Paradiso

Part VII - Purgatorio

Doelle and Nim had staggered up to the last peak of Purgatory. Given that the former was injured in the wing and was thus unable to fly back up to Heaven, the latter had had to take him up there through this Afterlife between Afterlives, the place where the undecided fates of mortals were made clear through perseverance. It was, admittedly, more beautiful the closer to Heaven it got; shady alcoves and flowering gullies lined the mountain path, fragrant with perpetual summer. They would have been a welcome respite from the trek up, especially for a human; for a human, having to complete their assigned trials and pursue the path with only mortal ability, the mountain posed a gruelling journey equivalent to the length of their life on Earth, if not longer. However, with the agility and craft of a demon (even if weighed down by an injured angel), it took little longer than half a day.

Nim was still supporting Doelle, though he had regained enough of his strength to walk mostly unaided at this point. They continued this way, although it was, admittedly, rather inconvenient; Doelle was tall and leanly muscular, altogether much more sturdy than Nim, who stood at least a head shorter. In truth, Nim had had to exert much of his own energy to support him all the way up the mountain.

Though he'd tried to avoid the contact at first, the feathers of Doelle's wings brushed against Nim's back, light as the gold and silver clouds that caressed the peak of the liminal Afterlife they had just reached. The snake-like tail of the demon touched the backs of Doelle's ankles with similar lightness, as if gently reminding him to keep walking. After all, they were almost to their destination. They were almost at the gates of Heaven.

From where they stood, they could see the pearly gates that would mark their separation. To Nim, it looked like a gilded chasm, a void that would separate him from this prissy prude who had just saved his life—who he just couldn't help finding some genuine charm in. Maybe it was his naivety, or maybe it was the way he had gotten so flustered a couple days ago. Sure, he was proud and cold, but he was sure there was more to him than that. He had just seen it, after all.

Doelle saw the gates in a similar way, to his horror: a separation. He saw it as the borders to a restricting purity that would have forced him to stand by as Nim was shot, if it had had any say in the matter. It was a place of perfect good, and Doelle was terrified to realise he was starting to tire of it. If perfect good was standing by as someone he couldn't help caring about—someone flawed, but someone who had run to his aid when he needed it—then he should be justified in growing disillusioned with it. So why was it so terrifying that he was?

Doelle glanced at Nim, from the corner of his eye. He observed his wild black and red hair, his pale skin, his narrow, amber eyes. Then his focus reached his horns. They curved from his forehead, the same warm hue as his ever-charismatic gaze. Sure, they were the mark of a demon. But they weren't ugly, he supposed. They were just a part of Nim, who, he guessed, was altogether fine to look at. And talk to, even with all his sarcasm. And dance with.

Nim caught Doelle staring. He looked back. Their gazes met. They both knew something at that moment; this would not be the last time they saw each other. It couldn't be. And they were correct. Over the next three years they would meet, both coincidentally and deliberately, many more times. Nim would take full advantage of these occasions; he would embrace the growing affection he felt for the angel in every moment he could. Though he would never admit it, to himself or the demon, Doelle did too.