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The influx of the damned souls had long dried out in morbid silence, thus leaving the post of judge of the hell idle. Nonetheless, the king of lust kept some of his ever latching habits continuous. His infinitesimal occasions of free time were many times spent on silent gazes, directed to all kinds of sinners. Once justified by him as a way to consolidate the reasoning of his sentences, lay now meaningless – God has vanished, and so has His law. Though the king-judge’s authentic sight was for the most part privileged to supervising his ever growing city, it now rested upon bodies covered in sand and blood.
Amicable spars. Countless, unidentifiable practices of martial arts clashing inside the mausoleums of greed. Halberds, boulders, fists and blades. King Sisyphus would excuse the erratic ways of his comrades as part of his strategy – in truth, to discipline all armed husks into a standardized fighting style seemed impossible, impractical to the very least. Nonetheless, Minos would have appreciated the attempt of applying order to the insurrection. Naturally, Sisyphus would not hear a droplet of criticism from a man who would deny, in all his carefully constructed diplomatic semblance, the undeniable prospect of war.
The judge-king would stand in calculated petrification. Embraced in the shadows of the scorching sun of the fourth layer, it was almost easy to ignore him. But the leader insurrectionist kept a constant watch. Bathed in sunlight and admiration from the men in training. He would walk around them, spreading advice and new surges of confidence. Not fighting, specifically on this occasion. Minos was sure this was exceptional. His fellow king was outstanding in fight, cunning and technical for all his vigor. After hours of standing still as a statue, the judge moved in slight unease. Sisyphus almost instantly became aware, quickly reaching to hear his complaints.
“Your majesty seems bothered.”
“Thou art not sparring as the others.”
“I am not. Care to tell me what the issue is?”
“One hath seen thee fight. I have evidence to believe thou wouldst not deny the opportunity to train thy physique, much less in mine presence.”
“Are you implying I am a sort of exhibitionist in your presence?” He snorts and shakes his head, as Minos protests in a silent huff. “You should know there is more to me than fighting, my king.”
“Thou art so much more. I am but merely pointing out an anomalous behavior.”
“So it does bother you.”
“I worry with reason.”
“Reason being?”
“Thou art hurt.”
Sisyphus smirked and resumed his wanderings through the groups of insurrectionists in training. He would not admit with ease, but Minos had seen him limping and suffocating the reaction to some excruciating pain through his unfazed visage. Damnation had turned his perception of pain warped, as a bone healed wrong. Not him, not one of his partners in arms had yielded to the hurt, to the breakdown intrinsic to a man’s fragility, not even to a gasp of relief or a breach for comfort. That could not be right.
After even greater amounts of time ungauged, the groups began to disperse. King Sisyphus returned his attention to Minos, as he began leading his guest to the depths of the great Pyramid. The monument, but a husk of its once magnificence, stripped of any admiration due to circumstance. The rooms were piled in furniture bathed in gold, though now they were only able to exert disgust in the husks once devoured by avarice.
The room assigned to the judge was left underwhelming to the rest of the great tomb, though just furnished enough for comfort. Through their path, conversation was scarce and superficial. Minos let his attention disperse into the scenery. The only lights on the interior of the quarters were warm torches attached to the intricately chiseled walls. The guest cautiously inspected the room, fingertips lightly grazing the impressive architecture, before turning back to face the realm’s king, resting his shoulder by the portal.
“Is it to your taste, your highness?”
“Tis most impressive, yes… Though could one plead thee a request?”
“Depends.” He shrugs, a slight grin tugging under his beard.
“May I ask thee to stay?”
“Huh. And here I thought you were only staying to watch and judge my insurrection.” He lifts himself from the frame, door closing behind him.
“I am not as shallow as thou may believe.”
“Who am I to dare and try to assume what your excellency thinks. I shall stay for as long as you want.” Minos sighs softly at the concession, watching as Sisyphus would approach him.
“My gratitude lies upon thee. In fact, if I may, I would like to thank thee in some way.”
“You would not be so kind as to let me choose my reward, no?”
“Allow the sign of my gratitude to come from the bottom of the heart of my own.”
“So you do have something in mind.” He slowly circles around Minos. “The old diplomatic way of getting what you want.”
“I would most appreciate it if thou would let me tend to thee.” Sisyphus stops in his pace. Minos signed to the bed.
“...There is no need, your highness.” He shakes his head. “There is nothing to worry about.”
“I hath seen thee limp, thou should be aware lying to me is ill advised. Prithee, Sisyphus of Greed.”
Through much resistance, the king of greed instructs Minos through his rummage for propped-up medicine and care utensils. He then lies down in the bed assigned to the other, begrudgingly allowing his fellow majesty to examine his skin. His touch is not as tender as it is thorough, his fingers carrying an intrinsic cold touch as they brush over the flesh, raising shivers through the small, curly hairs that cover the length of his legs. They trace each scar and uneven bone, until finding the eventual target: a recent, untreated wound tracing from the back of his knee down to his left shin.
Sisyphus’ endurance is noteworthy. He refuses to wince, even as Minos pierces the rough aperture of the cut, the cleansing, white towels staining in crimson. He watches silently, attentive to every single potential noise or flinch, but they never start. The king pushes further. He knows why he doesn’t react. They are in Hell. There is no ground for hope to flourish from. And if there is no hope, there is no attachment. Not even to life. It is just time in waste, lives in waste. When the punishment becomes routine, would the future blur into meaninglessness? After being desensitized by pain for so long, would one lose any sensitivity to love? It was not fair. It was pointless. Pointless cruelty.
“Minos. That is enough.”
“What?”
Minos stares into his hands. Bandages smothering the man’s leg into a greyish hue.
“Prithee, pardon me, I was distracted.” He caresses the other’s leg apologetically.
“There is no problem, really.” He raises himself from the bed, placing a hand over Minos’ shoulder. “Tell me, Minos, what bothers you?”
“It disheartens me to see thee, Sisyphus. How easy to throw thy life away it seems to be. How unaffected thou art by the wounds that trace thy skin. Doth thou reserve no hope for life?”
“Why should I?” The grasp around his shoulder tightens.
“It wouldst not be unexpected for thee to be desensitized to it, though the idea upsets me. To love life is to live it in its most absolute form. ”
“You should know it better than anyone, there is no hope in Hell.”
“I know. I thought I knew, at the very least. I understand thou may believe it is naive, but tis such a genuine, intrinsic feeling… one I wish I could share with an equal.” He faces Sisyphus, his hands gripping fiercely the bedsheets.
“I am sorry to disappoint, your highness.”
“Sisyphus-”
“There are things that are simply impossible, Minos.” He scoots closer to him, placing a hand over his.
“And dost thou believe we art merely supposed to accept such impetuous fate?”
“Do you think I do?” He inches further, towards Minos’ vexed visage.
“I… No. Thy mind is an incomprehensible realm, beyond my reach.” He relents.
“Of course not. But the thing is: I get to choose how I’ll reach my impetuous fate. It may be a cruel destiny, but while I have the reins over it, I shall choose the way to go.”
After the king’s argument dies down in echoes through the walls of the room, Minos breaks the silence with a laugh. A soft, lighthearted chuckle. It does not make sense for the judge, in its full conjecture. In fact it probably never will. Their lives, perspectives, views, attitudes, they all took part in an endless dialectic, with both sides losing. Yet Sisyphus would never give up on pushing it further, and the king of Lust could finally see it enlightened. The pain in knowing the man beside him could never experience hope for all that was harbored in his chest was eternally disheartening, but to know that such sentiment could blossom even through the crevices on the cliffs of despair…
“Thou art a strange man, Sisyphus.” His attempts to drown his snickers turn out pointless.
“Are we not both?” His hand crawls to the other king’s face.
“I do not suppose it matters now, dost it?”
“I would imagine the king of Lust would have greater priorities, now.”
“He does.”
Minos pulls Sisyphus’s lips into his in a surge of adrenaline. His arms snake around the insurrectionist’s scarred back, travelling through every relief in his path. His hands fondle the warm, rough skin, fingers brushing his locks. In response, the king of greed captures him in his arms, enveloping him in a coat of warmth. His calloused hands come to take off his crowns and undo his tumbling braids. The kiss is sloppily performed, as Minos interrupts countless times to cackle and stare back at the other, always promptly pulling him back.
“I was supposed to tend to thee…”
“I feel very tended to as of late, rest assured.”