Jonathan's consciousness returned with a shiver, as though his soul had been dunked in ice-cold water and yanked back to the surface of existence by firm invisible hands.
His eyes blinked open to a dimly lit ceiling, cracked wooden beams held together by iron nails gone black with age and rust, and some cobwebs dancing in the corner like a ghostly banner… This was foreign to him. It wasn't the smooth white panels of an airplane cabin, nor the sterile brightness of a hospital room, this was something else entirely.
His breath hitched, catching in his throat like hook. The air was heavy with dust motes that swirled in the pale shaft of light filtering through the grimy window. Beneath the mustiness lay other scents that seemed to assault his nostrils, a mixture of the stench of old smoke, unwashed bodies and clothes, and something organic and earthy.
He could hear some sounds outside, the sound of chickens clucking and scratching in dirt grated against his ears with surprising clarity. That alone was too foreign, as strange as the room he was in, after all, Jonathan had never grown around chickens.
He sat up slowly, his body responding with unfamiliar aches and limitations. 'We're we kidnapped to some farm?' He thought to himself… that was when he noticed yet another strange thing… His arms were too short.
Not just his arms, but his legs, when he shifted them beneath the coarse blanket he laid upon, barely reached the edge of what appeared to be a straw mattress, something he someone recognized not because he had seen one before, but from whatever and wherever he had gotten the description.
There was no other way to put it, his body was small, fragile even... Child-sized.
'What's going on?' It was then that panic settled in properly.
He couldn't bring himself to make sense of whatever situation he was in, so he did what he could do best and forced himself to stay calm, drawing on the same steady control that had gotten him through university exams and job interviews. He looked around with growing bewilderment, paying more attention to his surroundings and observing better. The room was cramped and ancient looking, with walls patched with mismatched planks of wood, some dark with age, others newer and lighter where repairs had been made. A crooked window, its glass so thick and warped it distorted the view outside. A door hung barely attached to its hinges, with the gaps around the frame.
Looking at it, he was certain. 'Well, this is certainly not a hospital. This doesn't even look like a place from the 21st century… just what disconnected village am I in?'
Just when things couldn't get anymore confusing, Jonathan was hot with a barrage of memories that came flooding into his head all at once. There was no way to explain the feeling, but it was just as bad, if not worse, than what he felt on the plane.
He took in a lot of strange things, thoughts that weren't his, emotions that didn't belong to him, experiences lived by someone else… for a moment it felt as though he was that person and even as though he would lose himself, but that didn't last long as he fought to keep his sanity at all cost, mustering all the strength he could to remain sane.
Just when he started to get himself back, he realized that there were now two distinct memories within his mind, and for some reason, he also recognized his name to be… Xervia. A truly strange name for him, that felt natural and his.
'What is all this?' He gripped his head with small, unfamiliar hands, confusion twisting his thoughts into knots. The memories overlapped and blended, creating a strange double vision of existence. He was Jonathan, yes, a twenty-eight-year-old man who had just died on an airplane, that, he was sure of, leaving behind a wife and a life of quiet routine… but at the same time he was also, undeniably, Xervia, a six-year-old boy in a poor village so far removed from any trace of modern civilization that electricity might as well have been like magic.
As time went by slowly for a few minutes, he regained himself, and could remember both lives with equal clarity now. Jonathan's orderly apartment with its beige walls and unread books. Xervia's memories of hunger, of cold lonely nights, of a father who cared more for his bottle than his sons… the contrast was jarring, like trying to hold two completely different songs in his head at once.
Just then, A voice called out suddenly from the next room. It was a male voice that sounded firm, slightly impatient, but surprisingly welcoming if he could say so.
"Xervia! Let's go, we need to get moving. The day's getting away from us." The voice said.
Jonathan flinched at the sound and his mouth answered with an instinct that bypassed his conscious mind entirely.
"Coming!" He said, his own voice coming as a shock as it was quite unfamiliar to him.
It didn't take long for his brain to open up the part he needed. The voice that called him belonged to his older brother in this world, and his name was Rannick, nearly a decade older, with broad shoulders earned through hard labor and kind eyes that had seen too much too young. Strong where their father was weak, patient where their father was cruel, always looking out for Xervia with a fierce protectiveness that had kept the boy safe through the worst of their circumstances.
Simultaneously, another even stronger feeling surfaced, bitter and sharp. Their father, a man whose name Xervia had learned not to speak aloud. A lazy, broken soul who spent more time passed out than awake, always with a bottle clutched in his fist like a lifeline to oblivion. When he was conscious, he slurred curses and barked empty orders, his breath reeking of cheap alcohol and disappointment. There were no warmth in those memories, only the shadow of a parent who had long since given up on life, on his sons, on everything that might have made their existence bearable.
Jonathan rubbed his small arms, feeling the goosebumps rise on skin that had known too much cold, too little food, too many nights wondering if tomorrow would be better. He was almost bones and skin at that point. He realized with growing clarity of just how precarious this new life truly was.
As for the memories, though he could understand them, he wasn't affected by them, or at least not visibly or noticeably.
He stood, steadying his balance in this unfamiliar, smaller body. Just then, Rannick came in and threw a coat at him, "come on, we don't have all the time in the world."
Rushing to put on the coat made from unknown material, Jonathan took in the sight before him. The village was modest at best, a scattering of worn huts connected by dirt paths that turned to mud when it rained. Thatched roofs showed patches and repairs, only less when compared to his house, and vegetable gardens struggling in soil that looked tired and overworked.
Rannick was waiting near the edge of the forest trail, holding a woven basket that had seen better years. He looked up when Xervia approached, giving a small smile.
"We're going for mushrooms," he said, his voice carrying the patience of someone who had explained this task many times before. "The good ones grow deep in the forest, where the soil stays damp, but we have to be careful, some of the pretty ones will make you sick, and others... well…" He paused, motioning with his hand on his throat, sending a clear message before laughing at Jonathan's slightly surprised look and patting him on the back while glancing toward the deeper shadows between the trees.