Chapter 1.

A field.

This time, neither empty, nor clad in mist. But still, swathed in darkness. The waning crescent moon cast a watery, uncertain illumination on the landscape. A single house, rudely simplistic in construction, topped the rise. Other rises were visible in the distance. Between them, in the deeply shadowed depressions, the mists lurked. No longer cloaking the scene in a smothering, vapourous blanket, they straggled about in isolated clumps, like the last patches of snow making a final, vain stand against the inexorable march of spring. Some of the rises and depressions sported patches of trees and shrubbery. More houses of similar design were visible on the further rises. To the southwest, the intermittent copses of trees morphed to an unbroken blanket of forest.

The air was calm.

The air was calm.

An anomalous breeze sprung up. Some sparse, fallen leaves of the late summer were idly tossed about by aimless searching currents of air. All about the house they searched, invisible djinn on an incomprehensible quest. A breeze circled about a single crude headstone, erected a dozen meters to the east of the house. It had found what it was looking for. The questing breezes turned into a single unified gale. The leaves and detritus picked up in their search was wrenched into an ever-tightening spiral over the headstone. Without warning, the spectral cyclone ceased, as if drawn suddenly into the earth. Several dozen leaves and twigs, suddenly bereft of support, fell to the ground, forming an eerie spiral centered around the headstone. Silence returned. An expectant silence.

The silence continued.

An owl hooted softly in the distance, as if disappointed that there wasn't more to the show than a brief, inexplicable display of gusts. The moon slowly coasted towards the horizon, apparently giving up the hope of seeing anything else of interest that evening. Nothing more occurred for a full half hour.

Another half hour passed before anything happened. Soon, though, after a full hour of inactivity, something moved across the field. A squat shadow slunk quickly back and forth between the rises, stopping every now and again to pick up some object and nibble in interest on some random piece of detritus. Its haphazard path eventually took it close to the headstone, sticking unevenly from the earth, as if the ground had given itself a jaunty, if morbid headpiece. A meter from the headstone, the raccoon froze. Slowly, warily, it turned its head to face the ramshackle house, detecting movement from somewhere under its shadowed eaves. A pair of yellow orbs glowed in the waning moonlight. A grey cat, now practically black under the shadow of night, gazed with mild interest at the raccoon. It wasn't a large cat, little bigger than a kitten in fact. It regarded the raccoon with interest. Not fear, nor hostility, just interest. It almost looked as though the cat were waiting for something to occur.

The raccoon had spent several years surviving under the shadows of the humans in the area. Though not intelligent in any way recognizable by those same humans, a deep cunning had been evolved as a necessity for survival. If it were possible to translate the stream of thoughts that went through the raccoon's head into something comprehendible to humans, the result might look something like this: I see it. It sees me. It sees me seeing it. It's not attacking. Keep an eye on it.

The raccoon eventually returned to scrounging for food, though much slower and more deliberately than before, casting many a cautious glance towards the feline on the stoop. The leaves and assorted detritus that had fallen around the grave was a treasure trove of possibility to the bushy-tailed mammal, and thus, it spent far more time searching through for various edibles.

As it was so intent on both its search for food, and keeping track of the cat on the porch, the raccoon did not notice the growing disturbance in the ground nearby it. Didn't notice, that is, until a dirt-soaked fist burst through the ground mere centimeters away from the scrounging mammal. Shrill, choked cries came from the raccoon as it stumbled and scrambled madly away. The cat watched it go, something approaching amusement reflected in its eyes. Then, it turned its gaze back upon the headstone. The fist had retreated back into the earth, were, joined by a second hand, it began to push and shovel earth away from itself at a frantic rate.

The ground swelled upward. Two forearms burst from the soil. The hands flailed about, grasping at the ground, the grass, anything they could hold onto. One of the hands struck the headstone. The hand froze, as if stunned from the blow. Then, both promptly grabbed the sides of the thick, mineral slab and pulled. Cracks appeared in the soil as a larger mass was dragged upward from its depths. Finally, in a shower of dirt and woodchips, a human figure burst from the ground, sprawling across the grass and leaves.

The figure was deathly pale and emaciated-looking. It was clad in ragged, torn white cloth, coated both in dirt, and splinters of wood that presumably came from a cheaply constructed coffin. The hair, though hideously tangled and dirt stained, looked as though all colour had been drained from it. The outlines of bones showed clearly through the stretched, starved-looking skin.

Shakily, the figure pushed itself up to its hands and knees. Sobbing gasps of breath were hitched in. The figure remained this way for a full thirty seconds. The breathing slowed…then stopped altogether. The figure slowly leaned backwards, lifting its pale, scrawny hands from the ground. Now on its knees, the figure breathed experimentally onto one hand, blowing some of the dust and nitre off. It stopped. No breath came from its mouth. The figure seemed to reach a conclusion, breathing was not, apparently, necessary for survival. The figure leaned his head back and shook the ivory hair from his face.

His features, like the rest of his body, were rather gaunt. Despite this, the face was rather youthful looking. A gently curved nose and the high cheekbones of a boy in his fifteenth or sixteenth year. The eyes were the exception to this. They were dull, dead. A sterile, pale blue colour, leeched of life, seemingly like the rest of his body. But they weren't empty. Thought, intelligence, curiosity was in those eyes, if not the spark of biological life. The eyes turned and focused on the object that was so instrumental in the figure's escape from its soily entombment, the headstone.

"Beloved son and brother, taken from us long before his time: Nemida"

The dry lips opened, silently mouthing the word 'Nemida'.

Flakes of dirt spattered the ground as the figure slowly pushed itself up to a standing position. The dead, yet strangely alert eyes transferred their gaze from the gravestone to the surrounding landscape. The moon had nearly fully set. A vast majority of the land was now bathed in impenetrable shadow. Yet, the figure still gazed into the shadow, his eyes flicking back and forth as if taking in details mortal eyes could not see. The eyes came to rest upon the ramshackle house. They focused more, and came to meet the unblinking feline gaze coming from the stoop.

A step was taken, awkwardly. The second and third steps were slightly more assured. By the time the sixth stride was reached, the figure appeared fully confident in its ambulatory ability. The distance between the figure and the house decreased. A thinning trail of dislodged, funereal dirt marked his passage from the headstone towards the porch. Reaching the porch, the figure stopped. Slowly, methodically, the figure bent over, extending a hand towards the cat. The cat delicately sniffed the hand. Apparently it was not displeased with what its nose told it, for it gave the hand a loving nuzzle, and leapt forward to intertwine itself among the figure's legs.

Following the cat with his eyes, the figure realized for the first time that it was clad it little more than a tattered, white funeral raiment. The white was almost unnoticeable amidst the dirt stains. The figure looked back towards the gravestone. He looked at the ragged hole by it. The figure looked at its own minimal clothing. A conclusion appeared to be reached. The figure turned back towards the house.

A gaunt hand reached out and pressed the rotted, wooden latch of the door. The latch turned, and the door opened, albeit with much complaining from the aged hinges. A single lamp burned from within. Visible in the flickering light was a single figure, aged and bent, apparently expecting the death-garbed visitor.

"Nemida, me boy. Ye have returned!" came the cracked voice.

The figure paused, considering this, "So…I am Nemida."

"Course ye are, boy, course ye are!"

"Then…that is my grave out there?"

"Tis so, 'tis so," the aged figure replied, "Guess we was wrong in assumin' ye be dead!"

"And then, you must be my father, right?"

"Quite true, quite true!"

Nemida simply stared at the figure. From the nebulous blur of what he assumed was his memory came brief flashes. The name, yes, that felt like it was his. The house…was familiar too. The cat, which continued winding its way around his legs, yes, he definitely remembered that the cat was important to him, even if he didn't know why. Brief flashes, though. Brief flashes was all it was. Time, a sequence of events. Memory, the ability to look back over observed events. Nemida looked back over his observed events. A more or less continuous thread extended from his present situation back…fifteen minutes. He had found himself in a confined, wooden case. Caught in a rotting, claustrophobic sepulcher sealed under a barrier of earth. Sheer blind panic drove the maddened upward convulsions. Jerkingly and spasmodically, tearing his way out of the flimsy coffin, fighting upward, driven by an all-consuming fright of tight, airless confines.

Nemida shivered, looking at his hands. Not all was right. He had felt stabbing pains when making his initial panicked drive for freedom. The coffin must have splintered, driving wooden daggers into his desperately seeking hands. Nemida had neither the time nor the inclination to look at his wounds. Now, though, the complete lack of both wounds and pain gave him pause. Not all was right.

The figure in front of him, smiling genially. The same general shape as Nemida, human. But it was not right. The head bobbled erratically. The eyes shone brighter than Nemida's own dead pupils, glittering in the lamplight. But they appeared even more lifeless for it. No thought, no emotion behind them. The face seemed less like a face than a pallid, waxen mask. The figure's movements were jerky, uncoordinated. Nemida had no idea what a marionette was, but for some reason, he kept half-expecting to see strings extending from the elderly figure's appendages.

"I'm…hungry." As Nemida said it, he suddenly realized it was true.

The figure responded immediately, almost before Nemida had finished the sentence. "Food, yes, food! On the table for you!"

With that said, the figure resumed its idle bobbling. Nemida continued looking at it. Its actions appeared more and more disturbing. Nemida felt like he wasn't talking to a human being at all. On a whim, he repeated himself, "I'm hungry."

A cold shiver went through Nemida as the creature bobbled happily and replied, "Food, yes, food! On the table for you!"

The same voice, the same inflexion, exactly. The figure, having said its share, resumed its placid, bobbling pose. Without warning, the cat turned towards the only other doorway in the room, now cloaked in deep shadow, hissed, and scuttled out the door. Thrown off by the distraction, Nemida gave in to the growing pangs of hunger inside and sat down at the crude table. There was indeed a plate set out. It was filled with corn and some sort of meat, poultry it looked like.

Before starting, Nemida gave the figure that had the outward appearance of his father a sharp glance. No reaction. The figure had not even turned to watch him sit down, and stood looking vacantly at the spot Nemida had previously occupied, bobbling happily. Nemida tried an experiment, "Then that is my grave out there?"

The figure jerked slightly, then rotated to face Nemida. The mouth opened, and the voice came out, the same as before, "Tis so, 'tis so. Guess we was wr…"

"Father, get some sleep."

The figure's voice stopped at the command. There was nothing gradual about it, as soon as the third voice had uttered the command, the wrinkled figure's voice cut off abruptly. The figure turned and hobbled stiffly through the second doorway, where the new voice had come from. The voice seemed infinitely more alive, having a dynamically changing inflexion that appeared to actually react with its surroundings. The voice was dry and cultured, and there was an almost palpable air of understated superiority about it.

The figure that now stepped out was no less incongruous with the humble surroundings than he was with his own outfit. For a brief moment, Nemida was goaded into mirth by what he saw. Surely whoever this was could not possibly expect him to believe, for even a second, that he was what his outfit would suggest him to be. A ramshackle shack, with a stiff, waxen puppet masquerading as his father within. Now, a figure of obviously regal bearing and posture, clad in the outfit of a simple peasant? Nemida carefully kept his face blank as his eyes swept over the figure before him.

He was attractive, to say the least. The ebony locks, for the most part, were tied back in a firm braid. A few errant wisps descended over the the face, the face that seemed perfect to a fault. If it weren't for the eyes, the figure would have radiated a powerful, almost sexual attraction. The eyes, though, quickly quenched any thought that sexuality had anything to do with this person's goals. They smouldered darkly, containing within them the carefully fanned flames of amibition.

"Your memory appears to have slipped, little brother," the figure said without preamble.

"Are you a good big brother, or a bad big brother?" Nemida countered, determined not to let himself be swept over by the oddness of the situation.

"You've been gone for quite a while."

"I don't recall ever leaving."

"One in your state wouldn't recall much."

"Had I a mirror, I might see a family resemblance."

"Had you a memory, you might see what I seek."

"Your clothes seem ill-fitting, they would probably look better on someone who acts like the menial class they designate."

"Your vitality seems rather confused, it left your body half a year ago to go wandering."

"Who are you?"

"What use would it be to you, who does not even know himself?"

"What is going on?"

"There is something amiss about you."

"What's your name?"

"Mihotyt."

Nemida stopped the dialogue. He realized he had lost the game, rather badly. Despite that, the eyes still bored into him, searching for something unseen. Nemida felt slightly itchy, as if his skin were slowly being burned away by that gaze, revealing all that lay underneath. Things here were strange, not what he expected. Was this what the world was supposed to be like, and his expectations merely some skewed side-effect of his amnesia? Had sanity fled along with his memory?

The sky outside was violet. The sun lurked just below the horizon, as if waiting for something to wander into the ambush it has set up. Inside, Nemida blistered under the gaze of Mihotyt. "I'm hungry, I'd like to eat alone," Nemida said.

"You're lost, the presence of another can help."

"Regardless, I'd like to eat alone."

"Your choices have consequences," Mihotyt turned and strode out the back door, leaving it open.

Nemida stalked to the doorway, looking to see what direction his brother had gone. There was no one outside. Calmly, he turned and went back inside, sitting down at the table. He took a spoonful of corn and smelled it. It smelled the way he would expect corn to smell. The plate looked the way he would expect a plate to look. It seemed his amnesia applied only to individual objects, not categories. He knew what a person was, but he had no memory of any specific people. He knew what a house was, but he did not know of any specific homes. He put the spoonful of corn in his mouth.

A taste of withered eternity fell upon his tongue. The taste of corpses that had long passed the stage of putrid decay, and had become little more than dusty shells. Nemida coughed, spitting the corn upon the table and retching violently. Slowly, he pushed himself back up, wiping the blood away from his lips. He looked at his hands.

Blood. On his hands, dripping from his lips, mixed with the half-chewed pile of corn on the table. Nemida looked evenly upon all this. His left eye twitched slightly. He got up and wandered through the only other doorway in the room. He came to the only other room in the house, the bedroom. His father lay there in the darkness, presumably asleep. There was no light in the room, yet Nemida could see all that was there. No, not see, he could only see the darkness. Yet, he knew where everything was. It was as if there was some sense within him that his mind had no idea how to comprehend the signals from, and so, fed it to him in the form of sight that wasn't sight.

"Father?" Nemida said, intending to rouse the sleeper, "Father? What are humans supposed to act like?"

There was no reply. There was no sound whatsoever. No snoring, no breathing. Nemida cautiously stalked around the side of the bed and prodded the lump under the blankets experimentally, "Father?"

Nothing. No warmth met his hand when he prodded the lump, though it did have the shape and feeling of a human being beneath the blankets. Nemida accepted this calmly, and pulled the blankets back. His father was there, completely immobile. Sightless eyes stared vacantly at the city. Cold, waxen flesh drooped unnaturally from the artificial, skeletal framework. Nemida calmly put the blanket back in place. He turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind him. He stood by the door and took a deep breath. Then, Nemida screamed.