The Lord of the Fallen - John F Ryan - Bog

Rebirth.
Pain.
Morose searched for a path back home. Sadly, her eyes caught nothing but the dancing flames before they stopped working. That was okay. The heat that'd burned her eye sockets out didn't hurt so bad. It never did . . . at the start.
Adrenaline battled the waves of pain. Well, the first ones, at least.
Flames crackled crazily as they consumed patch after patch of her juicy flesh. She coughed, fighting to find pockets of fresh air. But what was the point? There was no escaping the afterlife, not for her, nor her brethren. Only burning, then waking and doing it again, trapped like the Fallen she was. Because they were trapped together, burning in the hellfire forever.
Unless the Lord saves us, she thought, and screamed as the hellfire spurred the pain. Her skin blistered. Her fingernails melted. Her eyes liquefied. Let the Lord wake, at last. Please.
Twinging and tingling until all feeling from her head vanished, her lack of sight and senses like a missing hand. Please.
And then the lack of care in the moment just before death, like always, a reminder from the hellfire of her insignificance, of how little her feelings meant to its unquenchable thirst to burn.
Death.
Rebirth.
Pain.