12254/15 Fears: The Fourth Circle - The Fields of Greed

15 Fears: The Fourth Circle - The Fields of Greed
Date of Scene:	29 July 2022
Location:	Hell
Synopsis:	Jon arrives in the Fourth Circle of Hell and is informed that his passage will go relatively undisturbed. Not all is peaceful though, as a figire from Jon's past arrives and Jon exercises his purpose on one of the souls who require relocation in the brimstone funnel.
Cast of Characters:	Jonathan Sims, Chas Chandler

---

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    It does, indeed, take a year or so for Jon to cross the Stygian swamp. This implies that it's going to be three or four years, at the least, before he gets home--and that's presuming that he doesn't have to travel through any other realms once he's out of Hell. The only comfort he can take is that the last time he was wandering other realms what seemed forty days to him was only three in the outer world. Maybe it'll be mere months, or even weeks, that he's gone. Maybe Agnes /won't/ be grown up by the time he sees her again. Maybe.

    It doesn't make his trek any easier.

    He falls into the water again, more than once, and has to face and work through various things he's holding onto anger about. Some things he's able to let go of--misplaced anger at his parents for dying, simmering frustrations with Cael and Martin, much of his anger at the people who left the Justice League Dark during the fight with the angels. Some things moderate. Some things he just cannot let go of, but he lets them inform his choices going forward. By the end, the ice in his heart is gone, and he feels... lighter. Happier. It's with good cheer that he bids farewell to Belial at the edge of the Fallen's domain.

    The cliff between the Fifth and Fourth Circles is much smaller than those in the City of Dis, so it's relatively easy for the Archivist to spread his wings and fly on up to the top. Once there, he looks out over the plain while shouldering his pack, still full of the last of the food he'd gathered down in the swamp. He sighs heavily. Another year, presumably, trekking across this plain.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    It does not take long for Jon to meet the lord of this Circle. The howl that reverberates preceeds the appearance of an enourmous wolf soaring through the grey air over the barren plain. It lands before Jon, barring their path with it's size alone before it transforms, shrinking down into the form of one of the Fallen.

    His batlike wings flare a moment before folding in along his back. "You do not belong here, wanderer" he says to the Archivist. "But I, Mammon, know your face and your soul and have been instructed by those beyond and before to allow you passage through my land without harassment." He stares down at the Archivist for a moment in silence. "I have decided to listen to these instructions. Any sufferance I would put to you would teach you nothing as there is, unfortunately, naught much to teach. So go forth, in peace Archivist, and know that you are spared the battle of Greed."

    The Fallen once again turns into the gargantuan wolf and leaps into the air with a howl of hunger, no longer impeding the path of the Archivist on his quest through Hell. It is good that Jon collected much in the swamp of Anger, supplies on the field of Greed are sparse indeed. There are a number of roots that are edible, and some mushrooms but little else that hasn't been mowed down or trampled by those who suffer this plain.

    They clash with each other in cacophanous jousting matches, their weapons the masses of rocks strapped to their chests. Signs of the wealth and avarice they held in life, the weight of their greed made manifest and exercise of the power they held put into stark metaphor here in the afterlife.

    They come in clumps of ten or twenty at a time over the plain, rushing for each other heedless of anything else in their path before crashing together and separating only to repeat the process over and over until a victor is left standing. There is no time for victory though as the next challenge awaits them further in the plain.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks rapidly as the huge wolf comes up to him, but bows politely as he's allowed to just... pass on through. Not that that'll be /easy/, but at least he doesn't have to agree to a term of service or be tortured or led astray or anything. Still, with the expanse and all the jousting and rushing about, it's probably going to take another year to pass through the plain. Because of course it is. That's just how things are, here, for him, evidently.

    The first time he runs into one of the groups of jousters, he gets rushed by the group and very nearly trampled to death. After this, he starts practicing veils of illusion and sneaking along more generally. He still gets mowed down a couple more times, but soon he's got his magic refined to a point that once he notices movement on the horizon he can just cover himself in a sort of cloak of illusion and move past undetected.

    He starts setting wards around his camp when he stops to rest, both illusions to keep anyone from noticing that it's there, and physical barriers to keep them out in case they accidentally run through.

    They spend a great deal of time foraging for food, too. The berries and cooked fish from the swamp only last so long, after all. They very quickly start to ration the food, doing their best to ignore the annoyance they've begun to feel. The fine feasts of the Seventh Circle are two years gone now, and they begin to miss even the relative abundance of the Fifth. They begin to have a sneaking suspicion that while they may not belong here, Gluttony is going to potentially be an issue.

    At least Lust should be a breeze to pass through, right? Assuming they don't try to keep him there just for laughs.

    Weeks pass, months pass, and they keep putting one foot doggedly in front of the other. They begin to feel that the real torture of Hell is the /boredom/ and sameness. At least back in the Fifth Circle Belial came around regularly to keep them company. They sing to themself, practice magic--but mostly, they just keep moving as far as they can every day before they rest.

    Oh, and every so often, they lure one of the jousters off from their pack, or find another resident of the place, and pull a statement out of the poor soul. They'd subsisted on statements from demons in the Seventh, and not needed any in the Sixth. In the Fifth, Belial had provided more sustenance for that odd craving than he might have realized, but Jon had had to start in on pulling statements out of the others in that place. By now, he has very little compunction about doing what he must. It doesn't really hurt them, and maybe it will help them reflect on their situation. Maybe it will help them change.

    And if not? Oh, well. Part of releasing his anger was releasing the need to try to help people who just don't want help. It's only a source of frustration.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    One evening as Jon rests at his camp, a new sound falls on his ears. The sound of rattling chains isn't new in this realm. After all the massive stones the jousters use as weapons are afixed with such devices, but the rattle of those chains is fitful and random. This sound is the same material but hesitant, reserved, slow. A figure comes up to the barriers around Jon's camp and peers in.

    "Jonny?" says an elderly voice from the other side of the barrier. "Little Jonny Sims?" it asks, using a familiarity that not many employ anymore with the Archivist. "Is that you?"

    The face is one Jon remembers from their past. The Vicar of their church. A scrupulous and wizened man who while quite impassioned with the God's work often seemed preoccupied with the day to day business, literally, of what running a church meant.He had also been one of the most brazen driving forces in a young Jonathan Sims life on the track of spiritual teachings.

    But the man Jon knew in their past was a vibrant and vigorous individual. This man is haggard, drawn, and perpetually stooped. The reasons for this are clear with a more cursory inspection. Attached to his body at wrists, ankles, waist and neck are chains. Afixed to those chains are what look like offertory chests, but instead of being filled with gold, dollars, or coins... these are filled to overflowing with massive stones. Chunks of granite that continually spill from the coffers, never lessening in weight and keep the man in his perpetual hunched posture while they try to drag him to the ground.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's resting against a rock when he hears the voice, contemplating a platter of roots and mushrooms and debating whether to try summoning some spice to make it taste better. Maybe he could try making stews? Simmering the roots would make them easier to eat, and a good simmer might improve the flavor--

    The sound of his own name catches his attention, and he looks over, surprised that anyone can see him at all. But--ahh, he /knows/ this person. Maybe that's why the man can see through the illusion he put up? He's going to have to work on that.

    "It's Jon now," he states. "But, yes, Father Langston, it's me." He gestures toward the fire. "Please, come, have a seat. I was just thinking of making stew, if you'd like to share a plate?"

    It might be a surprise that there isn't more obvious animosity. Malcom Langston was a central figure in Jon's leaving the Church entirely, after all. His unwillingness to intervene when Jon was being bullied on church property was a major factor in Jon's turning from the faith. Jon hasn't entirely let go of that, but here is, after all, a chance to discuss the particulars.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "Oh...I'm sure as you can see past the point of meals, young man" the Father, ex-Father replies. "But I will catch a spell with you, if you'll accept the company." He shambles into the camp proper and settles down on one of the abundant chests that weight him down. "I must say, I'm more than a touch surprised to see you here and in the flesh as it were." He blinks. "What are you doing here of all forsaken places?" he asks.

    Even as he speaks the other chests are dribbling out their share of granite chunks and while they seem real enough in their expulsion, once free from the confines of the chest, they seem to fade and evaporate. A hazard only for the man who bears them, then it would seem.

    "Word of your exploits above has gotten around down here and I would think you'd be on the road to meet Osiris, Anubis, and the others if you were to travel the afterlife. Though, we heard you'd already done that too. So... seems a bit silly to be wandering through the lands of the damned. Don't you think?" the old man asks with soft chuckle that turns into a ragged cough in the process.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Food is not merely about sustenance," Jon replies, sitting forward and then, after a shrug, merely conjuring up a stew pot set over the fire. Conjured water begins to pour into it as he makes himself a knife and cuting board to cut up the roots and mushrooms he's gathered. "And anyway, if you know about my exploits and all of that, you know I now believe the dead can and indeed /should/ eat as much as the living. So--if you'd like, I can offer a plate."

    The roots will be tougher and take longer to cook, so those get chopped up first. "I did indeed already meet Osiris," he says. "After Saint Michael saw fit to kill me." A sigh. "Ultimately, I merged with Ma'at, as you can see." He flexes one of his wings at the man, as if waving. "As for why I'm here? I'm trying to get home, and believe it or not, this is the fastest route."

    He eyes the coffers. "I hadn't thought /you'd/ wind up here. I thought--well, I thought you were bound the other way." Did he really, though? Or, well, yes, he did, and that was always one of the sticking points of frustration he felt. That people who seemed unworthy and made no real effort to change could just repent and wind up in Heaven.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The Vicar laughs. "Oh suffice to say I thought that myself..." he says, "but... no one can really know where we'll end up, now can we? It seems a life of sinful thoughts can't be completely absolved by a few words after all." He lifts one of the chains up to look at it backlit by Jon's fire.

    "I thought that if I had the most tithes, the greatest donations, I could consider the church a success" he says, his lowered hand running over the lid of one of the coffers lovingly. "More money meant more funds for projects beyond the scope of the church. It also allowed me to live a richer lifestyle than the one I was brought up in. All in the name of money."

    He drops his arm and the chain and looks up. "And so, despite a life dedicated to what I presumed was God's work... I end up here. I suppose my works were no better than the church of Laodecia in the end." He sighs, watching Jon work for a time in silence.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The roots go into the stew pot, and Jon frowns. "Seems to me that the real core of the issue is the last thing you said. That the church and its works were an excuse for you to live a better lifestyle." A pause. "After all, if it was /really/ just 'more money will help the glory of God' or 'more money will help my parishioners,' you wouldn't be /here/, now would you?"

    He glances up and over, glowing green eyes rather piercing. "Is that why you never--or did you not know what those boys /did/ to me?" Now there's anger, a surge of it threatening to overwhelm him, but he remembers that the anger is /his/ and coming from /him/. It doesn't need to overwhelm him--he just needs to ride it and flow with it.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The old man looks apologetic for a moment and then nods. "I knew what those boys did to you... but... I couldn't risk their parents stepping away. You know they paid for the repaning of the stained glass. They were some of the biggest donors." He shakes his head. "I know I did wrong by you, Jonny and I know that I'll pay for years for it."

    He watches the pot for a moment. "But this is fortuitous. I never got a chance to apologize for what I did then." He leans forward a bit too eager. "But here, now... I can offer my heartfelt apologies and tell you that I knew it was wrong... I can beg for your forgiveness... maybe... with that... I can lessen some of the burden I'm dragging around..."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's quiet for a moment, chopping mushrooms. The anger swells and washes over him, and he lets it, rides the tide of fury. It's a new thing, to just... let himself feel all that rage, to not bottle it up or try to immediately express it.

    His voice is strangely calm when he finally speaks. "Tell me something," he says, not looking at the old man. "Why was the stained glass so important?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Maybe it was the calmness in Jon's voice. Or maybe it was the way that the chopping was precise and direct. Whatever it is, the old man realizes the danger he is in suddenly and his words falter some. "It... it wasn't... or well, it isn't now. At the time, it was a... a... a draw. For the crowds. The nicer the church the bigger the congregation. The bigger the congregation the more money comes in. The more money comes in the... the easier my lifestyle."

    He swallows and works his mouth some. "I-I-I realize now just how foolish it sounds. And how terrible it was for me to ignore your pleas for help back then but..." he offers a weak chuckle. "I mean, you turned out alright for it, didn't you. You're a hero now. Worldwide renown, probably rolling in... in... in money..." His hand continues to gently stroke the lid of the coffer beneath it.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I can remember every bit of it," Jon says, voice still calm. "Every punch, every kick, every--" His voice wavers, cracks. "I /left/ the church because of that. Because I was supposed to feel /safe/ in God's house. Loved. And I--didn't. Because, evidently, a brilliant stained glass window to draw the crowds was more important than my well-being."

    He blinks, as tears fall, and shakes his head. "You want me to forgive you? Well, perhaps--but I'm not Christian anymore. I'm not in the business of forgiving people who don't want to /change/."

    They look up, suddenly, green eyes blazing, and do something they've never done before. There's still a mind there, in a way, despite the man being dead--probably because he's here. And Jon just... presses their thoughts on that mind, impresses the memory of the bullies that had beaten him up on church property, how badly it had hurt, the way they'd taunted him, how it had only gotten /worse/ after he'd said something. The pain, and terror, and fear, that Jon still lives in to this day.

    And more than that--the way that feeling of being lost and alone had led him to a cult. The terrible things /they/ had done to him, that he'd allowed in the name of /belonging/. The pain of be chosen by Gaea, speaking to archangels, speaking to /God/, and having nothing but anger and hatred in his heart, because of what had happened when he was a boy.

    "Yes, clearly, I turned out 'alright,'" he whispers, only able to speak the lie because it's dripping with sarcasm.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The force of the psychic assault from the Archivist on the man's soul is a colossal thing. Undiluted and unshielded by any shred of phsyical substance, he receives the force of it all directly and the shock of it alone, sends him to his knees. He reels back and screams.

    "No!" he says. "I... I didn't know..." A lie. "I'm sorry!" But not for what truly matters. "Please forgive me!" And give me some shred of merit for what I did in life.

    He tries to scramble away but the power of the Archivist's judgement levels him to the rocky plain once more. Any attempts to claw his way from that green glow is stymied by the heavy weights of the coffers at his movement points and he can do nothing but groan and mewl as his soul is wracked with the pain that Jon suffered via Father Langston's inaction.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon puts the mushrooms aside and then stands, towering over the man. "Don't lie," he snaps. "You knew. You /knew/ what they were doing, on /church property/, and you ignored it." His wings flare, and the green glow in his eyes intensifies. "You cared more about /tithes/ than your /flock/." His voice begins to take on a choral hum, reverberating with power. "I would know why."

    A huge green eye appears behind him. "Tell me. Tell me what happened when I came to you to tell you that those boys had beaten me up on church grounds."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The Vicar's soul jerks in place. "I... I investigated the situation... spoke to the boys... spoke to their parents. They denied it, of course." He gasps for air as if simply speaking the words causes him physical pain. "They... they threatened to leave the church if I brought it out. Public scandal being what it was..."

    He shudders. "They offered... a substantial contribution if I could simply do... nothing." He swallows. "It was... more than I could pass up. Enough for an expansion for the church with plenty left over to make me comfortable for several months... perhaps the whole year."

    He is lying still now, the statement drawing the eneergy from him directly. The Ceaseless Watcher soaking up the terror and shame he feels. "So I... I did... nothing... brushed it under as just boys being boys... you know?" He chuckles, and it turns into a choked moan.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Just boys being boys." The derision in the Archivist's voice is almost palpable. "I really hope that 'comfort' was worth the price of your soul."

    He glances up and out, beyond the camp, toward a nearby hilltop. He can see the gargantuan wolf there, and for a moment he just /looks/ at the Lord of this Circle, as if to say--this is your chance to stop me.

    The wolf does not stop him, and so Jon turns back to Langston. "You're in the wrong Circle of Hell. You had a duty, sworn vows before God. Not just to not be greedy--but to attend to the spiritual health of the parish. You betrayed that duty. You sold me out for a year's wages--but you didn't only betray me. You betrayed those boys, and their parents. You had a duty to counsel them, to help them be better people, better members of the community. You had a duty to the whole parish, to ensure that it did not become infected with spiritual rot. Your actions hurt my friends, it betrayed the trust of others who did not step forward when they were hurt, because they didn't think you would believe them."

    He shakes his head. "And what of driving me from the church? I wanted to be ordained--you knew that. The Archivists have been priests and monks in the past. I could have served the Church and done my duty as Archivist. We'll never know whether that would have worked out--but at the very least, if I left of my own accord, I would not have been spreading bile and anger about the church. That is my sin, for which I still atone, but you had a duty there too. The pews are not emptying because the church isn't /pretty/ enough, Malcom. They are emptying because the souls of so many of the church leaders are foul and corrupt."

    For a moment, he slips back into his normal voice. He's sobbing. "And the worst part is? You never understood why people came to St. Peter's. They didn't come for the windows. They came for the /choir/." His voice breaks. "I was one of your /best/ soloists. The choir brought more money in through people who came to hear us sing than those families ever provided. You were so blinded by your greed you didn't even see what would have given you what you thought you wanted."

    They sniffle, and then draw themselves up. "I don't know why you're here. I suppose even immortal beings have oversights. But regardless--there has been an error. You don't belong here on this plain--that's why you haven't learned a thing. You belong in Cocytus. Where else do men go who /betray/ their fellows for mere coin?"

    They reach out their left hand, and place it on Langston's forehead. "I'd say I hope you learn your lesson swiftly, but that would be a lie. I hope you /rot/ while you freeze for all eternity."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    There is a sound across the plain, the howl of a massive wolf and the ground beneath Malcolm opens up. A freezing wind blows up from the fissure and the dead Vicar screams as he falls into the pit so many levels below this easy plain. The laugh of the frozen as another is brought low to their level is all that greets him as the fissure seals itself, the ground retunring to the dusty dryness of before.

    Heavy footfalls sound behind Jon and change between one step and the next to the soft falls of the Fallen angel. "A mistake of my brother. He can be careless and too broad in his placements sometimes" he says eyeing the spot where the Vicar was swallowed. "Good to know that you see to the heart of the matter. I would offer you a job, but I imagine our severance package holds little water comparitively."

    He turns to Jon then and eyes the Archivist. "While I do not begrudge you seeing to rectifying the affairs of our lands... I would suggest that you do not make a habit of it, as others might not be as kind in -offering- the position as I am."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The Archivist turns to regard the Fallen for a long moment. "I will inform your brother that he should see to his duties more closely in the future. In Duat we cannot afford to make such misjudgements--we do not have a Hell to send souls to. They go to the Field of Reeds, or they go to Ammit."

    A pause, and then, "That one was personal. But I'm not generally in the habit of interfering in your affairs. I want to travel through here and go home. My duty is to judge those who won't come to the lands of the dead on their own."

    A duty, he suddenly realizes, that he's wholly embraced. He had no hesitation in what needed to be done, and feels no remorse. He gave the man more than one chance, and his fate is in many ways of his own doing. Jon was merely the instrument of a mechanism that Malcom Langston put into motion by his own actions.

    In fact, it's rather... satisfying.

    "Huh."

    He looks up at the Fallen angel, and furls his wings, lets the echoes of the Ceaseless Watcher fade away. He goes to sit by the fire again, and starts putting the mushrooms in the soup.

    "You're welcome to join me if you like. I've spoken to many of your fellows along the way, and I'm willing to share my stew." His tone is casual, as if he hadn't just condemned a man's soul to a more painful punishment than it had already been suffering. "I might even see if I can conjure up some proper smokes tonight. Something I can never seem to get the balance right. Or maybe I'm just craving real tobacco too much."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Mammon considers Jon for a moment and then surveys the little camp. He glances out over the plains toward where the dust is disturbed in a high cloud. "Their fights will likely remain undecided for a few hours yet. I will accept your offer." He turns and moves toward the camp, settling down near the fire pit. "It has been some time since I have shared a meal with a companion."

    The rest of the evening is spent in simple conversation as Jon and the Fallen angel discuss philosophy and current affairs over their meal. Before long though, Jon must sleep and Mammon assures him that he is well along his journey.

    When Jon wakes, neither the gargantuan wolf, nor the Fallen angel are to be see in the air or on the rolling plain and Jon packs up camp and starts back to crossing the Fourth Circle in solitude.