Fractals and Dreams

Exhaustion gnawed at Sylen’s bones, hunger at his gut, and cold at his skin; he pulled his winter cloak a little tighter, tucking his nose into the fur ruff at its collar. One thickly-gloved hand poked out from beneath the cool-gray fabric to prod at the fire, his little tin cauldron dangling over the flames that licked at its feet. Snow fell softly, silently around him as he waited for his broth to soak up the taste of the marrow. Brewing stock from leftover scraps was arguably his favorite way to ensure he didn’t waste the animal, with lining fabrics or carving tools and weaponry just shy of making food. A handful of wild herbs floated in the broth as well— thyme, sage, rosemary, all things that went well with rabbit. As was typical, the cubed potatoes and crushed nuts had sunk to the bottom, which left the stock looking rather unpleasant for the time being. In ten minutes or so it would be thick and starchy and would keep him warm for the rest of the night.

 He felt what seemed like a pair of eyes on him, up from the trees— he ignored it entirely, assuming a curious crow had simply come to investigate the smell. If it was smart, it would recognize the knife at his hip, the crossbow at his side, and keep away from him; if not, well. More for the stew, he supposed.

Are you softening those bones before you make your bread with them?

 Sylen flinched; the stick in his hand nearly fell out of his grasp as he jumped. He glanced over his shoulder, into the woods, expecting to find someone standing there. He was alone.

He turned back to the soup pot, heart fluttering, and shifted his jaw, slowing his breath to calm himself, each puff of air making the tip of his nose wet. He rubbed it in the fur of his cloak again, drying it off.

 He hadn’t thought that. There was utterly no sense to that thought, that sentence. Bones? Softening bones? Making bone bread? Grace’s sake, he wished he knew what that meant. Especially because the words hadn’t been in the dull, nonexistent tone of personal thought; they’d been in a voice, a clear voice. A girl’s voice.

 He pried between his teeth with his tongue, staring blankly into the fire. He was alone. There was no one here. He glanced up and around, searching for fog— there was none, nothing even close to it, save for the woodsmoke and his own breath. Just gentle snowfall, and the cold night air around him.

Or is that only a thing giants do? I can’t imagine they’d be good otherwise.

 He straightened up on his seat, eyes flitting back and forth again, his heart absolutely racing. He wiped his fingers over his nose and mouth, as if to double-check that no fog had clouded his face; his gaze lost focus as panic crawled up his throat, its millipede legs skittering through his insides, and he let it start to consume him.

 He swallowed back what little willpower he had left, a hard lump sliding down his throat. He tried to remind himself that it would be over soon, that his mind would be his own again; there would be no memories, no fog, nothing more, once he made it to Namarast, once Agathias helped him. He gripped the hem of his shirt as he repeated the thought in his head, a feeble attempt to stabilize himself; eventually it became a whisper, something more tangible, something outside of the personal hell that was his weary mind.

 “It’ll be over soon,” he mumbled to himself, tone gentle, as if comforting a child. “You won’t have to deal with memories anymore. They’ll be gone. You’ll be safe.”