His hand touched the door and Harvard remembered, remembered everyone he met on his way to get here, everyone that was waiting for him. The past was what had built him, turned him into a professor, into a lover, into a survivor. And still, at the touch of the door, nausea surged through him, settling in the pit of his belly like an ominous rot. This door made him uneasy, it felt like an end, but ultimately he chose it because there was no other choice. Because in every ending, there's a new beginning, right? He almost laughed at such a motivational poster bullshit line. Harvard knew, knew deep down in his bones that he was infected. Everyone was; each person he had ever cared about carried the rot inside of them. He was dying and he'd wanted... it didn't matter what he wanted anymore. With a soft creak, the door opened for him.
Harvard opened with it. He blossomed, joining. There were many, so many, and they enfolded him like it was home.
Creation, it whispered, making him dizzy with fragments of something.
You harvest; you feed; you gather. He was the sower and the thresher, the seed and the apple that housed it. He was.
No, no this wasn't him. He needed to find, he had... It wasn't him!
It wasn't him, it was
them. The name Harvard had no meaning because he was not a Harvard but they were many, snaking under the green green door, thrusting thin fingers into the cracks of man-made things. Into the cracks of man-made hearts. This was their purpose, to create, to push aside the old to make room for the new. In every ending there is a beginning, they think. They are the beginning and the end and the things between it. There's a horrible completion in the feeling. But even as they work to tear new spaces, something tears within them, within him. Something is missing from him. And it is that empty space inside him that defines him as one person, as a he, not a they, as Harvard. He remembers.
Promises. With a gasping breath, one Harvard no longer needed, he shook himself awake as though buffeted by an invisible storm. Harvard moved, the muscles in his body refuses to cooperate as though they should. Looking down at his hands was an awful idea. They weren't there. He was nothing, nothing more than thoughts and memories and promises he needed to keep. The green around him was not comforting, but part of it detached, clothed him, became him. It was better than nothing. If he had still possessed a body, Harvard would have shivered. The vines twined around him, giving him arms, legs, fingers,
self. It was enough. A face gleamed in the vines and Harvard stumbled towards it on unsteady, green and twining legs.
It was a little girl. The one who'd carried him, bit into his flesh and taken some blood. He recoiled. Harvard had a terrible track record with small girls with dark hair. But, more than that, he didn't want her here. It wasn't necessarily a rescue so much as an extraction. A judgement. Harvard thrust his arms into the vines, vine touching vine, and he yanked her out, tail dragging behind her, dead-weight. He walked down and down and down, steps. And he counted, because it made him feel closer to real. Because every time he said 'nine', he remembered. Harvard moved downward and, at the door, they were there to take the girl-thing. And Harvard gave her to them. An extraction for an extraction. But he could not go farther, could not let his vines out into the light of the uncontaminated day. It hurt.
He moved, back into the tower, vines curling around him. This was what was left of himself. Harvard wasn't sure if he was even recognizable anymore. They were others around him, just like him, and Harvard let himself feel some hope. If he had found her before, he would find her again. Any time, every time, no matter what form she wore. He would find her, he would find him. Harvard had promised.
The vines are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
