Today is all we've got
A moment here then not
And if tomorrow never comes
I'll be standing with the one I love.
"If you can't go on... then we'll die here together!"
Let this hell be our heaven.
Did you really come down [to hell] to save me? Criminy:
Yes. Well, no
. Not to save
...Just to be
: Lirian? Can you hear me? Lirian
: Dory? Dory is that you? Dorukan
: Yes, my love. I've failed. It looks as if I am to share your prison forever now... Lirian
: No, no... Not a prison anymore.
Liz Sherman: In the dark, I heard your voice. What did you say?
There are no maps of this place because it writhes out from under itself, thermal vents spewing and kicking and sliding. There are no legends or lore of the fish here, monstrous armored things that sometimes surface through sopor, because they are bigger and stronger and speedier than any troll who would seek them. And those were rare because under the waves and in the stars, there were more important things less bleak and breaking along the surface.
It’s a horrible place, hot and cold and endless pressure squeezing in so hard it cracks ribs with a careless breath —a mistake you make every time, forgetting what’s already automatic— and it’s so dark. Dark enough, if you turn too quickly, or don’t mind your bearings, you’ll lose the path back to the sky. Horrible.
And that’s where you go, because that’s where you’ll find her.
If Heaven and Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the "No"'s on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
— "I Will Follow You Into The Dark" by Death Cab For Cutie
Oisin: Put the staff in my hands; for I go to the Fenians, O cleric, to chaunt
The war-songs that roused them of old; they will rise, making clouds with their Breath,
Innumerable, singing, exultant; the clay underneath them shall pant,
And demons be broken in pieces, and trampled beneath them in death.
And demons afraid in their darkness; deep horror of eyes and of wings,
Afraid, their ears on the earth laid, shall listen and rise up and weep;
Hearing the shaking of shields and the quiver of stretched bowstrings,
Hearing Hell loud with a murmur, as shouting and mocking we sweep.
We will tear out the flaming stones, and batter the gateway of brass
And enter, and none sayeth ‘No’ when there enters the strongly armed guest;
Make clean as a broom cleans, and march on as oxen move over young grass;
Then feast, making converse of wars, and of old wounds, and turn to our rest.
S. Patrick: On the flaming stones, without refuge, the limbs of the Fenians are tost;
None war on the masters of Hell, who could break up the world in their rage;
But kneel and wear out the flags and pray for your soul that is lost
Through the demon love of its youth and its godless and passionate age.
Oisin: Ah me! to be Shaken with coughing and broken with old age
and pain, Without laughter, a show unto children, alone with remembrance and fear;
All emptied of purple hours as a beggar’s cloak in the rain,
As a hay-cock out on the flood, or a wolf sucked under a weir.
It were sad to gaze on the blessed and no man I loved of old there;
I throw down the chain of small stones! when life in my body has ceased,
I will go to Caoilte, and Conan, and Bran, Sceolan, Lomair,
And dwell in the house of the Fenians, be they in flames or at feast.
—"The Wanderings of Oisín" by William Butler Yeats