It was free.

That was the only thought flowing through its mind. Free at last. Free from the rock, free from the confines of the damp darkness, free from it all. It revelled in the air that moved across its flesh as it soared through the night sky. It had been so very long since it had experienced anything like this. The memory was faint, and tainted with fury.

Imprisoned.

Defeated.

It howled its anger at the sky then, at the millennia it had endured in imprisonment, at the injustice of it all. It had been the call that had forced it out of its slumber, the sleep that healed. The call had to be obeyed; it was the call of flesh; the call of blood. It had begun to move, heading towards the surface, one agonizing inch at a time. Time had ceased to have meaning. There was only the call, the demand, and the will to answer.

It realized almost immediately that something was wrong. The call was no longer to be heard, no longer resonating in the pulse, in the thoughts. All there was was frightening silence. It did not like the implications of that silence; for there to be silence the Voice must be dead.

The knowledge that it was alone in this alien realm created an emotion similar to fear.

It was alone.

In all those long, innumerable years, buried far beneath the Above, it had been aware of the Voice. The Voice, in turn, made it aware of the Limbs, and the Heart. No matter what distance separated them they were still whole, and took solace in that, for certainly one day they would all reunite and become the Being, as they had been upon arriving on this planet. But now ...

Silence.

It keened its pain to the wind at the acute loneliness, the painful isolation it felt. It had lost parts of itself, and it knew with cold certainty that those parts were undeniably gone forever. It struggled to remember what the Voice had revealed upon reawakening it, and pieces of memory flashed through it.

-Puppet-

-Meteor-

-CETRA-

It snarled then, at the recollection of that hated word. Eons of rage welled up at the very thought, and it knew who to blame for the current situation it found itself in. With the memories came the visions; the avatar with the long shiny hair, and the puppets that followed him. A hole in the ground, an enormous crater that the Voice had been calling it to. The last remaining member of the Enemy race, dead at the hands of the Avatar. The Voice had been so triumphant as the last Enemy had fallen, impaled on a cold length of steel. But there had been a note of uncertainty behind that triumph; the unsettling suspicion that the Enemy had known her death was coming, that the Enemy had died for a reason unbeknownst to the Voice. And then the thought that perhaps the Enemy was not really dead.

It clung to that memory, as it flew through clouds that obscured the moon. It was alone, and it had never been alone before. There was one thing it was certain of.

The Enemy must die. A permanent death, not a guise under which it would travel to The Promised Land. It could do that much, at least, yearned to do it. With the Enemy gone once and for all, it could begin what the Voice had intended to do once all parts had been reunited: send out the call for the Others to come and to be together once again. It delved within the visions the Voice had sent and searched for where the Enemy lay.

-Water-

-Light-

It remembered this place. This was where the Dismemberment had happened. Where it had become an entity unto itself, yet still connected to the others. Where it had been taken away, and confined.

With the location implanted firmly in its head, it changed direction midair and continued on.