I
As I gaze out the uncharacteristically clear window of my high school classroom, entranced by the arbitrary movement of the clouds strewn across the sky, I begin to recall a moment. A singular occurrence within my dull existence that brought about unparalleled change to my outlook upon reality. While the recollection continues to play in my mind, a measly bird flutters across the scene outside of the transparent glass, frantically scavenging for twigs and other building materials in line with its biological programming to survive. A subtle but steady breeze pervades through the street, and the dead leaves scattered about the pavement below are caught in the gust. In response to the sudden change in air pressure, the bird spreads its wings further in order to expedite its ongoing search, leaving my restricted view from the window and soaring through the boundlessly encompassing picturesque scenery. With the recurring memory now uncontested for my attention, I opt to mentally re-enter my sixth period English class, instinctively pushing the introspective thoughts regarding my mother from my mind.
“Kairos, or ‘perfect timing’ translated into English, is the Greek…”
I lose the regained focus I amassed instantaneously and return to the innards of my consciousness, as Mr. Cyprus drones on endlessly about Aristotle and the various forms of rhetorical language. I recall enjoying school at some point, and it’s not as if I have a solidified reason to dislike it now. The repetitively strenuous practice has simply lost my attention, like many other facets of human existence. I return my gaze to the practically motionless image of the clouds through the window, and slowly drifting across the deep blue canvas of the sky, the elusive white puffs grip the remnants of my attention for the remainder of the allotted period.
BZZZZZZZZZZ
I revert my gaze towards the front of the classroom, as Mr. Cyprus quickly gives the date of the next quiz before the majority of my peers leave. Midway through his informative declaration, the English teacher pauses abruptly as if controlled by a remote, alongside the impatient students attempting to depart for a brief second or two. Ignoring the oddity, while hurriedly scribbling the spoken date onto the forty-second page of my notebook and gathering my binders, I leave room 404 and begin my harrowing journey down three flights of stairs towards room 101. Exhaustively trudging down the hallway towards the door to the staircase, I notice a familiar face leaving the honors’ classroom across the hall and begin to expedite my embarkment as rapidly as possible. The boisterous voice emanating from outside room 405 quickly informs me of my inability to avoid subsequent social interaction.
“Maximilian! Hang on just a second??”
I hear a feminine voice call after me, as I wince. Rapidly catching up to me, the girl directs a somehow cheerful glare in my direction and proclaims through nervous laughter,
“You’re gonna see me in seventh period anyway, so we might as well go together.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Oh right…my bad. Maxie it is then.”
“Knock it off.” I bluntly respond, opening the door to the hallway and starting down the stairs.
The girl I’m being overly curt with is Lucy, a persistent nag I’ve known since elementary school, who continually refuses to use my preferred name in dialogue. She has light brown hair, an abundance of freckles, and emerald green eyes hidden behind a robust pair of black glasses. She stands fairly tall for a girl, but still shorter than me, thankfully, or else I would never hear the end of it. Despite being frequently annoyed by her, Lucy persists as the only human that I am able to tolerate for longer than ten minutes without wanting to fill my ears with cement. I’m unsure as to why she persists as an exception to my routine disregard for interpersonal interaction, but I cannot deny my innate inclinations.
“Did you watch Black Clover yet? The animation in that one scene was amazing!” Lucy excitedly exclaims.
“It was alright, but you could tell where they cut corners in the background. Doesn’t really compare to Ufotable’s works or anything.”
“You pay too close attention to the little things, Maxie. It’s really just about enjoying the scene as a whole.”
“You think so?”
“That’s the best way to live life, don’tcha think?” Lucy replies rhetorically, making brief eye contact before opening the door at the bottom of the staircase.
We arrive at our seventh period class, Calculus, and are insincerely greeted by Mrs. Ashford with an anxious tone. I sit in my seat and prepare for the daily warmup problem, while Lucy fills her chair, next to mine of course. I successfully apply the mathematical knowledge I garnered yesterday to the almost identical problem presented to me and following the established trend of my life, receive no fulfillment or feeling of accomplishment upon doing so. Much like the English lesson prior, Mrs. Ashford fails to captivate my attention with her subsequent lecture on the derivatives of inverse trigonometric functions, and I find myself lost, yet again, in the aimlessness of the clouds. I feel a tug on my right sleeve and look over to see a somewhat perturbed Lucy, still attentive to the incessant mathematical jargon, holding a sheet of paper reading:
Why don’t you pay attention in here anymore? I thought you liked math?
The brunette is correct; I used to enjoy the simplistically complex logical deductions of mathematics. I’m not sure what changed, but regardless, I ignore the analytical comment and return my attention to the clouds. The condensed puffs of water vapor drift across the light blue canvas of the sky, propelled by the happenstance machinations of nature in an identical manner to the contradictory amalgamation of consciousness labelled “the human race”. Soon enough, the final bell rings, and the school day ends. In the first floor hallway, I shove my books and binders into my bag at the lockers outside of Mrs. Ashford’s room and receive a follow up to the analytical comment, verbally this time.
“Hey, don’t ignore what I asked. I know you read it!” Lucy demands through brief gasps for air caused by her speedy trek from room 101 to her locker on the second floor and back.
“I don’t know. School’s just boring, I guess.”
“You’re hopeless, Max,” she sighs, clearly frustrated by my nonplussed response.
“Using my actual name? That’s uncommon,” I spitefully remark.
Small bits of red fill her freckle-covered cheeks, as she replies, “Well...it's because I really do think you’re a moron.”
“Yeah, me too sometimes,” I faintly agree through a slight but genuine chuckle.
Lucy stops speaking abruptly and eyes me for a moment with her emerald irises.
“You should smile more, Max,” she finally chimes. “It suits you better.”
With that intrusive statement lingering in the air about us, the bundle of energy takes off, headed towards the unfathomable possibilities of reality alongside her actual friends, who were impatiently waiting at the entrance of the school. Following this ambiguous interaction, I leave campus, beginning my fifteen-minute walk home of silence, as thoughts race through my clouded mind.
Suits me better than what? Why do I find school so time consumingly boring? Why don’t I enjoy anything anymore? Is there something wrong with me?
Instinctively, I push the recurring introspective thoughts from my mind and instead, put in earbuds to think about as little as possible during my routinely monotonous homebound journey. Finally arriving at the house, I give my Uncle an obligatory greeting and slowly trudge up the stairs, as the thoughts from before return to my mind, now unstimulated by music. Inevitably, I am unable to escape myself. Laying in bed rewatching The Garden of Sinners for the seventh time, I pretend not to notice my phone ring, until eventually caving to the obnoxiously catchy tone.
“Have you finished the chem’ yet? I saw you working on it at school earlier?” Lucy’s voice immediately pleads through the iPhone.
“I have.” I monotonically reply, annoyed by the frequency of this question.
“You know I don’t understand that stuff, Maxie. Please send it to me?”
“Fine.”
I hang up and send an image of the assignment to the suppliant. I suppose the act is immoral, but morality pervades subjectivity anyway. I turn off my phone, lay back in bed, and return to my thoughts, keeping the anime paused. The room assumes immotion, as the light of the setting sun pierces my window and fills my vision. Stillness. I had forgotten how much I adored this feeling. No sound. No movement. Simple nothingness in a reality crowded by excess. The unnecessarily strenuous existence of my life slowly drifts to the back of my mind, and I attain a slight feeling of content for the first time today. The unremarkable emotion brings a smile to my face, as sleep gradually encompasses my reality.
Having acquired what feels like an ample amount of rest, I slowly open my eyes, curious as to why my alarm is not awaking me. Greeted by complete darkness, I realize my complete ignorance of my surroundings. I slide my fingertips against the floor and assume the environment to be some sort of cave due to the smooth terrain and overall dankness of the atmosphere. Obviously, I have no idea how I got here.
“What the hell?” I quietly whisper to myself in confusion.
“A fair question,” a mysterious voice calls back.
Now, in a normal situation, I try to avoid interpersonal interaction as much as realistically possible; however, as can easily be deduced, this is not a routine scenario. Formulating this astute realization in the recesses of my mind, I decide to converse with whomever this person is to figure out what happened to me and why my environment persists so lightlessly foreign.
“Who are you?” I inquire into the dark nothingness before me. “Where am I?”
“Two more fair questions. You’re just full of them!” It mockingly taunts back.
“I fall asleep in my bed and wake up in complete darkness to an ambiguously sarcastic voice. Great way to start off the day,” I speak aloud to myself, filled with frustration by my unexpected circumstances.
“Aww, boo hoo. Am I that bad?” The voice, which I can now tell is feminine, retorts through laughter. “Fine then, I was gettin’ bored anyway.”
“Your boredom has nothing to do with me. How do I get out of here?”
“You can’t really get out of ‘here’ since ‘here’ isn’t actually a place, but I’ve enjoyed talking to this you so far, so I’m gonna keep doing it; no matter how pissy you may be. Anyhoo, Max-i-milian, do you understand who you are? Or should I say, how special?” The voice speaks with absurdly fast enunciation, pronouncing each syllable of my name individually.
“How do you know…‘special’? What are you talking about?”
Now the voice is starting to make even less sense. How does it know my name? What does special mean? I’m not special; no one is. An individual human lacks intrinsic value compared to the societal detriments they bring about. Specifically, I lack motivation, I’m poor at athletics, I can’t effectively perform complex tasks such as music or art, and most of all, I’m unable to comfortably subsist through regular social interaction: the hallmark of value for my species. There is nothing special or extraneous about me even by lenient human standards, and, more importantly, I am untroubled with that state of being. I have no desire to appease the cowardly construct of mankind’s society or to move forward in any self-serving capacity. I continue to exist in this middling status of a mundane life in a state of content.
“You really don’t know who I am?? I guess he actually did figure it out! This ought to be interesting!” She chimes, again, through laughter.
“You’re annoying.”
“Is that so? I’m glad I’m succeeding in my objective, then.”
“Why do you want to annoy me?”
“Because you make it too easy. Anyhoo, you wanna hear more about the stuff I’m being intentionally vague about, don’tcha?”
“Not really. I just want to go home.” I curtly reply, reaching my social limit.
“Alright, alright, fine, I’ll get to it then. So, Maxie sweetie-”
“Don’t call me Maxie,” I interject.
“Right, sorry, so Maxie...” the voice continues, ignoring my interjection. “In layman’s terms, you’re a vessel.” She says, instantly replacing her smug attitude with a sincere tone.
“I’m really not interested in joining a cult, lady. What do you want?”
“Would you just listen?” she vexedly responds, continuing her explanation. “As for what’s going to possess you, that’s a bit more complicated. I suppose the best way for you to look at it…is as another you. Or more accurately, just you.”
“Right…so I’m going to possess me?” I conjecture her explanation skeptically.
“You’re still looking at it wrong. You were ‘possessed’ the day that you were born, but possessed isn’t really the right word for it. It’s more like an overwhelming subconscious influence…” she pauses for a moment before continuing. “That’s just a roundabout to reincarnation through some very strange magecraft.”
What the hell is this woman talking about? Reincarnation? Overwhelming subconscious influence? Magecraft? Nothing of the sort exists outside of fiction. Overlooking the absurdity of the concepts alone, there’s no way I’m the reincarnation of someone. I decide to express these immediate thoughts plainly,
“You’re crazy. Take me home.”
“You still haven’t figured it out? I thought you’d continue to be smart, even after dying.”
“Stop talking in riddles; it explains nothing. What is going on?”
“This is a neural link, you dolt. I have told you the truth, though, so don’t forget what I said,” the voice finally provides a semblance of exposition through her caustic words.
“Wha-”
A sharp pain runs up and down my spine, as my brain begins to throb. I attempt to yell but feel only agony and hear nothing. I am able to viscerally discern the blood pulsating through all of the veins in my body, as my consciousness itself rattles in the cage of my skull. This state of being persists for eternity, until I jolt to life, finding myself upright in bed. Unable to catch my breath, I grip my face and begin to violently tremble, encompassed by an inexplicable fear and harsh frigidity. I continue to quiver, uncontrollably, for what feels like hours. Eventually, an intense catharsis rings throughout my body, ceasing both the terror and ague, as I begin to piece together what has occurred seemingly within my mind. If what the voice told me is true, I have been possessed by a previous version of myself since my birth.
“What the fuck was that?” I question the isolated surroundings of my room.
I lie awake in bed for the remaining four hours until my alarm goes off, consumed by thoughts regarding “the neural link”.
Beep Beep Beep
The alarm blares continually, as I remain awake and lost in thought. None of the voice’s story feels real, but at the same time, I somehow know it to be.
Is this the subconscious whatever thing? I question my own thoughts.
“Bingo.” The voice from the dream echoes through my mind.
“Get out of my head,” I say aloud, quickly understanding the situation.
“Whaaaaaaat?? No shocked reaction?? No panicked state?? Nothing??” She, ironically, exasperatedly inquires of me. “How boring.”
“Out,” I repeat myself.
“Well, I guess this is kind of out?” She hesitantly claims, as a flash of light fills my room.
“What do you-” I begin to question while getting out of bed, pausing upon fully opening my eyes.
A comely, slender woman with long, silver hair sits atop the desk across from me. Her pale gray eyes glisten in the sunlight piercing through the window, as she gazes into my pupils with a smug smile to match the spunky voice from my dream. Adorned on her is a deep black dress with short sleeves to contrast her notably pale skin, and her left leg hangs off the edge of the table with her right tucked tightly behind it. Her pastel skin bears no blemishes aside from a deep, horizontal scar across her left kneecap, and a pair of dark gray knee-high socks cover the lower half of her sylphlike legs down to her simplistically noir shoes. The image, or better yet: her image, is ingrained into my mind, as I am unable to fixate my gaze upon anything but the enchanting woman before me.
“Quit your gawking, creep,” she harshly demands, as her ears and cheeks grow slightly red. “It’s strange, considering…”
“Considering what?” I ask, reentering reality.
“Well, first of all, you’re the only one that can see or hear me right now. Second, I’ve known the…” the plausible lunatic hesitates. “The old you, which is really just more or less you, for a long time. And third, it makes me uncomfortable, so stop.”
“Yeah yeah, I stopped gawking,” I annoyedly reply full of embarrassment. “So…what do you mean by old me?”
“As you’re likely already aware from our previous conversation, it’s difficult to explain,” she pauses, scratching her head. “Alright, so magic, like spells and mana and all that from humanity’s science fiction and fantasy, is real, but just to a select few individuals. You and I are a part of the aforementioned few, although our situations are a bit different, seeing how you have no idea what I’m talking about and all.”
“Uh-huh...you expect me to believe this? How did you even get in my house?” I ask, deciding to feign skepticism despite illogically accepting every word she speaks as fact.
“Dumbass, I can hear your thoughts. I know you believe me.”
“That’s weird. Don’t do that,” I quickly reply with genuine discomfort. “Well, Miss Intruder, what should I call you?”
“To have forgotten my name?? How unpleasant,” she bitterly replies. “It’s Nidaba.”
For logic unbeknownst to myself, I can easily accept Nidaba’s outlandish story as accurate. I feel an inexplicable level of innate trust towards her now that I’ve actually laid eyes on her; an inclination I assume to be the ‘overwhelming subconscious influence’ she mentioned earlier, impacting my actions through my emotions and innate feelings. The monotonous reality I had grown accustomed to begins to crumble about me, as questions continue to arise within my mind,
Reincarnation? Why tell me this now? What does this mean?
“Max,” Nidaba stares through my eyes, as she interrupts my thoughts with her words, pulling me out of my head. “Calm down, you’re fine. You’ve absorbed enough modern fiction to understand all of this fairly easily. Our magecraft isn’t much different from the usual interpretation of magic. I mean...fictional ideas have to come from somewhere, right? We can just influence elements, states of matter, and some other stuff. No biggie.”
“Right. No biggie,” I comment sarcastically. “Anyway, why’d you say I’m the only one who can see and hear you or whatever?”
“Because I’m not actually there right now. Your predecessor trusted me to ensure you don’t do anything stupid, so I can check in on you like this through a spell he placed on his...well your brain,” Nidaba confidently brags. “Sorta like a video chat, but I’m actually there, more or less.”
“Fantastic,” I facetiously reply, getting out of bed. “I gotta get dressed for school, so can you leave?”
“Adorable as ever, Maxie,” she cheerfully proclaims to me, vanishing in an instant.
I immediately throw together my uniform and hurry out the door, beginning my walk to school. Despite Nidaba’s lack of appearance throughout the subsequent academic day, a strange occurrence happened that further inclines me to believe in the proclaimed mage’s absurd story. While unsuccessfully forcing binders into my bag at the end of fourth period, everything and everyone around me froze. Extremely confused, I scanned my surroundings to notice my peers seemingly paused mid-stride and the normally ticking clock motionless above the whiteboard. After around five seconds, everything resumed as if the immotion were routine, and I was left appalled by the apparent glitch in reality. Other than said oddity, the day carried on, as any usual Friday would, with various homework assignments and a plethora of social annoyances. After the school day ends, Lucy enlists me against my will to assist her in one of her most daunting responsibilities as class representative: cleaning our homeroom afterschool on Fridays. As I scrub the black residue from the whiteboard in the classroom, the menial questioning from the day before resumes.
“Soooo, if math bores you so devastatingly much now, then what’s your favorite class? Which one d’you look forward to the most, I guess?” Lucy clarifies while sweeping the floor with a broom behind me.
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“I wouldn’t say I look forward to any of ‘em really. School, work, life...none of it has a true purpose. A reason for existence beyond the arbitrary standards we humans set for ourselves. There is no overarching tale for this rock spinning adrift in space about a star. Nothing beyond the mundane and regularized passage of time within the needlessly strenuous subsistence of modern society.”
“Sheeeesh. You say some depressing stuff, Max,” the brunette responds to my answer, her eyes subtly shifting from the dusty floor to the back of my head.
“The way I see it, the definitions of ‘depressing’ and ‘realistic’ are more or less the same to most people,” I reply, slightly annoyed by the onset of this discussion. “I’m not sad or anything. I just see existence for what it really is.”
“...I don’t know how to respond to that,” Lucy speaks after a brief moment of silence with a cathartic sadness filling her words.
“Then don’t. I don’t need your sympathy,” I end our short conversation with a single statement.
Eventually, we complete our cleaning duties and start down the stairs of the second floor into the central area of the building. I turn left from the entrance of the school, intent on taking the long route to avoid conversing with Lucy any further. She turns right without a word and slowly moves away from me with each stride. Soon, the eerie quiet of the unpopulated urban streets encompasses my attention, and I begin to escalate my pace without a solidified rationale. As I near the park directly between my Uncle’s house and the school, the yellow sun begins to approach my horizon line, crowded by countless buildings. The squeaking of my shoes against the pavement. The occasional chirping of a bird nested in the trees planted within the concrete jungle about me. The slight gushing of the cold wind against my person. Isolation fills my surroundings, as the ambiguous feeling of content returns to me. Not happiness and not sadness. An empty feeling of anticipation for what may come next. Suddenly, I feel an ominous pressure shatter this tone and instantly become encompassed by overwhelming and inexplicable fear.
“Anki,” a deep and raspy voice calls out to me, the sound emanating from all directions.
Terror swells within every fiber of my being, and I begin to feel tears well in my eyes. My knees buckle due to an acute urtication in my joints. I stumble to the ground of the sidewalk in a daze, clutching my chest. I can’t breathe. Despite this abruptly overwhelming ruination of my person, the fear is not genuine, for I have no idea who or what is speaking to me. The reaction feels almost instinctual, as I begin to speak to myself, somehow hoping for a response from Nidaba,
“What is going on?”
No response. No voluptuously smug woman. No sarcastic remark. The mysterious man, having realized my despair, reveals himself to me. The individual wears pure black robes and has dark, shaggy hair. His face holds two deep red eyes, extremely chapped lips, and pointed elf-like ears. His figure is at least thirty centimeters taller than mine and has a frightening presence about it. The man steps out from the shadows slowly and speaks in a booming voice,
“I must say…” he begins, curiously eyeing me. “I’m disappointed. What happened to you?”
“I have no idea who you are or what you wa-” I attempt to reason with the man but am quickly cut off.
“I really don’t care, Anki,” he indifferently sighs, emphasizing the name. “Whether you recall or not, it is my duty to ensure you don’t come back like this again. Anu’s word is law.”
The implications of his statement ring throughout my mind, as he slowly starts towards me. Death seems imminent to me at this point, but the fear from before is gone and in its place, an odd tranquility.
“The end…” I faintly mumble, collecting my thoughts while attempting to stand. “I wonder…”
Water begins to pour from the sky, as the calm, cloudy afternoon morphs into a boisterously rainy evening. Four handleless blades of wholly transparent liquid form around the man set to claim my life, and as I begin to feel a surge of raw energy all around me, I finish my question.
“I wonder what it’s like…to conclude?”
As if from a cannon, the blades fire in unison and fly in my direction, but in an instant, they stop, along with the man who summoned them. Further, the rain itself freezes in mid air, and I alone sit on the wet sidewalk, gasping for air. From the moment the space around me grew still until now, an incomparable feeling of agony has thundered within my skull, violently stimulating what feels like my entire nervous system. The blood rushing through my veins lingers with an excruciating toxicity, as every inch of my body begins to wilt, like a dying flower. The concentration, willpower, and effort exuding from me now far surpasses any amount of menial focus I have garnered in my previous eighteen years of existence. I fight through the pain and continue to utilize the innate power I was unaware of until now, knowing if I stop, the blades will instantly pierce and kill me. I attempt to crawl away, while maintaining my concentration but am only able to rise to my knees to face the spell cast upon me. My mind, almost without me, decides the only solution to my predicament is to somehow summon Nidaba, but I, a novice in ‘magecraft’, have no idea how to do such a thing. Before I let myself feel disheartened by my ignorance, my mouth begins to speak in a language I don’t understand, as energy, not unlike the surge from before, flows out of me.
Through a continuation of the spell I don’t comprehend, Nidaba somehow materializes to my left. Her silver hair held in a messy bun and piercing gray eyes manifest in accordance with my will, frozen in time like everything else. The summoning sends a previously unfathomable level of pain through my mind, as the suffering encompassing my existence intensifies even further. In spite of the pervasively overwhelming physical agony, the sudden appearance of Nidaba’s figure allows a slight sense of ease to enter my injured being. She is wearing a purple dress, similar to the one from our previous conversation in my room, and just like then, I become entranced by her appearance. Regardless of her inability to move, the mage’s mere presence brings a misplaced relief about me, as I lose my focus and lifelessly collapse to the ground onto my right shoulder, hearing the blades whiz through the air centimeters above me and the continuation of rain pouring against the pavement. A brief pause ensues with both Nidaba and the man looking equally confused, as I writhe in agony on the ground, the pain having caused blood to seep from my eyes, nose, and mouth. A prodigiously deafening noise aggressively raps against the doors of my eardrums. All other sound within the environment is overwhelmed by the incessant ringing in my skull, which seeks to splinter the already throbbing headache permeating my brain. I subsist in this state of sheer, unrelenting suffering, and the two mages finally begin to understand what exactly has occurred before their eyes.
“Maxie?” Nidaba begins with concern in her voice. “Normally, I would tell you not to use teleportation magic hastily like this, but I’m starting to piece the situation together.”
“Nidaba. Step away from that boy,” the man threatens angrily.
“Well, you see, Nergal, I would, but...” Nidaba, in a more forebodingly confident voice responds, while letting her hair down. “I made a promise to Max, and I intend to keep it,” she pauses briefly. “Whether he remembers or not!”
Upon speaking those words, Nidaba’s aura intensifies radically, and a devilish smile appears across her face, as her pure, argent hair begins to loosely float above her shoulders. She begins to speak in words without meaning to me, likely the same language I used to summon her earlier, and assumes a strangely unbalanced stance with a visibly violet aura about her. A single dual-bladed knife, no longer than a ruler, materializes in her hand, and as she holds it, covering the bottom half of her face, she begins to chant another spell, faintly now. Energy continues to surge throughout the area, as the rain endlessly pours about the entire scene. I can feel the current of power in the environment course through not only the air but the surrounding buildings, trees, and even animals; however, making all other surges seem faint, the energy collecting around Nidaba ripples violently with chaotic instability, prepared to burst at any given moment.
“What is this?” I barely manage to speak.
Struggling to lift my head from the puddle of rain, tears, spit, and blood, I catch a glimpse of the silver-haired heroine, who came to my rescue. Despite the immense pain, fear, and confusion rattling within my body at that moment, I find myself in unforeseen awe of Nidaba, as a clash between two living beings, like nothing I had seen before, ensues before my blood stained eyes.
“That’s a bold statement, Nidaba,” the man speaks for the first time in a while. “Do you truly intend to protect this boy from all of us? Even if I fai-”
“I think it’s about time,” Nidaba begins to proclaim angrily, cutting the man off. “That you shut the hell up!”
With that one sentence, both magi disappear instantly, as the surrounding air is filled with the clashing of Nidaba’s knife and Nergal’s blades of liquid. Effortlessly dodging and deflecting projectile after projectile, the silver-haired mage expertly maneuvers towards the now back-pedaling Nergal. Barely able to track them with my eyes, I begin to collect my exhausted being and attempt to stand once more, thinking to myself in a panic,
I teleported her here. She is risking her life to protect me. I have to help her.
Amassing the pitiful amount of strength and willpower that remains within my decimated person, I rise to my feet and allow my subconscious to overtake my mind. Suppressing every other form of thought from my head and disregarding the horrendous pain cascading throughout my entire body, I muster the apex of my concentration and begin to feel energy, not unlike Nidaba’s, surge out of the integral fabric of my consciousness. Instantaneously, my vision loses color. The pain is unbearable, but I must persevere. I wipe the blood and tears still flowing from my eyes and fixate my gaze upon the two clashing magi. Nidaba spins in the air, avoiding countless blades of water, as she continues to position herself closer to Nergal. She quickly drops from the sky, places her noir shoes atop the concrete once more, and begins to sprint towards Nergal at an inhuman velocity, as the man in black robes continues to discharge hydro spell after hydro spell, while continually retreating. The dutiful mage’s attempts at combat pale in comparison to the silver-haired woman’s uncannily timed evasions and incredibly rapid offensive movements, and realizing this, Nergal begins to grow more and more desperate with each attack. Words in a foreign tongue emanate from my mouth, holding no real meaning to me, as the surge of colorless energy intensifies uncontrollably. Just as I am about to release whatever is stockpiling inside me, Nergal notices and reacts to my unfinished expulsion spell. Four blades of liquid form from the rain behind the female mage and launch in my direction quickly. Not unlike my predicament a few moments ago, I feel no fear at the prospect of death and rather, welcome it with an estranged comfort. Nidaba, noticing the actions of both Nergal and I, springs off the ground upwards of ten meters, quickly landing in front of me and blocking all four blades with her obsidian knife in an instantaneous fluid motion. Due to the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion gripping my mind in this moment and the urgency of the threat before us, I fall onto my side, the only effective movement I can make to get Nidaba out of my field of vision, and release the stockpiled energy, hoping to stop Nergal somehow. As I release the energy from my right hand, the rush of unbearable agony ceases, as a blank nothingness overcomes what little concentration remained within me. I feel my consciousness slip from my control, as I plummet into an expansive abyss. Alone.
I lay, unable to move, at the bottom of a cold and dark pit. I feel as though I’m surrounded by water and yet am able to breathe perfectly. The dark emptiness consumes me for an incalculable amount of time, until memories begin to flash through my mind. I see various images, scenes, and people that I do not know, but frequently within these memories is Nidaba’s face. Her smile. Her laugh. Her voice. Her eyes. Her eccentric whimsicality. The memories are not my own, yet they exist in my mind as if they were. Pain begins to resurface along my nerves. The agony begins in my head but soon spreads throughout the entirety of my nervous system. I remain at the bottom of this memory-filled pit, cold and alone, but as I begin to succumb to the darkness and allow it to ravage my mind, a faint voice calls out to me, slowly growing in volume.
“...Max! Max! Maxie! WAKE UP MAX!” The voice finally bellows.
I return to my body, limp in the street as the rain continues to pour, pattering against my numb face and the solid ground alike. A familiar yet novel warmth engrosses my person, and I remain held upright by slim yet sturdy arms, dazed and confused.
“You reckless IDIOT,” Nidaba insults me through tears that I can barely see using my blurry, unstable vision. “I would have killed him anyway! You didn’t…” she stammers, struggling to speak through exhausted breath and sobbing. “Not again, I can’t lose you again.”
Sitting on the paved concrete, holding me close to her warm yet drenched person, Nidaba continues to cry. Her words, although confusing, solace my troubled mind, as I attempt and fail to smile and speak. I want to comfort her. I want to help. She is crying because of me, causing both self-serving joy and empathetic sadness to fill my emotions. Outside of my control, my eyes drift into the back of my skull, and my entire body aches with unfathomable pain. Unable to formulate or speak any words and barely holding on to consciousness, my limp body remains in Nidaba’s arms in the middle of the street, a reminiscent feeling of comfort foreign to me. Her aromatic scent, masked by the heavy downpour. Her euphonious voice, frailly sobbing under the now violent downpour. Her brilliant warmth piercing the bitter and empty cold within me. I feel happy. Happy to be in her arms.
Soon, I reenter the pit of meaningless memories, but instead of succumbing to the darkness like before, I feel a purpose. A reason to subsist, to persevere, to live. I yearn to speak with Nidaba again; an enigmatic desire that I am unable to suppress. I must have been close with her in my previous life, which I suppose I also have to fully accept as true now. Within the pit, I scour my rattled mind in search of a tangible memory that belongs to this me to ensure the individual that I have existed as for the past eighteen years is real, and simply due to their prominence in shaping the conscious amalgamation of sensory details I know as “myself”, memories of my parents surface within my mind’s eye.
It was a sunny day, the temperature was projected to be 23ºC, and the air was thickly humid. I recollect it perfectly; I always have. The incident wasn’t cataclysmic. There was no ingenious machination to bring about their downfall—only their child. We were walking to the parking lot after eating dinner, and I, as a moronic eleven-year-old, ran ahead, recklessly crossing the street. My mother called after me, warning me to be careful. I turned to see her chasing behind me. The scarlet-orange scene lit by the setting sun, imprinted unto my naive eyes in holistic vividity. My mother ran across the street after me. A car sped along the road. The harsh sound of tires skidding against the road, attempting and failing to stop the vehicle’s velocity shattered the tranquil scene. My gaze was shot upwards, as time seemed to halt its course, leaving the wounded body of my mother suspended three meters in the air. The gruesomely nauseating sound of the ruptured fragmentation of innumerable bones upon her gravitationally accelerated return to the ground alongside the petrified expression adorned across the woman’s face haunted my adolescent mind for years. Blood began to seep from her entire person, creating a large pool of red ichor about the corpse plastered on the street, as my mother laid lifelessly still. Shock and guilt overwhelmed my mind. A year passed, and my father, unable to forgive his own son or perhaps simply consumed by depression and loss, took his own life. I found him hanging from a noose in their bedroom, pictures of his beloved spouse scattered around his bloated, purple corpse, swaying back and forth from the momentum that choked his life away. I’ve lived with my familyless Uncle Bennett ever since. Alone. Always alone. My body, motionless within the dark nothingness, begins to stumble into cognizance, as I speak,
“Mom. Dad. They died...because of me.”
I awaken, aware that I spoke aloud and immediately rise to scan my surroundings. I’m back in my room, likely brought here by Nidaba, but regardless, the words spoken earlier rattle my fragile state of being. Whether intentional or not, they carry the truth, and now, knowing everything Nidaba has told me alongside all that I have recently experienced, I begin to wonder if the past is mutable. Immediately, I push the horrible idea from my mind. I’ve seen and read far too much science fiction to idiotically challenge the fourth dimension. The inescapable and acutely familiar cold loneliness returns after I check my clock and lay back in bed, still yearning for some form of contact with Nidaba. I have to thank her and, more so, simply desire to speak with her. This feeling is unknown to me, for I’ve never truly wanted to see or interact with another person since the death of my parents. Images of the silver-haired woman in between the faces of my parental figures flash through my mind, as I remain awake through the night, unable to rest physically or mentally.
I subsist in this state, basqued in the eerie silence of my room, motionless yet conscious, staring at the ceiling for hours before finally moving for the first time since my encounter with Nergal, who may or may not be dead at this point. Standing, walking, sitting, breathing, and basically any other standard human function causes a throbbing headache to ring between my ears and sends jolts of pain up and down my spine.
Why does everything hurt so much? I ask myself, half expecting and half hoping to hear a response from Nidaba within my head.
Nothing. It’s irksome not being able to contact her, but I guess I don’t really need her for anything specific anyway. I’m still extremely confused by what she told me and what occurred Friday night. The preconceived monotonous reality I had grown accustomed to has been shattered by the fantastical descriptions and interactions I’ve had with Nidaba and Nergal.
This feels like a fantasy story or something, I think to myself.
“I told you it was like fictional magecraft, didn’t I?” Nidaba’s voice echoes in my mind, bringing a sudden and overwhelming relief over me.
“Why can’t I see you?” I immediately inquire.
“Why do you wa-” she begins before I interrupt.
“I’d like to see the person I’m talking to.”
“Alright alright, if it’s that important, you weirdo,” she insults me, as a flash of light fills the room.
Before me appears Nidaba, wearing the same black dress as the first time I met her with her hair held up similarly to Friday night. Her cheeks are filled with small bits of red, as she scratches the side of her face with an uncomfortable expression. She’s as captivating as ever. Outside of the conscious control I hold over my emotions, a small smile fills my face.
“Stop thinking weird things!” She stammers through a now flustered expression. “I told you, I can read your thoughts.”
“Stop reading them if you don’t wanna hear ‘em then”
“Stubborn as ever,” the mage rolls her eyes. “Regardless, it’s not as easy to tune you out as you may thi-” She abruptly stops herself, as her entire face turns red and her gray eyes widen. “Max, what the hell?!?! STOP?!” She exclaims, covering her ears and tucking her face inbetween her knees.
“What are you...there is nothing that strange in my head??” I quickly defend myself.
“Then why is it in mine, jackass??” She angrily questions me, lifting her head to make eye contact while revealing her disgruntled expression. “Whatever, just try to tone it down, pervert.”
“Yeah...my bad,” I unsuredly apologize, still not aware of what she’s upset about. “Anyway, do you just wait for an opportunity to interject into my thoughts before appearing?”
“Not exactly...” Nidaba playfully answers through laughter, her mood fluctuating like the weather. “Okay, maybe a little. I actually like listening in on your thoughts, though. They’re...intriguing…to say the least.”
“Riiight, and I’m the creep,” I sarcastically comment in reference to her earlier accusation.
“Here I was assuming you’d be confused by or at least curious about what happened with Nergal,” she speaks facetiously and looks away from me. “But here you are, grumpy as always. I guess I’ll just keep that information to myself.”
“Okay okay, if you insist,” I realign my focus to the elephant in the room. “In all seriousness, what the fuck is going on?”
“Well, the you prior to performing the reincarnation spell eighteen years ago may or may not have broken a few rules of magecraft, while simultaneously pissing off a very important person. Regarding the reincarnation though, I’d think of it more as ‘who were you?’ rather than ‘who are you?’. You may recall a few things here and there, but even if you do reclaim the past you’s memories, you’ll still be you, and not the Max that I knew. You didn’t experience his life, even if you can remember it, and it’s important to keep that in mind. Seeing how you don’t recall anything about and hardly even look like the Maximilian from the past, the key truly lies in the essence of being, which can better be described as the root of your existence.”
“Okay…I think I understand?” I idiotically begin without having anything else to say.
“Maximilian was, and apparently still is, a mage, whom I knew for a very long time. Us magi are immune to the degradation of telomeres at the ends of our chromosomes and thus, have been around for a while. We can still be killed though, so immortality isn’t the right term.”
“Wait wait wait, so I will never die of old age?”
“Weeeeeeell, I’m not so sure about you given your novelly unique circumstances, but you’re definitely not a pure human nor are you a pure mage. No one has ever achieved reincarnation magic until you, Max, so we have to go off of assumption and conjecture more than anything else. I genuinely have no idea how you work, but regardless, the old you left me with these words: ‘I won’t remember anything, at first, so I leave myself in your hands.’ Neat, huh?” The mage almost excitedly inquires, laughing through her almost perfect impression of my voice.
“I’m not sure if neat is the word I’d use,” I respond to her question. “But it’s definitely interesting. If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”
“Maximilian?! Did they not teach you manners at that human school??” She smugly and sarcastically replies to my rude inquiry, turning her head to the left at an upward angle. “Never ask a woman her age!”
“But you said tha-” I begin to defend myself but am interrupted yet again.
“Relax, I just enjoy poking fun at this society’s ‘chivalry’. A perfectly reasonable question after what I told you,” her words somehow comfort me, despite my complete lack of discomfort. “Hang on, I’ve got it tracked somewhere in here.”
Nidaba snaps her fingers, and instantaneously, a book appears in her left hand. She begins to skim through the seemingly endless pages, until abruptly stopping at what appears to be a random paragraph.
“Let’s see…” Her words trail off, as her eyes begin to scan the page back and forth rapidly. “Here it is! Just shy of sixty-five million human years.”
“SIXTY-FIVE MILLION???” I accidently exclaim, somewhat worried that Nidaba will grow angry. “I...sorry. I just wasn’t expecting it to be that high?”
“It’s all good, Maxie. I don’t really mind. I mean...I can read your thoughts, so I know what you think about my appearance anyway,” she smugly replies with a devious smile.
I feel my face grow hot, as I attempt to retort her implication, scratching my head and avoiding eye contact, “Well, I uhh…” I begin but soon realize the futility of my attempted deception. “Whatever.”
The silver-haired woman bursts into laughter and proclaims, “I think I might like this you more than the old one. You’re not as stiff and much less sure of yourself,” she explains; her pale gray eyes staring through the plain brown irises of mine.
“Thanks?” I manage to utter through my undoubtedly embarrassed expression. “I think? Oh, and speaking of...” I pause, collecting my thoughts. “Thank you, Nidaba. You saved my life. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”
I attempt to speak as sincerely as possible to the woman, who prevented the end of my existence less than twenty-four hours ago, and as I do, I notice genuine shock build up in her face. The usually witty and talkative mage before me sits in silence, practically dumbfounded by my simple words. Slowly, her confusion morphs into an overjoyed smile. Nidaba’s jovial face is ingrained into my memory once more. The small wrinkles at the edges of her mouth. The slight, shady bags atop her pale cheeks below her mysteriously gray eyes. Her flawless white teeth, entrapped by rosy lips, glimmering in the morning sunlight emanating through my window. Every minute aspect of the woman before me entrances the brevity of my attention in that moment.
“Don’t mention it, Maxie,” the woman finally speaks and then chuckles nostalgically, while stretching her arms. “I can’t even remember the last time you genuinely thanked me. Or I guess the other you? That makes this a first!”
“Nidaba, seriously. If you ha-” I try to display my gratitude but am quickly cut off.
“Max,” Nidaba stares through me with her captivating gray eyes. “I got your back, don’t sweat it.”
“Yeah...well, I really am grateful.”
“yOu’Re WeLcOmE,” she mockingly replies, fed up with my appreciation.
We continue to speak with each other for an extended amount of time, exchanging banterous remarks and discussing the world of magecraft alongside the past version of myself for hours. While speaking with Nidaba, a novel feeling of momentary bliss enters my mind, regardless of the conversational topic. The magus attempts to teach me the fundamentals of the mystical arts and how exactly magical energy and object materialization works.
“Honestly, I’m amazed you were able to cast a spell at all, no less two of the most complicated time and expulsion arts,” Nidaba remarks. “The other...I’m getting sick of calling the old you that. Let’s call him Maximilian, and I’ll stick to Max or Maxie for you.”
“I’d prefer just Max.”
“Of course you would, Maxie,” she carelessly acknowledges my statement. “But I prefer Maxie. Don’t I get a say?” She inquires almost suppliantly.
“It’s my name, isn’t it?” I bitterly reply, as she sinks back into the chair at my desk. “Look, my mom called me Maxie when I was little so I just…”
“Whatever, I’ll call you Max,” she offers in a defeated voice. “Anyway, as I was saying, Maximilian must have either implanted emergency knowledge of magecraft into your mind, or...he could have resurfaced in there somehow? No, that’s not possible, so it’s gotta be the first one.”
“I think you’re right because it all felt instinctual,” I begin an attempt at explaining the state of my mind in that moment. “...I saw you fighting Nergal, felt guilty for putting you in danger, and decided that I had to help you somehow. In my mind, I didn’t plan on casting some spell like I did, but obviously, it happened.”
Nidaba scratches her head in thought before answering, “Yeah, I think you just confirmed my theory. I mean…mana itself is just the collection of one’s life force, and as the reincarnation of someone, you effectively have two life forces, so the mana supply isn’t the issue here. It's the application of a knowledge of spellcraft manipulation to said mana supply that doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t actually know what I did, so that knowledge couldn’t have come from me alone,” I unsuredly continue.
“I wouldn’t sell yourself short, Max,” Nidaba remarks with a charismatic grin.
Our dialogue continues until the evening, at which point she claims to have plans and vanishes. Fairly surprised by her sudden disappearance, I remain upright in bed for a moment, questioning the absurd amount of information recently packed into my brain. This new world I was previously unaware of still feels strange and surreal, but due to my encounter with Nergal and conversations with Nidaba, doubting the existence of magic and spells seems illogical. I, bored and in search of a reason to not study for my English test on Monday, attempt to practice casting some type of mystical art, however, am unable to replicate the buildup of energy from Friday night. Frustrated by my inability to repeat either spell, I collapse onto my bed and lose myself within a neverending mobile game. Eventually, the application loses my attention, and I am left alone within the frightening labyrinth of my mind, where I quickly succumb to sleep once more.