Page 70 of Where Light Cannot Follow

I turn back to the ferryman, who watches us with those empty sockets. Impossible to read interest or disgust or anything at all in that absence.

Constance's presence pulses in my mind like a drumbeat growing closer. She's giddy now, certain of her success, so confident in Charon's stubbornness that she doesn't bother hiding her anticipation. She wants me to feel her closing in.

Virgil's lips part. He's about to speak. About to sacrifice something else for my sake.

He has given so much. And what have I offered? He plans to lead me to that light, that beauty and peace and joy, and leave me there. Asking nothing in return.

"Take one of my memories," I say before he can speak.

"Dante, no⁠—"

"It's all right." I meet Virgil’s eyes. "Truly."

The misery on his face etches deep lines across his brow, carves brackets around his frown. He looks older suddenly. More fragile.

Charon clacks those mostly-bone fingers against his oar. "Which memory dost thou offer, soul? I accept not the dull and faded ones, and I have dealt with enough minds through the ages that thou shalt not deceive me."

"I don't intend to deceive you. You may have any memory you choose."

Virgil starts to protest, but Charon's voice cuts over him. "Any memory I desire?"

I smile. "Yes. But I have stipulations."

Charon only stares, but something shifts in his posture. Interest, perhaps. Or amusement.

"Dante," Virgil warns.

I shake my head slightly and continue.

"The memory may be no longer than thirty minutes of mortal time, as perceived by me at the moment it was lived. One uninterrupted memory—no fragments, no stitching together of separate moments. It may not be a memory that formed a foundational belief, skill, or framework that shaped my personality. It must be from my mortal life, not any events that have transpired since my death. The memory will be extracted in full at the moment of crossing, no deferred collection. And the exchange concludes the transaction completely. You guarantee both of us passage across the entire span of this river, at this moment, until we have safely stepped onto the opposite shore."

The silence stretches.

The river whispers against the boat. Somewhere above us, I feel Constance drawing closer, her anticipation sharpening.

Then Charon chuckles, a dry, rattling sound like stones in a dead man's throat.

"Done."

He steps forward, extending a skeletal hand. Sealing the deal.

I hesitate for one heartbeat. Then I grasp it.

His touch is cold and wrong, slimy where flesh still clings, rough where bone protrudes, the texture of something that should be buried and isn't. At the contact, a sensation rises from somewhere deep within me. Powerful. Warm. There's perhaps a breath of laughter, a name whispered against skin, a scent, something clean and masculine, soap and cedar and⁠—

Then it's done.

Something is missing.

I can feel the absence in a way I can't describe. It’s not pain, not emptiness, just... a space where something used to be. Like a bubble that's popped. Like a word I've forgotten and will never remember I've forgotten.

Virgil has appeared at my side, so close I should be able to touch him.

Another second passes. The disorientation lingers, though. Whatever was taken is gone entirely. I'll never sense it again. Won't even know what to mourn.

Virgil is frowning at me, concern carved into every line of his face. But Charon has already shoved his boat toward the water.

When he turns back, I startle, my muscles seizing.