Air filled his lungs, inflating his chest with a single ragged and glorious breath. Pure, crisp, beautiful, and benevolent breath spearheaded its way into his prone form like a jagged bolt of lightning that faded into tranquilizing life. He held that beautiful breath lest it flee and never returned, savoring and tasting it.

It smelled ambrosial. Full of life. Rich. He could tell it had rained somewhat recently, the scent of petrichor lingering in the background as though it were afraid to join in the festivities. That nervous thing, did it not know he welcomed all?

Finally, his private party grew restless and he knew it had to be let go. His eyes cracked open while that beautiful air left; bright spots danced in his vision accompanied by their mother, the sun. This all was happening while darkness and comfort, the selfish lovers beckoned him back to sleep. Shadows swayed lazily back and forth above him in a delicate green canopy, the leaves doing their damndest to protect his bleary vision from harsh light. The dew-coated grass beneath him was far more like cushions than blades, and he loved the way it felt in the canyons between his fingers.

He inspected the bark behind him, a movement more in his eyes than anywhere else as his body was still less awake than his mind. A small beetle made its way across the nearby tree, angrily bellowing at the line of ants so callously blocking his path. It knew the ants were simply doing their duty but it had places to be and simply could not wait. He chuckled, wondering if he were to ever be so busy, or if he had been before.

Comfort relented and he sat up with that last thought lingering in his sleep-addled mind, an opened gateway to the rest of his history and future.

A slow blink and a smacking of parched lips was all that came from said gateway.

Who was he? He did not know if he had ever been that busy for he could not recall his past. He did not know if he would ever be that busy in the future for he could not remember himself.

He only knew that he was happy and that this was good. Perhaps a past forgotten is a past better left behind? The pervading smell of blood, metal, fire, and death was no longer the only thing he knew, for now, he could smell the flowers and trees.

Hm. Perhaps there were memories in there somewhere after all, but no great want to explore that path revealed itself to him. Perhaps odder to himself than the lack of memories was his lack of worry that they were gone.

Sitting up fully he marveled at his young and strong body. His muscles didn't ache, his skin didn't burn, and his flesh was practically unblemished. He looked to his arms, for whatever reason expecting endless scars. None appeared. This was glorious and this was his.

"Huh." To his surprise, he was staggering to his feet. Due to not being entirely sure if he remembered how to walk he instead simply trusted his own body to know that it was strong enough and to know how to support him. He sniffed the air out of nothing but instinct - instinct that told him a lake was near. Despite knowing not whether it was safe to drink his suddenly desperate thirst told him quite sternly that he was willing to risk it.

The flesh robot he struggled to pilot did seem to have some idea of how to ambulate itself about the place but he still found a great need to catch himself on sturdy trees many times before he had reached his destination. Each time that he would stumble and find the ground desperate to reclaim him a generous and comforting bark-wrapped hero found him instead. He of course made sure to thank each one every time it happened. After one truly perilous dive, he graced his wooden savior with a quick kiss to the closest approximation of a cheek he could find. As he pushed away from the now surely blushing piece of nature he knew he had to subdue the glee-filled laugh building up inside him at his foolish actions as it would make him look even sillier than he already did.

He failed. A true, deep-bellied laugh escaped him. Glee, freedom, happiness, silliness - these were all denied to him no longer and he refused to not indulge.

Finally, he fell to his knees at the edge of the lake, the water rippling angrily as he cupped handful after handful into his greedy form. The water was slightly muddy and had a strange aftertaste, and he could see no clear inlet or outlet to allow the water to do more than stagnate.

It was delicious. He wondered how food must taste if water was this good.

Oh.

Food.

Now that his body was full of life-giving water and his mind was a little more clear a quick sniff of the air alerted him to two things that shall truly begin his New Information folder.

One: he had a damn good sense of smell. He didn't think it unnaturally good but it certainly was oddly potent. Perhaps he was more trained in deciphering the smells rather than supernaturally picking up them. Number one in "New Information" was great. Honestly really fantastic and definitely a contender for the Best New Information award - but unfortunately number two was excellent and quite frankly blew number one out of the metaphorical water.

Two: somewhere, very close by, a small fire was roasting something delicious. Congratulations number two, that's the best new information he'd gotten since waking up. A wide smile broke the face doing all it could to not drool. He tensed, more than ready to start sprinting in the direction of the pillar of smoke now highlighted in his vision - but something stopped him.

Glancing down at the still water he could only assume it harbored quite the grudge for his barging in and rude disruption of its ordinarily beautiful surface with greedy hands; but in the way water was, it was far too cordial and graceful to give in to retribution and instead simply sulked quietly, acting as water tends to do. What it probably didn't know and what he now did, was that water tended to reflect.

While peering down at his reflection he assumed his expression must be really quite similar to the boy-in-the-water (or B.I.T.W. he now decided). A look of confusion, trepidation, hunger, mild dehydration, and finally elation.

The reflection, the thin no-more-than-18 B.I.T.W., peered back at him and came to the same conclusions as he about his looks. Ashy gray hair burst from its dark and raven-like roots further cascading over his forehead and into his vision. Two similarly gray orbs peered out from underneath the shaggy mess while flicking back and forth in their quest to absorb as much knowledge as possible.

When his reflection began to speak he nearly fell into it.

"Young, no more than 17, no younger than 15. A lack of scars and blemishes upon my face and arms indicate a life mostly free of strife, though you've had yet to examine the rest." His reflection lifted its hand and studied it. "Calloused fingers and palms along with our build would indicate some type of hard labor that exercises the body equally but not overly." He peered closer at his palm. "No, wait. I'm only half right." His reflection glanced at him during his musings.

Uh…" the boy looking at his reflection managed to squeak out. "Hello?" His reflection ignored him.

"We're a fighter - or at least an apprentice. Someone who has seen battles but none worth mentioning. See?" His reflection held out the palm towards him; he realized of course that he was doing the same. "No, never mind that I'll explain it to you since you're really so keen on being dense."

"How are you talking? And how do you know these things? Who are you? Who am I? Where am I?" He couldn't help but interrogate his own reflection with vigor. As strange as it was, this might be an opportunity for many things. For one he could maybe get some answers, lackluster as they likely were and his feelings towards wanting them. For two he could get his reflection on the right track - right now it was less than flattering.

"You're an amnesiac. How are you so sure that reflections DON'T speak?" It seemed the questions were put on hold.

He scoffed. "Just because I do not remember myself does not mean I do not remember basic facts of reality." He narrowed his eyes in annoyance, not taking too kindly to being sassed by himself.

"Alright then," the B.I.T.W. began. "Then how do you know that you are not the reflection?" He blinked. "If reflections cannot talk and I am clearly talking, perhaps I am not the reflection."

He let out a sharp laugh that the B.I.T.W. was not able to hide its annoyance at. It didn't take too kindly to being sassed by itself. "By that logic, I wouldn't be able to speak - if I were a reflection I would lack the ability. That proves with good certainty that I am not a reflection." He paused. "Then, I suppose it proves you are not as well." He frowned while quickly realizing they were speaking in circles. Well, it was at least more entertaining than stumbling around the woods.

"But are you sure you are speaking? You know beyond certain that I am speaking, for you hear it. You see it. However, here you stand, speaking to and hearing your very own reflection - you argue with it even! The evidence that your mind is befuddled or damaged is clear - can you truly trust yourself at all? You could simply be imagining you are speaking as easily as you may be imagining that I am speaking." The reflection tilted its head, looking away for a moment. "Perhaps I am the mad one and you are the illusion. For we know at least one of us simply must be mad."

He threw a small stone he had into the far-off sides of the lake. It flew beautifully, skipping across the water. Its final splash was a quiet one, finally sinking into the depths far off from shore.

"Perhaps one of us is mad, I can agree to that at the very least. In truth, perhaps both of us are. If we together are mad then we know that we cannot trust the world around us as it could simply be a product of our own imagination." Another rock skipped across the water.

B.I.T.W. Spoke up. "We could not trust ourselves either. As the world may be our imagination, so could everything within ourselves."

"If that were to be the case I choose at the very least to believe in myself. My mind tells me that I am real so I must believe it. If I fail even that, I would certainly be deemed an ungrateful host for my poor mind…"

The reflection watched a third rock skip across the water. "And if you are wrong?"

"Then I am wrong, and I do not exist. I do not believe that would be too much of an issue, however. Regardless if I exist truly, I believe I do and I would still be here in this nonexistent world with a nonexistent body living a nonexistent life. It would be my own even then, and it would likely not be very different than if I had existed. Even if it were quite different I certainly wouldn't know it." The fourth rock skipped not as far. Disappointing.

"So to know is pain and to be ignorant is bliss?"

He looked his reflection in the eye. "Yes."

There was a long stretch of silence after the fifth rock. At the very end of it, he looked down at the lakeside, by his feet. Five rocks, all perfect for skipping, rest equally perfectly stacked atop the other. Never thrown. His reflection spoke up once more.

"Well, I simply cannot agree, not with that at least." His reflection almost harrumphed. "Though I acquise in regards to one thing. Even if we did not exist there's nothing we could do to change that," it paused. "At least besides ending our mutual nonexistence."

He gently shook his head and gave his reflection a small smile. "I only just started existing. I'd like to see a bit more first before I stop."

"Fair enough G.H. Though I must remind you that you are arguing against your nonexistence and for your madness." his reflection mused. He snapped to attention at the closest thing to a name he could claim. His reflection noticed his excited confusion. "Ah. G.H. The initials are embroidered, quite messily, into the collar of our shirt." It lifted the collar of its gray working clothes to show him. "Alongside that; the make, material, and general quality of our clothes show that we are not of wealthy blood."

Blood.

"G.H…" G.H. murmured. "I think I like it - for now at least. Until I get something better. I wonder what it stands for. "His reflection did not respond. Instead, it simply mimicked his movements, breaking slightly as a small fish popped its head above the water for just a moment. "Oh." A feeling of profound loneliness now invaded him, something he hadn't known he had already been feeling until he had lost his only companion. "Thank you, B.I.T.W. You were fantastic. A part of me hopes you're the real one and I am the reflection after all." The part of him that wished as such was likely the part of him that was B.I.T.W., but G.H. didn't want to spoil a "sweet" moment.

His ruminations were cut short by his growling stomach and he began to make his way towards that still burning campfire.

Newly named G.H. made his way to the clearing while already knowing what he would see. As he had gotten closer the scent of food vanished and had been replaced by other scents pervading his mind. Blood and death. His throat had closed; partly with fear and partly with concern.

And partly with thirst. A thirst it was, as well. A dry, aching, heaving, desperate call, one that cried out not for water. It was a thirst for something thicker. For something warmer. For something red.

Perhaps he really was mad. He ignored his thirst as best he could and hoped instead that his senses were wrong, that his knowledge was false.

Stepping into the clearing he finally broke past the line of trees and couldn't help but almost admire the destruction. Blood speckled the ground in varying forms and shapes, in sizes and viscosity. In some places, there were only a few drops, subdued bleeding that fell lightly and slowly. In others, there were full slashes of spilled life marking the ground, roughly thrown to the dirt in violence.

The clearing itself was small and set up quickly with minimal supplies. A large makeshift fire burned recently but now only smoldered quietly. A pack with simple supplies - a bedroll, lantern, and most interesting of all a map. The carcass of a forgotten deer littered the ground, some skinned, some fresh, some cooked - hopefully, much of the blood was its. A single human arm still holding its axe lay directly in front of him.

He gingerly stepped over the arm and lifted the bloodied axe from its still-warm fingers. Most of the crimson stained not the blade but the handle. Whatever this arm (and likely the rest of its body) was fighting either didn't bleed or never had to.

When the now fully abandoned arm below him began speaking he nearly leapt from his skin.

"A good thing, she was. I'll miss her. A fine heft, weight, size, and make. I was a lumberjack, partly a hunter, and even more so partly a fighter. Feel the balance? The quality? That thing is as much of a weapon for me as it was a tool. I was more than used to battle, and what did this to me didn't get the drop on me. Be careful." It emphasized before the hand forming a puppet-like mouth flopped back to the ground in exactly the same spot and location it was before it spoke.

With no grass or dirt disturbed or even shifted from its original spot G.H. was forced to conclude it never actually moved. Or spoke. "Okay, definitely mad. Will have to address that later." G.H. stepped over the blood, trying not to get his shoes soaked in the recently born red mud. Still, like all newborns, it was clingy and needy, and despite his best efforts his simple and well-tread boots would have to be deeply cleaned.

"Something was thrown into me." The almost-dead fire spoke up. It was hesitant but gained confidence as it explained what happened to G.H. "Maybe the man, maybe the thing. I bit it as much as I could, and I think it hurt it. But not that much. The beast came for me, and for the food, I think..." The fire paused to think. "Wait, no. The food is over there, by the edge of the woods. It came for the man, not for the food." It gestured at the roast bit of carcass lying in the dirt. The fire, now quiet, let others speak up.

The decapitated deer head swayed over towards G.H., its black eyes rolling about in their socket before resting on him. "The hunter did this to me, obviously. He was professional about it. I'll give him that. Clean cuts, minimally wasted parts… why look over there, he was even saving my hoof!" It clicked its tongue in annoyance. "But why would the beast come for him, and not me? I am easy food, free. And look where I lay, almost untouched." G.H. complied. "Near the forest as well. The hunter threw me. He tried to use me as a peace offering, a bit of food for the beast that came for him. It not only didn't come for me, it actively ignored me." It swayed back to its natural place as it, of course, never actually spoke at all.

"And a beast it was," Whispered the broken trees. "To crash through us like that. Destruction in its power and size, with claws to boot. I think I saw teeth as well, but there's not enough evidence for you to really think that." G.H. paused.

"What?" But the trees did not elaborate. The blood spoke now.

"Follow us, follow us," it chorused. "He might still be alive! The blood is bad, his arm is here, but his remains are not. The beast came not for food, not for it. Perhaps a prize? Perhaps its children? It took him but not the arm, for the arm was no longer fresh." G.H.'s eyes widened. "Follow us, follow us! Bring the axe, he'll want it back. But be careful! Beasts all over the shop."

Well, it would be bad form to not return the property to its owner.

The axe felt good. It had found its way back into the living caress of one who knew how to handle it. That brief stint with the lone arm? Well, that was absolutely preposterous. What was the arm supposed to do? There wasn't even a foot at the end of the stump to help it ambulate about the place, much less chop down a tree or cleave a beast in twain. No, as much as it had loved its previous master it was quite ready to be free from its quickly cooling prison.

At least that's what G.H. hoped the axe was thinking. Meeting new people was always difficult as he had never done so before and he wanted to leave a fine impression on the instrument. He had been taking the utmost care of it since he decided to, potentially temporarily, claim it as his own. In order to improve the axe's opinion of him he had made great effort to:

Hold it with respect. It was certainly of fine craftsmanship and had seen many winters. It deserved said respect.

Speak to it frequently. He imagined its time in the bloody clearing was quite lonely - and it was more than possible it never got much conversation before all that even went down!

Use it for its intended purpose. He traveled along at a fast and hurried pace but would occasionally stop or slow to cleave a branch from its trunk or to halve a small tree in a single blow. It wouldn't do for his first outing with the woodchopping axe to not be used for chopping wood.

Of course, G.H. knew the axe felt nothing for him. It could not, for it was, after all, an axe. But, y'know. Just in case.

That being said, he wondered why the axe hadn't spoken back to him. He had spoken to himself, trees, blood(?), and even a severed arm - but the axe never deigned itself to pipe up to return even the easiest of frivolities. Really quite rude actually, and G.H. certainly didn't appreciate it. If he were to hear and speak to inanimate things he would hope at least it could be useful.

G.H. shuddered. He really needed someone to talk to. He hoped the woodsman was still alive - of course, because death was terrible but also because a proper conversation that was not with a decapitated deer sounded like just the absolute most delightful thing right now - only just beating out eating real food. Had he thought of it he would've grabbed the dirty deer carcass (the cooked) and eaten it during his tracking. He hadn't but it was a fine idea. Perhaps if he met another insane amnesiac wandering about the wilderness with no provisions, supplies, or ideas he would provide that one for free. He was nice like that.

"Focus G.H. A man's life could be hanging in the balance right now. Indulging madness is hardly the best use of your time." He growled to himself, quickening his pace even more. Broken trees and burst foliage, spots of blood, torn clothing - whatever he could find he used to track down the beast and its prey as quickly as possible. It was easy, intuitive, and practiced. Perhaps he had been a hunter or wilderness expert? He shook off the thought, deeming it unimportant right now.

At least whatever took his memories left him with his skills. The axe felt familiar - not in that it was an axe per se, though he was sure he'd used one before, but in that it was a bloodstained weapon. The glint of steel, the smell of blood, the feeling of a well-made grip. This he knew, and knew it well he did.

The familiarity of a weapon in hand was matched only by the familiarity of his heart beating excitedly in his chest. It was thrilled. It was anticipating. It knew what was to come even if G.H. did not himself. Blood coursed through his veins and screamed at his nerves.

"A fight is coming, a fight is coming!" It shouted to him.

The pursuit was emboldened even greater by a scream and a roar in the nearby distance. It served to help quicken him substantially for he no longer needed to follow a trail. Through the trees he sprinted, his body light and powerful, agile and aware. He dodged branches and roots before he registered them and leaped over fallen and rotting logs before he knew what he saw.

An entrance to a cave, an opening in the side of a steep cliff side. This was his final destination. It seemed to whisper to him. "Here. He is here. He is alive. For now. Save him." G.H. nodded to the maw. He would.

His grip loosened to let the axe in it drop. Its bulky head met stone and let out a resounding and dull clang. "Beast as you are, there is no world in which you live tonight." He struck the side of the cave wall with the blunt of the axe, letting out another clang. It echoed down and through the cave and was met and challenged by a low, threatening growl.

"Leave here now foolish hunter and never return. Perhaps you will leave with your head if you do so." It seemed to say. G.H. smiled.

"Your tainted blood must be spilled, your rotten carcass must be burned. A pyre shall be made for you tonight, and I shall imbibe upon your blood." Clang! A responding growl came once more, but closer now. G.H. stepped back. In the forest, he stood a far greater chance of winning this fight than in a cramped cave. G.H. had no idea what he was saying but it flowed freely and easily and sounded at least moderately cool so he allowed it to continue. It sounded wrong in a voice without gravel and death but it'd do.

Finally, he could see it. Slobbering jaws fueled by blood and hate, pitch black fur accented by patches of white armor. Dangerously surprising intelligence peered out from those red hate-orbs masquerading as eyes. Its mouth extended outward forming a cold and oversized snout resplendent with teeth gnashing and grinding against each other in hunger and hate. It was an almost comically horrific depiction of a wolf, something a child who had heard too many scary stories might conjure up in their sleep.

But it was here now. G.H. gave it a wide smile, lifting up the heavy axe with both hands. This was going to be fun.