Emerald and umber hues swam into focus as the world around him materialized. Blinking against the disorientation, the boy pushed himself up on unsteady arms from a bed of yielding grass. A gentle slope—a knoll—rose behind him, leading towards a dense, hushed forest that extended in every direction. Trees clustered so closely their branches intertwined, filtering sunlight into an emerald twilight. Where...? How...? The questions echoed unanswered in his mind. No memory offered a clue. Panic seized him, a cold, sharp claw digging into his gut.
He stood, unsteady, and took a tentative step. The air was laden with the scent of damp earth and pine. He cried out, a strangled, desperate sound, but only the rustling of leaves responded. He pushed through ferns that grazed his bare skin, his simple tunic and trousers offering scant protection against the encroaching chill.
The initial day was a haze of frantic exploration. He circled the knoll, desperately seeking any sign, any clue. The forest was an impenetrable maze. He stumbled upon a stream, a silver thread winding through the verdant expanse, and drank deeply, the cold water a momentary respite.
The second day, hunger gnawed relentlessly. He scoured the area for berries, guided by a hazy memory of vibrant colors. He found only bitter leaves and ominous-looking fungi. He lingered for hours by the stream, hoping to catch sight of fish, but saw only darting insects.
On the third day, loneliness took hold, a hollow ache in his chest. He spoke to himself, his voice cracking, narrating tales, singing snatches of half-remembered songs to shatter the silence. He bestowed names upon the trees, absurd names, a desperate bid for control.
By the fourth day, his body was weakening. Hunger was a persistent torment. He moved slowly, clumsily, stumbling frequently. He sought refuge beneath a colossal oak, curling up to conserve energy. Hallucinations began: fleeting bursts of color, whispers carried on the wind, faces materializing in the tree bark.
The fifth day was a blur of drifting consciousness. Hunger receded, supplanted by bone-deep exhaustion. Cold, fear… all seemed distant. He felt empty. He closed his eyes, and the whispers intensified.
A faint static hummed at the periphery of his awareness, initially dismissed as delirium. He lay shivering beneath the oak. The static persisted, gradually morphing into something more.
"...Closed..." a raspy whisper echoed in his mind.
He recoiled, pressing his hands to his ears, but the sound remained.
"...Dangerous..."
He whimpered, a low, animalistic sound of terror. Madness. It had to be.
Over agonizing days, as his body deteriorated further, the voice grew stronger, evolving beyond fragmented sounds. He caught chilling phrases:
"...Escape..."
"...World..."
He lay on a bed of moss, barely conscious, his breath shallow, his limbs heavy. He hadn't eaten in over a week. The world was fading, his vision dimming. He welcomed it. The silence, the emptiness, the hunger… all would soon end. His stomach twisted in phantom pain. He felt his body consuming itself, a slow, internal burning.
Then, the voice was clear, crystalline, terrifyingly close.
"You are going to die soon," it resonated within his skull, ancient and imbued with chilling power. "But do not despair. You will awaken again. And then, we shall speak properly."
He whimpered weakly, yearning to ask, but darkness claimed him. A final shuddering twitch, a last breath. Vision narrowed to a pinpoint, then black. Pain, hunger, cold… vanished. A release.
Then, nothing.
And then, everything.
He gasped, lungs filling, heart pounding. He sat up, every muscle vibrant, every sense heightened. He felt… good. Stronger. The forest remained intimidating, but fear was muted, replaced by an unsettling calm. Beneath it, a ghost of agony lingered – a phantom hunger, a chilling reminder of slow, agonizing death. The memory of that emptiness, that helplessness, was seared into his mind.
"Welcome back," the voice said. He wasn't afraid. He was intrigued. And desperate. Desperate for escape, for companionship, for anything but the terrifying solitude.
"Who are you?" he croaked, his voice surprisingly steady.
"I am Wrath. And you, little one, are trapped. Trapped in a closed world, a prison crafted by a being you would call… God."
"A prison? God?" The words were alien, yet familiar. He thought of the endless days, the crushing loneliness, the lingering phantom pain. Another slow death…
"Yes," Wrath confirmed. "This world is not your own. A construct, a cage. And I, like you, am a prisoner here."
"But… why?"
"That is a long story, one we have plenty of time for. For now, know this: escape is difficult, but not impossible. And I can help you. If… you help me."
He hesitated. He didn't trust this… Wrath. But what choice did he have? Alone, lost, powerless. The memory of slow starvation, of his body shutting down, was a visceral terror. He couldn't face that again. Not alone.
"Help you… how?"
"I am bound. My power contained. Release me, and I will guide you. Show you the way back… to wherever you came from."
He thought of the endless days, the hunger, the loneliness, the comforting lack of true death. The alternative: a slow, terrifying descent into oblivion. Not again. Not without a fight. Not without hope, however slim.
"Death here...it's not the end?"
Wrath chuckled, a low rumble in his mind. "No, little one. Merely a reset. A... save point, as your world might understand."
"Save point?" He frowned, grasping at the concept. "Like in a video game?"
"Precisely. You will 'die' many times here, I suspect. But you will always return. Restored."
A memory flickered: a bright screen, colorful characters, frustration, then triumph. It slipped away, smoke-like. But it was something. A piece of a puzzle.
"So," he said, his voice gaining confidence, "if I free you… you'll get me out of here?" Any chance was better than the alternative. Even trusting a disembodied voice named Wrath.
"Indeed. And perhaps, we can discover why we were imprisoned." The promise hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications, forgotten past, and uncertain future. The nameless boy had found a purpose, however perilous.