89th day.
Ortenz opened and saw the turquoise lake once again. Like a painting, the scenery was the same as the last time: clear water leading to unfathomable depths; white clouds eternally drifting in the sky at the whim of the winds; and the miniatures of himself.
Ortenz hesitantly took a step forward, then, seeing as he didn't sink, walked towards his miniatures. Each of his steps sent ripples through the infinite surface of the water, slightly disturbing the perfect peace of this place. When he got near, the miniatures looked at him but otherwise stayed still, like wax statues.
They were dressed like him, in the same attire he bought months ago to start his journey, but their clothes were burned and ragged. He looked at himself and was shocked to see that his clothes were identical, burned, and ragged. Confused and curious, Ortenz looked at them once more to try to find more differences.
Hair, eyes, nose, chin, all facial features were absolutely identical, not a single change. Same with his hands. Even how they stood was perfectly like him.
The only difference was that one of them was holding books; three books: a Svelen language book, a touristic guide, and a strange one. The touristic guide was also weird: Ortnez had never seen it before, which was strange considering his unhealthy passion for reading. The last book's cover was blank, except for a single word written in italic in the center: AWAKEN.
Ortenz's eyes snapped open.
The first things to greet his vision were wooden planks and a burnt smell hidden behind ointments' fragrance. He also quickly noticed his rapid breathing and sweaty body. "W-What the..." His weirdly exhausted body didn't allow him to pronounce more words; he deeply inhaled several times until he finally wasn't out of breath anymore.
A sharp pain coming from his back made him re-concentrate on his whole situation, and not only his breath.
His groggy brain tried to connect the pieces, but everything was hazy, foggy.
There was the forest, then the monster, the explosion... What happened after? He couldn't tell.
Ortenz didn't sense his legs shifting under the blanket; in fact, he couldn't sense them at all. His hand slowly ran across the blanket and grabbed the corner. In his weak state, this took more effort than he liked, but he wanted to know why his legs were not responding, as this was concerning news.
Lifting the corner, Ortenz first saw his chest. No visible injuries, but he would swear he wasn't that tanned. Next were his legs and the reason for his lack of pain was obvious: from his feet to his waist, everything was burnt. Not like charcoal, fortunately, but clearly too cooked.
"So that's where the smell comes from..." weakly mumbled Ortenz. He was, weirdly, not horrified. The lack of any stimulus disconnected him, made him thought of this leg as someone else's. It was strange, and Ortenz wondered if this was normal, but he had other pressing matters, like knowing where he was.
=He looked around and saw a nightstand on the right side of the bed. On it was what Ortenz recognized as ointments. Without moving his legs, he began to turn and stretch his arm to grab the pot, but—"Aaargh!" His back suddenly flared-up in pain.
"Argh! Fuck!" He suddenly remembered the claws of the vengrel cutting into his back and tearing his muscles. Ortenz's eyes began to cry from the pain, but he managed to control himself. He laid back again in the bed, with nothing to do, and eyed the door, then the window enviously. "I'm fucking dumb," he muttered.
He suddenly heard footsteps, heavy and slow, which grew louder by seconds. Then, the door opened, revealing behind it an old lady.
Her face was tired and wrinkled, as if pulled down by the weight of years, but her eyes, though glassy, still hid an ounce of energy and youth. Her gnarled hands remained snuggled against her body as her long, thin fingers couldn't seem to stop moving. She wore an old red dress washed out with time and sewn in places, topped with an apron of multiple colors, produced from a patchwork made with little care.
The old lady entered the room and looked at the sweaty Ortenz. Behind his awkward smile, she could make out a hint of pain. Her lips formed a line as her eyes looked at the blanket. She snorted and went over to the nightstand.
"Do not move, young man. You are going to aggravate your wounds." Her raspy voice reminded Ortenz of a cheese grater. It had the same smoothness.
She opened the small pot of ointment on the nightstand, and a sweet fragrance of flowers permeated the air. Ortenz recognized a healing cataplasm, often used to prevent infections and otherwise relieve pain.
The old lady applied the ointment to Ortenz's legs. Of all the burnt parts, his feet were the most burned; she applied more ointments to them and was careful to cover them evenly. "It was stupid," she said dryly as she wiped her hands.
"W-What is?" stuttered and asked incredulously Ortenz. He didn't expect her to ask a question and was surprised.
"You attacked a vengrel," she grunted. "That was very stupid." Ortenz nodded shamefully. He knew it. If he had prepared at least a bit, this wouldn't have happened.
The old lady closed the little jar and shook her head. She got up painfully from the bed and went to a chest of drawers. The wood planks creaked under some of her steps, clearly indicating the age of the house.
She opened the first drawer and took out some clothes that Ortenz immediately recognized: they were his.
"You ... You sewed them up?" Although the clothes appeared intact at first glance, he could make out the seams and places where the fabric wasn't similar. "It's very kind of you," he remarked. Few people would do this for strangers. "How can I repay you? If you want, I have special knowledge that might—" The old lady interrupted. "—I already took money out of your bag for my services."
... Ortenz looked at her incredulously, then slightly indignant, but he kept silent the different thoughts going through his head, and curtly replied, "I see."
"When can I walk again?" he asked. It was decided, the less time he spent here, the better.
Although the old woman was kind, the fact that she had rummaged through his belongings without any permission irritated him a bit. Of course, Ortenz understood why she had done so: she wanted to find healing items. But there was a clear difference between searching the bag of someone to help and take his money.
The old woman put the clothes on the edge of the bed and stopped in the doorway. Her eyes looked him from head to toe, and after what Ortenz could only describe as disapprobation, she responded, "In two or three days."
Ortenz waited for hours. Sleep did not come to him, he who was nevertheless a great consumer of the sweet pleasure procured by a rest, couldn't close his eyes and doze off.
The only changing thing in the room was the outside, which Ortenz saw through the window. Sometimes, the clouds parted and let pass sunlight that suddenly illuminated Ortenz's room. Then, seconds later, the rays disappeared and left the injured mage in his semi-darkness specific to cloudy days.
The blue sky outside gradually disappeared, giving way to the orange of the setting sun as well as to the evening sounds of the forest, which despite the old lady's cottage, managed to slip through. Ortenz quietly listened to the muffled sound of the wind sliding along the walls of the house. It was music without notes that accompanied the young mage through the early hours of the night.
Then came the sound of the rain. Repetitive and unceasing, beating like a thousand drums against the old roof of the house. Ortenz observed the magnificent stormy clouds through the window, wondering if the house would last the night.
The young mage thought. He remembered the vengrel. Ortenz had, thanks, or because of the creature, all the time in the world to think. He wondered why he wanted to finish this contract. Was it so important that he wanted to spend months of his life on it? He wasn't sure.
Ortenz was prideful. He couldn't admit that he failed; he didn't want to say, in a sorrowful manner, "I can't do it, sorry." He wanted to succeed, yet, the young mage was here, injured, depressed, and far from any form of glory.
Ortenz has never faced failure. His academy years had ingrained in him the idea that he would be successful in life. His mind was conflicted because while he hadn't failed, he didn't feel like he had won.
A bitter taste spread in his mouth, and his back itched. His wounds made him suffer, like thousands of needles sticking into his flesh and shredding his muscles. The old lady had warned him: if the wounds had deeper, he would have died. It made him wonder... Had he won through sheer luck?
Thunderclaps echoed in the distance and shook the fragile walls of the house. Far away in the darkness, Ortenz saw a tree catch fire. The flames flickered under the heavy rain, only lasting for a few seconds before disappearing as barely distinguishable lines of smoke rose in the sky and were blown away by the wind.
He sighed for a long time and thought about this strange dream.
This blue lake with turquoise water, with those miniatures of himself and this watery figure of himself.
Ortenz wondered if it was a dream. It seemed too real, too concrete. The way the water reacted to his step, how burnt were his clothes, how the miniatures were holding books he had read or thought about. Everything was strange but realistic at the same time.
Dreams are chaotic, eternally changing, and often incomprehensible, but this one had been coherent in his two iterations so far. Ortenz searched in his memory. He rummaged through the depths of his mind to try and find another coherent dream like this one, but there was none. From the landscape to the details to the way both were depicted, no dreams could compare, even slightly.
Ortenz also thought of the vengrel. He wondered why the creature chose to die. It could have fled, it clearly had the time, but it didn't. It stood there and even approached its head closer to see, to admire, to contemplate the magic at work.
The vengrel's attitude irritated Ortenz. He craved to know why he looked at that light like children would look at a candy store: curious, attracted, and fascinated. As if it was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. It was ridiculous.
Ortenz's disorganized thoughts slowly spiraled into a spiral. He wondered about a lot of things, reflected on a lot of topics. At first, he just wanted to occupy himself, to animate his otherwise lonely night... But soon, he too had been trapped in his web of interlaced thoughts, leading to a never-ending list of questions.
In the end, and without realizing it, Ortenz fell asleep.
mystery...