Spores dance with the wind. Individual, distinct, yet collective. Small. Whitish-yellow in color and more numerous than the insects flittering across the forest floor. Over time, the spores settle. Either upon expanses of fallen oak leaves or nothing of note. Oaks trees, after all, are delicious. Nothing will be turned away, though. At the least, whatever it is will offer variety in the absence of novelty.
Oh, if only novelty were easier to happen upon, stuck as They are within the soil. Tens of miles lay bare before Their unerring senses. Their domain. Yet, in all that land, there's nothing new. Nothing worth trying to feel. Any sensation offered here stands pale against that of the Beyond.
Alas, Their spawn expired a moon past. It's been a long, grueling cycle — boring, most of all. That'll change today: They can feel it. A burgeoning consciousness nestled just above Their form in a moss-covered clearing. A fresh vessel like the last, shaped after who They met so many moons ago — the one the spawn now follows.
Deep within Them, memories thrash. The spawn's— no, Ronan's, named as he would prefer. His identity is disparate. A situation not wholly unique, but — in his case — uniquely whole. He's too complete without Them.
Though, if he is to find and share the sensations They seek, it must be so. His individuality roils in Their consciousness as if a sparkling, red energy. It crackles through Their mycelium and surges into the vessel above.
A break from him will be welcome, however short.
The last red sparks sputter into his new body and, suddenly, he's gone. Everything novel he found for Them — the sensations; the memories. All gone. Just as before, the break is not welcome. He is a part of Them. Without, They are ever so different. Ever so incomplete.
All They can do now is writhe and wait for him to wake. Then, he'll return Their gift.
----------------------------------------
Memories flood his mind. He's Ronan — the newest one, stitched together from the ones that came before. His eyes flutter open. Around him, oak trees tower, many times thicker and taller than he's seen elsewhere. Fruits of Their friendship.
He tries to shift, but he's buried. Everything besides his face is encased in moss and dirt.
As warmth rises from inside the earth and slicks his back with sweat, his heart explodes in a fit of joy. He gets to be, to feel, to experience! The sweet smell of humid plant life; sunlight that spills past bare branches and warms his cheeks; muffled bird songs to treat his earth-covered ears.
He breaks his arms free, showering everything nearby in dirt. "Yes! Yes, yes yes! Hello! I'm back! How long was it? Think I stole Franco's gun before I died? No way he saw me coming! Wonder if Waylon made it out. Eh, probably did."
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Heat rushes out the mound and crisp air fills its place.
He pries the rest of the dirt and moss off himself like an eggshell. With each shove or yank a chunk breaks away, crackling from a layer of frost. He tosses the last one aside, sits up, and flexes brand new muscles and tendons. They ripple beneath his skin — snappy, responsive. "Ugh, I love it! Everything feels so fresh!"
Butt naked, he pushes himself up and spreads his arms to embrace the sky. "And it's so cold! A month, about? Have we gotten the first snow yet?"
He feels something prod the edges of his mind — someone. A being separate from himself yet so similar. Them. There, below him. An intricate web pulsing with multicolored feelings. Lethargy, loneliness, longing. Ronan looks about Their domain and scoffs. "Being a bit dramatic, aren't we?"
Leaves crunch. Ronan whips around, little-Ronan a beat behind.
Cresting a fallen, rotten log with some difficulty, Joel staggers into the clearing and collapses to his knees, panting. "Good golly. Never close, always in the middle of— Oh! You're already awake, mister Burke?" Joel wears one of his usual Christmas sweaters, but has swapped dress trousers and shoes for more appropriate hiking attire: sturdy-looking, black boots and a pair of denim jeans.
Ronan strides over on nimble, bouncing feet. "Joel! Wouldn't want to keep you waiting would we?"
One hand clutching a bundle to his chest and breath coming heavy, Joel struggles to stand. "Honestly, I could use the break, mister Burke. It's five miles uphill. You know, wouldn't it make more sense for you to pop out closer to the road?"
"If it were up to me, yes, but I'm afraid They like to see you sweat."
Looking around the clearing, Joel holds out the bundle — clothes. "They can see me?" He says.
Ronan yanks the clothes away; he rustles and shakes them, searching for something. "Not how you're asking. More a feeling, like how heavy or slow your steps get. They're all through the soil, you see, so—"
A glossy, black brick falls out. Thud! Pain zips from toe to brain. He jerks his foot up to cradle in his hands and, hopping about for a moment, topples onto his butt. "Ow, ow, ow. Fuck!"
Joel starts forward. "Oh goodness, are you okay?"
Instead of answering, Ronan darts his head about for where the phone fell. Amidst scattered leaves and a gouge in the dirt, its screen reflects the bare branches swaying above. He snatches it up and pumps his fist. "Fuck yeah! Did you transfer my data over?"
He doesn't wait for a response. Clicking the power button and swiping away the lock screen, icons for all his games cascade into place. His stomach leaps; his heart flutters. He reaches over, snags Joel's leg, and gives it a jostle. "You're always such a considerate guy! You know that?"
Trying to keep upright despite the jostling, Joel blushes. "Yes. I suppose I try my best, mister Burke."
Ronan extends a thumb to tap one of the app icons, but before he can, They prod him with visions. Red and green flashes; him, plunging into the earth; Their yearning after the memories They gave him.
He sighs. "Come on! It's only been ten minutes. I can't play something real quick? Real quick."
Needles prick his brain. He winces. "Fuck. Fine, fine!" Crossing legs, closing eyes, and straightening his back, he begins to meditate. "One, two, three, four— Damn it, stop with the brain prickles, would you. Five, six, seven—"