The man with no name had to admit: he's going to die in this forest.

The first steps of his journey were nothing short of agony, and through the sheer struggle, he continued his march with a heavy wet bag hanging off his "good" shoulder. The forest terrain itself seemed to be out for him. The crisscrossing between trees far too thick, the sharp boulders of rocks, left from falling slopes, and the twigs and small little rocks that throbbed and irritated the already spent feet.

Every step drained his already weak energy reserve.

 The shadows of the trees overlapped, the way of the moonlight was making the forest take the role of surreal dream some child would conjure up. Yet he still walked, even with the still alive instincts screaming at him to drop and die. He walked with the burning sharpness in his thigh, and he walked and walked. He forced his body to drag itself over the unstable slopes and cry out when he stumbled and fell.

Yet he still walked.

( Something told him the dangers of staying in one place, far outweigh his pain )

But he is a human and despite the walk, he collapsed for the fifth time and did not get up. He couldn't be bothered this time, not when the very air makes itself solid in his lungs whenever he inhales. It irks his lungs uncomfortably, he's always very aware of each and every breath he inhales. 

He sinks lower to the earth. He will have to get up eventually, he knows, he just needs to form a plan.

Shelter is important, he needs something that will shield him from unknown eyes and the hand of nature. Maybe some water, he really can't feel his throat. Or honey, that would be nice. . .

He comes to gasping, clutching his torso and holding his body protectively. He doesn't really remember when he started to doze off, but his heart, so heavy and cold, jackknife in his chest and seizes uncontrollably. And he opens his eyes and finds himself in the dirty puddle of his own sweat and mucus, still half buried in the forest's soil.

Get up! Get up! Get up!

Groaning, he follows the little voice in his head, pulling his knees and getting up. He wants to memorize that infinitesimal spike of adrenaline when he confirms that he is still alive, still breathing, and still so painstakingly mortal. Slight nausea follows, vague coiling in his guts as he finally straightens out.

Shelter. He needs to find shelter.

Stumbling, he eyed the edges of his eyesight, he found a fallen tree, dead and hollow with the roots pulling the earth out. In Between the roots, the hollow tree and the hill, was a small scramp space that allowed for one injured man.

Deep enough for someone's eyes to overlook, but not deep enough as the moonlight still reaches his skin. The pathetic bag at his side was placed in front of him, some sad effort of a blanket. He was careful to not reopen his wounds like he had done so already. Multiple times. The fresh blood in his hand didn't look normal as he held it out in the moonlight, like some sacrificial offering.

But then he remembers what the bag actually held.

With a shaky hand, he held up a tattered, half dried paper up to the moonlight. The handwriting was neat, pulled together in a dance across the paper. He couldn't make anything out of it at first, the ink swimming and looping with each other before letters started to make sense:

'Dearest Cecilia ,    

  By the time you have received this, I will be dead by the sheer boredom. I hate to admit but I do miss your irritating, unnecessary comments, and quirks. I wish that you come back from whatever hole you're in, just so you can amuse me again.

Father misses you as well,

   With Hate, Aurelian

Was he this Aurelian? What kind of name was that? He simply dropped the battered letter back to his chest, frowning as the ache started up again. The world feels a degree colder and emptier and it is already terribly empty. He will read more in the morning, he just needs. . . 

The morning light hadn't even pierced the forest when he came back to his senses. There was a shrill alarm going off in his head, an explosion of panic and worry to do something. 

But when he leans forward, strains his ears out; the forest is calm, a blanket that shushes the mood into the surreal. It's still gray out there, but his neck and arms hurt, stiff from being stuffed into an unnatural position. Better than when he woke up from the shallow channel.

His thigh stopped bleeding, the bandage around it was dirty and ripped with miniature holes that the twigs and rocks created. It's fine, as long as —

Snap!

 Tensing, he pulls himself to stand, eyes bouncing from one end to the other. The forest didn't seem to cover him anymore, leaving him naked and vulnerable. He shrinks back, the bag in his sides swaying as he did. In the back of his head, a little voice whispers to run, run and not look back.

And he did. Well, more like limping as fast as possible.

( Because he can feel it behind him. It's behind you )

 Like a ghost of breath behind your ear or the creeping sensation that something is standing right behind, but when you turn you find yourself alone. He wondered if there was any life in this purgatory that the forest seemed to be personified into.

Crack!

  The blood rushing to his feet wasn't helping as he passed and ducked under a large stump of an enormous ancient tree. His thigh was burning and bleeding, and the sweat was pricking and sticking to his hair and back. There in the distance, not too far from the hill, were shadows. Silent silhouettes, dark and ominous, but falling further and further away from his general direction. The humanoid figures faded into the dark shadows of the trees and boulders away from him. 

 He released a shaky sigh, his fingers, and legs whole shaking from the unexpected run, but the fatigue of running with the state of his legs pushed him to the ground. The trees were smaller here, thinner, and the sharp sounds of life bloomed. The crickets, and birds high above signing their own songs, it brought something out his chest. 

When did he last hear a bird sing? 

  Did he ever? But his mind is still edged, the numbing questions of what the hell just happened. Because he was positive that some shadowy figure won't stay put forever. Gripping the bag, until his knuckles turned white, he pushed forward, away from the dark and tall trees. 

  Here, it seemed the sun danced around the green leaves above, he licked his dry lips. His stomach is aching and well so is his whole body, but could he really risk sitting down and leave himself unguarded? 

He stilled. 

  No, he wasn't unguarded, he had the knife, and he could use the food. Gradually, and slowly he sits underneath a young tree, its leaves green with young spring life. For the first time, he takes a really good look at the metal. It had a strong grip on a dull green, the pretty design of vines of iron. The blade itself was sharp, so sharp that it cut like butter through the dry and hearty meat, that upon trying to chew was impossible. 

  It was good, it left his lips salty and his throat dry. But it filled his stomach. His beating heart and chasing pulse calmed. Something unraveled in his chest.

 But the little voice inside his head kept whispering to run, that it wasn't safe where he was. A deep instinct in his veins screams to move. So he stands away from the cool shadow, the bag over his shoulder pulling at his skin, he walks. 

And walks. 

And walks. 

 He doesn't stop because the little voice says to move before something happens. He wonders if maybe he remembers what happened to him.

 What made him so afraid that he needed to run? Did he have parents? Siblings? Did he leave them? Or was it the other way around?

But it's hard to think properly when he's half mad with hunger and thirst. So he just puts his foot above the next, even if his body screams.

  As the man stops, staring at the open green valley, a group of birds suddenly fly through the lower trees, startled by the instinct he immediately reached for the. . . The what? It was on his hip, the. . . Something he can't remember. As hard he tries to remember something important, the sense of something missing, it dissolves. But the sense of wrongness stays. But the momentary pause, however, had not helped the agony on the thigh, spreading throughout his legs. A numbing sensation seized up his arms and lungs, and his piss poor eyesight drops even more.

  Another wonderful problem was the bandage was now flapping loose, and he could barely put any weight on his leg now. If the slightest touch, the whole leg would seize up, and threaten to crumble. It's amazing he even made it this far out with how his body is. His throat, already dry and contrasted, seized up and the sudden urge to throw up started to boil in his stomach.

In a moment of inspiration, or perhaps desperation, he tugged free the loose outer layer of the bandage around his thigh. It was filthy and stained, and the wound seemed to have stopped bleeding for now. Now laid out in the open, the wound seemed twice the size last time he took a look at it, red and angry.

 But the wound itself needed stitches, even if it held for now through the sheer power of the bandages. Shifting his view, he sat down under the warming sun, in the soft green grass that feels like heaven compared to what he felt under his toes in the thick, dark forest. His feet were sore, dark with dirt and it looked so familiar to what he was back in the channel. Looking down at his hands, looking at the clipped nails, broken and blood dried at the edges. 

They were still shaking. 

But the man couldn't stop here. No, he had to walk, even though his foot was too sore, and everything started to lose focus after that. The bag that was pulling at his falling skin, was the small reminder not to fall. His barefoot started to feel a change underneath them; from the barren grass to hard soil. 

  He smiled a little, the cold ground welcomed, even if the smile itself was pulling at his neck wounds. Each step was agony on its own, pulling at his muscles. He lost balance once his abused thigh muscle gave out underneath. He tumbles down, (a ditch?) and his whole body seized and shook. Clawing up, there were stones, (When were there stones?) The pain was too much, but somehow he managed to half-stand. Waves of black spots were pulling his focus, he couldn't feel anything but the cold, short wheezing breaths pulling at his abused lungs. . . Was that a rushing sound? 

  He doesn't know anymore. There were lights and blurry in his vision now. Just a few more steps. Don't give up now. Just a few more steps. The flat ground had him stumble now. 

He did not get up again.