You follow hard behind Anatheos the angel. His broad back equipped with two large wings hides everything before him. And so on up to the mirror.

Here you anxiously take a look at your reflection. Shocked, you recover a half-starved and wan zombie.

You are just skin and bones. Your ragged clothes covering the emaciated parts of your body hardly hides your greyish skin ; your ribs and hips sticking out, your hollow cheeks, they show more than just fatigue. This stay under the satanic sister's vaults has really weakened you.

But then, how come that heaven's soldier takes any interest whatsoever in you ? Is that pity ? For, to be honest, it is now the only feeling that you are likely to inspire...

You stick to that terse conclusion and carry on walking on Anatheos' steps.

Getting up wide stone stairs, he takes you to a massive door. His shoulder against the solid nailed wood and his whole body strained on his heel, he pushes the heavy door side putting on a painful grin.

And here you are again in a burning, red glowing and devastated place. Straight away you are overwhelmed by an indescribable malaise.

You see all around you columns of men and women, naked, shackled, taken God knows where by people armed with whips, on horses or on foot.

Here and there some pilloried poor souls languish on scaffolds. To be true you do not quite know where you are. On one hand this landscape looks like the one of the last judgement ; dead people rise from their graves, go and join other fellow dead men in some weird processions. But on the other hand there is no partition of the just from the damned down here.
All are dead and put to the chains. In reality this is the true face of apocalypse. Those beings seem to have lost all thickness. Right through the place they wander, shaken about by the metallic yelling and whip cracks of the winged guys.

You were so far from it. Yet, just like for them, the world puts around you a net of unreality. Like them you feel an insidious madness coming over you. You now perceive things and sounds only with a delay ; because you do not desire anything any longer, the world has nothing to offer anymore. It is now just a scenery fitted with columns. The filter of doubt and indifference floods reality before your eyes. Everything is vain, with no more content.

Just like you they wander without a goal or any ties, but they can never die. Whereas you...

You pull yourself out of this soul stupor that takes hold of you by contagion. What can you do ? The sweet melancholy that sometimes affects you becomes here sleep of your reason. It is time to grab hold of yourself.

In order to do so, you suggest yourself a swift change in the subject of observation. The others, meaning all those angels sent in the Asphodel Fields and Limbo to torment the damned, surely they have more to tell you.

As long as they do not take you for a damned soul, you may hang about freely amongst ashes and ruins. Troops of angels in Ranger boots whose steel firm hands hold lethal blades pass by from time to time. Then lonely strange people sometimes appear. Packed with weapons of all ages they look like lonesome knights, mercenaries without a contract.
Besides, some of them are real knights in medieval armour, with their oval shields and long spears. Others with helmets and large white capes firmly hold massive swords in both hands. They seems to be monk soldiers.

Other more contemporary ones hold up guns as long as their forearms. They practice on some damned who rise back up straight away. Their broad necks open out onto self-willed jaws, which support faces tensed by hatred and desire for revenge. For God's love is far from those warriors of Good's faces !

And these fierce characters disappear into the darkness that surrounds the horizon of this barren land in paths that inevitably lead to the fires of hell.

From down there they bring back prisoners as well as horned demons, witches and gremlins' carcasses. Then they put them down on huge bonfires, which stink like rotten corpses. Eternal horsemen of the apocalypse, those soldiers do not mince their actions or give into conscience examination. For, whatever we may say, all demons that they are, the hell creatures are nonetheless God's children !

But demon hunt brings some substantial compensation ; and unconcealed sadism shows on those slayers' faces by the only thought of piercing Leviathan's shell or the thick skin of his neighbour of the sleeping waters, Behemoth. Back on the land conquered on the dark side, they can torture their preys as much as they want.

Thus, as you get away from the boring circle game of the damned, you still hear screams of pain and cracking bones.

Their eyes, fit to drive out evil from the apparent innocence of a face, can they still see humanity remaining in a criminal ? In which god's name do they give themselves the right to spare the virgin while they kill the whore ?

Like coming out of a Hollywood cheap production, nothing seems capable of flooring their good conscience or shaking their peace of mind.
So you say : "why not ?" No need for other justification than the blood shed...