He sank to his knees, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes as his velvet cape swirled about in the darkness around him. Another failure, another scratch upon the wall. He could still hear them screaming. They had choked on their own blood as he had impaled them, let out final screams and gasps as fire and lightning ate them up. Just as he had impaled them thousands of times before. How much longer could he take this? Revenge only offered a thrill of satisfaction for so long. Emptiness has set in long ago. The hopelessness of his situation. He was trapped, a prisoner of his own design.

Gently pulling aside the curtain, he reached out the tip of his scythe, scratching a single, jagged one alongside two other compatriots. Fate had not permitted him freedom this time. Even now, the wounds he had sustained from his fight with the Chosen Ones were fading, Time resetting itself for its Father, the Lord of everything that had transpired and everything that he had yet to fight through. He was being sewn back together again, prepared to be tortured. Silver eyes closed as the first tear splashed onto the onyx floor, his hands shaking as rage built within. He hadn't asked for any of this! This was what had begotten his kindness eons ago? Now he could not even die. He could not even burn with Satan and his angels. He was a husk. A revenant.

Whispers of his voice echoed all about, and he watched, his form flickering as iterations of his failed attempts at freedom flitting about like many dead leaves in the wind. Many of them attempted to impale themselves on their own scythes, only to lurch to life again, screaming and wailing like demons scorned. Some struck their heads against the wall upon which the scratches marking his attempts were, desperately trying to destroy their minds and release the pain within. He only bowed his head, rising slowly and pacing away. Before him, the blood of the Chosen was washed away with an invisible hand, their corpses vanishing with the rest. The arena was prepared for the next versions of themselves, the time loop n'er to end...

Not as long as he still drew breath. Not until they were worthy.

Not until he could right the wrongs. Until they could kill a God.

The black velvet curtain fell, rippling behind His form, leaving behind a wall of black stone... scratched nearly white with thousands of symbolic marks, the countless attempts he had experienced, and the thousands he had yet to observe.

He stood on the tree again, looking at the Chosen, their eyes fearful and bright, inexperienced and unmarried by the adventures that they had yet to face. Eyes dull, He spoke to them, marking them for the path which he had ventured upon for eons. All about him, failed paths whispered in his ears, reminding him of the words to say, and the consequences that came of failure to adhere to their exact nature. Another shade. Another failure.

"I cannot let you pass, for you are marked for destiny. Our paths entwined... until the end."