Garder mon Ame

Chapter Four: Shall Judgment be Awarded

Death is struck, and nature quaking,
all creation is awaking,
to its Judge an answer making.

Lo! the book, exactly worded,
wherein all hath been recorded:
thence shall judgment be awarded.

When the Judge his seat attaineth,
and each hidden deed arraigneth,
nothing unavenged remaineth.

What shall I, frail man, be pleading?
Who for me be interceding,
when the just are mercy needing?

King of Majesty tremendous,
who dost free salvation send us,
Fount of pity, then befriend us!

Think, good Jesus, my salvation
cost thy wondrous Incarnation;
leave me not to reprobation!

~Dies Iræ

Dies iræ! Dies illa!

Cyra was prepared for a sort of torture as he wandered into the Judgment Palace. He mulled over the prospect of having to surpass an arduous test, maybe like school, maybe physical, though he supposed it would be more psychological. Perhaps he would encounter Anubis, his personal devil, and a beautiful scale of gold would weigh his ugly heart. What would happen if he failed? Or, rather, what then if he passed?

The Palace was cast in much magnificence and glory, as if he were observing the world's greatest DMV. The floor was of polished marble, so white that it made snow seem dirty by comparison, and the walls were constructed out of the finest gold that captures the heart with its luster and shine. It was engraved with scenes of, what Cyra assumed were, Heaven. Valiant steeds galloped across a path lined with great fauna and stunning gold women, and, in the next panel, an orchestra composed of brave trumpets and delicate harps sounded out their velvety, delightful tunes. And all around people were dancing, praying, laughing, being what every human hoped to achieve: happy. Ching a ring chaw.

The ceiling was comprised of a mural much like the one that overlooked Cyra's waiting room. Angels and color swam across a friendly sky, looking down upon him with grace and love. He felt safe, and he knew that judgment would not be as brutal as anticipated. Pie lesu Domine!

In front of him, spanning the entire middle of the grand hall, was a desk at which set thousands of people (spirits, maybe) who were attending to the dead. What exactly was occurring, Cyra couldn't tell, as if a fuzzy shadow had descended upon each cubicle, giving the deceased their final privacy before a life filled with such pleasure discretion was not needed. Or, maybe, confidentiality was still a virtue in Heaven as well.

A woman was standing by the double doors Cyra had stepped through, and she intercepted him as he ambled forward, gawking.

"Sir, where is your guide?" she asked, grabbing at Cyra's arm. She was a petite woman, slender and very beautiful with black hair. However, her concerned air took away from her splendor and the loveliness around her. Petty worry didn't belong in such a place.

Cyra shrugged. "He might be dead, I think. He told me to ask for Mrs. Stabler."

"He's . . . He's dead? What on Earth do you mean by that?" the woman asked.

Cyra wondered if such a cliché idiom was as appropriate as the woman's alarm. "But we're not on Earth, are we?"

"What?" The woman was bemused. Her chin was starting to quiver.