of his rooms surrounded him like a cloak
. It feels like dark velvet
over his shoulders.
The single candle is all he really needed, though his eyes plagued him of late.
His hand remained poised over the vellum, ready to scratch the quill upon it's surface.
But nothing came.
"I did what he asked." he whispered. "I followed him. But where are the memories? Virgiglio, where are the memories?!"
He would have to write the story of his journey, he knew that it was of vital importance. But he would have to go back to Virgil to recover the memories that were vital for the telling of that story.
His guide, he knew, awaited him in Limbo.
He had to go back.