He was lost.

After the explosion in the ARC, he had tried to follow his Mistress back through the anomaly, not knowing what else to do or where else to go. But it was the wrong anomaly, and he had not found his Mistress. She had left him. He did not know this forest, nor did he know when or where he was. He was lost. And hurt.

Whilst fallen rubble had protected him from the worst of the explosion, he was not uninjured. He was limping rather badly, an deep, throbbing pain in his thigh, there was a consistent pain in his left ribs whenever he breathed, and there were more shallow cuts and scrapes on his skin than could be counted. One was on his face; he could feel the sticky tackiness of blood trickling down his cheek. He was hungry, too, an empty gnawing pain in his stomach, and his throat cried out for water. Everything seemed too bright, too loud. Walking made him dizzy, but he kept moving anyways.

It was almost dark when he heard the sound of running water. Making slow, painful progress towards the sound, he discovered the source: a small, swift-running creek. He nearly collapsed on the bank, crawling on his belly until he could reach to scoop some of the water into his mouth. It was painfully cold, bringing him sharply back awake, and with what was left of his strength, he crawled beneath the low branches of a close tree and curled up there, exhausted and dizzy and hurting everywhere. He had a brief thought for the Professor and the ARC, wondering if the original had survived as well, before sinking into a feverish, hazy sleep.

When he woke up, he was aware of several things at once. It was light out, he was hurting even more than he had yesterday, and there was someone standing over him. Automatically, he flinched, curling closer on himself despite the pain it sent through his ribs and leg; an involuntary whimper was pulled from his throat.

"Are you alright? How badly are you hurt?" asked a soft, cultured voice, and he hesitantly peered through his lashes. No longer standing, there was a woman kneeling at his side. She was dressed oddly but hardily, with dark hair in a braid, a few curls hanging loose around her face. When he did not speak, she said, "Can you hear me?"

He nodded.

"Do you have a name?"

He shook his head. He was not Nick Cutter, no matter what the Mistress told him.

The woman reached for him, and he flinched, ducking his head, but he felt only her fingertips lightly touch his hair, brushing it back out of his face. Some of the strands were dark and matted with blood. "You don't have to be afraid. You ventured through the gateways, didn't you? So did I, and there are others back at our camp. We will look after you," she told him in that same soft, gentle voice, brushing his hair back again.

"Who - ?" He tried to speak but coughed, his voice cracking. Swallowing hard, he tried again, though his words came out as a hoarse whisper. "Who are you?"

"My name is Emily."