♔ — the soil is never still. miniscule tremors lull those buried six feet under into a dream like a babe in the womb, the earth their mother, the overwhelming weight of dust and dirt their cradle. most live too fast to be able to perceive it, but he feels it. he has felt it for millennia, felt the slow crawl of continents, felt the distant vibrations of the earth imploding under it's own pressure, felt the tremors of life's children crawling wretchedly upon her disgraced body. worms. fuel for the pyre, a feast fattening itself up on power.

he does not measure time like he used to, anymore. now it is measured in feasts. it is measured in slaughter, in the death he could most readily remember reigning upon the earth, blood soaking his burial chambers, waiting for him to return to rest among the rot and bone. a bed of flowers. roses. their thorns long gone, sharpened points dulled with time. they smell sickly sweet, rotten through and preserved, fertilizer for their brethren, new petals sprouting where old had died. new souls for the pyre. 

the earth stirs where ancient bones lay buried, where lush forests no longer reign, replaced by dust, replaced by death. the earth still remembers their presence, hidden underneath layers of sediment, layers of history. he still remembers - but this would not be the first time he has awoken in a different place he had left behind.

it's like being reborn. his body curls and coils upon itself, dying limbs obeying a mind powerful enough to keep them in one piece. the earth which felt so comforting now feels like a prison, squeezing his waking body, stealing his breath, suffocating him. muscles work at the earth, binding it to his presence, powers both physical and not surging through his form. he is the tremor, now. he has made his presence known, returning to join the worms.