Page 11 of Where Light Cannot Follow

The answer emerges automatically from the memory of a hospital chaplain's brochure at my father's death. He'd offered prayers and counsel. The pamphlet earned a quick skim before I slid it into my briefcase and thanked him. Support wasn't necessary. I was already at acceptance. The other stages held no appeal.

Virgil reaches out to touch a Christmas ornament, his movements slow and deliberate, as though hoping not to knock it loose. Or perhaps hoping he will. It doesn't respond to his touch at all, as if it’s completely immovable.

"That's right. Fifth. The final stage." His voice carries centuries of weight. "You may not accept where you are until you process things for a while first."

"And where, precisely, am I?"

He looks back, his eyes returning to that dark, depthless quality. "You're in hell."

6

VIRGIL

The man's eyes widen a fraction, making me realize they aren't as dark as they appear in the liminal light of his conjured reality. His lips part, the quietest breath escaping like a prayer half-formed.

The Christmas tree casts sickly light across his skin, rendering it corpse-pale and ghastly. It doesn't suit him, this harsh illumination that drains the warmth from his apperance.

In my earthly days, I never witnessed Christmas trees. They bloomed as tradition long after my mortal coil unwound. But I remember my home adorned for Saturnalia. Lush evergreen boughs trailing from doorways, candles flickering, servants' laughter echoing as dice clattered against stone, and the honeyed scent of spiced wine warming winter air.

Share a drink with me, Publius.

Musa's voice rises unbidden from memory's depths. Of all the treasures this place has plundered from me, one remains untouched. My bright-eyed companion of the soul, who loved festivals and found joy in feasting as easily as breathing.

However, I’ve witnessed Christmas decorations in countless other souls' limbos before. They're never pleasant, never carrying the pine-scented warmth I recall from sitting beside Musa, feeling his presence solid against my shoulder, his laughter vibrating through my chest like music made flesh. But usually, these holiday visions retain some echo of life's joy.

This tree feels birthed from nightmare itself. Glass ornaments hang shattered, branches twisted and snapped, emanating brightness so glaring it seems almost menacing. Like belladonna, it feels beautiful in its deadliness.

The man remains frozen in this wrongness, his face contorted by fury, eyes wide, mouth slack in a manner that seems foreign to his nature. He shakes off the expression, fingers sliding to his throat under his jaw, then dropping away when he finds nothing. His lips thin as his gaze drops to his watch. I needn't see the frozen hands to know they've ceased their eternal dance. He's been trapped in this loop for so achingly long—several years at least, by mortal reckoning.

When he finally speaks, his voice carries no tremor. "Explain to me what exactly I did to deserve hell."

“I’m not sure if anyone deserves hell, truly.”

He scoffs and turns away, though his feet remain rooted. Instead of moving, he stares into the endless, empty arteries of his imagined city.

The coat his mind has conjured is stretched perfectly across shoulders that speak of disciplined strength. Away from the tree's garish glow, his beauty strikes me anew, especially when scowling doesn't mar his features. But of course I'm drawn to him. Life still clings to his form like morning dew, energy from that distant realm shimmering along his limbs. I can almost taste it, almost feel the electric current of existence. Almost.

If only I truly could.

"I can help you," I whisper, not realizing the words have escaped until they hang between us like an offering.

Words. They’re all I have left. They've become both shackles and salvation, the water sustaining me while rising ever higher around my throat. If fortune smiled, I might drown in them. Unfortunately, nothing so merciful exists within my realm of possibility.

But this man—this gloriously-close-to-life soul—carries hope like hidden fire. There are shadows within him, too, fractures that might bind him here eternally. Perhaps wearing a path into nonexistent pavement for all eternity would prove kinder than forcing him onto a journey riddled with potential failure.

Yet something else pulses beneath his surface. Though I cannot feel it, I sense the potential coiled within him. A sleeping volcano which is buried, compressed, but capable of magnificent eruption given the proper catalyst.

Besides, his hope of salvation is the only bit of light I have in this dreadful place.

He turns those cutting eyes upon me, shadows gathering in their depths. "Why would I trust you?"

"Honestly, were I trapped in hell and a moderately familiar poet from antiquity offered assistance, I'd probably accept. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

"I'd say you're more than moderately familiar."

I can’t discern if he jests. His face remains an uncracked mask, gaze sliding away. I shrug. "Says the man who couldn't recall my nationality."

"I'm not much for poetry."