Samuel.

He was nothing. No body, no mind, nothing. He floated alone, senseless and uncomprehending, in his own personal void. He was not alive, he was not breathing, he was not fighting. He was nothing.

Samuel.

He tried to explore his surroundings with his senses, but he had no mana left. He tried to open his eyes but did not seem to have any. Was there anything to hear? Of course not, as he had no ears. That’s right, he reminded himself. He was nothing.

Samuel.

Was this the death then? Was this the blank, uncaring void that Arcana had promised him at the end of his long, fulfilling life? Not that his life had been long, or even fulfilling by his standards. He tried to feel frustrated at all the missed opportunities he was now leaving behind. But of course, he had no emotions. He was, after all, nothing.

Samuel.

What was that strange sound he heard? He spent what felt like years trying to discern the source. But without his faculties, he couldn’t even discern direction, let alone find the source for an ethereal voice that sounded from beyond his isolation. But it sounded again, in a different voice than before. That was strange. The tone was identical, full of concern and expectation. It was an undeniable summon, but there was more than one speaker.

Samuel.

That one sounded like his mother. The familiar call for him to come to the table, or go to bed, or tidy up his mess of papers. She would likely be heading to work soon, and would only return with the crack of dawn, to steal a few hours of sleep before he awoke. He should answer her, just to avoid placing more of a burden on her.

Samuel.

“I’m coming!” He called back. And suddenly, he had a voice. He had a sense of direction, as he got to his feet. And he had eyes. Eyes which revealed, not the memory of his bedroom as a child, but an endless, expansive white void.

He dropped to one knee, which in itself was a new experience, as he had never been grounded in Isip’s realm before. Shaking slightly, he stood and adjusted the patched dark blue robes he wore. Why was it that, every time he was heading towards or away from a dangerous situation, he appeared here? The space was beginning to develop a school-like air, which was far from relaxing. But for the first time, Isip was not there, and he was alone with his thoughts.

Something else was off, he thought to himself, as he looked around. He peered around the space that surrounded him, trying to place it. For all intents and purposes, there was nothing there, so he shouldn’t feel so out of place. How could something feel off, if it wasn’t there? Then the realization struck him. It was less potent. When he came to visit Isip’s realm, the void had presence. Even without seeing the knowledge there, one could sense its existence. But wherever he was now, it was bare.

He had been so sure that his mother had called him, he thought. It was much like those evenings when she’d been alive, making him a quick meal before she rushed off to work, to spend a night serving food and drink at the local village inn. And as he had that memory, a flash of color caught his attention from his peripheral vision. Turning quickly, he caught traces of a scent he’d long forgotten.

A tall, thin, willowy woman with waist-long red hair had paced past him, her face lined with the signs of hard work and effort. Her long dress was simple and grey. She stopped to look down at the ground, where there was a discarded book in her way. Letting out a quiet sigh, she stooped to collect it, then placed it on a nearby table. The piece of furniture appeared just in time to take it, and she carried on her way. Curious, Samuel followed.

The house, still so familiar after all this time, formed into being around him. Gone was the uncaring, empty white void. The floorboards under his mother’s feet creaked quietly as she paced down the hallway, though they made no noise under Samuel’s weight. The smell of wood, dust, and freshly cooked food, reached his nose. It smelled of home.

Elena pushed open the door at the end of the hallway, revealing his bedroom. It featured a great deal more decoration in his childhood, and the bed had a proper frame, not the thin padding that it would have in later years. There, sitting cross-legged on the thick quilted covers, was a young boy with messy long black hair that hung over his face, as he was currently looking down at a thick book.

“Samuel, how many times have I told you not to leave books lying around on the floor?” His mother asked, her tone impatient yet gentle. “Now get to the kitchen. I’ve just finished dinner.”

Food was the only thing that could distract him from reading, Samuel remembered with a slight smile. Especially his mother’s food, which was the best thing in the world. He watched his mother turn round again and head back down the hall, and saw himself close the book he was reading, taking care to place a strip of torn parchment between the pages to mark his place.

“It helps to mark your place when leave,” his younger self said. “That way, you don’t get lost.”

Samuel thought that was an odd thing to say, especially when he was so young. He didn’t remember being so philosophical when he was seven. But that was nothing in comparison to the boy’s manner when he looked up from the dusty leather cover and made direct eye contact with him. For a moment he thought it was a coincidence, but his younger self was definitely looking at him.

“So this isn’t a memory,” he said, the small smile fading from his face. “You’re really Isip then, aren’t you?”

The boy said nothing further in reply, putting the book to the side and clambering off his bed. He padded barefoot across the room quickly, walking straight through Samuel and down the hall, heeding the call for dinner. Stunned, Samuel hesitated a moment longer before following him and his mother. The table bore two plates, both filled with cooked chicken and greens, with a glass beside each. Samuel’s was full of milk, while his mother had water.

Elena sat at the table just as his younger self did, her eyes glancing slightly towards the head of the table. There was something wistful in that look, Samuel fancied, as if she was remembering the man that used to sit there. He’d never considered that his mother might miss the man who had been his father, but the action seemed to indicate so.

“I’m not Isip,” Young Samuel said, his mouth so full of chicken that his words were muffled. “Or rather, I’m only a part of him. Just as you are only a part of him.”

Unthinkingly, Samuel sat at the head of the table, his eyes never leaving the face of the boy he once was. His eyes were blue, not the violet that they were now, and his face wasn’t quite as pale. It was also a bit fuller, proof of the care of his mother. She’d always ensured that he had enough to eat, and this was prior to the tremendous growth spurt that would make the bones more pronounced.

“What does that mean?” He asked, glancing at the chicken. It looked delicious. “A part of Isip?”

“You already know the answer to that question,” the seven-year-old said, rolling his eyes before taking a long sip of the milk. “Isip already explained it to you, ages ago.”

Samuel thought about that for a moment, and the boy took the chance to continue stuffing his face, making noises of enthusiasm. “How did we get this chicken, mom?”

“Thomas gave it to me,” Elena replied, seemingly oblivious both to older Samuel’s presence and her son’s conversation with him. “He said it was a reward for your help at the inn yesterday.”

Then the answer came to Samuel, and he understood. When he’d had his first face-to-face meeting with Isip, the true form of Isip, the ancient being had explained how Samuel had come to exist. Isip had created a mind, just one half of the being that would one day be capable of bearing his essence. He’d taken the story for granted, never wondering what had gone into creating that mind.

“So is this my mind’s space, then?” He asked. “Is that why Isip isn’t here?”

All he got in reply was that small shrug of the shoulder and half-snort, the common sarcastic reply he’d give as a boy when the answer to a question seemed obvious. Nobody had liked that gesture, and he saw now exactly why. It was an infuriating movement if you were on the receiving end. He was quite glad that he would get rid of that trait in the coming years.

“Well, this is a really bad time to be here,” Samuel said, remembering his apprentice just then. “Tobi’s probably worried sick.”

“True, you haven’t finished training him,” Young Samuel said. “But he’s safe for now. It is you that needs to learn something before you leave.”

“Oh?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “What can I learn from you? You haven’t yet started writing, and I should take your lecture?”

For some reason, the boy found his reply amusing, grinning to himself. In answer, he pointed with the hand not holding a chicken leg. Samuel turned to see what he was supposed to be directed to and noticed the table, the same one that Elena had put the book on before fetching her son for dinner. More accurately, he was pointing at the book itself.

“Just read it,” he said between bites of food. “Then you’ll understand.”