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Get up.
The voice -- no, not a voice: a sensation -- was like a cat's sandpaper tongue, rough and insistent and soft all at once. She was... moving. Being moved?
Wake up, get up.
No, she slurred -- even as she did what she was told. There was light and warmth around her, a featureless landscape of sunny days and humid nights. All was engulfed in this brightness, save for the shadow that fell across her face, barring her from the full force of that warmth. Move, she croaked, and even her mental voice was dry as an ancient corpse. You're blocking me.
I'm blocking you because you can't go there.
I go where I want, she shot back, not yet questioning this soundless, effortless method of communication, and flailed out with an arm. It passed without impediment through the area where she had judged the owner of the shadow must be standing. Where are you? Face me.
I am here. The shadow grew on her face, widened and darkened and drew back until she could see it, until the light and warmth were nothing but a thin halo of concentrated brightness at its edges. Perhaps you should question your whereabouts, not mine.
Stop that! she commanded. There was no response to the whip-crack of the order and she added, I've been so cold...
And colder you shall become, then hot again. I already told you -- you can't go there.
Why not? She felt both tired and weightless, and attributed the latter to the former. She must be dizzy, light-headed.
Because it is for the dead. You are not dead. There was no further explanation, and she remained silent for a long time.
Of course I'm not dead, she finally returned, voice touched with a kitten's petulant mew. I'm here talking to you, aren't I?
Where are you? Suddenly, even that distant halo of light was gone. Earth, night sky and stars snapped into stark, shocking existence, a reality so solid that it hurt. Earlier it had been said that she would get colder, and this was true; the sensation was like being quickly doused in the rivers that result from spring melts in high mountains. What are you standing on? She looked down, and was silent for a long time.
My feet, she offered. She could see every detail of the ground beneath her, yet it felt as if she towered far above it, reaching some vast, improbable height. It was dizzying, and she wavered away from it. Never had she known there was some world other than that bright, soft emptiness. She closed her eyes, only to re-open them when the eyelids did nothing to diminish her vision.
And where are your feet?
She focused harder. Narrowed her eyes. Did not answer.
Legs? Hands?
She lifted her hands to cup her cheeks, to rake her fingers back through the hair she knew she must have. Her hands passed on without pause and journeyed to some point far behind her, miles away from the rest of her body.
How long is your hair? What color are your eyes?
The questions began to push at her; the cat's tongue lost its softness.
I don't know, she muttered. The kitten's petulant mewing subsided.
You don't remember.
She was weightless and formless, and never had she been the quickest of thinkers. There was another long pause.
I am dead, she stated, accusation hissing through her tones. There was no answer; instead, the world of darkness and painful solidity was sucked into the vacuum of bright emptiness.
Yes. The answer held trepidation, hesitation. She pushed toward it.
Then I can go where it's warm. She was still bearing the chill of that night-darkened reality. You said that it's for the dead, and you just said that I am dead.
No.
Why not? It was a cry; far away, where myths walk the lands while mothers rock their babies to sleep, a banshee's wail presided over an old man's heart attack, waking the family and alerting them of impending death. (How were they to know the coincidence, that the soul wailed for itself?)
The flesh is too strong. The promises it made bind you to it.
Promises? That cut the wail quickly enough, silenced the rage of denial (an emotion forgotten as quickly as any others.) But I don't have any flesh.
You do, and I.. honor.. my.. promises.
