Requiem of an Archdevil

I had been asked on many occasions: “How was it like to drift alongside Shiloh?”
Nobody knew because nobody had done it. Nobody but me, that is. Not even the archangels had had that privilege. Gabriel and Michael were allowed only an hour with Him, at most, during their annual meetings. I spent years with the Counselor. So whenever I was asked that question, I remained vague. Let them guess.
Although no one could contradict me, I preferred not to provide any details. Deep down, nothing I said could do the experience justice. Also, not talking about Him eased the pain of remembering my mission. And it did. The stained wings forget.

“Now go on, Doctor,” Rammun said as they stood and moved back to the chair. “Remember, something drastic must be done to be crowned Master of the Citadel.”
Rimmon sat and tipped his head from side to side. “Will my spirit hold? Love is too heavy to atone.”
Standing next to the chair where Rimmon sat, Rammun looked to the ceiling and rested a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “But lighter than sin.”

When I was an angel, I talked like an angel; I thought like an angel; I reasoned like an angel. When I became a demon, I put angelic ways behind me.
I had sworn allegiance to that mission statement after the Great Rebellion against the Enemy. I believed that, but how do I explain what happened at Armageddon? I would have to account for my actions to our Horned Father.