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.
Archangel Michael chastises Seeker