Page 13 of Where Light Cannot Follow

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.