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His veins show green in the dead pallor of his face and hands. When he listens, there's a creaking sound underlying his every breath. The taste of leaf mold clings to the roof of his mouth.

He can feel it unfolding. Creeping ivy presses against the back of his eye. It hasn't punctured the jelly, yet, but it's growing - hairy rootlets have invaded his lachrymal gland, and he could never have imagined how it would itch.

A serrated leaf breaks through the skin of his back. He doesn't bleed.

The Prince is dying. Yggdrasil will live. Father would be proud.