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alt_pantheon

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"This is the home of the vain. All alone with themselves, no mirrors, no other people to reflect their good qualities back at them."

"They never find each other?"

"There’s too much space between them. The new ones tend to crawl in circles for a while before giving up."

As they continued on he saw it again and again, flashes as the light passed. The souls cringed away from the brightness after so long in the dark.

They walked until Sherlock thought maybe Jim was lost. It wouldn’t be hard to mix up your way, because apart from the odd soul Sherlock couldn’t see anything of their surrounds. Eventually they came to a large stone pillar, the black absorbing their light instead of reflecting it. Jim knocked on the rock three times and a door opened with a great crunching sound. It was only a small round chamber but he motioned Sherlock inside. With the two of them in there Sherlock couldn’t even move. The door shut and the floor beneath them quivered, slowly lowering them down the tube.

"The world’s first elevator."

They dropped down into an ice-covered tundra, the circle coming to a jerking halt. The terrain here at least was varied, frosted peaks rising and falling around them. There was a path too, a winding track on the ice that seemed to glow a faint blue. Jim started down it and Sherlock tried to guess who resided here.

He got his answer about thirty seconds later. Below the ice beside the track a soul looked up at him, hands pressed to the frozen surface. There was another next to her, and one on the other side of the path too. As they walked along the souls lay trapped in rows upon rows, all silent and staring.

"The slothful?"

"Lazy in life, unable to move in death. Again, sloth’s not the worst sin but it can have its consequences. And it covers anyone who sees wrong and doesn’t try to stop it too."

"There are a lot of people like that in the world."

"Hence why this level is so crowded."

This trek was much shorter than the last two, and Jim quickly came to a sort of spiral slide carved into the ice. Sherlock made a face.

Jim grinned. "Fun."

He slid down with a whoop, disappearing from sight. Sherlock sighed and climbed in, the tight turns disagreeing with his long body. He zipped out the other end into what looked like a sauna, steam rising around them. Jim offered him a hand up and he took it, gazing around. It wasn’t steam, it was smoke, a shifting veil that you could see through but only so far.

"Try again," Jim squeezed his hand, "Now don’t let go."

He clung on grimly as they waded through the fog. They’d only taken a few steps when he spotted a soul. She was gorgeous, blonde, long limbed and doe eyed. As soon as she saw Sherlock and Jim she ran at them, whining urgently. She only got about six feet forward when she hit something he couldn’t see, bashing her fists against the wall of smoke.

As they walked on it happened again. Every soul who saw them clambered over, only to strike some kind of invisible barrier. They all moaned incessantly, mewling and wriggling against the wall. Sherlock stared at the desperation in one man’s eyes and gaped.

"They can look but they can’t touch."

"Can’t even touch themselves."

Now he could see the signs in their gaze, in their hungry open mouths. These souls had almost ceased to look human, instead becoming wild and wanting and grasping. He was almost afraid of them.

This walk seemed to be as long as the others combined, and he wondered if that was because they were getting closer to the centre. Sherlock never got used to the lustful souls jumping out at them but he got better at hiding his surprise. He held Jim’s hand like a tether to sanity, his only chance if he didn’t want to get lost in that fog and go mad for lack of human warmth.

Finally they came to what was nothing more than a single rope running down through the mist into somewhere they couldn’t see. Jim slithered down hand over hand and Sherlock almost jumped in his haste to stay close. They landed in a world that was the exact opposite of the vain souls’ world. Here everything was bright light and mirrors, the effect dazzling. Voices echoed through the glassy prism-like maze. He could see souls curled up with their hands over their ears, eyes clenched shut as they wept quietly. He looked at Jim questioningly.

"Very good. And how did you determine that?"

"Well the vain were shut off so they couldn’t see themselves. The envious are usually people who loathe themselves and wish they were someone else, so here they’re confronted with their own shortcomings with no escape."

"The voices sound different to each soul, always someone they knew in life mocking them for being ungrateful and weak. That was the idea of a particularly clever demon."

"Anyone I’d know?" Sherlock quipped.

"He’ll be at the meeting."

The mirrors were disorientating at first but Sherlock found if he concentrated he could see a sort of pattern in the lights and the angles of the rooms. He pulled ahead of Jim slightly, carried away by the puzzle. When he reached a hole covered by a grate Sherlock whipped around victoriously.

Jim curled his lips and grabbed the taller demon by his neck, kissing him roughly.

"I hope you always get this excited over the little things, Sherly."

He lifted the grate and Sherlock peered own, frowning. All he could see was a black sort of vinyl surface.

"How do we get down?"

Jim pressed his arms tight to his body and dropped through, landing easily on his feet. He looked up at Sherlock and waggled his brows.

"Déjà vu, sweetheart?"

"Something like that."

"Come on, before you catch sight of that pretty face in a mirror and get lost in your own eyes."

He rolled said eyes and let himself fall, stumbling slightly at the bottom. Jim caught him by the arm and grinned.

"Nothing to it."

"I’ve noticed that."

They were standing in a gargantuan warehouse. It was easily bigger than any structure Sherlock had ever seen. You could have fit two Empire State Buildings end to end in it, and it was so long he couldn’t see the walls. Over levels and levels and levels of machinery souls toiled at nothing, moving their arms mechanically but not producing anything. Everyone looked dirty and tired and faded, as if they had become just part of the production line. He could see souls who’d literally worked their fingers to the bone, the flesh hanging off in ribbons. Others were stooped so low under the weight of their imaginary packages their noses almost touched the ground.

"This one’s easy," he wrinkled his brow, "Greed."

"Good, then we don’t have to spend much time here. I hate this place."

"Why this one?" Sherlock looked around. It wasn’t nice but it was better than the darkness with nothing to observe or the desert with no way to move.

"It’s so fucking clinical. The souls lose all spirit, all feeling. Without feeling they can barely think, and without thought there’s barely any fucking point them being here. They don’t understand they’re being punished anymore."

Even though he’d said he wanted to get out in a hurry, the sheer size of the place meant it was hours before they even reached the concrete floor. Sherlock could feel a wave of heat coming from a row of massive furnaces, the air around them rippling like a mirage. Jim headed straight over and opened the nearest door.

He stepped into the fire, out of sight. Sherlock pursed his lips but followed. The flames touched him but didn’t hurt. Once he’d made it to the other side the heat only got worse in fact. His brows shot up as he took in the scene before them.

It was the typical artist’s vision of Hell, all fire-and-brimstone, the rock floor dotted with great bubbling lava pits. Souls were strung up in chains, being whipped by cackling demons with their wings spread wide or cut with flaming knives or pierced like porcupines. Everywhere he looked was pain and screaming and thrashing souls.

"The wrathful, having all the agony they ever caused revisited on them. Now this is actually one of my favourite places." Jim smiled dreamily, his pace slowing to a leisurely amble as he looked over the demons’ shoulders to admire their work. They bowed their heads reverently but carried on, not allowing their subjects a second’s respite.

Sherlock didn’t feel bad for these people. Of all the sinners trapped in Jim’s realm, these people were the ones who deserved it most. They’d committed violent acts, malicious killings, terrifying and sickening tortures. He’d spent his time as a detective hunting down criminals just like them. He strolled along with Jim, noting some of the more creative torments and feeling an overwhelming satisfaction in knowing that even when he hadn’t been able to catch a killer, they would inevitably end up down here.

Because they were taking their time this level took almost as long as the last one. Sherlock watched as a man’s skin was peeled off him with little more than the demon’s claws and made a small thoughtful noise.

"Comments?" Jim asked.

"Most of the other levels are designed to create a prison of the soul’s own making. It traps them somewhere with nothing but their own thoughts and constant reminders of their faults. This is much more physical, but I wonder if it’s as effective."

"It doesn’t matter if they repent, Sherlock. The idea is that they receive all that they dealt out. I couldn’t give two fucks if they see the error of their ways."

They reached a lava pit with dark black runes carved into the stone rim. Jim took his hand and stepped out onto the surface, the liquid somehow supporting his weight. Once they were in the centre he glanced up at Sherlock.

"I’d keep your eyes closed. They’ll grow back if the lava melts them but it’s not particularly enjoyable."

Sherlock grimaced and clenched them shut as the magma slowly gave way, letting them sink like quicksand. The heat was great but not bothersome, and he was thankful once again that he seemed to be beyond corporeal pain now.

They sunk until he could feel it all over his skin, the fire warm against his lips, and then they were falling out the other side in a sort of squelch. He waited until Jim touched his face though before opening his eyes.

"Welcome to my kingdom."

Sherlock had imagined towering jagged spires and morbid flat stone slabs, but this – this was nothing like that. The ground was a soft rolling grass, spotted with small patches of white round pebbles that looked like birds’ eggs. Tree grew under a pale soft sky, their leaves hanging low enough to brush the surface of the river that ran between them, its water so clear he could see the dips at the bottom. There were no animals or souls down here but everywhere he looked was some perfection of nature he could never have imagined.

"How can this exist?" he stared, mouth agape.

"Well after the apple incident God didn’t need the Garden anymore, so I, uh, appropriated it."

"You moved a whole garden?"

"I’m the Devil, Sherly, I can perform miracles just as easily as the boys up there."

"And He let you?"

"I told you, He didn’t need it anymore. Besides, how was he going to take it back?"

"It’s unbelievable."

"Come on, I’ll show you to the main attraction."

As they walked Jim pointed out his favourite spots, his favourite flowers, the bends of the river. He spoke with a smile totally unlike his usual spiteful look. He looked serene here. Sherlock realised Jim had never wanted to leave Paradise. He’d just been too awake to stay.

"Have you ever tried to talk to God?" he asked, "If He’s as forgiving as you say He might be willing to compromise."

"I can’t go back, Sherlock. Even if He would take me it would mean giving up my demonic ways and becoming an archangel again. How could an angel live with the weight of thousands of years of debauchery, sadism and ruining the innocent for fun?"

"You could forgive yourself."

"It doesn’t work like that."

They carried on in an awkward silence for a moment before his face perked up.

"Besides, if I went back to being a good boy I’d have to give you up, and I’m not interested in that."

They came to a section where the trees were so tall and their foliage so thick that they formed an almost solid wall. Jim stopped and ran a hand along Sherlock’s chest, the shirt disappearing when it touched it. The detective’s wings unfurled slightly and he frowned.

"Everyone will have theirs out. It’s a bit of a status thing."

"Isn’t being here with you status enough? I’m brand new and I’m being taken to the feast of the year."

"Don’t bleat at me, I didn’t make pride or envy sins."

They walked on, turning right until the tree wall opened in an arch of woven branches. The clearing was a huge circle lined with a ring of wooden stools. At the far end was one large wrought-iron chair that had to be Jim’s. The other demons were already there, wings spread, eyes crimson as they turned to watch their lord enter. Sherlock could feel their gazes washing over him and held himself higher; he wasn’t any ordinary soul. He was a demon like the rest of them. He did notice that most of them wore black tunics that left their wings free though.

"You said shirtless was in?" he muttered to Jim.

The devil smirked. "Whoops! Maybe I just like to look at your chest, darlin’."

Jim walked to his throne, Sherlock trailing after him. Jim conjured a new stool for his protégé and sat, waving for him to copy. He surveyed his demons for a moment before speaking, his voice unnaturally loud when he did.

"Welcome back, my loves. Have we all had a good season? Tell Daddy your stories."

The demon to Jim’s left stood. He had a trimmed Van Dyke and shoulder-length hair, his nose long and imperious.

"My lord, I’ve been cultivating both the President of Argentina and his son. I expect a full coup within two months."

"But how many souls, Machiavelli?"

"Not counting the father and son, there’s the soldiers and civilians, and then after the takeover there’ll be widespread sin as the regime asserts itself. I’d estimate another hundred thousand, easily."

"Very nice. Next?"

"Are all the demons historical figures?" Sherlock leaned in as Machiavelli sat down.

"Some, because the brightest political minds or most notorious warriors tend to be big sinners. Some are from the times before, the ones who left with me. Most are just ordinary people like you who had a talent I could use."

There were about a hundred demons there, and one by one they reported. Sometimes Jim would explain who someone was, sometimes Sherlock recognised them. He saw Lenin and an older gentleman with madness in his eyes who Jim said was Jack the Ripper. He saw Augustus Caesar, the noble tone of his speech still present after thousands of years. Brutus made a sad contrast, his head seemingly stuck pointed at the ground. Cain was there, and Jezebel and Salome like painted carousel horses. Sherlock was surprised to see Freud, but Jim shrugged.

"The man sees sex everywhere. He’s excellent at provoking lustful thoughts out of nothing."

There was a blonde demon who looked about sixteen, her hair falling in impossible ringlets to her waist. Sherlock frowned.

"Who’s that?"

"Lucrezia Borgia. Most people think her brother was the real tyrant, but she had him right under her thumb."

Most of them had petty manipulations to tell, similar to Machiavelli’s hundred thousand. Some demons had spent years struggling over one important soul, but as Jim was so fond of saying every soul counted. The only one with anything truly impressive to present was Ashmedai.

Sherlock knew enough Christian theology to know him as soon as he stood. Ashmedai looked the most evil of everyone there, including Jim. His tongue was forked, his brows a low, sinister ridge over coal-black and red eyes. His talons and canines were both extended, and with no shirt on Sherlock could see the rough scarified patterns all over his arms and torso. His wings were the closest in size to Jim’s, and Lucifer nodded his head respectfully when the demon began to speak.

"Master, I have one million new souls for you."

There was an awed hush, but Jim himself didn’t seem surprised. He stood and moved forward to lay a hand on Ashmedai’s.