Chapter Text
Somewhere out there in the vast, dark and great valley that is the universe, there you were born.
Bright, glowing and immaculate—
(Small, teeny tiny and insignificant—)
Swimming, drifting like a fish in the calm, calm sea—
You've seen many bodies of water in your life. You've learned to like it. But you never stay. (Never could.) So you were mostly going from one place to another.
Exploring what you could.
Drifting towards infinity—
(Drifting, drifting—)
You like that word. You like a lot of things.
You don't remember anything before then; just that you somehow knew all these words—
These interesting facts that only seem to raise to mind more questions than observable answers.
These things that only seem to be fuel to the curiosity that burn almost as bright as you.
Almost burned as bright as you. Past tense. You're dead. Dead but alive. Undead? (Is that even a word?) Oh, well.
These stars. These big, boiling stars. These giant balls of gas, dirt, water and plasma. These things about your home—the galactic world. So fascinating. So interesting. Intriguing. Entertaining.
You knew enough, just not the details. Like, sure, this place was big, but how big, exactly? All these things in the cosmos, did any of the differences matter? What was the difference between a comet and a star, anyways? (Don't answer, you know now.) And how come you don't remember anything about yourself before you were brought(or born?) into this deep, unrelenting black space, but had all this knowledge, had this vocabulary and knew all these things—
All these questions formulated in your tiny, tiny mind. All these questions about these pieces of scattered information in your head—just as scattered as the stars in this black sky and just as vast as the clouds of interstellar gas and dust that lie within the secrets of this deep, deep, black void you learned to call home.
It was a lot. But you were used to a lot. It was the many cons and perks of being an intergalactic being. These things that you know, but just never seem to be enough to fill that aching emptiness in your lungs, your chest, your skull—
(If you even have one, that is.)
You don't think you've seen anyone quite like yourself yet. You knew you were most likely a star, just not the average, normal kind. Most of what you saw were circular, blinding lights and didn't have much of a body like yours. You, apparently, were a four-legged, cold stellar remnant people in Midgard regard very similarly to a Black Dwarf.
But you don't know that.
Not yet at least.
Possibly not ever.
You're alone. And you always will be alone.
You had to be. Have to be.
And perhaps, you were even made to be.
How cruel.
But it never did stop you from yearning for...something. Something to fill the dull, aching stillness that seems to be ever present in your life. In your mind. In your body, your soul, your (flesh?)...
It's lonely, you see, being you. There's almost nothing you can touch without it being crushed by some invisible force.
Horrifying sight, as you observed. Yet severely fascinating. Compelling, even.
(It's not like it's your fault or anything. You were simply born that way. You may be the reason, but it isn't your fault everything just seems to die under your fleeting touch. There's a difference in those words. There is.)
As soon as your fingers brushed against that sapling(no bigger than your wrist), it made an odd crunching noise, and within less than a millisecond it was just...
Nothing but a dry pulp of what it once was.
And that's when that unquenchable hunger truly began to grow.
Once, you heard someone say in passing to a friend of theirs that knowledge was both a burden and a gift, and now you realize that it is also one that you don't think you could ever pass up on.
You like knowing. You like learning.
You didn't choose this life, but you couldn't say that you would not have ever wanted it; that if you had a choice, you wouldn't choose it. You don't hate it either, but you can't say that you prefer it. You like asking questions. You like finding out the answers on your own. You don't need help from a companion, or a friend, or from that one odd, space feline you came across some far away planet you didn't catch the name of.
Hm. You sure had an odd way of thinking. Possibly confusing to some or most others, but it makes sense to you and works for you so you think that's enough.
It's enough.
Just you and your knowledge and your thirst for more.
But even in that statement, it just doesn't make sense. Because you're not ignorant, dull minded and stupid. You know things maybe you shouldn't. You're sapient. You're smart. Horribly so it's suffocating and vexatious...
Deep inside, you know it'll never be enough. There's a reason why you stated it was unquenchable. It's in the word itself. Nothing will ever be enough for you. No matter what you do, nothing will satisfy. No matter how many life forms you study, no matter how many more planets become your next stop for adventure, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing—
Nothing will ever be enough.
You understand now.
You think you always have, this was just that moment when you finally realized you actually needed to face it:
You're no star—
You're a black hole that pulls and pulls and pulls until there's nothing left. Nothing left for you to explore. Nothing left for you to study.
To note, to etch into the inner crevices of your mind. (It's not like you could draw it on a piece of paper or etch it into a wooden log or anything.)
To see, smell, and touch. To eradicate and to build. To fill and carve out and empty out and destroy.
You are a burden to all.
A monster. A thing born of destruction and chaos and dust.
The star Osiris.