PROLOGUE
“For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”
— Mark 8:36
Once, the Church had me believe I was whole. That I had a soul, and it was pristine and intact, and it would remain so, for as long as I kept my hands folded and my eyes lowered.
For as long as I lied.
They told me to love God first. They did not tell me that would mean loving no one else.
And so my faith gave me nothing but hunger. I starved on sanctity. I swallowed shame like sacrament. I called every kindness I desired ‘temptation’, every softness ‘sin’. And when I found myself loving others–which happened always quietly, from corners and shadows–I called it ‘suffering’ and called myself holy forenduring it.
Living like this, is it any wonder I was so hungry for most of my life?
Both my body and soul hungered for gentleness. For another man’s gaze, that might flick to mine not in fear, but in recognition. Ah, I see you, Alessandro: I see that we are the same. I hungered for the feel of a thumb brushing the hollow of my throat. For arms around me that didn’t belong to saints carved in stone, unmoving and unmerciful, or to my brethren, whose affection was always innocent.
I hungered for warmth that didn’t come from the flame of punishment or the fear of an eternal Hell.
The Church offered salvation on the condition that I never touched what I loved. But I do not endure such a fate now. I cannot—not after letting Asmodeus in.
Asmodeus, my wild Prince of Lust, who did not flinch from the darkness inside me. The demon who did not ask me to be pure, only truthful, and who never told me I was a sin waiting to happen.
In its gaze, I have found no condemnation.
The Church says I have lost my soul. But I say: I have shed it. Like a cloak too heavy to wear. Like breath held too long in the chest. I gave it up, and with it, I stopped begging to be forgiven for existing as I am.
What I have now is an answer to that old and endless desire. Flesh, met with flesh. A world where no voice shames me for craving touch, or tenderness, or a man’s mouth on mine. A world where I can look at Asmodeus, Prince of Lust, and see not a test of faith, but the truth of my nature.
Yes. I have lain with demons. I have forsaken Heaven. I have let go of the promise of eternal reward in exchange for something far more sacred: the right to live as I am.
They say I have lost my soul.
Let them.
I would rather lose it than live my whole life refusing to touch what I loved.
Asmodeus did not steal me. I gave myself freely.
Let the kingdom of God bar its gates. I no longer seek entry: For I have found something holier than thou.
1
The stairs began with no ceremony.
They emerged bluntly from the rock, broad and black, wet with some dark sheen that consumed the faint red light above. They were not made of obsidian, though they reminded me of such. I was stepping where very few, if any, once-mortals had stepped before, and around me were things very old and ancient. Indeed, no familiarity existed in this new realm, and I was out of place, more so than I was even in Hell. These stones swallowed sound and refused metaphor; I could not accurately compare them to anything, and even ‘obsidian’ is not enough to describe how dark they were. But I can tell you this: they did not glow. They were so dark I found it difficult to stare directly at them. They were simply there, ascending into the thick dark like broken teeth shattering through rock.
I stood before them in contemplative silence, overly aware of the rapid beat of my heart and the sound of blood in my ears. This–this, before me–wasit. Can you comprehend the finality of the act of this ascension? Can I accurately explain everything it meant to me, and all it represented?Every action and inaction in my life had led here, and yet, there was no one to witness me. Perhaps ceremony was more Heaven’s purview, but still it shocked me that there was no acolyte with a candle, no voice calling me forward, no God, who had certainly abandoned me, and perhaps not even Asmodeus in that moment. Instead, there was just the kind of silence that comes after ritual; the aftermath and finality of something done, and the waiting quiet. An expectation of deliverance. I had completed my rituals, and now here was the final act, where I would be claimed.
I had left Dantalion’s realm through the doorway Asmodeus had summoned for me, and it had opened here, onto a swimming dark with only these stairs that climbed up and up until they were swallowed by the umbral depths. Looking back, I suspect I lingered there for so long out of disappointment. Part of me longed for ceremony or celebration, and another part that had been raised in the quiet asceticism of the Church, recognised this as a test of sorts. Would I climb with no one to urge me on, and with no promise of what lay at the end?
Yes, that was it. Another test before I reached my Lord.
My feet were bare, and my mouth was dry. The stone before me was wide enough for three men to walk abreast, but in my heart of hearts, I knew it was not made for procession. This was no staircase of coronation, but one meant as an ordeal. The longer I stared, the more certain I grew that all my hesitation and wariness came down to feeling unsettled. Me! After everything I had endured, it was a simple staircase that gave me pause! But somehow, that stone possessed the gravity of judgment, and the indifference of something very old. I had proved myself, and now here was the final test. Faced with the finality of what I had wanted, would I rise as Asmodeus wished, or would some human fear worm its way into my heart?
You’re already in Hell. You have already done so much to get here. Yet I was still human, was I not? It feels inevitable that as a man born mortal I would still contend with mortal whims and fears. This–all of it–could be a mistake. And what then?
But as with any fear relating to the correctness of my actions, I had learned to spy the seams where the Church’s words had stitched themselves to mine. Too much of my fear was not my own. I had learned that again and again. So now, with a steadying breath, I undid the work of that fine seamstress and removed the thread binding me to all the fear around eternal damnation. I had chosen this, and for this last time, I would choose myself once more.
