“Sorry, but prolonged contact may be dangerous. As much as it hurts, you will have to depart now. It is better for his health the sooner we leave,” the assistant calmly stated. Mortigus, almost fully awake now, could make out the faces of his parents, tearful as they were, and tried to smile to cheer them up. 

“Am I leaving too?" asked Mortigus.

 “Yes, darling, they will take you far from here to make you feel good again. And after  a bit of time, you’ll be back to us, I promise, they promise too!” said the mom, glancing between her child and the doctors. 

“We’ll see you soon, Morti, now be brave and keep your heart strong. We’ll miss you," added the father.

   Mortigus felt on the verge of tears, yet his body had nothing to offer. The assistant was already boarding their waggon and laying Mortigus on a quilt over the sturdy wood boards. The boy peaked his head over the boards at the back of the waggon, taking a last glance at his family’s farm and at his parents. His mother must have run inside, too pained to bear to look at the waggon leaving. The doctor finally boarded the front of the waggon, hit a board twice with his crane, and grabbed the lead rope of the horses. The waggon began moving away from Mortigus’ home, the wooden roof obscuring the melting sun, his father standing stiff among the gate polls. As with every clop, the waggon would shake and the farm would get smaller and smaller, with only a dot of it left in Mortigus’ eyes. 

  The waggon would continue to move forward, leaving Arcut in its dust. Mortigus was staying half-asleep, not saying a word, trying to think yet he could muster nothing. Too many feelings were filling his body, whisked together by confusion, all emotions too strong individually to leave any distinct taste of an idea. He couldn’t process anything beyond this waggon, intimate but foreign from his father’s, which would often take him through Arcut. Mortigus enjoyed such rides, for they offered a new view on the land he called home. Mortigus clenched harder on the boards of the doctors’ waggon—the single thing he felt familiar. Overwhelmed, yet lacking the strength to react to any of his emotions. Light slowly faded away from his eyes, the world and its problems fading away as Mortigus let the memories of his family calm him. His memories felt as much a part of him as his bones, flesh, heart, and fingers—and at that moment, nothing seemed closer to him than those memories. With one last glance, he saw the assistant drape a blanket over him before taking a seat at the front of the waggon alongside the doctor.

  Daylight brought Mortigus out of his sleep. The waggon was no longer shaking hard, but the wheels were still clicking. The boy’s eyes cleared of the swirling sparkles, revealing the outlines of stone buildings. The assistant and the doctor’s dark silhouettes to the front, houses to the left and right, and a stone road behind. Mortigus found himself in a strange place, yet he reckoned he’d seen it before. The narrow streets, lined with houses that leaned against one another, the sun struggling to break through the tight spaces to shower the windows of busy folk. “A city," Mortigus muttered to himself. His parents had described such places as bedtime stories. Even a small part of the boy could remember his only visit here as a toddler—to have his name put in a book with many other names, at least to his understanding. Cities are supposed to manage villages, and villagers only had a few occasions in their entire lifetime to visit their head city. Yet Mortigus was here, now, in the middle of it all. Though awestruck, Motrigus slowly shifted his focus to the two strangers that were driving the waggon. He could now clearly see the doctor still holding the lead rope, humming along a melody of a weird tempo, the mask giving the sound an uncanny reverb and tone, unobtrusive to the assistant. Meanwhile the assistant was writing into a book, with the little writing that could be found on the covers being unintelligible for Mortigus, and the symbols etched into it were of no clue to what the book truly contained. The black-coloured pen suddenly stopped, and the assistant closed the book as his gaze turned promptly to the boy. 

  “Good morning, Mortigus! Your breathing was normal when we entered the city, so I wasn’t too worried, but I am glad to see you conscious,” the assistant told the slightly frightened boy before addressing the doctor. “He seems to have awakened, sir. Should I deliver another injection?”.

  “Ah, happy to hear the news! I apologise if the road felt bumpy, boy, the horses cannot avoid all the holes the city council forgets to fix. Rhit, please wait a bit until we reach the wall’s checkpoint, we will stop for a bit there anyway.”

 “Understood, sir,” responded the assistant. Mortigus was shaking during this brief exchange, trying to process the situation. He was not accompanied by his parents but rather two strangers of such eccentricity that even a city boy wouldn’t understand, let alone a farmer helper like Mortigus. The assistant moved closer, telling the boy a temperature check was in order. Mortigus got goosebumps, but his voice was blocked by anxiety, and his body too weak to fight back. The assistant pulled a flat object from their breast pocket and placed it on the boy’s forehead. A cold, metallic sensation spread in the area of the object, which lasted perhaps a minute, before the assistant pulled away. Mortigus’ eyes could only spasm in confusion.

  “Temperature is in the higher yield of the acceptable range, surprisingly good given your condition,” the assistant said, looking at the object. 

  The boy, held back by sickness and fright, didn’t respond to the assistant’s statement. His mind jumped too quickly from one sensation to another, too unsure how to react to the situation. Shortly, the waggon reached a gate of thick, flat iron bars, as tall as four people; near it was a group of soldiers in chainmail with a sheathed sword on their hip. A few meters away was another entrance, much smaller, with a few people waiting in line as soldiers were keeping order. One soldier was also carrying a long weapon on their back, a metal tub connected to a wooden handle, and approached the doctor. The guard demanded to see a travelling permit, to which the doctor stepped down from the driver seat, following him to the side of the waggon. The assistant took the opportunity to prepare the needle and to look again for the boy’s veins. The kid instinctively squirmed a bit, but the assistant managed to administer the injection. While the assistant removed the needle, the boy finally worked up enough courage to blurt a few words.

  “Uhh, mister Rhit? Can I call you that?” 

“Oh, yes, you may. You must have heard the doctor saying my name, I apologise for the rude behaviour of not introducing myself sooner.”

”Thank you. Is this a city? Why did you…bring me here?”

“Ah, you remember the city from when you were registered? Or you’ve been to one even after that? Well, that isn’t too relevant. Yes, this is Bana City, but we’ve simply passed through for supplies. We’re bringing you to our laboratory.” Rhit paused for a bit in an attempt to pick their words better. “We’re bringing you to what can be called our home; there we’ll save you from your illness.”

 “Oh, I see. Why are my parents not here?”

“I apologise, but they could not come with us; their farm can’t be left unattended. Even more so, they wouldn’t have space to share in the waggon without being dangerously close to your illness. They entrusted us with your care, and I hope you can trust us too. It’s for your own good.”

“They trust you… I will try to do so.” Mortigus' uncertainty was palpable in his voice, his eyes still avoiding looking directly at the masked assistant. “Why do you and the doctor say that word so often? The <<appolgi>> word?”

”You mean <<apologise>>? It’s a means of saying sorry, the doctor indeed says it often, and it rubbed on me. Because he is a cruel man, or at least that’s how he sees it. By mistake or by bitterness, he is cruel, like any other foolish person.The world is cruel as well, and it never apologises for it; it keeps pushing its cruel acts onto the innocent and offers no comfort to those hurt by it.. He feels the need, the obligation, that, since he can apologise, he should. If the world is never sorry, he must apologise for himself and for the entire world, to carry a part of the burden and a part of the responsibility, as only that’s how humans can comfort each other in a cruel world with cruel people. Apologies are able to remind you that people can still have good intentions and do not wish for the misfortune of another. That’s how I see him, based on many, many waggon conversations that I’ve had with him.”

 Upon finishing their monologue, Rhit saw a slightly overwhelmed look on the boy’s face. 

 “Would you look at that, I too bombarded you with my rambling. Try to rest; the injection will make you feel sleepy again. The plants in the solution are meant to help with mental strain as well, but your body and mind cannot be helped so easily. The doctor is coming back, and I’ll take the spot in front of the waggon. The doctor will take good care of you, you understand?”

  A not-so-enthusiastic head nod from Mortigus confirmed he understood. The doctor jumped on the waggon, gesturing something to the assistant. As the assistant grasped the lead rope to start the horses, the gate started rising half-way. The doctor started humming yet again, his back setting into the wood board of the waggon, his cane resting on the floor. Mortigus drank a bit from a clay bottle given by the assistant to calm his nerves. The water had a slight sweet taste and didn’t trigger the soreness in his throat. The waggon moved forward, passing the gate, now the walls rising behind it. Mortigus took another look at the great city before resting his head on a soft sack, drifting yet again into sleep. 

Another day passed, during which the doctor and the assistant regularly woke the boy, administered injections, and tried to ensure he ate properly. Though they moved with practiced precision, there was a warmth to their interactions, welcoming any attempt Mortigus made to ask questions. He still struggled to grasp their answers, but gradually he felt his worries ease bit by bit. 

  With the arrival of a new dawn, their waggon came to a halt at the outskirts of a small city, nestled near a sprawling forest of deciduous trees. The horses breathed heavily as the reins guided them to a spot in front of a large three-story inn. The base and chimney were constructed from meticulously arranged bricks, while the upper floors, built of wooden planks, gave the building a distinctive charm, unlike any other in Arcut. While the front door remained closed, Mortigus noticed a sign hanging from a pole above it, depicting a beaked mask, much like the doctor’s, alongside an image of a bottle filled with some unidentifiable liquid.

  “Finally, my back was getting stiff from the waggon; age really cuts short your travels. The office seems quiet, do the others think it is okay to be slacking in my absence?” remarked the doctor jokingly while doing some stretches in his surprisingly flexible outfit under his coat.

 The assistant proceeded to take Mortigus in their arms, climbing down the waggon and stepping toward the inn’s door. The doctor hit the door twice with his cane, a bit more harshly than usual, which was followed by a sudden creak. The door creaked open to reveal a figure dressed in similar attire, yet even taller than the doctor. Their mask, though, was distinct—its beak shorter and angled downward, unlike those worn by the doctor or Rhit. The welcoming committee also included an orange tabby cat with a leather collar with a plague doctor logo hanging on it. The imposing watchman bowed slightly as they gestured for the three to enter. The doctor went right in and to the right of the watchman, whispering to their mask. The assistant entered as well, stopping in the middle of the room. The base floor of the doctors’ office was quite spacious, probably not divided into more than three rooms, with the entrance directly connected to the largest room, akin to a shop. This room was filled with various flasks and tools placed on stacks, coupled by labels on the shelves for most of them. A smooth wood counter, as long as half the room, was placed parallel to the north wall, on which were installed a few shelves filled with items, many accompanied by price tags. A few illustrations of the human body and anatomy were hung in glass cases like paintings on the walls. Through the curtains, gentle light would pass, piercing the glass flasks on stacks and painting the floorboards in a colourful display. The place appeared almost pristine, with only a few specks of dust resting atop the neatly stacked items. Before Mortigus could take in more of this curious, unfamiliar world, the doctor finished his private conversation.

 “Rhit, please take Mortigus to the operating room; our colleagues have been sanitising the table and tools, reason why our welcoming party was so silent. They predicted the situation well; the boy needs the treatment soon. I fear willpower alone will not work for much longer. Proceed accordingly and wait for the arrival of all head doctors.” 

 Rhit nodded as they shifted their arms to get one hand free. Taking a few corridors, the assistant holding Mortigus began to pass through doors and stairways downward, a claustrophobic feeling making the sick boy cling harder to the assistant. Candles inside wall lamps would illuminate the sunlight-depraved space of the doctors’ basement, revealing the smooth stone walls, marked only by a few crevices and slashes around the knee level. The smells were of a unique odour, as if the candles were burning with a special, strong aroma, trying their best to cover a humid,  deep stench of unknown origin. The quiet atmosphere, punctuated only by the assistant’s firm footsteps, felt as though all sound touching the walls would die, and together with it any echo ever born. The two continued their descent for a bit until Rhit stopped in front of a door reinforced with metal bars and no windows. A heavy lock, slightly rusted from the humid corridor, was hanging already open on the door’s handle, signalling Rhit to not hesitate entering. A large, eerie chamber would reveal itself, covered in the white light of bizarre torches with sunlight flames, which would be absorbed by the pitch-black tiled floor. A massive table in the centre hooked Mortigus’ attention, the granit slab being surrounded by small stands filled with equipment and three lamps with peculiar flames looming over the table. Cables would dangle on the side of the table, and a few glowing symbols stood out etched on the margins.