[meanwhile, the Battler with the heart problems just kind of reaching into his chest to pull at the thorns--no longer that purple color, going black and withering. they snap, brittle, under his fingers and he gives the biggest sigh of relief.

similarly, the vines and thorns among the flowers seem to be steadily going the same way, dark and withering.]

--why do they gotta keep targeting that, anyway...

[and why's it so hard to remember that golden truth sometimes.]