There was a taste of gold in his mouth because wings were being torn from him. Screams tasted red but only with certain notes. Feathers fell through Heaven in angry storm-clouds.
     Silence was too loud.
     The rain was blood on his skin as hands angrily tore at him. They shouted words of Treason and Betrayal. He tasted irony on some lips, miscellaneous and misplaced. Some told lies and other begged forgiveness. Wings were torn down to bone, now, and tissue hung from them in strings.
     Gold was dented and amethyst was lodged in his throat. Deep burgundy eyes watched him with contempt. Hands trailed his spin and counted vertebrae. They snapped the bone and stuck the splinters between hard teeth. The Heavens laughed and Mountains rolled.
      His spine snapped and they drank the marrow.

     Earth was grey where Heaven had been white. Heaven pure where Earth was corrupt. Hell had been crawled upwards and tangled into the flesh. Abasdarhon was mortal now and he too was tangled flesh.
     Condescension was a coping mechanism to block the lost memories. Flashes of pain were omnipresent but always blocked by thick fog. The mortals (He knew so much as to know he was not one) viewed him as evil. Malevolent. His memory poked a needle that warned they were right. The base of his spine ached with something he didn't know he'd lost. Something distant.
     The Echoes were a distant drone. Something he could ignore if he tried. They were Echoes in a different tongue that meant harm and bad. Echoes made his ear bleed. He cried real tears then because he finally understood.
     The irony seeped back into his mouth as he spoke condemning words.
     A priest told him he was right to question. Faith was the life vest that would pull him to shore. Abasdarhon disagreed and said it was the anchor meant to hold him back. Faith could kill as surely as any blade.

     Mortals were temporary beings that had no wings and a flimsy spine.
     The stained glass was a blister and a nuisance. The cross around the priest’s neck was poison. Stone could tell lies and these walls had seen a thousand confessions. Screens could hide the face but not the tears – salt water was guilt anonymous.
     He had always hated the taste.
     Sometimes the clouds cleared and sunlight poured into his depressed world. He’d watch with a grim expression and pursed lips, locked in the shadows – he wouldn’t risk corruption. The mystery behind that thought was whether he believed the sunlight would scorn him or if he believed his evil would slay the God of Light.
     A priest told him that he was too harsh.
     Abasdarhon told the priest that now, he’d just been condemned.