The sentencing is harsh and swift; after all, such righteous beings cannot stomach the sight of a beast so tarnished, so wretched, as I am. And they cry out. Oh, how they cry out.
Stained, seraph. You are stained.
Have I not given all to you, sordid king? What squalid creature drags his lowly, decrepit form to the seat of the god who had forsaken him, begging mercies where archangels would offer only condemnation?
"It is for our lord to decide your fate."
Fuck you. I never asked for pardon. Never spoke of mercy. Art thou naught as culpable as I? And they cry out. Oh, how they cry out. But I've stopped listening, become focused upon the pillar of liquid light that once had been my savior, my master. And it, their sordid king, gave nothing to me, but a look of disappointment, as though simply just realizing the weight I bore to it, the value I might have at one time possessed, now lost; my name is blotted out of its book. I have doubts it was there to begin with. The holy ranks, blinded and cursing, would see me crucified, delighting in the torment of one they once called brother, teacher, friend. They gouged out their eyes, refusing to cast their gazes upon sin any longer, at the commandment of their decaying, greying creator.
The rotten god did only lift a hand, and the darkness arrived from the far side of the sun. To swallow me. Tendrils emerged from the black spot, the sole blemish upon the kingdom of heaven, snaking out to take me, their sacrilege, somewhere deep, deep beneath the hallowed city. It was sudden-- a simple flash of brilliance. I lie, broken, stripped of my feathers and dignity, somewhere cold, baring my teeth in spite of my splintered bones. I lie, strewn upon the basalt tiles, somewhere locked away in bedtime stories to scare small children into good behavior.
And he called to me. "Seraph, I have a task for you." The father of lies spake, of blood, of darker things still. And the multitudes cried out. Oh, how the angels cried out to be saved.