Buried Yet Breathing35.

Haziel, without breaking his gaze upon the vast room of convalescing, electrified souls, spoke swiftly to his mentor. “What shall be of these sinful creatures? Surely they will be cast aside for there is no repentance for this!”

Chamuel was silent. Though unflinching, he felt troubled inside in regards to the entire situation. His greatest comfort was that he was not The Promise Keeper, for he had not the slightest clue of what their demise should justly be.

As far as his eye could see, incased for their own protection, were a multitude of disobedient spirits whom lost their ability to even provide their own council. They had embarked in monstrosities the most abused and troubled human soul would, and these were not damaged humans. They were a cut above, set aside for something better; something amazing. With clouded judgement and lack of divine patience brought them here, to the last place they should yearn to revisit, though as painful as it was, for the next place they endure should be hell eternal, from which there is no escape.

Again, Haziel confided in Chamuel. “I swear, Commander… if they are awarded a second chance, I am taking myself as close as I can get to The Promise Keeper and letting him know exactly how I feel about this!”

“You will do nothing of the sort!” Chamuel snarled, looking directly at his apprentice. “Sheathe your emotions, for they do not rule us. Vengeance is His and I can guarantee you, no one is more disappointed in all these anti-ambassadors than Him. Honestly, Hastiel… remember your place!”

And in that second following his final word, a crack of lightning so bright that it blinded all in captivity, flashed in every square inch of the throne room, followed by an unmeasurable darkness. Still restrained physically, the captives now had full use of their eyes and they blinked desperately, trying to regain sight but to no avail.

The rich dark, black now transitioned immediately into a massive blur of white. No shapes could be made out, only a dizzying hue of bright and glaring white.

A cold condensation seemed to be touching everyone in the room, as though its arms wrapped around each soul then left, leaving a residue of clammy wetness glistening on their restrained bodies.

And then he appeared, as plain as day at the front of the throne room, though barely visible as his majesty proceeded him. His glory blended in with the cold, stark white burnt in all of The Gatherings eyes. His shape was mighty. Boulders for shoulders, massive hands and tree trunk legs.

His face radiated so much light, it almost burned as the hottest fire, amidst such a cool scene. The more they gazed upon him, the more the background faded from blaring white back to the original state they had seen the grand throne room, before the visions and before the blindness. And the more the surroundings resolved themselves, the struggle to continually gaze at The Promise Keeper was almost impossible, for who could stare the creator of all in the face? This group of terrified souls failed miserably.

His mouth did not move as He spoke. His voice, though audible in the English language, rolled out like crashing rivers and bellowing thunder. “You struggle to see me for all my goodness. I, too struggle to see you because of all your evil attached to yourselves like mold on fruit. The fruit is good; the fruit is mine, yet you have tainted it and created a death growth that will overtake what I had in mind when I birthed the fruit.”

Silence ruled the room. No one in their right mind dared to say a word, for they hung on each word poured out upon their ears as liquid life, though in the form of chastisement.

The Promise Keeper continued. It now became visible that he was seated in an opulent throne, his weight situated to his left. Not sitting back, his form was equally imposing as his very presence.

”You’d think I would know better by now… to give so much to you and expect so little… only to have that small amount turned to the darkest of evil and watch your inheritances burn like you all shall sizzle in the furnace below the universe. Cattle. And where is your farm hand?”

Chamuel was at Peter’s side in a heartbeat. With the release of his restraints, Peter’s lifeless body fell onto Chamuels back and he rode his way to the grand throne. His eyes met with Savannah and tears streamed from her liquid blue eyes. Chamuel dumped Peter’s body brazenly onto the cold marble floor at the foot of the seven steps to the grand throne. He laid there for a moment, unsure of what muscles might work to right himself before his creator.

Chamuel kicked Peter’s side hard and that was enough motivation to make him give effort. He cringed in pain as he somehow made his way to his knees, with both hands bracing himself on the bottom step. Peter raised his head slowly, as his neck was extremely sore and jarred from the restraints and the battle to escape them. Sweat pooled on his wrinkled brow and found its way to the floor in front of his trembling body. His eyes burned in the glory of the Promise Keepers gaze.

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