push-ups in drag

12; judgment day overruled

Clouds, grey and dull catch my feet, and omnipresent light touching every inch. Shadows are minimal and reflections are expansive. The clouds are dense, not providing any sight of anything below. The gates shine as if they're being polished by some invisible professional. In front of the gate, a dusty powder fills the space in front of me. Two white beaming eyes appear beyond the wall of soot.

It's unsettling and uncomfortable. The dimness of even light makes my skin crawl. It's the only sensation I feel. The dust clears slowly, and the figure presents itself.

Bulky armor displaying gold and silver lines climb up the sculpted sheathing like thin collective veins. Horns climb out of the shoulder padding, sharp enough to cut paper if contact was made. Glimmering chest tiles sting my eyes, the faulds under them shining and blending just as bright. The barely knee long tassets clink into each other as he backs up slightly. Long greaves, lined by the same horns float lightly along the clouds. He's tall, taller than any human, at least. He holds a sword turned down to the soft yet uncomfortable ground.

"I've been expecting you," a thunderous voice declares from above me. Two angels appear on either side of him, complete carbon copies of one another. Halos above their heads, seemingly thin enough to slice bone. They seem in shock of him bestowing his voice to me. Whispers float from one to the other, panicky, in a way I cannot grasp.

"So it seems," I respond cautiously. His eyes shine to mine for a second, nothing more nothing less, before he responds swiftly;

"Your repent would be worthless," he shames, pausing for too long, "if you weren't so successful in your priesthood and prayer. You really know how to.. suck up."

He smirks at me a bit, and I don't know if he expects me to have an answer. Luckily, he continues.

"I'll let you go back- As long as.. you preach against your own actions, of course." He stares at me. Through me.

My first inclination was to decline and take any suffering I deserve, yet somehow, I'm overridden by ego. I can make it out of this alive.

The same eyed stare I put on strangers in poker falls onto God himself. The corners of my mouth stay mostly flat, only moved by wanting to seem grateful while not overdoing it. "Then you have a deal, my Lord." I outreach my head, and he takes it in a shake.

"Very well then," he says, releasing my hand from his strong grip. The angels by his side stare, now expecting the seemingly unexpected from the man in the middle. He backs up ever so slightly yet again, placing his hands one on the other in the position they once were before. His eyes squint, just a bit, before he continues in a tone I'll never like to hear again, "don't fuck up."

"Yes, sir." I bow my head

His eyes glow brighter than before as he lifts the sword vertically, before stabbing it down toward the clouds.

I mostly don't recall the conversation, not for lack of trying, of course. I replayed this over and over again in my head, yet I've always been shocked by how easy he was to fool. It seems impossible that so few sentences gained me back my life, yet I'd soon understand that there was nothing to understand; Pride had presented itself right in front of him and he had little clue. Those angels, though, they seemed to realize.