Hello dear readers! This is chapter one of Snow Blindness, rewritten by me, the original author of the story.
This chapter has not been beta'd!

Enjoy~

Chapter I
House of Memories

Russia closed the front door behind him. It wasn't much warmer inside his house than it had been outside. His nose and cheeks were red. He took off his big jacket and put his boots away. No sunflowers yet. He wished for General Winter to go away soon, maybe then his daily walks would finally be fruitful.

He entered his living room, and shivered at how cold it was. He kneeled down before the fire, and lit a single match. He carefully laid it between the blocks of wood, and watched the little flame grow bigger. Soon, he could feel the warmth of the fire. Its heat was unpleasantly strong against Russia's cold cheeks.

Slowly he got up, and sat down on the couch. He sunk away in the old cushions, which used to be bright red, but the colour had faded over the years. He stared at the fire. Somehow, the heat didn't feel warm. Why was it always so cold?

He used to make walks together with his sisters. Ukraine would walk near him, and yet her thoughts would be to far for him to get. Sometimes she would force a smile over her lips, just like he would do. Belarus would be holding tightly onto his arm. She would be more focussed on what Russia did than the nature that surrounded them.

The fire used to make everything warmer when it was freezing outside. It used to burn during the winter, whenever he came home and whenever he left it. Estonia would make the fire early in the morning, while Lithuania prepared breakfast. Sometimes they would go into the forest for wood together; sometimes Prussia or another nation would go. Latvia would warm his frozen hands there between his chores.

The couches used to be filled with nations. Some grumpy, some relieved, and some just tired. Sometimes they would drink or tell each other jokes and stories. Sometimes no one sat in the couch.

Sometimes were over. He sat in the couch alone now. The fire was cold. The walks were lonely.

He blinked, slightly surprised, when he heard his stomach growl loudly. He laid his hand upon his belly. He had known how it felt like to be really hungry. He remembered going to bed without dinner, then waking up and beginning to work with an empty stomach. There had been times where hunger had almost been a normal part of the day.

When he looked out of the window, he noticed that it was already getting late. The sky was clouded, and it looked like it could start to snow any moment. He hadn't even realised he had wasted so much time, again. He stared at the window for just a little longer. He didn't like the colour white. He didn't like snow, nor ice. This colour had nothing to do with pureness, with chastity or anything. To him, white was just empty. It was a cruel colour.

He sighed and got up from the couch. It wasn't good to waste his hours there. Thinking about the past or about anything alike wouldn't change the present. He went to the kitchen, and took a slice of bread. It was a little old, but he didn't mind. He took some borscht out of the fridge and heated it up. While the soup was warming up, he returned to the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of vodka. He briefly wondered whether he should take a glass, but just put the bottle to his lips and threw his head back. The alcohol burned in his mouth and throat. He put the bottle aside, and returned to his soup.

After finishing the late meal, he cleaned up and left the living room. He shortly wondered what he should do, and then decided to go to his study.

A little dust whirled up as he opened the big wooden door. Ivan stepped forward, and let the door close behind him again. His eyes shortly wandered over the fairly big room. There were several rows of tall bookshelves. A variety of thick, thin, big and small books, in all kinds of colours and languages, filled the shelves. There were a couple of globes, some maps and also a computer, a laptop and an empty desk. There was a sofa and an old lamp that was broke but hadn't been replaced yet.

There was one book that drew his attention. It lay opened on the small table next to the sofa. Raising an eyebrow, he went to pick the book up. The cover was green; the dark fabric felt rough underneath his fingertips. What had once been a mysterious colour was now worn-out and forgotten. There was no title. He opened it. The first page was written in a language he could place at first. It took him several moments to figure out it was the English caster's language. Books about magic occasionally didn't have anything on their cover, because they didn't need to stand out. The owner had to know his books.

Russia flipped a few pages. Likes most books of this kind, it was handwritten. A little over halfway, the pages became blank. He wondered why the author had stopped writing, and returned to the last page where something had been written. He could read what there stood, but was slightly annoyed when trying to find and understand the purpose and effects of the spell. On the previous pages, he had often recognized some kind of a goal of the spell or curse, sometimes a warning or additional notes, or an experience. This one was apparently left unfinished. He wondered whether the writer had died, forgotten about the book, or willingly discontinued writing it.

Russia's eyebrows knit together in a frown. There was no result or information, just the mere spell. Had something gone wrong with the spell? Was it dangerous? He knew that there could be great risks bound to spells. He went back a few pages again, and concluded that most spells didn't look too threatening. He was curious, and wanted to know what this unknown, English spell would be capable off.

It was late though. His eyelids were starting to become heavy, and his thoughts weren't as sharp as they should be. He put the book back. Tomorrow, he promised himself, then he would consider giving it a try. Honestly, he didn't think the spell would be as interesting as he was expecting it to be. He was strong enough to deal with a lot of spells, so nothing could really go wrong. Maybe it was a lame spell. Maybe nothing would happen or the spell turned out to be incorrect. At least he would know.

When he woke up the next morning, he forced himself to get out of bed. He took a quick shower and got dressed. He ate bread and some leftovers from another meal for breakfast. A little headache started to bother him, but he tried to ignore it. He went to his study and started working. He had gotten some mails from his boss. After about two hours he shut his computer down and ran his fingers through his short hair. He glanced aside, and his eyes found the green book. He remembered immediately what he had wanted to do. Now was a good moment to see what exactly that spell was all about.

When reading the page, he saw that there was no use of any potion or drawings in chalk. Something that didn't ask for anything outside the caster couldn't be that interesting. The only bad side was that those spells usually couldn't get their energy from potions or any other extern magic sources. They would suck the energy out of the caster. He read the spell a few times, to make sure he would be saying the correct words. It was a long spell. Since it wasn't his original caster language, he figured it would feel forced and unnatural anyway. He had no bond with the spells or summons he did in foreign languages.

He licked his lips, and loudly began to speak. It felt strange to do it again. It had been quite a while ago since he had done anything like this. He spoke the words. Compared to the strong and intense voice he had used years ago, it now sounded like a mere demand.

The end of the spell was nearing. He began to speak louder, feeling a certain tingling feeling in his body. He didn't have to look at the book anymore. Effortlessly, the words fell over his lips. The spell ended, but he continued. It was the first time he had felt a foreign spell actually move within him. The words were strange but yet they were his, the source of them was behind his lips, it was inside of him. The tingling started to become stronger, until it seemed to start piercing through his skin, burning. He spat the last words, finally feeling the real end of the spell.

He inhaled deeply, grasping for air. It was still inside him. He put his hands on his chest, as if he were grabbing for his heart. It was there, like needles in his skin, like poison in his blood, but mostly like burning acid in his heart. It had felt nice at first, why did it feel so painful and odd now? He had stopped speaking, but the hurt only became worse.

A sharp pain shot through his body, and suddenly it was gone. As if it had been ripped out of his body and had left an empty shell. Russia blinked. In front of him was a skeleton. Everything else around him started to fade away and became darker. The skeleton laughed, its laughter was loud and echoed endlessly. Or was it crying? Screaming? The loud sound was agonizing. He tried to cover his ears but his arms wouldn't move. Where were his arms?

Cold, a thousand needles pierced his skin. His muscles became stiff and wouldn't listen. He was in the water. Giant waves pulled and pushed him along as if he was a mere rag doll. He couldn't move, couldn't swim. His breath was lost. The water filled his lungs. He was drowing in the black waves.

Ice. The water turned harder. The darkness turned white. It felt like the ice was trying to crush him. Invisible nails scraped through his skin. He screamed. There was sound. He screamed and yelled and cried. He rolled himself up into a little ball, trying to disappear. He became so little and cold and covered in white, like a snowball. And suddenly he was in the air, tumbling and falling, and not able to see where he was going. He hit something. Something big. He fell apart, literally. Little pieces of him everywhere, like a snowball that had been thrown.

He heard laughter. Girls, boys, men, women. He heard crackling fire and suddenly everything was hot. Burning. He felt his skin blackening and being devoured by the bright red colours of the flames he suddenly found himself in. It smelled terrible, like burn and decay.

The pain disappeared. He didn't feel a burn in his chest, neither did he feel his torn skin. He didn't feel anything, physically. No pain and no tingling, no hurt and no tickling. He didn't hear any loud noise that violated his ears. Just distant whispers he could not understand. He saw people. People he knew. Some of them he could recognize immediately, and of some he knew he had seen them one. Some looked like total strangers. He saw more and more people, and he was somehow slowly being sucked away from them. All those people, and their constant distant tumult, it was like a soft rustle. He was away from them. They were all together. He stared at them, from far away. That's all he could do. That's all he did. He looked at them. Being merry, being sad, being joyful and being mad. But they were being together. Was that all he could do? Watch them live. His body was limp. He couldn't even look away. Ache. No fire or ice or needles or screams. Just a hollow ache, that felt like a soar gap in his chest. He stared at their lively world, from his own big, empty one.

Everything didn't become black. It didn't become white either. There was no warm or cold. No sound and no silence. Nothing.

So, what do you think? Do you like it? If you have read the old Snow Blindness, is this better in your opinion?

Review~