The Search for Perfection.
That's what led me to this point.
That was why I died, and why I was resurrected. To continue my journey and to bring it to an end.
These were the words that would have resounded from the man's lips; if only he were still capable of speech. If only he still remembered who he was. But nothing was as it had been before. His voice, his body, everything that made him who he was; it was all gone. And it wasn't just him that had unravelled, the world itself had changed too, warped beyond recognition. Everything he knew, now, was no more.
And in this state, he was compelled to do one thing, and one thing only.
Cry.
Tears crowded his eyes, helping to wash away the confusion clouding his senses, allowing him to slowly make sense of the world around him. At first, everything was reduced to singular experiences: blurs of colour, indistinct sounds, vague sensations on his skin. But as time passed, his perception deepened.
"Finally, I can see again... Wait, am I..."
It was at that moment he realised he was moving, and moving fast.
The branches and leaves, tinted dark blue beneath the night sky, blurred as they past his eyes at dizzying speeds.
You would be forgiven for thinking that he was in some kind of topless bullet train, but the harsh, spaced-out sounds of feet pounding the dirt beneath him put that notion to rest.
He was running.
He was running?
How was that possible? Surely if he was the one doing the running, he would be the first to know.
"What the hell? My legs are moving on their own? What is this? Am I being controlled somehow?"
His moment of introspection was abruptly cut short as a shadowy figure slipped into the edge of his vision, gradually advancing until it consumed his entire field of view.
As his eyes adjusted from the moonlight to the shadowy depths concealed within the hooded figure's cowl, he instinctively cried out louder; a reaction to the unknown that only a child would have.
"Shh, ikke gråt, det går bra." The hooded figure responded.
"Holy shit, the hooded demon is casting a spell on me. If there are any mind readers out there—preferably hot ones, but I'm not too picky—please save me from this... Wait, what if the demon's a mind reader as well? Oh god, abort, abort!"
As his half-hearted plea for help concluded, his eyes finally adjusted to the sight that lay beyond the darkness in the hood.
It was a woman.
Her hair was long and white, her lips full, her skin pale, with aquamarine pupils hiding behind a set of rimless glasses; everything about the woman seemed to put his heart at ease.
"It looks like my prayers have been answered. Thank you, hot-mind reader lady with teleportation powers!"
Unbeknownst to him, at the sight of the beautiful woman, his tears finally stopped flowing, as did the fluid steps carrying him along.
"Åh, du sluttet å gråte så raskt da mamma spurte, hvem er mammas snille gutt? Det er du, ja det er du!" The woman said.
"Dear god. The hot mind reader is trying to curse me too! Hey there, mind reader lady, thanks for the save, but this is really not the best moment for a curse. So if it's not too much trouble, could we hold off on the hexing? I'd really appreciate it, you see my schedule is already packed… Actually, now that I think about it... what is my schedule?"
While his senses had gradually come back, adding clarity the world around him, he quickly realized that his memories remained elusive. Where was he? Who was he? Who were his friends, his allies, his family? Each question he could not answer was like a shadow, lurking just beyond his grasp, leaving him adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
"Faen, jeg kan ikke fortsette å stirre på den søte babyen min, jeg må løpe, ellers finner de oss."
The legs beneath him suddenly jolted forward as their sprint continued, propelling him out of his mental haze and causing a lock of her hair to tumble into his hand.
It felt smooth and a little sweaty, but not enough for him to throw it away. The texture was strangely soothing; its softness giving him a sense of comfort that felt oddly familiar. He let himself relax for a short time, holding on to that small feeling of normalcy. But that calm quickly gave way to a growing sense of panic. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
He couldn't see it; he couldn't see the lock of hair.
He knew there was nothing wrong with his eyes. In fact, they had never been better as he looked up at the smiling goddess-demon watching him from above. The problem was his neck; for some reason, it wouldn't budge.
Though he was using all the force he could muster, he couldn't do it. His head felt like a block of solid lead, and his neck felt like an withered twig. Long story short, his head wasn't moving unless someone wanted to move it for him.
"Hmm, okay, time for a new plan."
Straining with all his might, he managed to shift his body just enough to catch a glimpse of his hand, or rather, where he thought his hand would've been. However, it was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, he was confronted by a small, pudgy appendage, its delicate form adorned with soft, velvety skin, each doughy segment slightly curled around the lock of hair, its contours smooth and rounded, with tiny, glimmering tips that shimmered under the light.
Where his hand should've been, instead, sat that of a baby.
"SHE TURNED ME INTO A FUCKING BABY!! Who even does that? People use curses like, 'Oh, now you get a hundred years of bad luck,' or, 'You'll be haunted by your most embarrassing moment for all eternity,' or something petty like, 'Every time you try to cook, it'll taste like cardboard.' But no! I get this! Who in their right mind decides to turn someone into a helpless infant? What kind of twisted mind thinks, 'Hmm, let's regress this poor soul to diapers and bottle feeding'? Seriously? What, you gonna burp me as well, change my diaper too? You sick fuck."
In truth the realisation was not much of a surprise to him. The hints were obvious: the fact that he couldn't feel himself running, couldn't move his head, and the way that lock of hair had fallen into his hand—grasped not by will, but by instinct—it all lead towards one unfortunate conclusion. And in that moment of acceptance, he did what infants do best.
Cry.
"Kom igjen nå, ikke gråt lille ba—"
The child's tears abruptly stopped as he felt something drip down from the woman's cheek onto his own.
It was blood.
A stream of blood.