His chest was beating with a frantic rhythm, and whether he still had a heart or not, whether his blood was red or green, he felt his life striggling inside himself. His head filled up from the inside, his hands heavy and yet uncomfortably empty. His hands were heavy yet uncomfortably empty, as an incessant beat pulsed through his head and body, overshadowing even the fact that he was still running. Though he propelled himself forward, his feet felt weightless against the ground, yet occasional stones would trip him, jolting him back to the reality of solid earth. he silhouette of the forest’s edge loomed closer under the moonlight, while distant flickers glimmered like fireflies, scattered behind him. Just like fireflies, these sparks would seem to float aimlessly, one second trying to chase Mortigus’ direction, in another veering off in unpredictable zigzags. Fearing that he was pursued, he continued to move forward until he finally plunged into the darkness of the forest. Slowly, his pace began to decrease, his body protesting his reckless sprint. While he was moving away slower than before, the fires were no longer visible. If this was his first stroke of luck since the operation, perhaps his pursuers had chosen to abandon him, occupied by the chaos of the burning inn. Yet, clinging to that hope felt like a foolish risk, so Mortigus pressed on, navigating through the underbrush and over rocks, barely illuminated by the scant moonlight that struggled to reveal his path ahead.

   Hours later, sunlight began to reveal the leaves full of life of the forest, shining with slim beams onto the grassy terrain. In a ditch obscured in bushes, a corpse—or what seemed like one—covered in mushrooms was lying on his face. As a couple of birds started to roam around this corpse, he shuddered, and a 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 and filled with sorrow. 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 should he now take? He tried to rationalise based on the way he woke up; clinging to trees and hiding behind bushes, Mortigus trod carefully. How paranoid should he be? How likely was it for the doctors to be after him? Rhit seemingly never managed to catch up to him; was it because of the weak moonlight or the chaotic way Mortigus ran into the forest? Or did that explosion, that burning building... Mortigus felt a deep drop in his chest. Mortigus couldn’t afford to linger on Rhit’s fate for long, so he let the surge of adrenaline drown out his mind.

  After hours of walking towards the denser groups of trees and over rugged ground, Mortigus ended up in the most untamed 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 came across a shallow sinkhole, with just enough space concealed between its crevices and the entrance. He dragged a collapsed young tree from nearby and pressed the trunk into the ground of the sinkhole. Now it was 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, they would lie down on the earth just to feel its steady embrace, the grass brushing away gently all of their 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 knew he could trust his parents, but would they trust him in return? Were he to return somehow home, would he be recognised as something more than just a monster? Something that stole their child’s 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 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 accepted it. The idea of death, he realised, was somewhat subjective, and now it seemed kinder for his family to believe him gone than to shatter their hearts with the reality of his cursed existence. 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 showed much resilience. Perhaps being cured of the plague wasn’t the full extent of the experiment, he thought, and 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 smoke—all implanted a slight feeling of safety. In all the chaos of his escape, perhaps the doctors’ inn was destroyed, and they considered Mortigus insignificant compared to that disaster. Travellers seemed also uncommon, at least for now, 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, safe den of the quiet forest. Familiarity was a cultivated atmosphere, one that tethered the soul to a single place, making the rest of the world seem like a fog of uncertainty and turmoil. And so Mortigus remained, another mushroom rooted in the forest floor—a small red speck in the weathered landscape. And strangely, he felt content.

   The winter in the Arcut village used to be rather mild; snow was a rarity only a handful of days would be blessed by. In contrast, as cold winds swept through the foliage of the forest, snowy mornings became the norm, followed by brief thaws. The chill seeped into every cell of the forest, leaving behind a damp, biting cold during the few fleeting hours of daylight. Mortigus felt his body numbing, 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 and heatless, if the new blood of his body was supposed to work similarly to his old one, he should feel tepid, yet he was senseless. His sinkhole thankfully was filled to the brim with cut trees and dead leaves, a small resort from the bone-chilling air. 

  Yet on one faithful day, his body refused to rise, his head did not peek from underneath the branches covering his sinkhole, as Mortigus was frozen, not in ice, but in sleep. Enveloped in a cocoon of lethargy, his mind slipped into an abyss of nothingness. He could only describe the sensation as a dull hum of inactivity, a profound absence of both action and existence. 

 Without a sign, seasons went by, and cycles continued, as no person 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, the fibres revealing a freshly ripped cast. Mortigus arose from his long, involuntary sleep; his body clearly morphed into a new disguise. In his slumber, his will and desires had slowly pushed towards reality—a body much more suitable to survive, with thicker, slightly harder limbs, his skin less clustered with mushrooms. His height was now around 1.7 meters, just the right level to accidentally hit his head on low branches. Indeed, his body never reached its final stage in Nostra’s cell, but under 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 to wait and started looking for food yet again. 

 A hearty meal brought him clarity of mind, forcing him to confront the reality of his prolonged hibernation. Five years had slipped away from him, though he sensed the passing of at least one season, leaving him to wonder if the next winter would drag him back into a deep slumber. As he surveyed his surroundings, he noted little had changed—only the faint traces of foxes and boars marred the pristine snow.

  Mortigus’ life would start a monotony, existing in the tranquil woods, foraging for food and shelter, accompanied only by the persistent whispers of his thoughts—loyal yet relentless companions that wouldn’t allow him peace to fully analyse his situation. In the comfort of routine, he found solace, a balm for his restless spirit, perhaps a comfort he’d cling to for eternity. Each winter, he would succumb to hibernation like a green bear cloaked in fungi, yet with each passing year, the duration of his deep sleep diminished, his body growing more used to the biting cold. The doctors’ intentions grew increasingly enigmatic as decades slipped by in isolation, his body gradually adapting to the whims of the wild.

   Not too long after his fourth hibernation, Mortigus spotted a smoke tower far in the forest, far to the left of his makeshift home. He decided to investigate from afar, assuming it could be either a forest fire or a group of people, both posing a real threat. What he found, though, 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 travellers that would set up camp in that cosy spot of the forest, a glade with short grass and smooth soil. Already in its centre was a fireplace made of stones coloured 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 and 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 them. The allure of the open world beckoned, offering the promise of exploration and discovery. Yet, lurking within that temptation was danger—monsters were not meant to dwell among humans. They belonged to the realm of stories and fiction, yet here was Mortigus, a being many would deem monstrous, harbouring only a desire to observe and experience something new. Could he truly venture beyond the forest in his current form? It might be easier to remain ensconced in his secluded sanctuary. Perhaps the doctors had given up searching for him, but that was never a certainty. Amid the sheltering embrace of the deciduous trees lay his safety, his new home. Beyond the forest's margins stretched an unknown world—one that held only the memory of a home he could never reclaim.

  Hope and despair arose from the same seed of unattainable desire. Yet Mortigus found himself captivated by the travellers, deriving joy and wonder from simply observing them. Their lives were anything but easy, filled with trials and tribulations, but that very struggle only heightened their allure. They embodied vibrant existence—rich tapestries of experiences that Mortigus yearned for, a stark contrast to his own secluded existence. Each encounter offered him a glimpse into a world brimming with emotions, adventures, and the unpredictability of life that he could only admire from afar. Beyond his anguish over the fate inflicted by the plague doctors, he still couldn’t shake away the memory of the rare city sights he’s 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 also 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 awaken back from the sinkhole he left from.