Everything proves Useless

The amulet lay before him on a flat stone, as if placed there by careful hands. The dark metal of its setting, the pale stone of its pupil—it was identical to the eye he had found in the library, and yet it seemed somehow different, more potent, more aware. As his fingers closed around it, the sensation of being watched intensified, became almost overwhelming—a gaze that penetrated not merely his surface but his depths, that saw into the very core of whatever he had become.

He held it for a long moment, meeting that gaze with his own, and then he slipped it into his pocket with the others.

The collection clinked softly as it settled—the locket with the little girl's face, the four lunar crescents, the spider, the dagger, the two flames, and now the second eye. Nine objects, each with its own weight, its own meaning, its own place in the pattern he was still struggling to understand.

He did not linger. The island had given him what it held, and there was nothing more to detain him. He turned, stepped back onto the water, and continued his journey.

The underground river received him again, its current gentle but persistent, and he allowed himself to be carried forward, walking upon its surface as it wound through the half-lit caverns. The walls passed on either side, sometimes close, sometimes distant, and the water bore him onward through the perpetual twilight of this hidden world.

Ahead, the river began to narrow, and in the dimness he could make out the shapes of two stone outcroppings that divided the flow into separate channels. They rose from the water like the piers of a ruined bridge, their surfaces dark with damp, and between them the river split into two distinct paths, each disappearing into its own shadowed passage.

He stopped at the fork, standing on the water where the currents divided, and looked from one path to the other.

The right-hand passage was narrow, its entrance low and forbidding, the water swirling into it with a swift, urgent motion that suggested a steep descent beyond. The left-hand path was wider, its approach more gradual, the water flowing into it with a gentler, more patient movement.

He did not deliberate long. Something—the same intuition that had guided him through so many choices—inclined him to the left, towards the easier slope, the more accessible way. He stepped forward, leaving the fork behind, and followed the left-hand channel as it curved away into the stone.

The water brought him to the base of a stone ledge that rose from the river like a natural landing. He reached out, his hands grasping the rough, wet surface, and with the effortless lightness that now characterized all his movements, he pulled himself from the water onto the solid ground.

The path stretched before him, leading away from the river along the edge of the underground channel. He walked forward, his wet clothing clinging to him but causing no discomfort, and soon the path began to rise, curving away from the water's edge and climbing towards some destination he could not yet see.

He followed it as it wound upward through the stone, and after a time, the quality of the light began to change. The grey luminescence of the deep places gave way to something paler, more diffuse—the light of the overcast sky, filtered through some opening ahead.

He emerged from the underground passage and found himself once more in the open air.

Before him, the familiar shape of the bell tower rose against the grey sky, its dark mass a landmark he had come to know through all his wanderings. The river, the church, the scattered buildings—they were all there, arranged as they had been, waiting for his return.

He stood at the edge of the path, water still dripping from his clothes, and looked upon the scene with eyes that had seen wonders and terrors beyond counting, and found it simply... familiar. A place he had been before, a point on the map of his journey, a marker of how far he had come and how much farther he might still have to go.

He stood at the water's edge, at the base of the bell tower, and looked down at the dark surface that had borne him so faithfully through the hidden places of this world. Then, without hesitation, he stepped from the shore and onto the water once more, feeling the familiar support of the surface beneath his feet, the gentle give of it, the way it received him as if he belonged to it as much as to the land.

The current found him immediately, taking hold of his light form and drawing him into its flow. He moved with it, allowing himself to be carried, his feet barely touching the surface as the stream bore him along the familiar path. The banks slipped past, the grey sky opened above, and soon the tower rose before him, its dark mass growing larger with each passing moment.

The water brought him to the shore at its base, and he stepped onto the damp earth, water streaming from his clothing, from his hair, falling in droplets that darkened the stones at his feet. He did not feel the cold, did not feel the discomfort that such wetness would once have caused. He simply stood for a moment, looking up at the tower that had become such a familiar landmark in his wanderings, and then began to climb the stone steps that led to its interior.

The steps were worn, their surfaces smoothed by centuries of feet that had ascended before him—pilgrims, perhaps, or monks, or simply the curious who had come to look out over the land from this high place. He climbed them without effort, his new lightness making the ascent feel like floating, like rising through water towards some unseen surface.

He reached the first level and paused.

In the wall before him, an opening gaped—a doorway, though it was more than that. Above it, carved directly into the stone with the same precision he had come to recognize, was the symbol of the eye. It watched him as he approached, its stone gaze following his movements, and as he passed through the opening, he felt that gaze upon him, felt it acknowledge him, recognize in him the one who had gathered its kindred symbols from their scattered resting places.