"He is stronger than you know," I whisper to the darkness, my voice steady despite the tears streaming down my cheeks. "Stronger than you could ever understand. He will not break. He will not look back. And neither will I."
I keep walking forward into the black, my faith not just in him but in myself, in the love we've built together through trial and triumph. The whispers rage around me, growing fainter with each step as their power over me diminishes. The visions fade like morning mist, unable to maintain their hold on a heart that knows its own truth.
Somewhere ahead, beyond the darkness and doubt, Theron walks toward the light. And I follow, unseen but unshaken, carrying my own piece of the dawn that waits to welcome us both home.
33
THERON
The tunnel that separates the realm of the dead from the living realm becomes a sensory deprivation chamber more complete than any torture devised by mortal minds. There is no echo of my hoofbeats on stone, no whisper of air moving through passages, no distant drip of water or creak of settling rock. Even my own breathing seems muffled, absorbed by the unnatural stillness that surrounds me like a shroud. Most terrible of all is the absence behind me—no sound of Eurydice's footsteps, no feeling of her presence, no reassuring warmth that tells me she follows.
I am forced to rely solely on faith now, that most fragile and essential of human virtues. Faith that she walks behind me in the space between heartbeats, between breaths, between one step and the next. Faith that the cosmic law governing this passage is just and true, that love really can bridge the gap between life and death. Faith that my doubt—the creeping poison that whispers I'm walking alone through empty darkness—won't prove stronger than my trust.
I find a rhythm to carry me forward, a marching cadence that gives structure to the formless terror threatening to overwhelmme. Left foot, right foot, left foot again—the simple pattern becomes an anchor in the chaos of uncertainty. I begin to hum one of my old sea shanties under my breath, not the complex melodies I used to battle the necropolis's guardians, but something basic and comforting:
"Steady on, steady on, through the darkest night,
Morning comes, morning comes, bringing blessed light."
The tune is nothing more than shaped breath in this place where sound has no substance, but it gives my mind something to focus on besides the growing certainty that I'm a fool walking alone through emptiness, that Eurydice never made it past the threshold, that faith is just another word for willing blindness.
One foot in front of the other. That's all I can control, all I can trust. The path beneath my hooves feels solid enough, though I can't see it in this absolute darkness. I keep my eyes fixed ahead, searching for any hint of the light I glimpsed through the archway, any sign that this tunnel leads somewhere other than madness.
Time stretches like warm honey, making minutes feel like hours and hours like days. I count my steps until the numbers lose meaning, hum my shanty until the words blur together into nonsense syllables. The darkness presses against me with weight and presence, not just absence of light but a positive force that wants to crush hope beneath its indifferent mass.
Without warning, I feel a sudden, sharp pain in my back—like a blade sliding between my ribs, seeking my heart with surgical precision. I stumble, crying out as agony shoots through my body, hot and real and utterly convincing. My hands reach back instinctively to find the wound, to pull out whatever weapon has pierced me, but my fingers encounter only unmarked fur and the familiar ridges of my spine.
The whispers find me even here, slithering through the darkness with malicious glee:"She has betrayed you, goldenbull. The pretty human with her sweet words and sweeter lies. Even now her hand holds the dagger of shadow, the blade forged from her resentment and fear. You left her in darkness, abandoned her to walk alone, and this is her answer."
The pain is so real I can taste copper in my mouth, feel warmth spreading down my back that might be blood or might be imagination given form. The whispers paint images in my mind—Eurydice's face twisted with hatred, her small hands gripping a weapon made of crystallized sorrow. They tell me she never loved me, that I was always just a conquest, a challenge to be overcome and discarded.
"No," I grit through clenched teeth, forcing the vision away with every ounce of will I possess. "It wasn't real. It was a phantom, a last desperate trick."
The pain fades as suddenly as it came, leaving behind only the memory of agony and the whispers' mocking laughter. But I know what I felt was designed with perfect cruelty—not just to make me doubt Eurydice's love, but to make me want to turn around, to verify she's still there, to break the cosmic law in a moment of justified suspicion.
I straighten my shoulders and resume walking, each step an act of defiance against the forces that want to see love fail. The whispers continue their assault, cycling through every doubt and fear I've ever harbored, but I wrap my shanty around me like armor:
"Steady on, steady on, through the darkest night,
Morning comes, morning comes, bringing blessed light."
After what feels like an eternity of walking through absolute darkness, fighting phantom pains and whispered lies, a new sound reaches my ears. Not the crash of waves that drew me toward this passage, but something else—making my heart leap with desperate hope.
The muffled, joyous ringing of bells. Milthar's bells.
The sound is faint at first, so quiet I almost convince myself it's another trick, another false hope designed to lead me astray. But as I continue walking, it grows stronger, more real, carrying with it all the honest warmth of home. These are the bells that ring for festivals and homecomings, for weddings and births and all the simple joys that make life worth living.
It's the sound of hope given the voice of the community gathered in celebration rather than mourning. It's the sound of the living world welcoming back its own.
My pace quickens despite my exhaustion, my heart pounding with frantic energy as the darkness ahead begins to thin. Not yet light—not quite—but something less than absolute black. The bells grow louder with each step, their bronze voices calling across the distance between death and life, promising that home waits just ahead if I can maintain my faith for just a little longer.
I can feel it now—the pressure of the tunnel lessening, the weight of cosmic law preparing to release its hold. The air tastes different, cleaner, touched with salt and pine and all the honest aromas of a world where people live and love and hope for better tomorrows.
Almost there. Almost home. Almost ready to discover whether faith alone was enough to bring us both back from the edge of forever.
The bells ring louder, and I fix my eyes on the growing light ahead, still humming my shanty, still walking forward, still trusting that behind me, invisible and inaudible but real as starlight, Eurydice follows her own path toward the dawn.
34
