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The dark wood was savage, rough, and stern. Treading along the path, and one where its straightforwardness was forsaken–created a sense of disorientation to Dante which festered like a blistering wound.
Dante was a man of average stature, donned with black gloves and a corporate uniform of a mix of red, yellow, and white. ‘NO .10’ was written on their coat next to the lapel, along with the word ‘DAN TE’ in its succession. Curiously, he wore a prosthetic head that resembled a clock as the flames on his head glowed ember. He walked and walked, the metaphorical wound worsened the further he wandered from the true way.
His steps had a creak of disquietness, up until he reached the foot of a mountain whereupon he beheld its magnificence, and thus began his ascent. However, he is abruptly halted by the unwelcoming introduction of the first—a leopard, beautiful yet two-faced; the second—a great lion, violent and cruel; and the third—a she-wolf, acquisitive and incontinent. The beasts snarl with deep-rooted hunger, spurring Dante back into the deep woods.
Still recovering from the attempt upon his life, Dante gasps from exhaustion and confusion. He glances around, shivering from the cold of the wood that seeps through his clothes. The starless night sky provides no clemency from his suffering.
‘Back to square one’, he murmurs to himself.
A dark figure rises from the shadows; his skin as grey as the moonlight and he possessed a vertical jagged scar across his countenance, unfolding from his left eyebrow down to his right cheek. The figure in question wore a paludamentum that shone in the colour of blood and a green laurel crown with spikes that seemed to harm the wearer with every move. Despite that he seemed to be indifferent.
In fright, Dante jumps back like a puffed up cat, a loud rumble erupted from his clockhead, <Who are you?!>
He flails his arms in an attempt to dissuade the figure from approaching, which does nothing in vain. Regardless, the figure steps forward and dusts himself off.
To which the figure responds, “I am Vergilius, your guide.”
A pang of deja vu. Dante withdraws his ineffective assault, choosing to inquire through ticking, <My guide? I have just been attacked by beasts who blocked my path to the summit. Would you know who they may be and why they halt my journey?>
“I do. They are beasts who kill all that approach them.”
<I seem to have lost my memories as I don’t remember what I was doing prior to walking through this forest.>
“It is alright.”
<Will you lead me up that hill as my guide?>
“...Yes, however due to the she-wolf’s presence, we must use a different path to ascend the mountain. Follow me as we must first pass through the Limbo and Hell as the Star wills.
Only then will the Garden of Eden permit you in.”
<I’m… Dante, it’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.>
“...Likewise.”
Feeling content with Vergilius’s assurances despite the gaps in his memory, Dante remarks on his pilgrimage with Vergilius by his side. With a pep on his step, the two create a pathway towards the mouth of Hell once again.
—---------------
“Ah, it is night, we are able to see the stars once more.” Vergilius remarked gently, soft like snow. Facing Dante, he seemed almost reminiscent. His age-old scar traces down his face like a map and his eyes twinkle faintly of red.
Vergilius wore a fragile countenance of solemn content as if in the blink of an eye, this moment could be inevitably robbed away from him forever. He took off his laurel crown and placed it onto Dante's hands.
A shy smile blessed Vergilius's face.
Black gloves intertwined with a grey shade.
The stars shone brightly above, as if commending their efforts.