55. Interlude: Overcoming the Self (Two-in-One)

He was going to die.

He knew it in his heart. He was going to die. But how many days had it been? How long had this kind of life been going on? Weeks, months, years?

He couldn't be sure. He only felt that, lately, he had rarely been completely lucid—and that was wrong. Somewhere deep in his mind, he vaguely knew that.

This was wrong. He told himself again and again, denying it without pause, repeating that simple conclusion until his thoughts solidified into a fortress. He remained at its highest point, without feeling or sensation, his eyes like two polished green agates staring into the endless void below.

But that was only his imagination. In reality, he was trudging through an expanse of ice and snow.

The snow was deep and packed hard. With every step, he had to wrench his legs completely free, or he would be unable to move at all. Everything around him was white, with no landmark to distinguish direction, and worse still, it was snowing now.

Oh, this was no good. This was the worst possible thing. Because snow never came alone—it came with wind. Snow and wind, a fine pair of killers.

Not even starving beasts would move in such weather. They would freeze to death before finding prey.

Smart, weren't they? Animals were always smart when survival was involved. They knew where they could go and where they could not, how to stay alert while feeding, how to move without making a sound.

He used to know those things too, didn't he?

He asked himself—I used to know those things too, didn't I? I knew how to tell the time by the sun's position. I knew how to forage, how to deal with corpses, how to skin hides.

I knew how