Iztris could not name a single being that was not mortal at some point—the only thing they could imagine being wholly immortal was the grand god, the only truly perfect one among them. Iztris was a mortal once—the gods they served were as well. Mortality stained beings, and when granted immortality, Iztris knew that those stains remained. No creature, then, could escape mortality’s flaws—the flaws of mankind.

They were chosen to be the permanent servant to the gods; there was another servant named Elsyn, who was given their position at the same time as Iztris. While Iztris tended to the gods, however, Elsyn was asked to watch over the creatures of the earth; they had some kind of correspondence in their early years, although their conversations were few and far between now. There was a large gap between heaven and the earth.

Working for the gods wasn’t quite difficult, but it was far from interesting. Iztris retained more traits from their mortal life than some others—they retained boredom, and they retained annoyance at said boredom—and thus found the task to grow dull. It didn’t help that petty squabbles and arguments were frequent, and being nothing more than a servant Iztris was forced to sit through many of them.

They dared not interrupt, lest the gods turn their anger turned towards the servant. Iztris remained silent, then, even after noticing the presence of another being. The bickering gods were discussing what should be done about a particularly troublesome mortal—a king with foul intents but whose deeds ultimately did good.

“He shall ascend,” one god said. “He will assist us greatly.”

“He shall be destroyed,” another said. “He will grow mad at the power.”

“He shall live,” a third god said. “He will change his path in time.”

It was a familiar voice that interrupted a fourth. “Mortals are a bloody thing, aren’t they? They shed blood—and their shed blood then makes the gods bleed.”

Instead of accusing the being that spoke of interrupting, one god looked at Iztris. “You said no word of people coming,” they said.

“I have been told to say no word during your discussions,” Iztris replied calmly. Looking up at the interrupting person, they said, “Although I did not expect you to come here, Elsyn. Have you need of me?”

“I have no need of you,” Elsyn replied. Any being in this realm held no true form; they were of light or clouds, some intangible thing that had no comparison. The only way one could distinguish another was by that thing—whether it be light or something more abstract like thought—and their voice, a remnant of their mortality. Elsyn had no form as such—no expression aside from their tone.

“Have you need of the gods?” Iztris asked.

“I have need of the gods,” Elsyn said.

“What do you require?” One god asked.

“What do you seek?” Another said.

“For what purpose have you left the mortal realm?” A third added.

“I require your attention; I seek your opinions; I come so I may better perform my duty,” Elsyn replied simply. “I have been asked to guide mortals to peace, correct?”

“Yes,” the first god said.

“I have been allowed, by all your graces, to do whatever necessary to promote peace among them.”

“Yes,” another god answered.

Iztris could imagine a kind of smile, if Elsyn had been capable of it. It wasn’t exactly pleasant. “So I am therefore allowed, by all your graces, to do what I see fit.”

“What do you see fit?” A god asked. “Our opinions may change.”

“Your opinions shall not change,” Elsyn replied, “For you will understand my reasoning. You cannot protest, for I am allowed to do it by all your graces.”

“Explain it clearly and quickly, Elsyn,” Iztris said impatiently. “You protect the mortal realm for a reason—so little gets done here that those below need guidance, and your distraction does not aid that.”

Elsyn could have frowned. “Very well. I will state it simply, then. If my goal is to make peace, then why should I keep the creatures that constantly oppose it? Every mortal creature is tainted—they are taught so, and it is repeated over and over until they accept it. Some take the knowledge and strive off of it, or despite it; others take it to mean that their actions are justified. I saw it not only in my mortal life, but in my time watching over them as well—there will never be a time when mortals will chose peace and be peaceful.”

“Your proposition, young Elsyn?” One god asked.

“What do you intend for us to do?” Another added.

“I aim for complete annihilation of the human race,” Elsyn said firmly.

“No.”

“Of course not.”

“You do not have our will, foolish one.”

“I shall say again,” Elsyn said, raising their voice some, “That I have been tasked with peace. Mortals cannot know true peace—they are flawed and imperfect things, and they always will be. If one simply killed every mortal with the worst flaws and the most imperfections, more will come after—if some do not rise because of the act of murder. The creatures are all tainted, bloodying themselves daily; none are innocent past a certain point, lusting for an item they do not own or a person they do not have, and many are willing to stain themselves further in order to achieve something they think will satisfy them. They will not find peace until all of them have died—until none remain.”

“You are not allowed.”

“You shall not perform such a deed.”

“If you think it an unholy cause with unholy outcomes,” Elsyn began, growing even louder, “Then let the strongest among you strike me down!”

None moved, for none could be claimed the strongest. Iztris knew that, if they were in a mortal realm, Elsyn would be smiling again. “Very well—that’s all I came to do,” Elsyn said. They left, leading the gods to bicker again.

“Elsyn must be tainted as well!”

“Living in the mortal realm must have harmed the thing.”

“Can we not kill it now?”

“No, we cannot—it can do good.”

“Yet it can do harm.”

“It can do good and harm.”

“What shall we do?”

One god looked at Iztris in response. “Servant Iztris,” the god said. “We will monitor the situation, and you shall depart for the mortal realm at our leave whenever it becomes necessary.”

Iztris bowed. “Whatever you desire,” they replied, “I shall carry through.”