Fractals and Dreams

Her words were haunting, made him feel colder than he already did. It was a horrific existence that she described, as nothing more than a memory, her body trapped somewhere, lost to her, completely detached. Sylen wasn’t particularly attached to his own body, at least not in a personal way, but it was a great tool for hunting and exploring and most of the things he enjoyed most in life.

 Her story made him nervous. His mind reeled away from him, tumbling down the hypothetical of if he became no more than a memory, if he was severed from his body, too; and then what would truly be left of him.

 He sipped his soup again, uncomfortably, trying to shift thoughts from the intangible to the tangible— but it only made him think more about how the ghost in his head was watching him drink, but not feeling any of it, and his heart tangled up in his nerves again.

 He knew it would be coming. The fog was looming in the distance, and he knew it was his; there was only so much stress he could wrestle with before whatever barrier in him cracked and let the mist pour out. The panic that drew it nearer only spiked more harshly in his chest; he had to make a decision, and fast. If he didn’t inhale it, his memory would be gone, taken from him, never to be remembered again— he’d learned that the hard way— but if he did inhale it, he’d be lost to it, his body stuck in a near catatonic state while his mind lived out another life entirely. He didn’t know what would happen if he breathed it in with a ghost holding onto him; would his body be forfeit, left only to her? Would she steal it? Would he be stuck in the memory, unable to escape, knowing that the world around him was fake, nothing more than imagined?

It was drawing in on all sides, circling him and his campfire, a cool wind dampening the warmth he clung to. He placed the wooden bowl down, into the soft snow at his feet, and folded his hands in his lap, closing his eyes.

 Maybe it would be better this way. He could live out his childhood again, when he was happy, when Agnus was alive, when everything was still alright. Maybe he wouldn’t mind being stuck there. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember that it was just a memory.

 Even if he woke back up here, in the snow and cold and his adulthood, he didn’t want to chance losing another memory again. He’d forgotten his mother’s face the first time, and losing that had been more than enough.

 He waited, not saying a word to the spirit, until the fog took him over, and he breathed it in.

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He finished rolling his pant sleeves up to his knees, up to his ankles in freezing-cold stream water— mountain runoff— and peered over its flickering surface, waiting for his catch.

 He snagged it in a heartbeat. A thick trout, wriggling and slick between his fingers; he pushed upstream until he reached a stone on the bank, where he’d left his hunting knife. He laid the fish down onto the stone and brought the blade to its gills, nestling the knife between the skull and neckbone. He waited a moment, until its flopping body flopped just a little less violently, and shoved his weight down, his knife cracking through its spine as its head came off.

 Dark blood, somewhat cool from its time underwater, gushed from the severed skull and over the rock, dribbling into the stream beyond; he twisted the body to a slightly better angle, ignoring the oozy fluid over his fingers, and gutted it. Typically, he’d save the guts to use as bait for more— but he was on a short trip, and there wasn’t time or means to properly store them. After slitting open its belly, he dug the offal and spine out with his fingers and simply tossed them into the stream for some other fish to find. He wrapped the fish in a flimsy linen after a bit more blood had been lost, then washed his hands in the chilly water with a bit of salt to scrape away the blood.

 Málmr was back at the campsite, a bundle of something in a linen of his own, the autumn sun fading behind the amber trees around them. The fire was already going, and entering its aura gave a bit of much-needed relief to Sylen’s feet and hands; he plunked down on a rock by the fire, readying the fish for dinner with a bit of salt and spices.

He was rather pleased with how it came out, most likely due to Málmr’s advice, as Sylen wasn’t exactly an excellent cook— more a functional cook than a fashionable one. Of course, Málmr didn’t eat any, which Sylen continued to find odd, but he was more than merry to keep the fish to himself.

 They talked, the conversation long enough for typically-quiet Sylen that his throat ached as his voice came out his throat. He tried to clear it a few times, and felt further pleased that he finally had company he felt comfortable speaking to at all, let alone for a good hour or more.

 The sun had sunk beneath the horizon, and the autumn air dropped into a more wintry sort of state; Sylen edged toward the fire, wrapping himself in his cloak, holding it tight around his shoulders, trying to cover his ears a little. It was for conveniences like these that he preferred not to shave— he didn’t have to put in much effort to warm his face.

Málmr revealed his surprise, eyes gleaming above his wrapped scarf— apples, with butter and cinnamon and just a touch of sugar. The two roasted them over the fire; Málmr focused so greatly on helping Sylen that his own apples were torched to cinders. They laughed, Sylen’s throat still a little sore, but he tried one of his own anyways. It wasn’t perfect— still a bit crisp, not warmed all the way through— but it brought comfort with it, made the tension Sylen carried ease up in his shoulders, in his jaw. He thanked Málmr, and for the first time in ages, his cheeks hurt from smiling.