The Dark Angel

Moonlight streaming through black sanctuary windows. Gray skin tout from muscles built by centuries of fierce battle. He stretches his pure white wings out to his side. At seven feet, he towers over me. He wears a blank expression on his face as he pierces my soul with his glowing sapphire eyes. His arms hang by his side, loose but ready. His short, wing-white hair moves in the gentle midnight wind.

A flash and the scene changes.

Now his head is tilted back, arms lifted to heaven. A voice like the battlecry of an army one million strong issues from his mouth. I realize he is asking for permission, permission to judge me, to condemn or save me. He receives his answer and draws a sharp, two-edged sword. With a powerful thrust of his wings he rises above me then, just as quickly, descends upon me, consumes me.