To what can I liken the state of my soul? It is like a lost passage along the Dark Stair, festering with darkness and pain. It is a once proud forest after a summer fire, brittle and blackened, with no cry of birds or chirp of insects to sing of its desolation.

I bring it all to you, Jesus. I want to pour it inside you, make you feel it as I do, burn you to your core.

Bound by chains, he is before me now. I possess the man who holds the flagrum--a whip knotted with bits of metal and bone. For a while, I admire it. I have chosen it from a collection of such things owned by the man who's body I command. From experience he knows that this particular flagrum has done more damage to its victims than any other.

This object, like the death of Mikal, is a thing permitted by God.

It is not enough, though. The army of demons under my command have painstakingly milked scorpions for their venom and I have dipped my instrument of torture into it, swirled it with loving attention.

It is still not enough, but I can do no better.

I stand, holding it, letting the temptation build. The gathered crowd howls my encouragement. Fully half of them are possessed by demons controlled by me. The Abominations, in the form of black serpents, writhe upon the open ground around us, invisible to human eyes. They laugh, speak blasphemies, and imitate the cries of abused women and children--reminding Jesus of all the evils permitted by God.

This will be a show put on by the powers of sheol, a command performance for the Son of God.

"Where are your friends, King of the Jews?" I ask. "Look around, see if you can find any of your disciples."

Of those who called himself his followers, only a few women are present. The Magdalene, who reminds me of nothing less than a pillar of iron. I wish I could do something to get rid of her, for when Jesus meets her gaze, I sense the infusion of strength she imparts to him.

It angers me.

Nearly as bad is the woman at her side, Jesus' mother, Mary. It hurts me to look at her now, burns me the some holy things do. I'm not sure why, exactly. While there was always something special about this woman, I don't know why she stands out like a beacon to me. Even though the eyes on her tear-stained face remain closed, the mere sight of her bothers me.

She extends a hand, mumbles a prayer. Again, I feel strength flow into Jesus.

A feeling like magma boiling in the bowls of a volcano suffuses me. With a cry, I raise the muscled arm of the tormenter and bring it down with all the rage and hate that fill my soul.

The bone and metal digs into Jesus' back and then rips away, spattering blood.

Jesus cries out. It's not even a human sound--more like an animal being slaughtered.

Of course, a human is an animal, and any creature understands pain and the nearness of death as well as a person.

I strike again, before the wail can die on Jesus' tongue.

Again and again I strike, feeling the burn in my muscles, lifting more flesh and flinging it to strike the crowds.

I laugh with the exhilaration of the moment, the wild joy in giving back a small portion of what was inflicted on me.

But I don't lose count. After all, I'm a professional. I am the Warlord of the Dark and Deep and this number, thirty-nine, is important to me. I must be scrupulously sure that I respect it.

After twenty lashes I pause.

"Halfway done," I announce.

The crowd cheers, the black serpents howl. They begin to chant. I smile at them and raise my hands. Yes, there's blood on them. It spatters everywhere when I bring the whip back.

A boy runs up to me with a flask of wine. I take a long pull, feeling the glorious sweet fire rush through me.

After I saw Mikal die, I thought I could never feel good about anything again--but I was mistaken. As deep as the anguish that still burns me, moment my moment, this vengeance is a thing I savor.

As the cheering fades I hear another sound, a mewling sound like a crying child. Who would bring a child to something like this? I scan the crowd, trying to find the source--but I realize it's Jesus himself.

I walk up to him, flagon in hand, and pour the wine over his open sores. He screams and writhes as the alcohol bites his wounds.

That done, I walk in front of him and kneel down so I can look at him, eye to eye.

"Where are your followers, Jesus? Where are your friends?"

His face is pale, he pants rapidly but doesn't answer.

"Where is the man you named 'rock?'" I pause here for effect. "Oh, yes, hiding in a cave, after announcing to the world last night that he didn't know you, hadn't ever met you."

Jesus glances to the side, and I follow his gaze.

Judas is there in the midst of the crowd. He wasn't there earlier. His emotions swim about his head like a flock of birds with broken wings trying to fly. Even if the torment in his soul was not visible, it is clear in his ashen face and trembling body.

"I'm sorry," he mouths.

I turn back to Jesus. "I'm pretty sure I can drive that one to suicide before the day is done. If not, by tomorrow, certainly. You know what that means, right? He won't have a chance to repent. It will be a long trip down the Dark Stair for that one."

"Why?" Jesus question is but half a whisper, almost inaudible.

"Why?" I shout. "Why? Mikal is dead and buried in the darkest depths of sheol and you ask that question? Do you mock me?"

To my surprise, fresh tears wash down his face.

"No," I say, my voice low. "You don't get to weep for her. If you care at all, rescue her."

He does and says nothing else, though.

I surge to my feet, stomp back to my position behind him, and raise my whip.

Somehow, it saps my rage slightly to know that he wept for Mikal. I bare my teeth and push the conflicting emotion down. Again and again I strike.

"Hear me, Son of God! Hear my cry of anguish and pain! Understand! Finally and for all, know the depth of the horror you and your Father have inflicted on us in creation and put an end to it."

My pain has such power that I almost expect the ground to shake in sympathy, or the sky to erupt in lightning. It does not, however. The heavens are blue and tranquil as I bring down the thirty-ninth blow.

Jesus' back is one big open wound, a piece of shredded meat.

My task done, I put the bloody flagrum down. My hands are shaking, sweat burns my eyes and soaks my clothing.

Again, I walk to stand before Jesus. His gaze is empty, like a dead man's, covered with sweat and blood.

"That was thirty-nine blows," I tell him. "As is tradition, I hold back the fortieth as a mercy."

Here I give him a wide grin so that he can appreciate my joke.

Then I bend down and whisper to him. "It is the kind of mercy I learned from you."

His eyes meet mine, and the world drops away. While I know he is the Son of God, he doesn't often seem that way. Though, to my eyes, he glows with divine power, he presents as little more than an ordinary man.

In that moment, in that gaze, I see infinity--the history of the universe itself. I see the Garden of Eden, hear a few notes of the First Song, and feel the brightness of the first sunrise. I hear also the cry of the first murder. The Son of God has watched over it all--laughed with every joyful heart, wept with every sorrowful one.

Though he has been silent, he has been there. Nothing I'm showing him is new. Nothing I've felt for Mikal is worse or different than thousands upon thousands of other experiences he's been part of before--not even the torture I've inflicted on him just now is particularly new to him.

I look away and stand, a bitter taste in my mouth. I have to find some new way to hurt him, something beyond my paltry efforts so far.

I turn back and stare at him.

"He's a king, isn't he?" I ask.

The crowd is silent, not guessing my intent. I smile. "Give him a purple robe and a crown made of thorns."

It is not much, just a small bit of derision. Sometimes, though, mockery can do more damage than wounds. Regardless, it's all I have.

I leave the body of the tormentor, drifting free.

I need to get away, if only for a moment. What I saw in Jesus' eyes is still haunting me, burning me. How dare he strike back against me like that, how dare he give me a cosmic "so what?" in answer to my pain.

With darkness boiling inside me, I fly to Golgotha to seek out Cassia. When I arrive, though, no one is being executed and Cassia is not present.

"Cassia?" I call out.

Sheol opens beneath my feet, flashing in darkness. Cassia flies out, her armor bright, her flaming sword held upright. She arrives at my feet and bows, as if she is one of my soldiers.

"My lord Darius," she says, and holds out her hand.

In it is a small amount of some spiritual essence. I take it in my fingers and study its soft glow. It looks and feels like hair to me, dark and glossy.

"It is her hair, my lord," Cassia says.

"Her?" I ask--but I know whose it is.

Mikal's.

I crush my hand around it, allowing it to merge with my substance. For an instant, pain flows through me.

"How did you bring this to me?"

"By my sword. I fought my way in. I was only able to hold my ground in her presence for a short time, and though I could not break her chains, I was able to speak to her and bring this token at her request."

I stare at her, still trying to understand.

"How could you have done that? Can you do it again?"

"I spent enough time on the Dark Stair that I am now immune to much of its power. As for whether I could do it again?" She shrugged. "Her prison has been fortified since my break-in. I'd try, though."

I get down on my knees. "There are two things I'd like you to take to her. The first is the coin that contains my soul. It is off the short of Galillee, buried in the sand."

She nods. "And the second?"

"My left eye, the one that was with you during your incarceration. Take it from me and, if you can, bring it to her prison."

Part of me expects an argument, but she makes none. Instead she reaches for the knife at her belt. I can see it is some powerful spiritual metal, but it is neither corrupted iron nor infernine.

Without ceremony, she takes my hair in her hand and stabs her weapon into my face. Though I cry out, I do not resist.

She is quick. When she is done, she departs without ceremony.

When she came back from the Dark Stair, I feared her mind was broken, that it was lost to me. Now? She seemed stronger than I had ever imagined.

#

I did not spend the day with Jesus or bother with Pilate. My subordinates took care of that.

My focus was the crucifixion, the death Jesus had long planned for. Part of me still feared that it would not happen, that he would simply walk away from the whole thing, or that a voice from heaven would announce that his willingness to die was enough.

It certainly wasn't enough for me. I wouldn't be happy unless I could bury him at the bottom of the Dark Stair.

So I waited, at Golgatha. I didn't wait long, but when he did arrive, I was disappointed.

Normally, the man to be crucified carries the patibulum, the beam to which his hands are attached. The other half of the instrument of torture, the upright stake, remains fixed in place. In the spirit of efficiency, the Romans can then easily hoist lift the victim into place by placing a ladder on either side.

Jesus, however, is not carrying his patibulum. Some other poor soul, apparently, has been drafted for the job.

It's not hard to understand why. Jesus looks too weak to do the job. That might be the fault of the guy who'd whipped him.

I smile at the memory.

As in the flogging, a small crowd follows the Son of God. It's not so many as his flagellation. People have lost interest, it seems. A few of the apostles are here, most notably Peter, James, and John. They walk before the Magdalene, who I suspect has convinced them to show up.

Again, I regret not being able to stop that woman.

Quickly, I find the soldier I want to possess and slide inside him. His soul is an easy fit for mine, a cruel man with little regard for the people he puts to death.

When Jesus is brought forward, one of the soldiers starts to tie his wrists to the beam. The guy is new. He's learned that this is the way victims are normally affixed to the cross, but he hasn't learned that we make exceptions for special people--and the Son of God is special.

Once he is out of the way, I bring out the nails. It's a tricky job to do this right. Put the nail in the wrong way, and it can pull out and your victim will come free.

Though that sort of thing has happened, it's sloppy and unprofessional. I put one nail through each wrist. I only listen with half an ear to Jesus' cries of pain. My concern right now is more about engineering than inflicting pain. I want this to hold.

Once I'm satisfied, with my work, I instruct my men to lift up each end of the beam and shake it a few times--just to make sure.

Jesus lets out a blood-curdling wail and I turn to the crowd, grinning. My demons are having a harder time with them, for some reason and I get only a smattering of support.

No matter.

This is really just about me and the Son of God.

I watch as he's lifted into place. It is only then that I notice, with annoyance, that someone has tacked a sign to the top of the cross. It's not large, nor is the writing particularly elegant, but in three languages it proclaims "King of the Jews."

Fine. Whatever.

"Where's the crown of thorns?" I ask one of the guards.

All I get in response is a blank look. "After he was whipped, a crown of thorns was put on his head."

The man shrugs. "My lord, I haven't seen it."

"Go, make me another. The sign above his head says he's a king, doesn't it?"

I get a wide-eyed look, then a nod. The man rushes off to do his job. I don't wait, though. I have Jesus lifted into place.

Then, with a single nail, I affix his feet in place. When hanging from the arms it's difficult to breathe. Normally, the crucified can push themselves up using a small foot rest so they can breathe again. When they tire, they slump forward again. As they push themselves up and fall forward again they do what we soldiers like to call "the dance of the crucified."

Jesus would have a harder time pushing up, and a harder time enduring the pull on his arms.

Once he was in place, I stepped away, and looked up to admire my handiwork.

He was gasping, trembling, moving up and down. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot.

I frowned. It was clear that he would not last long. Perhaps I'd been overzealous in my ministrations to him?

No.

Shorter but more intense was better--and my demonic hordes were ready to drag him to sheol. True, they could not hope to win against the angels, but they were ready to try.

I stared up at him, wondering what else I could do to make things worse. Whatever I did, it would never be enough.

The eye in Cassia's possession showed me that she'd retrieved the coin. Apparently, she'd affixed it to a chain about her neck. I'd have a good view of her battle in the underworld.

Hopefully, she'd make it to see Mikal. I had my doubts, of course. I doubted the Abominations would readily tolerate any mercy toward me.

Speaking of which, where were they? I glanced around and spotted them, flying overhead in the form of vultures, circling.

Good.

I returned to watching Jesus, drinking in the shaking of his body and the suffering he was experiencing.

"My lord."

I was startled from my thoughts by the sight of a soldier with a fresh crown of thorn in his hands. I took it.

"Raise the ladder," I said.

My men jumped to obey and I ascended it.

I placed the crown in place, then jammed downward, driving the thorns both into his scalp and the hands of the man I possessed. He let out a small cry in response.

Though I bled, I kept my hands where they were. Somehow, it felt right to have part of his pain, to share that with the Son of God.

"I still don't understand why you're letting us do this," I said in a low voice. "But if your intent is to experience human suffering, then you will let us drag your soul down the Dark Stair when you die. Don't kid yourself that you understand what it's like to be tormented unless you do. Do we understand each other?"

He nodded.

"Tell me you remember your words about the Dark Stair," I said. "That it should not exist."

When he didn't answer, I shook my hands, tearing at his scalp with the thorns of his crown.

"I remember," he gasped.

With that I climbed down.

When I got to the base of the stair, I noticed that it was dark. Glancing at the sky I saw thick clouds. I laughed. Let God smite me now if he wanted. There was nothing further he could do to hurt me.

Using my spiritual voice, I called upon my demons. "Mock him! He should suffer in spirt as well as body. Hold nothing back!"

At once they obeyed. A few of the unpossessed joined in with them. A few yelled obscenities and cursed him.

"What do you have to say for yourself now, Jesus?" I yelled up at him. "Some of the very people you healed now stand before you, spitting poison on you. Will you condemn them all to eternal torment?"

Jesus spared me only a glance then pushed up, lifting himself so that his lungs could work. Blood dripped from the nails in his feet. In a loud voice, he said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

I snarled. How dare he say something like that? How dare he pretend to be noble and caring? "I know what I do," I aaid.

"Aren't you the Messiah?" a voice said. "Save yourself and us."

I looked to see who had spoken. So focused had I been on Jesus, that the two criminals who were crucified beside him. Their wrists and feet were merely tied, though.

The one who'd spoken laughed in derision and spit at Jesus.

I smiled. Yes, this was the kind of mocking I longed to see.

"Shut up, you idiot," the other criminal said. "Don't you fear God when you are dying?"

The second criminal raised his eyes to Jesus. "Rabbi, remember me when you come into my kingdom."

"I shall. Today you will be with me in paradise."

Today? No. Today he was supposed to be mine. "You're a cheat, Son of God, and a hypocrite! This suffering you are experiencing right now? It's nothing compared to what waits on the Dark Stair. Deliver yourself to that or admit that you are to weak to endure what you inflict on us all."

The sky darkened still further, a cold wind started to blow. I drew my coat around me.

Again, Jesus pushed himself up. "John!" he cried out. "Come closer."

In response, James, John, Jesus' Mother, the Magdalene and a few other followers moved closer. When they had done so, Jesus looked down.

"Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother."

What was this?

One day, long ago, back when this whole assignment had started, Jesus had called his mother "woman." Now he did so again. It had seemed almost like a rebuke at the time, but even then it had been partly a reference to the prophecy given to Adam and Eve.

Sometimes people referred to the crosses used in crucifixion as trees, it was sort of a euphemism. What did it mean that he evoked this prophecy now, while hanging from a tree himself?

There was a weird sort of symmetry to the whole situation--or maybe I was imagining it. Maybe this was just what it appeared to be, a son seeking to provide for the mother he loved by entrusting her care to a friend.

Love.

Part of me wished I'd never understood the word, even as I cheered for Cassia, who at this moment was fighting her way into the bowels of sheol, carrying my soul and my eye.

With my fist raised, I cried. "Why ever teach me to love, Son of God, if you were only going to take it away?"

With those words I released the soldier I'd possessed and floated free of him. Drawing up my darkness around me, I took my flaming sword and aimed at Mary's heart. Though I knew that stabbing Jesus' mother would likely be the end of my weapon and not her death, I did it anyway. One more morsel of pain for the Son of God.

My weapon pierced her and she dropped to her knees. The Magdalene took one of her hands and John the other.

It was Jesus who cried out in pain though, not her. As my weapon shattered and its fires extinguished, I nodded in satisfaction. This was the best I could do, the most I could inflict. I hoped the Abominations were pleased.

As if in response to what I'd done, Lightning flashed in the clouds above, and the divine glow which had shone from Jesus since I'd first laid eyes on him faded--though it did not disappear. What was happening?

Jesus raised his head and shouted, "My god, my god, why have you forsaken me?"

A chill shivered along my spine. Did he understand at last?

We waited.

He did. I could see it in the thoughts blossoming around his dying mind. Finally, the whole magnitude of what it meant to be human had finally registered in that divinely thick skull. Somehow, until now, he'd been able to blind himself to it with faith, to convince himself that it all had some mystical purpose and was something other than a cruel game.

At that moment, Cassia broke through to Mikal's prison.

I cannot speak of the pain or darkness she was in. There are limits to words, and sometimes limits to my ability to even summon them in my own mind. Mikal took the coin and eye in her hands, gazing on them as Cassia continued to fight. Her sword blazed with more power than I could have believed.

"I thirst," Jesus said.

"Give him some vinegar to drink," I said to one of the guards.

The vinegar, mingled with gall, was standing at the ready. The guard dipped a hyssop branch into the mixture and lifted it to Jesus' mouth.

The Son of God took one taste.

"It is finished," he said.

No sooner had he spoken, than thunder erupted from the sky, crashing in every direction. The earth shook, splitting in places. The wind howled.

Was this the end? Had I misjudged what Jesus understood? Was he, instead, bringing the Final Judgement on us all?

Only moments later, though, it stopped. The sky cleared. Even the Abominations who had once circled above were gone.

The soldier I'd been possessing looked up at the dead body which now hung from the cross.

"Surely," he said, "This was the Son of God."