His chest was beating, and no matter if he had a heart or not anymore, if he was bleeding red or green, Mortigus was feeling his head fill up from the inside, his hands heavy and yet uncomfortably empty. An annoying rhythm was being beaten into his head and body making him forget even that he was still running. He was moving forward but his feet were feeling nothing, the soil was like air, yet occasional stones would trip him, reminding him he was still on solid ground. The silhouette of the forest’s edge was starting to get near under the moonlight, tiny fires like fireflies appearing far behind. Just like fireflies, these sparks would move seemingly without objective, one second trying to chase Mortigus’ direction, in another going zig-zag in the opposite direction. Fearing that he was chased, he continued to move forward until he finally reached the darkness of the forest. Slowly, his rhythm began to decrease, his body feeling the repercussions of his reckless sprint. While he was moving away slower than before the fires were no longer visible. If this was his first lucky night ever since the operation, then the pursuers decided to give up and concentrate on the burning inn. But to have this hope could be a foolish mistake, so Mortigus continued his walk forward, getting scratched by bushes and rocks, with barely any moonlight to reveal the path forward.
The sunlight started to reveal the leaves full of life of the forest, shining with slim beams onto the grassy terrain. In a ditch covered in bushes, a corpse covered in mushrooms was lying on its face. As a couple of birds started to roam around this corpse, it shuddered, and the round red cap slowly sprung upwards. Mortigus’ eye steadily caught the shapes around him, followed by greenery colours and finally the proper picture of the forest. Confused, he looked around, his limbs aching from overwork, filled by a sorrowness. His knees in particular seemed quite scarred, it was reasonable to assume his night runaway led him into an exhausted state, tripping near this ditch and knocking him out until morning. There was no way to tell how far he had gotten into the forest. Once he climbed out of the ditch, another dilemma arose: which direction was the correct one? He tried to rationalise based on the way he woke up, and started to move again. Clinging to trees and hiding behind bushes, Mortigus trod carefully. How paranoiac should he be, how likely was it for the doctors to be after him? Rhit never managed to catch up to him, was it because of the weak moonlight? The chaotic way Mortigus ran into the forest? Or did that explosion, that burning building…. Mortigus felt a deep drop in his chest. Rhit’s fate was something he couldn’t dwell on for long, so he let his resurgence of adrenaline cover up his uncertainty.
After hours of walking towards the denser groups of trees and the rugged ground, Mortigus ended up in the most unexplored part of the forest. No sign of any paths nearby, not even broken branches from large animals. “A good place to rest”, thought Mortigus, willing to throw away all his weight onto the foliage. Though, with a few more steps made, Mortigus reached a small sinkhole, rather shallow but with some space hidden between its holes and the entrance.He dragged a collapsed young tree from nearby and pressed the trunk into the ground of the sinkhole. Stable, and the layer of leaves above its floor was not deep at all. With this safety assured, Mortigus covered the sinkhole with the tree and sat down inside. Letting his head onto a mossy log, he reminisced of his siblings, how they used to lay down on the ground simply to feel its full support, the grass brushing gently and a lack of worries. His family was no longer the same since the plague, that peace he was remembering was long gone, but it was all he could cling to. His parents… he could not cling to them. Did they know the doctors’ intention? No, that couldn’t be so, they were tricked, just like him! Adults were not all-knowing. He could trust his parents, but would they trust him back? Were he to return somehow home, would he be recognised as something more than just a monster? Something that stole his voice and name, something covered in mushrooms, moss and lichens, could he reach a village without being hunted, and even more, could he convince anyone of his true identity? Could his parents see Mortigus inside this amalgamated body, could their hearts not snap in pain at the sight of this cursed child of theirs? They might be able to help, his aunt might be able to help, but could they truly? The doctors had a certain air of otherworldliness, of power beyond what a commoner knew. Was he doomed to only bring despair to his family if he ever reached his home? Mortigus buried himself in doubt, slowly convincing himself that he was now cursed, and such a sight would only bring terror and despair to his parents. His siblings were already gone, he realised it long ago, yet now he truly grasped it. The concept of death was truly subjective to some extent, and now he felt it was better for the rest of his family to perceive him as dead, rather than break their hearts with his cursed state. The word “cured” that Nostra used to call him by, what a mockery it was, what a way to hide the clear term describing Mortigus’ form.
Entire days were spent in that shallow sinkhole, Mortigus neglected his hunger and thirst. Behind the cruel irony, the doctors did feed him properly, so the feeling of an empty stomach was bizarrely new to Mortigus, at least in this new body. He had to spend most of these autumn days foraging for nuts, fruits and mushrooms, relying on his experience following his siblings and father into the forest near the farm. He wasn’t particularly good at it, but thankfully this new body seemed to have much more resilience. Perhaps being cured of the plague wasn’t the full extent of the experiment, testing his new limits might prove fruitful, if he was to take the risks. The lack of sounds, of human voices or shoes pressing on leaves, the absence of fires or smokes, all implanted a slight feeling of safety. In all the chaos of his escape, perhaps the doctors’ inn was destroyed and they deemed Mortigus unimportant compared to restoring it. Travellers were also uncommon, at least in this autumn, so this could truly be a safe haven like no other, a place for Mortigus to live, or at least, survive. The decision to leave the forest felt intimidating, a possibly fatal mistake, compared to the mundane, yet safe sinkhole in the quiet forest. Familiarity was an acquired atmosphere, one that could drag one’s soul to one place as if the rest of the world was a haze of uncertainty and torment. So, Mortigus stayed, another mushroom along the forest floor, a red dot in the rusty landscape, and he felt… content.
The winter in Mortigus’ village used to be rather mild, snow was a rarity only a handful of days would be blessed by. However, with the cold wind brewing, snowy mornings followed by thawing out became the norm. The cold would settle in every cell of the forest, only to leave a damp, frigid feel during the few hours of daylight. Mortigus felt his body number, his lack of clothes finally catching up to him. His mind ran slower by the day, snow would barely melt under his feet or in his hand. Cold, heatless, if the new blood of his body was supposed to work similarly to his old one, he should feel some warmth yet he was rather neutral, like a lack of sensation. His sinkhole thankfully was filled to the brim with cut trees and dead leaves, his small resort from the bone-chilling air.
On one day however, his body did not rise, his head did not peek from underneath the branches covering his sinkhole, as Mortigus was frozen, not in ice, but in sleep. Feeling like a cacoon, his mind drifting into nothing, he could only describe the feeling of a dull activity, of a lack of action or even existence.
Without a sign, seasons went along, cycles continued, as no individual is beyond the systems of nature. Eventually, 5 years had passed in the unnamed forest, sprouts and warmth announcing the spring’s return. A shadow could be seen moving with lethargic limbs and two torches of dying green light. A mass of mushrooms and mould was glued together to the branches that had rotted over that protective sinkhole, fibres revealing a freshly ripped cast. Mortigus arose from his long, involuntary hibernation, his body clearly morphed into a compressed form. In his sleep, his will and desires had slowly pushed towards reality, a body much more suitable to survive, with thicker, slightly harder limbs, his body less clustered with mushrooms. His height was now around 1,7 metres, just the right level to accidently hit his head on low branches. Indeed, his body never reached its final stage in the doctor’s cell, but with the harshness of the winter, it finally reacted. He now felt far more accustomed to his metabolism, no longer a stranger in his own body. While his head struggled with small migraines, he couldn’t afford waiting and starting looking for food yet again.
A proper meal brought him clarity of mind, as now he had to confront the reality of his hibernation. He didn’t know 5 years had passed, but at the very least he could tell that one season passed, which made him question if the next winter would lunge him into another state of deep sleep. After expecting his surroundings and finding little to no changes, only traces of foxes and boar snouts were left in the remaining snow.
Mortigus’ life would start a monotony, living in the peaceful woods, finding food and shelter, accompanied only by thoughts, loyal thoughts that never left his side, nor let him in peace to analyse his situation. Habits gave comfort, and comfort was what he needed at that moment, or maybe forever. Each winter he would reenter hibernation, like a green bear covered in fungi, but with each year this period of deep sleep would get shorter, his body less affected by the cold. The doctors’ intentions were becoming more mysterious, as Mortigus remained in isolation for decades, his body adapting to the environment little by little.
Not too long after his 5th hibernation, Mortigus spotted a smoke tower far in the forest, far to the left of his improvised home. He decided to investigate from afar, assuming it could be either a forest fire or a group of people, both something he should look out for. What he found tho would end up filling his lonely evenings, as he discovered a spot where a small cart was stationed, surrounded by two older people. From then on, Mortigus watched the travellers that would set up camp in that certain spot of the forest, a glade with short grass and smooth soil. Already in its centre was a fireplace made of stones colored in ash. Few stumps would act as chairs or even firewood for those stopping in this glade. Mortigus would timidly stand away on a hill, using his appearance as camouflage in the bushes. His eye would fixate on the travellers, he would listen to the groups chatting, the rambling of lone pilgrims, he would watch their movements, their routine, and he would learn anything he could. Places far beyond, campaigns that took days and nights and even months, he would listen and in turn obsess over it, the open world and the freedom to explore it, to learn it. But it was too dangerous, after all, monsters were not meant to be among humans. They were part of stories, fiction, yet there was Mortigus. Arguably a monster, with the only wish to observe others, to experience something new. Could he truly leave the forest in his current state? IT would be easier to remain in his own little space. The doctors probably abandoned the idea of searching for him, but that was never a certainty. Still, between these deciduous trees was his safety, his home. Beyond the forest’s margin was nothing he knew, only a home he could never find nor return to.
Hope and despair arose from the same seemingly unachievable seed of desire, which meant nonetheless, that Mortigus would continue to find joy and wonder in spectating these travellers. Their life did not sound easy whatsoever, yet they were entaicing for the fact they were, indeed, lives, bundles of experiences Mortigus lacked. Beyond his trauma of the plague doctors, he still couldn’t shake away the memory of the first city he’s ever seen while next to Rhit. As the wanderers left the extinguished fire with flimsy sparks, the few footprints and lines made by cart wheels, they would leave behind words, words capable of turning into dreams. Hope and despair fed on dreams, and slowly got heavier, pushing more and more for the curiosity within Mortigus to awake back from the sinkhole he left from.
Comments (2)
See all