Naïve by definition

Eyes fluttering open, a stranger, even to himself, thought himself blind when darkness embraced his first moments of consciousness. Fright in a stupor, he made to move but found his hands bound in a hardy rope behind a wooden pole to which his legs also felt attached. Headfog disappearing, he began to struggle. He labored against the bindings until his wrists and ankles began to burn from the friction. Starting to hyperventilate, he tried to recall how he became ensnared in this predicament. 

And then he realized he remembered nothing. 

He craned his neck forward, expecting, hoping for, something of a revelation - a tidal wave of memories roar into his ears and recall what happened, how he became a captive, who captured him, and why. Most terrifying of all, he didn't know his name. Who he was.

He felt terribly alone.

Enlightenment ignored him, and he choked a sob. His pain echoed weakly, and he looked around into the darkness. He called into the cave, hearing a meek voice that needed water. Nothing replied, but for his voice ricocheting off of walls that sounded close to his person, so he assumed himself alone, at least, for now. Given the lack of anything to go off of, he wondered at his self-awareness and how he knew of self-awareness at all. Somehow, he recognized or presumed he knew rope and was in a cave or underground because there were no stars above. He guffawed into the void, recalling nothing of the sky or the clouds that blanketed it, and yet he knew that at the sun's setting, the sky would redden from blue to gold, and then twinkling lights would pierce the fathoms of space.

He shook his head, recollecting himself. Freedom first, answers later. Trying the bindings again, he found that, while he could not wriggle himself free from them, he could lift and lower his arms against the wood beam. He pulled the rope against the wood and felt it frayed when he shook his arms. Like a ravenous animal, he began cutting the cord even if it burned his wrists. It felt hot, and soon, it felt slick with something. 

Somehow, he knew he rubbed his wrists raw and bled. As unfamiliar as the pain was, he understood all living creatures needed blood to stay in their bodies, but he surmised these wounds would not kill him. How did he know such things? Or did his mind fabricate the knowledge? A man without memory ought to know little of the world, shouldn't he?

The ropes snapped, and he fell to the ground, scraping his knees and palms on coarse rock. He frantically undid the bindings around his ankles and croaked to himself. Free, but from what? To live out his days in a cave? He now presumed himself in a cave. Perhaps his eyes - he tapped around his eyes to confirm he knew what eyes were - didn't work, and he sat on his rump in a brightly lit cave. 

But in the darkness, he saw something glow in the distance—something past the pole he first found himself bound. It took great restraint not to barrel towards it, what with the unsure footing amidst the darkness, the incline, and him whispering to himself of something with which he could not imagine an image to describe something called 'predators' utilizing light to lure unsuspecting prey that he supposed he played the role of. The closer he drew to the light, the less he thought of it as a threat and more of an exit from the cave. He presumed correctly, and fresh air assaulted him with salty sea breeze before he could see the ocean. 

He found himself stupified, feet fastened where he stood, to see the outside world for the first time. The fathoms of the ocean stretched well beyond the horizon, and the waves churned against a city teeming with life and bustling activity within their harbor. 

Strangely, he never looked at the city before but found himself calling it home.

Light giving him a chance to assess himself, he found that his wrists bruised a sickly purple and glistened red with his blood. Barring such injuries and a few scrapes, he felt excited at learning more about himself - he found his olive-skinned frame to be a lean young adult, one who tussled their short curly hair they could not yet see the color of. Lastly, he assessed his ragged attire worth little description, save for discovering a few pockets. All but one promised a secret.

Out of his pocket, he retrieved a measly circle of metal. A ring. Clean but unassuming and promising little barter value. 

He twirled it around, hoping to find anything significant - an engraving or initials indicating who this might belong to. He heaved his disappointment, and his shoulders drooped at finding nothing. And so, in fear that his tattered pocket may lose his only possession, he wore the ring. And then his hand disappeared. 

Startled, he recoiled and looked around to discover he could no longer see his arms, his legs - his whole person evaporated! He felt no difference in demeanor and, fearing the ring's responsibility for his disappearance, he yanked it off. His body returned, or rather the visibility of it, for he reflected that he still felt the damp sandy rocks beneath his feet when he bore the ring. Amazed at the magical - his mind presumed this as a supernatural event, whatever that meant - trinket, he held it up more closely in wonder and awe. It reserved its secrets; he felt nothing from it—no angelic songs or blistering malice emanated from it, just a ring. One that could permit him to wander about invisible to all.

He smiled at it, then tried to register what motivated such joy. With such a gift, he could go anywhere and do anything he wanted without fear of consequences. The ring suddenly felt heavier. What does a man without an identity do when given the freedom to ignore morals?

~

Brisking the autumn fields leading to the city proved uneventful. That is if one ignores the many times he recognized never-before-seen objects, such as the tall, itchy grass and a creaky wooden wagon that rolled on a cobblestoned path marking civilization. Fellow travelers waved their 'hullos' to him but did not seem interested in the unwashed peasant they encountered. All the better, it allowed him to slip on the ring unseen when he saw the city's gate guards taxing a toll on all who entered.

Half-expecting the soldiers to grab at an invisible intruder, he couldn't suppress the chuckle. When one of the soldiers turned to find the source of the laughter, the hidden stranger dared to flee many streets into the city; only when he avoided colliding with the fifth family living on the streets did he skid to a stop, kicking up a seemingly random dustcloud to onlookers.

From a distance, he saw an illustrious, proud city, but now, in the shantytown, he saw the weary and hungry scrambling to catch the rats and cats for food and how their sunken eyes never blinked in fear of their neighbor stealing the clothes off of their backs. Walking about the city for the better part of the afternoon - he somehow intrinsically knew that a remarkably luminous rock called the moon would soon replace the blinding sun - he saw that the majority of the city suffered poverty save for the plump and lavishly ornamented individuals standing tall above the rest and issuing demands to their underlings. The man felt his face tighten in an aggrieved confusion. He watched the many supplant the few for hours. He didn't understand how much came from the harbor, yet so little remained for the masses. Upon reflection, this troubled the man deeply as the little voice that, so far, instilled him with an understanding of the unfamiliar world remained silent. And without it, the man grew incensed at seeing such injustice. He snorted, finding irony that a man with no past could feel a sense of justice.

From a short distance away, a gaggle of soldiers yelling echoed against weathered stone houses. They chased after a little boy who, at such a desperate speed, fumbled much of the food he carried that the man presumed stolen. Crying as he ran, the young lad sprinted past a figure hidden in plain sight, and the soldiers shortened the distance. Before he contemplated why his foot struck out in their path, one soldier tripped and fell, bringing down the rest of the angered guard. 

The little boy dared a darting glance over his shoulder and renewed his speedy escape, but one of the guards began screaming in pain. His counterparts collected themselves and hoisted the bellowing man up by his elbow. The guard, in pain, gripped his coloring forearm, now broken, at an angle that many onlookers gaped and gasped at.

The man, still invisible and undiscovered despite his intervention, looked between the street the little boy escaped to and the forearm of the guard. He charged himself responsible. 

He condemned himself responsible for the food the boy would provide his family and for the shattering of another person's bones.

Rubbing the ring, the man left the scene to ponder his actions.

Wondering inwards - and further into the wealthier parts of the city - the man did not turn to a deity for abstract divination, nor did he believe he could find any person in this city who would offer him guidance for such a unique predicament. Awakening without memories, perhaps he could find sympathy. But with the magic wrapped around his finger? People would revere or fear him.

And so, without memories to shackle his thoughts, he looked inward. Not at who he was before he woke up, for did that matter anymore? Did the consequences of the former person dictate the course of the present one? His tongue clicked to voice his dispute. No, he could only contend with and control the path before him.

But with such a power, what path did the man want?