#and i began to wonder if the ancient memory of azhdarchids

[laur-rants]

im workin on other stuff but look I drew my first ever azhdarchid by the way do you know how hard it is to spell azhdarchid i still don't know this is all a copy/paste on my part. anyway enjoy this goofy little guy. I love them.

[darksiders-scenarios]

Hey. My horse is having some issues with colic and it's been a long couple of days. I was wondering if you would be willing to write a comfort or helpful scenario where the Horseman are trying to help reader deal with this type of problem?

It took a while, and constant battling writer’s anxiety but I managed to get around it. Because you’ve supported me immensely, I wanted to make this scenario a bit special for you. A slight War x Reader, based on your *ahem* preference… and boy is he chatty in here. 

Anywho, Horsemen fluff. Well, Fury is the medic so not much of her lol. Hug Dakota for me, please. I hope he’s better now. 

H/N: Horse name

You tensed when H/N’s pained snort reached your ears again. 

H/N was lying on their side, their small earthen equine body cushioned against the contrastingly grand flank of Strife’s horse. Every time the pain flared, H/N would twist painfully to bite or kick themself in the side. Every time it happened, Strife’s steed would neigh in protest, as though scolding H/N for trying to hurt themself. 

Above them, War brushed a bare hand across the soft pelt of their neck while murmuring soft syllables of an ancient tongue. Fortunately, H/N was comfortable with the rider, and their distress gradually eased. There was also something strangely touching in the way the little horse rubbed the underside of their neck over War’s uncovered head, causing his hair to ruffle and tangle lightly. 

Across him, Fury’s head was bowed in concentration. Her arms were taut as her hands hovered over H/N’s ribs. An indigo glow engulfed her palms as she worked her healing magic to draw out the toxins from their body and soothe raw muscle aches. Whenever she has exerted herself, Death would take over without breaking momentum. Not far, Strife was occupied with cleaning the stable and ensuring that the area was clear of any bric-a-brac and clutter. He was bare of his armour, and you can see the sheen of sweat, cuts and grime that riddled his arms.

It was still humid even though the sun had long descended its peak. Desperate but wanting to be helpful, you had prepared a tray of cold juice for the Horsemen. To your relief, they all accepted gratefully. It didn’t seem to matter whether you refilled the glasses for the second or fifth time, they would still accept them without a word of objection. Whether it was due to pity or genuinely dehydrated throats, as long as you were made to feel useful in this, you didn’t care. 

You wanted to grasp at anything to articulate your thanks for their large-hearted tolerance in aiding your horse. 

Unfortunately, that came to an abrupt halt when you tripped over Strife’s helmet as you hurried across the yard. You yelped when you landed on your stomach, sending your tray and glasses flying. They landed in a clatter of metal and plastic, orange juice soaking into the deep-ash ground. The pain of momentary, but the fact that you lost your footing so easily galled you. The flash of anger quickly ebbed away when you felt strong hands on your stomach and back, and you were easily hauled back onto your feet. The same hands shifted to your shoulders, steadying you.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, heart hammering. Above you, Strife chuckled. “You kept whizzing back and forth, back and forth, of course, it was bound to happen.” Unfortunately, the Horseman was unaware of his poor choice in wording and the stab of embarrassment plunged deep into your guts. 

“It’s alright,” he tried to soothe, sensing your mounting distress. But you shrugged away from his touch, keeping your head low. “I forgot something,” you muttered a hasty lie, turning away and rushing into your home. H/N’s pained whinny blared through your eardrums as you closed the door behind you. Had you looked back, you would’ve noticed the Four share a look. 

Once inside, you located the nearest chair and slumped in it. No sooner had you sank down did the dark and dreary imageries resume their assault on your aching brain, all of which involved your poor horse. You stared up at your pallid ceiling, feeling utterly useless. At least, the one thing you did right was removing yourself from their way, you thought grimly. Sighing, you dropped your head into your hands, ready to sink deeper into the mire of self-recrimination that threatened to engulf you.

It didn’t work.

The door opened and the breeze whooshed in for a moment before it clicked shut again. You didn’t look up but you knew who it was. The floor creaked under his metal boots as he stepped into the room. Moments later, your head snapped up to the sound of shuffling papers. War was standing at your table, his body was facing you but his head was tilted downwards.  

“Your notes?” he queried, gesturing to the sheaf of frayed, doggy-eared pages. 

You grimaced. “If you could even call it that,” you muttered, mostly to yourself but War’s enhanced hearing picked it. “Hasty, senseless, jumbled. Like me,” you smiled humourlessly.  

“It’s good,” he commented. 

You refrained from snorting. “Thank you.” 

There was a long silence as you sat lost in your thoughts as War continued to leaf through your notes, his mind digesting your scribbles faster than the mortal mind. He then pulled out a chair from under your table and sat in front of you. The seat creaked under his weight. For a while, neither of you said anything. Eventually, you broke the silence with a quiet huff.

“What is it?” War asked.

“This,” you flicked your fingers to the small space between you and him. When he said nothing, you elaborated, “You coming here to see me. You’re obviously not here to critique my ‘notes’. ”

“Is that wrong?”

You looked up at him, surprised at his directness although you knew it was to be expected. “Why is it not? My health isn’t the one at risk here,” you pointed to your door, “H/N should be your priority,” you explained, equally blunt. “You should be out there helping your brothers.”

He frowned, as though unhappy with your reasoning. He thought for a moment and decided on a different course. “I understand your fear.”

Your gaze fell to the floor. “May I be candid?”

“Of course.”

“I find that hard to believe. And I mean no offense,” you added hurriedly.

“None taken. Would you like me to tell you about it?”

You raised your head, surprised. “Would you?”

“Given your present situation, it seems fitting that I share my experience with you.”

“Your…” you trailed off, uncertain how to continue. It was shocking enough for the quietest Horseman to be so vocal, but to divulge something so personal, his fear even, with you? A lesser being? Naturally, curiosity won in the end. You nodded, granting him permission.

War leant back in his chair and was silent for a moment. “It happened on Earth, in ancient Persia,” he began.

You tilted your head a fraction. “Iran?”

He nodded, and you briefly marveled at his remarkable retention of Earth’s history, ancient and modern. 

“It was my first mission with Ruin. How alike, we were then. Young, naive bucks.” A faint smile appeared as he recollected the memory and you couldn’t help mirroring it. “My brothers had been relentlessly pestering me to make use of my steed, but for the longest of time I was adamant. ‘Ruin would only get in the way’, I argued. But the truth was that I was worried about his safety. Logic won ultimately, of course.”

“What changed your mind?” you asked, relaxing your arms over the armrest of your chair.

“The beast we were sent to destroy,” he carried on as though he didn’t hear you. “It was an Aži Dahāka." 

"A what?”

“Do you remember Tiamat?” he asked.

“How can I not?” you chuckled.

“Imagine a beast four times her size, a three-headed Azhdarchid, or ‘dragon’ if you are more acquainted with the term.”

A blast of admiration and wonderment filled you. Being in the Horsemen’s company for so long, it dismayed you that you have taken their presence for oh so granted. What centuries of stories they could fill you with!

He continued. “It would’ve been suicidal had a single rider confronted it head-on, more so without the support of his steed,” his smile faded and his face darkened somewhat. “As we battled, Ruin and I got separated. The Dahāka had managed to seize Ruin and had swung him bodily into a rock wall, as though he was a heavy sack. I wasn’t quick enough, and the wretched beast threw him into the lake.”

You sensed his expression change and you were fully ready to interject. 

“And then I had to haul his sorry arse out of the lake before the Aži Dahaka made mincemeat out of him,” a voice commented from behind. Both heads turned to find Strife stepping in through your window. He grabbed your fruit bowl from the table in passing and leant his weight against the furniture.

The gunslinger rider bit into the soft flesh of a plum before wiping the juice from his mouth. He gestured to War with a casual flick of his hand. “Well, go on then, little brother. Tell Y/N the rest.”

“What else is there to tell?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing, slightly annoyed at Strife’s flippant intrusion.

Strife rolled his eyes. “Creator almighty, do you need it spelled out for you?”

“Leave him be, brother,” Death’s deep voice rumbled from behind. You glanced over your shoulder to see him resting his arms atop the ledge of your window from the outside. “Y/N,” he acknowledged you, nodding curtly. 

You began to smile at him, but then hastily rose from your seat, “Oh I forgot to prepare some drinks, I’ll ge-”

“Sit down,” Death cut you off. “War’s in the rare mood for a natter so we’d best hush up and allow him the luxury.” Strife shrugged but said nothing, taking another bite of his fruit.

You sat back down and eyed the youngest Horseman. He was staring at you meditatively, as though searching for something in your visage. He opened his mouth but you quickly interrupted, “War, don’t worry. There’s no need to tell me.”

There was a brief silence, and then the three brothers laughed. A heavy hand rested on your head. “You want to look after our little brother,” Death chuckled, his fingers ruffling your hair softly, it was more of a statement than a question. At some point, he had stepped inside without you hearing and you cursed yourself for your lack of foresight. “Worry not, he can look after himself.”

“Most of the time, if I may point out,” Strife pointed out.

“Indeed,” the Death agreed. “More so than you, given your track record. If I may point out,” he added.  

“Up yours, Death,” Strife snapped, scooping an apple from the bowl and throwing it at him. Death caught the fruit neatly and turned it over in his hand, gazing at it for a moment before his thumb rubbed the skin as though testing its firmness.

“Here,” he said suddenly. Green filled your field of vision. You blinked before reaching up to accept the apple from him, your fingers folding over the fruit lightly. “Thanks,” you said.

“I was paralysed.” War’s voice was soft, distant. For the briefest second, you almost forgot who the owner was. “Although I had Chaoseater in hand, I couldn’t raise it. An unsettling thought had sprouted in my mind then.” You almost swore you heard rue in his voice.

“What was it?” you prompted when he said nothing for a few seconds. Behind you, the two brothers fell silent.

“I have never felt anything so jarring in my soul before. ‘Was this fear?’ I thought. Was this what mortals dealt with?” he stared at you. “What you have to deal with, as you are now?”

You met his gaze squarely, the other Horsemen briefly lost in the background.

“And.. how did that make you feel?” you prodded gently, momentarily shackled in the pursuit of answers from this utterly private creature.

His eyes, blue as the winter sky, were unfocused as they stared through you. “It was a sensation of utter helplessness, the sheer enormity of the situation was powerful enough to render me rooted on the spot,” he paused, “A helplessness, no forgive me, terror that I couldn’t save a friend’s life.”

His fingers, metal and skin, were oddly interlaced. Seeing him in this state unwittingly stirred something unpleasant in your stomach and you impulsively wanted to reach out to brush at his lightly freckled cheek.

Strife smacked his palms together, breaking the solemn spell. The abrupt, sharp ring made you jump.

"Alright, alright, that’s enough mush for one day. Now we know that ‘Schmaltz Rider’ doesn’t have a nice ring to it,” he chuckled at his own quip, then rapped his knuckles across War’s head playfully, causing his white hair to fluff and frizz in a tangled disarray. “Ain’t that right, little one?” he sneered, patting his head once more before stepping back. 

Death arched an eyebrow at the distinct sound of teeth grinding together in sheer frustration.

“Something the matter, baby brother?” Strife inquired with feigned innocence although he was amused at the barely restrained temper that flared hotly from War’s body. His cheeks were flushed a bright rouge, but the downcast aura had thankfully dissolved away, and you wondered if Strife purposely interjected for that very reason.

“Not yet,” War replied slowly.

“But getting there?” Fury’s voice contributed from the garden.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Behind you, Death was leaning over your table, one elbow propped on the surface, his amber eyes skimming your notes. Your heart did a flip and you tensed for possible scorn. 

“I should tell you about my first mission with Despair,” he said instead- the way he said it so casually almost made you choke on your apple.

“Oh boy,” Strife muttered.

“For once, I sympathise with you, brother,” Fury called again from the garden. Across you, War smirked, one side of his mouth lifting slightly higher than the other.

“Will you tell me?” you asked the eldest as he flipped through your pages, as did War before him. You ignored Strife’s frantic head shakes and his finger miming a knife slitting his throat.

“I will sometime. Not today,” Death straightened his posture and glanced down at you. “I shall tell you this though, it’s an event worth recounting.”

“Event?”

Strife’s lips peeled back, his white teeth flashing in the orange evening light. “You’ve always been one for ridiculous theatrics, brother.”

You laughed. “It wouldn’t be him otherwise." 

Death glowered at you and you shrugged, still smiling. You were about to speak when a shrill squeal slashed through the air, followed by the sound of hooves scraping the ground.

"Oh no,” you whispered, eyes widening and feeling that ugly coil twisting in your guts again. 

Sensing your rising anxiety, War reached out and touched your shoulder. “Hush,” he said firmly. “Place your trust in Fury. Her magic is strong,” he reminded you.

Strife snorted. “I mean, it’s not like we’re the Horsemen, you know. Imagine that,” he deadpanned, finishing his plum before tossing the seed into your bin.

“Thanks for reminding me,” your tone was just as flat- that’s a lie because it came out as tiny and quivering instead.

Strife kept a straight face for as long as he could, and then he burst out laughing. “No good,” he exclaimed, shaking his head, his body quaking with mirth. You turned away, shoulders drooping, embarrassment etched on your face.

“Oh come now,” his hand clasped your upper arm gently and you were pulled into an embrace. He was kneeling in front of you. His arms were snug around your waist. “We get it, you’re scared. We. Horsemen. get. it. Get it?”

Your muscles clenched so much almost to the point of agony. “Sorry…” you sighed, “I know you’re helping but… Oh, what am I saying, you’ve done too damn much already. Always coming to my rescue. A mere mortal. This shouldn’t even be your resp-”

“Quiet,” Death interrupted. You peered up at him, his head was once again bowed over your notes but you noticed the skin around his eyes were crinkled, signifying that he was amused. “You have four sets of strong shoulders in your company, Y/N. Don’t neglect them.” You made to protest but he raised a hand without looking up. "That was not a request.”

“The little human is stiff,” Strife remarked aloud, snickering when you weakly punched him between his shoulder blades. At least, his levity eased your anxiety somewhat.

“Brothers, I need your assistance,” Fury shouted, and then, “Oh, big up you overgrown baby, we’re not going anywhere.”

“We’re coming, sister,” Death called back. He turned to you, waving a finger in rapid blinks. “You look after yourself,” his tone was strict, like a concerned father. Its effect was infectious that you had to smile. “I can’t promise anything,” you confessed. “But I will try, that’s all I can say.”

“Well,” Death’s hand came up quickly and tossed something at you. There was no warning, you raised your hand to catch whatever it was that he threw at you. It hit your forehead before you managed to close your fingers around it and you watched the grape roll on the floor.

“Try harder,” he finished, amusement glinting in his eyes. He clapped Strife on the shoulder as he passed him. “Come on,” he said as he stepped out into the chill of the evening garden.

“Theatric,” Strife snorted, and you were heavily inclined to agree. His arms squeezed you one last time before he got up and helped himself to another plum from your bowl. “Let’s catch up tomorrow,” he waved at you, then he followed his elder brother out. The door gently closed, leaving a small gap. 

There was a comfortable silence. 

“How are you?" Once again, War’s directness startled you. And expected. 

"Better, War,” you admitted. “Much better… thank you.”

The cool breeze squealed in through your open window and you reactively hunched your shoulders and draped your arms around yourself. War rose up and crossed the room to close it. Warmth seeped into the room once more. “Thanks.”

He didn’t reply but you knew that he heard you. You stared up at him. He was looking down on you, as though expecting you speak. You indulged him. “May I be candid a little more?”

He nodded.

“There’s something very human about you, War. I don’t mean that as an offense. The fact that you so readily imparted something so personal to me, I… I am baffled, truth be told. But grateful. Very grateful,” you clasped your hands together, searching for the words, “I… what I mean to say is, that I’m truly honoured to have you as my friend, as well as your siblings. But sometimes, plenty of times actually, I worry that my vulnerability… I fear may anger you one day.”

“You’re the best friend I have, Y/N. Nothing that you do will ever cause me ire.”

Your belly churned pleasantly at his words. Your lips twitched, disbelief and gladness overflowing you. His words replayed in your mind until his looming shadow veiled you, breaking you out of your reverie. You met his unreadable stare. 

Blue as the winter sky. 

He leant forward and kissed you on the forehead. “Be well,” he reminded you, straightening and walking over to your table. He looked back at you. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to your notes on your table.

You almost didn’t register his question, your thoughts a tumbling whirlwind. “Of course,” you answered, your voice slightly shaky. It baffled you immensely as to why he seemed interested in your mediocre 'research’ about horse colic. 

He pocketed the sheaf of papers in his belt and made to leave. As his fingers closed around the handle of your door, sudden determination seized you and you called out, “War?”

He craned his head slightly.

You paused. “Keep them. My notes, I mean. I don’t need them because I… I  trust you, all of you, with H/N.”  

He nodded. “I understand.”

“And… thank you.”

He dipped his head once more before stepping out to join his brothers, closing the door gently behind him. Once the door clicked shut, you brought a hand to your forehead, the tips of your fingers lingering over the spot where his lips had pressed.

Gently. Ever so gently.