It was cold in the tomb. Without any of the comfort he'd had in the heavenly kingdom. His wings droop and grow weaker. The shackles limited his freedom of movement. He was stuck in this prison with no way out. He had come to terms with this fate, but it did not bring him any peace. He'd come to view this place as his own personal hell. The lightly saturated reddish yellow desert sand that covered the floor of the tomb had become a colour he'd grown to hate. He missed the feeling of wind through his wings as he flew, the abundance of colours in the outside world, as well as the warmth of the sun. G̶̶a̶̶b̶̶r̶̶i̶̶e̶̶l̶ missed a lot of things.