Connections

All Jörmungandr knew was one moment he was feeling a greater connection to someone than he had ever felt in his life, and the next moment his center of gravity was shifting, his body hitting the floor while his mind went blank.

When he stood up from the impact, he stood enclosed by a dark space, a place in which there was no beginning nor end, and nothing was accessible for the five senses to find purchase. He stood as if on the glass ceiling of a void, and for a moment, he thought of nothing; felt nothing; sensed nothing. Glancing down, there was nothing of himself he could find, as if he was one with the void, and the void was surrounding him.

And it was terrifying.

Immediately, he began attempting to grab at the hands and arms and legs and body he knew he had—he recalled being enraptured with their initial strangeness—but could find nothing of form or substance anywhere.

There was just the void and him; holding him down, chaining him up—drowning him.

He recalled the pressure of the oceans, the tides and storms that kept him in stasis—lethargic and breathless, dead and void. There was never any color that he could recall; no spot of light existed within the perpetual midnight world he had existed within. The underwater sound was white noise blankness to him, the movement of creatures scarce and unseen, unfelt.

The waters were everchanging and never aging, and the concept of time seemed both very fast and very slow for him; he could have existed there for only a dozen years—he could have for eons. He still was, for his true self never left that place, only a piece of his soul and mind did.

Struck by a sudden thought of describing his world, the world he feared he had returned to once again, he searched for it, only to come to a blank. Panic set in, a jittery heartbeat and nervousness that seemed to make breathing difficult overcoming him as he searched more frantically, desperately, as if attempting to grasp for a self-identity he had not realized existed.

Struggling to remember the term Ime had used to describe him, as he attempted to feel anything at all by crouching into a ball, it finally reached him after agonizing over it for what felt like more centuries.

'Monochrome,' he thought, some of the panic dissipating, 'Ime called me monochrome when I close my eyes. It's monochrome here—no, wait, that still isn't the right word. It's just dark—monochrome includes light, and I can't find light here.'

'I never could.'

So imagine his surprise when, in the midst of this great and terrible darkness, a single thread of red appeared on his pinky, illuminating the world dimly and bringing awareness back to his form. He looked up timidly from the ball he had curled himself up into, and his eyes widened as he stared at the thread, at the path it showed, at the tug it gave.

Curious as a cat and anxious as a child, he got to his feet and began to follow the red string, walking for an undetermined amount of time while grasping it tightly, as he was afraid that if he let go, it would disappear. The walk was long, and most people would have been tired and scared with only a string within the darkness, but Jörmungandr was alright; strangely, he felt that as long as this string was here, he would not be alone anymore.

With it as a companion, he was content to walk the silence, the darkness, the empty expanse—until he began to hear sobs.

Pausing to ascertain the source and direction of the sound, the string tugged at him further, more incessantly, as if to ask him to hurry. Hurry he did, running as fast he could as he followed the string that pulled him along, the cries becoming louder until he found himself not in the darkness, but in a small box.

Of course, most things were small for him, as he was a tall adult surrounded by strange furry things with arm holes that his companions could have described in more detail, with a reference to an old 'movie' or two. Anyhow, the box was uncomfortable and the crying seemed to emanate from here; as such, he compensated by de-aging himself, limbs becoming shorter and body shrinking by several times until he was roughly Ime's size.

Feeling less enclosed now, Jörmungandr finally began moving towards the cries, pushing away a few coats only to discover a child. She was very small, perhaps only five years in human age with long, dirty blond hair that seemed almost brown, pale and malnourished limbs that seemed too skinny for her, and dull, weeping blue eyes that were red and puffy along with flushed cheeks.

She was muttering to herself, soft hiccups interrupting her words as she softly pleaded to someone only she could see and hear, "I-I'm sorry, I'm so-rry, I wo-won't do it again; d-don't hurt me, I'm s-sorry. Papa, I won't do it again—whatev-er I got wrong, I'm sorry. P-please don't hi-it me—no, you ca-an, I'm sorry, but puh-please get me out of hee-ere. I'm s-so scared, Papa."

Her cries grew louder and words slurred together, her arms raising to shelter her head from unknown phantoms as she curled into herself even more, attempting to disappear, to cease to exist.

"W-why," she sobbed, her face contorting with loneliness and innocence only a child could have, "W-Why do y-you ha-hate me soh-oh-o much, Papa? I-If I goh-go, wh-will Mah-ma come ba-back? W-Will yo-you be ha-ppy? I-I'm sorry I a-am a-alive, Pah-pa. I-I know wh-what I di-hi-id wro-ng. S-So puh-please le-eht me o-out."

Bruises adorned her body, lines of red running along her legs where something thin and blunt had hit her repeatedly, and splotches of color aside from her tears coated her arms and face. Her small body jumped with each breath, each word, and he had never before witness such lack of emotional control or reasoning before in his life.

Hesitantly, but feeling a little assured in the pulsing red thread that connected to her left pinky, Jörmungandr reached out to her, and finally asked, "Hey... is there anything I can do to help you?"

The little girl finally lifted her head, and in her features he could see a grown up corpse staring back at him with the same dead eyes, torn apart and broken like a rag doll. Sunset yellow eyes widened, a connection he did not want to make being made as he murmured, "Asta?"

Blinking at him with mistrust that hid the smallest ingot of hope, she hiccupped, "A-Are yo-ou a F-Fair-y?" She moved closer to him as he moved back until he was pressed into the wall of the box, rapidly blinking at the child's proximity and the sudden turn of the situation.

"C-Can yo-ou ma-ake my wi-ish come true?" she asked, a gleam of hope exposing itself as she held his hand where the string was, shaking with anxiety and hope.

Seeing her desperation, he, despite not really understand what a fairy was, swiftly answered, "Yes, I can. So, Asta," he leaned forward this time, his forehead touching hers while staring intently into the light of her eyes, as if searching for her true self.

Flinching at his proximity yet assured by his calm yet intent gaze, she stared down at the hand she held out of instinct, dropping it before looking at her bruises and weak grip. She wondered how she could have held him captive with these weak hands, and wondered further how he got here.

"This is a d-dream," she declared to herself, peeking up towards the beautiful fairy boy with the sunset eyes that looked concerned and earnest. "N-no one ca-cares for me, so-o thi-is is a dre-am... but because it's a-a dre-am... I-I'll b-be ho-honest."

Her gaze returned to her hands before she revealed the secret she had hidden within her mind for eight years, "Pa-pa w-wi-ishes I-I was de-head. S-So, if I we-ere a go-od child, I-I shou-uld wish the sa-ame. Bu-ut," she looked up, pale blue eyes sparkling with tears and hopes as she confessed, "I-I wa-anna li-ive."

Then the door to the box was opened, and Asta could only widen her eyes with fear as they deadened before a hand roughly grabbed her, slamming the door to the memory-like dream shut.

Jörmungandr was in the dark yet again, save for one change:

He was crying.