ACT II - Change
"How I long to forget all that troubles me in the world and dip myself deep into my own fantasy."
In my current situation, anybody would find it hard-pressed to make out clearly what is happening to me outside of this unconscious state.
You see, my body came to another conclusion that it is best for the sea to determine my fate for me.
This time, I am not so cut up about it. As much as it pains me to cogitate so, I think that the decision my body this time made was the right one. For me, at least. Because. If I was conscious. I wouldn't know what to do. At all.
And, Hel, if I was conscious I'd be dead in minutes anyway. Perhaps seconds. So, it is best to leave my problems in the hands of another than to face it myself. My body has given me a dice. Better for there to be a chance than have no chance at all, I conclude. So, I rolled it. And now... here we are.
You. And I.
Due to my current limitations – me being unaware of the outside world and all of that – I can only make out two well-educated guess-facts about what is happening to my body right now:
One: I am on the verge of or already drowning.
-AND-
Two: I couldn't help but not be bothered by the aforementioned fact.
Why, you ask? Don't I want to live?
Yes.
Of course I want to live. As do all living creatures in this world.
But, at the same time, I don't. Why? I am experiencing a sort of feeling.
That's vague, you say.
Hold on. Hear me out.
I know. And it is. But, the whole feeling is quite hard to put into words. Quite hard to explain.
I have had problems explaining things before if I am not writing it down with coal and paper, but explaining things have never been this difficult.
Okay.
How will I put this? Let's see...
It is regret, sorrow, and relief all jumbled up into one compact letter, complete with sealing wax. I think that is the best I can describe it. And, yes, the letter is a metaphor for a feeling.
Hmm, why relief? you attentively ask.
Well, to answer that...
If you have been paying any semblance of attention so far, I think you know perfectly well why I feel relieved. And, if you have not... well. I will give an ambiguous hint:
-It is one of the contributing factors as to why I feel this way-
I will leave the rest up to your interpretation.
But, for now, let me wallow away in this never-ending blackness that is my mind. Please.
That's. When I hear it.
In the corner of my mind. In its cavernous, bottomless depths of loneliness and self-obsession,
a rustle.
Oh.
Oh, gods.
I dare not breathe.
I assume a cautionary stance.
I am not alone here. That is the third fact I had conveniently forgot to mention.
"W-who are you?" I shout, directionless. "Oh gods... please. Please. Don't hurt me. Oh, Balder... please don't hurt me."
Not one response.
"Just s-say something. Please."
Total.
Everlasting.
Silence.
I can almost picture it laughing to itself in the dark at my expense. An overpowering feeling of hopelessness buries itself deep within my core.
That nobody cares to save me. Nobody.
I brace myself. For death. For Helheim itself. I close my eyes.
And...
...
Nothing happens.
Nothing but the nothingness of my mind surrounds me. I open my eyes, puzzled.
That's when I see it.
A vision.
The entity in my head wants me to see something.
And, I see... two blacksmiths in their natural habitat.
The smithy.
Well, what qualifies for one, at least. It looks to be located at the edge of the forest.
Sweat pores from the first's forehead as he works the metal. He looks like he never skips any form of arm day. He works his craft as if he had had years to hone his skills, and it would be right to assume so. He works at superhuman speed, almost working like a machine.
The second blacksmith, too, has sweat pore from his forehead. But, there is a stark contrast between them. This blacksmith looks rather lacking in the physical side of things. He gets tired a lot between swings, and he is prone to clumsiness as he hammers the iron into place. His weapons are not as polished as the first, and there is always a sort of defect in his metal.
Now, even though the two couldn't be any more different than each other in terms of raw skill, the first revers his comrade more than himself. Why? Because, for what the second lacks in talent, he more than makes up for it in his sheer passion and drive to improve.
Rain or shine, the second is there in the smithy, as faithful as a sentinel.
If he tires, even to his last tether, he never comments about it.
He only works, and keeps working.
Even should a passing cavalry pass by and shake the ground beneath him, you cannot be sure that he will look up. His enthusiasm never seems to wane.
Each morning he seems to attack alacrity as on the day he started. Each dusk it is reluctance that he puts his tools away.
And, true enough, his work would never match and equal to the first's work. In fact, his work looks rather average. But, given the right mindset, the right motivation.
The ordinary man can make a difference without having to be of extraordinary calibre.
Then, the vision shifts. Shifts into...
a mirror. The kind that only the Southerners bring for trade but were never bought because of their price.
My curiosity and inquisitiveness attempt homicide on me.
I look into the mirror.
I stare at myself for a second. I look distorted, cut around the edges.
As if... I am incomplete somehow.
I see myself look at me closely, also curious. The reflection notes my naïve young eyes. My purity, my innocence. He smiles nostalgically. I am overwhelmed. What does this have to do with anything? How does this all connect? I open my mouth, wanting to ask the meaning of this.
Then, something I didn't expect.
The image distorts, morphs into somebody else.
Now.
Green, soul-piercing eyes. Jet-black scales. Dagger-tipped talons. Beast-like teeth. Graceful stature, figure. As if... it is made for the sole purpose of flying.
I see myself turn into something bigger, taller.
A better version of me in every department.
However.
There's something off with it, something I can't quite put my finger on. The figure makes it as if I am not that much different from it. It looks different on the outside, but inside.
It... it still feels like me.
It opens its mouth, its face, filled with longing and hope.
"Fix yourself."
With that, it vanishes into crevices of my mind, soon to be seen again. The mirror's one saving grace, gone. Stolen. Robbed. Right underneath my nose. Now, it is a miserable husk of its former glory. The idea of what-could-have-been, snatched as quick as it came. I feel... empty, like the mirror now. Like, I can't live without it.
I scream.
My mind is collapsing, caving in on itself, being destroyed from the inside out.
Then.
I wake up.
I'd never guess what happens to me next.