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I felt hard dirt underneath me, pressing into the contours of my body so hard they might bruise. The frozen ground was too hard to mould to my shape, and the worsening stiffness in my back and wings was making that obvious. There was a gust of wind. It was colder than my rocky bed, and it smelled like too many things at once. A cold drop of rain landed on my eyelid. I tried to raise my arm to protect my face, but found that my arm was so heavy it felt dead. I was too tired to adjust my position, but it was quickly becoming obvious that the discomfort of staying here would soon outweigh the discomfort of waking up and moving. Another drop of rain fell, like a poking finger, hard onto my flat nose. I groaned as they increased in frequency, drumming into my huge, numb ears. My pelt was plastering to my skin; even my thick fur had a saturation point, and I was feeling the cold already. It was like my flesh was as soaked in ice as my fur. I felt like a craggy monster god of old, awakening from some prehistoric coma. Specifically, like one who needed a few more centuries asleep. I gave another closed-mouth groan, and rolled over onto my left shoulder, and then onto my paws. My legs trembled slightly at first, then hoisted my huge body, soaking wet pelt and all, into a slouching but upright position. My jaws cracked apart with a wet squelch, and creaked as I stretched them to their limit in an exhausting yawn. I let my front paws slide forward in a stretch, trying to resist the urge to lie back down as I sank lower. I felt something tighten around my upper arms, limiting my movement and preventing the stretch from being satisfying. I finally got around to prying open my eyes to see what the matter was. I had to blink a few times to get the fluid in my eyes flowing, and when they finally focussed, I saw I had clothes on. I hesitated to really call them 'clothes' - they were fraying everywhere they could, and the way they were loose and baggy in some places, while too tight in others, suggested they hadn't really been made for me. They weren't dirty, though I'd been lying in dirt; I surmised it was so tightly packed with frost, it didn't have any spare grains to lodge in my clothes. I glanced up from my self-inspection to look at the torrents of icy drops falling in sheets, and wondered if that would melt the frost in the dirt or just freeze it harder. I tried to fully extend my wings, but found the same impediment to my range of motion there as well. I resolve to shred this damn coating of cloth as soon as I found a dry place. I glanced around, eyes narrowed against the painful, pelting darts, hoping to see shelter of some kind. I sniffed hopefully, but I should've known better. In the rain, the air no longer smelled like too many things at once; quite the contrary, it smelled like fresh water and nothing else. The inside of my nostrils stung with the cold air. I turned on the spot, seeing nothing but bare stretches of sodden misery for as far as I could see, until I found I could make out a tall, darker shape against the black clouds. I forced my tired body to move toward it, still irritated by the tight fabric binding me. As I got close enough to see it properly, I whimpered in relief: it was a large, shoddy sort of house, with the doors missing, but the roof intact. I worked my legs up from a dejected walk to a lope, brightened by a stroke of luck. As soon as I crossed the threshold, the scents in the air came back in a rush, so many at once I had trouble placing them immediately. I let myself collapse onto my stomach, sending two scents more than any others up into my face; that of my own wet fur, and that of the hay I lay on. After a few breaths, I began to sort through the others: dried animal scat, rotten wood, and what might've been lettuce or celery. I managed to find a connection between all those smells, and this structure in my muddled brain: it was a warehouse on a farm. Judging by the state of the place, no one had been here in a long time to repair it, or fill it. Perhaps the miscellaneous vegetables I smelled were things they used to grow here. I raised my head and looked out the wide doorway. Now that I could open my eyes and see it properly, the sky was quite frightening. It seemed to extend forever in every direction, and all of it was boiling black clouds and stinging rain. It made it hard to believe that it had ever been sunny anywhere in the world. Remembering the clothes (which were becoming tighter with being wet), I tried to raise myself onto my hind legs to free my hands for their destruction. With my tail trapped in pants, leaving me unable to correct my balance, it took a few tries and unwieldy wobbling, but I managed to find a position that left me standing erect, though I couldn't have moved from it without tilting onto all fours again. Trying to keep my center of balance, I curled my claws around the collar, and wrenched it as hard as I could. The cloth, which had been pushed to its limits before, ripped easily with a satisfying shirrrrrk all the way down the center. A mane of chest fur burst through the rip. I ran my claws appreciatively through my lightly coloured underbelly fur, tousling it to get rid of the discomfort the shirt had caused. A quick snap of my jaws to grab the sleeve and a jerk of my head freed my left arm, and then my right. The remains of the shirt fell to the filthy hay. I kicked it away, and rolled my shoulders. I hooked my thumbs under the waistline of the pants, and yanked. I didn't need to create any new rips for this one; the seams burst rather easily. I sighed in relief, swishing my tail and relaxing my stance; standing was not quite such a balancing act now. Starting with a slow turn of my head to stretch my neck, I shook off my entire hide, ending with a whip of my tail. My wings, which were mostly hairless save for some sparse covering, didn't need a drying shake. Now reasonably comfortable, I settled down in the soft, if stinking, hay to go back to sleep, when I noticed something distinctly rectangular lying in the pile of fabric that had been the pants. Carefully, I slid it out of the pocket with the pad of one finger. It was paper and stiff. With careful snuffling, I smelled ink, and salty water through the fresh rainwater soaking it. Not wanting to damage the note that was surely inside what I now recognized was an envelope, I resolved not to touch it until it dried, hoping the folded paper didn't stick together too badly by then. I hunkered down on the spot again, when it hit me that I had no idea how that letter had gotten into my pocket. I supposed someone could've stuck it in there while I was sleeping in the farm field - but now I thought about it, I didn't know how I'd gotten into those clothes. Surely I would've woken up if someone had forced those on while I slept? But I couldn't remember putting them on myself. I tried to think back to before I'd fallen asleep in the field, and realized something truly upsetting. I didn't know why I'd come here, or how. I couldn't remember doing it, or deciding to do it. I couldn't remember yesterday. I couldn't remember anything at all past the moment the raindrop landed on my eye. I couldn't remember my name. I bolted upright, hearing my heartbeat getting louder and faster. I could hear my breathing as well, my panicked, fast breaths. My mouth opened, and I panted in fear, puppyish whines coming from my throat. The severity of the situation was beginning to crush me, and I was starting to shake with an icy feeling that was not the cold rain. I dashed across the barn on all fours, reached the wall, turned around, ran back the other way. I was running up and down the barn, whining, half-crying, completely unable to stop myself, asking myself the same questions in my head over and over. What is your name? Where did you come from? How old are you? What do you like to do? What don't you like to do? Who are your parents? I couldn't answer any of them, and they wouldn't stop, they just kept spinning inside my head the same way I was running in circles, tearing the barn apart. Even my body was all wrong! Why hadn't I noticed before? The front paws striking the ground in front of me were not normal paws: they were thick and strong and load-bearing, yes, but they had thumbs, something that shouldn't be on a paw made for running. My wings were wrong; they shouldn't be on me, because I was too big and heavy. I might be able to fly if I tried, but surely if I could run as fast and as long as I was right now, I couldn't be built for flying as well. This panicked sprinting wasn't helping at all. I skidded to a halt, sat back on my haunches. I shut my eyes, and tried my very hardest to calm down. I couldn't even manage to breathe slower, but at least I was staying still. I lifted one paw - or hand? - off the barn floor and ran my claws through my head fur. Maybe it was something I did to calm myself down; I had no idea. In running my claws over my ears, I whined to realize they were wrong on me, too. They were too big. A normal, four-legged furry animal should have ears about a third the size of mine. I put both hands on my head, over my ears and eyes so I wouldn't see or hear any new horrifying surprises. I could hear my own breathing, sounding like a trapped animal. The letter, I reminded myself. You were given a letter. It must say something. That calmed me a little - but only a little. I let my hands fall from my face and settle on the ground in front of my hind feet. In a sudden flicker of lightning, the dark shapes of my four paws were lit up in vivid colour; I saw fur the same dark gray as the rainclouds filling the entire sky outside, interspersed with red and white, then all was flat black once more. The roll of thunder that came immediately after was so concussive and imposing, my fur stood on end with shock. I ducked my head, cowed by the very noise, feeling as though the sky was falling toward the ground like a fist to crush me in this desolate, abandoned place. I dug into a pile of hay, covering my whole body to feel safer, or at least warmer. I didn't manage either one; the cold stubbornly stayed in my body, refusing to fade. The smell of the hay and my own fear-sweat filled my nose as I took a shivery breath. I whispered aloud to myself: "Who am I?" Somehow, making noise made me more afraid, so I shut up and lay still. It took a long time before I had control of myself again; what calmed me was thinking of the letter, and how all I had to do was wait for it to dry. Then, I could read it, and everything would make sense. I didn't think I'd slept, but it was difficult to say; it was so dark under the pile of plants, that it was possible I'd shut my eyes and dozed without noticing my loss of consciousness. I shoved myself up from under the straw, stretching my wings and all four legs as tall as they could be. I felt blood flow to the very tips of my wings, and gave a satisfied grunt. I didn't feel quite so scared as I had before; I was strangely optimistic that reading the letter would clear everything up. As though it was just some mishap that I'd been mind-wiped and dropped in the middle of nowhere, and I'd have all the answers as soon as it was cleared up. I shook myself, combing my fur with my claws to get all the straw out. I smiled at how luxuriantly thick my fur was, layered with coarse, stiff hair on the surface, and soft, downy fur underneath. My body might seem wrong, parts of it all mixed and matched, wings with four legs and paws with thumbs, but if I said so myself, my fur was beautiful. I retrieved the small rectangle of paper from the ground a few feet away, lying next to the damp piles of torn fabric. I nudged it cautiously with one long claw; it didn't tear under that tiny pressure as I'd feared it would. I picked it up as gently as I could; it felt so fragile and small in my huge paws. It took a few minutes fussing to unfold it without running the risk of tearing it in half, working with the blunt instruments that were my clawed toes. When it was finally open, I smoothed it out on the ground and stared at it for a long moment. The runes scrawled across it weren't legible, or just didn't mean anything. Confused and with growing frustration, I stared for several minutes, turning it this way and that with one finger, but the characters written on it never made any sense. "It's garbage." I muttered. My teeth clenched together, so hard that they shook, and the shaking spread into my hands, my legs, my tail, like it was infectious. My gorge rose slightly, as though it really was sickness, but it wasn't. It was deep fury. "It's fucking garbage!" I said, shuddering, deep growls pouring out of my mouth after my words. I wrenched my gaze away from that awful letter, mocking me with its nonsense runes and its false promise. The shaking seemed to move along my arm with fierce attention in the split second it took me to drive my fist against the wooden barn wall next to me. The old wooden panel squealed and a crack opened in the middle beneath my knuckles. I pulled my arm back and punched again and again, widening a hole in the rotten wood with every blow, but I didn't feel any better. A steady stream of angry rumbles coming up from my chest was the background noise to my thoughts. Why couldn't the letter have said anything? Why did I have it at all if it was just scribbles? Was someone just toying with me, playing a cruel joke? It wasn't fair! The steady white noise of my own growling and the sound of splintering wood were interrupted by a sudden, low creaking noise. I halted my assault on the wall in surprise; it was loud, and very close. A jolt of pain in my upper jaw drew my attention, and made me realize the creaking, popping, grinding sound was inside my own mouth. The noise grew louder and the pain grew worse. I pressed my hand to my mouth, groaning, and I felt an eye-watering twist in my canine teeth. My low groan turned into a high-pitched whine. It felt like my teeth were trying to shove out of my skull. I pressed my hand against my mouth harder, hoping, wishing, I could keep them still. With a sickening crack and a jab of agony that made my guts shrivel, my lower jaw was forced to open several inches by huge things in my mouth that hadn't been there a second ago. I felt them pushing against my hand, and cautiously peeled my lips back. I touched the smooth protrusions, and discovered that they were my teeth. Twin bone blades, shoving rudely out of my mouth where my obedient carnassials should've been. It took real strength, I think, not to get even further agitated. Despite being disoriented, confused, with no memory, a body that makes no sense, a letter not written in writing, and teeth that turn into weapons at random ... I refused to panic. Holding myself still with all my might, I took quick, shallow breaths, trembling with the effort. My tail was twitching in between my legs, my wings flicking slightly open and pulling back in rapidly; small symptoms of shock that might worsen any second if I couldn't make myself just breathe ... I had to use the full strength of my diaphragm to halt its anxious contractions, and then give one long pull, inhaling all the way. I held it, held it tightly in my chest until my nervous spasms ceased, until my tail relaxed and swung out into its natural place, swaying comfortably from my lower back, then let out a great groan of air. The tusks shifted uncertainly, giving little twists and twinges, before slipping upward back into the flesh of my mouth. It was much less painful for them to nestle in back where they belonged, and I sighed, relieved. Not just relieved that I could comfortably close my mouth again, but also that I had done that. I'd taken control of myself and made my teeth small again. It was the first time in my memory of one hour that strange things like shape-shifting fangs hadn't jerked me around, that I'd refused to be moved by something. In this strangely proud mood, I approached the letter again, ready to take a level-headed crack at it. The runes on the page didn't look any different, but they somehow felt different. I could imagine that they meant something, that someone had written them with purpose and ideas. I blinked, and turned my head a little, not looking at the whole page this time, but rather running my gaze over each line, word by word. That felt better, more like the correct thing to do. And as I reached the end of the page and returned to the top to look it over again, suddenly it clicked. The scribbles on the page now meant something; I recognized a few letters. If I concentrated, I found I could just barely remember a few words: plan, meant scheme or schedule or a pre-determined set of actions in particular sequence meant to achieve a goal; all, everything, everyone, every step - of the plan, perhaps. There was a sentence now, at the beginning of the letter: If all has gone according to plan, you are confused. I grunted, dismayed; this was not off to a good start. A few more minutes' careful study yielded the next sentence. You hopefully do not remember anything at all; it is my understanding that it should work this way. There was something about the wording that seemed wrong to me; imagining these words spoken aloud, they seemed stilted and unnatural. I could only imagine that the writer hadn't been feeling himself. It became easier to read the longer I did, and I managed to figure out the rest of the letter from there relatively quickly. I'm uncertain if you will even be able to read this letter, to be honest with you. Unfortunately, that is what I cannot be: honest. You must not know what, or especially who, you are, and I will not tell you. All I can say is that you should keep it this way, if you know what's good for you, and never seek out clues of your past, or anyone who might have known you. Even if you feel you have to know or you will go mad, choose madness, I implore you, or all of what I have done will be for naught. I have chosen this path, and for our sakes, I hope you do not undo my choice. - Your past self "You ... selfish motherfucker." I said, the letter blurring as my hands shook. I clenched my fists and ripped the delicate paper fitfully, over and over until it was practically powder in the hay, and whirled back to the hole in the wall instead. No matter how much energy I put into my attacks, rotten wood breaks and splinters apart too easily, not allowing any satisfaction in the act of destruction. I couldn't believe what I'd read, or rather, what hadn't been in the letter to read. Was I really meant to know nothing at all of who I was? There'd been nothing but a vague warning. Surely it couldn't have hurt to tell me more than that; was my very name some sort of taboo? Fed up with punching and clawing wood apart, I stood shuddering with frustration, splinters pricking my palms and lodged in my fur, which was all messed up again since my earlier brushing. I felt so disappointed, I was no closer now that before to understanding anything. I shambled out of the barn, under the deep, dark blue sky, crystal-clear and quite beautiful now that the storm had passed. The chaos and confusion was over in the atmosphere, but there was no end in sight in my mind. Unsure of what I was doing, I dug in my stout front claws and began to haul myself up the outside wall of the barn, leaving deep furrows behind me from my equally strong hind paws. The wood creaked and shook to bear my weight; given my excessive venting against the barn, when it was barely standing to begin with, I wouldn't have been surprised if the entire thing collapsed under my weight alone. I kept climbing despite that, until I was perched on the highest point of the roof, with nowhere further to go. I lay down with my head on my forepaws, and shut my eyes. The cloying cold was still there, stiffening my muscles despite my exertion. I didn't know who I'd been before, but he must've been a real jackass, wiping my memory and leaving me in the middle nowhere with no direction. He hadn't spared a single thought for how I'd feel: like all there was in the world was this barn, this frozen, flat stretch of land, and a pathetic freak with no place in it who had no home. I highly doubted I would ever open my eyes now. But then, the wind shifted, and with my next breath, I smelled something that changed my mind in a moment. I raised my head and gave a proper sniff. It was faint, barely there, and it faded away completely if I turned my head the wrong way. I couldn't tell exactly what it might be, or even anything to compare it to (the only scents I knew were dirt and wood, and this was very different), but I knew that I wanted it. In my mind's eye, the new scent glowed invitingly, and I knew it promised something delicious, something to seek out. It gave me direction. It wasn't much, but in an empty field to a confused beast, it was direction enough. The wind slackened, and the scent vanished. Wherever it came from, the source must be very far away to be so faint. I turned from one side to the other, wishing the wind would pick up again; all I needed was a few seconds, and maybe I could tell which direction it was coming from. A sudden gust, and I whirled to face it. This was the right direction; even though it looked the exact same as every other view away from the farmhouse, the faint glow in my nostrils came stronger here than any other. This was my path. I extended my wings, hoping, pleading to myself, that my huge, muscular body could be supported by these, and flung myself off the roof. The first flex of my wings was painfully slow and difficult; I felt cumbersome, the least aerodynamic thing on wings. Beating against the dead air and the constant downward pull was work, and it had me panting within minutes. My wing muscles shivered constantly at the strain. This didn't feel like flying; it felt more like dragging myself through the air. I forced myself to keep flapping. The glowing scent, though blown away now from the motion of my wings, was worth the effort. With great, billowing sweeps, the wind from my strokes ruffling my fur, I pushed ever forward.