31. Virgil
VIRGIL
Satan himself walks us out through the gardens and to the gates. I remain utterly silent lest he claim I broke my word.
I need my voice.
I need it to say goodbye.
Though I dislike how Dante attends to Satan's promises—his grand visions of crafting new realms, placing certain demons as lesser gods over territories of their own.
All under his dominion, of course. But what will they fill those worlds with but more demons?
Demons who must feed on broken souls. Broken souls who accumulate, cluttering this place that was never meant to be a resting ground.
Bringing their worst impressions and fears into it. Shaping it into what it has become.
Hell.
When servants open the gates, Satan offers his most winning smile to Dante and another firm handshake before turning to me.
"Oh, and Virgil, once you've fulfilled your vow, do stop by to see me again on your journey down, won't you?"
His demeanor is all pleasantness, but his eyes could crush galaxies.
This is no request.
I nod deeply, not daring to tempt his wrath by speaking too soon.
He turns and walks back toward his palace, swallowed gradually by the manicured beauty of his gardens. Dante steps beside me, as close as he can be without being close enough to touch. It’s close enough to remind us both how little substance I possess.
I sigh as we make our way back onto the path. I shall have to face Satan once Dante is safe. I'm certain the punishment he crafts will teach me new depths of cruelty I've yet to imagine.
But that will keep for now.
"Should we worry?" Dante whispers once we've traveled far enough that the estate is nothing but a long wall slowly swallowed by trees.
I glance once over my shoulder, ensuring we're beyond observation, before unleashing my voice from its prison. "If he says we may go to the mountain, then we shall face no obstacles along the way. He keeps his word absolutely. It's all the things he doesn't say that prove dangerous."
Dante frowns. "I didn't believe him, Virgil. Not a word of it."
Relief washes through me, but something colder follows.
I spent that dinner voiceless, watching Satan work his ancient craft. The offers of power, territory, legacy. These are the lures that catch men like Dante. I'd steeled myself to watch him take the bait.
But Satan's pride undid him. He assumed Dante's weakness would mirror his own: ambition, dominion, the hunger to rule. It would have once. Not now. Not after Dante’s trials.
It took him half the meal to realize his error.
I saw the moment it landed. The shift in his eyes when he stopped appealing to Dante's pride and started leveraging me.
Me.
I've become this man's weakness. Not power. Not escape. Not even the light waiting at the mountain's peak.
Me, who cannot touch him. Who will watch him ascend and remain behind. Who has nothing to offer but company on a path that ends in separation.
Something cracks quietly in my chest. I should be honored, perhaps. Instead, I feel the weight of it, the cruelty of mattering to someone I cannot keep.
The path is already growing steep beneath our feet. We're already ascending. Satan built his fortress at the mountain's base, close enough to monitor who approaches. Close enough to intercept those he desires.
"You seemed interested in what he was saying," I venture carefully.
"I won't deny that. But I've known men like him before.
Many of them." His gaze slides to me, so open and unguarded.
Nothing like the armored, calculating man I first encountered.
That man is gone. Dead, in fact, and someone better has risen in his place.
He offers me a soft smile. "I trust you, Virgil. "
The way he says my name, it feels different than any pull I've ever experienced. Even from him. There is something intimate in it. Something that asks rather than demands.
"If you trust me," I say quietly, "then take my counsel: leave here. Ascend and be free while you still can."
Dante nods. Soft fog slips through lush fir trees and curls around wild lilac blossoms clinging to the mountainside. We'll reach the summit in moments. I've never fully understood how this mountain works, but when a soul is ready, one need only walk upon it for minutes before arriving at the light.
"Virgil." His voice is steady. Certain. "I want you to come with me."
"I cannot."
Dante shoves his hands into his pockets. It's only then that I notice he's changed clothing again. Now he wears a dark wool cardigan over a charcoal button-down, the clothes of a man no longer trying to impress anyone.
"I'm telling you," he says, “this is your loop. Believing you can't leave."
How I wish he were right. How I wish escape had any purchase for me. I would take it. I would take it without hesitation.
"Is it the people you help?" Dante presses, his voice growing urgent, words tumbling out in a manner unusual for him. "I know you do important work here, but you've done it for thousands of years. It's your turn to leave. I want you to consider—"
As he speaks, we turn a corner, and light envelops us.
It's so bright it makes Dante glow, bringing out subtle auburn highlights in his dark hair, the faintest constellation of freckles across his nose, the warm amber depths in his eyes. He leans toward it instinctively, drawn like a flower toward the sun.
He turns to face me.
It's time.
Our goodbye.
For eternity.
This is better than having him in Satan's grip. I'll pay for his escape—I know this with certainty—but I would pay it a hundred times over to know that he, like Musa, is safe from the horrors and pain of this place.
"I want you to try," Dante says, his words forced, as though he's struggling to maintain focus on me rather than the beckoning radiance behind him.
I'm surprised he can resist its pull at all.
Of the thousands I've led up this path, at least half run toward the light before we even reach it, never once looking back at the guide they leave behind.
Most of the other half offer brief thanks, a shed tear or two, a farewell—then walk into it without hesitation.
And I watch them absorbed into that brilliance. Their expressions losing all traces of pain, of misery, of sorrow. Their entire countenance growing as bright and peaceful as the light itself before they vanish into it.
"All right," I say. "I'll try. But you go first."
He scoffs. "I'm no fool, Virgil."
"No." I smile at him softly. "I suppose not."
I've grown so fond of him—more than fond, truly—and something is slowly shattering within me in this moment. Something I'm holding together through thousands of years of emotional discipline and nothing else.
"Virgil, you have done good work. You've helped countless souls, and perhaps it's selfish to ask you to give that up.
" He steps closer, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
"But I want you to come. I want you to be free of this place.
What if this truly is all your loop? What if your lost soul is merely a trial you haven't yet passed? "
I consider this. His words carry merit. I've never examined it from this angle, but there's logic in his reasoning.
Perhaps there is a way out. And I'm not certain I wish to continue on once he's gone.
I've been fortunate enough to meet two souls that have touched mine deeply.
Musa. And now Dante. I doubt I shall encounter a third.
Having tasted companionship again after so long, losing him might be the thing that finally sinks me.
Dante nods, seeing he's swaying me. "Try. Try to believe that this is all in your mind, as you've taught me. Try to walk into the light."
"All right." I surprise myself with the admission. "I'm willing to try."
Dante exhales so deeply that his shoulders drop several inches, tension flooding out of him. His eyes glisten, and he holds out a hand, palm up. I smile and rest the image of my hand over his.
"I will find you," he whispers. "In the light."
"I don't believe we exist in that realm as we do here."
He curls his fingers slightly tighter around the space where my hand should be, then lifts his other hand and brushes his thumb across my cheek. I cannot feel it, of course.
But I shiver nonetheless.
"I don't care," he whispers. "I will find you regardless."
"Thank you, Dante. For walking alongside me.”
He smiles, though sorrow lives in it. Then he gestures toward the light.
My breath catches, solely from habit, as I take a step toward it. I've never tried, if I'm honest. There's nothing about it that compels me. I don't feel the lightness, the joy, the freedom others sense within it. I'm not drawn.
But perhaps Dante is right.
Perhaps I am trapped by the limitations of my own mind.
He said he believed he was here to free me. Perhaps he is. Perhaps I needn't face Satan's torment after all. Needn't wander endless swamps of misery again. Perhaps I find the light, perhaps I find Dante within it, and my soul, whatever it becomes, will recognize his there.
I look back at Dante. He's watching with tears streaming down his cheeks. Unblinking and unashamed. He offers me a smile, which I return.
Then I turn and reach a hand toward the light.
I gasp as my fingers meet it and press against something solid.
I can feel.
I walk closer, spread both hands over the surface. There's a barrier there, something holding me from stepping through. But it's the first true touch I've had in endless time. I spread my fingers wide, relishing the sensation, cool and smooth, like glass warmed by sunlight.
Reality crashes over me, and I freeze.
I was a fool to hope.
I was never meant to enter this light.
I turn slowly to face Dante. He's staring, mouth open, brow furrowed, hands outstretched as though trying to reach through the barrier on my behalf.
"I'm sorry, Dante," I whisper.
"No." He crosses his arms, straightens his posture. "No," he shouts this time, then louder still, "No, this cannot be true."
"I cannot carry my soul elsewhere. It doesn't belong to me."
"I can—I can go speak with Satan. He offered to transfer your vow to me. I could—"
"Dante." I step as close to him as I've ever stood. Then I offer the same gesture he gave me, brushing my ghostly fingers along a dark curl, down the line of his jaw. I wish I could feel him, just once. The softness of his hair. The warmth of his skin. The rise and fall of his chest with breath.
“Your time has come," I say gently. "You've broken your loops. You've traversed hell. It's time to go now."
Tears fall in a steady stream down his cheeks. "Not without you."
"Yes. Without me." I release a slow breath. "I know it hurts. But soon you won't feel any more pain. You will be free."
"And what of you?"
I chuckle softly, but tears spill over my cheeks despite myself. Because what is there to say?
"I will be as I've always been," I offer, slipping back into the guide of antiquity. "But full of new memories that will act as light in the shadows. Thanks to you."
He drags a hand across his face, composing himself with visible effort. "It wasn't enough. I wanted your salvation."
"But you are no god, Dante. I say that not as a rebuke—it's a compliment. You're a soul. A free one, now. And one of the most beautiful I have been fortunate enough to meet on this journey."
He keeps glancing back at the light, at the peace pulling and beckoning him. He's fighting it to stay here with me.
"I want the same for you, your salvation,” I say softly. "But the difference is, it's within your reach. Go into the light. And know it has been my honor to lead you to this place. Knowing you've made it, it's enough for me."
Dante stares at me, mouth agape. Wind on the mountain ruffles through his thick dark hair, and the light, even from behind him, shimmers over the tears on his face. He is utterly undone.
And the most beautiful I've ever seen him.
"Please," I beg. "For my sake. To honor our time together. I wish for you to go."
He just stares at me, no longer even looking at the light.
Slowly, he nods. "You want me to go."
"It's all I wish for," I say.
It is a lie. But it’s the thing I want most in all the world.
"All right," he says, his voice thick. "But I don't wish for you to watch me go."
"What?"
This is a request I've never received before.
Dante steps closer. He doesn't try to touch me, doesn't approximate contact. But I feel his spirit wrap around mine—or perhaps around the absence of mine. As though he would make me whole if he could.
"I'd have you remember me as I am just now," he says quietly. "As I'll remember you. Not as someone fading into light while you're left behind."
My throat tightens. "Very well, then."
He raises his hand one last time. Palm up.
I cover it with mine.
"Goodbye, Virgil."
My voice is choked when I find the words. "Goodbye, Dante."
We stand there for what might be a minute or might be hours. The light pulses gently behind him. The wind tangles through his hair and ripples his clothing, while passing through me as though I were nothing more than a memory.
Finally, I pull my hand back and look at him one last time.
As a painter might study a subject he will never render again.
No—better. As a poet might.
A man who stands on the threshold of heaven, light glowing through dark waves that fly about his face like wings taking flight.
Wind-stung tears cling to his cheeks like scattered stars.
His cardigan flutters about him as he reaches out—toward the guide who stands in shadow but dares to extend a single hand into the radiance.
And for one moment, just one, the guide touched it.
Felt something. Knew what it was to hope.
I hold that image in my heart, where it will burn like a flame against the coming dark.
Then I turn and walk down the mountain.