A desolate mausoleum rises from a blasted plain.

Here is the absence of Life. And it was once ruled by Death.

That ruler is gone. He who was once a student to Life now governs in Death's stead. A man once given to humour, laughter, joy, light, and love. Long eons turned each to ash.

He sits upon his throne of skull and bone, and waits. He has lived for countless ages, longer than the lifespan of planes in their entirety. He sits, and waits, and judges all who come before him from across the vast multiverse. Betimes he ventures forth into the dead realms over which he is custodian. Other times he consults, or defends his charge against the predations of those foolish enough to make challenge to him.

But right now, he waits.

It begins with a footfall. But it is a strange footfall. The one who comes before him prefers armour. Weapons. An image to impress, inspire fear.

Yet the soul enters and there is nothing of such things. He bears neither weapons nor armour upon his tall, lean frame, wearing instead simple robes of grey cloth, their fashion and style from a time under branch and bough now eons past. His pale hair falls freely to the shoulder, framing a noble visage that might perhaps even be beautiful were it not mired in the shadows of the entryway.

For the soul stands at the farthest end of the great hall within the mausoleum. For some it is the final step before passage into the boundless infinities of that which he governs. For others it is merely a waystation, if the custodian does not desire them yet.

The decision, always, is his.

"Curator."

The eyes of Finality rise from his contemplation, dead Thoth's scythe resting upon his lap.

Finality does not speak. Only watches, as the shadowed face of the soul at the end of the hall walks at last into the cold light of Death.

"Well?" The soul's voice is a challenge as it approaches the throne. "Why now?"

Now does Finality speak. "You are asking the wrong question."

"You let me wander these wastelands for years," the soul snarls. "Decades! You imprisoned me here! Never passing on, but not allowed to live again either! Not allowed to return to my home, my kingdom! Was I not meant to inherit?"

"I need not decide when a wandering soul is to come before me, if I do not wish it. You can make that decision yourself."

The soul is silent, though not in consideration of Finality's measured word. Rage patterns its face, draws a rictus upon flesh and features revealed. Eyes, one of crimson in reflection, and one of something else.

"It is good to see you," Finality offers.

Contained fury promptly arrives at a breaking point.

"Good? GOOD?! EVERYTHING that brought me here, and all you say is GOOD?!"

Finality does not reply.

The soul falls silent, its features shifting from anger to frustration at the lack of response to its outburst. Hands clench and unclench, the skin that of one untouched by sunlight and Life's warmth. The soul takes a deep breath, then exhales.

Silence falls, and a long moment passes before the soul speaks again.

"If you are going to judge me then judge me. Why wait?"

Another long moment.

"I am looking at you."

"Then look, Curator. Finality. Look at me, wearing a face you chose once again."

"I chose nothing. Here, none of us may hide what we are."

Silence. But this time from the soul, for a gulf of ages and an eon of suffering yawns wide between the pair. Until the soul speaks again.

"If you do not judge me, Curator, then I will never leave."

"Yes."

"Are you going to judge me?"

"By what measure would I judge you? Your recent escapades? I could rule that what Pazuzu gave you with Proteus' tools was from him, that you were not responsible. Your burden would be lifted and your rest would be at peace, free of punishment. Or do you mean the decision you made that voided Death's throne? I could rule that you were tricked by your mother's people. Or the first great rebellion that I warned you against? I could rule that you were simply a child then, that you were guilty of no more than poor taste in companions."

A scowl crosses the face of the soul at the Finality's last. Disagreement, distaste for a friend impugned.

"I can void you of all responsibility for your actions," Finality continues. "For your life entire."

"You abandoned me to make my own path for my life entire. Why would you change now?"

Finality sits back on his throne. Death's throne. "Tell me. Do you want to live again?"

"Do I have a choice?"

The knitted brow of Finality shifts with subtle change. Curiosity.

"Go on."

"The Underworld is mine. Mine by inheritance. Mine to rule. And I want to rule it."

"And?"

"And what? And I need to rule it. I have to rule it."

"Why?"

"Because I care about what happens to it," the soul snaps, anger rising once more. "Because I will not be you. You abandoned everything to rule here instead. It might have meant nothing to you, but what doesn't? First when you took me from Nur, and then when you left the Underworld for this mausoleum. For what? Power? The prestige of Death? You made yourself a slave to the ones who let us be cast out! I will be a better ruler of the Underworld than you ever were. Because unlike you, I care about it. I could not sacrifice it even for my oldest friend. Do you disapprove yet again? Do you hate that I am so unlike you, that I have something I would surrender everything for?!"

Silence.

"Either judge me, father, or don't."

The gaze of Finality is opaque, not unlike the utter lack of expression in his face as he looks upon his only son. At last he speaks. His voice is cold, careful, and controlled. No hint of emotion emerges, for he is no more and no less than the custodian and governor of all that is Death. It is the sacrifice he chose to make.

He speaks the same words he has spoken to so many who come before him.

"If you are not done with life, Slith, then I am done with you."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Summary: The Lord of the Underworld meets with his father.