He took the hint, taking the offered hand without any real hesitance to speak of....
It would probably be enough, to just help keep him from slipping back into the trees' thought patterns, as he tried to focus. And he was still trying. The question of his name, from the abandoned attempt to introduce himself... the idea of the people he'd figured Skisan must be one of... the general question of what he remembered....
(Cut because long; it uh. Kinda got away from me... oops? XD) He pulled at what he could, trying to think back, and Skisan would catch a few other hazy things while he tried to figure out what his past had even been, tried to remember a single point of view rather than being able to see, to feel everywhere -- himself, themselves, inside the forest and outside -- all at once. Maybe he'd needed the trees' mind, to handle that sort of information without being overwhelmed and breaking? But keeping him from slipping back into it was helping....
Some bit of memory that felt brief, a recent one, of another of that half-remembered family sort: someone with pale hair, who smiled and came with happiness that was easy to read, the sort of joy they'd almost forgotten existed. He'd wanted them to come, and they let go of the ground, undug themselves, discarded the things that had hurt, things of metal that had torn and screamed until they were crushed up within their branches and roots, things the hateful ones, the fearful ones had brought to them... they pushed them aside, they pulled apart some from one another, they began to leave their camp.... and as they had, the awareness was a little less clear, the connection between clusters of ents weakened as some broke away from the group to move more easily as that blond one -- the gentle one, the happy one, more family -- led them elsewhere....
He pushed it aside; there was more. Those things that tore... it was so long, and so many, the memories melted together like rain, puddled and mixed until it was all a mess. Bright, shiny things that smelled horrible, that those hateful, fearful others would carry, or ride in.... They looked a lot like family, but they weren't, and they caused pain and screamed, themselves, when told that they had to leave, when they were screamed at in the way the trees knew how, and ran. They ran, when their hurtful things were taken away and crushed, they ran, when they swung their shiny things and caused them injury, only for those shiny things to be grabbed away and swung back at them....
He tried to push much of that aside too; thinking about it hurt. The metal, cutting into them, the wounds hard to heal, they ran so deep... He remembered holding a trunk together as the two halves healed again, aching all the while....
He remembered it still, in this body, too....
There. There was something to that, right there, that memory of the pain, of pressing the pieces back together. The smell of blood in the air, and the pain through his chest, through his back.... Through all the places those hair-fine marks ran.
He tried to remember: he'd reached, hit those hateful ones. He'd screamed, he'd thrashed at them with the forest itself, he'd tried to catch them. Their animals had left as ordered. The hateful ones had screamed back, and fought him off. There was a sense of failure that tainted it. He'd had to be carried, held together -- no, he didn't want to think about that. He had to, though, had to remember... There had been family there... and so much pain.
It had been a slightly different sort of family, though, not the idea of what might have been vulcanoids, but something more animal-looking -- he'd mentioned unicorns, and the term fit here, somehow -- browns and grays and whites and blacks, on long thin legs, that had stumbled and fallen, the hateful ones after them, terrified, in pain, coming to the forest, to him, for help, and he'd rushed forward....
He'd beaten those hateful ones, but the family was gone, and he couldn't heal them. He only remembered it from the trees' view then, cradling the family in his -- in the trees' -- branches, but being unable to wake them again. He remembered gathering his parts... apparently he did look like this, even then, with the dark armor. The blood hadn't been his. He was sticky with something golden and clear, and the trees carried his parts carefully....
It was getting easier, figuring out how to see from just his own eyes instead of the millions of dark little gems in the trees' smooth bark. It was getting easier, pulling up the memories of moving as himself, climbing up the trees that moved their limbs to make the way easy for him, walking through the forest as roots dug themselves down and trunks leaned aside to make a path. It was getting easier, remembering the feeling of his shield sliding out from his arm, directing the forest to foil the hateful ones' efforts. Asking the forces of life itself -- wasn't it that, somehow? -- to aid them, willing them to cause the thorns to appear, the ivies to grow and cling, to fight back, to take the shiny things away from them, to chase them back out....
There had been family, too. The hateful ones chased them sometimes, and he dealt with them then too, took their shiny things and sent them running. He'd helped his family, those possible vulcanoids, the--
He tried to remember, tried to focus on them, on that idea of that family, those kin... It was so far away, buried deeper. He came back to that idea of the one that'd visited, the happy one who'd bid them to follow....
Was blond hair and such light eyes a normal part of Vulcan gene pools? The ears weren't the same, either, too small... if only he could remember him better, though. There was the thought of the other one, with dark hair and darker clothes. As light as the other's heart was, dark one's had practically collapsed under the loneliness and sorrow it carried. She was familiar, though, someone he knew from before, somehow, and she came and sobbed and slept in the trees, rested with him... and she'd been family too, she'd looked right, she'd felt right, that similar something that the hateful ones hadn't had correctly....
It was a similar feeling to the healing, to the thorns and vines growing madly to defend against the shiny things, to what connected him to the forest, to what he and Skisan were connected with currently....
Maybe this family hadn't been Vulcans exactly, but they'd had some sort of ability, one that had something to do with that shiny bit of something in the tree-person's arm.
There was something to the idea of her coming to him. Something to the notion that she'd not just come to the trees, but to him, hugged onto what was around him and tried to sleep.... He tried remembering; she'd been faint after a while, asleep with him among the trees, calm again... but before then...?
It would take him another good moment to puzzle it out, but the image was at least clearer; she'd looked at least mostly like the vulcanoids, and like humans, and like... well, like a good many other similar species in the universe. Her eyes hadn't been as black as his, though. Those smaller points to her ears, that expression that should have been a smile, but wasn't, and even while she'd slept with him among the trees, she and he and they would lash out again and again at those hateful ones and their shiny things that always came and caused more and more pain and damage....
It still didn't explain why he looked like a tree himself. But the image of this family was at least a little clearer... and those hateful ones, which looked suspiciously like they might actually be humans....
The trees' mental patterns had fallen aside, bit by bit; whether it was his memory of them, or simply what of them he'd adopted, they still didn't seem to mind one way or the other, though their attention was more directed to Skisan now: Curiosity, and the still-held acceptance and trust of him that their person here had already settled on.
The trouble now was simply how far away and buried those other memories of his were, rather than the inability to think as himself, to be able to handle them. But there was a better sense of the overall again, at least, and he hid nothing of it from Skisan now: his usual calm... his want to help those others, the weight of the failure in doing so... his feelings about the hateful ones, he pushed aside; he didn't want to think about them. He'd tried, and tried, and failed, and that's why he'd been asleep all this time, wasn't it....
Or maybe he wasn't so calm; he couldn't tell. There was an ache that didn't quite register as it should, but it brought tears with it regardless. Apparently he had those, tree or not; perhaps it was this place allowing for them?
But somewhere in all this digging, he'd come across a few other tidbits: having had a wooden doll form, when the world was much bigger around him. The knowledge of another kin-kind, a quiet, sad one that came in patterns and colors, serpentine with long necks and longer body and tail, and some sort of wings or fins or the like, he wasn't sure. The notion of that family living in houses built among other trees, around and under them, perhaps using their living forms as support. The certainty, its associated memories long buried, that it was those hateful ones that had killed them. The carefully-kept remnants of the almost-lost memories of the warm embraces of adults, as a child -- he'd had parents, grandparents, siblings and cousins, a direct family among those potential vulcanoids. His name.
He tried to say something, and found that he couldn't. That was what finally brought him out of it, that feeling in his chest and throat. He gave Skisan's hand a slight squeeze as he worked to push those oddly disconnected feelings aside. Maybe he still needed to mourn, but not yet, not while he wasn't going to feel it properly, still waking up as he was. At least finding a proper calm was easier than not, even now, though the tears were still present. Whatever he was like normally, however he'd been while floundering in the trees' patterns, he was rather self-controlled now.
He drew a breath, swallowed, and tried again, quiet.
no subject
It would probably be enough, to just help keep him from slipping back into the trees' thought patterns, as he tried to focus. And he was still trying. The question of his name, from the abandoned attempt to introduce himself... the idea of the people he'd figured Skisan must be one of... the general question of what he remembered....
(Cut because long; it uh. Kinda got away from me... oops? XD)
He pulled at what he could, trying to think back, and Skisan would catch a few other hazy things while he tried to figure out what his past had even been, tried to remember a single point of view rather than being able to see, to feel everywhere -- himself, themselves, inside the forest and outside -- all at once. Maybe he'd needed the trees' mind, to handle that sort of information without being overwhelmed and breaking? But keeping him from slipping back into it was helping....
Some bit of memory that felt brief, a recent one, of another of that half-remembered family sort: someone with pale hair, who smiled and came with happiness that was easy to read, the sort of joy they'd almost forgotten existed. He'd wanted them to come, and they let go of the ground, undug themselves, discarded the things that had hurt, things of metal that had torn and screamed until they were crushed up within their branches and roots, things the hateful ones, the fearful ones had brought to them... they pushed them aside, they pulled apart some from one another, they began to leave their camp.... and as they had, the awareness was a little less clear, the connection between clusters of ents weakened as some broke away from the group to move more easily as that blond one -- the gentle one, the happy one, more family -- led them elsewhere....
He pushed it aside; there was more. Those things that tore... it was so long, and so many, the memories melted together like rain, puddled and mixed until it was all a mess. Bright, shiny things that smelled horrible, that those hateful, fearful others would carry, or ride in.... They looked a lot like family, but they weren't, and they caused pain and screamed, themselves, when told that they had to leave, when they were screamed at in the way the trees knew how, and ran. They ran, when their hurtful things were taken away and crushed, they ran, when they swung their shiny things and caused them injury, only for those shiny things to be grabbed away and swung back at them....
He tried to push much of that aside too; thinking about it hurt. The metal, cutting into them, the wounds hard to heal, they ran so deep... He remembered holding a trunk together as the two halves healed again, aching all the while....
He remembered it still, in this body, too....
There. There was something to that, right there, that memory of the pain, of pressing the pieces back together. The smell of blood in the air, and the pain through his chest, through his back.... Through all the places those hair-fine marks ran.
He tried to remember: he'd reached, hit those hateful ones. He'd screamed, he'd thrashed at them with the forest itself, he'd tried to catch them. Their animals had left as ordered. The hateful ones had screamed back, and fought him off. There was a sense of failure that tainted it. He'd had to be carried, held together -- no, he didn't want to think about that. He had to, though, had to remember... There had been family there... and so much pain.
It had been a slightly different sort of family, though, not the idea of what might have been vulcanoids, but something more animal-looking -- he'd mentioned unicorns, and the term fit here, somehow -- browns and grays and whites and blacks, on long thin legs, that had stumbled and fallen, the hateful ones after them, terrified, in pain, coming to the forest, to him, for help, and he'd rushed forward....
He'd beaten those hateful ones, but the family was gone, and he couldn't heal them. He only remembered it from the trees' view then, cradling the family in his -- in the trees' -- branches, but being unable to wake them again. He remembered gathering his parts... apparently he did look like this, even then, with the dark armor. The blood hadn't been his. He was sticky with something golden and clear, and the trees carried his parts carefully....
It was getting easier, figuring out how to see from just his own eyes instead of the millions of dark little gems in the trees' smooth bark. It was getting easier, pulling up the memories of moving as himself, climbing up the trees that moved their limbs to make the way easy for him, walking through the forest as roots dug themselves down and trunks leaned aside to make a path. It was getting easier, remembering the feeling of his shield sliding out from his arm, directing the forest to foil the hateful ones' efforts. Asking the forces of life itself -- wasn't it that, somehow? -- to aid them, willing them to cause the thorns to appear, the ivies to grow and cling, to fight back, to take the shiny things away from them, to chase them back out....
There had been family, too. The hateful ones chased them sometimes, and he dealt with them then too, took their shiny things and sent them running. He'd helped his family, those possible vulcanoids, the--
He tried to remember, tried to focus on them, on that idea of that family, those kin... It was so far away, buried deeper. He came back to that idea of the one that'd visited, the happy one who'd bid them to follow....
Was blond hair and such light eyes a normal part of Vulcan gene pools? The ears weren't the same, either, too small... if only he could remember him better, though. There was the thought of the other one, with dark hair and darker clothes. As light as the other's heart was, dark one's had practically collapsed under the loneliness and sorrow it carried. She was familiar, though, someone he knew from before, somehow, and she came and sobbed and slept in the trees, rested with him... and she'd been family too, she'd looked right, she'd felt right, that similar something that the hateful ones hadn't had correctly....
It was a similar feeling to the healing, to the thorns and vines growing madly to defend against the shiny things, to what connected him to the forest, to what he and Skisan were connected with currently....
Maybe this family hadn't been Vulcans exactly, but they'd had some sort of ability, one that had something to do with that shiny bit of something in the tree-person's arm.
There was something to the idea of her coming to him. Something to the notion that she'd not just come to the trees, but to him, hugged onto what was around him and tried to sleep.... He tried remembering; she'd been faint after a while, asleep with him among the trees, calm again... but before then...?
It would take him another good moment to puzzle it out, but the image was at least clearer; she'd looked at least mostly like the vulcanoids, and like humans, and like... well, like a good many other similar species in the universe. Her eyes hadn't been as black as his, though. Those smaller points to her ears, that expression that should have been a smile, but wasn't, and even while she'd slept with him among the trees, she and he and they would lash out again and again at those hateful ones and their shiny things that always came and caused more and more pain and damage....
It still didn't explain why he looked like a tree himself. But the image of this family was at least a little clearer... and those hateful ones, which looked suspiciously like they might actually be humans....
The trees' mental patterns had fallen aside, bit by bit; whether it was his memory of them, or simply what of them he'd adopted, they still didn't seem to mind one way or the other, though their attention was more directed to Skisan now: Curiosity, and the still-held acceptance and trust of him that their person here had already settled on.
The trouble now was simply how far away and buried those other memories of his were, rather than the inability to think as himself, to be able to handle them. But there was a better sense of the overall again, at least, and he hid nothing of it from Skisan now: his usual calm... his want to help those others, the weight of the failure in doing so... his feelings about the hateful ones, he pushed aside; he didn't want to think about them. He'd tried, and tried, and failed, and that's why he'd been asleep all this time, wasn't it....
Or maybe he wasn't so calm; he couldn't tell. There was an ache that didn't quite register as it should, but it brought tears with it regardless. Apparently he had those, tree or not; perhaps it was this place allowing for them?
But somewhere in all this digging, he'd come across a few other tidbits: having had a wooden doll form, when the world was much bigger around him. The knowledge of another kin-kind, a quiet, sad one that came in patterns and colors, serpentine with long necks and longer body and tail, and some sort of wings or fins or the like, he wasn't sure. The notion of that family living in houses built among other trees, around and under them, perhaps using their living forms as support. The certainty, its associated memories long buried, that it was those hateful ones that had killed them. The carefully-kept remnants of the almost-lost memories of the warm embraces of adults, as a child -- he'd had parents, grandparents, siblings and cousins, a direct family among those potential vulcanoids. His name.
He tried to say something, and found that he couldn't. That was what finally brought him out of it, that feeling in his chest and throat. He gave Skisan's hand a slight squeeze as he worked to push those oddly disconnected feelings aside. Maybe he still needed to mourn, but not yet, not while he wasn't going to feel it properly, still waking up as he was. At least finding a proper calm was easier than not, even now, though the tears were still present. Whatever he was like normally, however he'd been while floundering in the trees' patterns, he was rather self-controlled now.
He drew a breath, swallowed, and tried again, quiet.
"I'm Chell."