The wind howled across the desolate land, and the hot desert boomed with furious might, as if Thor's hammer had struck the very earth, though Earth was long gone by this point. The human lifted his scythe and swung again and again, smiting the perfect god with savage vigour. The once-proud god, the very embodiment of perfection, was reduced to a husk by a mere man. Dragged from hell and back, the human had struggled his way here, now beating a god through gritted teeth and bloodied rags, still standing despite being stripped from a Lord to a man. He had lost his gods. He had lost his friend. But he must live for her sake. He would make sure of it.
He was just a man, and he was meant to die; that had always been his fate. This lesser being had never once stood a chance yet still he struck and would never stop, driven by sheer will and grit as the god lay broken before him. The god's once-glistening golden armour lay shattered, and he stared at himself in bewildered horror.
Is that me?
The god wondered, staring at the pitiful creature he had become, pondering how an insect, something he once viewed as no bigger than a fly, had managed to crush him so thoroughly, to harm him so greatly. His once-ethereal form was battered and disfigured so grotesquely that he could not bear to look at himself, wincing at the very thought. It defied his nature, just as the human had defied his fate.
Am I truly this weak? But I was made to be perfect... What am I if not perfect?
The god wavered and then fell to his knees, crashing into the dirt. No human could kill a god. But the god of perfection, thoroughly thrashed and utterly beaten, was now nothing more than a hollow shell defiled beyond recognition. Shaking, the god raised his broken dagger and pressed it against his own throat as the hunter stood above him, silent, bloodied, and resolute. Blood seeped down, and the god died.
The hunter gasped, collapsing to the ground as he lay there screaming up at the sky in agony and hate. There was no forgiveness. There was no regret. Only pain, pain that fueled his viciousness, his resolve. He would not forgive. He would not forget.
For he was her Hunter. And his name was Death.
Whether it was something beyond or a cruel reward, the one true being higher than any god heard his cry, and the hunter rose once more. Plighted to his name, that would be his reward. He would rise anew, forging a fate of his own.
Dark chains coiled around his arms like serpents as black and silver adorned his body, slowly morphing into armour. His form shifted, no longer human. He became something more. His weapon grew in length and power, his vicious sickle gleaming blood red.
He had pulled off a feat no other mortal ever had, and he was promptly rewarded with a gift no other mortal had ever been given. He was the man who had truly broken his fate.
The Hunter rose anew. And as he walked the valley of the desert, he began his journey home only to find his small village in ruins and his wife gone, stolen while he was away.
Desperately, he searched for her. Desperately, he looked.
Until he found her.
Her body was defiled and discarded like common trash; her head hung high in the grandest of kingdoms as the people cheered for the death of the only thing that had ever made him truly human. The only thing that had ever tied him to any shred of humanity he had left.
He would not forgive. He would not forget.
For he was her Hunter. And his name was Death.