He had never been a religious guy, even though his mother was. Could you even demand the attention and aid of a god when you have endless amount of blood staining your hands, tainting your soul? He had known for many years that he would not see the holy gates.

So why does he see a piece of it right then and there?

Perhaps it was just a figment of his imagination, a feeble attempt of comfort in what could be his last moments. After the horrors he had seen in war, he doesn't trust his mind not to play these kind of tricks on him.

He saw a being, human features, but an etheral aura that demands respect to anyone who lays their eyes upon them. Were you an angel? A creature that would guide him into a place he no doubt doesn't belong in?

No. You did not have wings, or a glowing halo above your head. Or perhaps, he had just the wrong image of angels.

"Who are you?" He breathes, keeping pressure on his wound, "What are you?"