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Back and forth and back and forth, an eternal dance drew onwards.
The grass atop his home blew all around him, waving, dancing. He felt it beneath him, a presence both mocking and comforting.
But this wasn't his home anymore, he reminded himself. A painful knowledge, wedged between his soul and itself, made itself known.
Let me do the talking.
Or rather, it was still his home; this simply wasn't him any longer. A man grown magic, flesh grown grassy. He hadn't said it in so long, but he was sure that if he did, "his" name ought to burn on his tongue.
The rising sun cast a golden hue over him, stretching the shadows as they, too, awoke. The sun felt good.
Something deep inside of him wriggled, squirmed. Something inhuman. Something more him than he was.
Which part of him was even thinking this now?
Let me do the talking.
And he did. It spoke for him - it spoke for them - because he wasn't sure anymore if he had a right to. If he could.
This body wasn't right. Too many strands, too many sharp edges, too many shoots and roots.
The sun felt good.
Back and forth, back and forth.
He thinks he hates Finn. The person he's supposed to be, the person who took his place. The person who can act as him, as himself, so wholly without effort or flaw where even he himself fails.
He hates himself too, he's sure, for letting Finn take that spot. For the fact that that spot was free for the taking in the first place.
After all, how could you possibly be bad at being you? How badly must you fail, what evil must you take unto yourself, to fail to be the person that you are? How far must you fall for someone else to be better at claiming that identity of "me" and "I" than you are yourself?
For someone to take that from you?
Back and forth.
"Deep breaths, deep breaths," whispers a voice deep inside his head. Such a familiar voice, saying such cruel words. He couldn't breathe, not anymore, not as he was now. Of course he couldn't - he had no lungs, no heart, no nerves, no veins. Nothing to even need that breath, no blood to pump nor brain to suffocate.
He closed his eyes.
If he thought hard enough, he was sure that he'd be able to pretend his fronds were flesh and his roots were veins. He was sure that he'd feel his breath pick up again beneath his own hand, his own chest rising and falling. He was sure that he'd be able to feel himself again, instead of this creature that had crawled into him and made itself a home where he should've always sat.
Back and forth, back and forth. An eternal dance draws onwards.
Despite his best efforts, there was still that voice in the farthest corner of his mind reminding him what he was now.
Let me do the talking.
Despite his best efforts, his sight was still greeted with green and grass when his eyes opened instead of peach and pale.
Back and forth, back and forth.
If he were him, his skin ought to turn green only after decay and rot. That's how people worked; that's how humans worked.
And yet, and despite his best efforts,
his skin stayed that same ol' grassy green.
but it doesn't have to,
he knew, he heard it whisper deep in his head. That thing within him that created him, made him him instead of himself.
we don't have to stay us,
it danced, it danced. Back and forth, back and forth.
when the only thing stopping us,
he knew, he knew
is him.
The sun felt good. The grass beneath his back cushioned a fall he never had.
Back and forth, back and forth.
An eternal dance drew onwards.
He raised his head. Sat up, propped himself on his arms.
Green turned pale peach, just for a moment, just for a test. He exhaled. Or, moreso, he let out some sort of fractured echo of an exhale. A mockery, really.
A facsimile.
Back and forth, back and forth.
Words left ever unspoken rotted on his tongue as he sat, staring out over the sun. From here, he could've sworn he was higher than Golb. But he knew better than that, put in his righteously low place as he drew his gaze directly upwards. The sky sat so oppressively above him, like it knew what he was - who he was - and thought it funny that he didn't. Like it knew a thing like them didn't belong so high up.
A facsimile.
Back and forth.
Carbon copies of carbon fibers that couldn't quite get it right.
Like a recreation of a dance you only bothered to see once.
But we don't have to be,
again a voice thought, and this time he wasn't sure which of him was whispering. Were he younger again he might have insisted it was the part of him that was still him, but he knew better than that today. He knew better than that.
An eternal dance.
Memories of candy and slime and ice and fire, of root beer and beaches and children and dungeons flooded his mind -
dungeons.
We don't have to stay this way,
he whispered,
back and forth, back and forth,
and this time he knew that it was all of him. That creature had a way with words.
An eternal dance drew to a close. Maybe it ended in a dip, or maybe it just ceased.
Let me do the talking.
Indeed, he let it be.
Indeed, he'd let it be.
Let me do the talking.
He settled back down on the grass, the sun perched so firmly in her throne of the sky by now. He almost wished she burned, but instead he swore he felt something flower.
Disdain and hate and discomfort and fear swirled so deeply within his soul. He'd let it be.
A creature felt itself grow over him, once again, just like it did in that sword.
And just like it did in that sword,
Fern let it cocoon him until all he could do was
close his eyes
and feel the sun
and let him do the talking
and let him take their place.
Today,
we take back our claim on “me.”
And he truly couldn’t wait.
But right now, the sun just felt so good.