More stressful subject matter
May 25, 2018
As you and Steve Rogers make your way down a long, dark corridor, you encounter a well-dressed older gentleman.
"Going somewhere?"
You hold your head high. No small feat considering you are in a great deal of pain.
"Yes, I'm afraid your accommodations leave much to be desired."
"I do apologize if you feel you were mistreated. Things are a bit hectic around here, given the circumstances. You understand."
"Of course."
"We were so sorry to hear about your brother. As I'm sure you know, he was regarded as a hero by our people."
The man's words are dripping with insincerity. His body language implies that he is a politician, or possibly even a salesman of some sort. But he is wearing what appears to be military attire.
"Hmm," you reply, "I wonder what that makes me."
He reaches out to shake your hand. When it becomes clear that you have no intention of returning his gesture, he withdraws it.
"That's actually why I'm here. You see, there seems to be some debate as to where your loyalties lie."
"Well, allow me to settle it. I have none."
"Loki—" Steve warns.
"It's alright, Captain," the man says. "He is free to speak his mind, of course. In fact, I encourage it."
"I realize the casualties have been great," Steve claims, "but they would have been greater without his assistance."
You know not how accurate a statement that is. Considering Thanos succeeded in wiping out half the Earth's population, you seriously doubt that your efforts were any more significant than anyone else's.
"There are some people here who have some questions for you," he tells you.
You scan the corridor. There are no guards anywhere. The man before you is not armed. You detect no barriers nearby. And you cannot help noticing that you are mysteriously unshackled.
"And if I answer those questions, I suppose I'll just be free to go?"
"Well, that depends."
"Upon?"
"How you answer them."
Of course, there is always a catch.
"What could I possibly say that would be of any interest to anyone?"
"That remains to be seen."
"And if I answer the questions in a manner that is deemed...acceptable?"
"You will be granted asylum here."
"Right," you return, skeptically.
You have no intention of lingering on Earth for any length of time. It certainly would be easier not to have to make a hasty getaway. Especially since you've yet to recover fully from your injuries. There are worse places to lay low, at least.
The man gestures for you and Steve to change course. You go back the way you came and head down another hallway altogether. You eventually arrive at a door.
He opens the door and you walk through it. Steve does not follow.
"I'm afraid you'll have to wait outside, Captain Rogers," he says. "We won't be long."
You glance at Steve, whose expression implies some level of concern. About what, you do not know.
The room you enter is even darker than the corridor from which you came. As soon as you are inside, the older gentleman disappears into the shadows.
The needle prick comes as a bit of a surprise. In your weakened state, your reaction time is diminished. Had you seen it coming, you might have done something to prevent it. You grip your bicep. The site where you were injected begins to throb. The throbbing travels down the length of your arm and there is a tingling sensation in your fingers.
"You may experience some temporary discomfort," a woman informs you.
You are overcome with dizziness. Just as you feel your legs beginning to collapse underneath you, someone grabs you from behind and lowers you into a chair.
"Did you give him too much?" a man asks.
It is definitely not the same man who greeted you in the hallway. This man is much younger.
"No," she replies. "He'll level out. It just takes a minute."
Suddenly, you are overwhelmed by a rush of nausea.
You have not eaten in days. And so, your heaving is fruitless. Your body still goes through the motions. Hands are on you again, guiding your head down towards the floor. The room is mostly dark, and you cannot see what is happening. After a few minutes, the urge to vomit passes.
"What makes you think this shit will even work on him?" the man inquires.
"It worked on Rogers," she points out.
"Rogers is human. He's also a pushover. He can't lie to save his life."
"Even so, this chemical makes lying pretty much impossible. It blocks electrical activity in the part of the brain associated with creative thinking. The subject can only rely on their memory to answer questions."
"I want to test it, first. I need to be sure that his answers are genuine."
"Yeah? How do you plan to do that?"
He does not answer her. Instead, he pokes you in the chest.
"Tell me about the worst day of your life."
The woman scoffs.
"What, are we playing truth or dare? You going to ask him about his first kiss—"
"Why don't you shut up so he can answer?"
He pokes you a second time.
"Did you hear me?"
You nod. When you speak, your words come out slurred. You don't feel like yourself at all. Something is very, very wrong.
"I…don't feel right," you mutter, blankly.
He ignores your complaint.
"Do you understand the question?" he asks you.
"Question?"
"I asked you to tell me about the worst day of your life."
The request is one that would, under any other circumstances, require some thorough contemplation. Somehow, the answer comes to you immediately. There's no deeper thought process. It is as though your subconscious has been blown wide open. Your response comes with frightening automacy.
"I suppose...when I discovered that I was adopted."
"He's adopted," he says to the woman. "Did we know that already?"
"Yeah. It's in the file. Which you would know, if you'd bothered to read the damn thing—"
He turns back to you.
"And what was so terrible about that? Aside from the obvious."
There is no thinking involved. Only a response.
"Well…I didn't fully resemble either of my parents, or my brother. I suppose I always felt somewhat...extraneous."
"So…when you realized that it was more than just paranoia—"
"In hindsight," you confide, "I believe I may have been too deeply invested in my identity as an Asgardian."
You are unnerved by your own candor. These are thoughts you have never before shared. You wish you could make yourself stop talking. But alas, you cannot.
"Bummer," the man remarks, callously. "And how did that make you feel?"
You struggle to contain your emotions. You don't want to discuss this. And you certainly do not understand what interest it would be to these people, or anyone else for that matter.
"I...don't know what you mean," you claim, weakly.
"You have to be more specific," the woman advises. "The more specific your question, the more specific the answer."
He rephrases his question.
"How did it feel to suspect that you were adopted and then to discover that you were correct?"
Your mouth hangs open, briefly. You imagine yourself standing up and walking out of the room. But you cannot move. Your legs are numb and useless.
"Horrible," you confess.
As the word leaves your lips, you experience an incredible sense of violation. It is as though someone has pried open your mind and robbed you of your most private thoughts.
"Horrible," he echoes. "In what sense?"
You clear your throat.
"Please—"
"Answer the question," he repeats, more firmly.
"I don't want to," you whisper.
He leans in close. You can feel his breath on your cheek.
"But you will. One way or another, you will tell me what I want to know. Might as well get it over with."
"Why are you doing this?" you ask.
"Stop resisting and answer the question. It was horrible to discover that you were adopted. Tell me how."
Once again, the truth comes pouring out of you, and you are unable to stop it.
"I..I...realized that my entire life had been a lie."
"Uh huh. Go on."
"I didn't know who I was anymore. I felt...alone. My heart was broken."
"Are you satisfied?" the woman asks him.
"Yeah," the man replies, sounding utterly bored.
"Are you sure? You don't want to make him sing MacArthur Park or cluck like a chicken or something?"
"Let's just get started."
Doors open and people file in, at least a dozen. They seat themselves on the opposite side of the room. There is a light being shined in your direction, so you cannot see their faces. You cannot make out any distinct lines or shapes, only patches of darkness and brightness. Ordinarily, you can sense the presence of individual people. Right now, your perception of such things is dull and jumbled.
The woman is the first to speak.
"Would you state your name for the record?"
You blink and peer into the light that is now being shined at your face.
"I am Loki...of Asgard."
"Last name?"
You wrack your brain. Asgardians do not utilize last names, at least not in the way that Midgardians do. Still, you know there must be some cultural equivalent. How was it that the Midgardians had referred to Thor? Oh, yes—
"Odinson."
"And what is your date of birth?"
"Date of birth?"
"The day you were born."
"I know not the specific day."
"Well, approximately how old are you?"
"I was born during the second half of the 10th century, on your Gregorian calendar."
"That would make you just over a thousand years old."
"That sounds accurate."
"And you are the only surviving Asgardian."
"Apparently."
"Your home planet was destroyed."
"Correct."
"Tell me about your mother."
"What about her?"
"Were you close?"
"Yes."
"How did she die?"
"She was murdered."
"By whom?"
"A Dark Elf known as Malekith."
"Is this Malekith still around?"
"No."
"Your mother's death, was that recent?"
"Relatively, yes."
"And your father?"
"What about him?"
"Were you close?"
"No."
"And his death…was recent as well?"
"Yes."
"How did he die?"
"He was very old."
"So...it was just natural causes."
"Yes."
"And your brother, Thor…were you close?"
"At times, yes. Mostly, no."
"He was killed by Thanos."
"That's correct."
"How was he killed?"
"What?" you ask, even though you heard her perfectly well.
"How was he killed? Did Thanos use a weapon?"
"A weapon?" you repeat.
"Is my question confusing?"
"No..."
You lift your own hands and endeavor to simulate what you witnessed. Your arms feel heavy and clumsy. You curl your fingers, as though you are grasping something large and round.
"I need a verbal response."
"Thanos...he...he crushed—" you stutter.
You just want to get the words out. You want to give her what she wants, so she will leave you alone.
"He crushed your brother's head," she finishes.
"Yes," you practically gasp.
"So, no weapon."
"No."
"Did your brother die right away?" the man interrupts.
"I...I don't know."
"About how long did it take for him to die?"
"Do we really need this?" the woman asks. "We already got testimony about this from Banner."
"It wasn't from Banner," he replies to his colleague. "It was from Steve Rogers. Which makes it hearsay. I'd prefer to corroborate the details, if possible—"
"Well, you don't need to be an asshole about it."
He ignores her and addresses you, once more.
"How long did it take for your brother to die?"
"I don't know, exactly."
"But you were present when it happened."
"I was."
"How close were you, physically?"
You shake your head again.
"I don't—"
"Were you in the same room?"
"Yes."
"So, you were in the room with him when he died, but you don't know how long it took for him to die."
"I closed my eyes."
"What—"
"I didn't want to see it or hear it. I closed my eyes and I covered my ears...and I screamed. I screamed and I screamed until it was over. Because...because it should have been me—"
You feel out of breath. The nausea returns.
"Jesus Christ," the woman says to the man. "Are you happy? Can we move on now?"
"Hey, you do your job. I'll do mine."
"What exactly is your job?" she snaps.
You sit, listening to them argue. You can sense the animosity between them, animosity that has nothing to do with you whatsoever. There's a palpable tension there. And you focus on it, allow it to distract you from your own discomfort. So much so that you do not notice the woman addressing you again.
"Mr. Odinson—"
"I'm sorry?"
"I asked, what brought you to Earth in 2012?"
"The Tesseract."
Your response elicits a chorus of laughter, followed by hushed conversation.
"Um...let me rephrase that. Why did you come to Earth back in 2012?"
"Why?"
"Yes...why?"
"I um...I came because—"
Thanos knew that the Tesseract was here. He wanted you to retrieve it. And you told him, confidently, that you could do so. Even at that point you knew what he was capable of. He went to great lengths to illustrate what torment would await you, should you fail him. You were terrified of him, and desperate to escape that fate. And yet, there was still a part of you that longed to earn his respect, to distinguish yourself from the other members of his crew. You picture yourself, no more than a boy, chasing after Odin, clamoring for his approval. Then, you picture yourself a man, petitioning Thanos similarly. A wave of shame washes over you.
"Do you need a moment?" she asks.
When you inhale, you realize that your nose is running. You reach up and touch your face and are horrified to discover that it is wet.
"I...I'm sorry," you mumble. You are grateful that you are too numb to be embarrassed.
"Just answer the question. Why did you come to Earth in 2012?"
"I came to retrieve the Tesseract."
"For Thanos."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You were helping Thanos to create the Infinity Gauntlet?"
"No," you correct. "I mean, yes, that was ultimately his purpose. But I was not aware of it at the time."
"When did you first become aware of his intention to create this weapon?"
"Not until he attacked our vessel."
"The Statesman," she clarifies, "the vessel that was carrying the Asgardian refugees to Earth."
"Yes."
"You were at least aware that Thanos was attempting to acquire the Infinity Stones. Were you not?"
"In a broad sense."
"But you didn't know why."
"I assumed he had ill intentions for them."
"Why did you assume that?"
You are beginning to feel more alert, more awake, although still not in control of yourself.
"He claimed his goal was to bring salvation to the universe...but he spoke only of death and destruction. His followers regarded him as some sort of messiah figure. I dismissed it as madness."
"But you didn't suspect that he might be planning to combine these Infinity Stones?"
"He did not speak of it to me."
"How did Thanos know where to find the Tesseract?"
"That information was...extracted from me by one of his underlings."
"Against your will?"
"Yes."
"And how did you know where to find it?"
"Odin stored it here, many years ago. He told us of it when we were children. Though honestly, I suspected it was merely folklore."
"Why is that?"
"My father was prone to exaggeration."
"How did you first encounter Thanos?"
"I had a disagreement with my family. I...left Asgard rather hastily. A short time later, I encountered Thanos."
"You had a fight with your parents, and you ran away from home," she summarizes, crudely.
"I suppose that's accurate."
"Describe Thanos. What was he like?"
"Imposing...predatory."
"In what way was he predatory?"
"He had a habit of recruiting the...discontented."
"Discontented?"
"He sought out people who were bitter and angry, but also vulnerable."
"Why do you think that is?"
"They were easier to manipulate."
"I see. Were you also discontented?"
"At the time, yes."
"Because of the aforementioned disagreement with your family."
"Among other things, yes."
"How did Thanos go about recruiting you?"
"He was overflowing with indiscriminate praise. He didn't know me, or anything about me really. He knew that I was a prince from Asgard, but little else. And yet, he went on about how special I was, how uniquely qualified to serve his cause."
"Not accustomed to compliments?"
"Not like that," you admit, "no."
"Did you express any skepticism?"
"Not directly...but I very quickly ascertained that it would be in my best interest to part ways with him."
"And you communicated that?"
"In a sense."
"How did he respond?"
"He told me that I should be more grateful that he had taken such a keen interest in me. He seemed to think that I should be honored to have attracted his attention."
"What did you do, then?"
"I realized that my situation was more precarious than I had originally thought. I decided to go along with what he wanted for the time being, to be cordial while I carefully plotted my escape."
"Was he suspicious?"
"No."
"Did you make another attempt to leave?"
"Yes."
"I take it you were not successful."
"Correct."
"How did Thanos react to this?"
"He told me that freedom was life's great lie, that nothing I'd ever done had ever really been my choice. My fate had already been decided long ago. If I would just accept that, I would no longer feel compelled to fight him."
"You said some similar things when you arrived on Earth in 2012."
"Yes."
"Did you believe what you were saying or were you merely repeating what you'd been told?"
"A bit of both, I suppose."
"How exactly did Thanos prevent you from leaving?"
"He used some sort of weapon to render me unconscious. And when I awoke, I found myself...confined."
"Confined how?"
"In a cell of some sort. The space around me was limited. There were no doors or openings and no sort of light or sound."
"Did you have access to food or water?"
"No."
"Were you able to sleep?"
"I think I may have drifted off a few times, but not for very long."
"Why is that?"
"I was kneeling. The space was...just large enough for me to maintain that position. I could not sit or stand. It was difficult to get comfortable."
"How long were you confined?"
"I don't know. It felt like an eternity. It may have been only days or weeks."
"Did you see anyone during that time?"
"Thanos would come, periodically, and talk to me."
"What did he say?"
"He wanted to reiterate that no one was coming to rescue me. He told me that my family believed me to be dead and that they were celebrating my absence."
"In order to extinguish any hope."
"Yes."
"Did you believe him?"
"I didn't know what to believe."
"Some part of you must have believed him."
"I reached out to my family for assistance, repeatedly. They did not respond. After what Thanos said, I suspected they might be ignoring me."
"Were they?"
"I don't know."
"You never found out?"
"No."
"At what point did Thanos release you from captivity?"
"The cell had a door that could be activated and deactivated. One day, when he came to speak with me, he just...left it open."
"Why do you think he did that?"
"To see if I would try to escape."
"Did you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
You shake your head.
"So, he must have determined that he could trust you," she concludes.
"To some extent."
"And that's when he released you from the cell."
"Correct."
"Is that also when he demanded that you retrieve the Tesseract?"
"He didn't demand it."
"Oh?"
"I...volunteered."
"Why would you do that?"
"Despite my reservations...I think there was still a part of me that wanted to gain his approval."
"Only a part? What about the rest of you?"
"The rest of me wanted to put as much distance between us as possible. Going to Earth seemed like a good way to do that. And knowing that my brother was particularly fond of this realm...I thought he might attempt to intercept me."
"You...wanted to be intercepted? Why?"
"I knew that if Thor collected me, he would insist upon returning me to Asgard, so I could answer for my crimes. Even if I was in the dungeon, I would at least be safe."
"Safe from Thanos."
"Yes."
"What did you think Thanos would do to you, once he discovered that you had betrayed him?"
"He promised unimaginable pain."
"Did he describe how he would inflict this pain?"
"No."
"But you believed him."
"I saw enough to know that he was capable of carrying out his threat."
"If Thanos knew where the Tesseract was, why would he not come and retrieve it himself?"
"Thanos rarely performed such tasks. He almost always sent another to do his bidding."
"So...it was just laziness."
"Not just. I also believe it's possible that my father cast spells to prevent him from coming here. It would explain why he only did so once Odin had...passed."
"Immediately prior to your arrival, the Tesseract began giving off a tremendous amount of energy. Was that your doing?"
"Somehow Thanos was able to establish a connection with it. He used that connection to transport me to Earth. My arrival triggered the surge of energy that you witnessed."
"You were armed with a powerful weapon when you arrived. A scepter which housed the uh...Mind Stone?"
"Correct."
"Why would Thanos arm you with such a weapon, if it was his goal to subdue you?"
"I don't know that he could have subdued me without it."
"The scepter was controlling you."
"I was influenced by it."
"How?"
"The stone within it was beyond anything else I've ever seen or felt. When I held it in my hands, it...spoke to me."
"What did it say?"
"It did not communicate in words. Each individual's connection to the Mind Stone is unique. In the hands of another, it would yield a different result entirely. I was in a bad way, and I think the stone could sense that. As a result, I became...severely deluded."
"You took some lives when you came to Earth. You killed several guards, kidnapped dozens of people, and demolished an entire military compound."
"Technically, I did not demolish the compound. It was the energy from the Tesseract that caused its collapse."
"Eighty-two people died as a result of those creatures that came through the wormhole. Do you deny responsibility for that as well?"
"I don't deny anything."
"Were you aware of what you were doing?"
"I was confused and disoriented—"
"That's not what I asked."
"Yes, I was aware."
"But your actions were, as you previously stated, influenced by the scepter."
"Yes."
"How greatly were they influenced?"
"I know not how I would measure such a thing."
"Guess. Fifty percent? More than fifty percent?"
You pause and consider it.
"More, I think."
"How much more? If you had to say, that is."
"I don't know."
"Eighty percent? Eighty-five?"
"Yes."
"Which one?" she asks. "Eighty or eighty-five?"
"Eighty-five."
"So...fifteen percent of you knew exactly what you were doing," she concludes.
You know not how to respond. There were moments when you felt as though you were in complete control of what was happening around you. But there were other moments...moments where you felt like nothing more than a puppet, an inanimate object that was being manipulated by someone else's hand. You recall Thor's eyes on you, brief glimpses of compassion among all the judgment and derision. You remember trying to cling to that, to take hold of it and let it carry you to safety. But somehow, it was not enough.
"Answer the question."
"Yes," you confirm.
"Would you say that Thanos took advantage of you?"
Took advantage. You cringe at her choice of words. You hold your breath as though that can somehow prevent you from speaking. But it does not. You release the air in your lungs and lick your lips several times. You know you are only delaying the inevitable.
"Yes."
"You might even say that he wielded you...like a weapon. Would that be a fair assessment?"
Something deep within you is screaming. A true warrior would never allow himself to be used. He would never succumb, no matter how great the threat. No measure of torture would break him. He would endure any suffering. He would die bravely, with weapon in hand, never yielding—
"Mister Odinson?"
"A fair assessment...yes."
"Do you regret your involvement with Thanos?"
"Very much, yes."
"What assurance do we have that you no longer pose a threat to Earth?"
"None, I suppose."
You realize such a statement is unlikely to inspire them to trust you. And yet, you cannot stop yourself from making it.
"So, if we were to grant you asylum here, you will eventually repeat such behavior."
"I have no quarrel with the people of this realm."
"You just suggested that you may still be a threat."
"I have extensive combat training and I am a skilled sorcerer."
"I see. What we need to know is whether you have any intention of committing violence."
"Intention? Not at the moment."
"So, that might change."
"If I were properly provoked, yes."
"You mean if you were put in a position where you needed to defend yourself."
"Yes."
"So, you wouldn't feel compelled to initiate violence against someone without provocation."
You ponder it. You are capable of doing great harm, even with just your bare hands. But violence is messy, and you prefer to avoid it. You certainly aren't going to go looking for it. Should you need to manipulate your circumstances, you would rather do so with words.
"Without provocation? No. That would be impractical."
"Where is Thanos now?" a second man inquires.
You recognize his voice, immediately. It is the older gentleman who greeted you in the corridor.
"I have no idea."
"He never told you where he might go, once he'd executed his plan."
"He did not."
"Could you speculate?"
"He never stayed in the same place for very long. He was able to travel great distances, instantaneously. He could literally be anywhere. He may even be dead."
"If you know where he is," he presses, "that information would be very valuable to us."
"I just said that I don't."
The woman addresses you again.
"Will you confirm, for the record, that the testimony you have just given is the truth?"
"Yes."
"Well, I think we've got all we need," she declares.
The older gentleman chimes in once more.
"That's it? This guy has the strength of fifty men. We have evidence that he can alter his appearance at will, or even disappear altogether—"
She regards him, tiredly.
"Relax...we'll have him make a list of all unique abilities and powers, just like we did with—"
"What good is a list going to do us? We cannot have enhanced beings running wild on this planet, accountable to no one."
"Well, lucky for you, most of the enhanced beings were lost in the snap."
"Yeah? And what about the ones who weren't?"
"We're still working on it."
"I don't understand why we're bothering with any of this. Why not just put them all in the Fridge and be done with it?"
"Where have you been?" a third man asks. This is not the same man who was questioning you earlier. "The Fridge is being shut down. Gone are the days of storing every enhanced being under lock and key. Do you have any idea how much that shit is costing taxpayers?"
"Not that you care," the woman retorts. "Do you even pay taxes?"
The older man growls at her.
"How dare you—"
"We don't have the resources to house and monitor every enhanced being on this planet," the third man says. "I don't like the guy any more than you do. But he protected lives. He didn't have to do that. He's an asylum seeker. Technically, he has rights."
"Come on, Rhodes," the older man protests. "He's not even human."
"He's still a person."
"A person with a history of wanton violence—"
"A person who is no longer considered a substantial threat by S.H.I.E.L.D. Steve Rogers vouched for this guy—"
"I don't trust him either!"
"We have to think globally, now. There are reparations to make. We have cities to rebuild. Not to mention, if things ever go south again, we might actually need him on our side—"
"He's not an ally. He's an opportunist—"
"No, Colonel," the woman interrupts. "That's you. You're the opportunist."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's not up to us anymore, Ross," the third man offers. "Face it, we're old news. We were invited to sit in on this interview as a courtesy. Nothing more. The tracer will allow us to track their location anywhere on Earth, at any given time—"
"The tracer only has a half-life of twenty years," the older man complains
The woman laughs.
"What are you worried about, old man? You'll probably be dead by then."
"You kids are worse than HYDRA," the older man groans. "You're going to ruin everything—"
March 3, 2024
You gaze up at the sky, which is a starless expanse of black. You can barely see what is around you. It seems like you've been walking for a long time, though you cannot remember where you are going. Likewise, you cannot remember where you've been. You know only that you are here now, wherever here is.
You are exhausted and can no longer continue. The soil beneath your feet is soft and moist. When you drop to the ground, you rest on your knees and your hands end up planted deeply in the wet earth. You push yourself up and wipe your hands on your legs. It hardly makes any difference. Some mud transfers onto your pants, while a thin layer remains on your hands. You make a second attempt to wipe them clean, this time on your shirt, and it is equally futile. There isn't any part of you that isn't muddy now. Oh, how you hate to be dirty.
You crawl along the wet ground until you reach a tree. You lean up against it and rock back and forth a bit, your hands wrapped tightly around your knees. You aren't cold. But somehow, the rocking makes you feel safer and less alone.
There is a faint rustling of leaves. Someone or something is in the shrubbery, nearby. An animal, perhaps? Your eyes dart back and forth, scanning the darkness. You detect a distant glow of light. The light approaches you, slowly. Eventually you are able to see that there is a figure approaching…a man. He is tall, older in years. He has a gentle face. He is holding a small torch. It is a strange contraption, not lit with fire but glowing all the same.
When he reaches the point where you are sitting, he stops walking.
"I found you," he announces.
He is pleased, though you know not why. You had no idea that anyone was even searching for you, let alone this man. Whoever he is.
"I knew you'd be here," he adds.
Your eyes grow wide with fear. But your curiosity wins out and you will yourself to speak.
"How did you know?" you ask.
"Oh," he explains, "everyone has somewhere they go when they're afraid."
"I'm not afraid," you declare, as boldly as you can muster.
You wonder whether he can tell that you are lying. He crouches down on the ground next to you and sets his torch aside. He appears unconcerned about the mud. He leans up against the tree. He does not acknowledge your claim.
"Look how small you are," he murmurs, instead.
You cannot help but be offended by his observation. You are small, yes. But there are probably some who are smaller.
"I'm not that small," you protest.
You straighten your spine and stretch out your legs to lengthen your form.
"Of course not," he returns. "You're quite robust, in fact. Very strong, I have no doubt."
"You are mocking me," you say, quietly.
"No," he tells you, "I would never do that."
There's something in his tone of voice that you find warm and comfortable. He smiles at you, his eyes twinkling.
He takes off his scarf, and delicately wipes the mud from your hands and face.
"That's better, eh?"
You nod. It is better.
He gets to his feet and then reaches for you.
"I can walk," you assure him, although you are very tired and would much rather not.
Small as you are, you are certain that you are still far too old to be carried. He must not think so, however, because he lifts you off the ground and clutches you tightly against his chest.
"That's a good lad," the man says.
For a moment, he doesn't do anything but hold you. When you wrap your arms around his neck, he pats your back, gently. You bury your nose in the material of his sweater and inhale deeply. He smells familiar and your eyes tear up in response.
"Where are we going?" you ask.
"Home," he replies. "We're going home."
He begins to trek down the dirt road, between the trees. There is a path stretching out before you. You do not remember where home is. Nor do you know who this man is. But you are content in his arms. You want this walk to last forever.
March 3, 2024
When you force your eyes open, you see Jane's face, hovering above you. You try to speak to her. You know you are speaking because you can feel yourself doing so. You are producing sound, at least. You can feel the vibration of your vocal chords. But what you are actually hearing does not make any sense.
Jane looks incredibly frightened. She presses her hand against your forehead. Her fingers are like ice against your skin.
"You have a halo," she whispers.
Suddenly, your body begins to move, all on its own. Everything inside you tightens and you begin to shake. You cannot breathe. You cannot speak. You do not know what is happening to you. The ordeal lasts less than a minute. But it is still terrifying, nonetheless. When it finally stops, you are weak and limp. You close your eyes once more, surrendering to the exhaustion.