Eat.
The woman pushed the bowl towards him gently as she steadied herself against the table. There was a familiar scent of medicine that lingered around the air. But there was something else that mixed aloft.
A putrid stench of something rotting.
She stumbled a little as she pulled herself back to the seat; it was as if the motion of pushing the bowl had taken more from her than it should have.
Arinia did as he was told. He dipped the spoon into the bowl, lifting the watery grains.
It was thin, warm, and filling.
Enough for his stomach to be filled. He ate in silence until the bowl was only half-empty. Then he stopped and looked up at her.
She sat there, watching him silently. The way she stared at him, as if to her. He was the only warmth left in this world.
What's wrong, m'child? A soft voice reached him not far away.
For a moment Arinia did not speak. He could not remember who this woman before him was.
He knew her. He should know her. He felt that sweetness within his heart. He felt the warmth of her voice. But he couldn't remember, and knowing felt…thin. As if something is missing. He stared at her for a long time, but his mind was in a haze.
He felt tired.
Soon she reached her hand toward him, but it never arrived.
The putrid stench.
It was stronger this time.
Wet.
Rotten.
Not from her but from the surroundings.
His grip tightened around the spoon.
"…Mother?" The word came out naturally without thinking.
His voice was weak as if he were trying to confirm something.
She smiled.
Her expression was soft.
Tired.
And yet relieved.
"Yes… I'm here."
Hearing those words, he felt relieved, but something in him did not settle.
The warmth did not return. The stench of the surroundings did not leave; it was as if there was something trying to take him away from the moment.
He knew something was wrong.
In a breath, he felt the air completely change around him, thick with rot and decay. But before he could speak another word to her. The thought did not finish, nor did the word come out. The smell vanished, followed by a deep sense of unease.
His vision soon dimmed, then everything vanished as if the world had been taken from him.
Without a warning, he felt warmth drain from his skin, then the cold struck onto his flesh like needles. It surfaced slowly, spreading through him in quiet, uneven waves until there was nowhere left that did not ache.
Only then did Arinia open his eyes.
Rain.
It fell without mercy. His, which seemed to be torn and broken skin, met the uneven drops of the pouring rain. It hurts! He wanted to scream! And roll his body toward the muddy ground filled with copper stenches. But his body failed him. It was as if a great weight were pressing down, preventing him from doing so.
Each drop stung where his flesh was bare. The pain was agonizing, but there's nothing he could do.
"Please," he heard a murmur. "Just a little more."
The woman before him forces herself upright. She reached toward him and pulled him onto a slab of stone, its surface cold and unwelcoming against his broken skin.
Then something passed over his hand.
Clean and sharp.
A breath later, a thin line of heat followed—then the stinging pain came.
His palm was split open, and he felt warmth bleed between his fingers. Before he could get used to the pain, he felt a hand guide his own down onto a fine surface of a stone marked with a rune of unknown origin.
Arinia looked up at the woman before him. Her skin was pale, cold, and nearly translucent. He could see the bleeding wounds on her side and the stillness of her barely moving chest. It is as if taking another breath will cause her to collapse entirely.
She looked at him in return. But there was something strange in her expression. He felt faint, and the distant warmth lingered behind her expression, though as if the hope had been there once.
Her lips curve into a small and delicate smile. A ridiculous smile—out of place for such an occasion. He wanted to speak out and asked who she was and why. Why is she doing all of this? But again, his voice failed him. It's as if he's in a dream, only being able to follow the act that is taking place within that moment.
A Dream?!
His thoughts came apart in uneven pieces. A face, voices, and the faint memory of warmth—each trying to resurface only to sink again before it could take shape in his mind.
He could smell it again.
The air was heavy with decay, wet and suffocating. He felt it. Something within him gave way.
Like a sealed door, finally yielding.
At first, there was no shape to the world. The world around him was pitch black. All he could make do with was something dark and wet. He gathered his thoughts trying to make sense of the world around him.
Finally, a thin glow of light seeped into the place, revealing what stood before him. His stomach lurched at the sight. A bitter heat climbed upward, unbidden. He tried to force it down, but his breath faltered, uneven, and shallow.
It looks soft and subtle. As though it were growing.
Flesh.
That's what it seemed like when he first saw it. But upon closer inspection. He could see petals that were slowly blooming outward from the skin; it should have been grotesque.
And yet—
There was a quiet beauty in the way it bloomed, soft and deliberate, as though the rot itself had learned how to become something tender.
The root shifted, forcing its way through veins and sinew of the flesh before him.
He heard a groan from above, and he looked up. It was a person. Her hair was white, and her face, though beautiful, had half of it rotting, and petals had completely bloomed from its surface. There was softness in her eyes, the kind that lingered as if the world had already taken enough from her.
He felt her gaze. It rested on him the way one might cradle something fragile.
He then hears a faint voice from her.
My child… thou shouldst not have woken… not yet… not to this.
'Rest, my child… Close thine eyes once more, and let the dream hold thee in its embrace. Her voice soft, almost to a whisper.
Drowsiness came upon him without warning, soft yet sudden, as though his thoughts were being gently hushed.