6. Virgil
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."
A chuckle escapes me. "Few in your era are. But music—music is your culture's poetry, I believe."
His eyes slice back to mine with laser intensity. "I'm not fond of music either."
My lips part in genuine shock. "You must be joking."
"It's a frivolous indulgence. What good has ever come of music?"
"What good—?" The words burst from me. "All the world wraps itself in words and song. Even trees compose their own symphonies if you listen with proper attention."
The slightest uptick touches his mouth. The motion is barely perceptible. "I live in a city, if you recall. Not many trees about.”
"Music and poetry form the language of love itself."
Whatever hint of levity had entered his features vanishes like smoke. "Another waste of time. Love.”
No hesitation, no uncertainty wavers in his tone.
He means it absolutely. Understanding crystallizes within my mind.
I see something of myself in this fiercely beautiful man.
Not in his appearance, for he bears thick dark hair and the muscular build of Apollo, while my own features run softer in both coloring and composition.
No, I see myself in his desperate need for control, his iron grip attempting to steer a vessel blown about by fates beyond mortal influence.
The endless repetitions of my reality have worn me smooth, but once I burned with hunger. To see my words outlast flesh, to etch my name into human memory as indelibly as the gods.
What a precious price I paid for that ambition.
But here is the point where we diverge fundamentally. This man has navigated life unloved, and whether that was by choice or circumstance matters little now. I, at least, possessed those brief, radiant years with someone who taught me warmth I carry even in this darkest realm.
This man needs love. To receive it, yes, but more crucially, to open himself to its possibility.
He must discover something that matters more than his own safety, his own fear. That path leads out of his loop. It's also the most treacherous of these paths to navigate.
I’ve remained quiet too long, so I offer a brief chuckle. Of course, he despises music. Naturally, he turns from anything speaking of sentiment or emotion. Dangerous territories, those. Unsafe.
My mind races through possibilities as words flicker across thought.
Words. My safety, my hiding place, my history.
My prison.
I should walk away. Within moments, he’d forget me and resume his path.
Twice before, I’ve tried to mend souls with wounds like his.
Twice I failed spectacularly, and the weight of those failures still clings to me, their wails threading through every silence, haunting the spaces between thoughts.
Perhaps that is why I keep up this endless monologue: because words are all I have left, and because if I fell silent, I would hear nothing but their agony.
"Rendering you speechless proves more amusing than anticipated," he says. His voice is a low rumble stark against the cool expanse of his self-imposed limbo.
I meet his gaze and find warmth there as subtle as a damp wick's flickering spark, but present. And hungry.
My resolve crystallizes. Once more, then never again. "Even if your taste in art is abysmal…” I give him a wry smile, but he only meets me with that same unabashed intensity. “I can still help you break this loop. If you want it.”
Time stretches between us. The tree looms ominously. He doesn't shift, doesn't break that focus. It’s nearly burning in intensity. It's the first time in eons I've imagined feeling warm.
"You know the way out?" he asks carefully.
"The way through. But yes."
His lips compress into a thin line before he nods. "Very well."
"Follow me."
Surprisingly, he does. Hands thrust into pockets, posture rigid as a soldier's, but he follows. When we reach the door—a polished wooden one standing impossibly upright against the fog—I gesture toward it. The incongruity makes him frown.
"You must open the doors yourself. I cannot do it for you."
He hesitates, then reaches out. His gloves are supple leather, double-stitched. Luxurious armor for privileged hands. The knob turns without resistance, the door swinging wide.
I'm almost surprised. Most souls struggle with the first threshold. Of course, far more difficult passages await.
"I'm afraid I didn't catch your name," I say.
"Michael Dante." A pause as he crosses through. "You may call me Mr. Dante."
"Ah, Dante, it is."
"No. I said Mr. Dante."
"Mmm." I smile, immediately ignoring his command. He's clearly accustomed to obedience. That much rings clear. But I've dealt with such men before. That armor, that adamantine shell protecting whatever bruised softness he harbors within. That's precisely what traps him here.
The moment we emerge, Dante gags and raises a gloved hand to shield his nose. "Christ, the stench. What is this place?"
"The bog." I inhale deeply, or perform the motion memory demands, though my lungs remain phantoms. As always, I smell nothing. How I'd treasure even this sulfurous, bitter scent just to experience one sensory moment again. I'd gladly embrace unpleasantness for that gift.
Dante surveys the rolling expanse of tar-black water and twisted roots.
The surface ripples with sluggish movement.
He frowns at trees growing half-drowned, trunks warped, bark blistered as though scorched by invisible flames.
A curious reaction, considering the Christmas tree he'd conjured was equally dreadful. Most souls I guide say the air feels like swallowing smoke and ash. It’s a sensation I've never experienced but one I can read clearly on Dante's features, even as he refuses to voice more vulnerability. His nose wrinkles and eyes water.
I step forward. As Dante follows, his feet squelch into gray muck.
He frowns at his shoes—a fine leather pair with decorative perforations—sinking into the mire.
Some creature in the distance shrieks, haunting and wild.
The heavy slap resonates with something large slipping into deeper water.
Dante’s shoulders jolt at the sound, a full-body startle, but he forces his reaction down, shoulders back, face composed within a heartbeat.
"Between each door," I whisper, leading along the driest ground available, "we traverse the bog. Mind your footing. It's treacherous. And there are rules you should know, Dante."
"Mr. Dante," he replies halfheartedly, attention fixed on his muck-covered shoes and the precarious path we navigate.
"Mmm. Rule one: don't enter the bog proper. Rule two: remember that names carry power. And most importantly…” I stop, meeting his eyes to impress the gravity of my words. “Never bargain with your soul."
Dante's silhouette cuts through the mist absurdly, maintaining dignity despite his ruined footwear. He's a dark figure, yet he radiates far more life than this soulless swamp. His laugh carries no humor. "Are you advising against deals with the Devil?"
All warmth drains from my voice. "That is precisely my counsel."
His brow furrows slightly, but I turn away before we can linger on the topic. It's not one I wish to explore.
We continue through the mire, deadfall crackling beneath Dante's steps. Never mine. His low voice rumbles unexpectedly: "The Aeneid."
The title sends phantom shivers down my spine. I quip, too quickly, “Bless you."
He scoffs. "That's your most famous work, isn't it? Finally remembered. Read it in college."
Reluctantly, I reply, "It is. I died with it unfinished. It wasn't meant to survive."
Most deep feelings from my human existence have abandoned me during my time here.
However, the fury I feel toward Tucca and Varius for ignoring my deathbed wish still burns bright.
My sole final request, the one act that might have lifted some guilt from my eternal existence, and they refused it.
Hundreds of souls I’ve encountered in this place recite lines half-remembered in a dozen different languages, carrying my words back to me like an unending echo of my companions’ betrayal.
Dante seems prepared to ask more, though his attention remains fixed on jutting rocks in our treacherous path. Unwilling to discuss the Aeneid further, I redirect, "You don't speak Latin by chance? Or Greek?"
"I do not."
"Pity. It's been so long since I've conversed in my native tongues.”
"My mind favors numbers over languages." He grunts as the landscape shifts, a log materializing where his foot was destined to fall.
We reach the next doorway, and I glance at the words carved above.
Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'intrate.
Perhaps I should feel grateful that languages aren't his strength, that he cannot read Italian, cannot sense doom approaching in advance.
Dante reaches for the handle. I move to stop him, then jerk my hand back. He wouldn't feel my touch anyway, and most find my inability to interact with even this distorted realm deeply unsettling.
He pauses nonetheless.
"Remember, I'm here," I whisper.
He shrugs. "Certainly."
"No." My voice hardens, darkens, and he hesitates again.
If this is the only language he understands, then I'll speak it. The dialect of authority and absolutes, power and control. He doesn’t know this realm intimately as I do.
"It's crucial you remember, Dante. Don't lose yourself.
And don't forget, names have power. You can use mine to anchor yourself if needed. "
"Yes, yes," he mumbles, reaching for the handle.
The door opens into absolute darkness.