Calling them pyre angels made murdering them seem like a kindness, like freeing them from their mortal shells so they could ascend to their true place at His side. Nobody ever asked which He we meant, too busy filling in the gaping chasms of their guilt with our meaningless platitudes as the sky filled with screams and their eyes filled with tears.
They were off to a better place, we used to tell their weeping loves ones, where there is no pain can reach them and sorrow will never find them. We never let them get too close to the bodies in case they caught sight of their rebirth and blamed us for it.
We'd been blamed for it before, back when we didn't understand that what we were sentencing to death hadn't been human since their sickness had miraculously vanished overnight. I used to think think that most of them didn't know they were already undead until one of our team was made to join their ranks.
Of all the pyre angels we've made, his is the one that's stuck with me all these years. The pure clarity of thought he maintained even though his heart hadn't beat for days and the rebirth was soon upon him. He told me he knew what he was as soon as he woke up to the sound of blaring hospital equipment declaring him dead.
We gained so much invaluable information from him, even as the fire ate him away to charcoal flesh and bones.
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