Chapter Twenty
Fyre Burns Bright
The Catacombs
The tiniest speck of light cuts through the ocean of black and pulls my mind away from the horrid memories of my past, stirring a fragile hope within me. Though I must admit, being thrust into the reality of my present is not that much better, as shadows of despair cling to every moment.
The single point of light floats closer and closer to me, and the walls of the caves before me brighten momentarily as the light travels past them. My hands did not deceive me. The walls of these caves are layered with dirt, rock, and bone. So many remains in this space that remains.
I wonder whether the bones belong to humans or animals or perhaps even creatures beyond my wildest imaginings when I hear a mumbling that sounds like a tiny voice.
The point of light that looked like a shooting star racing down the passageway has now arrived in front of me, flooding my eyes with light and, ironically, making it just as hard to see as the total darkness did.
Once my eyes have adjusted though, the freely floating flame shows me the space all around me. The Catacombs stretch in both directions. Narrow passages lined with bones and stalactites hang like teeth from the ceiling.
I hear a small noise, like mumbling, whispering something that sounds like, “The way to the truth is the light.”
It takes me a moment to register that the sound is indeed speech and did, in fact, come from the flame.
“What did you just say?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“I said, you look like you could use some help.”
“I’m doing quite fine on my own, thanks.”
“Based on all I see, I’d have to disagree.” The flame pulses slightly, growing brighter.
“Well, I am having a conversation with a talking candle, so, yeah, I guess you’ve got a point.”
“I am not a candle, fool.” The flame’s tone takes on an edge I was not prepared for. Danger and impatience lie behind those words. “I am not a vessel for light. I am light itself. The flame burning free from source, capable of full heat and total illumination. I am Fyre.”
The flame expands slightly, stretching upward.
“That’s what you are?” I ask cautiously. “Or that’s your name?”
“In the purest sense, our names are who we all are. But, yes, I am called Fyre. More importantly, however, I have a purpose. I am your guide through The Catacombs. As far as I am allowed anyway.”
There’s something ominous in that last phrase. As far as allowed. By whom? What limitations exist in this place?
“Well, that sounds ominous and cryptic.”
“Good. It landed as intended then.” Fyre dances closer, hovering at about eye level. “What’s your name?”
“Asher.”
The word hangs in the air, neither of us filling in any more detail.
Finally, Fyre speaks with a smugness in their tone that grates on my nerves. “Is that it? Just Asher? One name? Were you a musician in your former life?”
“Fuck off.”
“Okay, if you’re going to be like that, then you can go it alone.”
The light in the cave winks out completely, and I am plunged into darkness.
My anxiety spikes instantly. The walls press closer, the bones seeming to reach for me. The smell of decay intensifies without the distraction of light.
“Thomas,” I blurt out, desperation clawing at my throat. “My name was Thomas Asher.”
Fyre returns and, with it, my awareness of the space around me. The stalactites and crevices of the cave walls return to my view.
“Still is your name, I’d say. You’re still here. And besides, our names outlast us anyway.”
“If anyone remembers,” I mutter, the bitterness sharp on my tongue.
“Ah, memories. That’s why we’re here.” The dancing light states as though they are aware of my entire history and every story I’ve ever been a part of. “But we’ll get to that shortly. For now, a question: What’s your purpose, Thomas Asher?”
“Of that, I’m not entirely sure.”
“Name seems pretty pointless if you don’t know how to wield it. Though I suspect you do know. You’re just not ready to admit it yet.”
“You’re an annoying little fucker, aren’t you?”
“Just shedding light. That’s what I do. That’s all I do.”
The flame stretches and elongates, growing in size and intensity. What was originally a fingertip’s worth of light now stretches as long as my torso and fills the caves with even more glow.
“I am here to guide you to The Innermost Gate. From there, if the gate opens for you, then you must venture forth alone.”
“What’s on the other side of the gate?”
“Destiny, hope, possibility, despair. Depends on how you look at it, I suppose.”
“I meant literally. What, literally, is on the other side of the gate?”
“Ah. Monsters, I’d imagine. Why else would they have a giant gate in the middle of an underground cave system?”
“That doesn’t sound particularly inviting.”
Fyre sounds almost amused by this prospect. “Only once you’ve reached the bottom can you begin to climb back toward the light. What do you say? Ready to plumb the depths of The Catacombs? See what we can find?”
“It’s my love I’m after. So, if that’s the way to Maddy, then lead on. How do we get to The Innermost Gate?”
“It’s you who must lead, Thomas Asher. I am only here to light the way. The more honest you are with yourself, the brighter I become. Your memories will help us navigate this abyss.”
“But I’ve never been in The Catacombs before. I do not know this place.”
“Yes, but down here, your memories from your mortal life are free to take full shape.”
“I’ve had about enough of memories, to be honest. They’ve been playing tricks on me.”
“No tricks down here. Just the raw, brutal reality of love, loss, and regret—past and present. No fear of the deities. No fear of The Nothing.”
“What do you know of them? Of the OtherWorld?”
“I know they hold no dominion in this realm. Only the truth reigns in The Catacombs. Face who you were to become what you can truly be.”
“Still not sure if I can trust my own visions of the past.”
The featureless face of Fyre manages to adopt a shape that feels somehow comforting, like it sympathizes with my pain at this moment.
“That’s not the purpose of memory. When you misremember, that’s your mind protecting your body from the punishing shame of all you did wrong.” Fyre pauses, perhaps to clock my comprehension of their last words. “The memory you had before I arrived. The prison with Maddy.”
I feel my gut tighten. “Don’t.”
“It wasn’t real, was it?”
“No.”
“She never came.”
“She never came.” I echo my assent. My heart breaking at the admission.
“But the memory that followed. The smoke …”
“The fire …”
“The letter …”
“The pain …” The words come out as barely a whisper.
“That was real. Stay in the pain, and you’ll find your way through.”
“Now you’re speaking my language, li’l light. The pain I can endure. Pain I understand.”
“And down here … pain you shall feel.”
Our conversation about names and pain and my Maddy swirl around inside me until I am transported to a time far from this one, a lifetime ago. A time when I had my full name.
England, 1868
I’m still staring into the center of the red-orange fire when I hear her voice late the following afternoon.
The flames have become a kind of meditation, though not a peaceful one. I’ve been stoking this fire for hours, watching the coals shift from black to crimson to white-hot, trying to burn away the memory of her. It hasn’t worked. Nothing has.
I’m sure I’ve done things since Madeleine crashed back into my life. I must have eaten, slept, and completed jobs. But my mind is drawing a blank on what any of that might be. The last twenty-four hours exist only as a fog, punctuated by flashes of golden hair, warm eyes, and that damn word—fiancé.
I repaired her wheel, set it aside, stared at it, and hated it for being the only thing that might bring her back, only to have someone else pick it up earlier this afternoon.
So, consider me dumbfounded when she steps into the forge, the light from outside chasing her in.
She fills out the curves of her muted yellow day dress, and the sight of her backlit and framed in the doorway takes my breath away.
She carries herself with a confidence that her clothing can neither enhance nor detract from.
It radiates from somewhere deep inside her—from the set of her shoulders and the way she meets my eyes without flinching.
“Is it done?” she asks.
I thought it was when you left for finishing school those years ago and I began my apprenticeship. I assumed our youthful flirtations were seeds planted in arid soil, destined to wither before they could ever take root. Then you walked back into my shop, into my life.
“A wheel is never finished,” I say instead, keeping my voice measured. “It continues. No beginning, no end. The infinite power of a circle.” I spin a single finger through the air, miming the motion.
Her eyes cut into me sharper than my words. I smirk, bemused by my own audacity and her response to it.
“Your driver collected it this morning.”
“Oh.” A smile replaces the daggers in her gaze, and something in my chest loosens. “How very helpful. I’ll have to think of another excuse next time.”
The implication—that she wants there to be a next time, that she’s already planning another visit—sends a dangerous warmth through my body. I laugh at the brashness of this creature, the sound scraping out of me from lack of practice.
“You’re not meant to say that sort of thing out loud.”
“Life’s too short not to say what you mean,” she replies, chin lifting just a touch in that way I remember.
“Perhaps you’re not a dove at all.”
I wait for recognition to flicker across her face at the endearment, for some indication that the nickname has jarred loose a memory. But there’s nothing. She just tilts her head, considering.
“Much more a bird of prey than a bird of prayer, I’d say.”
The whip-smart wordplay makes me want to smile and weep in equal measure. This is still her. My Maddy is still there, beneath the polish and pinned hair. She’s still clever and quick and possesses an intoxicating intellect.