[Winter Contest Entry 2020] The Distance Between Two Souls

When most people think of Hell, they imagine brimstone and hellfire. They imagine a subterranean mass of outcroppings, inverted cities, and desolate wastes of the wandering dead, picked apart and stitched together again only to be consigned to the same never-ending fate for all of eternity. Shades and shadows who have long had their identity stripped; diseased souls pulled to the breaking point but never beyond. They think of Gomora pounded so deep into the world, like a stake driven into the heart of damnation where it rests as a monument to all past sins.

They think of John Milton and Paradise Lost, of tragic beauty and the truest of regrets at the base of Pandemonium’s still lake, silent as the grave save for the soft cries of ruin.

They think of Dante and his Inferno, layer upon layer of torture and cruelty, malice, and avarice winding into the belly of the beast where only traitors may reside.

If only the truth was quite that comforting, and not as lonely.

True Hell is a pocket ripped from time and space. It is weaving darkness, a void stitched into place, not a speck of starlight of the heavens or the silver-light of the lonely moon. Corridors of nightshade stretching for infinity, low and even in every direction. No hills. No outcroppings. Muted and sterilised like a prison.

It exists nowhere and as nothing more than a jail for the most contemptuous.

Men and women robbed of form and thought alike so they may never repeat their crimes. There is no cacophony of screams, no lonely blue eyes seeking companionship, no kingdom of pride awaiting you here. You will only find golden thread, sewing itself into the umbral canvas and disappearing as it tries and fails to understand what it is now that it is no longer human. A Midas tapestry that would be funny if it was not quite so sad. Like a lost bumblebee charging against hollow glass, time and again, all for nought.

No escape, no hope, no philosophy to spout that upon reflection puts all the pieces together at last.

Only a meaningless white noise, indicative of silence that’s not quite consoling as it is daunting.

Empty, save for this place’s lone Custodian. A woman in black dress and white hair, eyes a smoky vermillion, feather-white wings at her flank thrust upon the nightshade of her attire; crown of golden roses running the circumference of her head. She only exists to watch over the lost and silent souls that inhabit this place. A duty filled with such boredom and devoid of true purpose. This place is designed as inescapable, so much so not even the Custodian could leave if she chose. There is no hope for the incorporeal. They are even more trapped than she is.

She may retreat back into her mind, find shelter in delusion and fantasy. She may pretend to know what the sun kissing her skin feels like, she may convince herself that wind is like a thousand silk threads running their length over her. They do not have even such a trite and passive escape from this place.

However, for all the desolate emptiness of this world away from worlds, there is one tiny breach. One slither of life afforded to the Custodian and only the Custodian. A crack in the canvas located in the most remote, isolated corner of this world. It bleeds light, soft embers robbed of warmth wafting down into the palms of her hands, followed by the tones of song.

She nestles at the ground, upon her knees, and listens to a melody that has become quite the fixture of these meetings. They can never last long, but they calm her soul and make the seclusion somewhat easier to cope with.

Once the lyrics peter into silence, the rhythmic hum replaces them, like a Mother consoling a teary-eyed child or a lover’s chaste embrace. It shakes the world, but never threatens to break it.

A feminine voice trickles in once it is done.

“Do you know what today is?” It’s as warm as the Custodian thinks light must be, a voice of compassion. The voice of an Angel.

“I never know what any day is.” The Custodian admits, forwardly. “It is hard to keep track of such a change when there is nothing to judge it by.”

“Do I detect a hint of sass? Perhaps I should take my leave early…” The voice huffs, though it comes through the breach tepid in its threat. It is disingenuous, and even with the distance that is both a thread and ocean apart the Custodian can still hear the smile.

It doesn’t stop her from panicking because this is all she has.

“No! Please, do not leave me!” She begs, hand reaching to the breach, but it rebounds like a ball hitting a wall, a tacit reminder she may never leave, and this is all for show, really.

“I promise, my Dear, it was only in jest.” The Angel chuckles. “Would you mind playing the game all the same?”

“Do you find it drole?” The Custodian asks, hands nervously running through ivory locks, threading it between her fingers.

“Comical. Amusing. Entertaining. Whatever word you chose, I think it suitable.” She is candid with her admission, but it bears no malice.

“Very well.” The Custodian agrees. “Your day of birth?”

“Ha-ha!” The Angel laughs. “Oh, I could only wish to have been born on such a momentous day. No, sadly I must admit that is not quite the answer.”

“A Holy day?”

“Correct.”

“It must be special.” The Custodian prods for information and is deftly met in response.

“All Holy Days are special, my sweet.” She chuckles. “I will not be so easily unwoven.”

“Touché.” The Custodian relents. “Saint George’s?”

“Ah, the warrior. No, quite removed, I should think. Try once more.”

“And then you will put me out of my misery?” The Custodian smiles.

“If I am feeling kind.”

The Custodian taps her chin a few times, sitting down, legs folding off to the side as she thinks in the presence of her bodiless companion.

“Lent?” She inquires.

“We shall be here all day, I should fear, should I allow you to go on…” The Angel muses. “Today is the Holiest of them all, and I come bearing a gift.”

“Christmas?!” The Custodian exclaims, fingertips coming to her lips in shock. “I cannot believe such a day has escaped me! I have had no time to put something together for you!”

“Nor could you.” The honesty in those words stings. But it is an undeniable truth. This breach is one way, this world is only ever one way. What enters, may never leave. Sometimes the Custodian prays the Angel’s honeysuckled words will be trapped all the same, ringing out into the darkness forever with her. Always keeping her company where she, herself, cannot. “Worry not. I need nothing from you but your ear. To know you will speak and to listen to me is a gift I cherish.”

“You speak too highly of me...”

“You speak too lowly of yourself.” The Angel clips.

“…You have an agenda?” The Custodian inquires. “Whatever could it be?”

“Indeed. I come bearing a gift.” The Angel answers, cryptically. “’Tis the season, after all. Sleigh Bells, snow-kissed streets, the ring of voices in carol, peace on Earth and goodwill to all men. These are but a select few of the many traditions passed down from the birth of our Lord. Exchanging of presents is a far more modern iteration, but the philosophy is the same, I find.”

“A gift? Whatever do you mean? Are you allowed?”

“For something so trivial and symbolic? I highly doubt there would be issue. And as the old saying goes, what they do not know cannot hurt them.” The Angel provides, neutrally. The Custodian is not so sure herself, there is to be only one way in and no way out. Theoretically speaking, nothing that could be provided would unwind those rigid rules. All the same, it is highly irregular. “Are you not curious of what I have to offer?”

“Of course!” The Custodian leans forwards in anticipation. “On this Holiest of days, to be given something by you, my heart cannot remain still, and my head is heavy. I almost feel like sleeping.”

“I should hope not, that would be quite the dull conversation to be had with a sleeping Custodian.” The vigour in the Angel’s voice climbs an octave, amusement rolling forth from her tongue. “Hold out your hands, and it shall be with you soon. I hope.”

The Custodian, nervously, holds out the palms of her hands together. She watches the golden breach of space, wondering what could be sent her way. The breach was no wider than the length of her arm and span of fingertip to palm for breadth. Were she to stand, she would be on the edges of her toes, lip curled and teeth settled into the ruby flesh. Her heart stilled and quickened at the base of her throat and she didn’t blink once.

Then it starts to melt through the light. A small, silver band fitted with a singular sapphire stone matching circumference of her finger. It twists in the air, hanging in the space between breach and flesh, like it was indecisive as if to commit fully or to retreat. The Custodian didn’t give it a chance. Her hands clasp violently around it, cold metal biting into milky skin. This was the first object, the first thing she has ever seen not from this world. Opportunity knocks once, and she would not let herself be caught on the backfoot.

The Custodian is thankful for the sense of touch more than anything. The bite of the small, fragile band against the walls of her hands informed it was real. It had not disappeared, had not broken and dissipated into the aether. It was real and there, sturdy and true. She releases a shaky breath and turns her hand around, tentatively opening the tense grasp she has over it and drew one hand back into the space between herself and it.

It still remains, now decidedly still and devoid of its grace of movement. It seems like nothing special, just silver metal and gem. It neither has beginning nor end, running in a continuous revolution around itself. It was smooth, neatly fined into shape. It is not hollow, yet when she touches it the metal sings with every brush of her fingers.

“What…is this thing?” The Custodian asks, having realised she has been entirely silent since the Angel stopped speaking.

“A promise.”

“A promise?” The Custodian repeats.

“Perhaps more of an oath.” The Angel answers noncommittally. “Amongst humans who make the vow of marriage, they usually exchange a physical gift in place of their own word. A constant reminder of their loyalty and intention to remain by a single person’s side until their final dying breath. It is continuity of purpose and reason. A vow.” The Angel explains.

“An oath? A vow? For what, and to whom, and why?” The Custodian’s brow knit together in confusion.

“To you, of course.” The Angel chuckles. “It is my oath to you, my dear. Let this band be a symbol of this solemn promise between the two of us, never to fade or dull or turn to dust in the wind. One day, we will be together in the flesh. We will not be two disembodied voices reaching across the universe for one-another. We will be one, a union not of mind but of body too.”

The Custodian was speechless, features frozen bar her eyes, which flitter from breach to band and back again.

“I do not know how, nor when, but I will not allow you to remain where you are for eternity. For I love you, and these talks we share and the kindness you exhibit have rooted within my heart and sing between my ears.”

“You can’t…possibly mean…” The Custodian whispers. “I am this place’s guardian. Its Warden. Without this place, I am nothing.”

“And yet you want nothing more than to leave, yes?”

“Yes.” The Custodian’s words drip with emotion, tight and quiet.

“Then we shall find a way.”

“How can you be so sure?” The Custodian asks, and she is met with silence for the first time since their conversation began where it was not intentional.

“I cannot.” The Angel admits. “And yet, I am certain we will be victorious.”

“And I thought I was the naïve one of the two of us.” The Custodian smiles, lazily but joyfully, too.

“I find myself perplexed with my own optimism, but this is my gift to you all the same. I will be beside you, have faith and hold firm. And until that day, I will speak with you every day so you do not ever feel abandoned to duty and duty alone,” The Angel continues. “Do you share this promise with me?”

The Custodian stops to think, but she settles on her decision quickly. She cannot doubt the honesty of the Angel’s words, but the likelihood of their manifestation is low. But she wants to believe them. She wants them to become true. So she slips the ring onto her finger between middle and little on her left hand. She holds it up to the breach, gazing up to the glorious blue gem that she runs a thumb over.

“I promise.”

“Merry Christmas, my love. May we one day share this Holy day in person.”

“Merry Christmas, I love you, and I will hold you to that.”