There is nothing at all, and then there is...something. It's very unclear what the something is, it's...not, exactly, a place. Nothing is familiar.
There's a reflex for unfamiliar places and things not making sense. He reaches for...something that proves not to be there.
- confusion -
Slow, effortfully: ...he doesn't have a body right now. That would be why he has no experience of being somewhere in particular, and why most of the senses he expects to have are missing, and why he can't shield himself.
- fear -
Panicking won't help. That's a reflex that is entirely a thought, so it completes, and...then what?
Make sense of it. Orient. That's a mental process, too, it doesn't technically require mage-sight.
Does he remember...before...here...?
He remembers a name. Urtho. He...can't quite remember if he had a name.
He remembers...a tower, and the stars, and something beautiful and important there, and a promise. That's important. Hold onto that.
He remembers that Urtho is dead. A horizon going up in fire. The shattered ruins of a world. He remembers the decision to walk away from something he had spent centuries building, knowing he had followed that path as far as it would go and it wasn't enough. He remembers - the math, a moment of blinding realization that the logic held, the numbers that came together, the final, awful, clarity of the answer.
(It's difficult, at this point, because there are things he can remember but it's difficult to remember them at the same time, and so he remembers that answer and has to struggle to retrace what it was an answer to.)
Nothing but hints and fragments and the sense of centuries having passed, and then - clearer. A conversation with a young dark-skinned woman, her eyes worried yet defiant. Dodging an explosion in a city somewhere in the south. Announcing the final calendar to a room of faces: we move in twenty years' time. Carving a passage through the northern mountains, shielding it to keep it hidden until the time came.
...Standing in the snow, the army ready to move, with a silver-haired silver-eyed man clothed as a Herald-Mage of Valdemar, alone, blocking their path. A stumble, because nothing about that image makes any sense whatsoever including the lack of any memory of the intervening twenty years– oh. It - didn't really happen - the conversation did but the scene was window-dressing. A dream. A shared, lucid Foresight dream. Talking to the Herald of Valdemar. Vanyel. That was his name. He still can't remember his own name. Another memory, same visuals, a different conversation. Another conversation. Half a dozen fragments of those conversations, interspersed by a snippet of surviving another godassassination. And then it gets very confusing. He remembers - taking a report? On a prisoner? A single fragment infused with a feeling of searing importance, a critical decision: let him go. Send him back to the Heralds. Cooperate. Whatever it takes. Another conversation with Herald Vanyel of Valdemar, but the place is wrong - a waterfall, a cave - and it's real, and the man is there, the prisoner he sent back, and he's swearing an oath, and everything about the memory screams that this is the most important thing that has happened in two thousand years and he - can't hold onto it properly to understand why...
He remembers the man saving his life. There's some scenery that doesn't really matter, and some more details that do matter but the complicated pieces are too hard to make sense of. Something about a god. New information. Something that changed everything. ...He remembers not being immortal anymore but that wasn't it, there was something else, something that changed everything even more than that.
He remembers dying, alone. Nobody coming. Realizing he had misjudged something, but no sense of piecing together the specific mistake, and too late for it to matter.