The journey to the village was a blur. Hruaia's legs moved mechanically, his mind still reeling from the shock of his fall—or whatever it was that had brought him here. The Mizo tribesmen flanked him on either side, their grips firm but not unkind. They spoke little, their eyes darting between him and the path ahead, as though they were escorting a dangerous animal rather than a man.
The forest grew denser as they walked, the trees closing in around them like silent sentinels. The air was thick with the scent of moss and damp earth, and the occasional call of a bird echoed through the canopy. Hruaia's senses were on high alert, every sound and movement amplified by his heightened state of awareness. He tried to piece together what had happened, but the memories slipped through his fingers like water.
The woman from his vision lingered in his mind, her presence both comforting and unsettling. Who was she? And why had she appeared to him as he fell? He had no answers, only questions that seemed to multiply with every step.
Finally, they emerged from the forest into a clearing. The village lay before him, a cluster of bamboo huts with thatched roofs, arranged in a loose circle around a central fire pit. Smoke curled lazily from the roofs, and the smell of roasting meat filled the air. Children played near the edge of the clearing, their laughter ringing out like music. Women worked at looms or tended to cooking pots, while men sharpened tools or repaired weapons. It was a scene of simple, everyday life—a life that felt both foreign and achingly familiar to Hruaia.
The villagers stopped what they were doing as the group approached, their eyes widening at the sight of the stranger. Whispers spread like wildfire, and soon a crowd had gathered, their faces a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Hruaia felt their gazes like a physical weight, pressing down on him from all sides.
The man with the scar—who Hruaia had learned was named Zaii—led him to the center of the village, where an elderly man sat on a wooden stool. The elder's face was lined with age, but his eyes were sharp and piercing, like those of a hawk. He wore a shawl adorned with intricate patterns, and a necklace of animal teeth hung around his neck. This, Hruaia realized, must be Pu Thanga, the village elder.
Zaii bowed his head respectfully. "Pu Thanga, we found this man in the forest. He claims to have no memory of how he came to be here."
The elder studied Hruaia for a long moment, his gaze seeming to penetrate deep into his soul. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and gravelly. "What is your name, stranger?"
Hruaia hesitated. Should he tell them the truth? Would they even believe him? "My name is Hruaia," he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper.
The elder's eyes narrowed. "Hruaia," he repeated, as though testing the name. "And where do you come from?"
Hruaia swallowed hard. "I… I'm not sure. I was hiking in the mountains, and I fell. When I woke up, I was here."
The elder nodded slowly, as though this explanation made perfect sense. "You are not from this time, are you?"
Hruaia's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"
The elder leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Hruaia's. "Last night, I had a dream. In it, a man fell from the sky, clothed in strange garments and carrying a bag filled with wonders. The spirits told me that he would come to us in our time of need, that he would be both a blessing and a curse."
Hruaia's mind raced. Could it be possible? Had the elder truly foreseen his arrival? Or was this some kind of trick, a way to test his honesty?
Before he could respond, the elder stood, his movements slow but deliberate. "Come," he said. "There is something you must see."
Hruaia followed the elder to a small hut at the edge of the village. The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of herbs and incense. In the center of the room stood a wooden altar, adorned with offerings of fruit, flowers, and animal bones. But what caught Hruaia's attention was the object resting on the altar—a small, intricately carved wooden box.
The elder picked up the box and held it out to Hruaia. "Open it."
Hruaia hesitated, then lifted the lid. Inside was a piece of parchment, yellowed with age and covered in symbols that he didn't recognize. But as he stared at it, the symbols seemed to shift and rearrange themselves, forming words that he could suddenly understand.
"The one who falls from the sky shall rise from the earth. He shall be a bridge between worlds, a guide in the darkness. But his path will be fraught with peril, and his choices will shape the fate of many."
Hruaia looked up at the elder, his hands trembling. "What does this mean?"
The elder's expression was grave. "It means that you are not here by accident, Hruaia. The spirits have brought you to us for a reason. Whether you are a blessing or a curse remains to be seen."
Hruaia's mind was a whirlwind of emotions—fear, confusion, disbelief. But beneath it all, there was a spark of something else: curiosity. He had spent his life studying the past, trying to understand the stories of those who had come before him. Now, he was living one of those stories.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The elder placed a hand on his shoulder. "For now, rest. You have been through much. We will speak again tomorrow."
As Hruaia left the hut, the weight of the elder's words settled over him like a heavy cloak. He didn't know what the future held, but one thing was certain: his life would never be the same.