Asterion opened his eyes. There was no "up" or "down," just a flat white plain that went on forever. The edge where land met sky never got any closer, no matter how long he stared. The air was cold, sterile, and smelled of ozone and ancient dust.
Ahead of him, a long, winding line of dark shapes moved slowly. Some looked like people, but most were nightmarishly wrong, a gallery of the grotesque. They were twisted, with extra arms, or legs that bent the wrong way. One figure had a face that was a smooth, weeping mask of skin. Another's arms were elongated, dragging on the ground like useless anchors. They didn't speak, but a low, collective moan emanated from them—the sound of absolute, final despair.
They all shuffled toward huge gates that stuck up from the ground like giant, skeletal fingers against the pale sky. Strange markings were carved into the gates, seeming to change and writhe whenever Asterion tried to get a good look. The massive hinges were a rusty bronze, creaking with a terrible, loud finality.
Each step Asterion took felt like his feet were sinking. The 'ground' wasn't mud; it was a substance that clung to him, a psychic mire that fed on his will. Each step was a battle, a heavy resistance that mirrored the dread rising in his throat. The atmosphere grew thicker, pressing against him like a physical weight he couldn't shake off.
Then, a new horror began. The oppressive atmosphere wasn't just pressing on his body; it was leeching his mind. His memories started to fade away, like water slipping through his fingers.
He grasped at them, a silent scream building in his chest. The fear, hate, and anguish he had felt so purely just moments ago grew quieter, duller, until they were just distant whispers. A chilling numbness began to replace them, a terrible, empty peace.
Soon, the images themselves began to go. His family. Her. They started to fade like photographs left too long in the sun. He tried to picture Mishel's face as she told him she was pregnant. Her eyes... what color were they? Brown? Blue? He knew he knew, but the detail was smudging, blurring at the edges. No, no, they were green, with flecks of gold. But the image was already dimming.
The harder he tried to hold on, the more elusive they became, teasing him with the promise of remembrance before dissolving. This place, this process, was designed to erase him, to scour him down to nothing before he passed through those gates.
"No".
The word was a choked whisper, but it was a word of defiance. He dug in his heels. The slow march toward the gates was a betrayal, an acceptance of their erasure. He would not take another step. He stopped, and as he stood defiant, a pair of eyes fell upon him.
They did not belong to the shuffling, broken figures. They belonged to a being that stood apart from the line, radiating an aura of authority and timelessness.
It was just a passing glance, a fleeting moment of curiosity from an ancient thing. But in that instant, his entire life flashed before him. Twenty-two years compressed into a single, searing microsecond.
The fading stopped. The numbness shattered.
White-hot anger, pure and undiluted, scorched through him. It was followed by waves of anguish so profound they threatened to drown him, and then a paralyzing, ice-cold fear that froze his blood. The sudden, perfect recall of everything he had just lost was a thousand times worse than the death itself. He fell to the ground, his cheek pressed against the cold, damp earth, his limbs as heavy as stone. Rising again required every ounce of strength in his trembling body.
As soon as he stood, he was plucked from where he was. The world dissolved and reformed. He was no longer in the line. He was placed directly in front of the being.
Its image was not a monster or a geometric shape. It was a person—or at least, it looked like one. But it was a beauty so absolute, so perfect, that Asterion's mind simply could not comprehend it. He couldn't see its true form; his brain refused to register the visual data, dazzled by a perfection that burned like a stare into the sun. It was a presence that dwarfed the rusty gates behind him. Its voice was not a sound, but a concept impressed directly into his mind.
"Why are you trying to reject the end of your suffering?".
Asterion opened his mouth, but the words were stuck, tangled in the raw, resurrected emotions swirling inside him. He was choking on his own grief. Finally, he managed to speak, his voice shaking, broken. "I don't want to forget about them—my family, my wife, and my unborn child. I just don't want to forget them... like they never existed... like they never meant anything to me".
The being looked at him, its gaze penetrating yet devoid of warmth, as if its own feelings had dried up millennia ago.
"Your soul is quite particular," the being mused, its voice echoing in the silence. "And interesting. So I will bless you, and ensure that you will never forget them".
A sense of deep, primal trepidation washed over Asterion, an instinctual warning that screamed at him to refuse, to run, to accept the erasure. He ignored it. In his desperation, there was no other choice.
"I accept," he gasped.
The being touched his forehead. A single finger, impossibly cold, made the lightest contact.
Agony.
It wasn't fire. It was worse. It was everything, all at once. He was back in the farmhouse. He saw the masked soldier. He heard Mishel's scream, perfectly. He felt the knife cut his mother's throat as if it were his own. He smelled the blood, coppery and thick. Again. And again. And again.
The 'blessing' wasn't just remembrance; it was reliving. The moment of his death. The bullet shattering his skull. The pain. The why. It looped, a perfect, high-fidelity recording seared directly onto his soul. But it wasn't just the trauma. It was the good memories, too. His nineteenth birthday party. Mishel's laugh that first time he told her he loved her. His mother's hand on his cheek. They were played back with the same agonizing perfection, now hopelessly tainted, now lost. The joy was a new, exquisite kind of torture.
He tried to scream, but no sound escaped his lips, the terror locking his voice away. Desperate to escape the feeling, he clawed at his own skin. He wasn't just clawing at his flesh to escape the pain; he was trying to dig the memories out of his skull. He clawed out his eyes to stop seeing, tore at his throat to stop screaming.
The agony felt endless, a torment that seeped into his bones. Finally, it stopped.
He was left a crying, bloody mess on the ground. The being just watched on, its gaze unwavering, showing no sign of compassion. Then, as if performing a routine task, it healed him. A cool warmth coursed through his body, knitting flesh and skin back together, forcing his eyes to regrow. But he was still on the ground, crying; it had only healed his body, leaving his spirit shattered and flayed open.
"I have granted you perfect memory," the being informed him. "You will never forget about your family".
The being then continued to 'converse' with him, its thoughts pressing into his ravaged mind. "You wished to remember. So you shall. You wished for your love to be eternal. It is now your anchor, and your cage. This is the price of clinging to what is gone".
Asterion, still gasping, could only listen, his arms wrapped tight around himself, trying to hold his shattered pieces together.
"Your soul has... a texture," the being mused, its curiosity a cold, clinical instrument. "It burns brighter than the others. It refuses to be extinguished. This is rare".
Then, the being offered another "gift".
"In return for this... lesson... I curse you with never being able to die," the being said. "When you die, you will restart or reincarnate. This is your path to divinity." The being paused, a hint of cruel amusement coloring its mental voice. "Or... perhaps I do this just for fun. It has been a long time since I did anything like this. A long path, little, burning soul. Go. Suffer. Learn".
What kind of life would that be? To live forever, haunted by memories he could never escape, never dull, never forget?
With that, Asterion was flung out, sent hurtling suddenly toward the gates. The sensation was jarring, tearing him from one reality to another. The gates closed behind him with a resounding clang, an echo that sealed him away.
In the blink of an eye, he found himself enveloped in a white space.
It was an expanse that stretched infinitely in every direction, devoid of color, sound, or sensation. As he floated in this endless white, he was consumed by the realization of what had transpired. The memories of his family—the laughter, the love, the warmth, the blood—wrapped around him like a shroud, comforting and agonizing at the same time.
He closed his eyes, not to block out the white, but to see them. He wasn't a guardian yet. He wasn't a hero. He was just a man who missed his family so much it burned.
But the transition did not happen quickly. There was no immediate light. He floated in that white abyss for what felt like an eternity. Time lost its meaning, but he felt it pass.
For what felt like six months, he drifted in the nothingness, assaulted by the high-fidelity torture of his new, perfect memory. He screamed until he had no voice. He cried until he was dry. The grief threatened to shatter his mind completely, to leave him a drooling, broken husk before his second life even began.
But slowly, out of sheer survival instinct, his mind began to build walls. His soul erected a defense, a callous over the raw nerve. He learned to compartmentalize the horror, to lock the screaming part of himself away in a quiet room in the back of his mind. It was a defense mechanism born of absolute necessity—a way to function while carrying a library of pain. It was this forged resilience, built in the silence of the void, that saved him from madness.
Just as he felt he had stabilized, just as the defense settled into place, a flicker of light caught his eye.
It shimmered in the distance, a beacon of hope. Instinctively, he reached for it. The light pulsed, resonating with his heartbeat, drawing him toward it.
As he drew closer, the light expanded, revealing fragments of his life—moments of laughter, tender embraces, the warmth of a shared gaze. Each memory was like a thread, vibrant and alive, weaving together the tapestry of who he was.
Suddenly, a rush of energy surged through him. The memories filled the void, wrapping around him like a protective cocoon. He gasped, his senses awakening with renewed clarity. He was not just a vessel for their memories; he was their legacy.
With a deep breath, he embraced the warmth of the light, allowing it to envelop him completely. The fire of purpose ignited within him, pushing back the darkness.
As his consciousness settled, he realized he was no longer in the void. The light had transformed into a vibrant landscape, blooming with color and life. He stood amidst a meadow filled with wildflowers, their petals dancing in the gentle breeze. The sun bathed everything in a golden glow, illuminating the beauty of this new world.
Asterion looked down at the flowers. They were beautiful, but they were also a sharp pang in his heart. Mishel loved flowers. She should be here to see them.
In this moment, he understood that he had been given a second chance, but it was a lonely one. The memories of his family would guide him, yes, but they would also be the ghost walking beside him. He felt the resolve solidify within him, not out of duty, but out of necessity. He had to remember, because he was the only one left who could. He would carry their love with him as he ventured onward, a solitary figure in a beautiful, empty world.