5; Salt Water

"Sometimes I wonder how you've lived this long—complete idiot," Zolta badgered, barking on and on about idiocy and terrible decision making. It wasn't unlike her to lose composure over matters of safety, despite her oft jovial disposition, "What's been wrong with you? Are you ill?"

Xevla was composing himself, all the while ignoring every word that came out of his friend's maw. There was a dull headache taking priority over her, though whether her yammering caused it is another question, "I'm fine—just, not feeling hot."

"Bad enough to sleep on the ground?" a bit of a snap, though perfectly reasonable.

"Look, look—" he stumbled over words, trying to pull together an excuse, "I don't remember doing anything like that..." a bold-faced lie, "...maybe I've just got a head cold that's putting me out—my head feels thick."

It was that time of year, the odd space between when the trees flourish and the first green dies. There was plenty in the air, everywhere from new birds to unforeseen ailments. Zolta was convinced enough by it—his poor acts and unusual behavior did nothing but support the proposed illness, you'd have to be just a bit out of your mind to do something like that. Once Xevla was awake and well, the company of concerned housemates and good Samaritans dwindled—just Xevla and this old friend of his, a relic of childhood.

"Xev—" a softening of tone, she'd resist pushing him further. Maybe, it was best not to start an argument, "I'll have someone heat and salt the bath for you. That'll clear you right."

"Thank you."

"Yeah—just don't do anything wild again. Stay inside your head for once, Xev," with the faintest of smiles, seeing he was full conscious and able to think, she left him as well. He could use a bath, though with all those bites and scratches, the salt wouldn't be too kind to him.

Regardless of the pain foreseen, he'd enjoy that pleasure whenever the water was ready. Within this post-man settlement, it wasn't the most personal practice, but isolated and private enough to find some comfort. Bathing was one of the few rituals offering truly enclosed spaces—these more enclosed dwellings with brick lined hollows into the earth. They kept their heat nicely, though with draining being such a difficult matter with minimal plumbing, salting it half to death was the only surefire way to ensure cleanliness.

As soon as he was truly alone—or as alone as he can be in his own quarters, the connective doors revealing other parties a short connection away—Xevla found the freedom of this thoughts a moment more. With nothing but confusion, he'd have the moment to reflect on himself.

"I mustn't listen to their refusals...?" he muttered to himself, reflecting on the riddles of that crooked, rotted goddess. That life, or be it a dream, walked the line between making far too much sense, and none at all. The more he'd try and recall what he'd seen, the more those images in his mind bled together, leaving only a residual apprehension.

Sun crept through the separations in his home, the world itself far more awake than he. Stretching, taking a deep breath—Xevla brought more life into himself, rising from bed and reaching towards the ceiling. Joints popped, wrists cracked—a signature pain sprung up across his shoulders; he'd slept poorly, and on uneven ground. He still wore clothing from the days prior, feet slightly dirtied from stepping into the open grass—scuffed up as well, despite the protections of thick callouses. He thought to himself, perhaps going out after dark was a foolish idea—just fell asleep next to that solid mass. That's explain all of it—exhaustion and sick.

"There's always a prophetic nature to dreams, isn't there?" Xevla spoke with himself as he stepped outside, letting the sun give him the final shock into reality. It felt exceptionally warm that day, the gaps between the trees in the canopy had widened. Golden and pure, the light brought him in. Bring the light to those unaware, even found in this darkness—was that not what she told him to do? It was something to ponder at the very least, the few pieces he'd kept, and the feeling it'd given him, "It's all crazy making."

Breathing in the humid air, walking those tough paths of stone—he took in the world a moment more, walking towards that place of bathing. It was rather central to this settlement—as you'd hope, otherwise post-man would be quite a bit more filthy. The grass looked greener, the barks of manipulated trunks more red than before—and that sky bled through and merged with the clearing. That very clearing, he passed it by. Looking, considering, there had been no visible damage to the structure he'd intended to invade. New layers of growth and foliage had even begun to sprout from its base—and there was no glow to be seen.

Always drawn to that clear space, he abandoned the task at hand—water can always wait. Without structure, he stepped through the mid-height grass, the uneven soils. The closer he came, the less magnificent it all seemed—it was structure just like any other dwelling, only overgrown and enclosed; now, it didn't seem like anything special. Stooping down to look closer at the newer growth, he saw a glimmer from between the stalks—his file was caught between the walls, wedged in deep. Only the tip peaked through into the open air, "I did get in there, then..." Xevla muttered to himself, as he'd attempt to push the metal piece free. It wouldn't budge, and he's not quite sure what he'd expected; the young wood had always been stronger than him.

"Xev!" an accusatory yell came from the direction he was headed just moments ago, "What is it with you and that mound? The hell are you looking at now?"

"My file's stuck in it," he responded curtly.

"Can't even make fun out of it—maybe you have caught cold," she commented. She'd never been fond of more stern tones, it's not something expected from this young man, "Bath's ready, should boil out that brooding you've got going on."

She came to him for a moment, crouched beside him, "See, my file's in it—"

"Nah, that could be any old scrap. You saying you cut it open?"

"Not at all—" he'd chuckle, hiding that false sincerity with humor, "It's just, that's my file."

"I'll have to tell ma there was something wrong with those rabbits, gave you rabbit fever or somethin' like that," she nudged the man, half joking with him.

He'd submit to the narrative, abandon whatever he might be able to gain from poking and prodding the wood. Xevl didn't want to push the madness narrative too far—not to mention, Zolta had a strong elbow, "I'll get on with that cleanse then, Zol—now that you've got your stink on me."

"Bullshit! It's got to be the other way around."

As she scrambled up, there was a moment of half-dance—the woman, attempting to strike Xevla as he returned to the path, aggravation was only fun when it went so far. As soon as he was back on his way, they shared a mutual submission, a laugh, a wave.

She wouldn't bother him under the pretense of cleanliness. There's far too much risk, and the opposite of reward. Now, he could be alone with himself.

***

In that bathing place, those grand wood-fired tubs dug into loose foundations, always far deeper than necessary—he found what she'd prepared for him. You could taste the salt in the air, she'd really gone overboard with preparation. The gesture however, was plenty sweet. He'd never knock her for that.

Stripping of every garb—the loose and lazy trousers, the conservative tunic, undergarments that should likely join the soak—he'd dip in one leg at a time. It was practically scalding, any hotter and he'd be boiled alive. Sinking nearly a meter in, he'd sit then upon a steppe within the structure—unfurl himself, stretch out, close your eyes, take in the heat, the salt, the sun.

When nearing that heat equilibrium, when hot turned to warm, Xevla felt a film clinging to his submerged collar—as well as a knee raised above the surface, "With all that goddamn salt—how could algae of all things—" Xevla muttered to himself, with a spice of distain hidden in his tone, "You're supposed to clean off the top first—can't even get that right!"

Yet, when he sat up and opened his eyes too look about the mess he assumed would await for him, filth among the clean, life among the dead—he had no process to recognize what he viewed. That glow, the glow from the dead gazebo, the glow from the stone he'd touched in lapses of consciousness—it poured now from the water, with a discernable pinkish hue. Though flooding the senses, in just a moment, Xevla was able to trace the anomaly to the source. From his chest bubbled a sickly fluid thick with tissue and bits of skin. Algae and scum flowering upon his skin, sprouting atop the still pool.

Transfixed, Xevla was alarmed yet unmoving. Frozen as he had been in sleep, everything seemed to flood back, clear as day. Nothing was quite right, and the light had been seeping into the Forst; this change was no exception. The source of light revealed itself from below the growing murk—from below the collarbone, Xevla’s skin had flaked and peeled. Below it shown that uncanny glow, its rose tint. Stone had broken through his olive skin, begging to be seen, to be appreciated. Though unnatural, obscene—the scent of his skin afloat in the salt alone wad rank, a rot of death—in every nature, not a red flag would be raised nor waved. This, this was fine.

Whether it be a new and profound understanding of himself and this land, or a grogginess brought by the heat of his bath—Xevla sunk back into the waters, stretched out, and relaxed once more. His voice returned to silence, body to rest. Any creases in his brow were only momentary, it wasn’t Zolta’s fault.

A deep breath, once more, another—there wasn’t a moment where he searched for another answer. Even if there had been one, he thought—who would be there to believe him?

“This, this is fine—” speaking to no one, he reassured, knowing full well it was a lie.