#Ulthane x reader

[imagine-darksiders]

To Hell with it. Big humpback whale Ulthane for Mermay.

Y/n is the survivor of a shipwreck and Ulthane, a mer who's lost his entire pod, finds them clinging to a large piece of driftwood, barely staying afloat in the open ocean.

Understanding that humans are predominantly a land-dwelling species, he brings them to a deserted island within his territory, pleased to at last have some company to stave off his isolation.

Y/n is just trying to get off the island, perplexed as to why this gruff, enormous mer keeps leaving them beautiful but functionless seashells, catching fish for them to eat, and otherwise thwarting any attempts they make to swim out into deeper waters.

[darkdemeter]

I'm sorta new to this blog, but can I request Death with a male reader who knows how to fight? Like martial arts or fencing or something like that? I always wondered how Death would react to something like that. Thank you!

A SPARRING PARTNER

◤✘DARKSIDERS REQUESTS | CATALOGUE Death x Male Reader

NOTES ↳ New, sort of new or been around since post one, I welcome you to the blog anyhow! WARNINGS❕ ↳ just general fluffy content — a brief mention of a past relative (mother) — I think that's it

✎ 2.6k

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You often recall the lessons of your past with fondness. It had been your mother’s passion to indulge you in your hobbies, gifting you a membership for your twelfth birthday to pursue the art of fencing. A prestigious hall of astute students and though humble and nervous, you persevered; even surpassing through the ranks. 

But whoever said it was a sport dedicated to elegance never understood the sheer brutality of such calculations beneath the glamorous form each opponent took. 

But Death saw the intermingle of both aspects in the way you portrayed your skill. Yes, New Haven was a luscious and serene sanctuary but safety was not a complete guarantee. Not with all the forces that conspire against them and it was best to be prepared. In your opinion, being able to wield and have a sense of combat was better than none at all. 

And so, when you could find time, you continue to exercise the lengths of your skill in hopes to keep the memory of it alive and to ensure you would not grow sloppy.

And the reaper himself grew to become fascinated in watching your self-appointed training. A strapping young man armed with a regal rapier, your mother had often said. How you miss her dearly. Perhaps it was to also ensure her memory prevailed that you kept at it. You can almost hear the way she clapped and cheered you on during your exams and presentations, making sure every other parent knew you were her son. 

But of course, when the apocalypse happened you all but lost your relic of an epee rapier. A gift for your nineteenth birthday and from that day forward you treasured it. You wish you could somehow find it, reclaim it. But alas, it is a forgotten dream. A hopeless wish you and your poor mother’s memory would never see achieved. 

Taking form as if you stood before your opponent, you calmed yourself once again. The air is a welcomed breeze in comparison to the beating heat of the sun. It takes time to repeat and commit movesets, to focus the harness of its second nature deep into your bones. Something Death can relate to, almost yet guiltily recalling his younger terms when he began to wield his blade. Absalom had taught him all he needed to and more, somehow surpassing the rest of his firstborn ilk and placing only second to Absalom. 

He wonders if you had any predecessors that you were to succeed. Death often watched you at a distance, speaking with you only so little. What information he gained about you was passing conversation with the other humans, his brother Strife who’d been present in his disguise as Jones when you were present at Haven and that of the maker, Ulthane. 

It’s like you kept this distance between yourself and the reaper for some unknown reason. The rare times you both managed to come face to face and talk it had been only a brief conversation before one of you were off on your business. 

So when treated to this seemingly hidden, other side of you, Death in fact took a curious intrigue over it. Silently he’d watch you, your footwork and try to imagine what your foe would be doing, how you would evade the next imaginary attack. Maybe it was his old mind at play but he may have foreseen a few stumbles that could benefit from improvement. 

Indeed as everyone had said about you, you were an able young man with an uncanny prowess in the art of fencing. By no means a Horseman or Maker, but for a human it was impressive; no matter how abashed you became and humbly dismissed the praise of your fellow survivors. 

The glow of his amber eyes shrink and beam, widening. His mind calculates your moves. You lunge forward with a hearted strike, grunting with the motion. You pull back, weight balanced and loosely held. You swing your makeshift blade with another grunted cry, swiping across before taking several steps back, swerving and evading the imagined offense of your attacker. 

Suddenly your attack does something unexpected, it only just catches you unawares. You sharply pivot your body, twirling on your heel and arching your back while simultaneously catching your blade against your target’s, Death can practically hear the ring of metal grinding metal piercing through the veil of the rolling pastures. A song he knows all too well. An orchestra of the fight, a melody to warfare. 

Huffing to yourself you continue on. It was good to always throw an odd attack into the mix to keep your senses sharp. 

Dust prances back and forth on the paled, sunken curve of Death’s shoulder, pecking and fluffing a portion of his hair between his beak. A pushing warble vibrating in his gullet. With a rumbled tsk, Death beats a dismissive hand at Dust.

“Quit it.”

Alerted by a louder, monotone caw, Death shoos Dust from his place with a growl. Now aware that you have stopped and turned to face towards his direction, the pale rider freezes before his hand slowly lowers to his side. 

Now he feels like he’s the abashed one. Caught spying on you. 

He expects you to scowl at him and bluntly ask why he’s watching you, to confront his guilty… ‘hobby’. However, instead you flash him a toothy smile and a nervous laugh bubbles up from your throat. 

“Death,” you greet and let your body relax, “I didn’t notice you there.”

That’s what he was hoping for. To remain unnoticed. A creeping shadow, the revered and masked invisible presence unseen by you. 

Now that’s gone all out the window. You can’t identify the way his eyes dart back and forth in a nervous flutter, the cumbersome burn of amber hiding it well at this distance or the way his heart he thought dead and unbeating lively rapped hard against his chest. When did Death himself get startled like this?

It’s your turn to watch him as he walks down the slight slope of the hillside he took spying refuge upon, the swaying lake of grass hiding the small drag of his footfall on his way down. 

“Y/N. I wasn’t—”

“Spying on me?” You chuckle with a shake of your head, waving it off. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, I’m not bothered. Honestly, I‘m surprised you decided to stay around and watch.”

His eyes follow you as you move around him, notably to ruffle through your satchel. Procuring a waterskin, you take a few gulps from it with a relieved sigh, grateful for the cool water to run over your tongue and cool you down from the inside. A refreshing feeling. 

“Why’s that?” he asks above a huff. He crosses his arms over his chest, turning his body somewhat to face you but a part of him keeps himself at a distance and thus, it’s reflected in the defensive manner in which he stands before you. 

With a shrug, you answer, “Because you’re busy doing… well, whatever it is you and your siblings do for us. Things that wouldn’t occupy your attention for so long just to watch me flail around a uh… stick.”

As if to match your disappointed gaze, Death’s eyes lower to the long, sturdy stick you held in hand, allowing the shortened end that acted as your hilt beating dully against your wrist. 

“I see.” His voice is rough as it always is but you want to believe you hear an ounce of remorse in his curt reply. 

“So why exactly were you watching me?” You raise a brow, skeptical of the rider’s motivations but not in a hostile way. You’re rather flattered he stuck around. 

“Well, you’re an interesting character I wish to observe. You seem to know how to handle yourself.”

Dare the brooding reaper admit it, you’re impressive in what you do. It’s what kept his interest. How you would always twiddle the stick you use now in your grasp as you went about your business, twirling it in elaborate yet half-minded action, involuntarily demonstrating your skill. 

“You’re rather good, If I do say.”

The sun suddenly sinks a pit of heat deep into your skin and your eyes bow, shrinking away from his gaze. “Thanks. I think I’ve lost the proper motivation though, ever since I lost my epee rapier.”

Daring to meet Death’s eyes again, you breathe deeply through your nose. You see the question in his eyes before he can even allow his voice to speak. 

“My mom’s present to me some time ago. I lost it when the whole world ended and such. It’s gone now for sure, sadly. And with it, the only thing I had left of my mom.”

You always try to not let your mourning betray you and show on your face, but some days it feels harder to hide. And Death himself can peer into the depth of your soul’s grief, acquainted well with the hollowing feeling of loss. 

“You held the weapon in high regard?” His question doesn’t pose any real alert. In true reality, all you think is that he’s curious to know why you’re sad over a piece of your past. Even he’s not above of harbouring certain aspects, keeping to hold them instead of letting them go.

Eventually he did but it was a great sacrifice to prove War’s innocence. Yet for the longest time, he didn’t have it in himself to let go. 

You nod with a small hum as you roll your shoulders back. “Yeah. It was something very special to me. Made me feel close to my mom.”

Blinking, you now realise that this is the longest held conversation you’ve had with Death and with a shy grin, you pack away your stick and waterskin. “I should probably head back and help around the camp.”

With your bag in hand you offer a kind wave to the reaper and bow of your head. “See you around, yeah?”

“Hm.” He merely nods in return and then watches as you walk off. Dust lands atop his shoulder again, a curious and low caw in his throat as though to ask Death what he’s thinking with that curious tilt of his head. The one that drapes the blackened tendrils of his hair over his shoulder and collarbone. 

Of course it had to be on Earth. Where else would it be? Wait, where else would you have been if it wasn’t here?

Baffling questions. Irrelevant. If humans were useful for anything, it was gossip. Yes, he could have asked you for more details — hell, he could have just offered to recover your rapier — but you’ve proven to be the sort to either get things yourself or to leave it be. 

The powerful slug of a bullet penetrating a meaty carcass echoes through the remains of the city where Death currently scouted through, Strife taking a lesser Nephilim’s path in being careless of the enemies that still roam. 

So long as he got to kill something, he was happy. 

Still, Death would very much rather—

POW!

“Would you cease your aimless antics and help me for once!” He made it sound more of an order than a poseable question able to be answered at the gunslinger’s whim, to which the dated folds of his scarf rumple with a shrugged motion. 

Firing at another bat flying overhead, Death sighs aloud with a sunken fall of his chest. He continues to sift through the abandoned remains of humanity until finally, his search is over. 

He does well to hide the giddiness that his more private quest his complete, but it’s all in the eyes as Strife has come to learn. 

Whistling over the older brother’s shoulder, Strife chuckles to himself. “Is that for that human you were talking to the other day?”

Death doesn’t answer him. Simply he lets out a grumble and storms away from his brother, summoning Despair with a beckoning whistle and will to manifest the mount of decay. Strife too summons Mayhem to his side, easily pulling himself into the saddle to pursue after Death. 

Death feels his body tense under the laugh that chases him through the wind that whips through his hair. “It totally is!”

There you are again, practicing in the small dirt field some distance away from the camp. Despair slows down considerably until his reins are tugged back and his hoof counts at the ground, his body strained with a shifting tremble. 

It’s endearing to watch you despite what he now understands are the lacking foundations. With your precious rapier restored, he wonders to himself. Dismounting his steed, he then wanders down the small hill towards you, aware but not cautious of you hitting him. It was a stick after all, what damage could it possibly do to—

THWACK!

He seethes with a hiss, eyes thinned into a scornful glare at the dull sting against his masked cheek.

You gasp and let the stick drop to the ground with your eyes as wide as the bulbous, full moon he’s seen a plethora of times. “Death I— I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Death, I could have poked your eye out!” All pain that resided with the incident is forgotten when he chuckles deeply, his chest bouncing when you fret over him, remorseful and frightful that you assaulted him; even by accident. 

“As I said before: you’re good.”

Unsure whether the compliment is still suited after beating Death with your stick, you grimace still, cringing as the event played over and over in your head like a broken record.

“Still… I’m sorry.”

Death brings something between you, wrapped in a sheet of leather and bound in a securing thread of rope. In awe of its mystery, you wait with bated breath as he unravels it before your very eyes. 

“You…”

“I found it.”

“I… I thought it was lost all this time.” You move hesitantly to take the rapier from him, scared that he’ll seize you and steal your soul right there and then. Nestled in your grasp is the familiar tingle in your fingers, your eyes taking in the details you thought only were to remain as distant memories, but here it is, in your hands once again and with it the memories you held dearly to your heart. Delivered unto you by Death no less, funnily enough, giving life again to your passion. 

With a bright and genuine smile, you don’t let fear consume you as you look up at him. “Thank you, Death. This… means everything to me.”

There’s a silence between you for a moment. You see the minute flutter of his eyes flicker away, at least you believe so, before he nods with a hum. “You’re welcome.”

Deeply does breath pass through your nose, inhaling and exhaling. With the rapier balanced in your palms, you can hear the affectionate octave of your mother’s voice applauding you, telling you how proud she is of you and how far you’ve come. That she misses and loves you, watching over you from wherever she is now. 

With a cock of his head, Death begins to wander not away from you but instead takes his place on the opposite side of the dirt field. With the power of his will, he manifests Harvester to take the form of that of a rapier itself, its form not one he’s familiar with but it is a warrior’s trade to become accustomed to new instruments of combat. 

And perhaps learn a new, graceful technique that he can show off to his siblings. “You now have your weapon again. Now, how about a sparring partner?”

He enjoys the wide grin that spreads over your lips then and eagerly nod, taking your stance and aiming your rapier at him pointedly. “I’d like that.”

At closer distance, Death has a chance to admire how you fight. No longer will you or he have to imagine your opponent, but instead a friendly sparring partner. 

[darksidersshitpost]

Request Rules

I'll do any length of writing just specify; One-shot, drabble, headcanon

I'll do any type (And ofc a mix of them as well); Fluff, Angst, Smut, Semi-Smut

Gender must be specified, if not the reader will automatically be gender neutral. If the reader is a different gender then the one assigned at birth let me know with a afab/amab, it helps my writing be less vague

I write for the horsemen, Ulthane, Samael,and Vulgrim. I have yet to finish the first game, so I'll add more as I play.

I'll write for sensitive topics such as but not limited to, self-harms, eating disorders, past raped. (There will be large warning labels on anything I deem sensitive btw.)

Posted: December 20th, 2021

[sophi-s]

Day 3 #Shipping: Part 2

"Lass, I dun' even wanna know where ye found this un..."

For the Reader ship I've decided to draw something a little different.

Raphael (design belongs to @coloredgravity ) and a Fem!Reader. Yes, I know it's a bit strange but I just really wanted to paint the sad and mad angel healer. Long story short, she accidentally found him, stayed long enough for him to start associating her with kind words, compassion and gentleness and at some point he wouldn't allow her to leave anymore. She had no other choice but to take him back to Heaven with her. Needless to say, Ulthane was unhappy.

I actually wanted to write a fic about it but I just... I can't. It's so hard.

If I keep this up I'll just write some headcannons and be done :(

Also, this face is going to haunt my nightmares. Not Raphael's. Human's. I did her nose SIX TIMES. And it's still so ugly :I

[conflictedrider]

Haha what if Jones had human needs as much as everyone else did. Love self neglect *finger guns*

In other words, Jones forgets he too is human in this form and fails to meet his body’s needs. Some Jones x Reader that I am not happy with but too lazy to fix or even finish lmfao. Expect more as I learn to characterise the human as much as I do Strife. Also using headcanons I use so c:

Warnings: Accidental Self-Neglect, Not eating, not sleeping, pushing self to the limits, all that jazz.

“Jones, was it?”

Jones. Yes, that is his name, the name which he had decided for himself to be known by amongst the company he chose to keep. It is a strong name, he supposes. A good and simple name.

“Jones? Hello?”

He looks up, roused from his little daydream by the voice of the newest addition to Ulthane’s little gathering of humans. He has no clue where the Old One was pulling all these survivors from, nor how he was finding them and finding them alive. He only knows that these humans are being sheltered here, as he is. The Makers have not even an inkling of his true identity.

“Are you okay there? You were staring into space.”

Jones waves his hand dismissively, instinctively appraising the human before him. He doesn’t entirely know why he bothers, knowing they were so weak and helpless, but it is a habit he feels no need to break.

“‘M fine. You know me. Just daydreamin’ like always,” He laughs, trying to pass off a weak smile under his hood. “You ain’t gotta worry about little old me.”

His eyes lock onto the human’s and he pauses, unable to look away from the determination and will to survive in those eyes. Humans are so fascinating…

“Jones. Jones, you’re staring.”

Again he shakes himself out of his reverie, one hand coming up to scratch his beard. The other stretches high above his head and he feels more than hears the popping in his back. Clearly he had been sitting there for quite some time. He is really out of it, clearly, and he doesn’t know why.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” He grins again, making to get up.

The world around him spins suddenly and he lurches forward as it cuts out.

You were expecting to meet the most ballsy of the group, as they had called him, the most likely to try to escape Ulthane’s grasp and go out on a supply run. You weren’t expecting the tall space cadet sitting before you, nor were you expecting him to black out on you upon attempting to stand.

Holding his limp body in your arms, you glance over at the person who suggested you meet Jones. The youngster who had introduced themself as Lance shrugs.

“Dumbass never sleeps or eats no matter how we try to make him,” they explain. “It’s a wonder how he’s even alive, honestly.”

That isn’t very reassuring considering this guy is meant to be the leader of this little mismatched group of survivors under the care of literal giant dwarves. You look down at his unconscious form, lowering him to the ground as the others hover about. You can feel exasperation in your chest as you consider your options now.

You could leave him there, you suppose, but you would feel bad later. So you lay his head in your lap and let him rest there. You’ll chew him out when he wakes, you decide, getting comfortable.

[darksiders-scenarios]

Masterlist

I don’t always write but when I do, most of them shall be found here. 

When are my followers’ birthdays?

Dear Darksiders Fandom

~SCENARIOS~

Horsemen/ Angels post coitus (calm after the do)

Reader slapping War's ass

Upfront (Strife x Reader)

Horsemen supporting their S/O to clean their appartment

Horsemen not caring for their S/O (distressing) 

Death dealing with his S/O's first kill

Horsemen's S/O singing for them 

Bathing with the Horsemen

My take on the fight between the Archon and Death

Death's son and Azrael's daughter courting?? (pfft)

Death and War lost in the White City 

Death dealing with Dust liking Strife more than him.

Strife is accused of stealing your hot chocolate. He sets out to clear his name.

Humans referring to Death as Thanatos. 

Horsemen relaxing with their S/O

Horsemen's S/O taking a hit for them

Horsemen and characters dealing with hiccups (hehe)

Death dealing with an S/O agitated by trivial things.

War with a sweet-toothed S/O

Strife and Death (Angsty Wangtsy) 

Angsty Strife

Horsemen dealing with the death of their s/o mother.

Horsemen bonding with pregnant mum s/o

Horsemen taking care of a pregnant, grieving mother 

Horsemen with a Badass pregnant mother (V2)

Death and Strife dealing with reader in labour

Proud big brother Death gushing over baby brother War

I have a Theory. (Death x Reader)

One More Ride (War x Reader)

Death and the Stalker

Dinner with Strife 

Death is an Asshole (Strife & Death)

War receiving Chaoseater for the first time

Cuddling War for the first time

Death's Dental Service for an S/O with a tooth problem.

Horsemen, Azrael & Ezgati encountering the cuddlefish

Horsemen with a *sighs* shot S/O

Death encountering a 4 years old human child (Part 1)  

Death with a female child- Part 2

Office AU short 

He is Innocent (Death and Karn)

Horsemen & Azrael caring for a sick S/O

S/O requesting Horsemen to finish them

Death with a sick S/O

Horsemen and their S/O reunion after three years

Death/ War witnessing their S/O getting abused by their family member

Cuddling with Death

Strife with a tired S/O

Horsemen, Azrael and Karn coming across a severely injured human 

Horsemen, Azrael & Damsel asking their S/O about trying to have kids 

Strife/ Fury with an S/O with selective mutism 

War and S/O with selective mutism

Death and S/O with selective mutism

Death comfort scenario for S/O who’s feeling down

Horsemen comfort scenarios for s/o with drug addict brothers.

Horsemen, Uriel and Azrael’s child informing them they want to transition

S/O comforting Horsemen

Horsemen, Draven, Azrael & Samael proposing to their S/O

Horsemen, Azrael and Samael dealing with a suicidal S/O

Secret Genius Strife??

Horsemen catching their depressive S/O humming 

Horsemen accidentally hurting their S/O in a fit of anger

Horsemen dealing with a hyper kitten

Horsemen, Azrael and Samael finding out their S/O is self-harming

Death supporting his S/O suffering from exam stress

S/O assuming Death + War are cheating on them. 

Death’s S/O coming across their old home post-apocalypse.

War’s thoughts on Death’s S/O getting the upper hand in a sparring match.

War’s Reaction to Uriel and her S/O

How will Uriel get along with War’s SO?

Horsemen encountering a doll-sized S/O (part 1 + part 2) 

War, Death and Azrael dealing with S/O unexplained insomnia

Horsemen dealing with S/O with low confidence and self-esteem

Horsemen protecting S/O after the restoration of humanity  (part 1 + part 2)

Horsemen dealing with tongue twisters and riddles (part one + part two)

Horsemen and Azrael dealing with newborn rabbits (part one).

Comforting S/O following one of their deaths (part 2)

S/O introducing Lilith to their parents (part one) 

Horsemen+ Samael reactions (part two)

Horsemen and Samael with an S/O who was exactly like them personality wise

War’s reaction to S/O almost dying in battle 

Death comforting S/O after an argument with their parents (my first debut yayz!)

-

~REACTIONS~

Horsemen reacting to their shy s/o dressing up nicely for them

War's first time doing the do, siblings instruct (I’m serious)

Azrael reading Harry Potter

Horsemaster reaction from a cheek kiss

Horsemen reacting to their vampire S/O

Horsemen, Alya, Azrael and Muria with a dragonborn S/O

Death reacting to a mini reaper on Halloween.

Angels' reactions to an S/O who preens their feathers

Everyone's reactions to a polyamorous S/O

Horsemen's reactions to an S/O mothering them

Death's reaction to a fan's man-crush  

Horsemen's reactions to posing for a painting (French)

Horsemen, Lilith and Alya towards an S/O with a teleporter

Horsemen reacting to Greek Mythology

Horsemen, Azrael, Vulgrim's reactions to s/o with tetrachromacy

Angels learning that their S/O is a White Witch

Angels with newborn angels Part 1 + Part 2

Angels’ reactions to S/O caring for wounded birds

Horsemen/ Angels' reactions to s/o revealing they've done some immoral things 

Horsemen/ human reactions to being flirted at

Angels and Vulgrim reacting to their painted portrait

Horsemen's reactions to being painted on a canvas

Horsemen's S/O dabbling in the dark arts

Horsemen hearing their non-verbal S/O speaking for the first time

Introducing Horsemen to Pancakes

Horsemen, Karn, Ulthane, Uriel, Samael & Azrael with a werewolf S/O

Horsemen's reactions to a sincere compliment

Horsemen's reactions to their steeds vanishing

Horsemen, Angels and Samael meeting S/O’s baby sibling 

Strife attempts to cheer s/o with bad puns

Horsemen, Samael and Azrael reactions to bands/ songs about them 

Horsemen's reactions to their human companion vlogging them

Horsemen’s reactions to a sarcastic S/O

Death and Draven’s reaction to an S/O with a tendency towards collecting any animals 

Horsemen’s reaction S/O with a large number of siblings

Horsemen, Azrael and Samael’s reactions to War and Uriel’s relationship

Horsemen, Azrael and Samael reaction to a usually unafraid S/O with a fear of simple things

Horsemen experiencing kissing for the first time

-

~HEADCANONS~

Personalities that attract Horsemen

Horsemen as the four humours/ temperaments

Hairstyles that attract Horsemen 

Horsemen/ Pride month

Angels as Pigeons/ Doves

Horsemen/ Angels surfing...

Jealous Horsemen

Lilith HC 

Horsemen's curse

Death reacting to his s/o being injured

War and Reader acknowledging their mutual attraction 

Real reason why Abaddon hates mankind

Crowfather but without the crow

[Tag yourself] How do you like your coffee?

Metal song styles for the Horsemen

Death's journal

Gifs for Horsemen as parents

DAVE

Movie genres for Horsemen, Azrael and Beamboi

The Five

Draven headcanons 

Saying that you like traveling with Death

Sports for Horsemen, Vulgrim and Azrael

Jamearah Platonic/ romantic Headcanons

Death's Face  

Ecanos' painted portrait!! <3

Ecanos and Ezgati's professions

Azraowl by @speaker-of-the-black-hand <3

Horsemen with their S/O after a heartbreak

Protective and Possessive Horsemen

Death and his S/O with twins

How Horsemen confess their feelings

Some Strife Gunslinging HC?

Valus has Selective Mutism

Ecanos [part 2]

Ecanos Headcanons 

Ezgati Headcanons

Horsemen dealing with a sick S/O

Headcanons for Archon Lucien and War 

Drunk headcanons for 3 dead lords; Phariseer, Judicator, Basileus 

Drunk Headcanons for Uriel, Vulgrim, Azrael and Draven 

Human procreating with non-human species

Physical affection in Nephilim Culture - (kissing) + (handholding) 

If angels, demons or nephilims sought a different lifestyle; faith, religion or migration. 

Horsemen’s S/O character type, class, battle/weapon, magic style, role and other features 

If horsemen played musical instruments 

‘Opposite attracts’ partners for the horsemen

Horsemen finding out their S/O is a duchess by birthright 

Horsemen as stress responders 

Horsemen, Azrael and Samael marriage visual markers 

Little details about S/O that horsemen like (personality, behaviour, appearance)

-

~FLUFFS~

Archon Fluff (meh)

Crowfather fluff

War

Strife

Sum Death fluffs ;)

Cuddling Death while sleeping

Horsemen, Azrael and Karn cuddling with S/O

Muria

Alya

Nathaniel

-

~BEING A PARENT WILL INVOLVE...~

War

Death

Fury

Strife

Nathaniel

Abaddon

Muria

Azrael 

Samael and Lilith

-

~HAVING A CRUSH ON YOU WILL INVOLVE...~

Alya 

Nathaniel 

Horsemaster

-

~WAYS TO MAKE __ HAPPY~

Uriel

Azrael

Fury

Strife

Death

-

~WAYS TO ANNOY ___~

Uriel

Azrael 

Death

War

-

~KIDDIES~

Nathaniel

Uriel

Azrael

Ezgati [Bonus Unca’ Ecanos]

-

~HOLIDAY SPECIALS~

Fury's wearing a- 

Nathaniel Mystery Surprise [part 1]  

How characters react to being kissed on New Year.

Christmas blues

Christmas with the Horsemen

-

~ADVICE/ SUGGESTIONS/ OTHERS (be warned, they suck) ~

Writing an autistic character

Writing Fury 

Which Horseman will I date/ be best friends with

-

~WHAT MY FOLLOWERS WROTE <3

@woodland-princen - Vulgrim reaction's to an S/O with questionable culinary skills

@infernallightofdarkness wrote: Epic insults for @askthedarksidersfam ’Gordon Ramsay and Death having a roasting battle.' 

@ohmygillygoshoppler wrote: Azrael’s Midnight Snack

@apocalypticentaurs wrote: Azrael and War’s reaction to S/O not wanting to leave Eden 

@cogsandcherryblossoms wrote: War’s S/O coming across their old home post-apocalypse. (scroll down) 

@never-enough-darksiders wrote: scenarios of HM’s reactions to a sarcastic S/O (part two) 

-

~REDIRECT THE BEEMZ~

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/170847725556/fades-into-the-cringe-abyss

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/172004767321

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/170774198851

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/170277297696/a-s-d-f-a-s-d-a-s-d-f

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/170202191096/i-dare

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/168957566291/i-should-stop

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/168852464546/christmas-gift-from-the-twit

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/168571603196/worrying

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/168432167091

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/168009171756/did-they-send-me-beamboi-when-i-asked-for-cakes

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/167587592781/im-a-twit

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/167487786536/ohmygillygoshoppler-darksiders-scenarios

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/167734095826/askthedarksidersfam-darksiders-scenarios

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/166354324171/immolation-intensifies

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/166780035201/hehehe

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/164370356511/when-you-have-free-time-at-work

[imagine-darksiders]

I miss my Haven fic. The kids know Ulthane has a crush on their teacher and vice versa, and so they spend the whole of December trying to get the two of you together.

Would you smooch the maker?

[imagine-darksiders]

Family Tree update coming in the next 2 days if I can stay focused with three housemates and no private space to write lmao.

[imagine-darksiders]

Family Tree - Chapter 1 - Imagine_Darksiders - Darksiders (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]

When it comes down to it, Ulthane is shocked – and moderately alarmed – at how ferociously humans will fight for one of theirs, even at the risk of their own lives.

Consequently, he has to wonder when he’d been upgraded from ‘The Maker’ to ‘One of ours.’

-----

Chapter 1/2 of this rough little drabble I've been playing around with all week. The second chap is basically written, but I want to split it in two for pacing.

[imagine-darksiders]

Ulthane, my beloved.

I hate writer's block.

[imagine-darksiders]

Do remember when you've written about the desires of Draven & Samael regarding y/n? If it's not too much to ask, would you mind continuing the series by adding Ulthane? I've never seen longing for someone written in a way that was so appealing.

HELLO! Thank you for this ask, I hope you don't mind, I'm going to make this into a 2 part fic because I've got 2 ideas on how to end it, but I'm having trouble deciding which one to write. So...

That said, please enjoy the fic. It's sort of meant to be a part 4 to Family Tree.

Ulthane X Reader.

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

Ulthane Blackhammer’s soul is damned.

No. More than damned.

If the maker is certain of anything, it’s that his sorry soul is on a collision course straight for Oblivion itself.

He’s already come to terms with the fact that he won’t be joining the Stonefather when his time eventually runs out and he’s kicked off the proverbial coil.

For too long, he’s carried the crushing weight of his sins across his shoulders like a water yoke, and some day – perhaps not today, nor for another hundred years – but some day, he’s going to lose his footing, and all the harm he’s done will spill out for everyone to see.

“Maker’s bones,” the old giant curses into his palm as he scrubs a gargantuan hand slowly down his face, fingers tugging at thick tufts of beard as though he means to rip the whole thing from his chin in a fit of desperation.

As if his involvement in the End War wasn’t atrocious enough… Now he’s… he’s…

With a bone-shuddering groan, the maker tips his chin towards the sky and allows his skull to clunk back against the tree bark that’s digging into his spine.

The Maker tree is vast. Vast enough that it utterly dwarfs Haven’s surrounding skyscrapers both in height and girth… Vast enough to offer ample hiding places within its higher branches for even the largest of its occupants.

A century ago, if one had accused Ulthane Blackhammer of being a coward, they’d have been met with his cheery grin, the flash of tusks, and his knuckles to the underside of their jaw. But a century ago, Ulthane was a very different maker, a maker who would never have hidden away in the uppermost branches of a great tree or tucked himself into a cankerous hole gouged out of the bark.

The maker he used to be wouldn’t be threading one colossal hand into his beard whilst the other fisted itself into his cowl to keep his appendages from venturing south towards a very prominent tent bulging at the front of his leather, blacksmith’s trousers.

That maker hadn’t met you.

Ulthane’s chest heaves in and out, drawing great swathes of air into a set of enormous lungs before expelling it all again in an attempt to ease his thundering heart out of his throat and back between his ribs.

It was an accident… A mistake.

But then, how often has he tried to spin himself a similar spiel?

Agreeing to forge that accursed blade was a mistake.

Trying to help his friend was a mistake.

And look at the consequences. Look at who’s suffered – is still suffering – for his mistake.

To Ulthane, accidents are no longer a negligible offence. They’re simply unforgivable.

What had just occurred down in the hollow of the tree was less an accident at all then, and more an egregious sin worthy of punishment.

Wheezing out another groan, the maker raises a fist up to his mouth where, without hesitation, he sinks his formidable teeth into the skin on his knuckles, feeling the bone shift and creak under the pressure of his bite. His other hand tears from his cowl and thumps down onto the wood at his side, his fingers curling into claws that dig harshly into the flesh of the tree.

He has to keep both hands occupied, deliberately so.

He can’t run the risk of letting them wander down to fumble with the gleaming belt buckle on his trousers.

He had to leave. Staying down there isn’t an option at the moment. He had to take himself and his… urges somewhere far away where he wouldn’t run the risk of disturbing you further than he already has…

Only a few minutes ago, down in the hollow of the tree, the humans had all been laying asleep whilst their ‘great’ guardian stood vigil in the arched opening that serves as a doorway into and out of the little sanctuary.

The mere fact that they trusted him to watch over them while they slept spoke more about their character than it did his own. It also served to twist a poisonous blade into his guts, eating away at him from the inside.

It was as he stood there brooding over his crimes that he happened to lower his gaze to the arms folded firmly across his broad chest.

He’d grimaced at the sight of them.

That day, he’d elected to work gloveless, forgoing cumbersome leather to use his bare hands so he could fix one of the humans’ shotguns that had been firing both barrels at the same time. He couldn’t help but dig a little deeper than necessary into the manmade weapon, admiring it inside and out, from the wood on its stock to the engravings decorating its action.

Once again, human ingenuity had him entranced.

There was, however, a minor consequence to his curiosity. And that was the slippery layer of gun oil that coated his finger tips.

Glowering ineffectually down at the tinted residue, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, sighing as they slipped and slid over one another, tractionless.

He needed to find a cloth…

At the back of the central chamber, there lay another ‘room’ of sorts, hidden behind an old, blue tarp you yourself had nailed across its entrance to grant the humans who venture inside a little privacy. And while it's been known to be a little hideaway for the purposes of washing and bathing, its predominant use is for storage, housing an assortment of supplies from ammunition to cardboard boxes full of non-perishable food stuffs to barrels filled to the brim with collected rainwater.

Knowing there’d be some form of cloth or towel inside, Ulthane had stolen across the tree towards the alcove and allowed himself a moment of bemusement at the lightness of his step. Several days prior, one of the humans had made a casual joke about feeling his footfalls reverberating through the whole tree when they were trying to sleep. At the time, Ulthane had laughed it off. It was only when night fell that he started to question if the human’s comment was truly meant in jest.

And so, at the expense of his carefully curated, intimidating presence, the maker had trodden softly towards the storage space, slid his knuckles beneath the tarp and lifted it aside to step underneath it.

He didn’t even make it all the way through before his eyes landed upon a tiny shape lit by the flickering firelight of a wall sconce.

At once, Ulthane’s legs locked up tight, stopping him mid-stride as if he’d been spontaneously and abruptly cast in stone. Not even his chest moved, all the breath stilled in his lungs and was left there to stagnate while he drank in the sight before him.

Wide, startled eyes peered back up into the maker’s face, unblinking, caught by the same trap of shock he’d found himself tangled up in.

Evidently, not all of the humans were asleep.

Ulthane wasn’t sure if a second passed, or an eternity. All he knew was that within the innocuous stretch of time, he bore witness to something he never imagined a brute like him would be privy to. It seemed a miracle to be seeing it at all, as though he could blink, and the moment would fly away from him like words to a forgotten song, and never again would he catch another fleeting glimpse of that same biological artistry, even if he spent the rest of his days trying to find it.

So, he didn’t blink.

For standing before him without a scrap of clothing on, stood the one human who could have brought such an ancient giant to a complete, breathless standstill.

You.

Time seemed to drag its heels as Ulthane watched a wet cloth slip from your fingers to land on the wood below with a sodden ‘plop.’

You were bathing, he realised belatedly, ignoring an odd yet pleasant quiver in his stomach.

Your skin glistened with moisture left behind from the cloth, looking a damn sight cleaner than you had several hours prior after he found you covered elbow to fingertip in oil from your own gun.

While the humans despise using their drinking water for nonessential purposes, if cleaning must be done, they’d either wet a rag and scrub themselves down with a single squeeze of water from a nearby barrel, or they’d use one of their ‘baby wipes.’ The ones you’d been kind enough to deplete on Ulthane yesterday when you cleaned his bloody nose….

Eyes the colour of gun smoke softened with the rarest and gentlest affection as they drifted from the delicate space hidden between your thighs, over the damp skin on your chest, all the way up to the true work of art – your face; the face he’s sworn to one day immortalise in marble so that the Universe might never forget the human who gave a maker like him the time of day, and who opened his eyes to a species he’d previously only known through scriptures and hearsay.

But as he stared numbly down at you, half-oblivious to the soft tingling sensation trickling down from his belly, Ulthane finally, finally, registered the expression on your face.

And just like that, a terrible, gut-wrenching lurch of alarm suddenly crashed into his chest like waves on jagged rocks, and the world fell out from underneath his feet.

Ulthane blinked hard as time caught up to him once again, though he knew by then, it was already far too late.

“U-Ulthane?” he remembers you uttering, and it was only then he realised you’d thrown an arm over your breasts and slipped a hand down to try and protect yourself further from his wandering eyes.

Your brows were pinched, your mouth angled down until a look of abject horror spread across your dainty features.

Horror…

Of course you were horrified.

Of course you would look at him like he’s a monster come to life right in front of you.

He’d just blundered right in on you when you were at your most vulnerable, and then, instead of immediately retreating or averting his eyes to preserve your dignity, what had he done?

He’d simply stood there, gaping at you like some depraved and lecherous beast.

Worse still - worse than stumbling in on you in the first place - was the telltale sensation of skin stretching in the space below his belt buckle, accompanied by a sudden urgency that pooled in his gut as the fly piece of his leather blacksmith’s trousers began to bulge outwards, pressing into the sensitive head of his treacherous anatomy.

He still recalls the moment your eyes had flicked down, and then widened considerably.

It took him another moment to put two and two together to realise what was happening to him. It had, after all, been so long since he’d…

… For Stone’s sake, he’s a maker. Ulthane has been around for far longer than Humanity has even been on the planet. He’s too old and too gruff, and his head is screwed on far too tightly to ever be turned by a member of the fairer sex.

He’s not a youngling anymore. Long gone are the days of his youth when he’d send cocky grins across Tri Stone at maiden warriors or fumble his way through a brief and meaningless romance with one of the forge sisters.

He hasn’t been that maker for millennia.

Until he met you.

And you, he understands without a shadow of a doubt, are not meaningless.

What you are, however, is categorically and unequivocally off limits.

You're a human - a member of the very species his actions had doomed to extinction. You know nothing of the maker who had taken you in, and much to his confusion, you trust him. Hell, you even claim to like him, something that is as equally awful as it is humbling. You should never like him. If you knew what he did, your hatred would rival the kind that demons have for humanity.

You'd want him dead if you knew the truth.

But you don't know.

All you know now, is that Ulthane - a maker you've been relying on to keep you safe and protected - has essentially laid his feelings bare for you to see. Reactions like his are harder to hide when he's several times your size.

All of a sudden, a visceral abhorrence for himself rose like a fanged serpent to coil around his windpipe, squeezing it until he thought he might retch up his own guts onto the floor in front of you.

Ulthane Blackhammer has never retreated from anything in his long, gruelling life. Every adversary, he’s faced head-on. Every battle, he’s gone in swinging. Every hardship, he’s never once given a thought to falling back.

But then again, there are a lot of exceptions to a lot of rules.

And down there in the hollow, Ulthane made such an exception to his longest standing achievement.

He took a step backwards, his shoulder colliding with the side of the tree, and then he turned on his heel and ran.

[imagine-darksiders]

Taking a break from it all to write some self indulgent Ulthane X Reader as a late Valentine’s gift.

Basically, Ulthane is shocked and moderately alarmed at how ferociously humans will fight for one of theirs, even at the risk of their own lives.

And consequently, he has to wonder when he’d been upgraded from ‘the maker,’ to ‘one of ours.’

[imagine-darksiders]

Haven

Chapter 5 - Not so different.

Summary: Ulthane suddenly finds himself in the desperate position of protecting six humans from twisted reflections of their own species. The situation is dire and growing more desperate by the second. But after failing to save so many in the past, the maker is determined not to fail in keeping his new charges from harm.

Warnings: Children in peril, blood, undead, gore, fighting, whump.

Hey guys, again, to make up for my lack of content, I’ve done you this massive chapter for Haven lol. Hope this distracts you for a bit xx

Words: 11687

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Death, in your humble opinion, has an ugliness about it, a kind that you'd have been very happy to take no notice of for the rest of your life.

But the corpses shuffling across the museum towards you serve as a stark and jarring reminder of humanity's inescapable fate, of what awaits you all beyond the grave.

'Is this it?' you find yourself wondering, aghast.

The creatures advance, dead lips pulled back over gnashing teeth, their equally lifeless eyes filled with such hatred, they could only have belonged to something that used to be human.

Death was supposed to be a graceful, natural thing. Now, you fear you'll never go back to seeing it as such, not after tonight. Tomorrow you will wake up, sadder, but wiser, and the cold and quiet comfort of the grave will no longer hold it's solemn appeal.

There are seven of them now, pressing in unrelentingly like a pack of wild dogs, jaws dripping wet and their movements slow and calculating, searching for a weakness in their prey's defence. With the children huddled out of sight behind a reception desk, that weakness is – inevitably – you.

Fortunate then, that standing between you and the salivating undead, is a maker.

Swaying like an oversized pendulum, Ulthane shifts his weight, side to side, side to side, and yet, he never puts a foot forward. To do so would leave you and the kids open and vulnerable to an attack. You don't know the maker especially well, but you can tell he's raring to charge into the fray and meet the former-humans head on.

It suddenly hits you that he's putting aside centuries of habit just to protect you.

Your gut twists uncomfortably and you swallow down a lump of guilt, recalling how mistrustful you've been of him thus far.

The feeling doesn't have too long to settle in however, for a split second later, one of the grotesque creatures drops its jaw and lets out a sharp bark, leaping from the ground and sailing straight at Ulthane.

“LOOK OUT!” you scream, although you soon find your belated warning to be unnecessary.

With startling speed, the maker swings his hammer through the air...

'SPLAT!'

The sound of impact is so, utterly gruesome that your hands are halfway to your ears in the vain hopes of blocking it out before you realise there's little point. Steel meets flesh in an ungodly connection that sends the undead hurtling sideways, bones snapping and decaying organs flattened under the force of Ulthane's swing.

It lands with a sickening thump somewhere off in one of the museum's darker corners, dead once again, for what you sincerely hope is the last time, though it wouldn't surprise you if these creatures are more resilient than they seem.

Huffing, Ulthane pulls his hammer back into its prior position and braces.

As if the death of their pack member had been just the nudge they needed to tip them over the edge of caution, the remaining six undead suddenly surge forth in a tidal wave of rotting flesh and flying spittle, their mouths twisted open, belting out hollow screams to let you know of their outrage.

They're fast. By god, they're fast.

But Ulthane is ready.

The first to reach him is splattered on the ground beneath the head of his formidable hammer, and the ensuing reverberations nearly topple you off your feet. One of your hands flies out to grab the desk behind you and you risk a glance over the top of it, spying the children's haunted faces staring back up at you, their fingers clutching at one another's coats and jackets, drawing comfort from whatever meagre form of touch they can find.

Jesus, you hope they can't see what's happening on your side of the desk.  

A guttural snarl has you flinging yourself around to face the battle again and you blanch, eyes widening to find that one of the remaining beasts has managed to jump up and latch itself to the maker's arm whilst he's distracted with fending off the two that are trying to strafe around his other side, their swollen eyes fixed on you. With a snarl, he aims a kick at the assailants on the ground and gives his arm a vigorous shake in an attempt to dislodge the one sinking its teeth into his toughened flesh.

The others skitter backwards and out of range, apparently having just enough sense of self-preservation left in their heads to recognise their dwindling chances of taking down a full-grown maker. However, the undead with its teeth in his arm won't be so easily deterred. There's an awful moment where it seems to bite down even harder, then flings its head violently back and you can actually hear the squeak and tear of skin being ripped right off the muscle.

Ulthane screws his eyes shut and hisses through his teeth. He may be resilient but even the bellicose warrior can't ignore the white-hot spike of pain that shoots up his arm.

“Ulthane!”

Suddenly, the maker's eyes fly open and an ear twitches in response to your fretful cry and for just a second, his gaze flicks down towards you, seeing the open concern radiating off your face.

It's in that worry, he finds resolve.

Eyes hardening, the muscles in his jaw tighten and he emits a growl through clenched teeth before dropping his hammer on the ground and reaching up to grab the undead's skull, enclosing it in one, colossal fist.

You watch on, half enthralled, half horror-struck as the maker gives his hand a single, effortless flex. There's a muffled 'crack!' and just like that, the undead's legs stop flailing madly in the air and its nails cease their scrabbling against Ulthane's fingers.

It's only after he lets the body fall from his grasp that he realises you were watching when he crushed its skull. The pounding in his ears grows to a painful crescendo. He's suddenly reminded of the girl he'd failed to save, the girl who'd witnessed him violently unleash his temper on an already dead demon.

She'd been so frightened....

....of him.  

Ulthane whips his head down to you and his heart stills in his chest. He's searching for that same fear in your face, expects it, even.

What he doesn't expect though, when he catches and holds your watery gaze, is to be asked, “Are you alright!?”

The question goes unanswered.

A dreadful chill slugs you in the gut upon seeing Ulthane's eyes flick up and widen as his mouth falls open, perhaps to shout a warning that will undoubtedly arrive too late. He'd been so focused on you, on the gentle easing of your brow after you realised he'd regained the upper hand, that the maker hadn't even noticed one undead creeping over the lip of the desk behind you, it's blank, lidless eyes trained on the children sheltering inside.

You whirl about in time to see what has the maker so rattled and let out a choked gasp at the sight before you.

“Oh christ...Oh my god!” you breathe as the creature's face lifts into view, recognisable even behind its accelerated state of decay, “That....That's Davies!”

The urge to vomit hits you out of nowhere but you stubbornly choke it back down.

Your former colleague is bent before you over the desk, eyes the colour of sour milk and she's still wearing that awful, pink, torsade necklace you hate so much. It's the only reason you really accept that it's her. Mousy brown hair that had once been pulled into a tight bun is now hanging loose, wispy and grey with only a few, withered clumps having managed to cling valiantly to her skull. The square-rimmed glasses she'd worn not four days ago dangle from their chain and bump against her skeletal chest as she crawls forwards, pulling herself across the desk with long, spindly fingers.

Something wet and cold trickles down your cheek and you open your mouth to taste the salt of a tear as it drips from your upper lip and lands on your tongue. Davies was a harsh woman, calculating and callous. But she didn't deserve this!

Nobody deserves this.

Ulthane, in the meantime, doesn't know who this 'Davies' is, nor does he particularly care. Whoever they used to be, they assuredly aren't that human anymore.

Your ex colleague drops down inside the ring, pushing a growl from her chest whilst the kids, literally petrified to the spot, can do nothing but whimper and cling to each other even more tightly and it's their fretful sobs that rip you from your moment of shocked grieving.

You and Ulthane move at exactly the same time.

He bellows out something incomprehensible but completely unmistakable in its intent and hurls himself at the desk, throwing his upper half over the top of it and slamming a massive arm down between the children and their decaying teacher. Beside him, with a strength conjured from the wildest parts of your biology, you brace your hands on the desk and vault over it in a single bound, and as you slide across it and down onto the floor on the other side, your hand curls around the first thing it comes into contact with – a nondescript, orange mug, still with the tea sloshing around inside.

Behind you, Ulthane's arm is huddling the reluctant children further underneath his chest while a wrathfulness consumes you like the flames of a raging fire, licking down your throat and coiling in your belly as the monstrous Davies in front of you takes an audacious step closer to the kids.

Perhaps if you'd have paused to consider the many, many ways your next move could go wrong, you wouldn't have charged so recklessly towards such a perilous foe and those precious, few seconds you might have saved would've given the undead enough time to defend herself.

To leap before one looks is a seldom-recommended course of action. However, there are moments – rarer than hen's teeth, mind – where leaping first pays off.

A satisfying 'smash' echoes through the museum after you swing the mug and it shatters against that mindless skull with such vigour, the undead crumples immediately to the ground and lets out a garbled moan, dazed and vulnerable on its back, but not dead.

Not yet.

Not until you throw yourself on top of her and grab a large, jagged fragment of ceramic from the pieces that now lay scattered on the floor, grasp it in two hands, lift it high over your head and then plunge it viciously between the undead's rolling eyes.

The sharpened edges cut into your palms from the pressure of forcing your makeshift weapon through bone and muscle but you manage to hold back a cry of pain, opting instead to wince, flecks of spittle flying off your tongue as you pant raggedly, waiting for the corpse pinned beneath you to finally stop twitching and lay still.

The kids – well hidden behind Ulthane's brawny arm – can't see what has just transpired. But the maker can.

He's aware of a commotion behind him when two sets of claws start tearing at his leg, though the thick material of his trousers is sturdy enough to withstand a few more seconds of punishment, more than enough time for him to raise his brows, impressed at your unexpected grit. The sweat gathered on your forehead glistens like dew under a moonbeam. With your lips pulled back over your teeth like that and the suffering's blood spattered in a graceful arc across your clavicle, a word comes to Ulthane's mind, a word that arrives as jarringly as the insistent and sudden 'thwump' of his heart.

'Beautiful,' he thinks, though he's quick to shake that thought away the moment it materialises. To distract himself, Ulthane gives a grunt and pushes himself upright once more, mindful of the tiny humans crowded near his hands.

Suddenly, he kicks back with a leg, sending the two, ravenous undead sprawling away from him across the marble floor, each letting out identical moans of frustration. They aren't put off for long, however, and as Ulthane hoists himself around to face them and smoothly retrieves his hammer from the ground, they drop down onto all fours and gallop towards him, relying on agility to be their last, remaining ally in this fight.

They aren't the first to underestimate a maker's speed, and they surely won't be the last.  

Riding on the near-constant surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, Ulthane clenches his fists tightly around the hammer and heaves it out in front of him in a wide, sweeping arc.

His lips curl up into a twisted grin when the weapon's face connects with the first creature, only to immediately slam into its partner less than a second later with enough force to launch them straight across the museum where they join their fallen brethren, all seven of whom now lay scattered upon the marble floor, crushed and mangled beyond recognition.

“N' this time, stay dead,” Ulthane spits.

Rolling a kink out of one shoulder, the maker slings his hammer into place on his back and turns about.

“Y'alright wee ones?” he calls out softly, leaning over the desks and peering in.

The children all crane their necks back to see the underside of his looming face, their own damp with tears, tears that are still rolling in never-ending torrents down their cheeks alongside several sets of sniffles. Battle-hardened as tempered steel he may be, but the sight undoubtedly presses at something in the maker's chest. As much as seeing young humans cry might distress him, Ulthane finds that he can at least take some, small speck of relief from the fact that, so far as he can tell, they don't appear to be injured.

You on the other hand....

The maker's nostrils twitch, smelling blood that isn't his own on the air.

Troubled, he tears his gaze from the children and fixes it upon their matriarch instead.

You haven't moved. The eyes of the dead woman below you stare blankly up towards the ceiling, her jaw stretched open in an eternal scream, that primal outrage forever etched onto the fabric of history. 'Fitting, for a museum,' you muse.

There's fresh blood trickling lazily into her open eyes and you find yourself watching, morbidly fascinated that they don't twitch or try to blink the liquid out. It takes another second before you realise that the blood is coming out of you, and not her. Trembling hands slowly pry themselves off the large, ceramic shard they'd only recently used to skewer the head of your former colleague, right in front of her students. You'd gripped the shard so tightly, it had cut into your palms and you curse your prior hastiness. Extracting your hands is almost a more painful procedure.

“Lass?”

Gentle, yet somehow maintaining an insurmountable strength in that low rumble, Ulthane calls your name and begins to reach down, over the desk, over the children, until his fingertips brush against your back, following the bumps of your spine.

You're worryingly slow to turn and look up at him, casting the maker a hollow gaze, eyelids drooping, lips slightly parted to allow room for slow and shuddering breaths – he surmises you're teetering on the precipice of total collapse.

Ulthane blinks away from the empty stare you're giving him to the decaying body that lays motionless beneath you. “Did, er... You did well there, lass,” he nods, his mouth a grim line, “S'not easy fer a human to kill a-”

“To kill what? Another human?!” You're on your feet so abruptly, the children all gasp and flinch at the swift motion but you're too busy shoving yourself out from underneath Ulthane's hand to notice. Gone is the fatigue shadowing your eyes. It bleeds away to make room for something else.

The giant's bushy eyebrows twitch inwards a fraction as he retracts his arm and lays it on top of the desk, letting out a sigh that sounds more like a growl. “I told you, girlie, they're not human anymore.”

“Well they sure!-” Without meaning to, you've raised your voice loud enough that even you grimace at the echo chasing after it. Preferring to avoid bringing any more creatures scurrying out of the woodwork, you click your tongue and rein yourself back in, bitterly ending with a curt, “-They sure used to be. Not that long ago, in fact.”

Remaining silent, the maker watches your eyes travel down to the undead once more.

“Friend of yours?” he asks carefully, not missing the way your breath suddenly stops coming and your chest stills as a result.

After a few too many moments where he begins to regret even asking, you completely deflate, all the frustration rushing out of you like a hiss of hot steam as you falteringly reply, “She....we were...more like colleagues. We worked together-” Here, you gesture a floppy hand at the huddling children. “-At their school.”

After a moment of thought, you promptly grab a coat hanging from the back of a nearby chair and drop it hurriedly over the body. It isn't much, you know, but at least the kids don't have to look at it anymore.

Trying not to scare the young ones shuffling nervously underneath him, Ulthane slowly raises an arm and rubs at the back of his neck, focusing intently on the blood that dribbles from between your twitching fingers.

“M'sorry,” he mumbles, “I know how hard it is to do...that.”

To his surprise, you reply with an incautious scoff, emotionless eyes staring off into the darkness. He's privately grateful for that. It means you don't see his ears droop noticeably when you murmur, “How could you possibly know?”

Ulthane's mouth falls open, a response making its way along his tongue only to come up short at the very tip and he considers, for a moment, whether it would be wise to tell you of Corruption, of the dark plague that – even now – is spreading through his homeland with no signs of stopping or being stopped, turning any makers who fought back into mindless shells of their former selves. And how then, would you react to learning that the only way to spare them from Corruption's grasp was to kill them?

Destroy the host, and you destroy the parasite.

It was such a simple prospect in theory. But the practice of it... Eideard had tried to call it 'purifying,' perhaps in a bid to make the survivors in Tri Stone feel a little better about slaying the shadows of their old friends.

There was nothing 'pure' about what happened to those makers.

And after hearing the woeful despondency in your voice and seeing your eyes grow dull and defeated, Ulthane would not try to tell you – as Eideard had once told him – that you'd done what was necessary. That it was kinder to kill, in the end, than to let the poor bastards suffer.  

It was the same thing he'd tried to tell himself, after every single, devastating blow of his hammer. It never, ever got easier.

'How could he possibly know?'

How could he possibly not?

A soft hiccough interrupts Ulthane's musings and he gives his head a decisive shake to dislodge the unpleasant memories. He glances down and immediately feels his tempered heart squeeze at the sight of five younglings watching him uneasily, each of them trying to shrink in on themselves as though they could disappear from his view if only they were a little smaller.

The maker considers them a moment longer, then presses his lips together. He's not about to burden you - or the younglings – with his own tragedies, not now.

Besides, he's wasted far too much time here. The precious fluid that drives your body is slowly seeping out of the wounds on your palms, and although he himself is suffering an injury, he knows for a fact that blood is much less essential to a maker than it is to a human.

There's a decisive air to the way Ulthane stands up and puts his hands on his hips, and the suddenness of his movement seems to draw you out of the somber chasm you've fallen into. As soon as he moves, you let out a throaty groan and press your fingertips to your eyelids, trying to squeeze the tiredness out of them.

“Hey. Listen. I'm sorry, man.” You shake your head, dropping your hands and looking up at Ulthane. “I shouldn't have snapped at you, I should be thanking you.”

He would deny it later, but the maker nearly buckles under the relief that hits him when he hears your apology. Not because he thinks for a second that he deserves it, but because it means you aren't angry with him, not really, though that thought in itself strikes him as odd and he frowns gently, surprised at himself for caring so much about what you think of him. Before he can say a word in reply however, your attention is suddenly on his arm and you let out a sharp gasp, rushing forwards to the side of the desk and standing on your tiptoes, your eyes fixed on the gaping bite.

“Oh, holy shi-! Uh, moly!” you manage to catch yourself before an expletive slips out in front of the children, “Are you okay!? I – I mean, it doesn't look okay, it looks like agony!” A little bewildered by the sudden level of alarm pointed his way, Ulthane sputters out a nonsensical reply before he collects himself and blows a laid-back puff of air past his lips.

“What? Oh, this?” He gestures to his arm and sniffs, the very picture of nonchalance. “Ach, nothin' to get yer knickers in a twist over, I've had worse scrapes than this, don't you worry.”

One of the children – you think it's Kitty – sniffles and lets out a bubbling giggle that sounds more nervous than amused but you cling to it, shooting Ulthane a secretive wink and pretending to wag a disapproving finger up at him. “My knickers are none of your concern,” you scold, earning another stifled snicker much to your delight and apparently the maker's as well, if the dashing smirk on his lips is anything to go by.

It feels odd, yet not in any way that's unpleasant, to be sharing this little moment of triumph together, even if it's only small. Your smile lingers for a few more seconds before it wavers and falls, leaving you to sigh through your nose, eyebrows pressing together until a firm line appears between them. “Jokes aside,” you ask quietly, “are you sure you're all right? That's quite the wound....”

Had he been among his own people, Ulthane would have been proud to show off his new battle scar, might have even lauded it over his brother's head for a few days. In maker culture, wounds and scars are a testament to one's prowess in battle. They signify resilience, strength and are a mark of accomplishment for most warriors, showing that a battle had been fought and won. The more scars a maker had, the more life-threatening situations they'd survived and overcome.

But here, standing before you, something is different. For reasons beyond his own understanding, the way you're staring at his ravaged skin with pinched brows and a gentle frown makes him suddenly self conscious of the injury and he lifts his opposite hand to cover it, hastily jutting his chin down at your palms. “S'no worse than yours, lass,” he says, “Elanya's not gonna be happy to see what you've done to yourself.” The maker neglects to mention that he's also far from pleased about the blood drying on your fingers.

You raise a brow at him, unimpressed with how he'd so clearly deflected the attention off himself, but the weariness in your bones and your reluctance to even acknowledge the stinging pain in your hands is enough to keep your tongue from calling the maker out. Instead, you offer him a simple, acknowledging nod and reply, “Well, I'll worry about that once we've got these kids back to your tree.”

Bending down, you force away a wince as you turn your hands inwards, sparing the five children from any gruesome glimpse they might catch of your injuries. “Are you guys all good?” you ask.

“Y-yeah!” Kitty bravely squeaks back, sounding about as convincing as a seven year old can be when they're shivering like a leaf in a hurricane. The second you reach out, Archie flings himself from the group and collapses into you, his head pressing uncomfortably hard against your jaw, yet you can't quite find it in you to complain.

“It's okay,” you reassure him, painfully aware of the fact that you're lying through your teeth. Things are about as far from 'okay' as they can possibly can be.

Shaking out your stinging hands, you touch them delicately to the boy's back only to find your progress halted by an enormous shadow looming over the little group and blocking out the moon's rays filtering down from the hole in the roof. Your heart is in your throat so fast you nearly choke on it, flinging your head up in anticipation. However, your shoulders sag with relief once you realise that it isn't a threat bearing down upon you, merely one of Ulthane's hands. The maker has once again leant over the desk and placed his appendage on the ground near your feet, palm tilted towards the ceiling.

“We need to move,” he mutters urgently, and it's only when you look up at his face that you realise his pointed ears are flicking periodically up and down, listening for something your human senses can't pick up. After staring avidly across the museum and out of a window on the far side, the maker fixes you with a meaningful glance. “It'll be a lot faster if I don't have to wait for the littl'uns to keep up.”

You catch his drift at about the same time as Lucia does. The girl begins to back away from his hand but you're too swift, snatching her up and lowering her into the maker's waiting palm. You have to stifle a snort when both he and the child stiffen as soon as they come into contact with one another. Eyes wide, Lucia clings to you even after you let her go and you gently but hurriedly ease her clenched fists off your sleeves.

And then, something happens that you hadn't been expecting.

With a gentleness that's entirely contrary to the brutal strength he exhibited just minutes ago, Ulthane curls his fingers inwards until Lucia sits in the cup of his palm and once he's certain she's not about to fall off, he begins to lift her up towards his face. Upon taking a quick glance up at the maker's expression, you're surprised to find that his soft, blue eyes are just as wide and mesmerised by the tiny being in his grasp as her's are by the giant holding her.

Unbeknownst to you, a strange, alien flurry of electrical impulses are firing off in his brain as he inspects the spark of life pressing back against his guarding fingers.

And here he was thinking you weighed next to nothing. This is something else.

The pack that had once been strapped to her back – an educational tool used for storing tomes, he seems to recall – has made its way around to her front and she holds it tight to her chest as some kind of physical barrier between he and herself.

The maker is suddenly and uncomfortably aware that she must be terrified to have him staring at her like this, but it's as if he can't tear himself away. He's never been so close to someone so fragile before. Not even their youngest, Karn, had been this small when he was born. Ulthane has vivid memories of being reluctant to hold the youngster, convinced that harm would befall him if the rough-and-tumble maker wasn't drastically careful. But this human....This isn't unlike handling a figure made from the finest, most highly breakable porcelain.

He tips his head to one side and after a beat, the girl copies the action, causing his ears to flick up in curiosity. Her reaction gives him pause and he considers her for another moment, then slowly tilts his head in the opposite direction. Once again, she follows suit and her breaths start to even out, intrigue at last superseding her nerves.

Swallowing audibly, Lucia looks down over the side of the giant's palm, seeing you've turned to help Sam and Ashleigh to their feet. Then, she looks past you, into the darkness of the museum and raises a hand, scrubbing the heel of it over her damp face and sniffling, “Did...did you kill all the monsters?”

Ulthane is so busy revelling in the triumph of having the child actually speak to him that he barely registers the question being posed. He lets out an idle hum, then seems to realise he's being stared at by an apprehensive youngling and he blinks, straightening up. “Oh! Oh, aye! Aye, you'll not be havin' any more trouble from those monsters,” he tells her proudly and jabs a thumb at his chest, “Old Ulthane took care of 'em.” A thoughtful look passes over his face then and he gets an idea.

Darting his eyes secretively from side to side, the maker brings her just a little closer in and, as he'd hoped, Lucia responds in kind by lowering her bag and shifting forwards, one of her hands coming to brace on the side of his thumb and subsequently sending an unexpected jolt right through his heart. Shoving the feeling aside, Ulthane lowers his voice to whisper conspiratorially, “That's my job, you know...”

“Wha-What is?” she whispers back, all traces of tears now drying on her cheeks.

You turn back around just in time to catch the next bit of the bizarre exchange, Kitty's hand holding your fingers in a vice-like grip. It seems that the maker is completely caught up in his own game when he replies to his enraptured audience member, his gruff voice dripping with grandeur, “Why, fightin' monsters, o' course!”

Shaking your head, you chime in, “Oh god, don't tell her that, she'll never leave you alone.”

But Lucia's eyes are already sparkling as though they're filled with stars and her mouth peels open to reveal a gap-tooth grin. “You're like Heracles!” she announces and her grip on his thumb excitedly grows stronger. .

Ulthane raises one of his brows and tilts his head at the girl. “Er, Hera-... Who?”

“Heracles!”

Lucia's abrupt shift in mood is apparently enough to pique the interests of her fellow classmates who all pick up on her noticeable lack of fear, edging just a little closer to the giant.

“He was the strongest, bravest man who ever lived!” the youngster in his hand gushes as she's raised to a broad shoulder and gingerly deposited there by fingers larger than her body, “He killed monsters too!”

“Did he now...?” With a little prodding, the girl's hand is eventually persuaded to wrap itself into Ulthane's thick, blue scarf for purchase. She hardly takes a breath before she starts listing off the famous hero's, twelve tasks whilst a bewildered Ulthane raises his brows down at you inquiringly.

You merely offer him a sympathetic shrug in return, though you don't bother to hide your palpable relief. With any luck, Sam, Ashleigh, Kitty and Archie will be put at ease now that their friend has tested the waters and proved that the threat this giant poses is minimal at best.

If nothing else, at least Ulthane has managed to appeal himself to one child.

With the girl still chattering in his ear, he lowers a hand once more and lays it on the ground near your feet. Kitty is next, crushing your fingers against one another as you help her up and into the maker's palm with gentle assurances that he won't let her fall. She frowns at you and adamantly insists that she isn't scared, though her bottom lip quivers as she too is lifted carefully to Ulthane's other shoulder.

Once she's close enough, she takes the opportunity to practically leap off his hand and finds herself scrabbling for purchase on his metallic pauldron. To her dismay however, a low chuckle slips out of the giant's mouth when she gradually begins to slide down his front and he reacts by catching her shirt between his thumb and forefinger before she can fall too far. “Slow down there, little'un,” he warns, plopping her back on his shoulder and waiting until she all but buries her hands into his scarf, her face a little paler than it was before, “Wouldn't want you fallin' off from up there.”

Although his tone is almost playful, there's still an underlying hint of caution to it.

A response comes from the girl, something that sounds a lot like an indignant, “I wasn't gonna fall,” though she goes oddly quiet, squeezing her lips together when Ulthane turns his head to the side and raises an amused eyebrow in her direction.

Even from the ground, you can see Kitty's lower jaw quivering, regardless of how hard she's trying to suppress it, and you suspect that she's putting on a brave front to either impress her peers, or reassure them. Having known the girl for a while now, you're fairly confident it's the former.

After seeing that nothing bad has happened to her friends, it becomes remarkably easy to coax Ashleigh into the maker's palm where she's swiftly joined by an emboldened Sam. The pair of them are so small, they fit snugly together with their fingers entwined in one another's coats and the sight of them both sitting in just one of Ulthane's hands really drives home how unignorably big he is....And how fragile they are.

Perhaps it's this revelation, or the tears still dripping from their chins that prompts the maker to raise them up and press them securely over his thundering heart, hand tilted in a way that partially hides them from the world outside. And when tiny fingertips brush reverently over the epicentre of each, pulsating beat, he has to fight down a contented rumble that threatens to crawl out of his throat.

Finally, he lowers his remaining hand for Archie.

Despite the others going ahead of him however, the young boy digs his heels in when you try steering him towards Ulthane's waiting palm. “No!” he sobs and claws at your sleeves and though it does make a spot in your chest ache terribly, you turn a deaf ear to his pleading as you slide your hands underneath his arms and lift him onto the maker's cupped appendage.

“Sorry, kiddo, but you'll be much safer up there than you will be on the ground,” you explain, “Ulthane'll take care of you.”

It's strange. The more you say it out loud, the more you start to realise you've actually begun to trust the maker who – no more than a few hours ago – was just an unfamiliar giant who had kidnapped you and taken you back to his lair halfway up a tree trunk. Perhaps you're more exhausted than you previously thought.

Shaking off the encroaching weariness from your bones, you cast a lingering glance back at the body of your former colleague and pull yourself up onto the desk, neglecting to notice that Ulthane's hand has remained poised beside you, expectant and waiting.

Gradually, a long crevice appears between his brows and he swivels his head around to follow your progress as you scoot across the flat, polished surface before hopping down to the floor on the other side.

“Oi!”

You flinch at the abrupt exclamation and turn to see the maker's lips twisted into an unhappy frown.

“...What?”

As if it were painfully obvious, he responds by extending his arm towards you once more and giving it the tiniest of shakes, mindful of an increasingly perplexed Archie clinging on in the centre of his palm.

After a moment, it dawns on you that he means for you to join the children, and though your body all but begs for you to cave in and accept his help, you hold up your hands and take several steps backwards, shaking your head. “Oh, no, that's okay! I – I  can walk!”

No sooner do the words tumble out of your mouth than the line etched in Ulthane's forehead somehow manages to grow even deeper. “Now, I know I let you walk here,” he growls sternly, “but let me tell you somethin', bonnie, yer not walkin' all the way back.”

“Ulthane, you can't carry all of us.”

Affronted by your suggestion, the maker huffs and draws himself up. “Yes I bloody well can.”

“These kids are your priority right now,” you argue, "I don't need your protection. Not like they do.”

“You're hurt!” The maker's temper flares in conjunction with your stubborn refusal to be helped.

However, you merely plant a hand on your hip and throw the other out, gesturing wildly at his arm and declaring, “Well, so are you!”

“Wh-!” The maker actually scoffs at that, jostling his shoulders hard enough that Lucia and Kitty have to grab onto his scarf with both hands to avoid slipping off.

It's their squeaks of alarm that suddenly sap the frustration out of his old bones and he immediately falls still, which in turn allows the girls a chance to right themselves. Only once he's sure they're in no great peril, Ulthane blows a heavy sigh through his nostrils and then slowly, gingerly, he crouches down and offers you his hand once again. In an instant, you're opening your mouth to protest, but find yourself rendered silent by the word murmured gently from his lips.

“Please?”

Taken aback, you falter. Never in a million years did you think a being that big could speak so tenderly, and the way his troubled, blue eyes seem to gaze into yours as though you're just as important to him as the children are to you.....Well.

Allowing a groan to blurt out of your mouth, you throw your hands up in defeat, exasperated but willing to indulge him. “Just this once,” you stress firmly, ignoring the triumphant grin that spreads behind his auburn beard.

The maker hardly waits for you to turn around before he nudges his hand into the crook behind your knees and you narrowly avoid toppling backwards into Archie. The moment you're in Ulthane's grasp, the boy presses himself firmly against your side and it becomes brazenly obvious just how nerve-racking this whole situation is for him judging by the quakes of his leg against your thigh.

And if you can feel him shaking, then you're almost certain that Ulthane can too.

But the maker, while a little disheartened that no less than three of the children are in similar states of unrest, still feels a hefty weight lift from his shoulders at the knowledge that in his hands are six, very fragile, very alive humans.

It's like a tonic. Having them held so close eases a little of his agitation and he lets out a soft exhale. Suddenly, all seems right with the world once more.

“Okay,” he hums, absentmindedly pushing the pad of his thumb into your back just to feel your fluttering heartbeat, a reassurance that you're still okay, “Let's get you all back to the tree...”

You suddenly find yourself rocked in your seat when he begins to move swiftly but steadily towards the hole in the wall you'd entered through and you throw a hand out for balance, planting it on his thick-set wrist. All at once, your fingertips are greeted by the thrum of a strong pulse and you tiredly swing your head down to peer at Ulthane's forearm, if only to  distract yourself from thinking about the many, many dangers that lay in wait out in the city.

It must be quite the sight, you think. An almighty maker tromping through streets and back alleys that were never built with a man his size in mind, and accompanying him, six humans, cupped either in his hands or perched upon his sturdy shoulders. A part of you still desperately wants to believe that this is all some terrible, twisted nightmare and it's so bizarre, you'll surely have to wake up from it soon...

Won't you?

The insistent pangs of hunger tell an unfortunate truth.

Apparently, you aren't the only one experiencing that hollow ache in your gut.

“Miss?”

Twisting your neck around, you peer up at Lucia. “Yeah?”

“M'hungry...” The girl trails off as a yawn overtakes her and she pauses, rubbing a fist into one of her eyes. You throw her a sympathetic smile but before you can reply, Ulthane catches your gaze.

“There's plenty of food back at the tree,” he explains, immediately raising some interested murmurs from the children. Your eyebrows shoot up and the corner of Ulthane's mouth quirks just enough to show off one of his tusks. “What? You didn't think we'd let any of you humans starve, did you?”

“No, it's not that. It's just...” Pausing to chew absently on your lower lip, you shrug. There's a topic of concern you feel needs to be broached, though you're a little anxious to do it. In the end, you wet your lips and say carefully, “You've already done...so much for us. And we haven't even done anything for you. Now you're saying you went out and found us food....”

Ulthane must be sharper than you give him credit for because within seconds, he's picked up on the badly concealed meaning behind your words.

“For all it must look from where you're standin', I'm a maker, not a monster. N' I'm not about to turn around and ask you for something in return,” he tells you with a simple directness that leaves you just a tiny bit sheepish. Then, stepping over the wall of rubble and emerging out into the museum carpark, he lowers his voice to a far kinder rumble and adds, “M'only tryin' to help you, lass.” He doesn't say anything further, and you only just manage to bite down on your urge to reply, 'We'll see,' instead turning your face up to the skyscrapers looming overhead and pushing a noncommittal noise from the back of your throat.

Praying to whatever deity you aren't even sure exists anymore for a safe journey back to the tree, you snake one arm around Archie and draw him further into your side whilst the fingers on your other hand trace lazy shapes in the softer skin of Ulthane's wrist. And if that steadfast pulse begins jackhammering in response to your light touches, you're much too exhausted to notice.

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

The trip back through the ruined city passes by much faster than you expected it to.

Of course, that could be down to the frequent periods of blissful darkness that descend over you every time you decide to let your eyes droop for a brief rest.

You remember bits and pieces of the journey - Sam whimpering when a growl echoes up from beneath a manhole cover, prompting Ulthane to gently bounce the boy in his enormous hand a few times and shush him. A skittering of rocks and stones raining down from the roof of a building and the maker abruptly flattening himself against a wall, his eyes trained on the dark sky overhead.

At some point, you find yourself wondering whether he would bother to be so stealthy if you and the children weren't here. It isn't difficult to imagine a being with his daunting presence storming through the streets with nary a worry for whatever crosses his path. All the sneaking around, ducking into back alleys and keeping to the shadows doesn't fit his image at all. You're thankful though, not only for the obvious breaking of his own norms, but also for the way he's constantly angling his body so that those awful, familiar shapes littered upon the ground are kept predominantly out of the kids' line of sight.

It's odd, really. The thing that keeps you from slipping too far into the realm of sleep isn't the impending doom that could potentially lay around every corner or the knowledge that you and the children could well be the last humans alive in the city. It isn't the ceaseless stinging of your wounded palms and it isn't even the fact that you'd had to kill a woman you used to work with not too long ago.

No. It's hunger that keeps you jerking awake every two minutes and not even the lulling sway of your gigantic defender's footsteps is enough send you off to sleep.

So when he turns a corner and you find yourselves staring out over a recognisable city square, you nearly fall forwards off your perch when what feels like a truckload of relief slams into you at full force. Even some of the tension dribbles out of Ulthane's rigid stance.

“Never thought I'd be so happy to see a damn tree,” you chuckle quietly, earning a grunt of accord from the maker as he makes his way around the edge of the square, still on high alert.

“Looks like Elanya's been out here doin' some pest control,” he remarks as he steps over the flattened corpse of a four-legged demon with a canine's snout and razor-sharp teeth, fresh blood dripping from its glistening chops. He'd have to remember to both thank the young maker later, and reprimand her for leaving the tree by herself. There are several demons laying dead around the square, and not a one of them looks to have been killed by the blade of Yarin's axe.

The girl on his left shoulder – Kitty, he thinks – suddenly gives his beard a hesitant tug.

“Eh?” he grunts, turning his head to look at her and finding her gaping up at the tree's impressive trunk.

“Whassat?” she breathes and her fingers curl a little tighter around a fistful of his thick, coarse beard.

“That?” Ulthane returns his attention to the surrounding area and replies, “Tha's where we're goin', lassie. It's a maker tree.”

She makes a small sound of awe but doesn't ask him to elaborate and he gives a mental shrug, figuring she'll see for herself very soon anyway.

Creeping around the vast trunk, Ulthane eventually sags when the moving platform comes into view. One of the other makers must have guessed he'd be looking to take it back up, so they sent it down to meet him. 'Yarin, most likely,' he smirks to himself, 'Elanya wouldn't plan anything in advance.'

The Old one steps heavily onto the lift and allows a great heap of strain to leave his shoulders. When they slump down, Lucia tries to hold back a squeal as she's teetered off balance and fumbles for something to grab, eventually deciding to just smack one of her palms upon Ulthane's cheek and use his face to steady herself. If he minds at all, he doesn't show it.

Striding up to a lever in the centre of the platform, he pauses in front of it, casting you an almost apologetic look. “'Fraid I'll be needin' my hands back now,” he says, kneeling down and lowering you, Archie, Sam and Ashleigh to the wooden floor.

Offering him a wordless smile, you hoist yourself off his palm and turn to lift Archie down. On your other side, Ashleigh and Sam all but tumble from the maker's grasp and stagger away from him, shooting uncertain glances in every direction.

“Hey! What about us?”

The maker chuckles at Kitty's alarmed squeak and reaches up to scoop her off his shoulder. “Aye, I've not forgotten you either, missy.”

“Lucia!” you bark suddenly, “Please don't climb down by yourself! You might fall!”

While the maker was distracted with retrieving Kitty, Lucia took it upon herself to start an unsteady descent and promptly freezes with one foot slipped into the chain connecting Ulthane's pauldron to his belt, glancing back over a shoulder to gauge how serious you are.

Amused, the giant deposits Kitty next to her other classmates and uses two fingers to pluck the adventurous Lucia from his armour. She moans loudly and crosses her arms, complaining, “I can do it,” under her breath, only serving to widen Ulthane's grin.

Once free of humans, he straightens up again and grabs the enormous lever, giving it a firm tug and then a kick when the lift shudders again. “Blasted thing,” he grumbles, only relaxing when the platform starts to rumble steadily up off the ground.

A few of the children stagger sideways at the abrupt motion and you reach out a hand to snag Asheigh's sleeve, holding her upright. She tosses you a grateful look that's soon interrupted by a wide yawn.

Before you know it, you've succumbed as well. “Oh, oh excuse me!” you hum, covering your mouth. You don't notice the fond tilt of Ulthane's head, as if he'd never seen a human yawn before and finds the sight utterly captivating.

Then without warning, you're blinking sleepily up at him and he realises he's been staring. His eyes grow wide and he quickly jerks his gaze away, all of a sudden very interested in picking at the dirt under his nails.

Sure and steady, the lift trundles dutifully up into the tree and once the tarmac below falls completely out of view, you find yourself engulfed in a comforting warmth that has only a little to do with the thick tree bark blocking out the night's chill.

You'd made it back to the tree in once piece.

The kids are all here with you.

They're all tired and hungry, but they're okay.

The revelation is overwhelming and you press your lips together, closing your eyes against the sting of tears. From a general perspective, things are dire - worse than dire, of that you've no doubt. But for now, in this moment, things are just okay.

“Bonnie? Y'alright?”

Ulthane's gravelly voice seems to meld perfectly with the thrumming hum of the lift and you peel your reluctant eyes open again, sniffing hard. “Yeah, I'm okay. Just tired.”  

The warm, orange glow is slowly growing brighter and brighter as you draw closer to the main chamber. Overhead, a large shadow dances across the wall and you hear a voice exclaim, “They're back!”

You suddenly have five children sidestepping across the lift once it comes to a loud, creaking stop until they're all standing behind you, rapidly blinking sleep from their eyes and trying desperately to stay alert in the face of an unfamiliar giant.

Elanya comes bounding across the tree and screeches to a halt just before she runs you all over, her hands lifting to squeeze her cheeks together.

Almost unconsciously, you move your arms out to the side and back the children up a step or two. Ulthane may have proven that he can be gentle with them but this new maker is still a complete stranger to you, regardless of whether she'd patched you up before.

“Oh! By! The! Stone!” she croons, her ears pricked up in delight, “Yarin! C'mere! They've got bairns with 'em!”

Behind her, the other maker approaches with far more caution, treading softly as if he's afraid that one misstep could send you and the kids running. To be honest, with the way Archie's arm's are shaking, you wouldn't be surprised if that ends up being the case. Yarin stops just shy of Elanya and peers over her shoulder, his dark brows raised almost high enough to let you see the small, incredulous eyes staring out from underneath them.

“Well, bugger me....” he mutters and rubs at the back of his bald head, bewildered.

Behind you, Sam cringes and hides his face in the back of your blouse.

It comes as a shock to you, and apparently to the other makers as well, when Ulthane takes a sudden, decisive step in front of you and the children, effectively obscuring you from sight. “Easy, gal,” he warns Elanya, who blinks and drags her gaze back up to him, “They're a mite jumpy. Think it's best we don't rattle 'em too much, aye?.”

The youngling must have seen something in his face that you can't from your angle because she abruptly ducks her head, hands swinging to clasp each other behind her back. “Aye,” she huffs defeatedly, “Sorry.”

You watch him cuff her playfully on the chin and she snorts, her smile creeping back into its usual spot.

“How about fetchin' something for these wee tykes to eat, eh?” Ulthane suggests and she springs upright once more, a hand flying to her head to give him a quick salute before she's bounding away across the tree and almost bowling Yarin over in the process.

With a satisfied grunt, Ulthane steps away from the lift and beckons for you to follow him. After casting the third maker a wary glance, you take Archie and Ashleigh by the hands and lead your little group after him, feet dragging the whole way.

“She's got a good heart,” Ulthane tells you quietly when you reach his side again, nodding over to where Elanya is rummaging around in a large, cardboard box, “But she's still young. Everythin' here is all so new and excitin' for her.”

“It's fine,” you wave his apology aside and try to stifle another, sleepy yawn. Ever observant, Ulthane catches it and sends you a knowing smirk.

“Need me to carry you upstairs?” He's only half joking. He'd do it in a second if you asked him to. But alas, you merely shake your head and usher the five kids over to the first rope bridge, guided by Ulthane's hand at your back.

“Where are we going?” Ashleigh asks in a whisper, her heavy-lidded eyes barely keeping themselves propped open.

“Straight to bed. I think.” You glance over a shoulder at Ulthane and receive an affirming nod. You make it halfway up the initial ramp when Elanya abruptly pops her head up and beams proudly down at you. To your credit, you only take a single step away instead of falling onto your backside like Archie.

Behind you, Ulthane grumbles at her and reaches down to lift the young boy back onto his feet while in the meantime, you find yourself presented with a handful of crisp packets by an oblivious Elanya.

“Will these be okay for now?” she asks, poking one with a finger as thick as your arm, “I-if not, I think I can find somethin' different.”

She suddenly seems unsure of herself, glaring down at the crisps as though they're inadequate and you've already rejected them.

A little taken aback, you swallow down your trepidation and step closer, cautiously opening your hands and glancing up at her face, hesitating for just a moment before scooping the packets into your arms. “These are....they're perfect. Thank you, Elanya.” For the first time, you send a warm smile up at her. It soon twists into a troubled frown however, upon seeing her own features tipped towards your palms, her amber eyes unexpectedly dark and cold. “E-Elanya? I...These are fine, really.”

She doesn't reply, in fact it seems as though she doesn't even hear you. Instead she points at one of your hands and says, “What's that?”

The shift in demeanour is so jarring, you barely even realise what she's indicating until you glance down past the crisp packets and spot the dried blood meandering between your fingers and down your wrists like rivers of rusty brown.

At your back, Sam tries to lean around you to see.

Before you can come up with an answer for the maker though, she whips her head up and directs that ire-choked scowl at Ulthane.

“You were s'posed to keep her safe,” she growls accusingly and when you look up to the older maker, you're confused that he doesn't even try to defend himself, he just glowers down at your injury with a faraway look in his eye.

Twisting your palms until they're hidden up against the crisps, you swiftly plaster on a look of ebullience and grin up at the giant woman in front of you. “Oh, what, this?” you scoff and it's eerie how much you sound like Ulthane in that moment, “This is nothing. Just a flesh wound! And besides, it was my own, clumsy fault.”

Skeptical, the maker scrunches her nose up, prompting you to press on. “Really, it looks a lot worse than it is. Trust me, I'm a human. I know how much blood we can lose before we need to be worried. The only thing I'm worried about right now, is getting these kids to bed.”

Elanya casts a quick glance over your shoulder to see the five younglings cowering close to the wall and although she looks far from convinced, she lets out a sharp 'tsk' and fixes you with a squinted eye. “You'll let me have a proper look at it when you wake up?”

You have the feeling that you really won't get a say in the matter, so you simply breathe a sigh of resignation and reply, “Promise.”

And just like that, the young maker's face lights up with a dazzling smile. “Smashin'! I'll see you on the morrow, then!” she beams.

“Oh, well I – Yeah, see you.” If you hadn't just seen her manner shift with your own two eyes, you would have sworn up and down that she could have been an entirely different maker.

With another nod of gratitude, you turn and motion for the children to continue up the ramp whilst Elanya looks on, enraptured.

“Watch your step,” Ulthane warns once you reach the swinging rope bridge, though he needn't have worried at all. One by one, the kids navigate the slats of wood with relative ease, although their legs have to stretch to cover the gaps in between. The maker inwardly curses himself for not making the bridge a little more solid.

But, soon enough, all six humans are safely on the other side and as you pass through the large archway into a warm, familiar hollow, you can't quite hold back a groan that sneaks out of you at the sight of a real – albeit rustic – bunkbed.

Just inside the entrance is a large, wooden table and you drag yourself over to it, dumping the packets onto its surface before swivelling about and clapping your hands together. “Okay,” you announce to the gaggle of children, who've already begun to meander towards the back of the room where the pair of bunkbeds lay enticingly in wait. At the sound of your voice, they stop and look over at you. Sam and Archie even try to make their way back to you but you quickly wave a hand at the pillows. “No, no. Go on, get into bed. I was only going to say that one of you needs to share with someone else. There're only four.”

Without hesitation, Lucia grabs Kitty's hand tugs her towards one of the bunks. “I can go top to toe with Kitty!” she calls, “We've had to do it at sleepovers before.”

Kitty nods, rubbing at her eyes and allowing herself to be shepherded up a ladder and onto the higher bed with Lucia scrambling up after her. Behind you, a throaty chuckle catches your ear and you glance back to find Ulthane leaning up against the side of the tree in the entrance, his arms folded loosely across his chest. Despite his casual stance, you can tell he's surveying the room intently, one eye screwed shut while the other follows Ashleigh all the way up her own ladder, like he expects her to fall at any moment.

Sam takes the bunk beneath her which leaves Archie to fumble his way over to the final spot, directly under Kitty and Lucia. On the way, he has his arms stretched out before him and he grabs hold of the ladder before carefully manoeuvring around it, sitting on the dusty, green bedroll.

You could almost smack yourself for forgetting. “Oh, Archie, your glasses...”

The maker tips his head to one side, watching raptly as you get to your feet and select five of the tiny, red packets Elanya had fetched for you. “Glasses?” he pipes up.

“Yeah, poor Archie's got a crack in his.” Shaking your head, you amble over to the boy and hold a packet out in front of him, waiting while he squints at it for a moment, then eventually he plucks it from your grasp and sets about tearing it open. Lucia bends down from her bed and grabs two more packets for herself and Kitty as you turn to look back at Ulthane, raising a brow. “Do you guys not have glasses?”

He lifts his shoulders in a half shrug. “Can't say we do. What're they for?”

“Well-” You pause to move between the beds, passing Sam his own crisps. “- Some humans don't have the best eyesight, so they need these cool little gadgets to help them see. Archie's partially sighted, so.....” You trail off, biting your lip. Jesus, that poor kid. How in the world are you going to fix them, or find a replacement pair? How can you just up and tell him that he'll probably have to cope without them?

Aware that Ulthane's attention is still on you, you clear your throat and continue, “Let's just say he really needed those glasses...”

The maker's brow dips into a frown and he roves his eyes over to the young boy sitting with his knees up against his chest, a now empty crisp packet discarded at his side and the tiny, glass spectacles now laying uselessly on the end of the bed, as if they'd been tossed there begrudgingly.

You miss the maker's contemplative expression because you're too busy stretching up to hand Ashleigh the fifth and final packet.

“I'm not allowed crisps before bed,” she says quietly.

Giving the girl an encouraging smile, you press the food into her hands. “Well, you are tonight.”

It seems as though a massive weight lifts off your shoulders once you're certain all the kids have had some sustenance and you traipse back over to the table, sinking heavily into one of the chairs there with a sigh.

You only close your eyes to alleviate the sting of fatigue but when you open them again, the wax candles dotted around the room have shrunk by a few inches and the children are all lying down on their respective bedrolls, sound asleep if the light snores are any indication. At that moment, your belly rumbles noisily and you realise why you must have woken up.

Just then, something shifts to your right and you whip your head towards the sound, heart rising into your throat. To your relief however, the culprit is none other than Ulthane. He's managed to slump down in the same spot he stood in earlier, his arms draped restfully over bent knees and his gaze tipped back to study the tree's newest layer of heartwood.

A small part of you feels it should be unsettled that you'd fallen asleep in his presence when you ought to have been watching the kids, but to be perfectly frank, you'd be useless to defend them anyway with the state you're in.

Placing a hand over your chest, you sigh and struggle up onto unsteady legs after grabbing a packet of crisps off the table, tearing it open and tipping the contents into your mouth.

The crinkling packet garners the maker's attention and he lowers his head, something in his jaw loosening as you plod over to the entrance and take the side opposite his, plonking yourself down onto your rear with a dull thud and pressing a hand tenderly to a knot in the side of your neck.

“Sorry I didn't wake you,” he murmurs, eyeing the discomfort on your face, “Chair's not the best place for a human to sleep, but you looked like you could use the rest.”

“Mmm, well you weren't wrong there,” you return with a yawn and let your head thunk against the bark behind you, eyes slipping shut.

For a time, you're content to just sit still, listening to the extraordinary tree creak all around you whilst outside, thousands upon thousands of leaves whisper their haunting chorus as they sway in the wind.

The moment doesn't last. It isn't long before you have the distinct inkling you're being watched. Cracking open an eyelid, you peek up at the maker sitting across from you and notice that he's giving your hands a decidedly heated glare, his cheek propped upon a single, gigantic fist.

“You okay there, big fella?”

At the sound of your question, the maker gives a start and snatches his head away, none too discreetly, and you have to suppress a smile at the idea that you could make him jump. Turning his glower onto the nearby table instead, he grumbles something unintelligible and huffs.

You continue to inspect the side of his face idly, almost challenging the giant to meet your gaze again but when it becomes clear he isn't going to, you heave a sigh and lower your eyes to the gouges left in your palms. “You know....It...wasn't your fault, Ulthane.”

All at once, the maker's chest constricts, his guts lurch and he slowly turns his head to look back down at you, filled with a terrible sense of urgency, something in him wanting – needing - to hear the words again. “What did....” He pauses, wetting his lips. “What did you say?”

“I said, it wasn't your fault, what happened.” He only continues to stare at you, so you hold your hands up, showing him the wounds. “To me?”

'Oh....Maker's bones, he really thought you were talking about-?...' Ulthane shakes himself and rushes to answer aloud, “Oh. Yeah, no, I know. It just looks painful, s'all.” He tries to play off nonchalance by scratching the underside of his thick, auburn beard and adding, “You'll really let Elanya have a look tomorrow?”

“Only if you let her look at your arm.”

He tries to sneer at you, though it lacks any real contempt and you just end up with an even broader grin which in turn draws an amused grunt out of his throat. Ulthane regards you carefully for a minute and you can't ignore that there's a definite shadow lingering between his brows, stamped into his skin like a permanent badge of melancholia. Then, before you can look too closely into it, he turns away and nods towards the back of the tree. “Y'know, there's another bedroll over there. Haven't exactly tested it myself-” He chuckles softly and gestures from his head to his boots, managing to pull another half smile from your exhausted lips as well.

“-But I imagine it's more comfy than a wooden chair.”

You roll your head over to where he indicated. Somehow, the vast expanse between you and a bed seems insurmountable from here.

When you don't move, a frown tugs at the maker's lips. “Lass, you should-”

“I'll go, I'll go,” you cut him off with a lazy wave of your hand, adding, “In a minute.”

Sleep sounds like the best thing in the world right now. All you want to do is collapse onto a pillow and be unconscious for a little while. But the horrible truth is, you know that the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you'll have to wake up. And waking up sounds like the absolute worst thing in the world right now...

“Boy...Tomorrow's gonna suck, huh?”

Ulthane snorts softly, his lips parting around those formidable tusks.

“What?” you ask.

“Oh, nothin'. It's just the way you talk.” His grin softens a fraction. “S'different...I like it.”

Now it's your tun to snort. “Wow, you're easily pleased.”

The pair of you share a moment of easy amusement before the room lapses back into perfect silence once more, broken only by one of the children's muffled snores.

“Hey, Ulthane?” Your eyes are so heavy now, as if each eyelash weighs a metric tonne.

“Aye?”

A yawn steals the words from your lips so you try again, stretching your legs out across the floor. “I'm not ready for tomorrow,” you admit in a whisper. Tomorrow is when you'll have to face reality and come to terms with what's happening to the world, now that you're in a place safe enough to give you the luxury of thinking again.

“Best not to worry about it for now,” the maker replies after a moment of reflection, “You n' the littl'uns are safe, that's what matters, bonnie.”

You try to smile. You think you manage it, but your mind isn't really paying attention and you let your chin drop onto your collarbone. Gradually, each blink starts coming slower and slower until your eyes remain shut. “...Ulthane?” you mumble.

The maker's resounding hum is barely more than a low rumble through your chest. “Mm?”

“What does.... bonnie...... mean?” The last word trails off into silence and your head rolls sideways, a cheek squashing up against the wooden wall as sleep finally, mercifully comes to claim you.

[imagine-darksiders]

Exposure Therapy, chapter 3.

Undivided Attention.

Strife X Reader.

--------

Were a pin to fall and hit the vinyl wood floor at that moment, you imagine the resulting sound would seem near-deafening in comparison to the preternatural silence that blankets the bar, oppressive and charged.

The humans inside have all followed the line of your haunted stare, and now, there's a room full of people that have twisted around in their seats to gape with unmitigated alarm at the titanic, armoured Horseman looming just inside the entrance.

Everyone has gone utterly still as stone, like prey caught in the gaze of a predator. By contrast, the Nephilim hardly seems to acknowledge the room's unpleasant atmosphere, too busy pivoting from left to right with his hands planted on each hip, casually surveying every human sitting before him through glinting, golden eyes. It's a hell of a standoff that could put any Hollywood western to shame. 

Even Tony has turned rigid at his place behind the bar, stooped into a half crouch with one hand stretching down into the shadows, no doubt poised just above the shelf that houses his trusty shotgun.

Meanwhile, your own hand is white-knuckling the microphone to keep it from slipping out of your lacklustre grip.

'No.... no, no, nonono! No!'

He wasn't supposed to follow you in! This is meant to be a safe space, surrounded by people! You said goodbye to him... Why is he here!?

Perhaps foolishly, in a moment of childish logic, you'd assumed you would be safe in here - that the bar's four, sturdy walls would keep the Nephilim giant at bay like a blanket might offer a child protection against the monsters lurking in the darkness of their bedroom.

If you'd have thought for a minute that he'd followed you in..?

Several of the patrons flinch noticeably when a low, sweeping whistle drifts out from underneath the Horseman's helm, breaking the sacred silence and tapering off into a chuckle that could only be described as jocular.

“Damn! Sorry folks. Didn't mean to interrupt. But hey-! don't mind me.”

For quite some time, nobody says a word. Nobody dares, at least until Strife moves to take a step further into the room, his metal boots clinking noisily in the otherwise silent bar.

That's when Tony speaks up, his voice as hard as nails, doubtlessly to try and appear just a smidge more brave than he really feels.

Nobody in the bar is fooled, of course.

You all know who the bigger dog is in this fight.

“We don't want no trouble, Horseman,” Tony grunts, straightening up and none-too subtly setting the his shotgun down on the bar top like the world's most ineffective threat. Even a 12-gauge looks diminutive in comparison to those revolvers hanging snugly from the Nephilim's hips.

You feel more than see the whole room hold its collective breath as Tony reveals his weapon, and yet to your immeasurable shock, Strife seems to be the only one who doesn't even acknowledge the firearm's presence, likely because it poses about as much of a threat as a pea-shooter would against a bison.

The Horseman's posture remains comfortably lax, one claw-tipped thumb hooked into the loop of his thick, leather bandolier belt and his weight shifted back onto an armoured leg.

“What a coincidence,” he shrugs breezily in response to the bartender's proclamation, “Neither do I. I'm just here to see a friend of mine.”

Your heart gives a mad buck inside your chest and the blood in your veins runs cold. Now would be an exemplary time for a hole to open up underneath you and swallow you right down into it.

Dozens of pairs of eyes begin darting to and fro between the patrons, each suspecting the other of being the Horseman's aforementioned friend.

Tony's dark brows furrow heavily above his eyes and he retorts, “Ain't nobody in here a friend of yours... I'm gonna have to ask you to -!”

“Oh, hey! There she is!”

Oh...

Oh no...

Ooooh no.

That formidable visor has swivelled in your direction, and to your insurmountable horror, the Horseman lifts his armour-clad hand and begins to eagerly wave it at you, calling out, “Hey! It's me, Strife!”

Yes, how could you possibly forget?

“Thought I'd swing by and listen to you sing!”

A ripple of unrest starts to spread through the bar as people turn in their seats to glare up at you, some in palpable disbelief, most with their expressions screwed up into looks of disdain and borderline betrayal.

You find you can hardly begrudge them their burning indignation. For all they know, you've just invited a Horseman of the Apocalypse right into their midst, like ringing a dinner bell.

Swallowing so loudly that the microphone picks up the feedback and kicks a soft gulp out of the nearby speakers, you shrink back into yourself, every instinct screaming at you to turn tail and bolt... until you meet Tony's eyes from across the bar. A veritable age seems to pass while he regards you over his patrons' heads, but eventually, he turns back to the still-waving Nephilim and growls, “You got a problem with one of my employees?”

You hardly dare breathe. In your mind, you frantically beg for Tony to stop antagonising the Horseman. Then again, if Strife feels antagonised, he does a damn good job at hiding it. If anything, he only draws his head back as though the bartender's accusation has left him mildly perturbed.

“Problem?” he echoes with a tip of his head and blinking owlishly up at your boss, all innocence and ease, “No. No, of course there's no problem. Why would...?”

He trails off, finally taking proper stock of the room and noticing the wary, if not hateful glares being aimed his way by the numerous humans surrounding him. Fearlessly casting his own gaze back at each of them, he rests a fist on his hip. “Ah. I get it...” he mutters knowingly. For the breadth of a moment, you think you see a glimmer of hesitation flash across his visor, but seconds later, he raises his arms and gestures in the universal 'settle down' motion. “It's all right, humans. I ain't here to hurt anybody. You won't even notice I'm here. Promise.”

And then, astonishingly, the Horseman keeps his arms raised and begins to scoot awkwardly around tables and between chairs, steadily making his way to the front of the stage where you remain frozen.

All around him, the bar seems to explode into action. People either launch themselves clumsily out of their seats and clamour for the now vacated entrance or they turn stiller than statues and sink low into their seats, their eyes on stalks as the giant skirts past them.

Sadly, your reaction nearly mirrors the latter group. Your feet may as well have put down roots, grounding you to the stage, and the microphone creaks in protest when your hand slowly tightens its hold on the smooth, black plastic.

Strife comes to a stop directly in front of you, and you realise with a jolt that this is perhaps the first and only time where you're tall enough to look him in the eye. Not surprisingly, standing at his height is no less intimidating that standing on the ground and craning your neck back to peer up at him.

Locked in a stalemate, you stare into those eyes of liquid gold whilst your heart attempts to gallop out of your chest and the blood pulsing like a drum in your ears swells to a thundering crescendo.

You can't see beneath his helm, but from the gentle crease of the Horseman's left eye where it sits exposed by a gap in the visor, you get the strangest feeling that he's giving you a lopsided grin.

And just as you start to feel sure your head might explode from the rush of apprehension crashing through it, he catches you off guard by dropping heavily and unexpectedly into a chair that's been positioned right in front of the stage. You blink in shock as the wood beneath him squeaks and groans in protest under the sudden weight of an eight-foot, armoured Nephilim, but the stubborn little thing manages to hold fast, a valiant testament to the ingenuity of the human who built it.

And a good thing too. You don't especially want to imagine what he might do if the chair gives out from underneath him...

Your eyes flick briefly to the seat next to him, where your old regular, Mr Weir, has pitched his usual camp. As is typical for this time of night, he's fallen asleep right there in his seat, slumped forwards to drape his upper body over the front of your stage, and as per usual, he absolutely reeks of booze.

You've been ignoring him up until now, and doing a find job of it too, but now? Now you're wary.

The man is seems to exist in a state of constant leglessness, a fact which is generally excused by the rest of the community. The poor bastard certainly isn't the only human who turned to the drink as a means to cope with the memory of every horror that befell humanity all those years ago... Everyone in this bar has their own coping method, yourself included, and after the Apocalypse you've found that people are far less quick to judge another for those vices.

But Weir's vice? While understood to an extent by the humans around him, still renders him a boisterous, unpleasant and often wildly inappropriate man. If he wakes up now, with the Horseman in his proximity...?

Well, that just smacks of a disaster waiting to happen.

Your focus darts back to Strife, and you have to swallow a squeak of alarm to find that he's followed your gaze down to the unconscious man slouching in the seat beside his own.

Ice-cold dread creeps up the length of your spine and you hold your breath again, waiting in anxious anticipation to see what he'll do.

Once again however, you're taken aback.

“Ha! Must be past someone's bedtime,” the Horseman chuckles, jerking a thumb towards the sleeping human, “Kinda rude to sleep through a lady's song though, in't it? Want me to wake him up?”

Before you can think to stop yourself, you jolt forwards and throw your hands out, as if you could physically keep him from shaking Weir awake, blurting a cracked, “No!” only to blink in surprise at your own gumption. Raising your voice at a Horseman? Again? Maybe you really do have a death-wish.

Strife's helm tilts sideways and he sits back in his chair, regarding you pensively for a moment. You can't bear to take your eyes off him, not even when you catch movement in your peripheral vision, near the bar – Tony must have ventured closer...

Leaning forwards again, the Horseman slowly rests his elbows on the front of your stage and props his helm's chin on the back of his knuckles. “Am I makin' you nervous?” he asks, his voice flecked with something akin to genuine concern.

Well, you'd have thought that much was perfectly obvious.

But before you can fumble over an appeasing excuse, one of his eyes blinks closed – a playful wink. “Relax, lady,” he tells you in a tone so gentle, you're stunned to have heard it come out of his mouth, “I'm not gonna eat you if you miss a note.”

And that's when it hits you. Not like a brick – hard and sudden – but more like a splash of cold water, bringing you around to a slow and surprising revelation.

Unbidden, Ulthane's rugged face pops up in your mind's eye and you recall with startling clarity the first words he'd ever said to you after he pulled you out from beneath the rubble of a collapsed building almost nine years ago, back when the city's infrastructure had gone a century without a lick of maintenance.

“Easy, lass,” he'd murmured patiently even though you'd kicked and struggled like a feral little animal to free yourself from his colossal, yet gentle fist, “Contrary to popular belief, m'not goin' to eat you.”

You blink, hard, and the maker disappears from your mind's eye and leaves you staring down into the Horseman's expectant gaze. The moment of recollection only lasted for the duration of a breath, but even that sliver of a second is enough to plant a tiny seed of doubt inside your brain.

Suddenly, your own hypocrisy becomes all-too evident.

You're behaving in the same manner as those racist humans behave when they see Ulthane pass by. They'd do anything to get away from him, they're scared to death that if they say or do the slightest thing wrong, he'll fly into an uncontrollable rage and hurt somebody. They don't want him around... and isn't that exactly how you've been reacting to the Horseman's presence thus far?

Have you been... wrong?

You, as a collective. Humanity.

Tentatively dragging your eyes off Strife, you glance around the bar and take in the familiar faces all around you. Not a single soul is looking at the Horseman with anything other than terror, outrage or hatred, the kind of looks that haven't changed in over nine years. You all took one glance at the Four Horsemen, heard their names, and concluded that they must have been the biblical world-enders they appeared to be.

It was the same with the makers, to begin with, and yet now, to hear anybody speaking unkindly of the ancient giants will usually incite a vehement public backlash. People love makers now, and those that don't are shunned by a vast majority of society. Even angels had a hell of a time earning Humanity's trust and respect, especially after word got out that it was an angel who orchestrated the Apocalypse to begin with.

You're under no illusions, of course. You know full-well that Strife is dangerous. He's vastly stronger than you, and larger and faster and no doubt smarter.

But then... so is Ulthane.

And are you afraid of him?

....

Slowly, ever so slowly, you ease your grip on the microphone, feeling the tingle of blood rushing back into your fingertips.

At some point, somewhere along the line, somebody had to have taken that first step, be it with the angels, the undead or the makers. There always has to be a first – a point of human connection and a hand outstretched from which that connection can ripple outwards and swallow those who care enough to follow by example.

Perhaps, however unwittingly, you've stumbled into the role. Perhaps you're the human who has to bridge that nigh-impassable gap between your own species and that of the Nephilim – A Horseman of the damn Apocalypse...

...Joy.

You take another second to gauge Strife's body language. There's no visible indication that he's in any way put off by the throng of humans attempting to surreptitiously leave the bar, nor by those who have chosen to stay. And there are those who have chosen to stay – those curious few, Tony included, who are too wary of turning their backs on the Nephilim. 'He hasn't exactly done anything to you,' you remind yourself.

In contrast to the attention they're all paying to Strife, the Horseman's focus seems to be entirely fixated on you alone, never straying, not even over to your boss when he pointedly racks his shotgun.

You however, do allow your gaze to blip over to Tony, and you proceed to give the man a look so caustic that it stops him in his tracks.

You're already dealing with one trigger-happy person in this bar, you refuse to have to deal with another.

If Tony escalates this situation, you'll kill him, provided you get to him before the Horseman does.

You see the bartender's scowl deepen, yet his finger twitches away from the shotgun's trigger, and only then do you deign to return your full attention to your uninvited guest.

Time to test your glib tongue – and your mettle.

“Do you-” Your voice catches and you flinch minutely as he perks up at realisation that you're talking to him. Unpeeling your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you tentatively ask, “Do you... uhh... have any requests?”

Almost as soon as the question leaves your tongue, you wish you could suck it back down. Why? Why would you ask that? What if he names something you've never heard of? What if you get the words wrong and it offends him? What if this is his game – humiliating you before he deals the final blow as vengeance for that punch you landed on his visor? What if -?

“Uh, sorry, I...” He cuts off each of your panicked thoughts with a surprisingly quiet reply, raising a hand to sheepishly scratch at the black, jagged hair. “I don't really know any human music,” he admits, hastily adding, “I mean – I've heard it before! Well, sort of. But I wouldn't be able to put a name to any of it...”

That... derails your anxiety somewhat.

Squinting down at him, you lick your lips and hesitate for a long moment before softly asking, “You don't know any music?” You hesitate, finding you aren't brave enough to add, 'That's sad...'

“I liked that one you were singin' when I came in,” he presses, steepling his fingers on the stage, “Maybe you could finish that one? You sounded good, even from outside.”

You did?

“I did?” you voice skeptically.

You receive an eager nod of that silver, avian helm. “Uh huh! Say, what's it called anyway? Reckon that'll be the first human song I ever learned the name of!”

God, he sounds so keen. It's a little unnerving.

Still, helplessly, you lift your arms into a tiny shrug and tell him, “It's... a Cole Porter classic... You're the Top?”

“You're the Top, huh?” he repeats, eyes gleaming with amusement beneath his visor, “Sounds like a song that's gonna stroke my ego. Sorry I interrupted for so long. Please.” With a sweep of his hand, he gestures towards you and draws away from the stage in one smooth motion, leaning against the back of his seat and folding his arms loosely across his metal chest.

You have a dreadful feeling you're really going to hate this.

But the sooner you get it over with, the sooner he'll leave... You hope.

Only one way to find out.

He's not going to go until he gets what he wants anyway. You're just lucky that all he seems to want is a song.

So, desperately trying to ignore the fact that this is one of the most intimidating audience members you've ever had in your life, you raise the quivering microphone up to your lips, suck a lungful of air deep down into your chest and start to sing.

[imagine-darksiders]

War X Reader

Hey! A wild writing commission appeared!

Requested by the lovely @olenstarbreezeze who asked for a War X Reader fic with Chaos War and hurt/comfort.

I uh... I might have gone over the word limit a wee smidge :S

Also, while this is set during the first game, I tried to take more from War's personality in Genesis.

-------

“Beware the loyalty of a Horseman...”

That had been Ulthane's rumbled warning to you, spoken in the dull hush of his underground hovel.

Between clucking over the wounds you'd sustained from your run-in with the Griever and grumbling about the state of his front door, he'd sent a surreptitious glare at the cloaked figure looming on the other side of his home.

“Havin' a Horseman on your side is like havin' a bloody army at your back,” the maker had continued in a low thrum, meeting your eye once again and giving you a look as stony as the bench you'd been sat on, “Take care how you use it, eh?”

That had been a week ago.

At the time, you'd simply smiled and patiently agreed to be careful. You certainly weren't about to argue with the giant who'd been kind enough to offer you a safe haven from the demon-infested world outside, whilst the Horseman regathered his strength and planned the next leg of your journey.

You had merely found it hard to imagine that the Apocalyptic Nephilim could be loyal to a human he'd only known for a few, short weeks.

Now however, almost seven days after Ulthane told you to tread carefully with the Horseman's loyalty, you're starting to wonder if the old giant had been right to warn you after all...

-----------

“You can change back now, you know...”

Your gentle suggestion cuts through the silence that has cocooned the dilapidated city hall for the last half an hour, and although you'd made an effort to whisper, you still wince at such a jarring shift in volume.

Regardless, you think you've posited an issue that needs to be brought up sooner rather than later.

War, the battle-hardened and stoic Horseman of the Apocalypse, isn't quite himself.

Literally.

He hasn't been 'himself' since he came thundering into that demon encampment over an hour ago, whipped up into a frenzy and enraged like a maddened bull, hellbent on rescuing his unwitting charge.

A Phantom General had thought it would be a good idea to not only kidnap you right out from under War's nose, but to ultimately force you into the role of 'bait' in some harebrained scheme to ambush the Horseman and cleave his head from his shoulders.

Of course, the General and his legion of Phantom Guards had been expecting to fight a Horseman.

They never thought they'd instead come face to fanged face with a flaming, bipedal juggernaut that came charging towards them, its skin charcoal dark and solid like basalt, and an eternal fire enveloping its body as if it has been doused in gelatinous napalm.

With your neck caught in the cruel, crushing grasp of the startled General, you'd watched on in horrified awe as War's most vicious and primal form demolished the unsuspecting demons, tearing them asunder with immense, cragged jaws and sweeping horns that curved out in front of his head and stretched their fiery tips towards the sky.

Power and outrage given a physical form...

He'd become Chaos. Fierce and devastating Chaos.

Even now, tucked somewhat safely inside what had once been a bustling city hall, 'Chaos' is still maintaining control, and he's planted himself squarely in the entrance with his colossal shoulders quivering in agitation and his whip-like tail lashing back and forth behind him.

The flames licking up his back haven't dimmed in the slightest.

He's been in this state for some time, wound tighter than a coiled spring as he growls quietly at the closed doors, either unable, or unwilling to allow War to reclaim control.

“War?” you croak again, raising your brows expectantly, “I really don't think anything's coming through that door for a while... You cleared the whole city block.”

That isn't an exaggeration. The streets had run crimson with the blood of innumerable demons, whose shrieks and death-cries will likely haunt your dreams when you eventually lay down to sleep tonight.

Though the almighty beast's ear twitches towards you, he otherwise doesn't react to your words.

Clicking your tongue, you shake your head and mutter, “Stubborn Horseman...”

Realising that you're getting nowhere, you cast your eyes down to your left ankle, chewing apprehensively on your lip.

You hadn't escaped that encampment entirely unscathed...

You've yet to pull your injured leg from the confines of its boot, admittedly hesitant to acknowledge the extent of the damage within. You don't have to see the Ravager's bite to know that it's bad. The fire burning under your skin is painful enough to clue you in on it.

The only consolation is that the hell-dog that gave you the injury is now dead, crushed savagely under Chaos's earth-shattering fists.

Still, while you've got a moment, you suppose it would be prudent to find some water and clean the wound of dried blood and dirt.

Hissing through gritted teeth, you swing yourself sideways on the rickety, wooden pew you've claimed and haul your leg up alongside you, bending at the waist to reach your shoelaces. Lips pressed into a thin line, you barely manage to hold onto a whimper as you peel the boot and sock loose, letting both drop off the bench to reveal the mess of flesh that has grown sticky and brown with your congealing blood.

“Oh, boy,” you breathe shakily, ghosting your fingertips around the tooth marks, “That's probably gonna sting tomorrow, huh?”

All of a sudden, the sound of a deep, strong inhale draws your gaze up to the red behemoth standing guard by the doors. Chaos has raised his head to give the air a generous sniff, only to abruptly heave his bulk around to face you with an urgency that puts you on edge. Those wild, golden eyes drift down to land upon your damaged leg, and you mentally admonish yourself for your oversight.

In taking off your boot, you've essentially saturated the air with the stench of your blood.

When he'd carried you away from the encampment, Chaos had done nothing but try to lap at the bruises around your neck until you shoved his snout away and told him sternly that his sandpaper tongue was hardly helping matters.

Evidently offended, he'd been immensely huffy about it. You can only imagine what the smell of your blood is doing to the primitive hindbrain that takes over whenever Chaos is brought forth.

With a resonant, guttural bark, he takes two strides on his digitigrade legs until he descends upon you, dropping heavily to his forelegs with a 'whump' that causes the linoleum floor to squeak under his impressive weight.

There's an instinctive part of you that fears the giant maw pushing rudely into your space, and you shrink against the bench at your back, angling your gaze away from his fangs.

A gush of hot, damp breath washes over you when he parts his jaws and grumbles unhappily at your ankle, and before you can stop him, that broad, coarse tongue is lolling out of his mouth to thwack dully on top of your calf, giving your leg a firm lick.

“OW!” you squawk at once, jolting at the sting of pressure on your tender wound, “War! Knock it off! That's gross!”

The beast just grunts in response, but he does slow down as he rolls his tongue to your ankle again and steals a second lap.

Pulling a face, you plant your palms on the rock hard tip of his snout and lean your whole weight against him, fruitlessly attempting to push him away. “For goodness sake!” you gripe, “I can clean it myself. With actual water.”

When all you receive is a churlish huff in response, you let out a groan and take the rather hopeless notion that you could escape his persistent tongue by simply hopping off the pew, ducking under his horns and hobbling off to find the closest bathroom you can lock yourself in.

Of course, as soon as you try to stand, Chaos lets out a sudden growl and firmly - but recognisably gently - bunts his snout into your chest, pinning you against the back of the bench with his lips peeled apart in a clear warning.

Your hands fly up at once, held placatingly in the air.

It's easy to forget sometimes that while this may be War, it's a side of him you hardly know in the slightest. He seems more beast than human in this form, and you're not keen on testing the limits of his patience....

“War...” you murmur, eyeing his bared teeth warily, “War, please... You're scaring me.”

His scalding, yellow gaze bores into you for a few more seconds before he blinks and his eyes suddenly grow wide.

In the next instant, his massive head pulls away and he stares down at the spot where you've huddled yourself into a tiny ball on the pew.

And then, all at once, he's dropping his head until his jaw hits the ground, and in an explosion of red light and thick, black smoke, Chaos is gone, replaced instead by the hunched, hooded figure of War, in all his armoured glory.

Substantially smaller than Chaos but still able to utterly dwarf you in stature, the Horseman is crouched on the ground in front of you, his fists pressed to the linoleum and his white, blonde hair spilling out of his hood as he gives his head a firm shake.

Even on his knees, he's still a figure of immense proportions.

Slowly raising his eyes to you, War adopts a familiar scowl and through clenched teeth, he growls, “What... were you... thinking?”

Taken aback, you scrunch up one side of your face and blurt, “Excuse me?”

Curling his lip, the Nephilim glances around at the room, spotting your backpack leaning up against the side of the bench. “I told you to remain close,” he grumbles, bending down to rummage through the pack and straightening up a moment later, this time with one of your scavenged water bottles clutched in his too-large fist.

Bridling, you protest, “I had to go to the bathroom! I wasn't going to go with you watching.”

“And that demon was able to capture you,” he spits venomously, "Because you were alone."

“Yeah...! Well...” You press your lips together, irked. He's right, of course. The second you tried to leave his side, you were taken... It wasn't your proudest moment, getting caught with your trousers down by a horde of Phantom Guards who happened to round the side of a building at the most inopportune time imaginable.

Tutting noisily, you cross your arms and sigh, “You got me out of there eventually... So, all's well that ends well, I guess.”

War lets out a hot breath, nostrils flared in aggravation.

He closes the top of the bottle in his fist and gives it a sharp twist, letting the cap topple from it and clatter onto the floor nearby. Then, lowering himself onto a knee in front of you, he reaches up to grasp the fabric of his scarlet cowl, and with one, strong tug, he rips off a strip and pours a few glugs of water onto it, soaking the fabric a deep, wine-red.

“War?” you say incredulously, mouth falling agape, “Your cowl!”

The Horseman's sizeable shoulders rise and fall with a shrug as he sets the bottle of water to the ground without bothering to replace the lid, though only because his gauntleted fingers are too large to allow for such dexterity. “It will have to suffice,” he tells you matter-of-factly.

“But... But, you never even take it off.” Falling silent, you watch him bring the damp rag up to your injury. “It's important to you.”

Almost at once, his eyes snap up to lock with yours. “And you aren't?” he growls.

.... You don't think even he expected to say that out loud.

Swallowing thickly, you remain quiet under the Nephilim's scorching, blue glare until he blinks, blowing out a rough exhale and dropping his eyes to your leg.

You can't keep yourself from flinching slightly, even though his touch is feather-light.

For such a large and intimidating Nephilim, War's ability to be gentle with you continues to astonish.

'A millennia of discipline,' you suppose.

His hand stills when you jolt though, and he glances up at you, his expression never once shifting out of the scowl that seems to be a permanent feature on his rugged face.

Knowing that he won't wait forever, you offer him a tiny nod.

Just then, too fast for you to really get a good glimpse, War's expression seems to relax by a fraction, but before you can be sure you aren't just seeing things, he tips his chin down so that his hood shadows half of his face, and as if he's handling the finest china, he slides his prosthetic hand underneath your foot, propping it up in his palm.

You're so surprised by this, it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts while he works to meticulously sweep the scrap of his cowl over each of the four puncture wounds decorating your ankle.

Gradually, one of your eyebrows slides up your forehead. “Uh, War?”

Silence.

Your other eyebrow shoots up to join the first. “You know you don't have to do that, right? I can take care of it.”

The Horseman's mouth opens, but only for a brief moment before it snaps closed again and he substitutes words with a shrug of his immense shoulders. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he looks guilty.

But that would be absurd.

.... Wouldn't it? He is glaring at your injury as if it has somehow personally offended him.

Slowly, your brows come together and create a deep furrow in the centre of your forehead. “War,” you say again, carefully, “What happened – You know it... it wasn't your fault.”

That, at last, provokes a response. A rather explosive one, at that.

The Rider's head shoots up so abruptly that his hood goes tumbling back to pool around the base of his neck, revealing the extent of his long, white hair.

“Do NOT try to coddle me!” he snarls, showing off his sharpened canines, “If I had been more vigilant, this would never have happened!” With a jerk of his chin, he indicates your leg. “I swore an oath to keep you safe, and I have already failed you!”

… Taken aback, you blink.

That's... news to you.

“An oath?” you echo, scrunching up your nose, “When did you do that? I don't remember you making any oath?”

“I-...” War stops in his tracks, his eyes darting to the left before they return to meet yours again. He holds your stare for a while, and you're shocked that he's the one who looks away first.

Dropping his focus to your ankle, he seals his lips into a tight, unhappy line. Well... unhappy-er.

“The Horsemen...” he starts, and for the first time since you met, he actually sounds uncertain of himself, “We do not have friends. We were not created to build connections. Only to uphold the balance.”

Your face falls, but War resolutely refuses to meet your solemn gaze.

“For millennia, I have always believed that...” Quite unexpectedly, he raises his head once more and you're stunned to see genuine confusion creasing the lines under his eyes, far more prominent than the ones he gets when you try to engage him in a joke.

“And then I met you,” he utters as if he can't quite believe it himself, “And I -”

He's struggling to get his words out, baring his teeth in frustration.

Patiently, you fold your hands in your lap and wait, making no move to rush him along.

Your patience is eventually rewarded as the Horseman squares his jaw and continues, “I think you are a friend.”

This time, you don't miss a beat. Cocking a lopsided grin at him, you reply, “Well, I should hope so! You're kind of the only person on Earth left to be friends with!”

You think you see the corner of his mouth twitch, but quick as a flash, his far more fitting frown has slipped back into place. He's stopped cleaning your wound, not that there's much blood left to get rid of now anyway. Instead, with your foot still resting in the palm of his prosthetic, his other hand simply sits on top of your calf, a steady and solid warmth that distracts from the sting in your leg.

“You should not have been taken,” War utters, lowering his eyes down to your wound. You see the muscles in his jaw grow suddenly tight before he adds, “I should not have allowed it to happen...”

The Horseman falls silent, and you know why. There's an apology hidden in there somewhere. But War, as you well know, does not apologise.

He's still eyeing your ankle, nostrils flaring, and bright, blue eyes flashing with barely suppressed outrage.

To think... a Horseman of the Apocalypse... blaming himself for letting you get hurt...

He's always been a dour and austere man, but seeing him like this tugs at the residual humanness that still clings to your soul and keeps you from rocketing off the deep end.

It strikes you as very wrong that the proud and stalwart Horseman should have his eyes cast down to the ground...

Without any real thought behind the action, your hand slowly inches towards his face.

War's eyes snap up to you just as your fingertips brush gently against his cheek, and he turns stiff as a board beneath your touch, stilling you in place.

You swallow.

Back and forth, he looks between you and the fingers resting delicately against his cheek bone, a wariness bleeding tension into his shoulders, as if he expects that at any moment, you're going to strike.

You wonder if he's ever felt a kind touch before in his life.

After several moments pass and he neither snaps your hand off nor wrenches himself away from your touch, you ever, ever so slowly slide your fingers around the curve of his cheek until your palm meets his warm skin.

Again you hesitate, tentatively seeking permission. When his expression doesn't shift in the slightest, you gather your courage and press your palm flat against his face, cupping his pale cheek and knowing full-well that you could be treading into uncharted waters.

"You didn't allow anything to happen, War," you tell him kindly, watching the tension in his jaw gradually ebb as he stares back at you, rapt, "You got me out of there. You saved me before those demons could kill me. I don't blame you, and I'm the one who got kidnapped, so don't you start blaming yourself, okay? You've got enough on your plate as it is."

... The quiet stretches on without a response from the Horseman, long enough that you start to feel the stirrings of awkwardness in your chest. And yet, just as you're starting to think you should pull away and apologise for touching him, the mountainous man knelt in front of you gives the slightest shift, a barely noticeable turn of his head that you would never have even seen if you didn't have your hand on his cheek.

By the tiniest degree, War leans his weight into your palm.

You very nearly let out a breath, but at the last second, you swallow it down.

For several moments, the two of you find yourselves caught in a staring match, Human and Nephilim, neither sure of the other's thoughts, but both absolutely certain that this is a turning point in your relationship.

'Ulthane must have been right after all,' you muse, 'Guess War sees more in me than I thought.'

And maybe the Horseman isn't the big, bad, heartless world-ender you thought he'd turn out to be. God, there has to be blood flowing through the veins underneath your finger tips, his face is almost hot to the touch.

"Y.. you're like, really warm," you tell him in a soft laugh.

In response, his eyelashes flicker as he emits a questioning hum from his chest.

Of course, as with all good things, the tender moment has to end.

Blinking, War's eyes burst open wide and he very gradually leans back, as though you've just broken him out of a trance, causing your hand to slide from his face and flop down into your lap.

"Ahem..." Coughing into a fist, he replies, "Well... I was on fire only moments ago..."

"I know you were," you grin, "I got a front row seat... Thanks for the weird tongue bath, by the way."

War's head cocks to one side, his snowy, white brows knitting together in a baffled frown.

By way of an explanation, you purse your lips and lower your gaze pointedly to your blood-free leg.

It takes the Horseman a few more seconds to catch up with you, and once he does, he's quick to find sudden and inexplicable interest in the far wall behind you.

"Ah... That," he falters, mumbling through his teeth as if it pains him to admit, "I am not always... coherent when I turn."

"S'okay," you shrug with ease and wave a hand through the air dismissively, "You were only trying to help.... And~ speaking of help..." You throw the Horseman a weary, if mischievous smirk. "What do you think, Doc? Do I need Ulthane to stitch me up again?"

At the query, War's face pulls into a tight grimace. "Hmph. I confess I do not know. Perhaps it would be best to visit the maker, just to make sure."

"You don't seem too happy about that," you remark.

In an occurrence so rare as to be nonexistent, the Horseman's lips twitch briefly, and before your very eyes, they tip up into a hangdog smile. "Nor should you be," War retorts, pushing himself onto his feet to tower over you once again, "Because once he sees the state of your leg, we're both going to be in trouble."