Realistic or Modern Wilhelm Lichthaus: The Fisherman King

[Diminium]

He returned his neighbour's smile, willing to make small talk with the woman who had brought him delicious homemade cookies on the day he moved. "The weather has been exceptional," he noted, looking down at her small dog. He never had an affinity for the animals, either too big and loud or sniffly and yappy for his tastes, but Rufus had never been a nuisance, so he didn't mind whenever Mrs. Renault came around, dressed to the nines with Rufus in tow. He looked past her, down the corridor to see if Leia might've gone that way, but he didn't see her and he turned his attention back to his neighbour.
"I'm regrettably rather busy to enjoy the sunshine, I have some papers to grade, but I hope you are able to enjoy your walk," he finished with a nod and a smile before ducking back into his apartment. He always struggled to pronounce her name through his west accent, so he avoided saying it.

He wasn't sure what to do. Leia had just said "ever present company" so if she was trying to send him packing on a guilt trip, it wasn't about to work. He looked around his apartment as if she was hiding behind the drapes or ducking behind the coffee table. "Leia? I said you could come in and we could talk." He wasn't pleading, but it sounded as if he was simply reminding her as he limped over to his briefcase, sliding the card out and giving it a scrutinizing look. "Leia, if you want my help you have to speak to me."

 

[Stickdom]

"I am already in." The sudden shock of the voice surprises you, not because it was unexpected, but because of where it came from. It seemingly had no source, no volume or tone, like someone had plastered the words on a poster and you were reading them in your own voice. They came from your own mind. "You did not invite me in at first, I could not hold my form for any longer. I am sorry, I will have to remain here for some time." The words in your head seem to change, like reading in a different font or another language you understood, one which conveyed a sense of apology mixed with explanation, "I am not a parasite, I cannot take over your thoughts or control your mind, if that is a concern. I am simply resting, nothing more. This is much easier to maintain than standing before you, I only took that measure at first to assure you I was in fact real." You sense a relaxation of thought, the same feeling you would get if you sat down and let out a deep sigh, which you assume is what the voice is doing in your head. "You need not speak aloud to communicate, Wilhelm, a simple thought directed to me is enough to understand you. I cannot read any other thoughts but the ones you send me, your private business is still very much private. I have that much decency at least, despite what you think of me."

 

[Diminium]

That was a relief. His private business was going to be kept to himself and that reassured him a little as he sat on the loveseat, gaze wandering around the room. Her last words made him raise an eyebrow, however, he didn't press the issue of what he thought of her. If he was stuck with her he decided he'd make an effort to try and get along with her, despite his aloof and standoffish look as he brought the opened bottle to his lips and took a long sip, before realizing he could drink and communicate with Leia at the same time. A brief smirk pulled up the corner of his mouth and he leaned back on the seat. "So, what did you wish to tell me?" he asked, pushing the conversation away from 'her decency,' which he still doubted. "Lay everything out, I'm listening."

 

[Stickdom]

"You seem to believe that this issue revolves solely around myself. I assure you that it is in fact the other way around, I do not need your help, but you certainly require mine." Though the words aren't exactly spoken, you hear a hint of disdain, and you feel more than anything that she may be looking down at you, but the tone passes in a moment as Leia continues, "Certainly the state both of our worlds have something to gain by cooperation, but yours is far in worse shape than my own. I will admit that I am at a disadvantage, I cannot fully manifest myself in this place, I do not have the strength to fight this war here without a..." the words hesitate, as if seeking the exact term that suits the situation very carefully, "...partnership." The conversation seems stale, as if she cannot fully express the extent of the knowledge that she possesses, for one reason or another. Leia is holding something back, but what it is or for what reason you have no clue. "There are others, if you choose to continue live your life as you consider normal, I have no say in your actions. I was not the only one chosen that night, and you were not the only one to decide to take it." An image of the card flashes through your head, the brief moment earlier where it seemed to move returns, and you can almost picture the scene in your head the same way you would a memory, with Leia's form seated on a rough stone on the shore of the beach. You can almost imagine yourself standing there among the rocks and sand, the scent of salty sea air and the sound or billowing waves and gently screeching gulls floods your thoughts. Almost. There seems to be something you're missing, some part of you that feels like you belong here, but the rest of your conspicuousness is screaming to go back to the living room with your drink and your sofa and yourself. Then you hear her voice spoken again.

"You are almost here, Wilhelm."

 

[Diminium]

He put down the bottle and glanced around the room. There wasn't much to look at, and the TV disinterested him, so he closed his eyes and just took one breath at a time. Some days breathing was all he could manage, and today was one of them. He managed to sit in silence, soaking up her words when the castle on the seaside filled his mind. Her sitting tranquilly on the waterworn stone. She looked like she belonged there, he thought. Even in that rediculous getup. The scene surrounded him, saltwater met his nose and wind whipped through his hair in short bursts, but there was something else about it, as if if he was to let go he would be sucked into the scene permanently, unable to escape.

His eyes whipped open and he lurched forward, clutching the Schnapps bottle which he brought to his lips to drink from again. "Almost where?" He asked. The mystical beach? Heaven? She spoke so vaguely he couldn't help but ask.

 

[Stickdom]

The scene begins to fade a little bit at a time as you withdraw, First you lose the scent of the sea, then the sound of the rocks under your feet and the gulls overhead, and then your vision dims to black until you open your eyes and you are back in your own mind again. Leia's words no longer heard, but written in your thoughts, "You are almost to your throne. Perhaps it is too soon after all." You feel the edges of the mysterious card in your hand, though you were certain you had set it down before you had gotten your drink, and the sensation of warmth fills your fingers like it did when you first touched it, only last night. The thought passes through your head that it feels like it had always been a part of your life, the card, Leia, the seaside tower, like you had long forgotten where you knew it or locked away deep inside yourself somewhere.

"You have questions... Ask them... I will do all in my power to answer them... honestly and clearly. I do not have all knowledge... but what I do have I... will share." The words come slower now, scattered fragments of thought, and a wave of exhaustion sweeps over your body for a moment. You sense that Leia is applying a waning level of contact, that even for as mysterious and arcane as her entire presence has been, she is still a being who requires some form of rest and restoration of her own. How long you will have before her presence fades entirely, you cannot say, but you know for sure that anything you think important to discuss should be brought up without beating around any bushes, you do not know if, when, or how she might return at any later point.

 

[Diminium]

He looked back at his precious wedding ring, admiring it with an idle look on his face, shiny and clean on his pale, worn hands, callouses still on his fingers when he had learned guitar just to woo Amalia. It was currently unused in a case under his bed, but he rememberer fondly when she had giggled sweetly at his effort, and even if he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, she had listened to him adoringly and applauded when he was finished. He shook his head as if to clear it, taking another sip from the bottle.

Ask questions, she had told him. "What kind of throne do you mean? Is that beach your home? And what happens to the molecular structure of the things you phase through? Is that a power of yours or can everyone do it back where you come from?" He wondered about the beach, fuzzy in his mind like a half-forgotten memory. But what was fresh and crisp and clear in his mind was Amalia, he hadn't yearned for her this much with such an ache in his heart for a considerable amount of time. He wondered if she knew about the afterlife, so he asked. "Do you know what happens in the afterlife? And how exactly can Amalia be brought back, and at what cost?" He was still bent on the thought that she'd come back as a hellish creature or with some sort of irreversible amnesia.

 

[Stickdom]

The response comes with a tinge of confusion, "Is that not... the correct word? Throne... it is the seat of power. The throne is the source... the center. Your throne is your center. I know not... what it is to your kind." Her words seem forced, as if struggling to convey a concept that you do not have a word for, much the same way you would explain what a colour looks like without being able to see it. "The place... you see is not my home, and it is not yours. It is the between... a place of touching, it is as a world itself... a bridge that touches all of both worlds. That is only... a small part, it holds... a throne for you." A long thinking pause while she tries to explain your next question, grasping hold of the concept as clearly as she can. "The things of your world are not the... things of mine. In your world, I am not a thing. You see walls as walls and doors as doors... I see them through you, but I see also the nothing of the thing. Your world... it is not a world I live in. I see the nothing... in the thing... and that is the path... I take. I think in my world... you would be the same."

The deeper thoughts are starting to take a toll on Leia's communication, you sense the spaces between each word getting heavier and the words themselves feeling thinner, weaker. But they struggle to answer your one last question, with the last of her ability, "Amalia... is alive... she is in the between... her soul. They have taken... it from her... and her from you... if you find... her... yours... again..." Almost with a sputter like the dying of an empty car, the nearly-nonsense words turn to ash in your mind and fall apart, you can tell that you will get nothing more for a while now. She has given you food for thought if you can pick apart her cryptic messages, but the answers to the questions you seek, Leia may not be able to fully provide. You sit on your couch, left alone with your own thoughts for once today, as the setting sun slips delicately towards the horizon, casting a dull orange glow through your window and lighting up the alcohol in your hand like liquid fire.

 

[Diminium]

As she faded away to wind in his mind he glanced down at the sunlit bottle. Her explanation hadn't really answered any of his questions, but the one thing he did seem to understand was the fact that the Earth apparently was a connecting place of sorts. He didn't want to make false assumptions and muddle what he already knew, so he decided not to dwell on her words until she was there to explain further.

He didn't know what else to do save for his usual routine so he limped over to his briefcase and took out a few essays and located his favourite green pen to mark them. They were all well done, save for a few mistakes on a newly introduced concept, and the entire essay of a girl who called him a nazi on his first day and tried to get away with smoking pot in the back of the auditorum. Hers was a mess, and the resulting schadenfreude felt good. He had another brief sip from his bottle, his alcohol tolerance not even being tested as his eye twitched when Linsay's report came into his hands. The writing was clear and to the point, and after scouring her essay several times he couldn't call it anything but exemplary. There wasn't a fault, even in the new concept. It wasn't that he was trying to find something to mark her wrong on, it was just a surprise to find what he'd call a perfect essay. Pleased with her work, he was about to place her papers aside when a folded handwritten note addressed to him and signed by her slipped onto his lap. It was in fractured German, and at first he wasn't sure to be flattered or mildly insulted.

It took him a while to figure out what she was trying to convey, but despite what he was expecting it was only about her studies and a few compliments about how much she enjoyed the lab work. Maybe she was finally backing off about his personal life once and for all, and he was relieved until a bracketed P.S. met his gaze at the bottom. His stomach dropped, this was it, these were her nosey questions. He willed himself to flip the page over and began reading.

 

[Stickdom]

You will yourself to turn over the crinkling leaf of paper in your hand, slightly ridged and crumpled, as if she had folded of balled it up, perhaps she had meant to throw it away and changed her mind. You are anxious and a bit nervous to know what kind of pestering this girl wants to needle you with now. What does she mean, writing you a letter like this? You are not pen pals, you are hardly even acquaintances, despite what her constant lurking over your shoulder seems to suggest. You are hardly sure if this kind of communication is even appropriate between teacher and student, like children on a kindergarten playground passing notes of admiration. Still, she took the time and effort to write it in your native language, and you are not heartless enough to do her the discourtesy of ignoring that token of esteem.

'Do you hate me?' The words on the page catch in your throat like you had tried to swallow a stone. They are in English now, the letters slanted sharply as if written in a hurry, though unlike the clumsy German you had finished reading a moment ago, this is in a flowing cursive script that you can only describe as beautiful. 'I understand if you do, Professor Lichthaus. Sometimes I hate me too. I feel like you are lonely, like you need a friend. I know I do.You're the only professor I've ever had that goes out of his way to help his students, gets involved in the class, gets hands on in the demonstrations. It feels like most of the other teachers just look at us like a walking paycheck..' There are a few blurred letters here and there across the page, at first you think she erased and rewrote a line of two, but then it dawns on you how they are scattered over the page. Tears. She had been crying as she wrote this, the crinkling paper was not from folding or wrinkling, it had only dried and left the paper worse for wear. The next few lines tug at your heart strings as she writes about having moved to a big city after living in the country her whole life, starting over and not fitting in. She wrote about how her father abandoned their family for another woman and left her mom drowning sorrows in alcohol and bad decisions, so she had been sent to live with her aunt and uncle here, alone, scared. About the several attempts to take her own life, the harm she did to her arms and the scars they left as reminders of her pain. About how she was kept medicated for her depression and anxiety until she felt numb and raw inside her head.

There is a break in the paragraphs, and the tears have stopped dotting the paper. The next lines tell of her first day in class, how you had gone around and taken an interest in each student individually. How you had given out endless instruction and praise and helpful critique to anyone who asked for it. How she saw the sad smiles you had when you subconsciously fingered your ring. How you helped her recover day by day simply by taking an interest in her as a person, never turning away her infinite questions as much as you would have liked to. How she noticed your cold, distant personality compared to the joy you had in teaching. The letter draws to a close with a few simple statements. 'I know loneliness like a dear friend, and I think that you might too, Professor. I try so hard to reach out and let you know that you are not alone. I try to be the friend I wish I had. I know you are my teacher and I'm just a dumb college student, but you're also a person. Maybe a hurting person like I was. I don't know if I can be your friend, but I'm still going to try. Sincerely, Linsay White, Classroom 2-A Chemistry 2nd Period.' Next to her name at the bottom of the page is a simple doodle of a bubbling flask with a smiling face, Linsay's signature sketch you often spot on the corners of her notebook paper as you walk around the classroom. Except this time, there are two of them and the slightly larger one is wearing an amusing pair of spectacles.

You set the paper down and have to remove your glasses to rub your eyes, not sure if you are fighting back tears yourself or massaging away an oncoming headache. This was not a formal inquisition of yourself, this was a confession of a broken girl looking for answers. She was trying to look past the monikers of professor and student, young and old, man and girl. She saw you as a person, one with whom she identified in the pain she carried and you had brought about a change for the better. All those questions she had peppered you with, all the prying inquiries and interrogations were simply her way of trying to understand you as a human being. Perhaps you are not such a lost cause for humanity as you once thought.

 

[Diminium]

He couldn't believe it when he read it the first time, feeling slightly raw and unsettled as he skimmed back over the details of her home life and how she tried to destroy herself over and over. The feelings she described whispered to his memories and tugged his at his conscience at how true and real they were. He had been there, feeling the same way as she had heart wrenchingly described. Maybe he still was there, the days where he layed wasted on his couch, adam's apple bobbing about senseless as he ignored the TV he had turned on for entertainment were drawing closer than he would've liked. Her letter startled him. Suicide? Her? She didn't deserve such a thing, but her opening up with such a letter explained why she wore shirts with long sleeves that she tugged down in between dutiful notes and looked around when she thought she heard someone mention her name.

"Linsay... I don't hate you..." His voice was a hoarse whisper, and for some reason he felt vunerable, pinned with the heavy information that snapped puzzle pieces together in his mind. He could've been so much kinder to her outside of the classroom and he felt regret, the same heavy type that poured over him like oil after Amalia's death. Her mother had turned to alcohol, and he felt like he owed her an explanation or even an apology. "Ms. White, I appreciate that you look up to me, but I'm just as bad as one of the people who sent your life into a downward spiral. There are better people out there."

She cared about him, she saw through his hazy facade that showed itsself between his vigourous lessons. She had outright mentioned his longing, sad smiles. She had even said that she wanted to be his friend. How could he turn her and her boundless effort for kindness down? He thought that she was hurting him just to be nosey, but maybe she was the bit of stinging rubbing alcohol that came before the bandaid. She wanted to get to know him to try and alliviate his suffering and he felt selfish. It didn't excuse her personal questions, but it explained them. She was trying to drive away the shadow of lonliness that had latched onto him and refused to leave for over a decade.

He replaced his glasses, staring almost blankly at the letter before picking up his green pen and turning back to her wonderful essay. On the last page there was a large bit of space and he needed to choose his words carefully: He was writing in pen after all.

In his tidy, nonobtrusive cursive he left her with a small blurb. "Ms. White, this is by far the best essay I have recieved on this subject, and it fills me with joy to see you excel in your studies, if you could see me after class I would appreciate it."

He didn't want her to fear that she was in trouble so he added the same bespectacled, smiling beaker at the end, hopefully to indicate what he meant. He didn't mention the letter there, deciding to talk to her in person about it. As he marked the few final essays he wondered what he would say to her, obviously treading on territory that while close to home was also sensitive. He folded up her letter, and took it back to his bedroom closet, as if fearing he might lose it as he dressed himself for bed in grey and black plaid pajama pants. As he kissed his nightable photo of Amalia he prayed that she could help him offer Linsay the right words, the letter next to his folded up glasses. Even if he lost it, whoever found it would be none the wiser that a few tearstains on the letter were his.

 

[Stickdom]

Sleep comes quickly, the events of the day seemingly taking a toll on your body that was paid all at once. You open your mind to unconsciousness, but rather than nonsensical dreams, your mind is blank, dark, cold. It is not quite painful, but an uneasiness floods your incorporeal senses, something does not feel right at all. A rushing sensation accompanies the darkness, as if you were moving at high speed through the emptiness of space. A light at the end of the tunnel is a pinprick in the distance, and suddenly your mind feels heavy and trapped. A flash of memory, this brings back haunting visions of the car crash, the helplessness of your legs being crushed beneath the burning car, staring at Amalia's limp body for the last time, tears pouring down her face as she weakly reaches for you, screaming your name in agony though you don't hear a sound, and then the whole scene washes over in a curtain of liquid red over your eyes. Your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest, you can't breath, you r throat clenches as if you were being choked, you feel invaded, like your body is filling up with the presence of something... someone other than yourself. The light rushes towards your, or grows larger, you can't tell which, and you start to feel lighter as you rocket upwards towards it. The crushing blackness starts to fade into a rich blue and you realize that you are not flying, you are swimming. You are drowning. The light is not coming closer, you are rising towards it. You must swim, you cannot die this way, even if it is only a dream. The feeling of consciousness starts to slip and a fleeting thought passes your mind, "Can you pass out in a dream? Is this a dream at all?" You struggle under the weight of the water until the light is all around you and you feel yourself break the surface, bursting through to the outside world from your imprisoning fluid like a bird breaking free of its egg shell. You find solid ground beneath your feet now, covered in the rising and swelling surf, a rocky beach. You know this beach, though you have not yet raised your head. You do not need to look up to sense the ominous tower looming over you only a few hundred meters away. You are in the between.

 

[Diminium]

Wilhelm felt drawn to the tower, as if a shortening cord was wrapped around his neck and caught in a craggy rock on the tower, luring him in. It was a dream, but he wasn't sure what to trust anymore. He glanced down at the tropical colours of the ocean and back to the rocky ground. "...Ischt..." He muttered, taking a few steps around the area in no particular direction. It was a dream, so some nonesense was worth a shot. "Amalia? Amaaaaliaaaa... Leiaaaaa, Leia?" He called out their names a few times before trying for his granddad. "Matthan?"

As if he was a little kid, he focused his mind on the people he had called, if it was a dream surely he could get them to appear in a scene that didn't accompany the sound of his snapping leg bones beneath the car or the ghostly presence of his dear grandmother sobbing at Matthan's funeral. He could turn this into a beach picnic, because maybe he was a little scared of facing up to the tower, large and looming. There was some sort of ploy, it was filled with monsters, or noxious gases that he couldn't flee from fast enough. Running in dreams was odd, his line of sight seemed to soar and rush forward, but if he looked down at his leg the motions didn't make sense, as if he kept tripping but saving himself from the fall.

He glanced around, taking more hesitant steps towards the tower. "Amalia, dearest!" He called, extending the last vowel on her name as if to delay his walk to the tower.

 

[Stickdom]

There are no replies from any of the names you called, even the presence of Amalia is silently absent, and you are not certain if that is something to be thankful or worried about. However much you try to exert your will into this dream, nothing changes in the least, no long gone relatives appear to give you sage advice, but no rainbows or unicorns are running through the distance either, so at least it is not an abstract or psychedelic dream. In fact, if you take in the scene for what it is worth, the white rolling waves washing over the rock-covered beach, with the crumbling remains of a tower nearby, you would almost believe that you were on vacation to Europe again, visiting a once-proud castle with a history of war and ruin. But no matter which way you turn, this tower seems to fill all that you see in every direction. When you gaze directly at it, the bricks seems to shift in unseeable patterns and the mortar between them almost pulses as if they were the veins of a monstrous creature... as if the tower itself were alive and watching you in return. But looking away from it is worse, you can turn you back completely to it and the sensation of being watched is tangible, creeping down your spine like cold fingers, you seem entrenched to the ground as if there were hungry teeth biting into your feet and lifting one even the slightest would tear your skin from your bones. But worst of all are the shadows, lengthening around you as though the structure is leaning towards you to fall on you and devour you while you are unaware. No matter how you pinch or prod yourself, you cannot seem to wake up, and you begin to feel that this is far too real and you have no choice but to decide what action to take next from here.

 

[Diminium]

Longing for the familiar heft of his cane as he continued to limp down the rubbly beach of sandy gray stones towards the looming, ever shifting tower. The flexing shadows and the sensation that his feet were being weighed down as if he has under a spell of some sort did help either. "A sword and shield would be quite fitting right about now," he mused. He felt like an old adventurer in one of many now-ancient games he used to excitedly play, he remembered gathering at the arcades in his hometown, pockets loaded with change and even small Euro bills that he would eagerly exchange. The past seemed to weigh and creep into his mind here, the same way icy hands and eyes of being watched were far too real for any dream.

There was a sudden rush of tide and water that was icy cold and lukewarm all at once flooded around his ankles before receding back like a hesitant snake. He didn't realize he had been holding his breath until he exhaled, but it felt as if there was a thick rope around his neck, the length of it threading through the castle's tall, weatherworn doors. It pulled him further and further towards the castle, as if threatening to strangle him of every last breath if he didn't continue towards the door. The smooth, cobblestone steps were chipped and damaged, but he slowly managed to find a place to climb up until he was right before the doors. He tried to examine the odd, shifting walls but it was like he couldn't focus his sights on anything but the entrance to the castle.

He wrapped one pallid hand around the grand steel handles and pulled at the door with as much force as he could manage. Whether or not this was a dream, what did he have to lose if he died? His job, sure, but currently with Sonnenberg breathing down his neck, he would gladly give it up in exchange for Amalia's sweet embrace. He gave it another tug, adding his other hand to the handle.

 

[Stickdom]

The doors swing wide as you pull them, much more quickly than you would have thought possible for such a massive and imposing entrance. A rush of frigid air races past you, contrasting with the near-tropical climate outside, sending chills down your spine unlike anything you'd ever felt, a sense of wonder and terror mixed. The gust seems to sweep away the shadows and remove the clawing at your ankles, then ceasing as suddenly as it began, leaving you staring into the ruins of a courtyard within. Despite the massive structure of the tower outside, the inside seems impossibly small, only a circular room framed in crumbling stone walls, though the height seems to extend upwards infinitely, fading into a black abyss above with no end. Despite this, rays of silver moonlight shimmer in through the cracks of the long-fallen bricks, unfazed by the darkness they seem to descend from, and lighting upon an object in the center of the room. A tree, small and thin, barely more than a sapling as tall as yourself, clawing its way up through the rough stones beneath, a handful of branches spreading from the top. The plant seems withered and sickly, you would assume it was already dead if not for the green leaf and rows of flower buds sprouting from the tip of a single wilted branch. There is nothing else inside of this room except insignificant piles of stones and bricks scattered around, but the circle of moonlight from which the tree is growing seems clear of debris, the stones are smooth and flat, as if untouched by time and wear. Inside the tower is completely silent, even the sound of the waves and the whisper of wind outside fall still, and the absence of even the sound of your own breath is both beautiful and terrifying. Then it seems as though there is a sound after all, a faint hum slowly rises to your ears, even this quiet drone seems like an earthquake in the perfect silence. You feel a tug in your chest, an urge both to flee and get away from this place to safety where you are in your own bed and the morning has come, but also a pulling, a longing to enter in further and explore the mysteries inside, drawing you towards the tree.

 

[Diminium]

As if he had been robbed of bodily control, Wilhelm was roughly yanked forwards towards the sickly tree by his neck, seemingly unable to control himself to walk away. There was something off putting and eerie about that tree, and just the sight of it looking so tranquil in such a place of ruin filled him with unease, like the tree was a trap to lure him in before he was executed in an unfair trial set against him in this foreign place. He dug his heels in as his mind screamed at him to get out, run away, flee, never return, but the pressing, pulling sensation around his neck increased, slowly dragging him towards the tree. He grabbed and clawed at the invisible force around his neck, yet his hands met nothing. He was terrified as his leg gave out, sending him backwards to the ground. The force increased and in an effort to relieve it he gave in, being dragged closer by his neck for a few feet before his mind kicked into overtime, his will to live and to fight surpassing all else as he fought against the tugging towards the dying tree. His head was pulled back as he tried to dig his nails into the stone for leverage, but nothing worked. He let out a noise of choking and he managed out the one name he thought could help him. "L-Leia!" he coughed, and all at once he was brought back to his feet (by his neck, still) where he was standing a single pace away from the tree that was his height, inch for inch.

He didn't realize that he had been holding his breath until he exhaled nervously, forehead beaded with sweat. The invisible noose around his neck seemed to have disappeared, and in its place a wall that kept him from walking away. He flicked his arm out to touch the half living branch, fingers delicately brushing over the green buds.