Chapter Text
Its glistening wetness catches your eye in the gloom of the cramped cell the two of you are sharing. Compelled by a higher power, you walk over to investigate the unassuming growth. You doubt it will be of use to you in your escape, but there is something here, nonetheless; a strange sense of recognition, perhaps, of something that isn’t entirely in harmony with its surroundings.
You kneel to get a better look, knees squelching in cold water the colour of ash. Here you can see the panoply of hues across the moss’s surface, from bright and shimmering apple to almost-muddy fern, and the way they almost undulate like the ocean waves with the subtle shifting of the darklight. Distinctions that no-one would really concern themselves with, but to you they are every bit as beautiful as the iridescence of a flawless pearl, and every bit as deserving of attention. Absently, your fingertips caress its surface, marvelling at how something so seemingly lumpen and graceless could feel so velvety smooth. Nails dig slightly into the spongy mass, kneads it like a cat might, then lets it spring back into shape. That such a humble organism could be so defiant, so unwilling to change its shape even under duress... you feel its will to live surge up your arm, a primal inspiration that resonates throughout the very core of your being.
You, too, yearn to be as pliant and stubborn as this moss, thriving even in this loveless place. You, too, wish to live, no matter what it takes.
Thus seized by impulse, your hand becomes a talon which tears into plant matter, the fibres peeling apart like live Velcro as they fight to remain whole, and to keep their unenviable place in the order of things. But your will is the stronger; with several furious wrenches a strip comes free and you hold it aloft like the pelt of a vicious beast, wringing wet with rivulets of rank water. A damp, loamy odour fills your nostrils, reminiscent of those summer days when the whole town smelt like cut grass, so vivid you could almost taste it.
You feel your companion’s eyes upon you, the concern and bafflement in his expression as clear as if he had uttered it aloud. Well, let him gawp if he wants to. This is between you and the cycle of existence, and though it might currently have the upper hand, it’d be you who had the last laugh.
You eat the moss.
Incisors gnash down like a blunt guillotine, molars grind sinewy fibres to gritty paste. Your jaw aches with the exertion, and errant strands thread themselves between your teeth. It is bitterer than you were expecting, though not to an unpleasant degree, with an earthen aftertaste. Despite it being soaking wet when you put it in your mouth, it is tough to swallow, rough and dry against your throat.
It is… not the worst thing you have ever eaten. Challenging, for sure, but not bad. More flavour and texture than whatever facsimile of food that darkners ate, in any case.
You almost consider reaching down for another try… but it seems your time here is done. The thing driving your body has tired of this particular diversion, and has now spotted the rusted shackle dangling limply from the crumbling wall nearby. You are not even given the courtesy of being able to wipe your own mouth, which somehow is the most galling thing about all of this. You’d laugh ruefully, if you were capable of it - but the most you can manage is a pained, dry cough, carrying a mossy aroma across your nostrils.
Perhaps this is just the way things have to be, you muse to yourself as you idly thumb the chains holding the shackle to the wall. The willful must prey upon those who cannot fight back. Even something as seemingly inert as moss must subsist upon water to survive.
Thus is the cycle of existence perpetuated.