Johnny is equally heartened, albeit more guardedly, to hear the successful snip of the shears, to watch the vines part. But it seems like they're not really going at the ones that are really holding him, it's more like the Balladeer is trimming around him, like he's a garden ornament. He more or less feels like one right now. It's only when Greta announces her discovery that he realizes why he still feels so fucking immobile - not just paranoia, but actual warping reality, these brambles so goddamn intent on keeping him in place that they're sprouting freshly to make up for the severed ties.

"Fucking shit," he snaps, struggling in frustration, accomplishing nothing but a few more cuts. How desperate is he gonna have to be before he calls Gabe? Well, the Balladeer isn't gonna be able to be here for that. Johnny doesn't really want them getting near each other, for reasons he's not fully prepared to pin down.

"Just..." He sighs, defeated. There's nothing they can do, they should have known this. He can't tell Greta to leave him because she can't leave the woods. The Balladeer evidently can't say what he means no matter how hard he tries, can't even nod when he wants to, why should his situation be any better?

"We'll just have to fucking wait, I guess," he mutters.

Some part of him deeper down is scared shitless right now. What if this never goes away. What if no one can do anything about it. What if he's trapped here for the rest of his fucking days.

What if he slowly turns into a tree, like in so many dreams.

He shudders convulsively and looks away, jaw set, staring darkly into the woods.