Redemption of Eva

   Bright began to nod as dawn crept over the valley.  As usual, he had kept watch through the night, guarding the flock from coyotes, and slept during the day.  Most nights his presence alone was enough to keep the predators away, but now and again he had to drive them off with his staff.

    A sickening stench of rot and bile rolled through the air, so strong it turned his stomach.  Bright jolted upright.  The dawn silence shattered—low, animal growls, ragged wheezing, and piercing shrieks echoed across the pasture.  The sounds weren’t coming from the dark mountains.

    He snatched up his staff and rose to his feet, squinting toward the Valley of the Shadow of Death.  The morning glare burned his eyes, but then—he saw it.  It was like nothing he had ever seen before.

    It was a skeletal monstrosity draped in blood-soaked cloth that clung to its decaying frame.  Its flesh was pale and leathery, stretched tight over bone so that every rib and sinew showed beneath.  Long, spindly limbs ended in claws like razors.  Its head was shaped almost like a coyote’s—but twisted, grotesque—its gaping maw lined with jagged teeth that dripped fresh blood.

    Its body was shaped like a man’s, yet it crawled on all fours with a jerking, convulsive gait—as though forcing itself into a feral posture its bones could scarcely endure.

    It lurched toward the flock in a sudden burst of speed.  Bright froze in horror as it reared on its hind legs—taller even than Giant Wrath—and slashed at a ewe.  One swipe, and the creature’s claws tore her down.  Then it dropped back to its crawling, spasmodic stance.  But it didn’t feed.  It didn’t drag its kill away.  Instead, it flung itself among the others, striking at them in a frenzy of mindless violence.

    The flock scattered in panic, but the beast was faster.  It pounced on one sheep, then another, rending them apart with its teeth and claws.

    Bright shouted, but the creature didn’t even flinch.  He ran toward it, his heart pounding like a hammer in his chest.  The stench of rot and blood gagged him.  He swung his staff, striking the beast square across the back.  It didn’t turn.  It only kept tearing through the flock.

    A foul poison seeped from the beast’s wounds, hissing where it touched the ground.  From the place his staff had struck, a sickly miasma rose, curling through the air.  The stench clawed at Bright’s throat, and he fell to his knees, coughing as the fumes closed around him.

    The beast swung a claw at him, but Bright rolled aside just in time.  It wheeled with a snarl and lunged after the fleeing sheep.

    It was over before he even knew it had begun.  The flock had scattered, and the beast was gone—but the carnage remained.  Sheep lay strewn across the grass, bleeding, choking, gasping out their last breaths.

    Bright fell to his knees beside the nearest sheep, bitterness twisting his gut.  She lay still, unnaturally quiet, her wide, pleading eyes fixed on him.

    Bright slammed his fist into the earth and cried out—a long, broken sound that tore through the valley.

***

    Seeker had seemed unsettled when he came home from work the night before.

   “There’s talk of a new giant roaming the Valley,” he’d said quietly.  “Plague.  They say it rose out of Doubting—something unlike anything anyone’s seen before.”

    Beautiful’s mind raced.  Would Seeker be safe crossing the Valley to work?  Would any of them be safe here?  She’d seen Wrath punch through the walls of Palace Beautiful as if they were paper.  These walls would never stand against that.  Could the Phial keep Plague away as it had Giant Wrath?

    And Bright—he insisted on staying out with his sheep all night.  The coyotes and bears were bad enough.  But now this?  She couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.

–

    Seeker kissed her and was halfway to the door when a scuffle broke out outside.  Bright burst in—wild-eyed, hair in disarray.

    “It didn’t even eat them!” he gasped, face flushed.  “Just senseless slaughter.”

    “Slow down, Bright,” Seeker said, stepping toward him.  “What happened?”

    “A beast attacked—but it didn’t come from the mountains,” Bright said, his voice trembling.  “It came out of the Valley of the Shadow of Death.  Huge—and nothing like anything you’ve ever seen.”

     “Plague,” Beautiful whispered, swallowing hard.

    Bright closed his eyes, shuddering at the memory.  “That’s right,” he whispered.  “When I struck it, sickness oozed out—like the air itself turned foul.  There’s no fighting something like that.  Even from behind I was taking harm.  I can’t imagine standing before its claws and fangs.

    Cold fingers of dread crept around Beautiful’s heart.

    “It was fast—so fast that even Giant Wrath seemed slow and lumbering by comparison.

    “We have to go,” Beautiful said.

    “Go?  Where?” Seeker asked, shaking his head.

   “Forward,” she whispered.  “Even if we wanted to climb the Hill of Difficulty again, there’s nothing for us behind.”

    “I can’t leave my flock,” Bright protested.

   “I can’t lose you either,” Beautiful said, her voice breaking.  “We have to go.”

    Seeker’s face drained of color.  “The Valley of the Shadow of Death…”

    “We’ll have to face it sooner or later,” Beautiful snapped.

    A soft knock sounded at the door, and Comfort peeked inside.

   “Come in, Comfort,” Beautiful said.

    “Have you heard?” Comfort asked quietly.  “About Plague?”

    “We have to leave,” Beautiful replied, her voice firm but breaking.

    “If we travel light, we can reach Vanity by nightfall,” Comfort said.

    “I’m not leaving my books,” Seeker replied.  “And what if we don’t make it?  We’ll be without food.” 

    “You’ll carry your books—and our things,” Beautiful said sharply.  “The rest of us will take as much food as we can manage.”  Her eyes flicked to Bright.  “You too.”

    Wonderful burst into the room, eyes bright.  “I’m not little anymore.  I can carry as much as Bright!”

    All eyes turned to Seeker.  He drew a slow breath.  “All right.  We leave in an hour.”

***

    The Dream blinked and I stood within the Celestial City.  For all the times I had wandered the Dream, never once had I passed through its gates.  The streets shone like burnished gold, and the walls glimmered with every kind of precious stone.

    A river, clear as crystal, flowed through the city.  I knew it at once—the waters of Beulah, the same River of Life that had wound before the Delectable Mountains and through the Interpreter’s ravine in the valley below.

    As I followed the river’s course, faces seemed to glimmer beneath the light—familiar, beloved.  I was certain I saw Christian and Christiana walking arm in arm, their laughter carried faintly on the air.  Yet I did not stop until I reached the river’s source.

    It flowed from a throne of lapis lazuli, gleaming like the heart of heaven.  The One who sat upon it shone with a brilliance too great to behold.  Before the throne burned seven mighty lamps, and a rainbow encircled it like living light.  Lightning flashed across the sky, and the sound of thunder rolled through the heavens.

    Six-winged dragons of breathtaking beauty circled above, crying out, “Holy, holy, holy!”  Strange beings with four wings and faces of an ox, man, a lion, and an eagle lifted harps in their hands.  Beneath them turned living wheels—wheels within wheels—rimmed with eyes that watch in every direction.

    Before the throne knelt Michael the Archangel.

    A voice like the sound of many rushing waters flowed from the throne.  “Set a watch upon the Valley of the Shadow of Death.  My son and daughter have suffered enough at the hands of that place;  not a single hair shall fall to the ground.”

    Michael bowed his head.  “As you command, Your Majesty.”

    Then I saw Michael gather a legion of Shining Ones.  He lifted his hand and commanded them to descend into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, to stand guard and suffer no harm to come to Seeker, Beautiful, or their house.  And he charged them to keep silent and remain unseen.

    And Sariel his brother went before them, shining a light upon their path, that their feet should not stumble.

***

    Seeker shivered as they stepped into the Valley of the Shadow of Death.  The air was unnervingly still—almost peaceful.  The siren’s songs were hushed; no wings beat above, no fiends howled below.  Yet the silence felt watchful, as if the darkness itself were holding its breath.  Before them, a soft light glimmered, marking the way, and Seeker raised the Phial to strengthen the glow, its radiance joining the light before them.

    Seeker frowned in quiet wonder.  What was that light?  Were there other pilgrims ahead?  Yet each time they paused—to rest, to tighten a strap—the glow halted just beyond them.  And when they moved again, it moved with them.

    To their right yawned the great abyss—the pit that led down to Hell itself.  As they walked, Seeker spoke softly of how Apollyon had risen against Perry and Eva, and how he had dragged Perry into the depths.  And how Eva, returning to the Palace Beautiful, had clad herself in armor, taken up sword and shield, and followed her love into Hell—striking down countless fiends as she descended.

    Of the sulphureous bog that fumed on their left, Seeker said nothing.

 – 

    Step by step they kept to the Narrow Way until at last they reached the far side.  The going had been easier—much easier—than they expected, but none of them wished to linger.

   Seeker turned to them.  “Be vigilant.  We’re coming to the dangerous stretch—pits and snares.  We stay together.”

   Merry squirmed in Wonderful’s arms.  “No, Merry,” she said, holding him fast.

–

    They were not prepared for what lay before them.  The ground ahead was buried in mangled corpses, heaped in rotting, putrid mounds—Plague’s handiwork laid bare.  The pits were long since filled and spilling over.  In the few places where bodies did not cover the earth, pools of blackened blood had gathered, glistening faintly in the ghostly light.

    Bright doubled over and vomited.  Wonderful stood trembling, eyes wide with terror.  Beautiful swayed, and Seeker caught her before she could fall.

    The light ahead flickered, then went out.  Seeker’s Phial flared brighter in the darkness, its glow trembling in his hands.

   “There’s no way forward,” he said quietly.

   “And we can’t go back,” Beautiful’s voice broke, thin with panic.

    “That leaves one choice,” Seeker said, his voice steadier than he felt.  “Giant Pagan’s cave.  It should be close—abandoned long ago.”

    They picked their way carefully over the bodies until they reached the foot of the mountains, where the dark mouth of a cave yawned before them—much larger than the one on the Hill of Difficulty.  A rough palisade of splintered beams and broken spears half-blocked the entrance.  With effort, it could be dragged into place to bar the way and give them some measure of safety inside.

    Ash and dried blood clung to the wood.  The air was thick with iron and decay.  Seeker ran his fingers along one of the shattered shafts.  

    “People fought here,” he murmured.

    Beautiful traced the splintered ends, the blackened tips. 

    “And died,” she whispered.

    Seeker and Bright dragged the palisade into place, wedging it across the cave’s mouth.  “That should hold,” Seeker said—but the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.

    Seeker raised the Phial, its light spilling into the darkness.  The ceiling arched high above him like the nave of some forgotten cathedral.  Pillars of limestone loomed out of the shadows—natural yet shaped as if by purpose—some carved in the likeness of forgotten gods.

    The floor was smooth—worn by centuries of passing feet—and somewhere in the darkness, a thin trickle of water echoed, steady and patient, like a clock marking eternity.

    Along one wall, stone shelves jutted from the rock itself—half buried, half formed—lined with scrolls and codices, papyrus and parchment, even clay tablets impressed with ancient script.  They bore the tongues of forgotten ages:  Greek, Coptic, Aramaic—and others marked with runes no one alive could read.  Dust lay thick on them, though not a single cobweb clung.

    Seeker lifted a cracked volume from the shelf.  “Odysseia,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across the faded letters.  “Song of the Wanderer.”

    “Who would’ve thought a giant could read?” Bright quipped.

   “Like Daddy,” said Wonderful, her face bright with pride.

    As they moved deeper into the cave, the walls came alive with bioluminescent moss, while threads of light filtered through cracks above. The air carried the soft fragrance of myrrh and old incense.  Candles rested in shallow alcoves along the stone.  Seeker struck his clasp-knife against flint, and one by one the flames flickered to life, filling the chamber with a steady glow.

    On a stone arch was carved the words:  Sapientia per lumen naturae.  Beneath it, scrawled in a rough, trembling hand, were the words: Quaesivi veritatem et perdidi pacem.

    On the far wall, a cracked relief of a human face was carved in stone—split clean down the middle.  Beneath it, the words were etched: ΓΝΩΘΙ ΣΕΑΥΤΟΝ.  

     Bright pointed at it.  “What’s that one say?”

   “Know yourself,” Seeker answered quietly.

    Merry darted ahead, panting with excitement, stopping every few steps to sniff this and that.

    Along one wall stood an altar carved from black basalt—smooth and cold, its grooves worn deep where blood once ran.  Symbols were etched along its sides:  the sun, serpents, constellations.  Scattered nearby lay ancient offering bowls, cracked and rimmed with soot.

    “We can use it to cook.”  He crouched beside it, gathering stones and kindling a small fire to chase away the cave’s chill.

–

    Near the back of the cave lay a hollow in the cave—a vast depression worn smooth by Giant Pagan’s weight.  Scattered around it were fragments: broken chains, rusted armor, splintered bones, and the remains of an idol.  The rock still held a chill, as if it remembered him.

    “I’m not sleeping there,” Beautiful exclaimed.  Instead, she and Comfort began to unroll their bedrolls around the fire Seeker had lit on the altar.

***

    Days passed, then weeks.  Each morning Seeker pushed the palisade aside just enough to slip through and look outside.  The heaps of corpses grew higher with each passing day, all bearing the same marks—Plague’s work.  When it became clear they would be trapped longer than a few days, they began to ration their food, eating only what was necessary to endure.

    Seeker spent his days poring over the books—those written in the tongues he knew, and those whose symbols taunted him with meaning just beyond reach.  But the bruise on his forehead throbbed with a dull, relentless ache that clouded his thoughts.  At times the pain blurred his vision, forcing him to lean against the wall, eyes closed, breathing through the dizziness until it passed. 

    At night his sleep was broken and thin, haunted by the treadwheel, by Giant Wrath, and by Charm’s deceit.  He tried to still his thoughts, but the weight of the dead beyond the cave pressed against his heart, as though their silence reached even his dreams.

    Months passed.  Outside, the bodies no longer rose in heaps.  Flies thickened in clouds over the decay, and the flesh wasted into bone.  Inside, their rations dwindled day by day until at last there was nothing left—not a fragment, not a crumb.

    Seeker stepped out of the cave as he did every day.  The sun shone strangely bright through the gloom of the Valley, casting long, sharp shadows across the ground.  In the distance, he saw a lone figure walking the Narrow Way, moving slowly through the haze.

   “Hail!” Seeker called.

    As the stranger drew nearer, Seeker saw the guarded way he moved—his eyes scanning the shadows, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

   “What news of Plague?”  Seeker called. 

   The stranger’s shoulders eased, though his eyes were hollow.  “Horrible, horrible,” he said.  “Millions have died.  In Coveting, the mayor refused to close the silver mine.  ‘There is no Plague,’ he told them.  ‘The King Himself has blessed our labor.’”   The man gestured toward the bones.  “And this is their reward.”

    “We hid in the cave,” Seeker said quietly, “Too afraid to go on.”

    The stranger smiled at Seeker.  “Rest easy, my friend,” he said.  “A band of true warriors rose up and struck Plague a mortal blow.  They nearly finished him—but he escaped north into the lands of Doubting.”

    Seeker and Good-Confidence—for so he introduced himself—spoke for some time.  When at last Good-Confidence took his leave, Seeker wished him Godspeed and returned to the cave, eager to share the good news.

–

    Seeker gathered his pack, adding to it a few of the books from the cave—for even in this place, there were fragments of truth to be found.  Their provisions were gone, so there was little else to carry.

    As they prepared to depart, Bright said, “I will return to the Valley of Humility.”

    “No,” Beautiful replied softly but firmly.  “Our way lies forward.  We do not go back.”     

    “I will go back,” he insisted.  “If any of the flock yet live, I’ll seek them—and tend their wounds.”

    Beautiful pleaded with him, but it was no use.  Seeker recognized that stubborn set of the jaw, that unyielding fire in his eyes—he’d seen both a thousand times before, in her.  There was no arguing with it.  Bright had made up his mind.

    At the edge of the Narrow Way, Seeker drew Bright into an embrace and pressed the Phial into his hands.

   “This will keep the fiends at bay,” he said softly.  “Don’t linger—don’t stop for anything.  The horrors of the Valley of the Shadow of Death are beyond words.  The sooner you reach Humility, the safer you’ll be.”

    “Bright,” Beautiful whispered, pulling him close and holding on as if she could keep him there by sheer will.  Tears streamed down her cheeks.  “My Bright…”

    Bright eased back from the embrace.  “It’s all right, Mama,” he said softly.  “I’ll be fine.”

    He turned and started down the Narrow Way toward the south—staff in one hand, the Phial raised in the other—his voice fading into the distance as he sang.

    They watched until Bright’s light was swallowed by the darkness.  Beautiful sank to her knees, her body shaking with sobs she could no longer hold back. 

    Wonderful knelt beside her and wrapped her arms around her mother.  Her voice trembled but carried a quiet conviction.  “Don’t cry, Mama,” she whispered.  “Bright will be fine.  He’s stronger than you think.”

–

    Seeker, Beautiful, Wonderful, and Comfort turned northward, stepping carefully over bones and watching for hidden snares.  They passed through a narrow gap in the mountains that bordered the Valley of the Shadow of Death and came out upon a gentle knoll.  The air felt lighter here, touched with the scent of grass instead of decay.  Above them, clouds drifted across a pale blue sky.  

    Seeker reached for Beautiful’s hand.  Wonderful set Merry down gently, and he bounded forward, tail wagging, barking in the wind.  Far ahead, the bright tents of Vanity Fair shimmered in the sunlight, their banners fluttering gaily in the breeze.

   Seeker hoisted his burden onto his shoulders.  Strangely, it felt lighter than it should have.  He wore new clothes—Beautiful’s handiwork, stitched with her own hands to replace his worn-out rags.  He tucked the Book and his phial close to his heart.  Then they set out.  Beautiful walked at one side, Bright on the other, staff in hand, while Merry bounded ahead with Wonderful chasing after.   
    Comfort had taken her leave to visit her father and promised to meet them farther along the Way.
    The way down the other side of the mountain was steep—perhaps steeper than the climb up—so they stepped carefully, mindful not to slip.
    “Is it called the Valley of Humiliation—or the Valley of Humility?” Bright asked.
    “In my Book it’s Humiliation,” Seeker said.  “That’s where Christian fought Apollyon.  But in your mother’s Book, it’s called Humility. Christiana and her sons had a far better time than Christian did—they even stayed at Prince Emmanuel’s country house.  That’s where we’re going.”
    “No,” Beautiful said, shaking her head.  “They didn’t stay there—it’s only mentioned.  And in my Book, it’s definitely Humiliation too.”
    “Then why do you call it Humility, Dad?” Bright pressed, looking up at him.
   Seeker shrugged.  “Maybe it was Redemption of Eva.  She didn’t just face Apollyon—she went after the Dragon too, chasing him down into the depths of Hell itself.”
    Wonderful darted up, clutching a lily high for Beautiful.
    Beautiful’s smile softened.  “Thank you, Wonderful.”
   Seeker nodded at the bloom.  “The Prince’s favorite.  They grow wild all through the Valley.  He loves the place so dearly that He gives an allowance to keep a house there—so pilgrims may always find welcome.
    Bright’s grin broke wide.  “I hope it’s nicer than Mama’s Palace.”
    They reached the bottom without a slip.  Seeker and Bright looked around, searching.  No scarred earth, no gashes in the ground, no blood-stained stones—no monument at all to mark some great battle with monsters or dragons.
    Seeker only shrugged.  “It’s been a very long time.”
    At last, they reached a narrow footbridge over a stream winding calm and clear across the valley.  Seeker breathed deep—the air was sweet, the soil smelled rich.  Fields stretched lush and green before them, lilies scattered across the grass, their white petals dipping and swaying in the breeze.
    They followed the stream into the heart of the Valley, where its waters gathered into a deep, still pond, the surface mirroring the sky.  Sheep grazed along the banks, pausing now and then to lower their heads and drink, their movements unhurried, untroubled.
    There it stood—a country house, modest yet stately.  Its whitewashed walls gleamed in the sun; their brightness softened by ivy curling in gentle green along the stone.  A golden thatched roof sloped low, as though bowing toward the meadows.  Windows latticed with leaded glass caught the light and scattered it across the grass.  Fruit trees bordered the garden, branches heavy with apples and pears, while roses clung to the fence, sweetening the air with fragrance.
    A wide oak door, darkened with age and polished by countless hands, stood before them.  Across its face were carved the words:  Welcome, weary pilgrims.
    “I think we’re home,” Seeker said.
   Beautiful gave a quiet nod.  Bright’s grin spread wide.  Wonderful bounced on her toes, and Merry answered with a sharp, joyous yelp.

   Wooden steps rose in a straight flight along the entry hall, and just off to one side lay a study.  The air within seemed different—quiet, set apart, as though the world outside had never touched it.  Dark oak paneled the walls, polished smooth by years of care.  A single tall window admitted the light, its clear glass framing a view of the fields beyond, where sheep grazed in peace.

   Seeker set his burden beside a narrow bookshelf.  The few volumes it held were a mismatched collection, their spines worn and frayed—tokens, perhaps, left behind by pilgrims who had passed this way before.  On the lower shelf there was space enough for his own books, waiting for his hand.

    A desk stood ready with a neat stack of paper, a quill, and an inkpot beside it.  Seeker placed his Book upon the desk but kept the Phial pressed close to his heart.  By the hearth waited a great chair—worn yet dignified, its leather softened by generations of pilgrims who had found rest within its arms.  He sank into it, a long breath slipping from his chest—a mingling of relief and gratitude.

    Beautiful stepped into the room, her eyes shining.  “There are three bedrooms—one for us, one for Bright, and one for Wonderful.”

    From down the hall came Bright’s jubilant shout, “Yay!”  His voice rang against the walls, Wonderful’s own cheer rising right after, full of laughter.

    Seeker rose, the warm scent of fresh bread guiding down the hall to the back of the country house.  In the kitchen, a great hearth dominated the room with a wide stone arch.  A small iron door covered the oven.  Near the back door, cords of firewood were stacked neatly, and linen-draped baskets rested in tidy rows.

    Beyond the kitchen, a dining room opened to the side.  Beautiful slipped in beside him, her fingers catching his hand in a playful tug.  “Upstairs, honey.”

    Seeker’s fingers slid along the smooth, time-darkened banister as Beautiful guided him up the narrow stair.  At the top, he stepped into a broad chamber where light streamed through tall windows set on either side.  The ceiling dipped low with the slope of the roof, yet the room felt airy, filled with brightness.

    A long wooden table commanded the center of the room, its surface scarred with age yet worn smooth by countless hands.  Benches flanked either side, their edges rounded by use.  Against the wall stood a basin on a simple stand, a folded cloth laid neatly beside it.

    Along the wall stood three doors, each opening into a bedroom.  One was larger, set with a bed wide enough for two.  The other two were smaller, each holding a single bed.

    Beautiful’s breath caught, her voice dropping to a whisper.  “It’s almost as if this place was built for us.”

***

  The kitchen smelled of smoke and bread so warm it made Wonderful’s tummy grumble, even though she’d already eaten.  The hearth yawned wide—so wide she thought she could almost crawl inside.  Flames leapt and licked the black stones above, alive and playful.  Beside it, a little arched door hid in the wall like a secret cave.  That was where the loaves went in, Mama said, to bake until golden.

    A stack of logs towered taller than she was, and when one popped into the fire she jumped—then giggled.  Dusty flour drifted in the air and settled on the table, where a lump of dough waited beneath a white cloth, rising as if it were breathing.

   Wonderful rose on her tiptoes to peek, fingers itching to press the soft dough, to knead it, to bake bread like Mama.  She was sure she could do better.  She stuck out her tongue at Mama’s back and stifled a giggle.

    Out back lay a small garden.  Mama said each plant meant something.  The sharp smelling sage for wisdom.  Rosemary for remembering.  Basil was sweet, so it must be love.  And parsley for cleansing.  Another way to say “tastes funny,” she decided.  Wonderful didn’t care so much about that.  She just liked leaning close, breathing in their smells.

    Mama chopped carrots and parsley for the stew.  A piece of carrot slipped from the board and spun across the floor.  Merry pounced, snatching it up.  

     “Merry, no!”  Wonderful cried, hands on her hips.

    Bright leaned in the doorway, smirking.  “Puppies can eat carrots.”

   Merry crunched happily, tail thumping, then plopped down with his paws lifted, eyes wide, waiting for the next treasure to fall.

***

    With Seeker and Bright gone to explore, and Wonderful still asleep, Beautiful stood in the garden, the morning sun warm upon her face.

    Tucked just beyond the garden stood a smaller house, simpler but well kept.  Its whitewashed walls had weathered softer beneath years of sun and rain.  Vines curled along the corners, while wildflowers gathered at its base where stone met earth.  The thatched roof dipped lower, humbler than the main house.  Its golden reeds had weathered to straw.  A narrow path, worn smooth, led from the kitchen door to its plain wooden threshold, where the house seemed to wait in quiet welcome.

    A faint whiff of clove drifted past.  Her.  The pain had dulled to an almost imperceptible ache, but it was not gone.  A wave of dizziness swept over her—she nearly sank to the ground.  Then, just as suddenly, it was gone, as if it had never been.

    No—it was cinnamon.  Comfort had returned.  She came across the meadow, waving as she neared.

    “I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” Beautiful said.

    Comfort’s smile widened.  “I brought you something.”  She slipped a hand into her bag and drew out a small parcel, pressing it gently into Beautiful’s hands.

    Beautiful unwrapped the parcel carefully, and the smoky-sweet aroma drifted up.  She gasped, eyes wide.  “Octopus jerky?  I haven’t had this since Bright-Harbor!  The scent alone brings it back!”  She glanced toward the guest house and smiled.  “Are you staying a while?  It’s humble, but you are welcome.”

    They stepped inside together.  The little house held only a single room—plain and spare.  A rough-hewn table stood in the center, and a narrow bed was pressed against the wall.  By the door, a few wooden pegs waited for cloaks or bags, and one small window opened onto the garden outside.

    Comfort’s smile softened as she looked around.  “It’s perfect.”

***

   Bright walked toward the pond, leaning on his staff.  Sheep grazed quietly along the water’s edge, their noses dipping now and then into the ripples.  Then without warning, the meadow erupted.  Sheep scattered, bleating in terror, their hooves drumming the earth like thunder.  Bright’s chest clenched, his heart slamming hard against his ribs.  From the dark mountains to the west, a black shape surged into view—huge, hulking, fur bristling, a roar tearing the air apart.

    A bear.

    It barreled toward the flock, eyes locked, claws ripping furrows in the earth.  One ewe stumbled, legs tangling beneath her.  She bleated in panic, stranded in the open.  The bear swung toward her, jaws gaping, teeth glinting white.

    Bright didn’t think—he couldn’t.  His staff was already clenched in his grip, and his legs were moving before his mind caught up.  He tore across the meadow, breath burning in his throat, reckless, unstoppable.

    “Hey!” he shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of fear and fury.  He lifted the staff high over his head, hands trembling, and bellowed again, “Leave her!”

    The bear wheeled at the sound, its massive head snapping toward him.  A growl rumbled through the earth itself, yet Bright planted his feet.  He clutched the staff in both hands, palms slick with sweat, refusing to let go. 

    Bright swung with all his strength, the staff cracking down on the bear’s nose with a solid thump.  The beast froze, stunned, then dropped back on its haunches.  A pitiful whimper broke from its throat before it bolted, crashing toward the dark mountains.

    Bright sank beneath a tree, his legs quivering too hard to hold him.  He held the staff against his chest and tried to steady his breath.  Slowly, the trembling eased.  A tune slipped through his lips, soft at first, then steadier, threading through the meadow like a breeze.  One by one, the sheep wandered back, their bleating quieting.  They circled close and settled around him, wool brushing his knees, until he sat enclosed in their calm.

   Seeker paused at his favored place on his way back from his labor.  The grass lay thick and soft beneath him, wildflowers bending gently with the breeze.  Here the stream slowed, gathering into a clear pool that mirrored sky and meadow alike, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
    He struck a flame and drew deep on his pipe, eyelids heavy as the smoke curled upward.  Nothing had been as he expected since leaving Uncertain—nothing.  His new work had driven a quiet wedge between him and Bright.  In truth, the difference between them was slight.  Bright filled his days with a notepad and song, the strays pressing close around him.  Seeker worked across the valley, shearing wool.  It didn’t harm the sheep, and the money was needed.
    His Book had never spoken of tread-wheels, or of chopping wood, pruning orchards, or shearing sheep.  He had turned it over in his mind again and again, but no other path appeared.
   And Beautiful—things had not been the same since Deceit, since Wrath, since Bright’s illness.  Giant Wrath had not returned, yet some wounds would not mend.  How he longed for Companion.  Surely Companion would know what to say, what to do.
    He drew in a deep breath.  A sweetness touched the air, threading through grass and tobacco smoke.  His eyes snapped open.  She was there—seated close, legs folded neatly to one side.
    “You crease your brow when you think too hard, Seeker,” Charm murmured.
    “Charm?” His throat caught.  “What are you doing here?”
    “Good to see you, too,” she said, her green eyes bright with mischief.  “I came with Comfort—though she wasn’t thrilled about it.  I thought I might linger a few days before moving on.”
    He breathed her in—clove with a trace of orange—and for an instant the years fell away.  “It’s… really good to see you, Charm,” he murmured.  
   Her head tilted, lips curved in a soft smile.
   He lurched to his feet.  “You know we can’t—” The words broke in his throat.  He turned sharply and strode away before he could betray himself further.
–
    Seeker sat in the great chair, reading.  He’d turned a page and a half before he realized he couldn’t recall a single word.  All he saw was her—seated by the stream, green eyes alive with mischief.  The fall of raven hair over her shoulder.  That soft knowing smile.  The way her dress clung close.  Flashed of harvest days.  The look in her eyes—hurt, when they had left Delight.
    He shut his eyes hard and shook his head.  No.  That was then.  This—this was his life now.
–
    The next morning his feet carried him toward the green before he’d even thought about it.  He told himself it was nothing—just habit.  She wouldn’t be there anyway.  He’d walked away.  That should be the end of it.
 –
   “Seeker!” Her voice rang warm as she rose from the shade of a tree.
   “Charm?” His breath caught.  “You’re… here.”
    “I missed you,” she murmured, eyes dropping to the ground.  A shadow crossed her face.  “I keep thinking about the wheat fields… I just wanted to see you again.  To talk.”  She lifted her gaze with a small, brave smile.  “There’s nothing wrong with talking.”
    “No,” Seeker said slowly.  “There’s nothing wrong with talking, Charm.  I have work to do, but afterward… I’ll come back.  We can talk then.”
    Her face brightened, eyes alight.  “I’ll be here—waiting.”
–
    Seeker finished his work early and hurried back to the green.  She was waiting, just as he promised.  He sank down beside her, and she drew close—so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin.
    “How have you been?” she asked, her finger hovering just shy of his bruise, her eyes soft with concern.
   Seeker’s chest tightened, his heartbeat loud in his ears.  Words rose, then caught.  He said nothing.
    “How is Beautiful?” she asked softly, her voice almost tender—and yet the question pressed closer than any touch.
    “Beautiful’s… well, she’s still Beautiful.”  His gaze dropped to the pipe in his hands.  His next words came low, almost swallowed.  “She still cries.”
    “You never said goodbye,” Charm whispered.  “She just took you away.  I think… I just needed a goodbye.”
    No,” he said softly.  “I can’t say goodbye.”
   He pushed to his feet, and as he turned, his hand grazed her waist.  Her eyes flew wide, her whole body shivering at the touch.
    “Go,” she whispered, head bowed.  “I’ll be here tomorrow.”
–
    Seeker lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching Beautiful and Wonderful bent over the table, their hands dusted white with flour as they shaped a pie.  His chest tightened.  He wanted Charm with a hunger that shamed him.  He couldn’t betray them—not these two, not here.  Tomorrow, he told himself, he would say goodbye.
–
    The next morning, he went straight to work.  He told himself he couldn’t be with her—but neither could he let her go.  All day long the words churned, circling endlessly, refusing to settle.  She deserves this much, he reasoned.  He would say the words, and it would be finished. Yet his steps grew heavy, each one slower than the last.  He dreaded the moment.  Leaving without a word had almost been easier—when it had been forced, when he’d had no choice.
–
    She was there, waiting—elegant as a queen, still as if the whole meadow bowed to her.  His gaze locked with hers, green eyes catching the light, unreadable.  His throat tightened.  “Charm, I…”
    Her finger touched his lips, light as a whisper, silencing him before the words could form.  Then her hands closed around his, warm and sure, pulling him nearer.  She leaned in, and her mouth claimed his—deep, unhurried, complete.
    Her fragrance swallowed him whole.  Her lips seared his, and breath became impossible—unnecessary.  The world tilted, spinning.  Her fingers pressed hard into his back as if to draw him closer still, her body trembling against his.
    When they broke apart, breathless, he fumbled for words.
    “Shut up,” she whispered, pulling him back to her.
    Everything else dissolved.  There was only her.
    She slipped her fingers through his, her touch light but sure.
    “Come with me,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath.  “There’s a place where no one will find us.  We can have our fill of love.  You are mine.”
    She swayed as she walked, drawing him forward with an ease that felt both gentle and inexorable.  Seeker’s pulse thundered.  Every part of him burned with longing.  He could have pulled free.  He didn’t.
    Her hand tugged him onward toward the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and he let himself follow.  His chest tightened—the very name of place struck cold in him.
    “Don’t be afraid, love.”  Her voice was low, coaxing.  “You should know by now—nothing is ever what it seems in your Book.”
    He let her lead him—after all she was right.  Before them opened a canyon vast and breathtaking, its cliffs blazing with orange fire in the setting sun.  Beyond, mist-wrapped mountains floated like a dream on the horizon.
    To the left spread a bog so strangely lovely it seemed woven from enchantment—trees veiled in silver moss, patches of flowers blazing with impossible color, their perfume drifting on the breeze.
    A narrow trail wound inward, soft and inviting.  From within came a chorus of voices, low and sweet, their song tugging them forward.
    They came at last to a clearing, and in its midst stood a booth prepared.  The walls were hung with rich tapestries, and carvings twined along its posts with cunning skill.  At the center lay a bed spread with fine linen of Egypt, cool and smooth beneath the touch, its folds inviting.  The air was heavy with fragrance—myrrh and aloes, sweet oils, and the sharp bite of clove.  Every breath was a lure, each scent twining in his blood.
    Charm’s emerald eyes fixed on him, burning with a quiet intensity.  “Tonight,” she whispered, “I am yours.”  She lifted her arms, the fabric sliding from her shoulders until her dress pooled silently at her feet.
    Every part of her seemed impossibly perfect—her feet, her legs, the curve of her hips, the smooth line of her stomach.  His gaze lingered upward:  the rise of her breasts, tipped and taut in the cool air, the slender grace of her neck, the flush in her cheeks.  And in her eyes, green fire blazed, fierce and consuming.
    Seeker stood frozen, staring at her for a long, unbroken moment.  Then, one by one, he shed what was his—first the tunic from his shoulders, then the trousers from his hips.  Last of all, he slipped the King’s ring from his finger.  His hand lingered, trembling, as he laid it and the phial upon the table.  His chest rose and fell, ragged.  Then he crossed the space between them and gathered Charm in his arms, their embrace fierce, desperate, and full.
***
    Now I, the Dreamer, beheld as Seeker left Forgetful Green and followed Charm heedlessly into the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
    When Seeker took her into his arms and lay with her, I begged him to stop.  I pleaded, I wept, I cried out against him.  But my words were unheeded—unheard.  I tried to turn away, to shut my eyes.  I clawed at the edges of the Dream, desperate to wake, desperate to escape.
    I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my ears.  The Dream shuddered—and when it opened again, I was standing in the Prince’s country house.  The very house where Emanuel himself had been betrayed, that night so long ago.
    I saw Beautiful pacing—back and forth, back and forth—as the hours dragged on.  I saw her tears, her whispered prayers.  Then her prayers turned to curses.  Fire blazed in her eyes, and she flung herself to the floor, wailing.
    I saw Wonderful’s agony—first as she tried to soothe Beautiful, then as it broke her too.  She screamed, tears running down her face, her small fists pounding on the walls.
    Grief overwhelmed me.  I longed to hold Beautiful, to tell her it would not end this way.  But I fell to my face instead, tears streaming hot and unrelenting.  “O God—forgive me.”
***
    Seeker woke tangled in Charm’s arms, the heady sweetness of the night still flooding his veins.  She watched him with a smile that was both tender and knowing, her finger tracing the bruise on his forehead as if it belonged to her.  She bent and kissed it softly before rising.  Morning light poured across her bare skin, gilding every curve.  The dimples in her cheeks deepened with each step of  her hips, and desire flared again, sharp and undeniable, as she moved with unhurried grace toward the table.   
    Her finger hovered near the Phial, then jerked back with a sharp hiss.  She reached for Seeker’s ring, lifted it, and turned toward him.  The onyx stone caught in the morning light as she studied the carved trees on the band, her gaze lingering as though weighing its meaning.
    “Seeker-for-truth,” she said, her voice laced with mockery.  “Elect son of the King—yet you sold your birthright for a bowl of porridge.  How disappointing.”  She laughed softly, almost to herself.  “I expected more of a chase.  Samson, at least, was amusing.”  She tilted her head, almost mock-thoughtful.  “Poor, poor, Beautiful.”
    The air around Seeker began to shimmer.   The sweet song of sirens twisted into shrieks and howls that clawed at his ears.  The silver moss, once drifting like veils in a bridal chamber, shriveled in an instant—curling black and falling away to reveal skeletal trunks reaching upward like grasping hands.  The fragrant breeze turned acrid, sulfur belching from bubbling pits opening at his feet, searing his throat with every breath.
   From the bog burst satyrs and hobgoblins, their shrieks splitting the air as they lunged toward him.  Charm’s eyes flashed as she cried out, “The Philistines are upon you!”  Her voice twisted into a smirk, arms flung wide in cruel theater.  “Save me, Seeker!”
    The light around her shuddered and broke.  Ragged wings tore from her back, her skin sagged into withered folds, and horns curled from her brow.  Yet her eyes—those unmistakable green eyes—burned hotter now, twin flames of Hell.  With a laugh sharp as iron, she flung Seeker’s ring into the scalding mire, watching with delight as it vanished beneath the bubbling surface.

    Terror seized Seeker as his ring vanished beneath the boiling mire.  Satyrs and hobgoblins closed in, their shrieks cutting through the air.  Charm—no, the succubus she truly was—lingered long enough to give him a smile of cruel amusement before slipping back into the bog’s shadows.

    Seeker tore free of the bed and stumbled to the table.  His hand closed on the Phial—cold, solid, real.  The creatures shrank back, hissing, claws slashing at the air but unwilling to near.  He spun, heart pounding, and bolted.  Run.  Just run.  Somewhere ahead had to be the Narrow Way.

    Sparks spat up around him.  Fire leapt, smoke rolling thick and choking his throat.  Blind, he staggered forward, groping through the haze—anything to escape the snarls and howls closing in behind.

    A root snared his foot, dragging him into the mire.  Scalding heat seared his skin, and he screamed in pain.  Companion’s warning rang in his skull.  There are places worse than the Slough.  Far worse.  If only he had listened.

    There was no bottom beneath his feet.  He tried to cry out—Help!—but the burning filth surged into his mouth, choking the word.  His head slipped under.  He thrashed upward, coughing, choking, fire scorching his throat. 

    He broke the surface, but the smoke was just as thick, searing his lungs with every gasp.  He clutched the Phial high above the mire, its light flickering weak, swallowed by the choking dark.

    All around him rose sighings and low, hopeless moans.  The gnash of unseen teeth rattled in the dark.  A voice slid against his ear—dreadful, intimate—spilling blasphemies too vile to name.  Or were they his own thoughts?  Just curse the King, it hissed.  Curse Him—and die.

    The shrieks and howls pressed nearer—or was it only his mind unravelling?  He pictured them waiting at the edge, patient, eager to tear him apart the moment he broke free of this torment.  He had no weapon.  No armor.  Not even clothes to cover his shame.  His voice cracked in the air:  “Wretched man that I am!”

    “Oh, Seeker…” Charm’s voice drifted across the quag, laced with the siren’s mocking laughter, with Beautiful’s sobs, with Wonderful’s screams.  Each sound pierced him—sharp, merciless—driving straight to the heart.

    Had a day passed?  Three?  A week?  A year?  Time dissolved as he thrashed on, body racked with desperation, seared by the brimstone mire.

    In the midst of the torment, he saw himself clearly for the first time.  In the Valley of Humility he had been swollen with pride, blind to the grace of the King.  Now, in desperation, he struck his chest and cried out, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner!”

    He clung to life with all his strength—but it was useless.  There was no edge to crawl toward, no Companion reaching for him.  Words from his Book flickered through his mind:  no man had ever escaped such a pit by his own power.  His only hope lay at the bottom, where Charm had hurled it—if a bottom even existed.

    He only wished he could… 

–

    A blinding light tore Seeker from his stupor.  A mighty Shining One descended—towering, robed in light, bronze armor gleaming—descended, brilliance flooding the hellish mire.  Seeker trembled, for in that radiance the legion of fiends was laid bare, their numbers beyond counting.  The darkness, he realized, had been a mercy.

    With a single sweep of his immense fiery sword, he hurled a dozen goblins into the air, their shrieks cut short as the smoke swallowed them.  The others broke at once, scattering in terror before the Shining One’s vengeance.

    The Shining One swept Seeker up from the mire and bore him aloft.  With a rush of wings and fire, he carried him across the wasteland and hurled him down upon the soil of the Valley of Humiliation.

    Seeker lay trembling where he fell.  Above him, the Shining One loomed—feet planted, his stern face set, his eyes unyielding as steel.

    The Shining One drew a whip from his belt.  His voice rolled like thunder, shaking even the mountains far off.

    “Hear the word of the King,” he declared.  “Those whom I love—I chastise.”

    The whip lashed across Seeker’s back.  The Shining One did not relent.  Yet against the mire’s burning memory, each stroke fell like a balm.  Seeker numbered them one by one, whispering a prayer with each blow.  Thirty-nine.  And then silence.

    From the Valley of the Shadow of Death came two more Shining Ones.  The first stepped forward and laid in Seeker’s arms the garments he had cast aside at the booth.

    The second bowed low before the mighty Shining One and offered what he bore.  “I have recovered it, as you commanded.”

    The mighty Captain took Seeker’s hand with a gentleness that belied his strength and set the King’s ring in his palm.  His gaze held Seeker’s, unyielding, unwavering.

    “Never forget,” he said.

    It was not a command, but rather truth—absolute, inescapable.

    Never forget.

    Seeker blinked—and the Shining Ones were gone.

    He stood alone, naked, clutching his clothes, the ring, and the Phial.  In the very place where he had forgotten.  

    He would never forget again.

    Seeker gazed into the still water, but the face staring back was a stranger’s.  His hair and beard were singed away.  His skin was raw and blistered.  He eased himself into the cool shallows, the water stinging as it rinsed the mire from his flesh.  Every part of him throbbed—save for the stripes across his back, where the whip had fallen like mercy.

    His clothes stank of clove—the ones Beautiful had sewn for him with her own hands.  He scrubbed them in the stream and wrung them out, but the scent clung stubbornly, as if it too refused to be forgiven.

    Would Beautiful forgive him?  Would she even look at him again?  The ring on his finger said the King had forgiven him—but the weight of it only deepened his shame.  He dared not expect mercy from her.

    When he reached the cottage, Beautiful stood outside, her face pale and streaked with tears.  She gasped when she saw him—then her expression hardened, fury flashing through the grief.  Without a word, she turned, stormed inside, and the door slammed behind her.

    “Beautiful, I…”  

    For an instant, Wonderful’s face appeared in the study window—then vanished.  He barely recognized her.  His little girl was gone.  She now looked at him with something colder than distance—disgust, perhaps.  Or was it hate?

    As Seeker neared the cottage, the door flew open.  Bright stepped out, staff in hand, his glare sharp enough to cut.

    Seeker halted mid-step.  “Bright, I—”

    “How dare you?”  Without warning, Bright’s staff cracked against Seeker’s forehead.  The blow sent him reeling—he hit the ground hard.  

    “Go!” Bright shouted.  “She doesn’t want you anymore.”  He turned and disappeared inside, the door closing with heavy finality.

***

    Beautiful looked up—and there he was.  Burned, scarred, pitiful.  For a heartbeat, concern broke through the anger.  Then the scent of clove reached her.  Her.  Damn him.  The moment shattered.  She turned and fled inside, stumbling up the stairs.

    She sat on their bed, head in her hands.  Her greatest fear had come true.  For days she had caught the faint scent of Charm—on his clothes, in the air when he passed.  And he’d been distant.  So distant.  She’d told herself it was nothing—that she was imagining it.  He wouldn’t do that.  Not to her.  But last night he hadn’t come home.  All night long.  And now she knew.  She just knew.

    She felt dizzy.  Her stomach twisted.  But worse than the sickness in her body was the ache in her chest.  How could he do this to her? Her own words came back to mock her.  Yes.  She can forgive.  There is always forgiveness.  She pressed her palms to her temples, shaking her head.  No.  She would never forgive him for this.  Never.

    She curled into a tight ball, sobbing, torn between rage and pity.  What had happened to him?  His burns—his face— She pressed her fists against her eyes.  She hated him.  She hated him.  But she couldn’t leave him like that.  And still, she couldn’t help him.  She wouldn’t.

    She forced herself upright, wiped her face, and went downstairs.  Without stopping, she slipped out the back door and into the guest house.  Comfort looked up as Beautiful entered.

    “Go to him,” Beautiful said, her voice clipped and cold.  “Take him food.  Balm for his burns.

    “Yes, Beautiful.”  For an instant, anger flared across Comfort’s face.  “She did this to him.”   Nothing more needed to be said.

    “Bring him to your room,” said Beautiful quietly.  “You’ll stay with me in the cottage.”

    Comfort nodded once.

***

    Seeker sat beside the stream, his pipe resting cold between his hands.  He didn’t bother to light it.  They hated him—and he couldn’t blame them.  He hated himself.  What now?  He tried to pray, but no words came.  When he lifted his eyes, he found Comfort standing there.

    She looked him over slowly, then shook her head.  “She screwed you over good, didn’t she?”

    He chuckled in spite of himself.  “Yeah, you could say that.”

    “She was young when she came to live with us—maybe eleven or twelve at most.  Strange child.  Used to eat dirt whenever she was upset.”

    “That explains a lot,” Seeker said.  “You wouldn’t believe.”

    Comfort gave a faint shrug.  “Mother never liked her much.  But Father always said we take care of family.”  Her mouth tightened.  “Only, she wasn’t really.”

    “How’s Beautiful?” Seeker asked, searching her face.

    “She’s taking it hard—of course she is.  She still cares, give her time.  She’ll come around.”  Comfort’s tone softened, then turned brisk again.  “Until then, you’ll stay in my room.”

    Seeker started to protest, but she cut him off with a raised hand.  “Oh, don’t give me that look.  I’ll be staying in the cottage.”

    When they reached the cottage, Merry burst through the back door and bounded toward them, tail wagging furiously.  The moment he saw Seeker, he let out a joyous bark and danced in circles.  Seeker knelt, running a hand through the dog’s fur.  Merry licked his fingers with such unrestrained delight that Seeker couldn’t help but smile.

    Comfort handed him a small earthen crock.  “Apply it twice a day,” she said.  Then she passed him a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven—Wonderful’s doing.  With a small curtsey, she turned and left without another word.

***

    A week passed.  Beautiful still avoided him, refusing to even look his way.  His burns had healed, and his beard was beginning to grow back, yet weakness lingered in his limbs, and the bruise on his forehead throbbed worse with each passing day.

    One morning, Comfort came running, worry written across her face.  “Come quickly,” she said, breathless.

    “What is it?” he asked, hurrying after her into the cottage—into their room.  Beautiful lay on the bed, pale and still.  Seeker knelt beside her and took her hand; it was cold, damp against his palm.  He pressed his fingers to her wrist.  The heartbeat was there—faint, faltering.

    A shaft of light slipped through the window, glinting off the diamonds in her ring.  She still wore it—the ring he’d given her.  His vision blurred.  Tears came in waves until none were left.  He bent over her, voice breaking.  “Oh, that my eyes were a fountain,” he whispered, “that I might weep day and night.”

    She thrashed and moaned, teeth grinding in agony.  Seeker cupped her cheek—she was ice-cold.  He bowed his head.  “Please,” he whispered to the King.

    He thought of how she had stood by him—his only friend, his companion through twenty long years—when all the world had turned away. And in that moment, he saw her as if for the first time:  not merely fair of face, but truly Beautiful—in heart, in spirit, in all she had endured for him.

    He wept bitterly.  “If only I had died in the Shadow of Death, rather than live to face this.”  Night and day, he stayed by her side—no food, no sleep—her hand clasped in one of his, the Phial gripped tight in the other.

    Seeker wept until the Phial brimmed over, its stopper loosing under the flood.  The tears spilled out and fell on Beautiful’s face.  Where they touched, color returned to her cheeks, and her eyes fluttered open—soft, warm, and gentle brown eyes.

    Then she smiled at him—the same smile that once lit up the world, the one he’d seen that very first day.  In that moment, the years, the sorrow, the distance between them—all of it—was gone.

***

    The years slipped by, and Seeker and Beautiful walked each day through the Valley—side by side, leaning on each other.  Time gentled their steps, but not their bond.  In her, Seeker found a strength deeper than anything he had ever known.

    Seeker spent long hours with Bright, talking softly about the creatures of the valley—how they lived, how they feared, and how they trusted.  Bright spoke with a quiet passion for their safety, and Seeker listened, moved by his son’s compassion.

    After many weeks, Wonderful began to speak to him again—hesitant at first, then with the warmth he remembered.  Yet Seeker’s heart ached, for something in her carefree spirit was gone, and he knew it would never return.