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Othello watched Angel drive away from his position at the edge of the woods, fist wrapped tightly around Angel's collar. As the red leer of the tail-lights receded with no sign of hesitance from their driver, Othello had to ask himself if that was one final display of obedience or dismissiveness of his last order.

But then, as the truck vanished around a bend, an unbidden thought surfaced: There goes my last connection to the normal world.

It felt like he'd just crossed a bridge and burned it behind him, stranding him in the midst of what was, minimum, the middle of nowhere. Even now, the idea that he really was just crazy hadn't completely vanished.

The alternative was really no better. He could hear the things in the woods behind him. They hadn't noticed him yet, but he could sense them. Things that could make themselves real and more dangerous than the wild animals or accidents that kept normal people out of the woods at night. The flicked in and out of existence on the edges of his vision, appearing just long enough to snap at each other, or escape ambushes. If any of them did take notice of him, they'd want him.

And now, all of a sudden, they were all he had. He had chosen them over his boi. Over his family. Anger rose up in his belly, failing to cover the sudden fear.

"Dumbass," he growled to himself, resentful tears spilling over.

He turned to stare into the textured blackness that awaited him. Maybe I'm crazy, he thought, entirely dismissive of Angel's reaction. I'd like to be, at this point.

"Yeah," he explored out loud, "Cuz if I'm just nuts, I can get help and go get my boi back!" He began speaking directly to the forests now. "Even when I acknowledged you, not one of you could actually hurt me, right? Well, guess what! I don't think you can now! Hear me? Do your goddamned worst so I can go home and make it up to him!"

When nothing showed up to rip his head off, he reached deep into his Big Voice and roared. "Here I am! If you want me, come get me if you can! You Lies! You Figments! YOU NOTHINGS!"

The mists rolled out from between the trees, and from them bubbles of light rose. The scattered essences of the forests coalescing as they tried to take forms that could answer his suicidal demand. They hovered close before recoiling, then turned on each other, the bigger ones preying upon the smaller. Then coming over to him and as if measuring themselves against him, only to return to either cannibalize, or be cannibalized, by their fellows.

It was mesmerizing, like a fireworks display slowed down and reversed. Othello couldn't look away even as shapes emerged to stretch or claw out of masses of light. Frightening shapes like claws or wicked fangs or savage talons; ideal tools to do just as he asked of them. He let himself become enraptured in the textures of bark and foliage that skinned the ever growing masses of madness. What would the final shape of his executioner be? Would it bother trying to be an animal? Would it remain a mass of roiling vines and boughs but with all a predator's pointy bits?

When it reached a glowing, exploratory tendril towards him, he reached back and laid a palm along it. It shivered then recoiled as if surprised. It was then sucked away, back into the gathering mass like a single pasta into a slurping mouth. The same mass froze as if in mid-chew. It resumed chewing once, twice, shifted the bite, then once more.

One day be required to adequately fulfill your request, my lord.

Othello felt his mouth open, jaw jut forward. "Pardon me?"

The strength is here, my Lord, to ensure your demise, but it is spread far and performing various functions. Time is required to grow it, gather it, shape it, and make it durable enough to accommodate your desire. Request: do not move from that spot while it is done.

That was so disappointing it was funny, so, through fresh tears, he laughed at the now-dissolving murder-mound. "Seriously?" He chortled. "Why are you cock-shy now?" He sneered. "I've been attacked twice this week by the likes of you! Looks like you got at least as much oomph there to make a go at it, if ya like!"

If such trifling things made attempts on you, they were either desperate or stupid, me Lord. Were they to spill your blood in ambush, perhaps they could recognize their folly. As it is, your tears indicate that a pointed word from you would render these efforts wasted. The flesh you wear obfuscates that a bit, leaving your sweat and breath to differentiate that you are any different from other mortals at all.

The mass began to sink into the leaf litter and dissolve, breaking back down in to those motes of light. So that was what all that sniffing and sidling was about: It was sizing me up by my tears? He frowned. How does that help me?

"He won't be here tomorrow," Ezra's voice came from somewhere in the woods beyond the mound. "Don't waste your energy, Green Man."

Othello scowled at that. "Three days," Othello sais. "I'll be here in three days, and you can have your go at me then."

"Boy," Ezra said slowly, "You don't know --"

"Do we have a deal?" Othello demanded over Ezra's warning.

We have an accord, my Lord. Before anything else could be said, the mound collapsed completely into mulch. All glow vanished from it.

Ezra appeared then anger making his approach afirm march. "Are you out of your goddamned mind?!" He barked.

"Obviously," Othello said numbly. "Or I wouldn't be here at all. I'd be at home asleep, warm and loved, and safe. I wouldn't have people out to kill me along with... with THOSE things! I'd still have my angel, and my job, and my life!" When rage turned to surprise and then to pity, Othello struggled not to break down. "Fuck you!" He snapped. You don't get to look at me like that!You're probably imaginary, too!"

"Tell..." The old man wrapped him up in arms that were stronger than they looked. "This isn't the time to roll over and die--"

"I don't WANT to die!" Othello sobbed, hiding his face in the older man's chest. "I just want to be crazy! I want them to not be real! Them, you, all of it!" He took a deep browth and howled: "I want to go home!"

"Aw, buddy..." Ezra purred, stroking Othello's back.

There was no telling who lowered their embrace to the ground, but at some point, Ezra was on his knees, holding Othello while the other cried himself to sleep right there on the edge of the woods.