A flake of snow...

Then another.

Now the whistling choir of heavy wind.

Consciousness didn’t come with a sudden start or grand self-revelation. It was the slow lapping waves of a tranquil incoming tide.

The diffused light of an overcast snowy day danced lazily as time passed, only punctuated by the occasional question that drifted unanswered across his mind.

Where am I?

Who am I?

Why am I in the snow?

Can I move?

Just as the light began its gentle fade from the sky, he decided to test that last question. It was a strange feeling going from passive observer to active participant, but he pushed on anyway. He tried blinking, then again, but nothing happened, no change to his vision. A feeling of self-awareness tugged at him gently, informing him he did not in fact have eyelids, making him realize the futility of his attempts.

A loud gust of wind brought him back to the world outside his mind. He was staring at a dusky sky, the start of a snowstorm battling the air around him.

Even in the brief moments when the wind reached its lowest ebb, he felt the frigid air still battling around and through him.

The wind goes through. Do I even exist?

He felt fear wash over him like a sudden crashing wave.

No, I think therefore I am... I think...

That realization calmed him a little, but the whole situation was taking on a sinister feeling in his mind.

He tried looking around. This at least succeeded, while the snow and approaching dark limited how far he could see. There were the dark greens of a pine forest in every direction he looked.

I’m in a clearing in a forest.

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He looked around a little further.

I’m lying on snow, but I don’t seem to have a body. No hands, no feet. The snow is going right through me. There isn’t even an indent on the ground where I’m lying.

It’s cold but I don’t feel uncomfortable, I’m not tired, I don’t feel thirsty or hungr...

His thought trailed off. There was a yearning deep within him, something he craved. It was a feeling akin to hunger or thirst, but completely unique and yet without a name or any understandable way to sate it.

I guess this feeling, at least, gives me purpose. I need... something.

Deciding he wouldn’t find whatever he was looking for, simply lying in the snow, he tried moving.

With surprising ease, he gently began floating upward, the wind having no bearing on his movement.

Despite the ease of movement, he spent a few minutes experimenting with moving up and down and rotating his view until he felt comfortable with his ability to move and look in any direction.

Before he could decide his next action, there was a faint jingling sound, which seemed to come from all directions at the same time. While the sound was slight, it drowned out the low moans of wind through the trees. The sound had a slightly scratchy quality to it, as if it was an overplayed recording.

That was weird. Then again, considering the situation, I’m not sure I know what weird is.

A new sound started. It sounded like rough scratching of a nibbed pen over coarse paper and in perfect synergy words started appearing in front of his vision in a glowing golden, delicate cursive script.

O’ child of my bosom,

The light faded away completely before the next line wrote itself out.

I hope this epistle will aid you in your journey and give you solace for the confusion you no doubt find yourself in.

What’s an epistle?

I am in a fashion your progenitor; my will and intent hewed you.

You are one amongst many. Your siblings are near without number, but I treat each of you without bias, fair or foul.

You are a being without mortal fear. No malady will ever touch you, no mortal tool can harm you, old age will never rob you of your light or wit.

You are now a being of pure effervescent divinity.

I will give you an angel, a scrivener, who will give unto you any power you wish for a price.

While I have lit your lantern, it is now yours to take and do with, as is your wont.

Heal, guide, devour, sing, love, hate.

The choices are all yours to make.

This world is not without its trials and dangers even for one such as you though. Your siblings all have their own machinations, hopes, fears and weapons and their tools, unlike those of mortals are such that you should fear.

And to grow you must reap and sow, for while my scriveners are generous, the power of the gifts has a price. You must drink deeply from prayer, sacrifice, or loss if you hope to thrive.

I give my children one last parting gift as I wish for you to truly flourish.

True vision of the warp and weft of that which you must reap.

Now, you must go o’ child of my bosom, but know you go with my love and blessing

Make all the worlds bend and creak to your will.

He watched unmoving as the last of the words faded from his vision.

Well, that was.... something.