I hear them calling out to me in my dreams. I hear the calls of other voices echoing through a forest, an endless, vast wood of various types of trees. Mighty oak, striking birch, succulent maple, all rising from grass so rich and fragrant. And dominating the skyline is a tree unlike any other, its species indistinct, but its presence always known to me. Sometimes, in those dreams, I find myself stopping and looking at that tree, and as I stare across its endless stretches of bark and leaves larger than entire gardens, I have walked towards it. But my attention is drawn back to the voices throughout the forest, and an urgency to find them. Sometimes, they are giggling and laughing at a joke I can't make out the words to, feminine mirth bubbling throughout the winding woods. Other times, they whisper secrets that I am never able to recall when I wake up. A few lucky times, they have been moans and gasps of ecstasy, an intimate scene I wish to join in on. But mostly, they are screams of terror, begging to be saved through cries of pain and whimpers of hopelessness. I have no idea what threat might be assailing them, or maybe it isn't a single source of their panic, but many, and yet I need to be there, to be by their side, to rescue them and bring them to safety, to interpose myself between them and the threat. To be a hero.

But am I brave enough to do it? Occasionally, I find myself asking that as I leap over roots and weave under branches. Doubt creeps in my mind that I will never make it in time, that I should leave them to their own devices. The futility of the act of searching a never-ending forest for voices that always seem just out of reach weighs on my dreams more and more. And then, there is the tree, the tree beyond any other tree that captivates me every now and then, trying to lure me away from the call I must answer with its own beckoning lure. I haven't recorded an exact number, but the dreams usually end in one of two ways: I either stumble across a sunlit clearing, the voices louder and louder, with the sunlight shining in my face, and before my eyes can adjust, I slowly come to awareness in the real world; or I eventually forge a way out of the woods to the base of the tree, at which point, things get...weird...so hard to recall exact details...and I awaken in a startle.

The world of my dreams is so much better than the world I live in. First off, in my dreams, I am the woman I wish I was, instead of being who I currently am, a drab sack of meat in a world of flesh and stone and metal that is gradually running itself into the ground, at least in the parts of the world I am aware of. However, my home nestled amidst a protective wall of towering peaks and racing ridgelines provides some small comfort for a world slowly going mad beyond the sanctuary around me. Here in the mountains, I deal with the drudgery of living in a small town nestled at a junction between two valleys, slowly being absorbed into the nearby city's influence. For this town, there will be one of two fates that are rapidly approaching a critical decision point: be swallowed up and become simply one end of a sprawling urban area, or gentrify and atrophy into a tourist trap for the nearby National Park. At least there is a fiber-optic trunk line running through town along the shortest path between two major metropolitan centers, so the Internet is fast and cheap. This provides me with my outlet to the wider world, and while lazing about online, both on and off work, I stray into pictures of forests from anime and fantasy, especially of gargantuan trees that patently shatter the square-cube law over their mighty boughs. It all looks so much like my dream, and yet, not ever quite right, which further urges my yearning to discover where this tree I keep seeing is.

But finally, after so long, one night, the dream is different. The calls are not in pain, or pleasure, or comedy, or mystery, but something else. A sense of acceptance and congratulations. A celebration is in order, I just need to make it to them. I find a voice I am unfamiliar with, the voice I imagine my true feminine self to speak, asking out a question I am surprised I have never had the courage to ask them before: "Where are you?" I finally get an answer, from two voices, unfamiliar and yet instantly recognizable as my dearest friend Caifina and my lovely darling Jaida. "Over near the tree!" "Don't go towards the tree!" "Go between the tree and our voices!" "You're almost there!" They encourage me onwards, and between their reassurances and praise, and the mental tugging of the gigantic tree to distract me, I forge a new path, a third path, and discover that, in the bending and shifting of the forest, there had been a pattern all along, of straight rows that, when you look at them at just the right angle, they arrange themselves into a perfect line. Now able to literally see the forest for the trees, I run at full speed, my breath powering me forwards, my legs racing across every push against the ground, my heart pounding in my bosom, until I finally see the two figures in their iridescent pearl suits, and realize that I have one as well. They hug me, my sisters, and finally welcome me home.

I know what I must do now. I know where I truly belong. I am not just Rosalie Takao, or the many other names I have taken and faces I have worn over the years. I am #0003 as well, and that is who I must be, as I go to join the Avalon Collective and assume my rightful place.
The Faewild needs exploring. The Collective needs its protector.
And I will be the one who draws a line in the dirt between the two.

Thanks to  axelferdinan for drawing this, and  caifinarosewood and  naviabbot for creating their wonderful shared universe that I can finally take part in!
Check out the rest of the Avalon Collective stories here:
https://www.furaffinity.net/view/55906706/
https://www.furaffinity.net/view/55942106/
https://www.furaffinity.net/view/55965536/