You awoke in your ditch, his mind supplied needlessly. He stared at the blue of morning, unblinking and unmoving, as though he could be swallowed up in its vastness until he, too, were dyed that same cornflower blue.
Sensations returned slowly, inevitably, starting with the tension in his hand, and without looking he knew his fingers were curled around a blade. (He knew, also, that it was stained.) Autonomy crept back into his limbs, and finally he could stand again. He climbed out of the dip in the ground so that he was level with the field again. He stooped briefly to wipe the excess of the sticky substance coating his hands on the grass; in exchange, the green clung to him, and he was almost his own again.
He took stock of the emptiness between his ears. The ever-present whisper of static was muted, the silence in its stead ringing. It was like breathing too-cool air after suffocating — uncomfortable for all that it was unfamiliar, but welcome all the same.
He pushed himself into movement despite the aching in his muscles. Waking like this always hurt, but it was a satisfying pain, the tell of violence well sated, and he relished it even as he waited for the rest of his mind to come back to him. A brief survey of his surroundings revealed a road beneath his hill, the hood of a single parked car glinting under the sun, and he headed towards it.
As he walked, he pondered the gods and their dominion over mortals even as they relied on them. No one else understood these important things. The others, their minds were too — his own stalled under the immensity of his feeling — unoriginal. Tension crawled up his back and settled in his shoulders. It was a typical response to the thought, a reflexive desire to break or be broken, to snag himself along any chink in the seemingly smooth surface of rationality. He was taken aback, though, by the force of the reaction — indeed, its presence at all — so soon after having plunged into numbness.
He distracted himself by examining the car by the road. He wondered who it belonged to, who'd have driven to his woods this early in the morning, and this line of thinking channeled his energy into something relatively harmless, if unproductive. He tried all the doors, but, predictably, they were locked. He circled the car again, this time peering though each window, building a profile of the owner (or couple, he deduced from the items left behind on both the driver and passenger seats). There was an expensive leather camera case laying on the seat in the back, and this smoothed the final layer over the vague image he'd constructed. It was startlingly familiar.
It took a second longer than it should have to realize that that familiarity was external, as well. The tug of it pulled his attention from the car to across the field in the direction he'd just come from. He instinctively moved toward the couple in the distance. He ignored the wheat blonde, wholly entranced by the deep red.
Soon, that would be his color.