OLD DREAMS

He knelt under  the trees, as still as death.

They were near now, very near. He could smell them. Small things. Inconsequent things. Minute and insignificant -- full of tiny barbs, perhaps, but ultimately worthless. He had seen them all before, had crushed many of them in the past when the mood had come over him, and he knew they were but dust in the face of his might.

He had not eaten in days. Now the urge had come over him once again. Ever since his gut had begun to harden and twist so many long years ago, after he had found the Stone, his desire to eat had begun to dissipate. Hunger used to make him do many things, but what had once been an overpowering urge was now barely a tickling in his gullet. For quite a long time now, he had found himself devouring things out of bitter desire, rather than out of any need.

He breathed and a bird fell squawking from the air. He shifted and a fox was crushed. But when he shut his eyes, all he could see were the first moments -- the beginning of everything...

...Murmuring cacophany, engulfing him, pulling, tugging, weaving. Swirls of grey swimming from the black, signifying the path from order to chaos, back again. A hoarse voice above the others beckoning, clutching.

...Molding and transforming his essence.

...Joints wrench. Limbs twist. Flesh knits. Nerves scream.

...Unmitigated pain.

His eyes snapped back open. Mercifully, the feelings disappeared.

He could never sleep without the old force awakening in him, the impulse comprising his very first memories from the darkness -- at least, his first complete memories. Every so often, painfully, he would recall some brillant flash of color beyond the vision, or perhaps a cool puff of wind or pleasant scents dancing under warm sun. Some lost memory, some alien thought, that might have been, once upon a time, his.

But was not any longer.

His joints throbbed, and he shifted position. When he did so, branches rustled and cracked around him. It was too loud. He forced himself silent once more. The frustration -- the rage -- was beginning to build, but he could contain it when he had to.

Long enough to make sure that they would not escape.

He could hear their voices now. Just tiny high-pitched squeaks to him, too shrill to completely comprehend even if he had understood the noises, but somehow he knew they were communicating with each other.

"Did you hear that? Did you?"

"Hear what?"

"Don't be stupid. That NOISE! The one that sounded like the whole forest was going to fall down on our heads."

"Hmm. Looks to me like it's still standing."

"That's not my point! There's something OUT there. I know it!"

"Of course there is, it's a forest."

"Don't get smart with me."

"Don't make it easy for me then. Look, if you want an excuse to stop, just ask, but don't go changing every skittish flock of birds into a spook story. I'm getting tired of your whining--EVERYONE'S whining. Dunno why I even bothered leading you city ilk out here in the first place. I'll be darn glad when this is all over."

The puny ones continued their travels, and the sounds faded. They were not looking for him. They did not suspect.

He shook his grizzled head. His bones were stiff. He had not always felt this way, this OLD, at least not back at the beginning when he had been sent forth to destroy and rend. In his time he had torn down spectacular stone castles, set into the bedrock. He had leveled mighty forests, turned raging rivers, dug desolate canyons. The glory of those days had captured his attention for centuries.

But now he was empty, and numb, and tired. It had gone on far too long. The mountain shadows were dark and chill, and he could no longer find pleasure in what he took.

The murmurings. The darkness. The grating voice that had pulled him from the pit. Had there once been something before all this? Had he once known something else besides the waiting and longing and endless years eroding his desire bit by bit?

Was there anything worthwhile besides death?

The puny ones had gone far enough.

He gathered his strength, then erupted from his refuge. Trees flew in every direction as if by hurricane, rocks exploded into particles smaller than dirt, the sound of his might was like the sound of mountains sliding into a crevasse. The ground rocked as if pried asunder. Birds scattered from the forests for miles in every direction, partially blotting the sun.

He charged after his prey.

When his shadow thundered into view, the puny ones mewed and squawked in terror. A few tried to run but lost their footing. Small twigs -- some sort of attack, he realized -- bounced off his breastplate with tiny clangs. There were a few flashes of fire, and pricks of light struck his face and neck, but the heat meant nothing to him.

The Stone had made him numb.

He closed his eyes, preparing to spring, and the hated vision automatically gripped him again, the hated hoarse voice rising unbidden.

"You will hound them through the years. After the war ends, after I enter the great darkness, even after our people have ceased to be memories in the minds of our enemies. From now until the end of time, you will be a thorn in their sides, a terror upon their heads.

And when they themselves finally pass into the black void of final night, even then, you will follow upon their heels, to drive them unto everlasting fear and torment."

Again came the feeling of wrenched joints, twisted limbs, dominating pain.

The Warrior wrenched open his eyes, realizing the horrible truth -- that not even death itself could free him from the purpose he had been shaped for.

He screamed his agony into the heights of the indifferent sky, sending the rest of the puny ones to the ground in complete and abject fear. They had no hope. They were truly impotent under his might.

When he came back to himself, he did the only thing he could do. He reached down. Crushed them all under his hands and feet. And fed.

(c) 1997 by David M. McCandless.
[Cymerial Warrior (c) 1997 by Erin Laughlin.]