“So this is where you’ve been hiding…” he murmurs, looking upon the heaving bulb of the white tree’s vacuous roots; it seems a great sap-thing, full of such bulbs- strange that only the one seems to call to him.
It is then he remembers, and touches the empty place near his breast, clutching cloth instead of precious projectionist silver.
Something hurts in his chest. Something burns.
That sound, it aches across his vision like a rain of writhing acid.
Darkness quakes over him, and he is blind.
Terror rules his features as he trembles without sight before the bed.
His hands flash out like broken lampposts, prodding for the light, with bruised fingers like crisp leaves; they break underfoot.
He lashes out left, right, over, under, laying his digits to the chill air in the hope of some release.
Melty thickness sinks around his big slender hands, and he dives forward, feeling swallowed by a war.
So cold, he cannot feel his feet against the floor, in boot or stocking.
He can feel the ice as it crawls up his leg, gnashing its spidery teeth along tensor and vein.
He claws through the mush, down and down and down, deeper into the white he can no longer see.
There is nothing, nothing to hold, nothing to see. His knuckles are ice drops; they wish to stop moving