But who will worship at my shrine, Rook could only wonder, trapped here in his cell, now even Chess doesn’t think on me anymore? Who will remember I lived, let alone died — or how, or why? Who for? In service of what?
Now he had space to be truly honest with himself, Rook could finally admit he’d already figured how the real reason he could never preach effectively on a forgiving God was that on some level, he knew himself both unforgiven, and unforgivable. But one deity had loved him, at least, for a little while — and it was the mere idea of Chess being happy again, someday, which was occasionally enough to make him feel happiness’s twice-removed ghost, in return.
Rook remembered a fight, early on. How they’d looked at each other after, aching to grab hold and wrestle, to rip and tear ’til somebody was back on top and both of ’em were satisfied. ’Til Rook had finally said, with what he thought was fairly good imitation of cool insouciance: So here we are, Private — stuck together, one flesh, like any man and . . . man. Friends?
To which Chess took a deep breath, moving forward, ’til he was well within Rook’s reach. Staring up at him, hotly, as he said — We ain’t ever been friends, Ash Rook.
Would’ve been nice if he could’ve had Chess kneel next to him as he died, if only to hold his hand, make it not hurt and watch as he went into that great night, submerged, a stone through dark fathoms. Hell, maybe to read to him from that Bible he’d given up in Ixchel’s service, which would’ve emptied itself out accordingly. Rook could almost see it now, leaning his forehead ’gainst the cook-hot wall, ’til it frankly hurt too much to do anymore. How the words would’ve floated up and disappeared into air, going out like sparks, leaving the pages bare.
But that wasn’t how it was to be, no. He’d seen to that himself.
Live a long time, Chess, he’d told him, once, when in his cups enough to grow maudlin. I don’t look to see you anymore ’fore I need to, if that. Repent, if you can —
Fuck that, fool; won’t get rid of me that easy, ’specially not if I catch you tryin’. You’ll see me again, no matter where you think you’re goin’.
Maybe. But — not soon, darlin’. Please.
Once a whenever, something he took for his turnkey came eddying in to hammer nails into all his softest places, then twist them; it was dreadful, formless, smelling of wet ash and covered in spikes, with too many mouths and not enough tongues to form much speech at all. In the beginning he’d railed at it, then begged it, then flattered it, then fallen silent. Now Rook asked it questions, hoping to trick it into contradicting itself. Could be its information, wasn’t any better than his own, but the game did keep him thinking, if nothing else. Kept him dreaming, ensconced down here in the Devil’s shit-pit, with nothing to do but regret.
“Is Chess alive yet?”
No.
“Will I ever get out of here?”
No.
“Is there mercy, ever, even for such as I?”
No.
“Uh huh. So tell me this, Beelzebub — ain’t it true what I heard, that same as faithless preachers, all devils are liars?”
A long, long pause. Then, at last — with some reluctance —
. . . no.
So, yes. Yes to Chess still upright, burning back and forth across the wild world, bright and hot as any flame. Yes to repentance, to redemption, if only after long suffering — and now that he was forewarned, perhaps foolishly, he began to believe he might yet be able to take whatever else this place might have to dish out to him.
Not soon, the poor portion which was left of “Reverend” Asher Elijah Rook thought, giving himself over to his punishments, but maybe someday, darlin’ — someday. Which makes us both right, in a way; now, ain’t that something?
So, closing what he thought were his eyes, he leaned back on his bed of pain, opening himself up wide to well-deserved agony. . . .
And settled in to wait.
THE END