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imagine-darksiders · 2 years

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Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 19 - The Dead Plains

Summary: 'How is it', Death wonders with unparalleled frustration at the sheer unlikeliness of it, 'that you continue to find friendly faces in the most unfriendly of places?'

---

“...Pale Rider...”

Behind the sockets of his bone-mask, Death's eyes fly open to near-total darkness.

Within a mere second of regaining consciousness, his razor-sharp mind alerts him to two rather alarming facts, the first of which is that he can't move his arms. And the second...

Wherever he is right now, he isn't here alone...

Had someone called his name?

... Deep and gravelly...

Familiar.

It isn't you.

No matter how he may try to shove the memory aside in the future, there will forever exist a small, secretive part of the Horseman that remembers how his empty chest lurches with something akin to panic when he doesn't immediately sense your presence nearby. At once, he summons his strength and begins to struggle, pulling furiously against strange, squelching restraints that are wrapped around his forearms and tighten to a crushing pressure at his escape attempts.

Someone laughs, slowly, as if they're amused by his plight.

Begrudgingly, Death stops fighting against the hold on his arms and instead throws hectic glances through the darkness, searching for any sign of his persistent, little human-shaped shadow. Where...?

“Looking for someone?”

Quick as a flash, the Horseman whips his head about to glare contemptuously in the direction of the voice, his lips drawing back to expose his teeth.

The stench hits him next.

For the sake of gleaning information about his assailant's identiy, he draws a redundant breath down into his shrivelled, useless lungs and at once, something putrid and stinking slithers into his nostrils and throat, lingering like the aftertaste of rancid meat that's well-past rotten.

Through the ink-black gloom, a light blooms to life, faint and yellow like an infected wound, and silhouetted against it is a towering figure, shrouded in darkness save for two, gleaming slits of jaundiced light.

'Eyes,' he realises with an audible snarl.

Below them, a cragged jaw falls open and a seam appears between stalactite teeth, spilling forth that same, eerie glow.

There's no mistaking it.

This is what had pulled Death into the Tree.

This is the cursed and cruel visage of Corruption itself.

“How far the mighty have fallen,” the beast sighs, as though he's somehow disappointed it, “The venerable Death. Reduced to caretaker for his little, human pet.”

The taunt strikes a nerve, but Death holds his tongue and remains perfectly silent in Corruption's grasp. There's a tickle at the back of his mind, something like recognition, but he brushes it aside and trains his focus onto his surroundings, forever searching for an opening.

“You needn't worry,” it continues with a sly, cragged grin, “The female has managed to evade me thus far. It did not follow you into the Tree.... Not yet.”

Death doesn't allow himself to indulge in the glimmer of relief that races through him at that.

If nothing else, at least you're safe from this monstrosity.

“Nothing to say?” Corruption rumbles suddenly, giving the Horseman's wrists a vicious twist with its tendrils as the shapeless figure looms closer to stand over Death by several, impressive feet. “Your wit used to cut like a knife. Is it age that has tempered your sharp tongue, I wonder?”

Death doesn't miss the way those wicked eyes flick down to his chest, lingering there long enough that a growl of warning starts to build in the Horseman's throat.

“Or perhaps...” Corruption ventures, “... it is guilt.”

Now that does pull a scoff from Death's lips.

“Guilt?” he spits at last, giving his arms another, experimental tug, “Over what?”

The beast's eyes flash hungrily and it opens its strong jaw wide, illuminating pale features and a chin that's decorated with thick, purple horns. “Your sin,” it hisses damningly as it lifts a bulky hand and points it at the Horseman's chest, where the fragments of the Nephilim souls lay embedded. “Worn like a badge of honour..."

Drawing back to peer down its nose at its ensnared prey, it asks, “Why have you come to the Tree, Pale Rider?”

Death grinds his teeth together, wondering why Corruption has any vested interest in his goal.

All the same, he raises his chin and states, “To save mankind from extinction.”

That he thinks of you as he says so is very curious, because when had he started to associate you with humanity as a whole?

But whatever Death might have felt about humans, it's clear that Corruption cares little for your species.

“You would restore humanity?” it spits venomously, recoiling in palpable disgust, “To a barren planet, shorn of life? Pah! Humans are weak and pitiful. They would not survive the resurrection.”

Death nearly opens his mouth to attest that, actually, some humans – naming no names - are surprisingly resilient, but Corruption isn't finished, it seems.

A low growl swells into a furious shout as it opens its mouth wide and bellows, “Nor do they deserve it!”

Inquisitive despite the inopportune situation he finds himself in, Death remains silent, wondering why Corruption seems to care whether or not humans occupy the little, blue planet.

“That,” he replies coolly, “Is not yours to judge. Earth is their home by right.”

Silence reigns for several seconds before the beast gives an irritatingly knowing chuckle and hums, “You do this because your little pet asked it of you, hmm?”

The Horseman lurches violently against his restraints. “I do this,” he retorts waspishly, “to save my brother, War! To spare him from the Council's punishment!”

The hulking figure in front of him seems to bristle, and in the meagre light, Death watches great globules of blackened tar slough from its shoulders and float up, disappearing into the gloom bearing down from overhead.

Corruption gnashes its crooked teeth and with an air of indignation, asks, “Only War? And what of the rest of the Nephilim!? Would you save one, and not the rest?”

Once again, Death finds himself at a loss, taken aback by Corruption's sudden vehemence - in defence of the Nephilim, no less - a species with a history more bloody and tarnished than that of any who have come before it.

“The Nephilim,” Death snaps, “Are a threat to the balance! My brother is not!”

The beast's nostrils briefly let a burning sliver of light show as they flare with unmitigated rage. “A threat!? Bah! We only wanted a home! And if we had taken Eden, none of this would have happened!” it roars, gesturing at the darkness around it, no doubt indicating the mass of pitch-black corruption that rolls across the cold, empty space, “This is your fault!” A finger is jabbed at Death's mask. “You rode against us! Slaughtered our flesh. Then bound our souls in your amulet!”

“Our souls...?” Death's stomach begins to twist into an apprehensive knot. Squinting sharply, he growls, “Who are you?”

It seems as though this... stranger has been waiting for him to ask that question since they began their back and forth. It calms itself at once, adopting a decidedly smug aura that Death doesn't care for in the slightest.

“I think you know...”

The Horseman certainly has his suspicions.

Anti-human rhetoric, the voice, the allusion to a Nephilim heritage... Oh yes. Death thinks he knows, but he doesn't want it to be true, just as you hadn't wanted the apocalypse to be true.

“It... cannot be...” he breathes in disbelief all the same, leaning forwards against his restraints to better see Corruption's face. The face of a long-lost ghost – one he'd called his brother, so many, many eons ago.

“Absalom?”

The sliver of light between its jaws stretches wider, and just like that, Death knows.

“Not anymore...” Corruption? Absalom? He replies, “I have forsaken that name. Now, I am Corruption. The day you raised your scythe against us, I was born. And soon...” He trails off spreading his arms arrogantly wide. “Soon, I will be all.”

Death wonders dimly if this is what humans meant when they said they felt sick... His brother should be dead.

Death had watched him die on that blood-steeped battlefield. Hell, he'd put the poor bastard to the blade himself! He had wished - sometimes still wishes - that the finishing blow could have been dealt by someone, anyone else.

But alas, if not him, then who?

The Reaper had vehemently refused to let Fury, War and Strife anywhere near their elder brother during the battle for Eden. Absalom was too strong, even for them.

So, donning the title of kin-slayer, Death had stepped up to the plate...

And murdered his own brother to protect the rest of Creation.

… It had been, and will always remain to be, one of the most harrowing things Death had ever done. Absalom was family – he'd fought and bled in Death's name once, and vice versa.

But now?

It seems as though the Horseman will have to relive that moment once more.

“Absalom,” he whispers again, grimacing at the name on his tongue after so long and shoving aside his feelings, as he always does, “You... you have to stop this madness. You will destroy all of Creation!”

“Wrong,” the former Nephilim sneers with an insufferably superior aura, “I am not going to destroy Creation.. I'm going to change it. Shape it! In my image!”

Suddenly, like a switch has been flipped, Absalom's tone softens, his tendrils slacken a little around Death's arms and he takes a heavy, eager step towards the Horseman. “Think of it, brother!” he presses, “I have the power to conquer entire worlds! I could make us a home, Death. On Earth! Earth could be our new Eden!”

“Earth is not our home,” Death argues, tone surprisingly gentle, “It belongs to humanity-”

“-It could belong to us!” Absalom interjects firmly, his pale pupils shifting down to stare at the green fragments embedded snugly in Death's chest, “It could belong to all of us...”

Death's lifeless heart drops.

So that's his game. A dangerous one,- a world-ending ploy that Death... hadn't even considered an option until now.

Corruption intends to use Death to resurrect the Nephilim.

How much further can a Horseman bend before he breaks?

How much more suffering has to be caused... all for the sake of maintaining the Council's balance?

Roughly, Death shakes his head and snarls, “You've lost your mind.”

Absalom's jaw snaps shut, filling the Tree's hollow with damning silence as his eyes narrow until they're little more than dangerous slits.

All of a sudden, the pressure around Death's forearms crushes inwards like a clamp and he has to stuff his teeth into his tongue to keep from hissing at the discomfort.

“And you have lost yourself, brother,” the corrupted behemoth spits, “You've forgotten where your loyalties should lay... You've spent too long in the company of that human. It has turned you into nothing more than a gentle, little whelp.”

The uninvited mention of you ruffles Death's feathers something fierce. He glares hard at Corruption, quietly seething. “Release me from your binds and allow me to show you just how gentle she's made me,” he growls, feeling the air choke with his dark magics.

But Corruption's magics are darker. They've had time to fester and grow thick and dense inside the Tree of Life.

Caught unawares like he was, Death hadn't prepared himself to combat them.

As much as he's loathe to admit it, Absalom has the upper hand here.

The corrupted Nephilim seems to be ignoring Death's attempts to burn a hole in the side of his head, turning away with a flippant hum and folding his hands loosely behind his back, business-like. Then, he hums to himself and says something that has Death's Reaper form lifting its sleepy head like a cobra roused from slumber.

“Perhaps... after I kill it, you will come back to your senses.”

Oh... Rage hotter than an inferno strikes the Horseman roughly across his chest like a match. “You will never get close enough to touch her,” he snarls, realising just a little too late that he probably shouldn't be showing his hand, “The makers will protect her.”

Corruption twists about to fix him with an insidious smile. “Maybe...” he concedes slowly before that grin turns sharper and even more sinister, “Before now, I might have agreed with you. But those dogs suffered a heavy loss today. Why, with their precious Old one out of the picture, your human has lost her best line of defence.”

Death's lips curl at the callous mention of Eideard's passing. But even he can't deny that Corruption isn't making a baseless threat. With the elder removed, Tri Stone is more vulnerable than ever.

But Corruption is discounting one, crucial detail...

“You won't get close,” the Horseman reiterates, quivering with anger, “I put you down once, Absalom. I will not hesitate to do it again now, if I have to.”

“To protect the human?”

“To... protect the balance.” Death's pause barely lasts half a second, but that's all the time either of them need to take note of it.

Absalom scoffs, but doesn't contend the Horseman's claim. Instead, he shakes his head slowly from side to side, shoulders hitching around a bark of laughter. “You speak of defeating me as if it would be an easy fight...”

Like a predator, Corruption twists on his heel and stalks closer to Death, step by heavy, creeping step.

“Have you not seen the power I wield? Do you have any idea what I have become?”

“You've become a monster,” Death hisses, earning another laugh from the hulking mass of dark, shadowy muscle.

“Come now. Surely you recognise the hypocrisy, brother?”

“You. Are not my brother.”

A snap of tension nearly wrenches Death's arms from their sockets as Absalom suddenly opens his jaw and howls into the Horseman's face, “I AM YOUR BROTHER! Like it or not, we were family once! We still are! I know you, Death. I know your arrogance has you believe you stand a chance against me.”

The Nephilim struggles again, frustration mounting when he feels that slick, cold substance begin to creep up the length of his arms again, heading at a steady crawl towards his mask.

“But what chance do you have, when even the Tree of Life has fallen to my darkness, from withered root to fruitless limb,” Corruption boasts darkly, chest heaving with each, unsteady breath, “I have the power to bring worlds to their trembling knees! I have bent entire species to my will!”

Tangible darkness once more slips through the holes in Death's mask and he attempts to lash out, but to no avail. Fingers of ice feels as though they're pressing divots into the Horseman's grey matter, manipulating the electrical impulses that fire rapidly along each neuron until his already meagre field of view begins to swim and change. Without warning, he finds that he can detect the faintest whiff of gun smoke, the cloying of freshly-spilled blood. His ear twitches and he'd almost believe he can hear the clash of steel and the roar of ten million voices bellowing out their war cries.

It hits him all at once, that he's having a memory forced upon him.

Death bridles. That kind of magic, even by his less than sparkling standards, isn't just intrusive. It's unforgivable.

He's being made to see a memory he's tried so, so hard to purge.

As his awareness fades to nothingness, he wonders why Corruption is showing him what he's already seen. Why not simply kill him and be done with it?

“Even Death himself cannot escape me!”

-----

Inhale...

Even a single, greedy breath comes at a cost.

Delicate skin is ripped apart as dry, cracked lips peel open and scrape roughly over the ground to allow air – stale and musty – to flood into a pair of barren lungs, inflating the organs like pink, fleshy balloons.

With just a gulp of life-saving air comes enough dust to cake a saliva-slicked throat and turn it drier than the Sahara desert.

You breathe deeply regardless, though regret hits you almost instantly when your mouth is abruptly filled with dirt and grit. You choke then – any air that you'd managed to suck down coming up again in a hacking, wheezing cough that has you rolling over onto your back with your spine pressed uncomfortably against an unforgiving surface.

Daylight bears down on your cinched eyelids, searing into them and keeping you blind and dazed in your unknowable surroundings.

Groaning against the intrusion, you manage to navigate yourself onto your stomach and brace on unsteady arms that threaten to buckle out from underneath you, as if they're nothing more than flimsy, little toothpicks.

“De – ughh...” you croak blearily, spitting a globule of congealed dirt from your mouth and listening to it splat against the ground before you try again. “Death?”

Your voice leaves you as a pitiful, rasping whisper. You don't yet know why you're calling that name, your brain is still struggling to wrench itself back into consciousness after an indeterminable amount of time lost to the blissful solitude of sleep.

There's something... important that you need to find... At least, you think there is.

You'll be sure to get right on that, just as soon as you can figure out where you are.. and why you're here.

Without any prompt, something raps sharply against the side of your head and you flinch with a low groan, barely finding the willpower to raise your hand to swat at whoever is bothering you at such an antisocial hour.

Your arm flops back onto an awfully hard ground at your side.

Another, painful rap, this time to the knuckles, followed quickly by a near-deafening squawk directly in your ear

“Ng! Dust, stop it!” you gripe, letting out a huff into the ground and trying to find the strength to get up.

Not a second later, you fling your eyes open and choke on a strangled gasp.

Tears spring up behind your eyelids at once thanks to the searing light that floods your vision and forces you to scrunch your face up, a meagre defence against the intrusion of what must be the sun itself.

Even still, you haul yourself up onto your knees and fight to keep just a sliver of a gap wedged between your eyelids no matter how desperately you want to close them, whipping your extraordinarily fragile head around in search of the familiar, dark plumage.

“D-Dust!? Dust!” you croak hoarsely, “Where are -?”

A caw to your right has you whirling sideways and very nearly toppling off your knees before you manage to catch yourself with a fumbling hand.

Through the fraction of space between your lids, you can just make out a blurry shape, black as pitch, noisy, but most importantly, familiar.

A crow.

God damn, you don't think you've ever been so happy to see a bird before in your life.

“Dust!”

The crow opens his beak and caws in response, hopping eagerly onto your bent knees. Without warning, your arms shoot out and curl underneath his breast and tail, scooping him up off your lap and crushing him into your chest, earning yourself a garbled squawk of alarm for the trouble.

“You scared the life out of me!” you admonish wetly, even as you bury your nose in the soft feathers on his back.

Gradually, Dust goes still in your hold and an apologetic croon hums through the crow's body.

After a moment, you retrieve your face and lean back, peeling your eyelids a little further apart to better meet his black, beady gaze and fix him with the sternest expression you can muster, borrowed straight from Thane.

“You can't just go flying off into random portals by yourself!” Your voice comes out watery and feeble, but you press on. “What would I have told Death if you'd -”

And just like that, the rest of your memories come crashing in with all the grace of a drunken elephant.

The Tree of Life.

Eideard-

Oh, god. You don't have time to dwell on the streak of agony that slugs you in the chest when the memory of Eideard's sacrifice hits you full-force. You have to focus.

Karn. You'd left Karn at the end of that tunnel, after you promised him you wouldn't leave him.

What have you done?

What did you just leave behind?

“Death?!” With Dust still clutched against your sternum, you manage to drag a foot underneath you and pull yourself laboriously onto shaking legs.

As quickly as you can, though not nearly as quickly as you'd like, you coerce your eyelids open as far as you can bear and squint out at a world that's... a million miles from the one you've just come from...

You're standing at the apex of a set of stone steps, the silent, empty portal to your back and a vast, never ending desert stretched out ahead of you in every direction, sand dunes rolling on for as far as the eye can see. Above you, the sky is overcast, but the clouds have taken on an unhealthy, green hue that sits like a miasmatic haze below the sun, and what feeble light is able to trickle through them only casts the landscape around you in that same sickly pallor.

“Dust... Where are we...?”

Stiffly turning your neck, you spot another set of stairs adjacent to the ones you're perched atop, finding that they lead up to a stone archway, likely the housing for a different portal, though it stands empty and still like the one behind you, devoid of any swirling vortexes.

You tear your eyes away from it and turn a little further to find that you're in another courtyard, though this one is made from dull, grey stone rather than wood, and as you slowly spin in a circle, taking in your immediate surroundings, you swiftly come to the disturbing conclusion that you're still standing amongst the gnarled, twisting roots of the Tree of Life.

But, it is definitely not in the same state as it had been when you left it.

You tilt your neck back, mouth dropping open to gape up the length of the immeasurable trunk, all the way to the branches overhead. There isn't a single leaf to be seen up there.

Not one of the towering limbs has sprouted a tiny fragment of life. The bark itself looks dried out, grey as the stone underfoot and cracked like splintering glass.

Though it stands just as tall and impossibly wide as the Tree of Life, you hardly think it's fitting to call it as such, because this thing, so far as your eyes can tell, is utterly, indisputably dead.

You drag your eyes down the trunk again and balance Dust across one forearm, absently stroking your fingers down his back with your free hand, hungry for some kind of physical comfort. If the crow minds, he doesn't so much as utter a peep in protest.

“What... happened to it?” Your question goes unanswered as your gaze lands upon the doors sitting at the base of the tree. Even they look the same, confirming without a doubt that this is, or perhaps was, the Tree of Life.

There's something on the ground at the foot of those doors, a shapeless mass.

Raising your hand to shield your eyes from the green sun beating down on you from above, you blink several times, squinting sharply as you try to discern any distinguishable features.

It's pale, whatever it is. Pale and grey as a long-dead corpse.

It would blend in almost seamlessly with its surroundings were it not for the flash of soft purple that sits around its neck -...

“Oh, my god!” you blurt out, startling the crow in your arms, “Death? Death!”

It's only when you start to trip over yourself down the steps that you realise how unbelievably tired you are. But a short burst of adrenaline brought on by the terror of seeing your friend laying motionless on the ground is just what you need to keep yourself on your feet.

Dust squawks loudly as you run, and you utter a breathless apology before throwing the crow up into the air, giving him the time to unfurl his black wings and flit towards the sky.

It's in his shadow that you hurtle across the stone courtyard and drop abruptly to your knees, skidding the last few inches into Death's side, heedless of the fresh grazes that are torn in the skin of your legs.

“Death!” you cry out, your hands hovering uncertainly above his chest. Is he breathing? Shit! Does he breathe!?

“Dammit!” you rasp, fisting your fingers into your hair and tugging harshly at the strands, maddened by helplessness that sits like lead in your gut and leaves you feeling utterly useless.

You can't just do nothing!

Anything is better than hunching over and staring blankly at the body laying beside you. The fragments of the Crowfather's amulet embedded in his chest are pulsating wildly, hedging you to wonder, just for a second, if they could be beating in time with his heart.

According to him, there's no heart sitting inside his ribcage, but in lieu of any other ideas, you all but throw your head down against his cold, unmoving pectoral, pressing your ear there as firmly as you can, all the breath held captive inside your lungs.

Damn him and his preternatural biology – you can't tell if he's still kicking. So far as you know, he could already be long gone, but you don't know for sure because there's no heartbeat and his skin remains as chilly as it ever was.

You're dimly aware of Dust screeching up a storm as he zooms frantically in circles over your head.

“Dust, shush!” you hiss, cupping a hand over your other ear, “I can't hear if he's still breathing!”

He'd better be.

You've left Earth far behind you. You've lost your own family, found another, only to leave that one behind as well.

If you lose Death too, you'll... Well... It doesn't bear thinking about just yet.

Not until you know for sure that he's-

“Ahem. I'm not interrupting, am I?”

Fast enough to leave you dizzy, your head shoots off the Horseman's chest, eyes darting briefly to the sockets of his bone-mask as a glimmer of hope sparks to life in your chest.

But... Death's eyes remain shut, the dark skin around them lax. He isn't the one who had spoken. Come to think of it, the voice had not sounded a bit like Death's...

You're on your feet in the next second, clumsily yanking Karn's sword from its scabbard as you wheel around to face the courtyard's northern side, legs splayed to cover as much of Death as you possibly can.

You've seen many a weird and wacky creature in the days spent in the Horseman's company, from mythical giants, to massive, armoured bugs to living beasts made of wood and stone. But this is a strong contender for the very strangest thing you've seen so far.

Something large is shuffling in your direction, not as large as a maker, mind, but significantly larger than Death, which still makes it a giant compared to your diminutive stature. You have to blink a few times to make sense of what you're looking at. It's hard to get your brain to accept that you're seeing a real person, not some kind of outlandishly imagined character on a television screen.

There's... really no polite way of saying that the newcomer reminds you first and foremost of an anthropomorphic ram.

It ambles towards you on two legs, tipped by shiny, black hooves that stick out from the bottom long, brown robe that frays at the hem, worn and split after being dragged across the harsh desert ground for countless eons.

You're so perturbed and gobsmacked by what you're seeing, it takes several moments before you snap back to your senses, realising that the creature has already ventured far too close.

“S-Stop!” you belt out, raising the sword and hoping that it doesn't notice the crack in your voice, “Don't come any closer!”

Obligingly, the creature does stop, much to your astonishment, though it's still far too close for comfort.

A thick, ruddy muzzle protrudes slightly from its face, tipped by a black nose with flaring nostrils that twitch as it cocks its head back and sniffs at the stale air.

From angular cheekbones to its shallow shin, hangs a long, ivory beard that more closely resembles wool than hair. You don't fail to notice the downward-facing horns that extend from either side of its skull and sweep towards the ground in great, looping curls, each the colour of charcoal and smoke.

But just because these horns evoke the image of a meek and flighty herbivore doesn't mean that this creature isn't aggressive.

With that firmly in mind, you raise your trembling arms and thrust Karn's sword further out in front of you. Above you, Dust has settled on a twisting, blackened tree root and hisses down at the stranger, apparently willing to defend you, but only from a distance.

“A-are you friendly!?” you demand, clearing your dry throat. You certainly hope it is. There's barely enough strength left in you to stand, let alone fight, no matter how ancient this creature looks.

If there's anything you've learned from the past week, it's that one's age does not necessarily correlate with one's power.

You should be wary of those that have survived into their autumn years, because in places like the Forge Lands, and even perhaps this realm, it indicates that they've overcome every challenge and danger that has been thrown at them.

And there's something highly unnerving about a beast that moves through a hostile environment without any visible weapons.

Eyes as gold as a Tuscan sunset flick between your blade and your face, and its muzzle stretches into some semblance of a recognisable grin.

“Young lady,” it says, voice gravelly and wizened, “I am a merchant. If I were not friendly, I wouldn't have a client to my name, now would I?”

… After everything you've seen, you're less surprised that it speaks and more apprehensive that it's calling itself a merchant....

Your mind immediately flashes to Vulgrim...

“Are... are you a demon?” you ask this time, only to see the creature's wide, rubbery lips curl in distaste.

“I am a Capracus,” he – for you can only assume that it is a he – remedies, “The last Capracus. And you, if I am not mistaken...” He pauses to gesture at you with a long, bent pipe that sits clutched in his gnarled fingers, a faint, orange glow spilling out of its bowl. “... are the last human. The sole-surviving heiress to a derelict Earth.”

The weapon in your hand lowers by a fraction of an inch.

… He's the last of his kind as well?

You wince, brows furrowing sadly as a cold chill sweeps through you at the reminder. “You make it sound so glamorous,” you lament, barely keeping the sword still with your shaking arms, “But... if you really are the last of your kind, like me, then... then I'd prefer it if we didn't fight.”

The merchant bows his head in concurrence and heaves an affected sigh. “... You'd prefer that we didn't fight...” he echoes slowly, exhaling a soft huff of laughter, “My, what a wonderfully refreshing sentiment... Neither would I, dear girl. Neither would I...”

Your heart still thumps like a jackrabbit inside your chest, but this merchant hasn't made a move against you yet, and you're admittedly out of your depth in this place. Not to mention, Death still hasn't stirred, hasn't even made a sound.

You've no doubt that this... Capracus?... would have no trouble defending himself should you provoke him.

Biting down hard on your lip, you glance at Karn's blade before darting your eyes back up to meet that intelligent, yellow gaze that seems far less frantic than your own.

Does he believe that you really don't want to attack him? Or is he just confident in the knowledge that you're as much of a threat to him as a rabbit is to a wolf?

You're torn. You want to help Death, but you don't know how... Unless...

Perhaps, you can afford to extend a little trust... You've apparently been spending too much time with the Horseman, siphoning off his paranoia.

Not everyone can be out to get you, surely.

You make your decision, hoping to a redundant god that you won't end up regretting it,

Keeping your eyes on the creature in front of you, you lower the sword without further ceremony, dropping its point to the stone underfoot.

“I'm sorry,” you rasp instinctively.

You are sorry. It brought you no pleasure to lift a weapon against the stranger.

Even he seems taken aback by your action towards peace, raising the ridge of his furry brows as you continue, “Look - you don't know me from Adam, and I don't have anything to give you in return, but...” You swallow thickly and fix him with an imploring grimace. “Please... Please, can you help my friend?”

Stepping to the side, you gesture weakly to the motionless Horseman behind your legs.

For several, nail-biting seconds, the newcomer simply stares back at you, raising his pipe and tapping the mouthpiece against his chin thoughtfully.

You're so worried that he'll just turn around and leave you to deal with this situation by yourself – or worse, attack you - that moisture begins to well up behind your eyelids.

Then, he suddenly shuffles a few steps closer.

Your fingers clench tightly around the sword, but you don't lift it. You merely keep a wary eye on him whilst he approaches, his black lips now slipping around the pipe to take a puff.

“Mm,” he hums, peering down at his snout at you with intrigue. He only comes to a halt once he's standing directly over the Horseman, casting a shadow across his prone body like a blanket.

He doesn't seem concerned by the quivering tension in your arms, nor the wide-eyed stare that you've trained on the side of his face.

'One wrong move,' you warn him in your head, only to instantly scoff at yourself. 'One wrong move... What the Hell am I going to do against this guy?'

Sure, you helped Death take down the Guardian, but that had been pure, dumb luck, or maybe Father Michael's blessing carried more weight than you initially thought.

Either way, you still can't help but to feel utterly useless as you watch the stranger scrutinise Death's mask for another few moments before he abruptly lets a snort blast from his nostrils, causing you to nearly jump out of your skin.

“Hmph, there is nothing I can do to help the Horseman,” he begins, holding up his hand before you can start blubbering in earnest, “Because, there is nothing wrong with him.”

“What?” you sniff and swipe at your eyes, “He's not dead?"

"Of course not. He's a Horseman. Notoriously hard to kill."

"But... then, why isn't he waking up?”

“Bah!” The Capracus waves your concern aside with a dismissive flick of his slender wrist, as if fear for your friend's well-being is such a trivial thing. “He will awaken soon enough.”

When you continue to worry at your lip, the ovine man grunts and points the bowl of his pipe towards Death's mask. “He is merely holding on to a dream, Lamb, that's all.”

You look again at the Horseman, following the pipe's length to the sockets of the bone mask.

And then, you see it.

Movement.

Slight as it is, Death's eyes are shifting and darting from side to side, caught in the swell of a dream.

Or perhaps, more accurately, a nightmare.

You allow some of the tension to dribble out of your shoulders.

Finally, definitive evidence that he isn't dead, just... resting. Hmph. Lucky for some.

Heaving out an exhausted whuff of air, you raise your head again to find the stranger regarding you with an inquisitive glint in his eye.

“Thank you,” you tell him earnestly, rubbing a hand down your haggard face, “I didn't even know how to tell that he's still alive. It isn't as if he has a pulse.”

The old creature takes a long, slow drag from his pipe, holding the smoke in his lungs before he exhales a cloud of soft, grey smog. “Mm... of course not. What would Death want with a pulse? Hmm? Or a heart at all! Pah!”

Your shoulder dips abruptly and you flinch as Dust comes into land, keeping his head twisted to one side so that he can eyeball the newcomer.

“Perhaps,” he says sagely, stroking a hand down his woollen beard, “There is something you can give me in exchange for confirming your Horseman's state of being...”

At once, a chill runs down your spine and you start to imagine all the terrible things that he might ask of you. Subconsciously, you move Karn's sword a fraction behind your leg, hiding it partially from view, hoping he doesn't ask for it in exchange.

Sticking your chin out, you swallow hoarsely and ask, “Okay?”

His muzzle shifts into a lopsided smile, apparently amused by your apprehension.

“Overwrought little thing, aren't you?” he chuckles, flapping a gnarled hand through the air as if to waft your troubles away like the smoke that escapes his wide, flat nostrils, “Your name, young lady. I would only ask for your name.”

“Oh!” Well, now you just feel silly. That request doesn't seem unreasonable. “It's Y/n.” Recalling your manners from a society you're no longer a part of, you hastily tack on, “And yours?”

He inhales another lungful from the pipe and releases it again from the side of his mouth.

It occurs to you that he's deliberately blowing the sweet-smelling smoke away from your face. Thoughtful...

“Y/n...” He repeats your name, testing it out on his tongue. “Mm. Not a name I've heard before... But, it is a good name, nonetheless. Exotic.”

Yes, you imagine it probably is to a non-human.

Trailing off, he sweeps out an arm and inclines his head with a low bow, jangling the green crystals that dangle from his cloak. “Ostegoth, of the house Etu-Goth, at your service.”

Now that's an exotic title.

“A pleasure. But I think I really ought to be at your service,” you say with a weak laugh, too busy basking in the relief of meeting a friendly face in his dead and musty realm to notice that behind you, the Horseman's fingers have begun to twitch, scraping slowly through the dust and grit until his hands are curled into loose fists.

“Mm? Nonsense. Nonsense!” Ostegoth grunts, brushing your thanks aside, “It is enough to have met Death's fabled human for myself.”

“Fabled?” You aren't sure how to feel about him knowing who you are. “You've heard of me?”

“But of course!” the old one replies as though it should be obvious, “If there's one thing merchants love more than separating consumers from their coins, it's gossip.”

“Gossip?” you deadpan.

“Oh yes! Information sell almost as well as goods, you know. Word travels fast through the merchant network, and now, at last, I have confirmation that what I've heard is not mere speculation.” He pauses for a moment to eye the crow still perched on your shoulder. “I have to ask though... How did you come to be in the kingdom of the dead?”

“That's what this place is called?” you laugh incredulously, glancing behind you towards the emaciated tree, “Huh... apt.”

“Isn't it just?” Ostegoth murmurs wisely and nods his large, ovine head.

Turning back to face him, you just miss a pair of brooding, amber eyes fluttering open behind you.

“We came here from the makers' world,” you explain, feeling little harm in telling your tale, “Well, I say we came here.. Death was more, like, sucked into this tree. Me and Dust followed him through a portal.”

The merchant's brow bone quirks at the agitated bird sitting on your shoulder and drawls, “The crow, I presume?”

Said crow answers for himself, hissing through his beak at the old creature.

“Sorry about him," you apologise on behalf of the bird, "He's-”

“-Protective?”

Your mouth hangs open a moment before you shake your head and chuckle dubiously. “Uh, no. No, he's just rude.”

Dust pecks you on the earlobe, perhaps to reinforce your claim, perhaps to contend it, you'll never know.

Ostegoth's eyes flash with intrigue as he tips his pipe towards you and opens his mouth to speak, yet he never manages to even begin his sentence.

Any of his words are cut off by a loud, rumbling shout of rage.

“ABSALOM!”

At first, you genuinely believe you're being attacked when a pasty blur just... appears in front of you, faster than you can blink.

A cold palm catches you in the stomach and shoves you none-too-gently away from Ostegoth, causing Dust to flap erratically from your shoulder as you topple over onto your rear with a yelp.

Your ears are filled by the sound of a metallic 'shing' and suddenly, everything falls still once more, a jarring contrast to the seconds that came before.

Scrabbling for Karn's dropped sword, you snap your head up and freeze, blinking dumbly at the scene playing out before you.

The good news is... Death is awake.

Bad news - he has the curve of his scythe pressed harshly underneath Ostegoth's tilted chin, forcing the merchant to tip his head back lest he allow his throat to be cut.

Of the three of you, the merchant is the only person who appears to be unconcerned about his own predicament.

A jumbled concoction of delight, relief and horror swirl like liquid in your stomach and you bleat out an urgent, “Death! Stop!”

Ostegoth's eyes flit to you, and you can do little else but watch as Death whips his head over one, broad shoulder, staring down at you through a gaze you barely recognise.

His eyes are... wild.

Unfocused.

Unhinged.

He's looking in your direction, but he isn't looking at you, per se, rather, he's glaring straight through you, his shoulders straining and bulging as he continues to deepen his pressure on the scythe pressed against Ostegoth's throat.

You'll be ashamed of yourself later for it, but the sight of Death's savage and unbridled rage sends you shrinking backwards, ducking your head to try and hide from that glare.

“Ah..” It's immensely worrying that Ostegoth's knowing sigh doesn't draw the Horseman's rigid focus away from you. “Still stuck in the residue, are we?” He hums, far too nonplussed for a man with the Reaper's weapon at his neck.

Death issues another growl from the very deepest part of his throat before he finally whirls away from you and trains his stare on Ostegoth once more, hissing like an aggravated cobra.

“Oh,” the old Capracus blinks, “Perhaps less of a dream, more of a memory...” Calmly, he turns his gaze onto you once more and says, “Call his name again, human.”

“What!?”

“Talk to him,” Ostegoth presses, “He appears to know your voice. He's lost in a memory. You must remind him of the present.”

'Lost in a memory?'

It's slow going, but you manage to get yourself back onto your feet once more, folding your arms with a shudder and creeping ever closer to the Horseman, wondering what he must be seeing that would leave him quivering with such unbridled aggression.

“Death?” you call again, keeping your eyes trained on the scythe. The sound of your voice draws his glare again and you stop moving instinctively, suppressing a whimper. “Death, this is Ostegoth. He's... he's a friend.”

Quick as a whip, the Horseman's head cracks towards the old one, apparently studying his aged features.

You take the opportunity to close a little more distance only to freeze in place once more when a low, rasping sound leaves Death's throat. “...Friend...?” he whispers, barely a breath on his lips.

He twists his neck about to face you, his bold, amber eyes dropping to land on the fingers you've stretched out towards him. Your breath stays trapped behind your teeth as Death gradually slides his gaze up to meet yours.

You stand close enough now that you can see his pitch-black pupils waver and expand a fraction, like the lens of a camera slowly whirring open.

“Y/n?” he forces out of a dust-slaked throat.

The only smile you have the strength to give him is bitter sweet, lacking in energy, but hopefully familiar to the old Nephilim. As much as you'd like him to leave that strange, old goat alone, you'd rather not have to contend with the business end of his scythes yourself.

“Hey, Death,” you affirm breathlessly, forcing your fists to slacken, “Thought I lost you for a minute there... Are you okay?”

You've never taken the Horseman's complete and utter silence to be something you should fear. But right now? Trapped like a rabbit in a pair of fiery, oncoming headlights? What else can you do except remain perfectly still, lips pressed tightly into a thin and crooked line whilst the Horseman's gaze lingers on you for a long moment before it finally slides over your shoulder and up the length of the enormous tree at your back.

“...The Dead Plains...” he utters slowly after another few seconds of terse silence, “You followed me... to the Dead Plains...?”

You don't like that tone of voice. Not when it's aimed at you like a deadly weapon poised to shoot.

Helplessly, you stumble over a response. “I thought you were dead, or about to be!” you stammer meekly, “Corruption took you into the Tree, and – and then that portal opened and I just... I just thought-”

“-Did you?” Death cuts you off, raising his voice several notches until he sounds far more lucid than he had moments ago, “Did you think? Did a single, coherent thought even cross your mind before you followed me blindly between the fabrics of the Universe!?”

He's shouting now, finally ripping his scythe away from Ostegoth and turning to face you, taking long, predatory strides towards you until you're forced to retreat several steps away from him, only remembering the Tree behind you just in time to jerk to a halt, deciding suddenly that, of the two – Horseman and Corruption – you know which one you stand half a chance at appeasing. Grinding your heels into the ground, you hold firm but apprehensive as Death crowds into your space.

You try to duck your head in an effort to avoid his searing glare, but all of a sudden, the Horseman's hands lash out and snatch you by the arms, just below your shoulders where sharp fingernails dig into delicate flesh and pull a wince out of you, though Death is far too busy giving you a rough jostle to notice.

“Do you have any idea what you've done!? Do you know what this place is? Why would you leave the makers? They would have kept you safe!”

“God, I'm sorry!” you bleat, trying to tug yourself from his clutches, “Sorry I wasn't exactly thinking about my safety when you were the one being swallowed by a carnivorous tree!”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” The Horseman's eyes are wide and angry. “I am a Nephilim! I can take care of myself! You should have known I'd be fine!”

You're fairly certain you can feel his nails pierce your skin, but you squeeze your eyes shut and wrench yourself backwards, slipping painfully free, but leaving angry, red lines behind in the surface of your skin. “Well I didn't know that!” you muster, lifting a hand to rub blindly at the marks, “Hindsight is twenty-twenty, Death! You think I wanted to leave my friends!?”

Death's teeth click together loudly as he forces his jaw shut, the ice in his glare slowly melting away to be replaced by something a little more vulnerable.

He loathes that uninvited ache in his chest that jumps up to bite him at the implication that you'd have preferred to stay with the makers. That's what he wanted, isn't it? That's why he's so furious with you now – because you didn't stay with them.

The temperature of the air around you plummets into the negatives, lifting the breath from your lungs in a shivered gasp and raising the hairs all along your arms.

One of Death's hand twitches and lifts abruptly into the air, reaching for your neck this time, his long, skeletal fingers curled like talons and his eyes burning brighter and hotter than the desert sun. In that instant, you remember the first time you saw the Reaper on that snow-covered mountain – how frightened you were then, how utterly convinced that this monstrous and emaciated creature would be the one to finish you off.

Suddenly, despite all you've been through together, you aren't so certain that Death doesn't mean you harm.

But whatever he'd planned to grab – your throat, your shoulder, the scruff of your shirt - he's thwarted by a flash of black feathers that drops out of nowhere between the pair of you, and all of a sudden, Dust is just there, landing roughly on Death's outstretched wrist and squawking like a bird possessed, wings beating furiously and sharp claws burying themselves like knives into his master's flesh.

“Dust?” Death hardly seems in pain from the sudden assault, but after casting a brief glance between you and his hand that's poised like the paw of a stalker, his eyes burst uncharacteristically wide and he rips his arm away from you, dislodging a highly agitated crow in the process.

Throwing a final, venomous hiss at the Horseman's mask, Dust flaps backwards to perch upon your shoulder, looking ridiculous in his enormity, all rumpled feathers and shifting feet. Through a beady eye, he glares at Death, who peers right back at the bird, apparently taken off-guard in the face of such protective outrage.

Furiously, you scrub the back of a wrist across your eyes, blinking away the moisture gathering at their corners. “Look, I'm sorry, okay!” you snap again with a voice thickened by bitter resentment, fists balled at your sides, “I'm sorry for giving enough of a shit about you that I walked away from the best friend I ever had! And... and the family that were willing to take me in, even though I'm not a maker!”

Ever so slowly, the Horseman drags his gaze off the irate crow and looks you straight in the eye, searching your face for a long moment before he speaks, his tone jarringly soft all of a sudden, “But... why?”

With a wild, deafening shout that rings in Death's ears and whips across the courtyard like a clap of thunder, you bellow, “I watched Eideard die!”

Silent, Death rolls his stare from your heaving shoulders to your lips that are peeled back over your teeth in the same way that Karn's had so often been when he was agitated.

The echoes of your shout soon fade away, lost under the whispering, desert wind.

“I watched Eideard... die,” you repeat quietly, drawing your eyebrows together and lowering your gaze to the ground in front of Death's boots as though you're only just registering the weight behind those words, “I... thought I was about to watch you die...”

It's ever so quiet between you both for a time, not even Dust's croaks and squawks could permeate the thickness in the air as you stare hard at the Reaper, and he stares back at you.

Finally, when it seems you've held that haunting gaze for long enough, you part your lips and breathe, “I don't want you to die.”

… Any biting retorts that had been building on the Nephilim's tongue are long gone. For all his intelligence, he can be fairly dense at times.

Of course... You've lost Earth, you've lost your home and your family, you've lost Eideard.

How could Death expect you to lose anything else without putting up a fight to keep it.

He wishes you hadn't.

You shouldn't be here, not for him.

But... there is something terribly humbling about learning that he... matters... to you. Perhaps even as much as Eideard had.

“You can be as angry at me as you like,” you cough with a decisive nod, cutting the heavy atmosphere like a knife through melted butter, “But that won't change a goddamn thing, and you know it. I'm still here. The portal home is closed. So you might as well just... just cope!”

Wordlessly, Death continues to stare at you, this time with his eyes drooped softly, appraising you in a new light.

He hadn't expected you to take the brunt of his anger and return it in kind.

Nor did he think you'd make such a valid point.

For as disappointed as he is that you've risked your life to follow him here, there's nothing he can really do change the fact...

So, as you'd eloquently put it, he'll just have to... cope.

It'll no doubt be a challenge to keep you safe in a place like the Dead Plains. There are no kindly, formidable makers here to protect you. The creatures that inhabit this place are as sharp and cruel as the landscape itself, and if there's one thing the dead disdain more emphatically than most, it's the living.

But.. if you – a vulnerable human – were willing to risk everything to come here for no other reason than to make sure that Death is okay... Well then...

It would be remiss of the Horseman if he didn't extend a similar courtesy to you.

The tightness in his shoulders dissipates at a snail's pace, but it still dissipates, and you must pick up on the easing tension because your own shoulders are quick to follow suit, gradually dropping until you no longer appear quite so angry, just wary.

Wary, and utterly, crushingly exhausted.

He has to remind himself – again – that he isn't dealing with a seasoned warrior who can be made to fall in line with a swift and sharp reprimand.

He's dealing with the unfortunate human he pulled off her own, dying planet.

“Y/n...” he tries, his eyes drifting to the red welts his fingernails have left in the skin on your arms. Tiny droplets of blood have beaded and dried there...

Did he really do that to you? All because you put Death before your own safety?

It feels as though he's had this argument with you a hundred times before, going in circles around one another – you doing something stupid to help him, he losing his temper and saying cruel things to you. No matter what he says though, you always seem to keep coming back. He hasn't persuaded you to stop making rash decisions. You still seem to think that Death – The Grim Reaper, Eldest of the Nephilim and Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse – needs the help of one, plucky human to make it through this journey...

'Hell,' he laments defeatedly, considering the battles you've won by the skin of your teeth, recalling Ghorn, Karkinos and the Guardian, 'Maybe I do.'

Scraping a modicum of willpower from the depths of his gut, Death swallows his pride and speaks the words he never thought he'd hear himself say with any kind of candor.

“You're...” This is going to be difficult. “... Right.”

Oh. So, perhaps it wasn't so difficult after all.

Your face falls neatly slack, lips parted and eyebrows raised high onto your forehead.

Yes, he supposes that would be his reaction too if he were in your position, hearing an impossible thing from lips that are hardly ever known to yield like that.

“You're right,” he says again, far more easily the second time around, “You're here now... For better-” The Horseman's chest expands and contracts as he releases a put-upon sigh. “- or for worse. I do not approve of your decision, but... I understand.”

Would he have done the same thing, if your positions were reversed?

For a moment or two, you're lost for words, wetting your lips and sparing a glance at the crow on your shoulder before returning your gaze to Death, who's eyes have begun to crinkle at their corners, a telltale sign that he's aiming a rare but genuine smile your way. “At least this way you can't get up to any more mischief with Karn,” he points out.

“... Huh,” you exhale at last in disbelief, sending a silent apology to the young maker you've left behind before finding your words, “More's the pity. Still, I'm sure there's plenty of mischief I can get up to here.”

Eyes flashing dangerously, Death growls, “Not if I can help it.”

“So... are we... okay?”

As if that's the most important question.

Pointedly, Death asks, “Are you okay?”

“I don't know, I think so,” you shrug, hesitating for a moment before you crack a weak smile, “It's not like this is the first time you've yelled at me for doing something stupid.”

"And I doubt it'll be the last."

The two of you share a strained, if relieved chuckle, eventually letting the pleasant sound taper off into silence.

“... Do you regret it?” Death asks after a quiet pause. He has to know. “Now that you're here. Do you wish you'd stayed?”

The question sprouts a pensive line between your eyebrows as you seem to put serious thought into it. “I regret not saying goodbye to the others,” you croak eventually, cradling your elbows and lowering your eyes to the ground, “I regret breaking my promise to Alya and Valus. I regret leaving Karn, even though I said I wouldn't.”

Then, just as Death's own gaze drops in a way that is not dejected, thank you very much, you raise your head to offer him one of your small, genuine smiles and add, “But I don't regret following you. I'm glad I know for sure you're not all corrupted or anything.”

You probably will, in time, but for now, Death knows for certain what it feels like to be put first. He can't help but reprimand himself for his selfishness, stubbornly battling down this foreign feeling that he doesn't recognise and can't equate to anything he's ever felt before...

The Horseman blows out a defeated sigh and opens his mouth to respond when he's cut off by a soft chuckle from behind him, accompanied by the clinking of crystals bouncing against one another in rhythmic succession.

The back of Death's neck prickles, but he refrains from drawing his scythes again as he wheels about to face the stranger he'd momentarily mistaken for... somebody else.

“In all my years,” an ancient creature rumbles, puffing lazily on its pipe as you and Death turn to face it, “Of all the tales I've read, and the stories I've heard tell... I never thought I'd get to see such a thing for myself one day...”

You sidle up to stand beside the Horseman and peer curiously at Ostegoth. “See what?”

The old one's yellow eyes are afire with intrigue and more than a little mischief. “Loyalty,” he stresses firmly, sweeping a crooked hand between you and Death, “A friendship that spans worlds and realms. The devotion of a human who would cross the Universe for the sake of a battle-weary Nephilim...” He trails off, letting out a wistful sigh. “Now that's the kind of thing that makes for an excellent saga.”

“Our trials are not fodder for your daydreams, Old one,” Death admonishes, but you simply shrug your shoulder and appraise Ostegoth with a warm smile, leaving the Horseman to again baffle over how you've managed to sniff out the one, solitary creature in the Dead Plains who seems to be friendly.

“Oh, I don't know,” you hum, “A story about our adventures? I think it could be a fun read.”

Ostegoth points his pipe at you, eyebrows raised approvingly at your agreement, though Death, contrarily, seems less than enthused.

“Oh yes. Reading about events that have already transpired... Riveting.”

Rolling your eyes up to the green-tinged sky, you offer the stranger an apologetic grin. “Don't mind him. I don't think he'd know fun if it walked up and smacked that mask right off his face.”

You blatantly ignore the scathing look you receive for that remark in favour of stepping closer to Ostegoth, heedless of the way Death's fingers twitch as you move further away from his side.

The Horseman retracts his traitorous appendages and glowers down at them, chalking the instinct up to mere force of habit.

“Hey, Ostegoth? You look like a worldly kind of guy-” you begin.

'Isn't that wonderful?' the Nephilim notes cynically, 'You're on first name basis already.'

“-Why'd the Tree spit us out here?” you're continuing, oblivious to Death's inner commentary, “I thought it was supposed to lead us right to the Well of Souls. Wasn't it?”

Tipping his head back in thought, the old one lets out a pensive hum into his pipe, and for a moment, he appraises you from the edge of his vision, as if surprised that you're deferring to his wisdom, rather than the Horseman's. After another second or two of silence, he responds regardless. “While the Tree and Well are both inextricably intertwined,” he explains sagely, “One cannot simply reach the Well of Souls through the Tree of Life. For the safety of Creation, and all of its souls, it cannot be that easy.”

Huh... You have to admit, that hadn't even crossed your mind. The Well of Souls, as Eideard had described it, certainly does sound important, and if someone as mundane and ordinary as you could find your way to the Tree, then anybody could, feasibly.

Apparently, Death hadn't considered that little tidbit of information either, because he suddenly spits something in a language you don't understand, and when you spare him a glance, you find that he's turned away from you to face the Tree, the muscles along the base of his neck drawn taut with clear agitation.

You swallow thickly around a swell of sympathy that grows inside your throat and set aside your own grievances for the time being. In one, tiny instant, you realise that it's Death who truly needs to catch a break. He must have thought he'd been so close to saving his brother...

It takes him a long moment, but eventually, the Horseman twists his head over one shoulder to glower wanly at Ostegoth. “So. What, in that case, would you propose we do, were you in our position - O' fount of all knowledge?”

You click your tongue at him chidingly, but Ostegoth merely gives a knowing chuckle and replies, “Were I in your position, Horseman, I would seek to scale the Serpent's Peak.” With a swish of his long, brown robes, he turns away from you and raises an arm, pointing a gnarled finger out into the cragged desert and up towards a large, far-off cluster of cliffs that rise like gargantuan tombstones out of the dust and sand, several kilometres from the Tree.

“At the top, you will find the means to summon the Eternal Throne,” Ostegoth continues, “And it is there that the Lord of Bones slumbers...”

“The.. the Lord of Bones?” you parrot, feeling a shudder run down your spine at the ominous name, “And... This Lord can help us?”

From the back of his throat, Ostegoth emits a tentative hum as he swivels about to face you again. “Mm. Either he will guide you to the Well,” he says and fixes you with a severe grimace, “Or, he will have your soul, little Lamb. You'd best mind yourself in the Dead King's court. He's a capricious old beast, even at the best of times.”

Well. That hardly instills much confidence. You can't keep your mind away from imagining any number of ghastly figures who could be a Lord of this wretched and desolate landscape.

It's somewhat of a relief when a chilly hand lands on your shoulder and draws you out of your thoughts.

“Looks like we're in for a bit of a ride,” Death remarks, peering up towards Serpent's peak before lowering his gaze back down to you once more, “What say you, my intrepid little human? Are you prepared to face the Land of the Dead?”

His tone is teasing, and you're immensely glad that it is. You much prefer being teased over being shouted at.

“I think we all know the answer to that question,” you respond after a moment, rubbing tiredly at your eyes.

Cocking his head, Ostegoth looks at you closely, his expression borderline impressed. “You are prepared?”

“What?” Turning to him, you scrunch your nose up and scoff, “No. God, no. Not in the least. Do I look prepared?”

“You look dead on your feet,” Death jokes, giving your shoulder an encouraging pat, “So, I'd say you'll fit right in.”

“God, you're funny.”

“Do you think so?”

“Oh, absolutely. Hang on, give me a minute. There must be a laugh around here somewhere I can use..”

Ostegoth's lips tilt up in amusement at the back and forth passing between you and the Horseman.

'Who would ever have thought it possible?' he muses whilst Death remarks on the bags hanging beneath your eyes, to which you respond by telling him that you thought he was a corpse when you first met him.

'Death, the Executioner - most widely-hated being the Universe has ever spat out - has gone and made himself a friend.'

The last Capraus smiles incredulously and gives his woolly head a long, slow shake.

Death, it seems, has come a long, long way from the Nephilim he used to be - the same Nephilim who butchered entire species alongside his brethren – species like Ostegoth's...

He wonders what you might say if you were to know the truth of why Ostegoth shares your title as 'The Last.'

He considers Death a moment longer, watching the Horseman cuff you gently around the back of the head and pulling a peel of tired laughter from your cracked lips.

He almost can't quite believe that this is the same pair who were so brusque with one another not five minutes ago.

Whatever you and the Horseman have gone through together, it must have been tremendously significant.

Ostegoth's lonely, old heart softens at the sight.

What's that human saying again? Something about bygones?

“Ostegoth?”

Pulled from his musings, he glances down to find you peering back at him.

One thing he's heard consistently about humans is that they're ever so easy to read. Now, Ostegoth isn't one to perpetuate idle gossip and stereotypes, but it seems that this particular observation holds some truth to it. Your expression seems to follow the same rule as most other species – Eyebrows twisted together and tilted up towards the centre of your forehead, lips pulled into a tight frown... You're all but broadcasting concern.

“Death says this place is really dangerous,” you continue, fidgeting absently with your small, delicate fingers, “What'll you do now? Will you be okay?”

Ah. You're concerned about him. A perfect stranger, no less.

What a novel concept.

Perhaps the rumours about humans forging firm bonds outside their own species are true as well.

It appears the Horseman's familiarity with you is testament to that.

But how many countless centuries have passed...? How many millennia has it been since anyone asked after Ostegoth's well-being?

Too many...

Lifting his muzzle into a rueful smile, the old Capracus bows his head and waves away your concern. “No need to fret about an old goat like me, Lamb. I have conducted business in far less savoury realms than this one.”

It's clear that you're still hesitant, but you begin to take small, unhurried steps after Death, twisting your head over a shoulder to keep Ostegoth in your sights as you offer him a wave of your hand. “Well... Okay, if you say so. Thanks for the help... Oh! And, it was nice to meet you!”

He blinks owlishly. Was it?

Hmm... Must be another bit of human jargon. How delightful!

Raising his pipe into the air, he returns the sentiment, calling, “Likewise, Lamb! Likewise...”

The Horseman has begun to move to the edge of the courtyard and you dutifully traipse after him, catching up with his far longer strides and falling into step beside him, as if you'd been made to occupy the space.

A musty breeze rolls across the courtyard from the desert and teases through Ostegoth's wool as he stands alone with his keen gaze trained on the Universe's most unconventional duo.

“Extraordinary,” the old one hums beneath his breath, drawing in a long, slow lungful of smoke before blowing it gently out again in a ring that encompasses both you and Death like a picture frame, “Most extraordinary indeed.”

-------------

“He seemed nice,” you remark to a phlegmatic Death, who simply grumbles to himself nonsensically, likely something disagreeable.

Overhead, a familiar mass of ebony feathers swoops along, riding a tailwind that catches beneath his wings and sends him soaring higher into the sky, casting his shadow across the uneven ground as he scouts around for trouble.

The stone courtyard comes to an abrupt end, and Death steps deftly off the rock and onto the sand, his boots making nary an indent in the soft, malleable surface.

You, on the other hand, take one step off the courtyard and very nearly lose your footing as you sink up to your ankles in desert sand.

“Woah!” you exclaim, instinctively throwing out a hand to cushion your fall, only to find your forearm caught inside an iron grip that hauls you upright again.

Death's reflexes are as sharp as ever, it seems.

“You're off to a good start,” he comments, withdrawing his hand slowly as though he expects you to collapse at any second.

Given the fact that your limbs feel more like lead than flesh, you suppose his hesitation isn't unfounded.

“Ha,” you deadpan, glaring down at his boots enviously, “I'd have bet money you were heavier than me.”

The lines beneath his eyes grow more prominent as he tugs his lips into his characteristic smirk. “Try not to think too hard on it,” he tells you casually, “Nature's laws do not apply to me in the same way they do you.”

“Perks of being Death incarnate, I imagine.”

“One perk of many,” he agrees with a sigh, like it's a curse rather than a blessing not to be impeded by the elements. He pauses then, tipping his head back and squinting up at the sky, and drops the mirth from his tone. “Hmm. If we're to get to the Peak before darkness falls, we'll have to travel by horseback.”

“Oh, thank god,” you gush, bending forwards to rest your hands on your knees, “I thought you were never going to suggest that.”

With fatigue weighing you down, Despair is certainly bound to be a sight for sore eyes.

Death, however, seems a little more reticent at the prospect of being reunited with his steed. “Yes... Well.. It might be worth standing over... here, when I summon him,” he suggests, pushing on your shoulder until you're forced to take several steps backwards in bewilderment as the Horseman retreats to a spot several paces away from your side, holding up a hand to tell you wordlessly to remain where you are.

“Um... okay?” you drawl, “...Why?”

Rather than reply, Death turns around to face the desert and throws out a quiet, beckoning thought, concentrating on connecting his mind to Despair's.

An answer comes almost instantaneously.

With a raging screech that could rival a banshee's, the spectral steed erupts from the desert floor, materialising in a maelstrom of swirling, sickly green light and sand that gets kicked up in every direction by lashing hooves.

He rears back, forelegs striking out towards Death, yet never coming quite close enough to actually land any blows before he drops heavily onto all four hooves again, glaring down at his rider through wild, milky eyes.

“Well,” the Horseman says, brushing a few grains of sand from his chest, “That was quite the entrance. I take it you're still upset with me.”

In response, Despair pins his pointed ears back against his skull, lets out a razor-sharp snort and snaps his neck out, teeth nipping Death smartly on the shoulder.

Although you recoil with a wince and hiss through your own teeth, the Horseman hardly even flinches.

“I presume that was a 'yes,” he remarks, “Would you have rather I allowed you to be crushed beneath the Guardian's heel, then?”

Despair stamps his rear hoof and throws his head back, tail bone swishing irritably.

“Charming,” Death huffs, crossing his arms, “I appreciate the sentiment, but as you can see, I am perfectly fine.”

“He's mad at you?” Bravely, you venture a step or two closer to the horse and rider, the former of who pricks his ears up at the sound of your voice and turns his large head towards you, nickering a soft greeting.

“For banishing him during our scuffle with the Guardian, yes.” Rolling his eyes, Death tuts at his horse as the enormous beast shakes his neck out and plods up to you, head lowered passively.

At once, you freeze mid-step, eyeing the exposed incisors warily. “He's, uh... not gonna bite me as well, is he?” But before you've even finished your sentence, Despair stretches his muzzle out to close the distance between you and presses his nose gently against your collar bone, whuffing a ghostly breath across your skin.

You brace yourself, wholly expecting to feel the pinch of teeth against delicate, paper-thin flesh, but when several moments pass and nothing further happens, you allow yourself to relax a little, bringing your hands up to scratch at the cold, hairless spot just behind the horse's ears where his spine connects to his skull.

It's... leathery. Not unpleasant, but certainly far from the soft, fuzzy horses you've encountered on Earth.

After a longer moment spent tentatively smoothing your fingers over the bizarre skin, Death speaks up, murmuring, “He knows you're sad.”

You glance between the horse's ears to find his rider peering down at you with a sombre look in his luminous eyes.

Swallowing thickly, you drop your gaze to Despair's nose bone. “...Yeah. We've all had a tough day, I think..”

Your fingers mark a trail down the vertebrae of his neck and you begin absently brushing loose grains of sand that still cling to him stubbornly as a solemn quiet falls over your group.

It doesn't last long, however. Whilst you continue to clear away specks of sand, Despair moves his teeth to your shoulder and starts nibbling lightly at the strap of your tank top. It takes you by surprise and you let out a laugh that is far more of a breathy wheeze than anything else, but you at least manage to smile. He's grooming you right back.

“You're a good boy, Despair,” you whisper to the horse, whose bony ears twitch in response, “A good boy. But you don't have to worry about me, okay? And.. you shouldn't be mad at Death...”

Your eyes meet the Horseman's again over the neck of his colossal steed. “He was only trying to help.”

And as if to defeatedly say, 'I know,' the horse sighs, his entire body sagging dramatically and his bony chin dropping onto your shoulder, causing you to stagger under the unexpected weight.

“All right, all right,” Death is quick to come to your rescue, moving up next to Despair's stirrups and giving them a sharp tug, testing the girth, “That's quite enough theatrics for one day. We've a desert to cross, and a Throne to summon.”

“And how does one summon a throne?” you ask, removing yourself from beneath the horse's chin and stepping around him to meet Death beside the saddle.

“You'll find out once we get there,” he dismisses as he leans down and snakes a hand under your shin, waiting until you give him a nod before he hoists you effortlessly up into the seat.

You shift forwards as close to the saddle horn as space will allow and scratch idly at Despair's withers whilst Death pulls himself up and slides into place behind you, enveloping you safely between his arms as he reaches around you and takes up the horse's reins.

The temptation to give into fatigue almost instantly overwhelms you, and you find yourself leaning ever so slightly back against the Horseman's sturdy chest, blinking languidly out at the desert that passes by.

Despair seems to glide over the sand as easily as his rider, and it's at a steady, even trot that you begin your journey towards Serpent's Peak.

All around you, the desert lays sprawled out like a never-ending ocean of rock, sand and ash. Its dunes undulate as you pass them by, seeming to come alive as the wind whistles softly over them, disturbing the uppermost layer of dust and sending it skittering downhill to gather at the juncture between each rolling hillock.

The smooth gait of the horse carrying you is enough to lull you further towards sleep, but you fight it at every turn, jerking awake each time you find your eyelids trying to seal themselves shut, as if both are laden down by heavy weights.

At your back, Death keeps a keen eye on his surroundings, yet he continues to steal the occasional glance down at you from time to time, smiling despite himself when he catches you flinching awake yet again.

“We've still a fair way to go,” he announces, startling you upright from your slouched position, “I will not begrudge you a little rest... I suspect you're in dire need of it.”

There is still danger aplenty out here – danger that he won't miss should it rear its ugly head to threaten your safety. But right now, with a Horseman at your back, his loyal steed striding gracefully below you and his faithful crow keeping watch from the sky, he supposes that you're probably as safe as you're ever going to be.

No sooner has that thought occurred to him than he feels the back of your head thud against his chest and he glances down in surprise, his amber eyes widening a fraction. He didn't think you'd fall unconscious that fast.

... Well.. he did say you could rest. It occurs to him that you really shouldn't trust him this easily.

Nobody but the Horseman and his steed would ever know that a cold, cadaverous hand touches its fingertips regretfully against the small, crescent-shaped wounds that decorate the tops of your arms.

The Nephilim sighs, thinking of Absalom, and what trouble this revelation is going to bring in the future.

This interlude of peace is fleeting, and all too soon, the human snoring quietly between his arms will be awake once more, helpless but to face the trials ahead.

Still.. Death has to admit, you've made it this far.

What's a little further?

Just a little further...

#Darksiders #darksiders 2 #cold hands warm heart #reader #reaper #Reader x Death #Dust is good boy no.1 #Despair too #Ostegoth #Absalom #uh oh #here we go #NEXT UP - Draven and his big fat crush on you

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