Welcome to SNOWBOUND, a new interactive fiction story on Steemit.
Did you miss the first installment? Click here to find out what the hell is going on.
We return to our intrepid protagonist standing in the hall of Death, having wandered in from a strange library.
>remember, remember
The Fifth of November? No, but there is another recollection that comes to you as you gaze upon the specter of Death. His scythe is familiar, in a foreign and alien way. The man in the snow -- the dead man, whose mind and memories now reside within you -- perhaps he was the root. Was he a farmer? A farmer, yes -- and a scythe, of course, was how he reaped his fields. And young -- not 20 years aged. Oh, to be struck down in the prime of life, for nothing more than the crime of...
Of...
It still eludes you. It seems that even he did not know why he was killed. But there is something else that you feel as you gaze upon the black-robed figure -- so ominously present, seated so majestically upon his throne, staring through you with cold and unfeeling intent. Another life. Memories -- memories that you cannot possibly have, for they are not yours, and yet...
And yet...
They are there, inside you, buried. They are confused and jumbled, but they are there -- he is there -- Death is there. He looms even within your mind, but not as this figure does. The Death in your memories is more -- what would it be? He is more...sympathetic, perhaps. More personable, it seems. Almost more...
Human.
But that is not the figure you see. How could you have memories of something which does not exist? Your mind races as the memories fall together in disorganized and confused patterns. What could this possibly mean? You struggle to bring everything into focus, clutching desperately at your head. There must be some sense in this -- there must be!
Before you realize it, Death is upon you, towering as a monolith of terror. His robe hangs in tatters from his bleached-white bones; his scythe edge gleams with obsidian sharpness, creating a minuscule vacuum as it slices the air; his face, affixed in a permanent and most unnerving grin, stares over you and through you all at once, the emptiness of his eye sockets belying the eternal breadth of his sight.
He kindly asks you who you are.
You stare silently into the void behind his face -- what might be considered his face. You are rapt by the question -- for, in truth, you do not have an answer, and the memories you have seem to make no sense. Yet, as you gaze into those cold, dead pits of hell that might pass for eyes, suddenly the memories come together. There is no longer any doubt -- you have met Death before.
You suggest that your name is Ian.
Death leans forward, stooping over what seems like aeons to reach you, and places a bony finger against your skull. He pauses for a moment, as though contemplating, then retracts his hand. A voice -- booming and present, but reserved as a whisper -- begins echoing in your mind.
I see. You have touched the Akashik Records. No mortal I have encountered has yet returned from that plane with such a wealth of knowledge intact. Most souls would have carried it on to the afterlife -- yet here you are. However, I am afraid the information you have gleaned was not entirely intact. The Death you know, the one you learned of in the records, is another Death -- the Death of another universe. Do not look so incredulous. The records exist on a perpendicular plane, intersecting all realities at a single point. In your ethereal form, you were not limited to knowledge only of this universe, but were freely permitted to knowledge of many more. What you experienced was the stored unconscious of another life -- another of your lives, to be precise. This Ian that you have spoken of, the one whose mind you touched in the records -- he is not you; not precisely. He is you in another form. Indeed, the dead man with whom your essence has been merged was another of your lives. Does that surprise you? Surely you knew there was a reason you were so drawn to him. I have been puzzling over this for some time, but, despite my piercing gaze, I have been unable to determine how it is that two of you came to co-exist in a single plane. More precisely, I have been unable to uncover how it is that you came to enter this universe. There is no cause for alarm. I know you are not from this reality. I also know that the transference from your original universe to this one caused you a great deal of memory loss about yourself. Given this, as well as your extensive knowledge of other universes, I would speculate that you somehow managed to travel here through the Akashik Records themselves. I do not yet understand the mechanics of this, but it is the only possibility that I can presently determine. In any case, you do not belong here, and I will have to consult with the Constituent Forces to determine what must be done with you.
Death leads you aside to an empty room. Not a room devoid of things, but a room devoid of space. You inquire about the possibility of getting some grub. Death apologizes for the lack of service, but he assures you that he will return momentarily, and blinks out of sight. As you drift in the emptiness, staring into the abyss -- or, perhaps, as the abyss stares into you -- a door suddenly materializes and opens in front of you, a face popping out to greet you.
"Ah, there you are. I didn't expect to find you here. Well, we can talk about that later. For now, it would be in your best interest to follow me."
The face retreats as the door begins to swing shut.