine. Small points of blue, purple and pink were reflected on his skin and on the space around him.
He shook his head, he had to focus! These things wouldn’t matter anymore.
As he raised his head, he was met with aureat eyes.
A boy looked back at him, wearing a mischievous smile. Everything about him was simply gold. The pale light of the lantern seemed to just slip past his skin, as it emitted a particular glow that could challenge the beauty of the sun. It didn’t illuminate anything other than the boy.
And the golden apple he was holding.
In distance, the gears of fate started to turn, reflected on nothing more than a cicada’s voice.