Page 74 of Where Light Cannot Follow

They'd use atramentum for his hair, adding the smallest touch of umber and white to catch the sheen, but leaving it mostly to shadow. To raven's wings. To ink pooled on parchment. Then his body—they'd need a great deal of paint for that. Brushing golden warmth along his sides, the flush of color in his cheeks, rendered with the sweeping strokes a lover's hands might make. The water next, the way it embraces him, reflects his earnestness and beauty like a mirror that adores what it holds.

But those eyes, the depth of them holding things even I cannot read. The sincerity in them, the longing, the something else I cannot name. They'd save rendering those for last.

For a thousand years, people would stand before that painting. They'd study the books and manuscripts behind him, the Mexican tiles, the cathedral walls, the Roman ceiling. They'd wonder what the scene meant. Where it came from.

But his eyes are what they'd always return to.

What was he thinking in that moment? What would his mind reveal if only we could peel it back, reach into it, hear the thoughts burning behind that expression?

"No," I finally whisper. The word emerges breathless.

Dante swims across the pool, closer to me, his muscled arms coming to rest on the stone lip. Water drips from his shoulders onto the tile.

"Can't you craft your own food here? I can bear a small amount of pain. I'd do this for you, Virgil, so you could enjoy this moment with me." He says my name like an anchor, like he means to pull me in with it. "You could eat again. Steaming bread. Fresh fruit. Whatever you've been missing. Whatever you desire.”

I take a single step forward. My sandaled foot rests one tile away from where he glistens, close enough that if I knelt, if I reached out⁠—

"You think if I could feel right now, it's food I'd be interested in?"

His brows rise. The words have left me. There is no retrieving them.

Shame rushes through me, hot and swelling, though I know it doesn't show on my face. But he's reading my eyes as I've been reading his. So he likely sees it anyway.

He lifts himself partially from the pool, water streaming down his chest in rivulets that catch the light. "You could partake in whatever you wished, Virgil."

I abandon the rhythm of my imagined breaths. I stop moving entirely.

For a second time since meeting this man, I do something again that will shame me forever.

I pause once more.

If I'm anything, I am disciplined. I could feed the smallest amount from him. It would fracture something within him, set his journey back. But he's so close to ascension now. It wouldn't take long for him to recover what he'd lost.

And then I would feel.

The steam of the room pressing against my skin. The tile cool and damp beneath my feet as I stepped toward the pool. I'd breathe in all the scents Dante had described—mineral water, honey, smoke, paper, leather, warm stone. I'd run my hand down the cashmere sweater and finally know its weight, its softness under my palm. I'd pull it over my head. Remove my trousers. Slide into water so warm it would sting, and I'd gasp, overwhelmed by sensation after two thousand years of nothing.

I'd cross the pool to where Dante waited. Reach out a hand and⁠—

I turn and march as far as I can get from the water.

Perhaps Dante was right. Perhaps I am trapped in a loop. Because this feels like the greatest temptation I have ever faced.

"Please." The word comes out broken. Unashamed in its desperation. "Please don't ask this of me. I have vowed to myself to live by the principles of love after I squandered my soul so grievously. I shall never forgive myself if I abandon that principle in this moment."

I look back over my shoulder to where he stands in the pool, watching me.

"Love does not consume, Dante."

He nods slowly, his eyes grown sad, entirely readable. "What is love, then?"

I shift back toward him and only then realize I'm pressed against the writing desk. The altar where I once bled my soul dry, sold my principles for a legacy I thought would save me. But though I may dwell in hell, though I may have damned myself, no one else dictates my actions. No matter what becomes of me, I choose who I am.

"Love is showing up," I say quietly. "Remaining steadfast. Choosing what is right over what is easy. It's choosing responsibility for another for no reason except that you choose to." I pause, feeling the words take shape, words I've carried for centuries without ever speaking aloud. "It's sacrificing. Protecting. Giving whatever helps the other flourish, even when it costs you everything. Even when it ensures your own sorrow." I meet his eyes. "And bearing that sorrow without turning it into harm."

Dante blinks at me.

Then nods, something shifting in his expression.