DMC, DV, Ship Question: 5
5- what visions or hopes do they have for their relationship
His world narrows down like the slitting of an eye until there is only this: the dim light, the long shadows, the endless march, Vergil ahead, leading, Dante a step behind.
They've been walking for days. Vergil hasn't offered anything by way of direction, explanation, just stood up from camp one day and presumed that Dante would follow. And Dante had. Time was, he would've made a fuss, nagged and whined, but that was then, when Dante had balked at injustice, when he was always ready to stand on his dignity, to stand on his rights. Misused little brother, histrionic and spoiled.
But depravation has eroded him, made soft his pride, made quiet his resentments, his principles. Solitude has pared away at his appetites until he's touched bedrock, winnowed out his excesses until he could fit his exigencies into a handful, an easy swallow. Age has made him used to silence, used to the passing of time, the sluggish drag of his blood under his skin. He's used to unasked questions, unspoken answers. Now, he walks.
Dante gazes at the back of his brother's head, the breadth of his shoulders, his nape, the reckless sweep of his hair. Every now and again, his brother turns, part way, shows Dante the pale crescent of his cheekbone, the shadow of his eye. Never all the way, never his whole face, the full measure of his glance. No pillars of salt, for Vergil. He walks into exile with a perfect faith, uncorrupted.
It's Dante who imagines things, faint things, soft and worthless. Thinks about three quick steps and catching his brother's shoulder, turning his body. Touching his cheek, his brow. Holding his hand.
Sunlight and skin, fresh sheets, the first sighs of morning. Coaxing each other out of sleep. Coffee in the kitchen.
Lost now, given to the river.
Instead, he watches the back of his brother's head, the shockingly delicate curve of his skull beneath. Silvered like glass, moon bright in the darkness.
Dante knows better now, about some things; he knows how to wake on his own now, to sleep without dreaming. He knows what it's like to be alone, to stand, elbows tucked, to keep his insides from spilling. Even now, even here, even with his brother here, an arm's length away, he keeps himself to himself, he keeps his vagaries quiet, obedient.
There is nothing for him in hell. Only wilderness of purgatory, the muffled stillness, the rising damp. Only Vergil. So he breathes in the dust and the stink of rot and stagnation, and he follows his brother into the desert.
