#tree of whimsy
Take the most delicate branches of the tree, fold and shape and carve them into a crown. Paint it black, but still let the natural wood grain shine through. Place it on the brow of your first contestant, first victor.
You may think that it was just coincidence that the ceremony took place under the Tree of Whimsey. But come on now, you’re smarter then that. Tango was smarter then that. He knew Bdubs, and knew that the vacancy he saw in his friend’s eyes was a lot to worry about.
The problem was, it didn’t matter. The joy of being crowned a victor was so cool that any worry he had dissipated the second the lopsided crown was placed on his brow. Just him, the master of puzzles, and the Tree of Whimsey.
The crown fit him so perfectly he didn’t even need to take it off to sleep. Not that he slept anymore. He found himself often aimlessly wandering towards the monolith and the tree at night, even after laying down for bed. It was a giant amongst the sea of trees around it. White bark glowing, infused with moonlight. He wanted to touch it, speak to it. But something always stopped him, like Impulse asking a question about the wither skull farm or being reminded of his unfinished nether hub plans.
And then one night there was no hermits to interrupt, no plans to finish. He knew the path, for it was laid out in front of him in soft shimmering light. He followed it, a noise akin to wind chimes getting louder and louder as he got closer. The Tree Of Whimsey was waiting for him. There was a figure at the base of the tree, Tango could see, and he was jealous for a moment before realizing it was Bdubs, still wearing his long mossy robes.
Oh, to touch the tree, feel it’s warm and welcoming power, like a caress from a god, Tango assumed. He walked over to stand next to Bdubs, who didn’t turn to greet him. Weird. Tango cleared his throat, and then Bdubs turned his head. His eyes were blank, staring yet unseeing. The smile he always had on looked cracked and bloody, like he couldn’t close his mouth or lick his lips.
Tango, kind of disgusted, turned so he was looking right at the tree’s beauty instead. The wind chimes were louder, an elegant melody that filled him with- well, the problem was that the Tree of Whimsey was supposed to be perfect, right? Tango believed that. But that face… that was not perfect. And, he now began to come to think, neither was the crown. Just a little lopsided. Just a tiny amount, so almost no one would notice. It made him wonder what else wasn’t quite right.
He adjusted the crown on his head, and for just a moment, he felt a dizzying wave of fatigue wash over him, and the pretty lights went out. He frowned. He didn’t like that. He let the crown fall back, so everything was almost perfect again. Here in the glow of the Tree of Whimsey, with its crown on his head, as long as he kept looking forward, there were no dead eyes and cracked lips or flashes of darkness.
Put a crown upon your victor’s head, and he is now mine. I call to him, and he, no more then a vessel, will respond. Teach him perfection and beauty live in the tree and nothing else. For what is whimsy but a stark white fantasy?
