Seeker sat smoking his pipe, eyes settled on the crystal-clear water shining beneath the sun, and beyond it the cottage tucked among the fruit trees. The plums—if that was even the right word—were all but gone, and the not-quite apples pressed through gold-tipped leaves.
There was a kitchen for Beautiful. A stillroom for Wonderful. Bright, content as ever, wandered with the lambs by the riverside. And for Seeker—a study, with real paper and a waiting pen. He turned his Book slowly in his hands. Apollyon’s dart had passed straight through it—only the armor beneath had stopped it.
Your own Book will rest by the River of Life. The Interpreter’s voice echoed softly through memory. He had written of leaving Uncertain behind. Of how he’d found the Staff of Opinions, only to find it useless in Stupidity. Of how Companion had drawn him out of Despond. How he’d fallen in love with Beautiful. Of Thoughtful. Of Bright and Wonderful. And of Wrath—how Forgiveness had brought the giant low.
It had been hard to write about Charm. Hard to set down how close he had come to losing everything in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He wrote of Plague. He wrote of Vanity. And still the ink didn’t lessen the weight of it.
Seeker closed his eyes, drew slow smoke, and let peace settle over him like warm sunlight on stone. He already knew what he must write next. Eva and Perry.
When he opened his eyes, Comfort sat beside him as though she’d always been there. She smiled, blue eyes bright as river-light.
He studied her quietly. Not a day older than when he first met her—that slight familiar sadness still resting behind her smile. Her hand found his, warm and gentle. How long had he overlooked how beautiful she was, lost in his obsession with Charm? She leaned closer, eyes soft, breath warm against his skin, lips close to his.
Beautiful! The thought struck him like cold water, snapping the spell in an instant. The Necklace of Conscience lay warm against his skin, and the scars Charm had carved into his back pulsed sharply beneath his shirt. Never forget!
He slipped his hand from Comfort’s and drew back, breath tight in his chest.
Tears welled in Comfort’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks unchecked. “Haven’t I always been there for you?” her voice trembled. “I brought you lunch when you were worn out. I healed you after my sister hurt you.” She drew a shaking breath.
“You were supposed to be mine,” she whispered—then a sob broke through. “That night… you were to marry me. My father promised.” Her hands twisted in her lap, pleading. “But I brought you back to Beautiful. I would never take you from her.”
“No,” Seeker said—soft, but unshaken. “I know who you are.” His fingers brushed the place where Apollyon’s dart had pierced his Book. “Adam-the-First had three daughters. Has three daughters. Pride-of-Life. Lust-of-the-Eyes. And…”
“Lust-of-the-Flesh,” she finished for him. The air around her wavered—like heat above desert stones—and her beauty split like a shell breaking open. In an instant he saw her as she truly was: a succubus, swollen and foul. Horns curled from her brow. Her skin blistered and sloughed like diseased flesh. When she smiled, blackened gums and rotting teeth glistened.
She laughed—softly, almost kindly, yet edged with mockery.
“Good for you, Seeker.”
She turned and made her way toward a low door set into the hillside. Odd—he couldn’t remember seeing it there before. Her steps were slow, wheezing, her form still that warped, diseased parody beneath the illusion. When she pulled the door open, heat shimmered from within, rippling the air like a furnace-breath from below.
At the threshold she paused, looking back over her shoulder—one last lingering smile.
“Oh, don’t worry, Seeker,” she murmured. “There are no satyrs. I’m not cruel like my sister.” Then the door shut with a heavy thud, and she was gone.
Seeker grasped the necklace medallion in his palm—it was still warm. He let out a slow, quiet breath of relief.
His back no longer ached.
Yet even here, in rest and peace and sunlight, stood a door to Death.
