Here's how he comes to; there's movement somewhere beyond him and throbbing pain.

 Something ( or someone ) is pulling at his tattered clothes, naturally he tries to swat it away. His useless arms merely limbs with no strings, that tugged and tugged but no matter how hard he tried, they rose only to fall.

Something is touching his face.

There are hands touching him, clinging to his shoulders, petting his hair, stroking his arms— holding on, as if he'll slip right through them.

Cool water against his warm face. He tries to move his lips, will his tongue to make some sort of words but the meat of his tongue is useless. His throat is torn and worn, with his lungs feeling pierced and littered with holes. So he doesn't try to talk yet.

A warm soft surface and his back are cool, not blazing hot and angry like his legs when he walked. Nice and relaxed, what a strange feeling.

Suddenly there's more movement, and cries of pain echoing somewhere. Something hard was bounding his arms to his sides, and there was a cloth or something, smelling weird, he tried to hold his breath, by the gods he did, but his weak lungs were on fire and too tired to pump more air.

 He breathes, once or twice, and he can't remember—

He dreams of roses and honey.

  He drifts between conscious and unconsciousness, that blurred line where thoughts come from and die on. He can feel pulling, and someone screaming, from before, but now the world is silent. The pain is no longer there, just the deep ache that brings discomfort like an old lover. It's almost like his body breathes out a sigh of relief, like a soft melodic song that fills your soul with warmth but the warmth stays.

After an uncountable time, the strings of curiosity won the better logic, and slowly he came to his senses.

He wakes up. 

He wakes up and it's —frustrating.

  The lights are first, cold and harsh and unforgiving. It blinds his entire world, and brings his other senses out. He's aware of everything now, of the warm bed underneath, the clean sheets under his fingertips. Not the cold harsh rocks or dirt, but a bed. And it felt glorious. His eyes are still puffy and swollen but not to the degree from previously. 

He blinks. He blinks and the words come for him, the questions, and the heavy accusation falls into his shoulders.

What happened?  A part of him demanded.  Where am I? Another voice, harsher and controlling accused. Who am I?  A plea from the deepest part of his mind whispered.

  Thoughts laced with the crippling bone-deep fear that made his blood rush his ears. He forced calm breaths into his lungs, to focus on something. Anything. 

He blinks.

Warmth. A soft bed. Another heartbeat.

No pain. Aches gone. Another heartbeat. 

  Okay, he thinks, he has this under control, somewhat. He slowly opens his eyes again. Confusion gave way to memory, he knew he was somewhat close to a settlement. He knew he passed out. The outline of the light behind his eyelids proved that it was daylight, and agony slowly opened his eyes. Far too soon the warm lights peer through and he bites back a groan. 

  He was lying back on the floor of a room, the warm light naturally coming from a small window on the top side of the wall. Through the gloom, he could make out the features of the room, like the high shallow ceiling. The walls, too, were made of some kind of plaster or mud. But the most inspiring was what lay scattered around, the various agricultural items; waved baskets, shelves of jars, and herbs. All of this gave it a soft and light smell.

A medic?

  He quickly looked around for some escape route, but the window was too small, too high for him to reach. The only door, big and intimidating, alarmed him for the only way in or out. There was no visible lock, but it could be blocked. Through a start, he realized that someone changed his clothes, gone were the dark and heavy clothes to a much lighter and looser white shirt. 

  He turns his attention to the miracle of the free-pain body. His chest and legs were tightly wrapped in bandages. The colorful blankets below and on top were handmade by the details, dry hay acting as a cushion.  

Cautiously, he pulls the shirt to investigate his thigh and leg. The loose and fallen bandages were gone to be replaced by thick better quality firmly wrapped around his leg. His thigh is no longer bleeding or inflamed, a big improvement.

His torso is next, his ribs are sore when he presses light touches to it, but it's not burning or agony when he breathes. A deep pressure that was there on his racing lungs is gone, and he can keep a small shy smile. The only surprise that he got was the angry red bruises taped across his chest and arms. 

There are voices coming from the other side, and he panics because he doesn't have an escape plan yet, they're going to kill him. Someone help—

Someone is coming in, he's vulnerable, and open for attack. Heart thudding in his ears, he snaps his head around the room for a weapon, but there was nothing to hand. On instinct, he shuffled back to the wall, pulled his knee up to his chest, and stared at the door.

The door jerked for a minute, and then—

 A young petite woman peered around the door. She would look harmless to anyone else, soft looking and weak, but to him, she looks like an unknown. As he watched, tense with fear, the woman was looking straight at him with clear wide eyes that rose with curiosity and, seeing him staring back, spoke to him in a strange language. There's no malice or anger in her tone, and her face betrayed no ill will, so that's a good thing. She spoke softly yet cautiously like she was speaking to a frightened animal.

( aren't you one? )

Seeing that he didn't make any movements, she turned to something beyond the door. A shadow fell through the arch, and another person appeared; a man with a patchy beard, and dark eyes. He held his hands to his side, shoulders straight as he spoke with more cautious and guarded, loitering by the door.

Silence.

Eyes squinted to the woman, he turned his attention to the woman, speaking the same foreign language.

"I- I am sorry, I can't understand you." A plea, that his words might reach someone. His thoughts must be answered by some unknown god because the petite woman jumps a bit, looking just as surprised for a moment before speaking again, much more cautious and slower.

"Are you okay? Are you some kind of mercenary?" A mercenary? For some jarred reason, he wanted to laugh at such an ignorant thought.

"No. I— I don't know. I woke up- by some forest, and I can't remember where I was or who I am," The petite woman looks at him; with her deer-like eyes turning sadder, and her mouth wilting with pity. Something wants to demand it off her face, yet any deeper part feels a little lighter knowing than she shows that she at least cares.

She turns to the man, jarred and guarded and tells him something back in that unknown language. 

For a second he fears the worst, that they are going to kill him regardless of what he says, but that fear is washed away when the guard leaves. But that still left him with this girl.

"I hear stories like that, which happen to people with hardships they couldn't overthrow. Tell you what, I'll help you recover and get some meat on those bones and I'll send you off your way. Is that okay with you?" She speaks with her eyes never leaving him, a promise to him and to her.

He nods, the generosity and kindness of one single woman, leaves him breathless and touched. And she lets out a small breathless laugh. 

"Not many people have been kind to you, have they?" And when he offers no answer, she leaves with a small smile, the door softly shut behind her. Her blond hair getting caught in the rays of the sun, leaves a golden expression. 

And for now, all he can think about is what the hell just happened.

He stays lying there, staring at nothing and at everything.

The man didn't know how long he had stared into the high-end ceiling, but enough for his weary body to put himself to sleep, letting his aching muscles relax. 

It's not enough though, no matter how torn his muscles were, his aching eyes remained open by some force compelling him to remain awake, no matter how his blisters popped open and oozed. The wariness settled down in the unlit corners of the room, it hovered in the half-open windows, letting the soft air flow in, so lazy.

 It's infuriating, wanting to sleep and put his bones to rest, but the slightest noise from outside the window would jerk him awake, and the scrapes outside the room are enough to set his heart racing.

Then you can imagine his surprise when the door handles open, and him jumping wide awake, his throat catching the scream inside. A rather embarrassing thing that would have been.

An old woman, white hair, and wrinkles over her dark skin, woven with age, enters without any greetings if she had done this too many times. She squinted at him if not seeing him, and trailing behind her shadow was the man from earlier. 

"Hello there! What a thing you are, they say that you came from the haunted forest. That dreadful place. Would you like to eat something?" The man, wary of his new host, nodded hesitantly. But even without his answer, she was already moving towards him, pulling a chair with her free hand. The man from earlier still hovering in the doorway, not sitting a foot inside.

"Oh dear, you're skin and bones! I ain’ really needing these, I'm sure you'll need the more. My name is ma'tina, you’ll be calling me Matina," The man, unsure, just nodded along to her words. He should've introduced himself first, but that will be quite the spectacle because surprise! He doesn't even know his name. 

Maybe he had a stupid, common name. A Robert or maybe a Winsor. It doesn't matter now.

"Where were you traveling? No man wonders without some idea floating around their head," She placed the warm stew and bread in front of him, and he wonders if she's an angel that touched down from Heaven. 

Was she told about him? That he’s an unlucky bastard with no name and no roots?

"I-I don't know," He tucked himself a little tighter, from both shame and the uncertainty that his words carried. He should have been to at least tell them the most basic answers, just to repay them any way he knows from their kindness. 

He starts drooling a little though, bringing the warm food to his chapped lips. It was a small blessing. He missed the shadow encroaching the doorway.

"Oh, darling. It's alright that you don't know! Give it a few more days and just take care of yourself, yeah?" The shadow, the bearded man from before, finally made his move, leaving his leaning posture and calmly walking towards him, to the edge of the bed. 

The nameless man curled his toes, pulling the stew closer to his bandaged chest.

The bearded man towers above him, not letting the glare soften as he draws a map from his pockets. The nameless man half expected a sword, but he’s thankful enough not to get a sword plugged through his gut.

The bearded man lowered the map to his eye level, pointing to the star drawn in.

"This is where you are currently at," A thick accent curled around the words, just like the finger the man is tracing a fine line a little west to the star. "This is the road where we found you. You came from the west part of the forest. Why?" 

The nameless man was never quite aware of the meat of his tongue until now, heavy and numb, trying to form any words.

"Leave him alone, Baron. Just look at the poor boy! He looks like a lost bird who fell out of a nest," The man, Baron, looked down at Matina's unapproving frown and back at the man’s panicking face. Grunting, he pulled the map away and stepped back.  

It didn't make him feel any better.

"Can you at least tell me if any of the surrounding areas look familiar?" Baron shoved the map to his side, barely touching the half-empty bowl. He doesn't mind though, carefully taking the parchment from him. 

He quickly spots a large, snaking river that cuts through the towering trees. 

'Sanguis River' 

A sharp pain jabbed at his temples, hissing, he quickly brought his hand to massage the throbbing away.  It did little though, as the room quickly lost its color and tilted dangerously close to its sides.

"Ever wonder why we're here?"

A woman's voice whispered into his ears, and he nearly dropped the half-eaten bowl in surprise. Baron leaned back in surprise as well, catching him off guard.

"What is it, sweetheart? Do you need something for the pain?" He shakes his head in protest, the tip of his tongue drawing the words that he wasn't so weak to be toppled by something so insignificant. 

He stopped short though, unaware of why he was going to say something like that, and the pain subsisting. 

"No—No, I'm fine. It's just, I remember waking up in a river. With tall trees around me." Baron merely hummed, scratching at the hair in his chin in contemplation. 

"Alright, we'll send some scouts to check it out, do you know anything else?" The nameless man fidgeted, should he tell him about the dead horse? The blood? What if he thinks he killed the horse? 

Baron stood still, waiting for answers. Fumbling, he tries to push out the words out his mouth.

"Um—There was a dead horse when I awoke, it was white and it looked like it was shot by some arrows." Baron nods at him, giving the silent woman a look before stepping out of the room altogether. 

Matina sighed, dropping her withered hands into her lap. 

"Do forgive him, he can be a little cold to strangers. He'll warm up to you once you get to know him." But that's the thing, isn't it? He doesn’t want to stay here long enough to "get to know him," all he wanted to do was to get better and leave. 

No offense to Matina, or the woman who found him half-dead in a ditch in the middle of nowhere.

But still, he politely nods, bringing the bowl back into his lips. It’s cold now.