It
knew that it had once been a man, when it had been alive, though it
could not remember its name and had no real memories of its life.
It
had no form now, and could not see, nor hear, nor taste nor smell; it
existed in darkness and silence and could feel only its loss. Yet it
knew it was not alone, but surrounded by a host of others that might
also once have been men, or something quite different altogether.
And
while these things had no form or substance they were somehow not
idle, but forced by some irresistible power to labour in the
eternal darkness, in a way that was not mere physical work of the body, but toil of the
very essence, of what the thing might once have called a soul, and this
toil somehow ground down this essence, wearing away at the things'
souls until they became... almost nothing. Yet never quite, for
complete non-existence was something denied, that could never be
hoped for.
And
while it had no name for that which compelled it to toil, just as it
had no name for itself, the thing knew that in life it has worshipped
this entity, and dedicated its life to it. It was here not because of
some irresistible fate or terrible sin, but because it had chosen to
bind itself to the service of that which now enslaved it.
And it somehow knew it had not just bound itself, but in spending its life in
the service of this entity had sought out others and convinced them
to bind themselves to, so certain had it been of the goodness and correctness of
this action.
Though
why it had been certain it did not know, for while it knew it had once been
a living man, it did not know what its name had been, and had no real
memories of its life.
