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Humiliation. Disgrace. Dishonoured. The wretched stench of the rotting church surrounded Gabriel, almost a taunt to him. The naked condemnation of the council swirling and bouncing off the walls, entering his own disordered mind.
It had only been a mere few hours since Gabriel was thrown back into hell, to heresy this time. Ironic. Maybe where he was fit to be. The throbbing pain of the absent holy light was still there, his wings, which glowed of the only hope left in this banishment, twitched from the remnants of pain. His mind was in shambles, his faith in even worse condition.
“God..” He whispered, words echoing in the cathedral as the scratch of his plated feet dragged him to the seat next to the decorated pipe organ. The once fearless, unbreakable will of god bathed in hell's light slumped in defeat, wrath, shamefulness. The gold detailing along his armour had now been filled with the gunk of husks, meaningless souls that Gabriel now had equilibrium with.
His fist scrunched into a fist, it ached. The very thought of the judge of hell himself being in even the same space of these.. Creatures had Gabriel's stomach churning in repeat cycles.
“God please… Please..” His hands shook as they foretook a pathetic prayer, organ keys pressing into an ugly tone as his elbows slammed into them. Desperation had now completely taken over
“It wasn’t heresy- I believe in your faith more than any other, you must hear my prayer! I am vulnerable before you, soul bare, and yet you have no decency-!” His voice broke, arms slamming once again into the keys, the unsettling screeching making not even a reaction out of Gabriel as his head slumped.
If it weren’t so outlandish to say, it had sounded like he had sobbed. A will so unbreakable reduced to something so pathetic, in such desperation it would make the cries of man in punishment laugh with glee.
Gabriel slowly craned his head to observe the keys before him, highlighted by the small slivers of red peeking through the windows and escaping his own shadow. Silently, he brushed his thumb over the keys. Small bumps and collections of grime and dust collecting onto his finger tip. His hand only moved up, grazing the woodwork, it was beautiful in the most disgusting way possible. It was only made to mock man, sinners that had rejected the idea of god, the art and creation of worship. A ridicule of the life they could’ve lived. Yet it still had its own purpose, its own use as any instrument to worship would. He spread his fingers across the keys, pressing slowly into them, almost teasingly. Just trying to make any proof that he was truly there.
He only pondered as he delicately traced the imperfect craftsmanship, hands advancing until eventually cupping the bottom of the pipes, cool metal sending electricity through his finger tips yet it did not shake him. Blood smeared over it, an almost intimate display of revolting affection to something as emotionless as an object.
It did not feel, it did not act, it was not punished. It simply stood, standing for as long as time allowed it. Warped reflections of the judge’s helm stared back at him, reflecting his infected state of mesmerisation. The glide of his skin against metal as he finally came to rest his hand beside him. Small prickles of coolness remained on the abyss which was his skin.
For a reason he couldn’t figure out, he was dumbstruck. Something in his perfected soul rocked, thoughts that couldn’t quite break the surface of conviction. Something oh so desperate wanted to be seen, begged even. Tearing at his mind, yelling to be seeked and freed from something that had long been placed without his will. However, the sharp movements of a machine tore himself away, snapping his neck towards the scraping metal down the hall.
The judge of hell sat back down, throwing ignorance to what had only just conspired, simply placing his fingers in orderly fashion onto the keys.
Hatred filled him, it pulsated through him. Nothing in him had ever felt so passionate towards rendering something apart, towards feeling warmth vanish, towards feeling satisfaction for a dying light. It was not the will of the father that he performed for now. The machine would feel his regrets as a soldier and as a living being.