There are many temples that mortals built for the gods. Large and lavish temples for the king and queen of the gods, bloody and intimidating temples for the patron of war, simple but homely temples for the rulers of the dirt and animals.

There is no temple for those who rule over death.

She has the blood of the divine becomes the death of the weak, the sick, the fragile. She becomes the companion to those who have no one else to rely on. She is the god of the lonely, the forgotten, the beauty of death.

The woman’s face is peaceful, hiding the pain of illness as she crossed the door. Lady Death lays a hand on the woman’s face, watching the pink flush turn to white as she pulls her soul from her vessel and does her best to console the woman. She can not feel the confusion nor the grief of the mortal but she understands nonetheless.

“Please,” the mortal pleads, “please, mighty god of death, allow me to bid farewell to my daughter.” Not an unusual request to make, but forbidden nonetheless. The dead must not make contact with life and tamper with the delicate balance of the two forces. Still the mortal pleads with her, “it would be but a moment, mighty one. I am the only family the girl has left. Take pity on this wretched soul and the one who still breathes.”

A sound comes from the doorway and Death sees a small child no older than five summers standing there, eyes red and cheeks sticky from tears. The god’s heart beats with sympathy and allows the mother a brief moment to bid her farewells, watching as the woman speaks the words that the child will never be able to hear. The god sends the mother to the underworld with a heavy heart and a silent prayer that she will be judged well. Death is unfair and most cruel, but the deity of the weak and fragile is pitiful and soft.

“Give her back.”

The child’s soft voice startles the god, making her turn to look at the mortal’s shaking form. Most unusual, Lady Death thinks to herself, for a mortal to possess the ability to see an immortal being such as herself. “Give her back,” the girl repeats, hands balling up into fists by her side as she stared up at the god, “give my mother back.”

The god of death can only look on with pity as the false courage leaves the girl’s body and she crumples to the floor, crying her heart out. A hand hovers over the girl’s head as the immortal being whispers, “I possess neither the powers to return your mother to you nor to soothe this pain of yours. I can only offer my apologies for taking your mother.”

Without another word, the god leaves the girl to mourn (she makes sure that the woman makes it to the underworld safely and is judged fairly).

Many seasons pass since taking the woman’s soul and the god finds herself back to the village in the outskirts of the capital to bring a thin and sickly man to her liege. The village is largely the same, with perhaps a few new additions, but it remains small (and sickly). The home that the woman once occupied lays abandoned, though there are some flowers resting by the steps and it warmed the immortal’s heart, knowing that the woman will be pleased with the small offering.

Still, this does not ease her discomfort of taking yet another resident of the tiny village, this time an emaciated farmer suffering from a terrible harvest season. She wonders if she’ll be back to collect more of these souls as the village slowly loses what little surplus they had from the summer before.

The silence of the village as they bury the farmer does nothing to soothe her heart and the god finds her way to the abandoned house. She stays there for a number of days, watching the remaining farmers salvage what little crops are left and the women baking less and less as wheat becomes scarce. She does nothing to help the mortals as they struggle against the wrath of nature, though her heart aches at the anguish and frustrations of the men who toil away in the fields and the women who can not feed their children.

Yet despite the dwindling supply of wheat and vegetables, there is always something by the doorstep of the abandoned home that the god has deemed her residence. Sometimes it is bread, sometimes it is a prized cut of cattle, other times it is a humble fruit but it still leaves the god wondering: an offering to the woman who once called this building home or is this an offering to the divine being who brings nothing but death and mourning wherever she goes?

Surely not an offering, the god thinks as she picks the stale bread up, no mortal be so foolish as to pray to a god of the dead.

As the brutal winter seasons pass to bring forth the life of spring, the god of death watches as the field grows plenty for the village and her work is finally over, she finally finds the one who has been leaving the offerings.

In a sea of dark hair and sickly pale skin, the woman’s light locks is a surprising sight to behold as is the healthy flush of her cheeks. The locks of gold were lucious, well-kept, and adorned with various flowers from the fields. The dirt that clung onto her white dress did nothing to hide the beauty that the mortal possessed and the god stood in awe of her as she put the basket of fruit down to mutter a quick prayer, unaware of the god staring at her and only looking up when the divine being spoke.

“You pray to a god of death, mortal” the god tells her, staring down at the mortal. The woman merely smiles and replies with the softest of voices, “I am aware, all-powerful lord. Where you step the flowers wither and die, the animals turn and flee, the weak and old lie still and a chill runs through the dirt.”

“Yet here you are, praying to said god.”

Taking a flower from the woman’s hair, the god watches as it turns to dust in her hands, “I can not make the field grow with bounty, make a poor man rich, nor offer any wine or bread. Surely that is not worthy of such prayers.” Still the woman remains, offering the god the basket of fruits with a gentle smile, “yes, you bring pain and sorrow where you step but you also bring peace and tranquility to those who find only fear and uncertainty in the weakest of moments.”

The woman looks up into the divine being’s eyes, finding nothing but a void and says, “you ask why is it I pray to a god mortal fear. I pray to you because you bring the beauty of death to those who know it to be cruel and unjust.”

The god watches as the woman leaves, a trail of sunlight and spring following her step (ah. How beautiful and cruel, Lady Death thinks to herself.)

The girl’s name is Roseanne, she finds out. Her father, though humble but poor, often sends her to the capital for education at the temples, where she learns the craft of art and literature. Roseanne herself is studious and dedicated, utterly devoted to her father and helping out where she can in the village.

All admirable traits for a priestess and the god of death, though still reluctant, offers what little her own blessing can do for the girl. It is not the same as one from the patron of wisdom but it is a god’s blessing nonetheless. If the girl noticed the presence of death by her side, she was wise to not say anything.

Even when she goes to the city, the offerings do not stop. Sometimes she comes early and other times while the goddess of the moon rides the skies, but the offerings are always there, left behind with the faint scent of newly blossomed flowers and parchment. The god questions her each time, “Why pray to a god of death?”

The response is always “I pray to the one who rules over the beauty of death.”

Seasons pass as the girl continues her studies and tends to the fields while Death watches from the abandoned house overlooking the village. The harvest had been good this season and wheat is plentiful, allowing the fathers to breathe a sigh of relief and the mothers to set the table for a feast. Her own offerings grow plentiful with meat and wine and the home that once belonged to a mortal is decorated with moss and vines, becoming her own humble temple in the  The village sings songs of Roseanne’s beauty; of her gentle features and golden hair, of her intelligence and devotion, so much so that it reaches the ears of the local governor who sends many letters promising a life of wealth and prosperity in exchange for her hand. Flattered she may be, Roseanne sends back letters refusing the governor’s hand and the god laughs when he persists.

“Perhaps you should entertain the fool,” the god quips, holding the letter in her hands, “consider all that he can offer: power, wealth, titles.” The girl merely hums, weaving the flowers into a crown, “perhaps so, but I am already content with what I have and what I do, my lord.”

“Content with serving the god of death?”

The mortal laughs and offers the crown to the god, “yes I do.”

The petals fell and the stem crumbled but the god still cherished the gift, even as it turned to dust when the sun rose, thinking of soft eyes and gold.

As spring gives birth to life, love blossoms in the god’s heart. She grows fond of Roseanne and dreams of her smiles and flower crowns. She reads the many letters of admiration Roseanne receives and feels compelled to write her own (ha! A god writing letters to a mere mortal!). Without knowing so, the god finds a home in the tiny village outside of the capital.

“Allow me to be direct, Roseanne,” the god tells her faithful servant, “you have taken something of great value from me.”

“Oh? I do not recall stealing anything of value, my lord. Perhaps you can indulge this servant of yours?

The god takes the mortal’s hand, holding it delicately, and brings it to her lips, where she whispers against the skin, “you have stolen my heart and rendered me mortal. I look at you and feel emotions I did not think was possible: love, jealousy, adoration, devotion. I am compelled to speak of my feelings for you, though I know that it is perhaps selfish of me to do so.”

Expecting rejection to follow, the god prepares herself for Roseanne to walk away in disgust, only to be surprised when she hears a chuckle. “Silly god of mine,” the mortal says, pulling the god of death closer, “don’t you know that you have my heart as well?”

And so Death kneels before life, offering up all she has to her beloved.

She puts her scythe down in favor of a shovel and makes the temple into a place worthy of being called a home, posing as a traveling merchant turned farmer. Instead of mindlessly harvesting souls, the god takes her place amongst the people and works the fields, growing wheat and corn to feed the people who took her in without much question. It’s not much and she often causes the crops to die when she touches them, but it does bring her some satisfaction when her neighbors rejoice at the surplus that they so rarely get (she doesn’t tell them of how she asked the goddess of harvest for her blessing).

It’s a simple life, but a life that the god finds much joy in. Then war came, followed by disease and famine.

The sky grew dark as the screams and cries of warriors filled the air, their swords cutting through steel and flesh, wives and mothers receiving news of a warrior’s death. Angels of death ascend from the underworld, carrying their scythes, to answer the call of bloodshed and meaningless victories and the god of death must respond in kind when her brethren sought her out.

“The souls of the weak are calling to you, sister,” her brother, the god of martyrs and warriors, told her, “now more than ever, your services to our lord is required.” Though the allure of dark divinity calls to her, the god was reluctant to leave the peaceful life of a farmer behind and turned to her beloved.

“If your liege calls for your services, then perhaps it would be best to obey,” Roseanne tells her, taking the stalks of wheat from her hands, “the blood of divinity still runs through your veins, even as you turn your back on it to be with me.”

Her words ring true and on the cold morning of winter, the god of death picks up her scythe and kisses her beloved farewell, whispering a promise against her lips, “when life returns to the earth and red gives way to green pastures and blue skies, I will return to your arms.”

But she did not return for many seasons as the gods’ unrelenting anger continued to rain down upon the mortals. If soldiers did not claim their lives first, then starvation or illness was sure to do so, leaving the ruler of the underworld’s servants with an abundance of souls to deliver to their liege and the god of the weak was no exception. What little time she had to herself she wrote brief letters to her beloved, writing of the war and sometimes of the people she’s met across the lands but these correspondence soon died out once the war ended and starvation took its hold, the lands decimated and unsuitable for farming. What should’ve been over quickly in the winter bled into a blood red spring, where no life grew from the ground, and continued into the summer before the cycle continued over again until the diving being lost all sense of time, lost in her duties and the carnage.

When she returned to the village, posing as a traveling mercenary, the god of death was unnerved by the silence that greeted her.

She did not smell the usual fresh bread from the baker or the farmers working in the fields while the children played nearby. Though there were residents milling about, they no longer carried the weary happiness of the past and when the god inquired about what happened, the residents merely pointed to the flower garden.

“Look there, traveler, and see what has become of our village,” the farmer says, angry and bitter, “when war did not reach us the gods sent us famine, taking our sons and fathers from us. When famine passed, disease came and took our wives and mothers. The ones who still remain have nothing: no bread on our table, no meat on our bodies, no will to continue. If starvation does not claim us first, then disease will.”

“And what of Roseanne?”

Gripping his shovel, the farmer frowned at the god, “the girl who lives on top of the hill? Poor girl, that one. After her lover left to join the war, she fell ill with sickness and grief. The doctor’s say that it is truly the gods’ blessing that has allowed her to live so long but I fear that if the illness does not kill her first, old age and a broken heart will.”

Horrified by the state she had left her lover in, the god quickly said her farewells to the farmer and rushed to the house at the top of the hill. She briefly notes the weeds polluting the once colorful garden and the terrible creak of the door as she opens it, nose wrinkling at the sight of dust and cobwebs. The god holds her breath as she enters the bedroom, seeing her beloved on her deathbed.

She was no longer the youthful woman that the god had left behind, the golden hair that was praised by the villagers had turned into dull silver and body, once strong and lithe, was weak with creaking bones. While the divine blood of godhood kept the divine being forever young, time had aged her lover considerably.

But perhaps most alarming to the god was the string of death tied around Roseanne’s neck. The black string called to her, asking her to take the soul to her lord. The string called for her to perform her duties and it frightened her.

“Hello again, god of death.”

When the woman spoke to the god with the same reverence as she did so many seasons ago, the god fell before her, discarding her mortal disguise. She held the black string in her hands and cursed her divinity, knowing that she could do nothing to save her beloved.

“You foolish woman, why did you wait for my return?” The god whispered, taking her beloved’s hand and feeling the weakening pulse of life, “you should have abandoned me. You should’ve sought for love and companionship elsewhere instead of wasting your life waiting for this worthless god.”

Her mortal lover merely laughed, a weak and wheezing sound, and said, “my god of death, I would have waited an eternity for you. I would not leave you so easily, but it seems that my time is nearing.”

“Then ask me for immortality, for godhood!” The god begged in desperation, hoping that the mortal would understand her plight. But her beloved shook her head, reaching up to caress the divine being’s cheek, “this life of mine I have lived to the fullest. I have known pain and loss but also of love and admiration. I can not be so selfish as to ask for godhood.”

Roseanne let out a shaky breath, feeling her life slipping away, and smiled wearily at the god, “what you have given me, your love and affection, is a treasure I hold very dear to my heart. I would not trade the time I spent by your side for anything else. That alone is enough for me and it is why I happily give you my life.”

“My love…”

“Lord of the weak, the sick, the fragile, my Lisa, perform your duty magnificently and deliver me to your liege.”

Knowing that she can not convince Roseanne to consider immortality nor can she save the dying woman, the god of death presses her lips against her beloved’s and watches her breath her last, fading away with a content smile.

For the first time in her immortal life, the god understood why the child asked her to return her mother and her anger. For the first time in her immortal life, the god cursed her divinity and immortality. For the first time, the god truly loses her way and turns her back on the world.

When centuries pass and civilization recovers and rebuilds, travelers will find the ruins of a village just outside the bustling city and an abandoned house on top of the hill. Inside there is nothing but dust and tarnished gold and letters of love written to a person no one has any recollection of.

From below the mortal realms, the divine beings of fate weave their magic into dirt and clay, breathing life into it.

“Pitiful little god of death who succumbed to the tragedy of love, from the golden blood of divinity you return to and reborn from dirt, we breathe life into your new form. A god no more, you will walk the realms a mortal. We cast aside your titles and return to you the name Lisa.”

When the mortal opens her eyes, she is greeted with a blue sky and a message from the gods.

“Go on then, little mortal, struggle, compete and die! Crawl your way back to your beloved and show us your love for her!"