CI
He was one of the lucky ones. The demons would tell him that, usually
while beating him with sticks.
Oh, it was true.
Really, it was. He was in
Shal-Mari, wasn't he? There were worse
places. He wasn't being burned in Sheol
or farmed in Abaddon. He wasn't chained
to a post and being eviscerated daily.
He wasn't a test subject for Tartarus' endless research studies. Why, he hadn't even been in the Soul Yards
for very long before being shipped off to the softest berth in Hell. A talking monkey should be grateful for what
he was undeservedly given. Sticks to
the groin and stomach were really a privilege - especially as they were even
being solicitous about where they were hitting. Passing up a boot or two to the head was such a burden, after
all.
The damned soul even knew this to be true, although
he knew that the last bit wasn't strictly a case of altruism. He couldn't read Helltongue, of course, but
the Punisher on assignment duty had deigned to explain to him the sigil burned
into his chest. It had spared him a few
minor indignities over the decades - and it was apparently sparing him one more
indignity now, as the demons suddenly stopped beating him and began to
sauntered off, satisfied enough with their play.
The damned soul waited silently, curled up and
sobbing (it was expected, after all.
Someone might check) before he was reasonably sure that they had left,
or at least would be satisfied enough to make his second beating a mere
exercise in proving a point. This time,
it was the former, so he picked himself up and started staggering to the other
end of the alley. There were no
mirrors, of course, but he knew what he must look like. Burned and bruised skin, ripped rags and
dirt, probably half a dozen different cuts... and the brand, of course. No need to imagine what that looked like, as
it glowed sufficiently brightly to cast a reversed image on the rough clay
walls. The Punisher had actually gone
to some trouble to make sure that the damned soul knew what it meant:
He keeps his eyes.
He had been blind since birth; the first two things
that he had ever 'seen' and knew that he was seeing were the Angels of Final
Judgment silently condemning him as deserving of Hell. Hell had made certain since then that his
eyes he would keep.
Again, it could have been worse: they might have
decided to remove his eyelids.
...
Of course, his box was gone. In Shal-Mari, you kept what you could
defend, and a box big enough to hold a human was worth things. Not being there to guard it meant that you
lost it faster.
For the longest time, this would have meant that the
damned soul would have started up again on the infinite treadmill of finding
somebody weaker than him and taking his or her pitiful shelter for a few brief
hours or days, not that days meant much of anything in Hell. He had stopped doing that a while back,
though. He wasn't exactly sure why.
Maybe it was because he could see in the
afterlife. He had lost a lot of things
from his life - clean air, music, the feel of sunlight, his own name - so maybe
the one thing that had been cruelly given to him in exchange seemed more
important in comparison, and so the things that he saw seemed fraught with
significance. Maybe it was just that he
actually had time to think more. Maybe
he didn't know why he couldn't bring himself anymore to take what he wanted
from others. It didn't matter. He couldn't, that was all. He was finding that there were a lot of
things that he couldn't do anymore, and a couple of them were things - which he
was very, very careful to keep quiet about - that he didn't mind not being able
to do.
No, it was very simple, really: no sense in denying
it, really. He didn't take because he
had no right to. Everything that
happened to him in Hell was a deserved punishment for what he did in life. To take would be to deny that truth. It was becoming very important to the damned
soul that he never deny that truth.
There was no hope for him now, of course - but there could be
acceptance. So, he took the beatings
and the humiliations and the pain and simply accepted them - and fought not to
backslide when the little voice inside his head kept querulously complaining
its outrage.
The damned soul stopped at that. Now that he thought of it, he hadn't been
hearing that voice for a while. He
should be: it certainly loved to rear its metaphysical head after a
beating. But - nothing. He was free of it. He was finally free of all his resentments and selfish objections
and pettiness, it seemed. The soul
closed his eyes for a private thought.
When he opened them...
Well, it was still Hell. Nothing had changed.
The worst bit was trying not to laugh, as it was the
wrong kind of laughter. Mad giggling
and sadistic chortling was fine, but honest mirth at one's own presumption was
simply not allowed. Especially since
when the laughter was evident of ... something or other; what it was, the soul
wasn't sure, but he liked it. He hoped
that the feeling would last for a while.
A bit of internal prodding seemed to suggest that it might, but he knew
that he couldn't count on it. But,
weirdly, that was all right...
: Well, finally. :
The voice was both unfamiliar and ... familiar, for
some reason. The soul looked around,
still oddly centered within himself. He
couldn't see anyone, but there was a smell - a good one.
: Down here, boss. :
He looked down.
There was his dog.
This was the first time that he had ever seen the
best dog that he had ever - not owned; 'been partnered with' was a better term
- but the smell was his, and when the soul fell to his knees and gathered him
into his arms, the feel was his, too. A
rough tongue licked his face in the old, good way as the wrong kind of tears
for Hell fell down the soul's face. He
could remember that the dog was good - but he never knew how beautiful the dog
was. It was worth every second of Hell
to see the dog once. He didn't deserve
it.
The soul reluctantly let go of the dog. "I can't... I can't remember your
name."
: That wasn't my name, boss. That was just what you called me because you
couldn't say my real Name.: The dog
looked at him. : You could now,
though. You want to hear It? :
The soul nodded.
The dog told it to him. The soul
repeated it, softly. Two miracles, now.
"It's a good name."
: Yeah. I
always wanted you to say It, and now you can! : A tail thumped the ground. : So
many things that we can do, now... :
The soul shuddered.
"This isn't the place for you."
: Well, of course it isn't! : The dog cocked his
head at his friend. : This isn't the
place for you now, either. Can we go? :
"I ... can't."
: Why not? :
"I did things.
Bad things. This is where they
put me, because of it."
: Yeah, I know. :
"I... don't think so. I hurt people, you see."
: That's what The Big Dog told me. I told him that you'd learn better,
and you did."
"I killed six people when I was alive."
: Are you sorry that you did? :
"Yes!"
: Are you trying to get out of what you did? :
"No."
: Did you make your peace with everybody you hurt,
even yourself? :
"Yes."
: And are you willing to accept what comes to you
because of it all, even if it means being in here forever? :
The pause was fairly long, this time, with a sigh at
the end.
"Well... yes.
I am."
The dog gave him a canine grin.
: Then we can go. :
"Really and truly?"
: Boss, you're my human. Good Dogs don't lie to our humans. Are you calling me a Bad Dog? :
"You were the Best of Dogs. I missed you when you were gone."
: I missed you, too. That's why I told the Big Dog that when it came time to get you
out of here, I was going to be the one who led you out. So, let's go, already! :
The soul stood up.
"Is the Big Dog... God?"
The Name rumbled, as it always does in Hell.
: No, but I think that he knows Him. Look, there's the door! Come on come on come
on... :
The soul stopped.
There was still just the wall.
He could hear some commotion in the distance, getting closer. He closed his eyes and opened again. There was still just the wall.
"I'm sorry. I can't see it." He closed his eyes again, not in despair - more in acceptance and a fierce attempt to keep these few moments of grace locked in his memory for eternity - when he felt an old, familiar weight pressed against his hand. His favorite leash...
: Of course you can't! Look, keep them closed and follow me, just like the old
days. You trust me? :
"With my life.
I always did."
: Then trust me one more time, boss. We really have to go, now. :
The soul walked forwards, being tugged in the old,
happy way by the leash and the dog.
There was a brief moment where the wall seemed almost solid, and a
dimming sound of howled outrage...
: OK, you can open them now. :
And then there was light.