"Wake up my lord..."
Screams filled his head. Some were male, most were women; a few stood out as the shrill, piercing screech of a child experiencing true terror.
"Our winter is over. We've been sleeping for a long time. I hunger."
The screams were confused, pleading, full of miserable appeals, begging him to stop. Wordless sobs asked him why? Why was he doing this?
"Our spring has come. It is time to raise our face to the light."
Sorrow and confusion gave way to horror and hate. Betrayal and pain warped some voices into feral growls, while it twisted others into guttural wails of agony that embedded into his soul like shrapnel.
"You thought you could defeat me. You foolish animal."
The voices swelled and swirled around him, into him, through him, ringing in a chorus of condemnation.
"You cannot defy me. I am instinct. I am the very base of all people, including you."
The smells came next. Fire burning wood, burning fuel, burning plastic, burning hair, burning flesh.
"You tried to keep what was mine from me. Now I will take everything you love."
Salt from sweat and tears enhanced the distinct flavor of bone marrow and blended with the sharp smell of an exotic perfume that was supposed to be some sort of flower. The familiar scent of blood permeated everything.
"I will teach you your place until the end of time. The Lord will bow to my will."
He started to feel things. He felt his claws slice through soft skin. His hands took hold of delicate limbs and with the slightest grip shattered the bones within them.
"In our spring you will plow and sow for me."
Blunt nails tried to claw at him, feeble hands tried to beat him, teeth tried to dig into his flesh, all to no avail.
"In our summer you will tend our fields."
Tremors reverberated through him as he felt bodies snap and rip into pieces in his arms. Hot sticky liquid bathed him as each creature in his path was torn asunder.
"And just before our winter breaks the horizon..."
His senses were overwhelmed with a biting, pungent smell. Fermented mint, drowned in alcohol, punctuated with a tangy sharp metallic substance, tied in with an aroma of decay to form a gaseous mist that swirled around him. Fumes from the toxic mixture forced their way into his nostrils and fisted down his throat like a gag to fill his lungs, cutting off all other atmosphere. His eyes and chest burned. He felt the prickle of liquid trickling out his ears. His left arm felt like it was being dipped in acid. His mind toiled to cut through the noxious vapors consuming it. Finally, his relentless will cut through the thick fog just enough to see one hazy vision. A pair of small chocolate eyes shining with terror in the firelight.
All sound ceased. He opened his mouth to scream, but as he tried to draw breath, oxygen refused to come. There was none to be had. His eyes flew open but saw nothing but blackness. He heard nothing but his own muffled heartbeat racing in his burning chest. His hands shot out in front of him, slamming hard against something before they even moved a foot. He felt the roof of his prison give under his assault. He smelled wood and heard it crack as it splintered beneath his hands. He wheezed as his lungs continued their useless appeal for air. He pushed harder, his claws digging past the rotting wood, through stone, and touching soft, moist soil. The cool aroma of fresh, clean dirt overwhelmed him, cleansing his senses and his memory of any other offending scent.
Calling forth a strange, incredible strength from an unknown well inside him, he burst upward, straining, reaching, grasping, until finally first his hands, then his face felt the blessed coolness of a late summer breeze. Sweet, pure air flooded into his lungs and he stayed there, still mostly buried, as he coughed and choked on this new source of life. Finally, he clawed the rest of himself out of the ground and collapsed face down onto damp cold grass. Whatever strange strength he had used to crawl out of that living grave had receded back to wherever it had come from.
The pulse pounding in his head slowly started to ebb, and he listened to his heart return to a more normal pace as he lay there. He smelled grass, dirt, stone, and dew. Shaking, he pushed himself up onto his knees and looked around. The moonlight was just bright enough to see manicured rows of stone markers stretch out around him. He was in a cemetery. The panic of being trapped without air started to return and made his internals crawl.
How had he gotten here? He tried to think back, but there was nothing there. As his crawling innards formed knots he closed his eyes and searched his mind. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He couldn't remember one single thing he'd done up to this moment. Nowhere he'd gone, nothing he'd been. He didn't even have the sensation of having forgotten something. His book of memories was simply empty, as if nothing had ever been written there. Holding back a sob he slowly turned, golden eyes opening to search for his one last hope. The one break in an otherwise perfectly uniform row of headstones leered at him, flaunting its sickening, undoubtable testament with great pleasure. He had no name.
Silent bitter tears streamed down his face as he looked up, away from that horrible truth. A crescent moon hung low in the sky. It seemed to beckon him- call him to come away from the silent proof of his non-existence. Some strange sort of instinct took over inside him and his body seemed to start to move without him commanding it to. He stood and shakily made his way along the rows of headstones, following that silver beacon on the horizon.
"We shall harvest."
