Jesus spent all the next day preaching in a small stone amphitheater, not going anywhere. Toward late afternoon when he took a break, going into a small dwelling nearby. The owner had given it over for Jesus' use while he was here.

The lord sat. No sooner was he settled than a cup of wine was in his hand and some young woman mopped his brow. A few moments later, Mary Magdalene herself took a breather from barking out orders to massage Jesus' shoulders.

I'd seen few commanders or generals more organized than this woman. She saw to it that the apostles dressed well, bathed, and combed their hair. Since she'd taken control of everyone's lives, the group seemed nothing more than a group of beggars. While they still had an air of wilderness about them, they were far more presentable and their numbers grew accordingly.

It amazed me that such small things were nearly as important in attracting followers as the miracles themselves. Such is human nature, however.

I willed myself to be visible only to him.

"Did you not hear me, my lord? I struck your friend Lazarus a fatal wound. He's going to die. You could save him if you left now--and hurried."

If he heard me, he gave no sign.

"I'd do it for you, if I could, but those among the fallen can only harm and not heal."

Jesus took Mary's hand. "Thank you, your hands have done much to restore me. Please, though, give me a moment alone."

She nodded and made a beckoning gesture to those still in the room. They cleared out in seconds.

Jesus looked up at me. "Darius, ask me to forgive your sins, arise from the ranks of the fallen, and I shall give you the power to rescue Lazarus."

I took a step back. "Lord, I'm grateful for what you did for Mikal and I want to help, but I'm not ready to go that far."

Ready? Would I ever be? It seemed unlikely to me. My grievance against God for allowing suffering into the world remained--as did Cassia's torment in her place along the Dark Stair.

You'd think I'd grow numb to the sight of a soul being tortured in the depths of sheol, given what I was, how much torture I'd inflicted, and how much I'd witnessed. Somehow, though, Cassia's torment never ceased to disturb me, to elicit sympathetic pains in my own spirit.

She, too, had helped Mikal, concealing her name from the Abominations. Did Jesus care what happened to her? No, she and countless others were the damned, the property of sheol, cast out from the light.

Jesus regarded me for several long seconds, as if waiting for me to say something else.

"Do you not care that he is suffering?"

"I do care. It pains me more than what you suffer by watching the one you love being tortured in the bowels of sheol."

I floated a few steps back. "You know about that?"

He closed his eyes. "I wish that I did not. I grieve for her as well."

"Then why don't you do something?" I shouted. "You have all this power and yet you sit there, sipping wine, praying."

Without opening his eyes, Jesus said. "I have offered you the means to do something yourself, yet you choose not to do it. How then, do you criticize me for the same?"

With a cry of rage, I summoned my power and took to the air. I would do something, all right. If Jesus would not heal Lazarus, I would see that there was an end to his suffering--a speedy one.

I found him in his home, attended by Mary and Martha. He lay in a bed, his body covered in bleeding sores, twitching and groaning. The two women sat by him, Mary applying salve to his wounds and Martha holding his hand. Their compassion and love for this broken man shone to me like a light. It burned where it touched my spiritual flesh, so much that I could scarcely endure it.

Without hesitation, I drew my flaming sword and drove it through the center of his heart.

Lazarus let out a sigh and was dead.

Though Mary and Martha wailed at his loss, I knew I'd done them a mercy as well. I'd spared them at least a day of watching their love one writhe in torment--a mercy I longed for myself.

Lazarus' spirit rose up from his flesh, clothed in light.

"Wait here," I said to him. "And pay no heed to the next words I speak."

He regarded me fearfully, but said nothing. I suppose I was a fearsome sight with my flaming sword in my hand and my anger burning hot in the air around me. At least, I hoped I was.

The tormentors arrived first, as they usually did. Demons clad in darkness, their spiritual flesh mottled with scars and piercing, their talons long and shining. The stench of death and poison floated in the air about them.

Even though they knew Lazarus did not belong with them, they often arrived first after death hoping to inflict some suffering before they were driven away by those who ultimately would receive the good man's soul.

"Stay back," I said. "This one is mine to torture. He was a friend of Jesus, my enemy, and I'll not share him with you."

I brandished my weapon and they retreated, bowing and scraping. "Sorry, my lord. We have no desire to offend."

When they were gone, I turned to Lazarus. "There may be more of them. Wait."

Mutely, Lazarus nodded to me.

As predicted, a second group approached. These were larger, bearing chains and flaming scourges. I put myself in their path and drew my weapon again.

"This one is mind. Find your fun somewhere else."

"You stand aside, my lord. The time where we may play with this soul is short and you do not have our experience in cruelty."

I bristled, let my darkness gather around me like a cloud.

"I am Darius, Warlord of the Dark and Deep. I presided over the ancient rites and laughed as parents carved their children upon altars to the old false gods. I am plague and pain and wrath. I have one eye, always in the darkest and cruelest place along the Dark Stair. This soul is mine for whatever brief time it is in the power of our kind."

One of them howled and cast an infernine lance at me. I caught it, broke it, and charged. My sword was a flaming whirlwind as I chased the miscreants back to their dark corner of sheol, mangled, missing spiritual limbs, and gnashing their teeth.

Once they were safely cast out, I returned to Lazarus. An angel stood by his side--one of the youngest of his kind, shining with new purity. He regarded me warily.

I bowed. "Take Larzarus and go. He is yours."

As I watched, the two departed, descending to that less dark place in sheol that was sometimes called, "The Bosom of Abraham." There was no torment there, nor thirst, but it remained a pale shadow of earthly life. All the holy people of old resided there--Moses, Noah, and Elijah--comforted to some degree.

I wondered, though. Why wasn't there a better place for them? I suppose whenever the final judgement came they'd be raised to new life. Until then, though, their consolation was minimal.

Regardless, I had done what I could, what Jesus was not willing to do himself--ease this good man's suffering.

Would Jesus appreciate what I'd done? Whether he did or not, I'd done it for his sake, because he'd shown mercy to Mikal.

I resolved to spend the next days here to make sure no dark spirits disturbed the grieving family. It was entirely possible that I'd get in trouble with the Abominations for what I'd done, but a demon pays his debts, and I owed the Son of God.