He watched as the light, molten gold , faded to grey.
He watched as the gates, the gates that had been his to command, swung shut on his tormented soul.
He fell through the air, as paradise blurred and reality, horryifying reality burned at him.
He fell through the air, his body broken, his wings burnt, his soul twisted.
He screamed, as the fires of purgatory seared the remnant of him to nothingness.
He screamed, not for the pain that he felt, but for the pain of paradise lost.
Pity Him, for I am he.
Call me Ishmael.