Fractals and Dreams

The girl’s words echoed in his head, faint and soft, not unlike the recalling of a memory— but sharper, clearer, colder, like the distant ringing of a bell. Its edge, its bite made it feel so much more tangible than a memory, so much more real and in the moment. His breath continued to fog his nose and lashes as he paused in silence, listening to her, and then waited, the gears slowly turning in his head as he pieced together each part of her prose.

 He lowered his head, kept his hands curled in his lap, glanced around from under his brow one more time. He kept his eyes trained on the edge of the woods, and when no one appeared, and he heard no real noise, he drew his attention back toward the fire, prodding at its feet. He steeled his nerves. It wasn’t his fog, and he couldn’t sense anyone near him, not physically. The only way to move forward was to speak with whatever this figment may be.

 “Are— are you a ghost, then?” he asked, shifting his jaw, hoping to grind away at his hesitation. “Or a mage from afar?” He greatly disliked either answer; the souls of the dead still lingering made him uneasy, made him question his existence— but a mage would be prying, violating, and if they were with the Order, much, much worse for him currently. He hoped she spoke the truth about only being able to hear his voice, which he continued to keep meek, and low; if she could hear his thoughts, she’d know what he feared immediately.

“And this isn’t a potion,” he added. He peered over the pot dangling above the flames, let the bubbling steam waft over his skin, taking a brief moment of relief in its warmth and its scent; his stomach growled and he jabbed the ladle in, willing the broth to thicken faster. Her comments were curious— about the potion, and previously about the giants, whatever that meant— and it made him wonder whether the voice had truly belonged a human being at any point, or to something else entirely. “It’s soup. I’m cold, and I need to eat.” He scooped up a spoonful of runny stock, frowned at it, and let it slop back into the pot. “I didn’t want to waste any of the rabbit, so this is my dinner for today.” He sniffed, wiped his nose, which had started to run with the dampened shift in temperature, from the steam. “It’s just, um… taking a minute, to thicken.”