When I was a little boy, my parents once told me that rain wasn’t from storms, but from crying angels in Heaven. When I asked why the angels were crying, I was told it was because the angels couldn’t see the people of Earth when the clouds covered the sky. At the time, I thought this explanation made sense, and even when I grew up and knew better, the thought still brought me comfort.
I can’t imagine why the angels would be crying today.
Rain hammers the windshield, forcing the wipers to work overtime as my car drives itself through the prison’s main gates, coasting through the parking lot to get to my designated space, where the engine turns itself off, and the lights dim.
I sit in my seat, looking out at the rain, taking a few moments to gather myself.
I can do this…
My umbrella immediately sags under the deluge as I step out and limp towards the guest entrance, biting my tongue to stop a curse from escaping my lips; the cold is making my arthritis worse than usual. My medicine helps, but there is only so much that can be done on days like this. It’s so bad, in fact, that the pain almost makes me forget the cars and news vans trying to find a spot in the already-full lot.
The guards at the gates see me coming. I’ve been here so often that they sometimes let me through without checking my identification, but I will receive no such favors today: security is tighter than it's ever been, so the authorities will not risk anything happening to disrupt today’s proceedings.
Once my card is verified and my identity confirmed, the gates open and I continue on, trying to ignore the pain in my knees and hunched back. The gates close behind me with a heavy thud, finally muffling the storm, the silence a welcome relief as I slouch off my raincoat, taking in the all-too-familiar smell of white paint, sterile concrete, and recycled air pumped through the vents. Fifty years ago, I almost gagged at the smell when I entered this place for the first time to begin my ministry, but now it doesn’t even bother me.
The warden exits the office and gestures for me to follow him.
We head down the prison’s halls, passing the guest bathrooms. Wet splotches lie on the concrete leading to the door; tears from a guest seeing a family member for the last time, perhaps? Instinct and habit wants me to go inside those bathrooms, find the poor soul, and offer comfort, but I can’t, not today. Time is not on my side, and I can’t afford any distractions.
The warden escorts me through checkpoint after checkpoint, past fields put up by Thalmann generators that nullify any and all magic, until we arrive in the heart of the prison, the place where the worst of the worst are housed, far away from any windows, from the sun, from any possibility of escape. Here, standing before the door of the prison’s most secure cell, stands six men garbed head-to-toe in the heaviest combat armor available, wielding a massive laser rifle that could tear through five feet of steel. The hate in their eyes tells me they would love nothing more than to kick open the cell behind them and open fire, but these men are here to guard, not to kill, as I am bound by my own vows to bring comfort and a path towards salvation for God’s wayward children.
I remain still as I’m scanned several times to make sure I don’t have anything on me besides the Bible in my hands and the crucifix hanging around my neck. I’ve gone through this process thousands of times before and this one is no different, save for the sweat gathering on my forehead, and my heart pounding faster than usual.
The guards pay no heed. They think I’m nervous. Anyone would be if they stood in my place.
Let them think that.
The scan is completed, and the warden lowers his face to a scanner besides the vault-like door. His eye is scanned, and then he enters a twelve-digit security code. Only then does the door unlock and grinds open.
The cell is open before me, waiting for me to enter. I am like the Savior descending into Hell to minister to the lost. But unlike Him, I do not have His courage, nor His strength of will.
Taking a deep breath, I walk inside.
The cell is much like others I’ve been in before: bare concrete, a steel cot, a sink, a toilet, and a light embedded in the ceiling behind shatter-proof plexiglass. It’s an ordinary cell designed to confine and contain wayward souls.
The soul sitting before me is anything but ordinary.
Princess Celestia is a shadow of her former self: her lifeless mane lies flat at her side, her dusty, grimy coat sags from stress, and her once-proud and noble face is wet from fresh tears forming a puddle on the floor beneath her muzzle. Her horn is gone, and her wings are bare and plucked. Yet, Celestia shows no emotion, no recognition that I’ve entered. It’s the shock of someone being lost in their world, trapped within regrets, what-ifs, and wondering if they could have done anything different.
Her eyes… they’re full of grief, sorrow, and weariness beyond all endurance. It’s a gaze I’ve seen too many times in my parishioners, my friends, and those who aren’t of my flock who come to me for comfort, for help, where they beg me for a reason why God didn’t save their loved ones in the worst war humanity has ever endured.
This monster is the architect of all that sorrow.
The princess doesn’t look at me as the warden leaves. Nor does she doesn’t react as the door swings shut, the locks sealing the two of us inside.
I’ve seen Celestia before, but only on television screens, propaganda posters and fliers from her followers. I’ve followed news of her campaign against us, of her capture, her trial, and when the justice system finally sentenced her to death. But never, not once, did I imagine that I would be in the same cell as her.
I stand before a devil. A broken, defeated, battered devil, but a devil nonetheless.
Breathing deeply, I take a seat beside her.
“You’re a holy man,” Celestia whispers, her voice empty and drained. It’s like listening to a robot.
I nod.
“I cannot imagine there would be many willing to extend mercy to me.”
“All of God’s children deserve guidance,” I say, “no matter how far they have fallen.”
Celestia isn’t moved. “I have lost all that I care about,” she whispers. “My kingdom, my citizens, and the respect of those I loved.” She turns away.
It’s tempting to leave. Dear God, it’s tempting to just leave her here to drown in her sorrows. She deserves nothing less... but I cannot leave, not until my task is completed.
“I have learned that talking about what hurts us can help us heal.” I say.
I wait.
Celestia turns back towards me, staring at the floor.
“Are you aware of what you’ve done that’s led you to this point?” I ask.
Celestia nods.
“Do you feel any sorrow or repentance for what you did?”
“I regret leading my ponies into a war we could not win,” Celestia says. “I regret that so many lives on both sides have been lost, and the misery and suffering that I inflicted on your species and mine. But I do not regret doing what I had to do.”
“Do you fear hell?”
“No.”
“Then you must be very brave.”
“I have lived for over a thousand years,” Celestia says. “I have watched countless beings die. My sis...” She pauses, her face aging a few more years in a few seconds. “My sister sometimes was in the dreams of those who died in their sleep. She did not see any angels coming to take them, any tunnels of light, and she did not see their spirits depart. They just faded away.”
“So you believe there’s nothing, then.”
“Yes.”
“And what if you’re wrong? What if there is something beyond this life, and you are judged and sent to a place of eternal torment for your crimes?”
“I had the responsibility to protect my ponies from those who would have subjugated them.”
I bite my lips. “Only God has the right to decide our fates. And you are no god.”
“I did not set out to destroy your people,” Celestia says. “I saw how flawed and warlike you were. I wanted to save my ponies, and to save you all from yourselves.”
I should be patient with her. I’m supposed to be the calm shepherd tending to a lost lamb... but I feel no compassion towards this abomination, this defiler who has caused so much suffering.
“I have had to comfort so many over the past few years,” I say. “Families who have lost their loved ones. Wives whose husbands were turned into New Foals. Children who will never see their parents again. Would you be willing to go before them and tell them that you took their loved ones for their own good?”
Celestia doesn’t answer.
I wait.
The leader of Equestria meets my gaze. She’s studying me.
She studies at my crucifix.
I wipe the sweat from my brow.
“What is your name?” she asks.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Celestia says softly.
I shouldn’t tell her. She doesn’t deserve such courtesy.
“Jacob,” I finally say.
“Jacob... You weren’t sent here to see me, were you?”
“A call went out for someone to deliver last rites to you,” I say. “I volunteered.”
“Even though you hate me.”
“I hate none.”
“But I’ve seen your face. Your eyes.”
“We haven’t met before.”
“No. We haven’t. But I know the face of those who have lost everything.”
My hands shake.
“Jacob, why did you come here?” Celestia asks.
I shouldn’t tell her. She doesn't deserve to know. I should just get this ov... No. No. I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her so she knows, so she understands.
“Before the war, I had... I had a family. I had a wife... the most beautiful, loving, supportive wife someone could ever ask for. And with her, I was blessed with two beautiful daughters. When your kind came to Earth, we didn’t know what to think. Neither did most of us. I figured that, even though you weren’t mentioned by God in His book, you were still His children. I hoped our kind could live together in peace. My daughters, in particular, wanted to make friends with your ponies. But then you attacked us. My family were... were...”
Something in Celestia changes. She stiffens slightly, as if realizing what I’m about to say.
“I was told what happened: When they were turned, they attacked the soldiers assigned to protect them. They killed two of them before the last one grabbed his gun and... and...”
It’s silent in the cell.
I breathe deeply. “My family murdered two people. And because they died before they recognized their sins and repented, they are damned. They will never see Paradise.” I glare at Celestia. “You sent my family to hell.”
The devil beside me doesn’t speak. She doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to proclaim her innocence. She just stares at me like a stupid animal.
I can’t stop myself from shaking.
Celestia’s eyes go to my crucifix, which she studies for a long moment.
“I have survived many assassination attempts during my life,” Celestia says at last. “The one that almost succeeded was carried out by a pony who hid a knife inside a symbol of his faith.”
I grab the top of the knife and ya-
A hoof places itself on my hand. “Jacob... Your god would know that your family were not themselves when they died. No just god would send them to hell.” She indicates my knife. “But if you take my life, then you will be guilty of murder. You will never see Paradise. And if your family is there, you will never see them again, and they will never see you.”
I won’t listen to her. I won’t let this bitch stop me! I will see her blood on the floor; I will watch her scream as I send her soul to the fire! I will ensure she dies before she feels any regret, before she can confess and ask forgi-
“Jacob, I can’t bring your family back... but I can save you.”
I laugh. “Save me?!”
She gently pulls on the crucifix. “Give me the knife.”
I pull back.
“Jacob, please.”
Her voice is calm and controlled. She looks concerned. Worried, even, but I’m not fooled! Even Satan can impersonate an angel of the Lord.
“What would your family want you to do?”
I stop.
“Would they want you to do this?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. My hands shake. I… I… No! No, I won’t let her stop me!
I open my eyes and yank out the knife. I’ll kill this abomination and ensure that she goe-
Something hits me.
I fall onto cold, hard concrete.
Wha-
I hear yells. Shouts. A door being thrown open. Tasers go off, and Celestia collapses beside me. A jackboot hits her, and then again, over and over until blood-soaked teeth fly against the wall.
Hands grab me, strong, powerful hands that quickly pull me to my feet. Everything’s a blur, the pain overwhelming, my mouth feeling like it’s burning.
The guards leave the cell, dragging Celestia with them, hitting her again and again with the butts of their rifles, yelling obscenities and curses as they drag her down the hall, purposefully stepping on her tail as they go.
“Father?!”
I look to the voice. It’s the warden. He’s shaking me.
“Father, are you okay!? We’ve called the medics; they’re on their way.” He looks down the hall. “Where the hell are they?!”
My… My knife; it’s still in my hand. I ram it into my robes. “What… What happened?”
“Father, I’m so sorry. I should have sent a guard in with you.”
“What… happened?”
“She kicked you.” The man curses, rubbing his face. “Stupid, so stupid.”
“She… attacked me?”
“Yes. But don’t worry. You’re safe now.”
I pull myself free and start down the hall.
“Father, you need medical attention!”
“I need to see her.”
“No. You-”
“I need to see her!” I scream.
I’ve never screamed at the Warden before, or anyone else in this place. He recoils, so shaken that he falls silent. I turn and keep going, limping down the hall as I use my sleeve to wipe blood from my face.
***
We are instructed by our Maker to forgive others. We are told to let go of our hates and to not judge lest we be judged. Vengeance is God’s, and He will repay. Before my family died, I truly believed those words. I did my best to live by those principles. But even the strongest faith is no shield against grief. Prayer did nothing to lessen mine. Throwing myself into my work did nothing. Only when grief finally gave way to hate, anger, and rage did I find my purpose again: to send Celestia to the fire before she could repent and get God’s forgiveness. I’ve seen it happen, seen prisoners suddenly and truly repent when they are seconds from death.
I won’t give Celestia that chance.
The gate leading to the prison’s courtyard appears. With one last wipe of my sleeve I grab hold and shove the gate open, staggering out into the storm. I join the thousands of humans and ponies packed into the stands and bleechers erected for this event. Guard towers with laser turrets stand at the ready should Celestia try to flee, and cameras broadcast the event to stations around the world.
No one takes notice of me as I stagger forward, the rain washing away the last of my blood. The guards are chaining the princess to a pole in the center of the courtyard, taking care to ensure the chains and cuffs dig into her skin; Celestia winces, but doesn’t cry out.
They won’t try to stop me. They’ll let a kindly old priest come up to give Celestia her last rites.
Satisfied that Celestia is secured, the guards retreat. And as they do, twelve marines march forth, each carrying the most powerful laser rifle the military has to offer.
This is it; just walk forward, pretend to give Celestia her last rights, a few last words of comfort, and then stab the knife into her jugular. A twist, a yank, and I’ll send her blood gushing onto the wet grass. I-
“Priest.”
A soldier steps before me.
“Stand aside,” I hiss.
“No.”
“I need to see her!”
“You need to see a medic,” the guard says.
“No! You don’t understand! I need to talk to her!”
A delegation walks before a microphone, headed by the head of the UN. She takes out a paper and reads a prepared statement about how Celestia will now be executed, listing off her crimes and all those who have died because of her war. I hear the words but pay them no heed. I have to get past this imbecile and get to Celestia! If I fail, if she repents, I will never forgive myself! And all that stands before me is this one guard!
I try to get around him, to-
My knees give out, pain shooting through them. I almost scream as I crumple.
No! No, not now! Not now!
The guard kneels beside me, trying to comfort me. I ignore him, trying to stand, but... I can’t! Damn these knees! Damn these worthless legs!
The speech finishes up, and the delegation steps back. A drummer raps his drum, and the leader of the marines calls out for her soldiers to ready their weapons.
A dozen rifles are raised and take aim at Celestia.
No! No, no, no!
The cheers from the crowd are deafening. I try one last time to lurch up, but the guard grabs my shoulder and forces me down. I try to flail at him, to shove him back; she’s so close! So close! I can’t risk her repenting! I can even see her from here, see the bruises and cuts on her body and the blood trickling from her mouth.
I can see her eyes.
Celestia, alone, wet, surrounded by thousands of beings who will celebrate her death, looks at the rifles. There is no anger in those eyes. There is no despair, no grief, and no defiance. There is only acceptance.
She... She’s not going to ask for forgiveness.
And then, as if something has nudged her, the former leader of Equestria looks to me.
Her eyes meet mine.
I no longer hear the roar of the crowds. I don’t feel the overwhelming pain in my decrepit body, the cold of the rain soaking my robes, or even the guard holding me down.
Celestia just looks at me. She doesn’t plead for help. She doesn’t plead for mercy. She doesn’t try to get away.
We watch each other.
A flash of light fills the air.
Celestia’s still watching me as her body erupts into superheated ash that vanishes among the rain.
A roar louder than any storm fills the air as the crowd goes berserk, cheering and screaming and clapping and hugging each other.
Princess Celestia, the ruler of Equestria, the murderer responsible for billions of deaths, and the most hated tyrant in history, is dead.
***
I barely heard the medics hurrying to me. I didn’t resist as they got me onto a stretcher and took me to the medical wing, where they looked me over and determined that I had a broken nose. Once the morphine was administered, my nose treated, and an appointment scheduled with my doctor to try and get some stronger medicine for my arthritis, they wheeled me out to my car, remarking how lucky I was to still be breathing: not many people can take a hoof to face and walk away.
I said nothing.
When we reached my car, I was able to get out and drag myself into the driver’s seat. Once the doors were closed and the guards were convinced that I was okay, they went back to the prison, leaving me to let the auto-driver take me home.
That was two hours ago.
All the media vans, official cars, and witnesses to Celestia’s execution have left. I’m the last one here.
Night’s falling. Rain still pours down, streaking down my windshield like tears pouring down a cheek.
For years I dreamed of sending Celestia to Hell. I wanted Lucifer to torture her for all eternity, and I came here today to make it happen. I came not to offer hope and a chance of redemption, but with murder and hate in my heart.
The rain keeps pouring.
Is Celestia in Hell now? I have no way of knowing: Christ himself said that Hell is real, and that those who do not care for others will go there with the devil and his angels... and yet... the soul I met today had only tried to do what was right for her people in her eyes. When I tried to kill her, she could have shattered my skull, but only hit me hard enough to knock me back, knowing full well that the noise would bring the guards running.
Celestia’s last act in life was to show mercy to a man who hated her more than anything, to save him from committing one of the worst sins anyone can do.
I stare out the windshield towards the endless desert. It’s dark now, and will only get darker as the night goes on. And as I do, a thought comes to me: perhaps my parents were right; maybe the angels really are crying.
They’re weeping for a soul who has lost his way.
God... what do I do?
The rain comes down harder.
Killing Celestia was the last thing I had in my life, the last thing I could clutch like a life raft in a stormy sea. But now even that is gone, and I have nothing. At the end of her life, Celestia had lost everything. In a way, the two of us were alike: two lost souls who had lost everything they cared about… but even when at the very end of her life, Celestia made a choice to help another.
Perhaps… Perhaps I can do the same.
Reaching down, I turn on the engine and engage the auto-driver.
I’m old. My body is wearing out, and I don’t know how much time I have left on this earth. But as I have preached to my congregation, our Maker is just, but also merciful. If we truly repent and try to make amends for what we have done, we will be guided towards the light. There are many like me out there, people who have nothing but hate toward the Equestrians for taking everything and everyone from them. I know that feeling. I know how all-consuming it is, and I hope I can get to those souls before they fall as I have. And if I can reach them... then maybe I can find my way back.
If my Maker is merciful, my family will be waiting for me.
With a quiet hum, the car pulls out of the parking lot and heads down the long and lonely road.
The rain continues to fall, but it doesn't seem quite as heavy as before.
