To Hell With You
Adrian and Rebecca lay on the roof of their house, counting moons.
“There’s Judgement,” said Rebecca. “And Exile behind it.”
“There’s Flood,” Adrian pointed to a blue crescent. “I don’t see Famine or Pestilence.”
Rebecca pointed to a red orb. “There is War.”
They searched for Hunter, Yoke and Gaol. Hunter was not up, but Yoke was just peeking above the horizon. Gaol was a pale white dot, inching toward zenith.
“When we die,” said Rebecca. “Do you think we’ll reincarnate in one of the hells?” She gestured to the night sky.
“No,” said Adrian. “We will reincarnate here, and be lovers in the next life as well.”
Fifteen years later, in the year of our Lord 1102, Rebecca died of pneumonia. She left behind her loving husband Adrian and their daughter Aesha. They buried her in the family orchard, beneath a fig tree. Aesha was nine years old.
These are the Nine Moons of Hell:
- Judgement
- Exile
- Flood
- Famine
- Pestilence
- War
- Hunter
- Yoke
- Gaol
In Death our hearts are weighed, and the ferryman takes us to a new shore: Hell for the wicked, and Earth for the redeemed.
None can deny these facts. Lift your eyes to the heavens and behold the kingdom of God.
On the tenth day of winter in the year 1104, God came to Adrian and commanded him to murder his child.
This is how it was supposed to go: Adrian would have placed his daughter on the altar. He would have raised his knife, trusted his faith, and made his strike. And God would have stayed his hand. Adrian would have passed the test of loyalty, and stories of his faith would have been told for a thousand years.
But that is not how this story goes.
Aesha lay on the altar with her hands unbound. Her dark hair pooled on grey stone. What God had commanded, she was willing to give.
Adrian was not willing to give it. Instead, he dropped the knife and wept.
Only then did his daughter’s face show fear.
Reality warped, and the archangel Michael became substance. Adrian drew his sword.
“Aesha, go now. Run!”
“You fool,” Michael spoke in a voice that could trigger landslides. “You think you can outrun God?” He drew his sword, and the sound of it was like a violin screaming.
“I can die trying.” He stepped between Aesha and the angel, taking guard. “Aesha, go!”
Michael attacked. He rained blows upon the mortal before him. “You think you can abort God’s parable without consequences?”
Adrian retreated from the ringing steel, buying time for his daughter to escape. He did everything he could to delay the inevitable outcome. Finally he turned aside the angel’s blade, pivoted on his foot, and swung down upon his enemy.
His sword bounced off the porcelain skin, ringing like a bell. His hands went completely numb. The angel punched him in the gut and kicked the sword away.
“Adrian of Erys. For crimes of Treason against God / You are hereby sentenced / To eternal suffering / In Hell’s Ninth Orbit.” A halo of iridescent mana flared about its untroubled brow, the spell growing in intensity before slamming into Adrian. “[Banish].”
The world blinked. Adrian was assaulted by freezing winds and darkness. Solid ice burned against his hands and knees. A snowstorm howled in all directions.
Adrian knew he would die of exposure if he didn’t move. His sword was gone, his clothes were not fit for these conditions. Already his teeth were chattering.
He screamed, a raw animalistic sound, one of hurt and frustration and fear. I have served thee God, and I have loved thee God, and I am here God please.
The Mark of the Covenant sang in his veins, searching like an antenna for a signal. But Hell is the absence of God, and there was no reply.
Through frost-rimmed lashes he saw a faint yellow light, and stumbled towards it. The buffeting winds grew weaker as he approached, and suddenly he stepped across a threshold into preternatural calm. His breath plumed into the freezing air.
There in hushed twilight he saw the Colony for the first time. A huddled mass of gaunt and dirty sinners, faces like skulls, pressed together for warmth. Their dead eyes stared lifelessly through him.
At the center stood a naked, horned demon with a shepherd's crook. Heat rippled off his red skin and orange light bathed the congregation. They crowded pathetically toward the warmth.
Adrian studied the scene while his fingers grew numb. He could recite chapter and verse the doctrine of samsara and the atonements demanded by the nine moons of hell. This was Sangrun’s Gaol, the maximum-security prison for hell’s most violent criminals.
It would be so easy to lie down and die, and be reborn with no memory of this life. But then he wouldn’t fear for his daughter, he wouldn’t grieve for his wife, and he would not rage against God. His duty as a father did not permit him to die.
He slid down the snowy embankment and joined the crowd. Hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, rich man and poor man alike clinging to each other in a shivering mass. The entire mob slowly churned as those at the edges pushed their way back to the centre.
For hours he shuffled this way and that, unable to rest. He gazed up at the night sky and saw streamers of green and blue fire. Planet Earth rose above the horizon, half in shadow. White clouds swirled over blue oceans. Adrian looked at the Earth and began to cry. He cried until at some point, he fell asleep, still held in the embrace of murderers and thieves.
“You are not here by mistake, Adrian.
This is hell, even if you don’t yet fully comprehend what that means. You will.
God does not care about your good intentions, or special circumstances, or unfinished business. Of course, you may not believe me. You can repent and promise and pray, but no pardons are forthcoming. There are no reprieves or second chances.
I am the weigher of souls, who balances sins and suffering. None may leave this place except through me.
It may take months or years for you to accept the truth. Everyone does, eventually. I see it in their eyes, when the hope finally dies.
You are not special, Adrian. I give this speech to every rapist and robber that crosses my door.
The affairs of the living are no longer your concern.”
The demon Sangrun towered over Adrian in the pre-dawn light. Adrian could not talk nor move, as Sangrun had cast a spell to paralyse him the moment he approached. Now he loosened the bindings, and Adrian gasped for air.
“I have been wronged! I should not be here! I demand justice!”
Sangrun gestured, and a table and two stools appeared before them. Sangrun pulled forth a box and started setting up a board.
“Do you like games, Adrian?”
Adrian balled his fists in rage. “A game? Am I so insignificant to you?”
Sangrun looked up, expressionless. “I have been here since before the first sunrise. I walked alone with the first man to ever take a life, and I have shepherded the broken in spirit ever since. You have no idea… what I would give to find significance in this ocean of time.”
He began setting out carved figures in black, white, and grey. “This game is called Ragnarok. To win, you must gather the armies of hell and defeat God in heaven. Do you want to play?”
“Play? I would rather do it for real. I would odyssey across the nine moons, I would break the gates of Elysium and spit on the throne of God, if it returned me to my daughter.”
Eyes older than the stars drilled into him.
“Adrian, if you find a way to win as black, I may just give you that chance.”
To be continued...