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At the edge of the universe, there sits a castle. It does not sit on solid ground. It begins somewhere in the clouds and its white spires are outstretched, even to the pink and gold heavens. It resides in a place known as The Inbetween.
A courtyard exists comfortably in the center of the castle. Gently glowing, white walls lining spacious, white halls lead the way to this perpetually green and grassy nook. It isn’t warm in this area, but it isn’t particularly cold either. It isn’t a certain temperature, it simply is.
A white tree, with branches that glow a gentle shade of gold, took root long, long ago in this place. It took root long before anything like it had ever been imagined and it will still be there, long after every thought of its existence fades from reality.
There’s a wooden swing set below this tree. One of the only things in this beautiful, sunlit place that isn’t made of something ethereal. It isn’t white, nor is it gold. It’s a comforting shade of brown that, perhaps, may draw in those of a mortal composition.
It’s here, on one of these swings, that a young man, illuminated by the illumination of the tree, is sitting. One arm is looped around the swing’s chain and the other is clutching a half-open book. The book is a dark purple, adorned with intricate green swirls and patterns. On the grass next to the swing, is a silver pen that must have slipped from the boy’s, now empty, hand.
The toes of his white, almost shining, shoes are brushing the grass lightly. His head is bowed, eyes shut tightly. Deep introspection isn’t something that fits comfortably on this man’s usually vibrant face. In fact, could his fiancés see this, they probably wouldn’t believe that he truly is their lover, who smiles and laughs like he had been created to be a beacon of joy.
Though, perhaps, the unusually pensive, grieved look on his face isn’t the only thing that has changed about him. His jeans, usually pitch black, are a soft white, the same color as freshly fallen snow. Similarly, his sweater, which is usually a wild mix-match of vibrant colors, is now so deeply white it appears colorless. On the back of this sweater, K. J. is written in faint, hard-to-see stitching.
K. J. Those had been his initials once. He knows that much. What had his name been? K... Karl? Karl Jacobs. That had been it. He doesn’t know what his name is anymore. He’s not the boy he had been two years, a year, even six months ago. He knows so much and nothing at all.
He can tell you about a treasure hunt that happened over three hundred years ago and he can tell you about a lost, underwater city that will only exist three hundred years in the future, but sometimes he has to rack his brain for hours to remember the names of those who he loves best.
One is named Cletus he remembers. Or maybe his name is Alex? Perhaps Quackity? Maybe they’re all one in the same. Maybe not. And the other... is his name James? No... it’s Sapnap.
He wonders what they would do if they discovered his secret. Sometimes he thinks that they would be supportive. Other times he knows with a painful certainty, that hurts his heart, that they wouldn’t know how to handle it. They might try to understand, but they won’t be able to. Not really. Nobody will understand the things that happen to Karl. Not even Karl.
Karl, who looks so different in this place. When he looks up, it’s hard to tell whether the soft light is coming from his surroundings, or if it’s emanating directly from him. He kicks at the grass and allows himself to start swinging lightly. His chest hurts. He thinks that might be where he had been stabbed this time around.
He lets his head fall to the side, resting it on the hand that’s wrapped around the chain of the swing. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. It hurts worse every time and he thinks that his fiancés are starting to notice his uncharacteristic forgetfulness. He had forgotten his name for a solid twelve hours once. He hadn’t been as afraid as he should have been.
He thinks that he should be exhausted; knows that he would be, if he wasn’t in The Inbetween. Here he can’t feel the bone deep tiredness that plagues his existence everywhere else. He can’t feel the way every muscle in his body hurts nowadays. Nor does he feel energized. He doesn’t feel the vigor that he used to. He doesn’t feel the strength that he always used to have.
He simply is.
So there he sits, on a swing at the edge of the universe, for what is either an hour, or a year. One way, or another, the ache in his chest slowly lessens... fades... and then it’s gone. Clutching his book to his chest, he disappears in a blinding flash of light. All that’s left to indicate that he had ever even been there, is the gentle rocking of the swing, as it slowly loses momentum, and the shimmer of the silver pen, laying in the grass.
—————
Karl wakes up, laying face first on the ground, in the cave behind his library, with only vague, fleeting memories of the time spent in that still, silent place. He gets to his feet (joints, muscles, and bones aching in a discordant symphony) and limps to the bookshelf in the wall.
Pushing it out of the way, he stumbles through the gap and replaces the books carefully behind him. He blinks in the blinding sun before them, shading his eyes, with a purple-sweater covered hand. He’s back.