Page 75 of Where Light Cannot Follow

"I see," he says softly.

The words settle between us, and they land, not just on him, but on me. The weight of what I've described. The shape of it.

It is what he has done for me. Offering his memory to Charon so I wouldn't have to surrender Musa. Walking into darkness at my side when he could have fled toward the light. Refusing to leave me behind.

And it is what I have done for him. Staying when I could have turned back. Guiding him when it required facing my own temptations. Choosing his ascension over my hunger, again and again.

I don't let myself think the word. I don't let it form fully in my mind.

But it's there anyway, burning at the edges, undeniable.

Dante rises from the pool, and I turn away, waiting while he dries himself, while he dresses. The sounds are intimate—the rustle of fabric, the soft pad of his feet on tile. I stare at the painted ceiling and try to remember how to breathe.

"Virgil."

His voice pulls me back.

He's clothed again. His hair is still damp and his expression open in a way that makes my chest ache.

"Can you still create within this space? Could I add something without damaging what you've built?"

I nod. "Yes."

"I'd like to show you one thing before we leave, then."

28

DANTE

I wish I could touch Virgil.

Not for sensual reasons or my own pleasure.

Not that the thought hasn't crossed my mind, especially after seeing him watch me with those hungry, darkened eyes. Realizing there's another side to my patient, gentle guide. A side I wouldn't mind exploring.

But that's not what drives this desire.

Being in this space of his—this beautiful, cultivated, untouched sanctuary—has made me realize something I've sensed but couldn't name.

Virgil is alone.

Utterly, miserably alone.

He is the only one of his kind here who refuses to feed. Who refuses to feel. He walks these paths again and again—a loop of his own making, though he'd never call it that. Helping others. Guiding them through their pain and misery. Watching them step into light he believes he can never reach.

But he never experiences the release he gives them. The joy. The simple pleasures.

If I could touch him, I would wrap my arms around him and hold him until his muscles loosened, until the tension he carries like a second skin finally unwound. Then I'd pull him closer. Let my body say what words can’t. That he is not alone. That he will never be so again.

He's grown somber and quiet as he walks beside me through the cathedral room, past the spiraling bookshelves and flickering candles. Offering to let him feed on me was the wrong choice. It had seemed obvious at the time. I can bear pain—I know I can. And if a moment of my suffering could give him even a few hours of what he's lacked for centuries, I'd bleed that misery gladly.

But the offering wounded him. My error was that I’d offered him sensation when what he needed was witness.

Now we're both quiet. Uncertain. And the truth of what we are—or perhaps what we're becoming—sits between us, pressing into the peace of this room.

He leads me past the desk, through a doorway I hadn't noticed before. We step into a space that's entirely empty. It's like standing on dark air but peaceful. Almost like floating above the world in the velvet quiet of a dreamless sleep.

Here is where I can offer him a gift. One that, I hope, doesn't hurt him. One that shows the care I feel without requiring me to find words for it.