Page 75 of Property of Prophet

We fall into the rhythm without discussing it, the way we have fallen into a hundred rhythms across a hundred years. For a few minutes, the only conversation is steel and spruce. Steam rises off me into air cold enough to shatter. He works bare-handed because some habits survive even Heaven’s stripping.

“You want to ask me something?” Prophet eventually asks.

“No.” The axe comes down. Two clean halves jump apart. “I want to tell you something, and I have been deciding how much of it you need.”

“All of it,” Prophet says. “Whatever it is.”

The next log takes its place on the block, and I leave the axe resting on my shoulder.

“Calix and my old friend have met.”

Prophet goes still with a split spruce in each hand. He knows which friend. Every brother knows, though most of them prefer the knowledge at a comfortable distance, the way people prefer a chained dog. Prophet has never once flinched from what I am. It is half the reason I am telling him this.

“When,” he says.

“Long before your fall. Before most falls.” The axe comes down again while I decide where to start. “Hellhounds run the gate. We fetch what is owed and mind the door, and one night the door had a visitor. He arrived on foot, wearing a shape too beautiful to be honest, and he asked for an audience with my friend.” Steam curls off my forearms. “I walked him down myself. Protocol... you do not leave a fallen thing of his age standing unattended at anyone’s gate.”

“What did he want?”

“Fire.” The word sits in the cold between us. “Hellfire fuses what Heaven’s light refuses to hold. He had already begun collecting grace by then, two pieces, maybe three, and the pieces were tearing at each other inside him. He came to buy a forge. He wanted Hell to weld him whole.”

Prophet sets the wood down slowly. “And the payment?”

“Souls.” My grip tightens on the axe handle. “His followers, the early ones. He had perhaps a dozen then. He offered them across the table the way a man offers livestock, itemized, with their qualities listed. This one’s grief. This one’s faith. He had descriptions for each of them and no names.”

Prophet’s jaw hardens. “They trusted him.”

“Completely.”

“And he was willing to trade them for a fucking forge.”

“Every one of them.”

Prophet sets the wood down. “Did your friend take the deal?”

“No.”

His eyes come to mine. “Why not?”

“Because Hell has standards.”

That gets the smallest shift from him, not amusement exactly, but close enough that I feel it.

“I’m serious,” I tell him. “Hell collects debts. It takes what belongs to it. Calix walked in offering souls that weren’t his to sell.”

“And Hell refused him.”

“Hell wasn’t interested.”

“How did Calix take that?”

“A short laugh escapes me, with nothing warm in it. “About as well as you’d expect.”

“What did the Devil think of him?”

The answer has waited a long time in me, and it still comes out reluctantly. “Pity.” The axe comes down harder than the log requires. “Not for Calix. For the twelve. My friend has read the worst of every soul ever sent down, and he pitied those people. They loved something incapable of loving them back, and they had signed themselves to it freely. He told Calix the deal was declined. Calix asked why.” Splinters scatter across the melted ground. “My friend said, ‘Even the damned are mine to protect from you.’ ”

Prophet closes his eyes briefly. When they open, they carry the weight I have watched him carry for other people across five human lifetimes, except now it is his own.