"You have been judged. You are unworthy of Heaven's embrace."
"Your Heaven be damned and your Gods with it. What need have I of Heaven?"
Zalera turned from the cursing Hume. The damned were all the same; they could never accept that their selfish little lives had consequences. They barred their way into Heaven and he had to bear their curses for it. His job was judgement of souls. _That_ is why the Gods had created him. It was not his fault that they were damned.
So why did the Gods let their souls curse him? Every time they cursed him, it broke his spirit a little more. If anyone deserved to be cursed, it was the Gods. This was their doing. They deserved judgement; who better than he to deliver it?
Zalera travelled to the Holy Mountain, his presence causing a stir among the worshippers. When he was created, Zalera had been as beautiful as any of the scions, but the curses of the damned had twisted him. The servants on the mountain recoiled from his skeletal form. The Death Seraph had no place there; he was not a scion of light.
The temple rose up above him. From the roof, he would call on the Gods, invite them to their trial and pass judgement upon them. They had caused suffering to him and humanity both. Did they not deserve judgement?
"Face me! Is this not why you designed me? Face judgement for your sins!" Zalera bellowed at the Heavens for more than an hour to no avail.
"My Lord, you must not seek to anger the Gods."
Zalera turned to face his challenger. She was a young woman with long dark hair, wearing the robes of a shamaness. She was a servant of the Gods.
"You have faith in them?"
"Of course. They are the Gods."
Zalera reached out and took hold of the woman's arm, thrusting her towards the edge of the roof. "Then pray that they save you." He shoved her again, her weight entirely over the roof edge, his grip, her only lifeline. He lifted his eyes to the sky and shouted once again.
"Will you not even appear to save those who serve you? She dedicates her life and you will let me end it?" He pushed again, her feet losing contact with the carved stone. She screamed, a cry that could pierce the Heavens. Her Gods could hear her suffering, Zalera was sure of it.
Brilliant white light spilled from the clouds and the shamaness's shrieks rose to a deafening volume. Zalera flinched as a spear of energy shot towards him from behind. He pulled the shamaness to his chest like a shield, but it was too late. The force punctured through both of them, pushing Zalera from the temple roof, to the ground below and beyond.
Familiar darkness. Back in his realm of judgement. Zalera pushed himself to his feet only to find the weight of the shamaness still clinging to his chest. Her arm was around his shoulder, her face buried in his neck. She stirred as he moved.
"Your Gods did not save you," Zalera spoke as the shamaness moaned.
"Such darkness." There was panic in her voice. "Such pain."
Zalera held up a hand, conjuring fire in his bony palm. "Better?"
"No." She looked up.
Zalera almost laughed and he would have, had it not been for the horror he saw in her face. Her eyes had burned. He extinguished the flame. "Your Gods have taken your sight and they have cast you down with me."
Once again, the woman began to wail, the pitch of her screams reaching breaking point. The ground rumbled and as Zalera looked around, he saw bony fingers bursting through the dirt, dragging behind them reanimated skeleton warriors. He held up a hand, ready to smite them, but they did not attack, just surrounded the two of them as if defensive.
"What are you doing?" Zalera put a hand on her shoulder to silence her. "Your screams wake the dead." The woman whimpered. "Who are you?"
"Mithuna. My name is Mithuna."
"I'm—"
"Zalera. The Death Seraph. I know."