Simulacrum

majestyrising:

Notes: It says something how vindictive this all is, but he won’t think about it.
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The dream begins like this.
He’s standing at the roots of the Tree of Mourning. He is not an adult yet. He yearns to be old enough to run free, and yet he shies away
from the idea of leaving the safety of the nest. His hair is short about his
face, and nubby horns that could branch into antlers if something was
different sit acrest his head.
There’s a small hand in his, soft and familiar.
The sun shines in shafts through the tangle of branches, warming his face. His
eyes flutter shut from the glare, and he stands, simply letting the heat soak
into his bones.
He’s missing something. He’s forgetting something.
There’s a bird, high, high above in the tree. He can’t see what it is, but he
knows he has to get to it.
Come down, he thinks, come down.
It doesn’t.

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