Fallen Angel

The black becomes light again, my eyes open and feeling returns to my body. No longer do I wear my uniform, instead a robe of white, my hair has returned, black and flowing in an un-felt wind. I stand upon a cloud, gold stretches before me and the Gates of Heaven, I feel the Lord calling to me from within, encouraging me to come closer. I was never a religious man, but one seeks out God when in peril, what else did I have to lose?

I drew nearer, the pearly gates towering above me, they opened immediately, perhaps Saint Peter had already been told of my arrival. I passed into Heaven then, I felt no different, maybe a little warmer, but no different inside. I continued towards the voice, which increased in volume only slightly as I went, it was barely a whisper in my mind, but I knew just what it was. He wasn't far, barely a hundred steps now, his throne drew into view, the finest gold stretching up into eternity. I slowed, walking slowly now, I kept my head low, only my feet and the cloud below in my vision. I saw the edge of the throne in my vision, and kneeled before it, I dared not look up, if only to preserve my sense of unworthiness.

"Rise," came a female voice from barely a metre away, I froze. God spoke to me, directly, he...no she, told me to rise, God had declared me worthy to see her.

I rose slowly from my knee, and looked towards the Lord in all their glory.

Instead of the God of popular myth, no human stood there. A winged unicorn stood there, gloriously white with prismatic mane flowing in the same breeze that affected my own hair. She was around the same height as I, but her aura far exceeded anything I had ever seen. Her glory was near blinding, golden light brighter than the sun was her corona, her voice alone carried the authority of her station.

My jaw quivered, my breath was stolen and no words could be spoken from my mouth: I was stood as equal before god.

"Do not worry," she began, voice melodic and more beautiful than any sound I had ever heard, "I am a friend."

Despite her intentions, her words simply made me hurt, my insides burned and eyes stung, my brain pounded at my head and my legs fell out from under me. I wept before the Lord's throne.

To my surprise, the Lord sat beside me, her wing crossing my back and embracing my shoulder. She nuzzled my neck gently, "I know you told no lies. It's okay, cry all you need to." So I did.

I do not know how long it was, I released every ounce emotion I had bottled up for my entire life, yet she was with me the whole time, and helped greatly to calm the tides of feeling I felt for the first time in years. When I finally stopped weeping, my eyes were more red than white, my hands were sodden and my face was raw, but she helped clean my face, with her own wing. She had expressed more kindness than anyone I have ever known, even the priest who had been my only real companion in the prison. She displayed more care for me than I would have expected from even god.

"I'm sorry," I choked, my voice hoarse from the weeping. I looked straight into the eyes of god, and realised she had been crying with me. She had felt my pain, my suffering and my loss, she had empathised with me and had released her pain with mine. My eyes stung, and I still hurt physically, but emotionally I was healed of any and all wounds, for the first time ever I was free and perhaps even happy. We stood there, God and I, for barely a moment, but it felt longer than any number of years, my hands shook, and my mouth turned to a smile. Now it was I who embraced the Lord, she was quick to reciprocate, "thank you," I whispered, incapable of making my voice any louder. She weeps onto my shoulder, and I barely hold back my own tears as she does so, now I support her.

We pull apart after several minutes, my shoulder sodden, she has finally expended whatever tears she had, her eyes are now red like my own, her coat drenched just like my own face. She breathes ragged breaths, composes herself and looks to me again. She smiles with me, "come," she says, and gestures for me to follow her up the golden steps. I ascend right next to her, only looking forwards and upwards, my emotional defences too weak to look her way or back down the steps again.

We reach the summit, a golden platform with only a modest wooden door atop it. We walk to the door and she places her hoof on the handle and turns to me, "do you wish to follow?" she asks, her voice recovered far beyond my own.

"Of course."

She nods and smiles, before turning the handle on the door and gesturing for me to enter, I do so, and she follows.

I emerge in a large room, with surprisingly sparse furnishings, only two armchairs and a table surround the fireplace on the left wall, with the rest of the room being completely empty. The walls are the most beautiful marble, with golden patterns twinkling in the sun entering through the two windows that flank one made of stained glass showing the lord above a group of ponies, who all bow or play happily in a meadow. There is a simplistic beauty in it, contrasted with the opulence of the walls and intricately patterned red carpet of the floor.

She stands next to me, her face speaks of apologies that I would never ask for, as though she feels my loss cannot be covered by this room alone. I silence any fears she may have quickly, "this place is beautiful," she looks to me, smiling, evidently relieved. I walk to one of the chairs, collapsing into it's inviting form, and sleep...Perchance to dream.