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.
