Chapter Text
How can something so small and insignificant traverse an ocean?
The fae claim to know the answer, whilst humans shun the concept. Though, as humans' instruments unknowingly begin to trace the outlines of her root hairs, the fair folk forget the truth - believing themselves capable of ripping apart the steady, untouchable veils that separate realities.
No, the truth is this: separating and connecting several dimensions is a 'tree'. An uncountable distance from any other of her kind, one who tenderly watches billions of lives bloom and die beneath her, hugging them close with her ancient roots. It is through them that anyone with the ability can go from, for instance, a world where the only things that survive are the dead and dying, to a place so boring and dreary that a spark of green or a bird's mateless mutterings can bring a smile.
Such an answer will not satisfy this twenty-eight year old in a mere thirty second's time; though he has never thought a question requiring it until this event.
Here he is now; a man of medium height and tenor tones, though possessing a vocal range beyond what one might expect of him from a glance and polite conversation. He hails from a state halfway across the country to the one he resides, and so his childhood accent would stand out. Now, he hides it well, over a dozen minor corrections to sound perfectly. Normal. Standing out purely to his own aesthetic tastes, and blending into a crowd in every other measure.
I'm getting ahead of myself. Today, he's wearing a long-sleeved, maroon shirt. His pants are much lighter and canvas coloured, cut 3/4 length. Every couple of months he shaves his hair down almost to nothing, annoyed by the length and having to care for it. Every four weeks he bleaches it, turning the dark brown to an unnatural, sunny colour. He's roughly six weeks into the cycle, and his roots match the stubble on his face. On his back is a dark grey backpack he carries on his person so often, he frequently forgets it's there. To equal amusement and dismay from his coworkers.
As Tango walks to the bus stop (whereupon he can continue his commute and end up a block and a half from his workplace), he hears a humming. It's not mechanical humming, like that of a CPU fan. Neither is it the buzzing of a terrifyingly large insect, or the harmonious resonance of an acapella. He nearly loses track of the tiny rubber ball he's been mindlessly dribbling as he walks.
It jumps around jovially, ceasing for random moments; whether for breath or forgotten chords Tango cannot say. It's a voice, imitating a piano or electric guitar, with an occasional (disjointed) percussive pulse. The hummer attempts to be a one-man band, loud and ecstatic of the music they're imagining.
And it is purely their imagination. They have a lack of commitment to a singular throughline or instrument, their timing is (to put it kindly) terrible, and wildly out of tune for the cherry on top of the dog-poo cake. It could be the most famous song in the world, and it would take a year for Tango to guess it. He would very much like it to stop. Unfortunately, he finds that it does not and it grows a bit louder with every step. After resigning himself to listening to the world's worst cover song for the rest of his walk, it's interrupted by an astonished 'Oh!'
After a brief, blessed pause, they continue, "It's just the guy I've been waiting to meet!" A man's voice, Tango presumes, just as energetic as when he was 'singing'. The peppiness in his words seems to go in tandem with his pitch, resulting in something far from deep. That's not what stands out most, though. The dude's accent is not from here. British?
Deeply confused and yet brightened by the whimsy radiating from the stranger, the American looks around. There's a few early morning joggers, and he can hear people moseying about their yards as the city stirs into productivity, but there's no-one in close ear shot of him, and neither is anyone's attention focused on him.
"Down here, man!" Tango does peer down onto the sidewalk. The only sign of activity is the single earthworm in front of him.
Tango suppresses the urge to dumbly scout around again. He knows the current state of affairs, and there are no nearby people paying him attention. Here, in front of him, is his potential conversational partner: a humble earthworm. It's definitely British. It sounds on the posher side, probably somewhere in Southern England. How does a British earthworm end up in Arizona, on this sidewalk, of all places?
"Yep, I think you're looking right at me," the worm says, a hint of mirth in the silence while Tango's brain tries to process the situation.
Hold on, how is a talking British earthworm here?
"Have I eaten anything strange lately? I don't think so... everything in my pantry's in date... ah. So, it must be... I'm developing psychosis!" Tango facepalms, "Those were inside thoughts."
"I'm real! I'm really talking to you. Well, I'm projecting a voice to you and tricking your ears into hearing one, anyway."
Tango squints suspiciously at the sightless worm. "Yeah, I'm sure that's what all the auditory hallucinations say."
The earthworm doesn't have an immediate answer to that one, thinking. Can earthworms think? Probably not, but insanity by definition does not show a truthful image of reality. And Tango has surely gone insane. What could have brought this on? Maybe he's been single for too long. The worm isn't even squirming around on the sidewalk, which is generally a worm activity. Fantastic, he's not only hallucinating talking to a worm, but a dead one as well. Poor creature, corpse not even having the dignity of resting in peace because of the raving lunatic who keeps talking to it.
"...Well, I guess I am technically giving you hallucinations. But anyone within 'earshot' of me hallucinates my voice as well. So you're only as crazy as everyone else here." It finally replies.
I've been hearing your stupid solo half a block away, that is not earshot, Tango yells mentally. "Uh, okay, Mr. Worm. Can I help you?" he says instead.
" 'Mr. Worm'? Hahaha. You humans and your genders. Sure, I can be your Mister. But first, may I please have some water? All this pavement resting has left me dehydrated."
'I can be your Mister'. What did he mean by that? Tango decides, for the sake of his inconclusive sanity, that he won't ask. After fishing out his water bottle from his backpack, he crouches down briefly to pick the worm up, panicking as the gold chain necklace begins to slip out from under his shirt. He loves pretty, shiny things; he wears his necklace for luck, but he'd give his life to ensure nobody in this state knew about it. The names and hits he received in childhood were more than enough, thanks.
The earthworm, of course, is unable to sense the stress on Tango's face (unless he can read minds as well as talk), nor spot the strange way his shirt fabric shifts. He wriggles gleefully on Tango's hand instead, about as long as the human's hand and slightly narrower than his smallest fingernail. Tango carefully pours some water onto his hand. Mr. Worm moves around purposefully, seeking out as much moisture as he can find without risking falling off.
Tango feels like a child doing this. He remembers his sister, who always had such a strange, sad reaction to the dried, crusty remains of dehydrated worms. He also remembers the incomparable relief and elation in her expression when she managed to save a couple of them, give them a few drops of water and let them back into the soil where they belonged. Sometimes he'd help her search or cheer her up.
"Thank you so much, my friend. Could you please take me home?"
"To... your home?"
"No, yours."
Well, Tango certainly isn't going to do that. He'd have to have a worm in his pocket all day, and he definitely didn't pack fresh soil into his lunchbox. Speaking of which, he has a bus to catch soon. He can't afford to hang around much longer. "Suppose I just put you down next to the path, on that weedy patch over there. What would you do?"
Tango has to wait for Mr. Worm's answer again. Tango doesn't get the sense that he's thinking through, though. More like building tension for the unveiling of his grand master plan, which will probably be as stupid as the apparent siren song he used to lure Tango here.
"Well, you'll find me right there, on the bitumen, the following morning." The human hears the cheeky grin in the earthworm's voice, though there probably weren't many sentences of his in their conversation that didn't feature it.
"Alright," Tango huffs, "Show up as many times as you like, I'm not just going to let you into my house." Then he begins his power walk to the bus stop, because it would be just his luck that the one time the bus is a few minutes early is on the sole occasion Tango runs a bit behind his usual schedule, talking to a worm of all things.
But unbeknownst to him, the worm is quite happy with this arrangement. Because next to his pink, simple form is the rubber ball Tango forgot to pick up. He can feel it brushing against his delicate skin. With a bit of careful maneuvering, and his supernatural sense of the life around him thanks to his heritage, he brings the ball halfway under the shelter of the grass, safe from randomly rolling away.
The 'earthworm' burrows back into the city grit, safe from the blazing heat of open sunlight, and begins to plot his next actions. Now, he has leverage, and his kindness will surely get him a foot in the door when it comes to asking favours. It'll work out, the human he was sent here for will get what he wants most.