12235/15 Fears: The Sixth Circle - The Catacomb of Flames

15 Fears: The Sixth Circle - The Catacomb of Flames
Date of Scene:	27 July 2022
Location:	Hell
Synopsis:	Jon travels to the Sixth Circle of Hell and finds himself imprisoned for the crime of heresey. Self-relfection and an understanding of the nature of his religious convictions hold the key to escaping this trial and allow him access to the next step on his journey.
Cast of Characters:	Chas Chandler, Jonathan Sims

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Chas Chandler has posed:
    Jon's time in Seventh Circle is spent in turmoil and stife broken by moments of revelry. Being the favored champion of Chiron meant harassing the warmongers and murders who squabbled above the waterline of the Phlegethon. Doling out their just punishment as ordained by the centaur lord.

    When not punishing the sinners of the plain, Jon's duties were to entertain the court of the lord in the combat arena. All manner of creatures were brought before the Archivist to test the mettle of the creature who bested the Commander of the Hosts of Heaven. Manticores, harpies, dragons, and all manner of demons were brought against the Archivist. And all fell under his skill and luck.

    It may come as a surprise to Jon when he is called before the Lord's court and informed that his year and day were up. And he is presented with a choice. Stay on as Champion of another year and a day. Renew his contract as it were. Or be given leave to depart for the Sixth Circle and the main level of the city of Dis.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Oddly enough, Jon /enjoys/ his time serving as Champion of the Seventh Circle of Hell. The epiphany, years ago now, that he truly /is/ a warrior, that fighting and combat are things he not only enjoys but excels at, is borne out here all too well. He pushes himself to get better, to learn as much as he can about different fighting styles. He promises boons to any in Chiron's service who can defeat him in sparring, seeing that they'll their day in the combat arena to show off before the rest of the court.

    He even somewhat enjoys punishing the sinners. The philosophy of war he most favors, after all, holds that the finest method of battle is not to battle at all. The Art of War, to Jon's mind, is a treatise in how /not/ to fight, how to avoid fighting except as a very last resort. The Amazons he so admires train body and mind both, to avoid fighting where possible and ensure as little death as possible when it cannot be avoided. The warmongers and murders and tyrants in the river abandoned such principles in favor of mass bloodshed, and little makes the Archivist more angry than senseless violence. Besides, he's supposed to be all about judging and punishing the wicked, right?

    But when the question is asked, the answer is easy. Every passing day just makes him miss everyone back home even more. His family and his friends, the people he promised he'd come back to. He only agreed to the delay because he didn't think he'd be allowed to move on at all otherwise.

    Of course, there's the small matter of his worry that he'll just wind up stuck in the Sixth Circle, period, but he has to /try/ to get through. He promised.

    So with a bow and thanks for all he's learned, he requests leave to go on up to the outer wall of the City of Dis, to see how he makes it through the land where heretics are punished. Even if fear constricts his heart as he says it. Isn't he a heretic, after all?

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Chiron nods solemnly. "I will miss having you as a Champion, but a deal is a deal" he gestures in a manner of dismisal. "Go, Jonathan Sims, Archivist, Avatar of Ma'at, to the outer rim of Dis. I wish you luck in your dealings with those who reside there. They are a prideful bunch and their penchant for discord is high."

    In leaving, Jon is treated much in the manner that he should be--a retired hero of the land by the demons and other punishers, a terrifying legend by those punished under his tenure. His is escorted by the same centuars who brought him to Chiron's court to the rocky cliff that serves as the boundary between the Seventh and Sixth's circles. High above at the top of the cliff is the wall of the City and the Fallen who guard the inner sanctums of Hell. Jon's fate now lies with them.

    As the group surveys the wall, a blue-butterfly flickers in the corner of Jon's vision. The centaurs with Jon don't seem to notice it or at least they pay it no heed, despire the fact that it stands out against the landscape.

    The butterfly flutters up in a spiral higher and higher up the cliff's face. Leading Jon to his next destination. And so he follows.

    The cliff is much like those before it, high and unyielding. A defining barrier of the depths of depravity those who reside below have fallen to to be so far from the Light of God above. Jon flies, and flies, and flies.

    It doesn't take too long for the first companions to join him. "And so the Archivist comes to Dis, where he belongs..." calls a soft, composed voice. It's source is a radiant darkness that matches his speed to the left. "Hailed as a champion below only to be labeled a prisoner above. Such is a pity" says another radiant darkness to his right. "You would think the fear in his heart would be enough to allow him to see the truth of his predicament" says another before him. Whoever they are (and Jon can tell that much with ease) they have him surrounded.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Fallen angels. Of course. They guard the walls of Dis, and by now there might well be word that Jon's trying to get out. Even if not, surely they want to see the mortal who bested Saint Michael.

    Jon sighs. This is going to be a whole... /thing/, isn't it?

    "I /belong/ in the mortal world," they reply as they fly up and up. "If I /belong/ anywhere in the lands of the dead, it's Duat, the afterlife of Kemet. I'm just passing through this realm, on my way home."

    He frowns up the cliff. "Who rules this realm? Can I request audience, to plead my case?" It's worked twice before. Why not try it here? Whatever the words of the Fallen, there's a part of him that refuses to believe he really /belongs/ here. How much of that is anything he /truly/ feels, and how much of it is just lingering from his upbringing?

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "So strong... and yet so naive" says the first of the Fallen around Jon. The others add their own parts as some unholy chorus. "Raised Anglican. Yet defied the will of the Church in his youth" says another. "Even now, he denies his place in the greater scheme. His heretical nature does run quite deep doesn't it?" adds the third of the trio.

    They're approaching the ledge rapidly and soon the outer wall of Dis is spread out beneath Jon. There is quite a bit of space between the ledge and the true walls separating the lower Hells from the upper, though not as wide as the entirety of the Seventh Circle. Perhaps equal to two of three bolgias and all that walk the streets are Fallen Angels. Those who believed in Lucifer's dream and rebelled against god. This is where they live now. It is squallor compared to the splendor of the Silver City, but perhaps that is the point. They wanted a different life. A life that was more like God's favored children: humanity. Here, they seem to have found it.

    What is directly beneath Jon and his trio of critics, is a central square. There is what might be a government office and other official looking structures around it. "He request we bring him before our lord?" one of the Fallen around Jon says, the sneer in his tone unmistakeable. "Does he want to find his tomb so readily?" another jeers. "Perhaps he understands better than we presume" the final one laughs.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon glowers ahead toward the city, not looking at the Fallen who surround him. "I am the avatar of /Ma'at/," he snaps. "She was ancient when Henry VIII was not even a glimmer in his grandmother's eye. If anything, it's the Catholic Church who are heretics, abandoning the gods that founded Rome to throw in their lot with the followers of some upstart from Judea."

    It's defensive, and he knows it. It's /true/, but it isn't the /whole/ truth. Because here, now, he isn't really the Avatar of Ma'at, nor even the Archivist. He is Jonathan Sims, and like it or not, he was baptized at St. Peter's Church, Bournemouth. He attended services every week until he was 14. He sang in the choir, learning a lifelong love of music that still informs his magic. He wanted to be a vicar--and essentially grew up to be a priest, just of a different faith. He swore the Nicene Creed--

    /Oh/.

    Jon falters, suddenly, and drops down to the square and the office building there. "I swore the Nicene Creed and the Apostles' Creed," he says. "I am the avatar of Truth, but I never formally renounced my Christian faith, despite pronouncing my disbelief." He closes his eyes. "I swore an oath, and I /broke/ that oath, and I therefore betrayed my original faith."

    Well, fuck.

    He frowns. Could it be as simple as just... renouncing the things he used to believe? Probably not here, now. It might too late for that. But also, why /hasn't/ he yet?

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The Fallen from before decend with him and the light around them diminishes. They still wear it as dark halos about their heads but they appear as classical depictions of them are. In fact all the angels on this level are depicted like that: androgynous figures in a variety of ancient garb; some Greek, some Arabic, some Egyptian, some Indian, in fact, as Jon looks about he can see dress in a multitude of styles and times. As if every country that carries even the smallest amount of Abrahamic faith in their makeup is given respresentation by the Fallen of this Circle.

    "They see their error now" one of the Fallen around Jon says. "And they hope to simply correct if with words? In this place where penetice holds weight" another adds. "We will have to see what the the Lieutenant has to say about it" the third of them says before gesturing for Jon to follow. "Come, Jonathan, we will do as you request, but I do not think it will go as simply as you hope."

    Jon is lead through the largest of the offical buildings. The inside is a true Hellscape compared to the outside. Cubicle after cubicle, with Fallen angels entering data on scrolls as beuracratic cogs in some great filing machine. They pay little heed to the Archivist as he is lead through, though a few notice and lean to whisper words to their colleages nearby.

    The Archivist is taken to a large office in the back where a massive desk takes up the most space of the room. "Lieutenant Baal, the Archivist has arrived. We have brought him to you" the lead Fallen says to the entity in the office.

    The entity behind the desk looks up. He is handsome, if not as beautiful as the angels of Heaven but he still radiates power. This, like Satanael in the Eighth Circle, is one of Lucifer's lieutenants during the First War of Heaven. "Good" he says as he gestures to a pair of simple chairs before the desk. There is a command in both word and gesture that expects to be obeyed. "Have a seat, Archivist and tell me what you are doing in the great city of Dis."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I don't expect it to be /simple/," Jon grumbles as the Fallen comment on his thoughts and lead him into the building. Would he like it to be? Of course. But he knows better. If it were that simple, he probably already would have done it.

    He sits in the chair indicated and sighs. "I am passing through, from the Rings of Violence to the Stygian swamp. I do not entirely belong here, as I am not truly dead." He speaks with confidence, looking the Fallen in the eye. "I walked across the frozen lake of Cocytus and found my way through the lies and illusions of Malebolge. I served a year and a day in the service of Lord Chiron, as his Champion, an honor won in combat with Asterius, bull of Minos. And now..."

    There's a brief hesitation. Jon knows what he needs to do, but the idea is rather terrifying.

    "I have sinned in the eyes of God and men. Not a sin great enough to weigh down my heart on the scales, to condemn my soul for eternity, but a burden that must be relieved nonetheless. I have turned from one faith to another, and never formally renounced the first." A pause. "I... confess that I do not entirely understand /why/ I can't let go of the beliefs I held as a child, but that's rather beside the point, isn't it? I feel the guilt, heavy on my soul. There is something to be reconciled, there, and I don't quite know what it is."

    He swallows, still looking Baal right in the eye. He hasn't turned away once during this entire speech. "I know it's probably an odd thing to have someone /request/ to be punished for their sins, but I know I must be here for a reason, and that I can't pass the gates of Dis without paying my dues." A smirk. "So in a way I suppose I throw myself on your mercy, if you have such a thing. I am aware of my sins, and willing to pay penance. Perhaps this isn't the place for one such as me to do so--but here I am, and it's a bit late for regrets."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The god of the Canaanites regards Jon with the same impassive expression many angels seem able to adopt. It's not a pleasant experience, there is the sense that the angel is taking stock of everything Jon has ever done or thought in that silence. "You've the general idea of it. But it isn't so easy as to -ask- for punishment. You will receive it for certain, that you are here is evidence enough of that, but there is more to our task here."

    He pauses for a moment before rising from the desk and walking to the door. He closes it and then starts to speak. "Were you aware that most of those on this plain are not truly trapped?" he says calmly as he walks back to the desk and settles himself down. "All of them could escape if they managed to figure out the trick of it. It's fairly simple really. You've already taken the first step. Acceptance. Many are trapped by their own blind insecurities. But if they took that first step, if they had the -courage- for it, they could find themselves elsewhere. Purgatory perhaps, or some other realm, or perhaps above in the Fifth. Still better than here."

    He folds his hands before him and fixes Jon with those same unblinking dark eyes. "You will be put into a tomb. It will fill with fire. But... if you have the courage, you might be able to find yourself beyond the walls." He nods solemnly. "Courage is the key. Am I being clear enough for you Archivist?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "The courage of one's convictions," Jon muses thoughtfully, finally glancing aside merely to consider the Fallen's words. "No true believer in some other faith would wind up in Hell. A /true/ convert would not feel their leaving the Church was a sin. Even those within the faith--well, I doubt Martin Luther is down here, say. He /believed/ his criticisms of the Catholic Church. He saw /them/ as the heretics, who had turned away from the true teachings of Christ."

    They look back, glowing green eyes meeting dark, and nods. "Very well. Let's get to it, shall we?" Oddly, he's not quite so terrified now that it's before him. What is fire going to do to him, after all?

    There's always the risk of starving to death or dying of thirst, but somehow he thinks the Fallen will see to those trifling problems. He's not going to learn very much if he's constantly dying and regenerating, after all.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Baal nods. "I like a man who understands that prolonging the inevitable is a waste of time." He rises and they are no longer in the office. Instead they stand before an open grave. It is a simple thing, deep but the box within in wood and unadorned by any cushions or filigree. All around them Jon can hear the muffled screams of those in nearby tombs; the sinners being roasted alive in their graves.

    Baal takes Jon by the arm. "One last thing..." he places a hand on the Archivist's head. "I relieve you of those cares that would distract you from your task. You will feel no hunger, no fatigue, no thirst, no death. Only the drive to find a solution to the heresey you cling to." There is a thrum of quiet power, not unlike the angels but it carries with it a stain. An unholy blemish that lingers for a moment over Jon. "Should you find yourself outside the gates of Dis, I will return them to you," the hell lord states.

    And then, without warning or cermony the he shoves Jon into the grave. Jon lands with a thud on the wood and with a wave, Baal closes the lid on him sealing it with his power. "Remember Archivist," he says, his words muffled by distance and wood, "Conviction. Courage." And then the fires start.

    They hurt. They burn and sear but they do not consume. They tear away at the skin, licking at the softer flesh underneath, seeking to ravage.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon yelps as he's unceremoniously shoved into the tomb, then grunts as he lands in the wood box and the lid seals. He doesn't have much time to adjust to this, though, because the fires start, and within moments he's screaming as loudly as any of those within nearby tombs.

    It's hard to say how long he lies there like that, trapped in the tomb, unable to think or move or do anything but experience searing, burning pain. Flesh is blackened and fat simmers and then then heals over only to crisp away again. It hurts, it /hurts/, and even if it isn't the worst pain he's ever felt it doesn't /stop/. It could be days or weeks, it may even be months, that he just... screams in pain, body paying the price for his betrayal of his former faith and his own beliefs.

    People can get used to almost anything, though. Even that terrible pain slowly--ever so slowly--begins to fade, not through any lessening of the fire but through familiarity. Maybe for the other sinners the fire gets ratcheted up, or maybe their lack of acceptance of their sins keeps them from getting used to the pain. Or maybe they do, and they simply don't use the time to think about their predicament.

    But eventually--weeks later? Months later?--Jon is able to think about something besides searing agony. In fits and starts, at first, during which he just sobs quietly instead of screaming. Minutes at a time, then hours, his tears evaporating rapidly in the heat.

    Finally, /finally/, he's able to put together a coherent thought that is more than 'oh dear gods please make it stop.' He has to figure out why he's here. He has to figure out how to get out.

    The courage of his convictions. Doesn't he have that? He believes in Ma'at, he believes in the Ennead and the Ogdoad. Not just believes, but /knows/. He's /met/ those deities. So why can't he get away from what he believed before? Is it just that it's that hard for him to turn away from what he grew up with? Those things do make an impression.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Through the roar of the heat, and the screams of the other victims, Jon can hear another voice. It's like his own but not quite. It's as if every voice of every living thing in the universe has been compressed into a single voice with Jon's tone as the loudest for the moment. It's possible that any voice could come through louder than the others. But right now, Jon's voice is the loudest.

    "You exist on the edge of a coin. You have met the Ennead and Ogdoad. That justifies your belief in them. But what of the other side? Have you not also found justification for the faith you held before?" It is a simple question, with a simple answer, but an important one. In order to make a choice one has to acknowledge that both options are true, otherwise the choice itself is an illusion. Jon's situation is not an illusion.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The voice in his head is terribly familiar. Not just because it sounds like his own, but something about that reverberation--Jon can't place it, not quite, but he knows he should recognize it somehow. Maybe not the speaker, but some connection the speaker has to something important. Still, even if it's just his own soul made audible in this place and time--why not have a conversation?

    He can't manage to speak aloud. Beyond his vocal chords feeling raw and pained from all the screaming, speaking is an effort of will he just cannot manage right now. But he can /think/, and so he thinks at the voice that reverberates in his head.

    <I count Saint Uriel as a mentor. I fought Saint Michael and a dozen other archangels. I met /God/.> If Jon could manage to laugh, they would. <But that's the problem, isn't it? All of it is true. /All/ of it is true. All the gods and angels and myths, all the legends--even the Old Gods and Elder Things. Even Wonderland is a real place! So what I believed growing up is right--the angels exist, God exists--and yet, how can there only be /one/ way to God? How can Christ be the only answer, when it's /all/ true?>

    ...Well, no, there's an answer to that. The answer is that everyone who believes in something else is in Hell. That he /does/ belong in Hell. That even those deemed worthy in Duat... go to Hell. Or at least to Limbo.

    As if the thought has thrown him back into the despair of punishment, the pain of the flames crashes back in on him. Do they grow hotter? Or is it just that they've finally so burned away the outer layers of his skin that he can feel them licking at his soul now?

    Either way, he cannot hear the voice for a time above his own hoarse screaming.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Time passes. Days, weeks, or hours it doesn't really matter. The pain is too great to even care about the passage of time in the fire. But after a time, that same reflective dullness encompasses Jon and the voice comes to them once more. "You're thinking too much about it. Pull away. Abstract. Think. You heard from the creator of this universe what he thought about the dogma employed by those who believe in the one they call Christ. He didn't use that word and yet he is as close to God as anyone else. What does that mean?"

    The voice is soft and coaxing, drawing memories forth, conversations with Michael. With Lydia. With Ma'at. With others. "Hell exists. You've known that longer than you've known that God was true. Remember what the fallen said in his office. Everyone could escape this torture... if only they had the courage to see the way. Can you see the way?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon is sobbing when the voice comes to them, sobbing almost brokenly. <Yes, yes, I get it,> he snaps. <Hell is the absence of God, sinners put themselves into Hell, whatever. I don't /care/. I don't care what--what /excuses/ get used. Nobody deserves this kind of pain. /Nobody/. It's some sick fucking mind that came up with the idea of /any/ of this. A loving Creator wouldn't /do/ this, wouldn't let people be /tortured/ just because-->

    The flames rise up again and for another stretch of time--definitely weeks--Jon is lost to the pain. He finally manages to focus through it, this time, by virtue of the searing anger he holds within. The conviction that this is /wrong/. He doesn't deserve this. Nobody deserves this.

    <Are you there?>

    Whether or not he gets a response, he goes on, <I know what you're actually getting at. Hell exists. Heaven exists. Duat exists. Hades exists. Everything--everything has a kernel of truth. Grasping at the same thing, using different words, trying to see through the illusion.> He coughs, not quite laughing again. <Maybe the Buddhists have it closest to right, hmm? Regardless, Christ is one way among many. Nobody's right, and everybody's right. So where does that leave us?>

    He stares up at the wood of the lid of his tomb, somehow not consumed by flame. Somehow he still has eyes to see with. <Alright. Well. Compare the two choices. What is the core of Christianity? Love. 'For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' What is the core of the religion of Kemet? Ma'at. Truth and justice, order and balance.>

    They stare at the wood, not really seeing it. Trying to reconcile something. <Divine grace appears in multiple religions. The Amida Buddha makes a primal vow to save all sentient beings through merit. Kripa is the grace of God in certain types of Hinduism. The Quran says 'God is the Possessor of Infinite Grace.' Humans, undeserving, receive inspiration and love, impulses to virtue, the strength to resist temptation.>

    They frown. <So where is grace in one of the oldest religions in the world? It can't just be a newer development. I'm not... seeing something.>

Chas Chandler has posed:
    When the voice next speaks there is an emphatic pride in it. Whether it was moments after Jon's thoughts or days after is relative. "You are close. At the precipice of the answer..." the voice says. "You know the answer. Think of those earliest societies" it says, "The building blocks of civilizations being formed at the apex of pre-history."

    There is a throughline that the voice is pushing towards. "What did they use to form that society? Where did it all start?" The voice drives deeper. "Before civilization, came society, before society there was...?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The fire is getting hotter again, but Jon tries his best to focus. <There was... there was... people? People, together. Communities. Ma'at is... right living, right action, but ma'at is /fundamental/ to the universe. We beliee the universe is basically holy, unified, we believe-->

    A pause. <But that's the same--it's the same thing! It's... a loving Creator, who takes the darkness and chaos and emptiness and creates a world of light and life, and those who work with others find paradise, and those who refuse the light and life cannot find paradise, because--because they are tortured by their own rejection of others. But God still loves them.>

    Jon manages to laugh, even though he's crying. <It's still love. Ma'at is still love. It's love that drives the King to give to his people, and drives the people to worship the gods, and people to work together, to build a community and a nation. It's... that's what it /all/ is. Love. Compassion. Agape.>

    He sniffles. "And this," he manages to say. "This is... terrible, but wasn't I suffering, even more, when I was rejecting Ma'at? I was angry at her, so I turned away, I refused to talk to her, and I suffered for it. I was miserable, because I was making /myself/ miserable. But she was there, waiting for me, the whole time. She was never really angry with me. Frustrated, and exasperated, perhaps, but she never rejected me."

    A pause. "God--God never rejected me. Saint Uriel came to me, gave me aid. It was /humans/ that drove me out of the Church. Cruel people who cared more about tithes than bullying, who cared more for their own comfort than the teachings of Jesus. But that's not--that's not God's fault." Another sniffle. "If you don't give people the chance to be horrible, it doesn't matter much when they're /good/."

    He stares up at the wood of the box again. He can feel the flames, but they don't hurt as much. "I keep thinking how--how /similar/ I am to the angels. That I want my wings to be like theirs. That I have Purpose, like they do. And--maybe I'm not an angel, but I /am/ similar, aren't I? A messenger from God, carrying the word of Ma'at. A being tasked with the Purpose of maintaining the universe. A being of compassion, of love, meant to protect mortals and judge the wicked. The trappings are different, and I'm tapping into different power, but it's fundamentally similar, isn't it?"

    A pause. Then, "The Old Gods... they don't know love. They /can't/ know love, not and remain what they are. And I... I am something like an angel, or maybe a demigod. I am meant to keep Order in the universe, and that means I have the power to stop them."

    "...I never needed the power of the Watcher at all, did I?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "I don't think so. But I am you, so perhaps you don't think so either. But the choice is yours whether to keep it and use it against its brethren or not. Even if you do not need a tool, having it is better than discarding it so one less skilled accidentally uses it, is it not?" the voice replies.

    There is a pause and then, "You have your answer... now that you have it, what is the next step?" it asks. There is a tug internally. A influx of courage and strength that wasn't there before. Jon knows what he needs to do next.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Cael was right," Jon says with a sigh. "She usually is."

    He swallows. "I don't even know if she'll be waiting anymore," he whispers. "It must be--three years, now? She said she'd wait, but--that's six times as long as we've even been together. Will she--will she still--"

    He stops, almost overwhelmed by grief and rage and pain. He has to get home for Agnes, if nothing else. If no one else. And he promised.

    "I was Ra," they say slowly. "I was Ra, and I walked into the flames, and they purified me. Courage of my convictions. But I don't--I don't want to--I'm /terrified/ of losing myself. Of dying, and coming out of this tomb as someone else."

    He sighs. "I suppose that's what courage is about, isn't it? I just--it's starting to get so hard to go on."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "Your loves will be there for you regardless of the time, that much I promise you" the voice replies. "If nothing else hold on to that and you will persevere. You will change through this, but not all change requires transformation. You will still be you. And as I am you, and so I am incapable of lying."

    The voice urges Jon to move forward, to take that first painful step. "You are not alone in this, Jon. I am with you and will continue to guide you home. But I cannot move you. That much you must do on your own. So take that first step. It gets easier after that."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon closes his eyes for a moment. He thinks about Cael, summons her up from his memory. That smile she gets when she's teasing him. The sound of her laugh. The determined expression on her face when she's focused on someething. The way her eyes go wide and trusting when they're alone together. The soft sound of her voice singing to him. The feel of her fingers on his scalp. He promised he'd be back. She's waiting for him. By now, Martin might be waiting too. Martin, who will surely have reams of terrible poetry to read to Jon. He can remember the taste of the tea he hasn't had in years. By now, the two of them might be teaching Agnes to drive. Lady and Bear might be full-grown. Nimue must miss him. And his friends--have the Justice League Dark found another leader?

    It doesn't matter whether or not they have. He /promised/.

    He takes a deep breath, and brings up Cael's face again, and the taste of Martin's tea. That's what got him out of the Underworld before. Love. That's what he /is/ now. Ma'at is love, and love means all the rest. Truth and justice, balance and order, harmony and morality--it all flows from love.

    He summons up power in his left hand and wraps it in a glove of his own water. Courage of his convictions. He doesn't belong here. Nobody really /belongs/ here, not even the Fallen. But they have to see that, in order to escape.

    He shoves his hand into the fire and the water... doesn't evaporate. It holds. With a thought, he pushes the water up around his entire body, creating a bubble that brings blessed relief from the pain of the fire, and heals the wounds sustained from the months in this tomb. Then he starts to use the water to carve at the wood of the box.

    It's going to take a while. Maybe a very, /very/ long while. But water is inexorable. It will wear down the box, and carve a path through the dirt beyond, and he will dig his way back to the surface.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The flames of the tomb do not stop with the coffin. Fire fills the ground, but Jon's power holds and continues to carve through dirt and soil and rock. It does take while. But Jon can't really tell in his current state, can he? Eventually he comes to solid rock. The water presses against the rock and like all stone under the unrepentant might of water, it starts to break away, it starts to erode. It gives.

    More time passes and eventually the solid stone breaks and crumbles and Jon falls forward into open air. He lands on a filthy, muddy bank at the edge of a swamp. His hunger is back, as is his thirst, and fatigue, but not in the scores that it should be were it the rush of time all at once. It seems Baal does have a sense of compassion, or maybe Jon just made a good impression on the Fallen angel.

    The waters of the swamp stir and a small boat emerges from the putrid miasma. "Ah... more fresh meat" comes a voice from on the boat. "And an angry one too. You'll do nicely here, Archivist. Very nicely, indeed." The voice cackles with mad glee at Jon's plight.