[i]The Wish of the World[/i]
by C.M. Averin

      [i]Inferno[/i] closed at nine o'clock that night, which cast Malik into the evening gloom. And, on those streets—with not a soul in sight—Inferno in his pocket burned like Hell, as heavy as a church bell with its sins. He found no joy in answering the knell, Inferno calling to him like the devil horned, and yet, he knew, that something worse was there: for Hell had not a fury like a Wyatt scorned.

      The dhole had thought on paying it no heed and finding something else to fill his paws, but such a path would only ever lead to scorn—the likes of which he'd not survive. And, even if his deer let it alone, In time, the argument would be revived. So, with a sigh, Malik retrieved his phone and brought it, slow, beside his twitching ear.
He did not speak, instead awaiting Wyatt's stone. 

      "Ah, there you are, Malik!" exclaimed the deer, "I called your cell three times—are you all right? The office said you'd left, but you're not here."

      In weaving doubt and rue into his voice, Malik resigned to sow another sin. Inferno at his back, he had no choice.

      "Hello, my darling deer," began Malik. "I thought I'd said that work would keep me late—did I forget another thing for us, this week?"

      His sorry tone extinguished Wyatt's flame before the blaze could even spit or bite. "Well, if you did," he said, tone soft and tame, "I'd scarcely think it mattered anymore. Besides, weren't you the one who always said regret would leave me raw and feeling sore?"

      "The thing to which regret has lead, I'd say, but yes, I think I see your point, my dear. This thing I somehow missed—could we, another day?"

      "Her birthday only happens once a year," he said, his cinders sparking once again. "She keeps on asking where you've disappeared—I've half a mind to hound you down, myself."

      "It's just a few more months, my love," he said, "and then it's said, and done, and on the shelf. A better life, for you, for me, for her—if time's the sacrifice, I'll gladly pay. Then, things will be the way they were before, I'm sure."

      "You promised something similar with pride, some months ago—my patience will run out eventually, Malik," the deer replied.

      The silence, acrid in the air like smoke, cut to the quick and stung the dhole's wide eyes.

      "Look, let me make it up to you," he spoke.

      Another pause. Another dying pyre.

      "Her birthday may be over," Wyatt said. "The night, however, lives. Meet me at the [i]Quill & Quire[/i] before eleven—they've a special evening show. I'd like to have some time with you, alone."

      "In a crowded theatre? I will, although I know I'll only see our box's floor while you enjoy my muzzle and the show."

      [i]"Mais au contraire, mon cher.[/i] You'll see much more than I, as you'll be seated on my lap. Now, hurry on, and don't you dare come late."

      "I don't deserve you, dear. I'll be there in a snap."

      The call was done, and yet he couldn't help but feel a heaviness inside his chest—his shaking paws made him a spineless whelp, but burning brimstone buried deep beneath his callous, wanting flesh betrayed his shame. How many times they'd met with tongue and teeth to set things right and mend their broken vows? And, would this be the final meeting, then, despite it rising from the heat their clashing roused?

      [i]Inferno's[/i] sins adhered to him like ash brought on from distant, glowing mountaintops and nearer, wicked wishes, unabashed. So much had been invested in their hopes—and for all that, the months had turned their dreams into a gallows stage, Janelle, the rope, the little sister turned unwanted child. Though Wyatt took to caring like a nun, Malik still craved the days when they were young and wild.

      He called a chariot to carry him across the town and up away from cruel [i]Inferno's[/i] seat, imbued with lust and vim. The [i]Quill & Quire[/i] arose, alight, and broke the eve's horizon, through the coming night— the night, and all that lurked within and choked the cityscape around. The fortress dwarfed its squalid neighbours, standing as the last great cultured lighthouse, bringing captains to the wharf. 

      He paid his driver only what he owed—sufficiency, he found, wrought no reward, for what was reaped was only what was sowed. The taxi-rat bid him a night that was, he said, "as lovely as you are, good man," which, in its forwardness, gave him some pause. But soon, Malik composed himself and fled with conquest pooling in his tired loins. The rabble would surround him quick—the thought brought dread.

      When antlers, like the tower, broke above the vermin crowd—the noxious nothing cloud—Malik advanced with clumsy haste and shoved his way to Wyatt's tall, imposing side. And there, the air was clear, and he could breathe, whereas, outside, he couldn't if he tried. The voids that took up space withdrew from them and took their frozen airs—only heat remained between the two, though neither knew from where it stemmed. 

      Their greeting kiss was chaste, as both were spent all from their eve's activities. Malik then took the crook of Wyatt's arm, content to be paraded like a plaything or a jewel. A welcome change of pace, to be a trophy, not the master, but the whore. The concierges saw to Wyatt's whims and whisked the deer and dhole far from the fiends, toward the box where classics rang like saintly hymns.

      A box where privacy was guaranteed, though any indiscretion was forbade. Of course, they wouldn't know they'd done the deed so long as stuttered silence was maintained. It was a wanton waltz they'd danced before, and would again, when busy fates ordained—whenever life's incessitudes would pull them taut and tighter still, while daring them to snap, they'd meet, and fight, and butt their heads like bulls. 

      There'd be no further talk of birthdays missed or goodbye licks in public parking lots—no office calls, no muzzles gone unkissed. Before whatever play was on that night, they'd wash away the ashes in their fur, redemption found in every thrust and bite. Yet, tragedy befell Malik—while sweet inferno writhed beneath his tail, a bitter thing rang out, its tidings no doubt bleak.

      "Malik! Malik, please put away your cell," implored the deer, midst cries to quiet down.

      He took the call, thus sounding his own knell.

      He found himself in waiting, lost, alone, his isolation born from lacking faith in Wyatt's vow that they would call at home. He tucked himself away into his pants—discarded trousers nowhere to be seen—and cleared his slickened throat, then ready for their dance.

      He swallowed hard, yet still some fluid lined his throat and maw, and so he swallowed more, then eager for some paltry draught of wine. He thought on calling on a concierge to bring along a glass or two of red— a man to use, as both were on the verge. And if need was, he'd threaten them with loss of life, or limb, or job. His throbbing veins and bleeding nose would prove he was their new, true boss.

      Yet, Wyatt's handkerchief was purely red and soaked when finally the office spoke. He put them all on hold—then fell, struck dead.

      He fell quite long and far, indeed, as for some time he watched them pound his chest, dear Wyatt standing, shocked, amid the gore. They carried off the thing that was not him and stuck it in the ground, all wreathed in black. He cried, unheard, until the lights began to dim.

      Then, far below, he saw a glowing pyre behind what looked to be a sea of glass. And, though the state of things was grim and dire, Malik still longed to feel the grace of heat—it was so distant, then, a thought from years since past, and yet, the feeling grew more fleet. The sea approached, but stayed forever far, its surface growing grander by the week. And soon, Malik could see the source of light—a star.

      His body crashed against the frozen glass and shattered it, a crater some lengths deep left in his dreadful wake—a cursed crevasse. He lay there, dazed and shivering, until three faces pressed themselves against his walls. A snake, a rat, a boar, and each unchilled.

      "Oh, goodness, men—I'll skip the how or why—however did you find the heat you now possess? I need it, chums, or else, I'll surely die!"

      "You're dead, Malik," replied the boar, "although the splash you made was not. Tell me: where others failed, how did you manage more?"

      "Good fellows, stop! I haven't any clue with what you ask--but if you claim I've died, then this is not the fate which I am due!"

      "And you'd do well to stay your loathsome tongue! You stand before the Lord of lies himself, your prison here, a ladder; you, a simple rung."

      The rat came close and cupped its ears to him, as though he heard some noise within the cell. Malik approached the Beast—his head did swim. The unforgiving grasp of ice grew far as sweet inferno's heart drew ever near. These men had surely been the morning star!

      "So treacherous," accused the boar, "with wrath and lust and--well, you know the rest, dear dhole. Yet still, so many worse than you have crossed my path!"

      "I told you, men! There's been some grave mistake—"

      "I've heard it all, from all, and only those whose sins weighed true did ever meet the lake. Those fiends who sacked a thousand towns at war and never felt remorse; those countless beasts who filled but early graves!" replied the boar. "But none—bar you—have pierced so far below the lake, and yet, your soul on theirs is light!
"But if you cannot tell me, dhole, perhaps you'll show."

      The serpent slithered up against the glass and turned its mesmerizing eyes toward Malik, and, bathed in heat, the dhole let eons pass. The boar's flat snout grew wide in time and flared just as the Hellish heat began to fade. 

      Malik, emboldened by the thaw, then dared, "And what, good men? Whatever did you see?"

      "The weight you near is not your own! My Him! That genius fool--oh dhole, it's all so clear to me!

      "They hated you," regaled the boar with glee, "They used their very hopes to wish you dead! Your businesswolves, the taxirat—all free to dream of fortunes for their faithful friends; your darling deer, your little sister, too—however now will you make your amends? And oh, what's this? An angry playhouse row? You took a call in show and stole away their night of fun, I see...Well, straight to Hell you go!"

      As one, the snake and rat and boar threw back their ugly heads and cackled through the glass. Malik recoiled in horror as he tracked their separate necks, which joined but one whole. A torso cut with sundry pelts and scales; three pairs of arms, all smouldering like coal; a swollen groin and legs with goatly clefts. The Beast withdrew and, still entrapped by ice, on leather wings weighed down with chains, took flight, and left.

      So sat a dhole somewhere beneath a sea of slowly melting glass, no morning star to gift him heat, no one to hear his pleas. So sat a dhole until the rime was thick and naught but hatred kept his insides thawed—until the thought of living made him sick. 

      Inferno'd closed a paw around his soul—
      Inferno at his back, he'd had no choice—
      Inferno's seat awaited him, the devil's dhole.