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I’m drowning, he thinks.
He finds it funny how he can articulate that. It's not funny enough to laugh, but it's funny enough for his slack jaw to turn upward into a smirk. It hits him all at once. He's submerged underwater, drifting into a dark abyss. And here he is, tickled by the reality of knowing he's about to die. It's not like he wants to die, far from it; he just knows it's going to happen. He's always been afraid of death. He doesn't know why. A conviction keeps him alive, but it’s like his body is made of stone. He slips past reality and out of the hands of any benevolent creators who might be supervising his struggle. Are there eyes above the water? Are they watching him squirm?
I’m drowning, he repeats. It is a fact.
His head spins, and the memory of what happened before all this is fading. He can only recall heat. A smile. A sinking feeling in his chest. The taste of betrayal and fire. It lingers steadfast on his tongue.
How did you fail him? He begins to wonder. How?
Only now does he realize that he tripped. He tripped and fell. He probably stumbled over a crack in the ground. The matter of his death is almost enough to make him crack up with laughter. His clumsiness made him trip, fall, and drown. And to him, that's hilarious. The details are fuzzy. By the time he even realized he was falling, he was already fumbling over uneven ground. The ground was grey. The water, the river, was purple. His weight continued forward until his head dipped below the thickened amethyst liquid. His clothing weighed him down.
He forced his eyes open. The water was not salty. His grey jumpsuit darkened in color. He could see himself becoming a blur of grey and black, as though he was nothing more than a shadow, bobbing and twitching in the water like a lure.
He sank. It wasn't fast enough and it wasn't slow enough. He fought to kick his legs. He tried even more desperately to swim. But something held him down. He had never even been here before. And now he is aware of the fact that he is going to die.
His lungs fill.
Two hands grab at his jumpsuit. For a moment, he thinks—hopes—the pressure on his shoulders is coming from above, as though it is a rescue coming at last to save him. Instead, the hands drag from below, tearing him down into the deep. His sinking accelerates. The hands become more strikingly skeletal: bony. He can hardly even remember his own name.
You failed him. The voice speaks in his head. It is not his own. Yet, it reveals his biggest fear. How could you?
He moves his lips, as though to speak, even if no one can hear him scream under the water. Water flows into his parted lips, as he cries out for someone lost to him.
Who did I fail.
There's no answer.
The... the Count...?
No. The faraway voice answers. Not him.
With a rigor mortis fidget, he struggles against the grip of the skeletal hands on his jumpsuit, but it's no use. They pull him down, down, down into the darkness. He feels his consciousness slipping away as he dips further into this watery gaze... or maybe it's the light above the water going dim. Whatever the case, he continues to drown. There's no escaping this fate. There's no rescue. No heroes.
Heroes.
The word makes him hate himself even more. He still doesn't know why.
As he goes down, he notices something: distantly. As he's dragged closer to the river's bottom, he can see how the water moves in odd directions, as though it's blending into a tiny whirlpool. He knows no matter how he moves or twists or struggles, he is bound for it. And surely the maelstrom will devour him - rip him into pieces. More of the skeleton hands grip his lapel, tugging on him as though they'll quarter him.
Fear of the unknown grips him tightly as he is pulled closer and closer to the swirling vortex. The skeletal hands that grip him seem to be guiding him toward it; he wonders if this is all a part of some grand plan. Is he meant to die in this way? Is this his destiny? Is this fate? Had the Prognosticus predicted this for him? Could the Count have known this would happen?
He tries to fight against the pull, but his panicked movements become slower and more sluggish as his energy starts to wane. The water around him seems to be closing in on him, suffocating him. His tired lungs fill with more river water. He wonders if this is what it feels like to die. He knows it; he knows this is what it is.
I'm drowning.
He submits.
The world gives way. The Void flashes and pulsates like a drum. Everything flashes behind his eyes.
And, suddenly, he's somebody else.
He's lying out on his side. His clothing is a different color, and his mask is gone. He feels vulnerable. Then he feels a sick sense of impatience, as though he's waiting for someone. No, he's been waiting for someone, for a long time. Once he has his bearings (which aren't much, to begin with), he kicks at the gravel, cursing under his breath. But as soon as the cuss word leaves his mouth, he apologizes to the air, as though his body is occupied by two different people at once. Anger, sadness, confusion, and whispers of vengeance swirl in his gut and brain.
Slowly, he rises off the ground and looks around. The ground is a deep green. In the distance he can see branches of what look to be family trees, cascading from the stalactites above to the depths of muffled moaning and groaning voices below. The air is thick with a stench of decay, death, and abandonment. There are no second chances in a place like this.
He thinks that's what scares him the most.
A deep part of him feels guilty. He thinks he's done something wrong. There are bruises on his knuckles: ones that weren't there before. He wonders how long ago "before" was.
Eventually, after a few long minutes of too many thoughts and too many doubts, he drops to his knees. He trembles, gripping hold of his hat, covering his face with it. He whimpers and, finally, allows himself to cry. It feels good. His tear ducts had been at their tipping point.
Wet, cold, and scared, he simply sits in silence.
He hopes for someone. He hopes for that distant memory to come back for him. He fantasizes about rescue, about an explanation, and about home.
He still can't quite recall his name.
But he remembers someone else's.
He repeats the name to himself like a lifeline. He holds onto it tightly in the sea of confusion and dread that engulfs him. The name sparks a flicker of memory, but it's too hazy to grasp. He tries to concentrate, to hold onto the image. It's just out of reach; it slips through his fingers like sand. But he manages to grab it. He manages to hold on. He manages to conjure the image in his mind. Of who he is. Of where he was. Of where they were before everything. Before.
Mario.
He can remember him at home. He can remember when the Toad came running up to them, telling them that the princess had been kidnapped. He can remember the smell of fire and magma at a castle. He can remember another castle: one that was monochromatic in color. He can remember a woman's voice. He can remember Goombas, betrayal, and being held down.
Mario.
Then he remembers Mario's face again, but it's not any memory he recognizes. They're somewhere strange, bright and colorful, and like a dream. They're lost in an unfamiliar world. Mario looks angry at him for some reason. He can't remember why, but it doesn't matter. Because he knows him. He knows his name-that name. He knows something. Someone.
Mario.
My brother.
And at that moment, the rest of Luigi's thoughts are swept away.