There's water.

  Mud and the murky water are slipping into his gaping mouth, the grime getting stuck between his teeth and gums. But his head is stuck in the black earth mud; wet and cold. His throat is seizing and his lungs are getting heavier with each breath, where is he? What's happening? Up above the sky a cold gray and with the numbing realization, how the silence stretched all around him.

Too silent.

( Where are the pesky bugs? The sounds of the distant birds? The wildlife? )

 His muscles hurt. The burning sensation of muscle fiber pulled and broken, the flares signaling his brain to do something about it. That isn't normal. Is that normal? He can smell something else too; a hissing sense that struck on top of his mouth. The smell of smoke and the rotting death of burning flesh. It stings his already burning nose, the ache that sharpens with each sniff.

A cold feeling sticks to his forehead, where paradoxically, his skin is feeling too warm. But everything just aches. His fingers creaked and the cartilage brakes and pops with the slightest touch. That's where the cold starts to sweep in. Like cold fingers, it dug into his bones, wary and demanding.

He's shaking now.

Odd.

 But he can't focus on that, not when he tries to think about this because this wasn't normal, right? He shouldn't. . . he should be somewhere. Somewhere important. But where? His name is. . . the knowledge didn't correct itself and the veil of false security left, leaving him gaping with a cold realization.

Who am I?

 On instinct he, his hands drag themselves from under him, but a burning pain in his shoulder lurches his stomach. He looks down, his chest is wide open with the thin fabric now muddled, and sticking to the heaving torso. But the soil is not the only thing covering him, because the deepening color of red is spreading.

He's bleeding. Why is he bleeding?

Get up! But when he tries to place his legs under him, the foulness and the blood (blood, where is he hurt?) He could only breathe a desperate breath before his side was left in the mud again. Skin prickles up, and even with his energy being drained, he wants to cover up. To hide the bleeding wounds, to protect the vulnerable side that is open for anyone to take a hit.

 He really doesn't know what to do now, not right now, but the least he could do is retrace his steps. That's important isn't it?

 One: He had little, to absolutely no idea where he, who he is, what happened— his nose burned when he tried to sniff back the tears, knowing somewhere, logically, he shouldn't panic. That's a strange feeling: not knowing anything but knowing something.

 But the much brighter part of number two is that he is alive, hurt and bleeding but alive. 

That in itself will count as a blessing.

 On the third, and most glaringly obvious were his injuries. From the bloody feet, ( he walked here?) chipped fingernails, with dirt and grime underneath. And the deep and dark bruising from his hip to his ribs, his shaking fingers brushing, flinching when it touched.

 Four: he has a knife in his thigh. Quite the thing to miss at first, but would of course explain the searing pain and the blood mixing through the water. Like fine silk, or gray smoke on a cold day— wait he's being distracted. 

Probably the high loss of blood. Yeah, he would blame it on the blood.

 On the positive note, that was the fifth, was the partially worn-out bandages around his arms and ironically, the injured thigh. But there's something wrong with his arms, or neck. Both really. His fingers were reluctantly moving when he tried to stretch them. If he couldn't really control them.

 Testing his luck, his stinging eyes wandered to the foul stench, where the bulking figure of an animal laid at the edge of the water. Had he been attacked? The bruising neck and the stinging throbbing on his head would prove so.

 So the despair point was this; he doesn't know his name, where he currently is, or any fundamental information. He's alone with nothing but a knife that is still lodged in his thigh, a dead animal for a companion and a bleeding wound that will kill him if left untreated. Or he's going to die from blood loss, or from hypothermia. Whichever one gets him first.

It is getting dark.

He didn't notice it at first, the creeping darkness that blanket the sky with the retreating sunset. Where darkness lies the danger. On a siren's tits, he's not going to die here! Enforced with the sudden boldness, he moves to sit up— the burning starts at the end of his spine, the pain shoots upwards and his lungs, he's wheezing, and oh saturn, he's going to throw up— it's too late.

The acid burns his nose and the foul stench is making his eyes tear up even more. Oh gods, it hurts even more, he can't even move a finger without something protesting or to think or—   but the rhythmic throbbing of pain in his thigh grounds him. Reminds him.

Each beating heartbeat echoes with the same matra: you're alive, you're alive, you're alive. He's in danger of passing out any minute now, but the cold that hangs in his body, crawling through, is a constant reminder that it's getting dark and something deep is screaming at him to move. Move or else he'll die this time.

But by the gods, everything hurts. 

 So first, before he tries anything, he needs some direction on what to do and where to go. Right now that means getting a knife out of your own flesh. Sounds easier said than done, that's step one. Without one blink to the next, he launched and ripped the knife out in one fluid swoop.

"AAAHHHH! SHITE!"

His throat ripples with the intensity of his own screams. The world stopped moving but the moment is still gone too quickly and he is left gasping and heaving, trying to hold on to the ability to breathe. Why did he do that? The corners of his vision start to blur, and a quiet voice is begging for some release, pleading that this is too much, far too much, he is already half-dead, why is the world doing this?—

He doesn't think of his own cries that echo, of the violent shivering that is bringing his body closer and closer to shock. His back is back at the starting point, his own back subconsciously curls upwards if that would help the wound stop hurting too damn much. Soon his wheezing and hissing subdue, and he's left gasping and panting. 

 Okay, part one is complete. Next, not dying from blood loss. He looks at the gaping wound, the bright red flesh that is slick with gushing blood. Hissing, he pulls himself upwards, sitting up. The world tilts and the feeling of vertigo washes over him. The bandages sit useless down the ankle, loose enough that it slipped down with each movement.

Sucking a breath through his death, he groans as he brings the bandages and tightens it around his wound. Immediately, the mere contact sends shockwaves of white in every pain nerve, every fiber, every collagen molecule as if it's been drenched in oil and someone dropped a burning match.

He blinks away the tears at the end, the never ending track carving out his face.

 Oh it wasn't perfect, and it will most likely open up again, but it'll hold for now. The charter land, a wide channel, and on each side were the rocky and bold trees that stretched out into the heavens. His own gaze, curious, wondered to the bulking figure that was the falling slope that hinted out where it fell from. 

 With all the pain and beating his own body took, he counted another blessing as he crawled slowly on all fours to the dead animal.  The static on his right ear grew heavier as he focused on it. It was like having your own bee nest right next to you, how splendid.

 The animal was not really what he was expecting. What was he expecting anyway? The dead creature laid curled into his side, its head caked with blood, taking a hit by the looks of it. And in its middle is a saddle with heavy leather bags. The familiar white mane now dirty and matted. The realization hit him hard, almost causing him to fall back into the mud, this was a horse. His?

 The animal was not really what he was expecting. What was he expecting anyway? The dead creature laid curled into his side, its head caked with blood, taking a hit by the looks of it. And in its middle is a saddle with heavy leather bags. The familiar white mane now dirty and matted. The realization hit him hard, almost causing him to fall back into the mud, this was a horse. His?

His shaking hands miraculosly managed to open one of the smaller bags. More badges (clean ones!) and opening more revealed pieces of parchment. He dives for the othe bag, and this time he cannot the tears from overflowing. Inside laid food: some sort of dry meat and mushed up berries of some kind. Okay, death from starvation has been evaded. Slowly digging deeper, he found nothing more than a fine leather journal, a singular feather pen and a wax stick. Was he some sort of writer?

But the horse was crushing another bag underneath it. His bloody knees were already too weak to carry him, much less try to move the dead horse. In the end, he'll make himself worse off. But that burning curiosity and the itch of wanting to know; it outweighs the burning of his muscles and the screaming back. Unclipping the bag, his arms quiver, and he hisses as he carries the bag to his side. His own sheer power is leaving him more drained and confused but he pushes the corpse of the dead horse as he sees the bag and another curious item. 

 There, half-buried was a strong bow with dangerously sharp arrows that some had clawed at the side of the horse. Pulling it with his free feet, he hurls the bag free. In the end, his arms shake too violently to take a proper look at it, with his fingertips starting to become a different color.

Mn, he should take care of that.

First, he takes a peek at his new found treasure, finding even a larger parchment. Unfolding it, a map appears. Half wet, and yellow in age, it shows the large masses of land that stretched east to west. The colors and terrain changing constantly as he skips over them. So he has a literal map of the massive land of wilderness, he just needs to know where exactly he was lost in.  

 No problem.

But inside the bag, tucked next to the rolled map, was a strange iron badge. Engraved: vim clarius astris qui uri.

 They looped around one another, with other symbols and codes he couldn't possibly understand. He shoved it into one of his pockets. Maybe that was some form of identification (although he highly doubted) and ransacked the bag. There was nothing more than wet, half dissolved papers.

But his curiosity will kill him, the sun is setting and he still hasn't gotten shelter. Knowing he wont like what comes next, he hooked his discoveries to his sides, arms locked so they wouldn't fall. And began to stand up.

He couldn't hear anything besides the ringing in his ears and the harsh thumping of his heart. Grit your teeth boy and endure, a harsh voice pulls him out his weakness.

He stood, shakily and his wobbly knees almost caving in, he looks down on the horse and the smallest of regret flickers in his chest, the knowledge setting with the sadness, he was. . . hesitant to leave it behind for some reason, but now he didn't have a choice.

It is dead and dead things stay dead.

Darkness was falling and the sounds of the forest were becoming alive again. But it sounded twisted, warped by the night. Something was lurking in the shadows, deep and dangerous. 

So he stood and limped, and for now, that was all he could do.