#leaving a lush forest and body that refuses to rot

[whump-galaxy]

A Magic Healer can only heal by using the energy of things around them. When their friends are fatally wounded, they use all the energy of their surroundings. Every bit of grass turns to dust. Every person, enemy or foe, crumbles to bones and ash. Every bug, bird, and beast is drawn and drained of energy.

They turn the battlefield into a crater of death, all in the name of love.

[catra-writes]

In The Forest

Warning: mentions of death, corpses, decay. If anything like that disturbs, frightens or triggers you in any way, I advise against reading this short.

--

In the woods, far far deep into the thickest and darkest part of the woods where the threes grew wide, tall and plentiful. In the woods where it was peacefully quiet and void of the noise of pesky chirping and squabbling of critters. 

In the woods, somewhere in there, lay a woman. This woman was waiting. She had just laid there only recently and was waiting for something to happen.

You see, this woman wasn't out there on her own. She was laid there to become part of the earth. This woman was dead. But she wasn't dead by any natural cause it seemed. Her body appeared to bet perfect, untouched and unharmed, but how she died is a complete mystery. No one knows how, when or why she had died, but she was.

The woman's body laid still and unmoving on the Forrest floor, staring up at the canopy of lush green leaves and the light peeking through them. Sometimes she'd be staring at the stars that glimpsed through the leaves. Sometimes the leaves changed colour and sometimes the sky cried. Her dull, lifeless eyes observed all the changes of the world they could view. 

The body of the woman with no name waited for the forest to take her, but her body remained unchanged, much unlike the world around her. The world around her grew, died and grew again as seasons came and went, the forest shifting ever so slightly every time the seasons had made a full rotation.

Ever so slowly, moss and roots began growing over her pale and cold body. The plant life beginning to cover her body as the Forest tried making her apart of the world, but as roots, moss, vines and other things of the like grew and covered her...that corpse just refused to rot and decay. She wouldn't let herself, she didn't want to.

Mother Earth wanted to take her back but she wouldn't let her body become apart of the world that so rudely stripped her of the life it initially granted her. One day, this world would understand. But she'd never give in as long as she still could fight. That corpse just simply refused to decay.

There were rumors of a woman who had made her body immoral. she had gone and moved into a cottage deep in the woods. everyone who knew of the woman called her the witch of the wood. there are many variations to the story of how she got her immortality. some say she angered the fates so they cursed her, some say Athena blessed her.

No one knew for sure but we were sure she was a witch. Her magic had been witnessed many a time. She healed the woods, the animals and the travelers. She fought every threat that had faced the woods, being deemed it's guardian. Where the woman came from was just as much a mystery as her past and everything else about her.

Her mystery was just as enticing as the sweet smell of a baker's fresh pastries. Many wished to steal her magic and immortality for their own greedy selves. Some disliked her entirely and wished her gone, though it may just have been jealousy as not everyone had the gifts she did.

Witch's from many other places saw her as both a sister and a rival. They may have competed for magic, items and whatever else a witch could compete for. They sent each other things whether it be harmful or helpful.

The reason I bring all this up is because any one of these could be reasons for her passing, but none of them were right...because I am the real reason for her passing. I am always visiting the witch of the wood, long after her spirit has passed on but her immortal body remains with the forest, surrounded by her favourite flora and fauna.

I regret it of course. I loved her, but I envied her too. Looking at the witch has no longer been as painful as it first was. Her damned corpse just refuses to decay.

[hum-my-name]

Within and Without

Written for @whataboutthebard!!

Title: Within and Without

Prompt: Voyeurism

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: None

Also available on AO3! Please leave a comment or kudos, there if you have the time!

<>

Crashes of silver against a naturally armored body. Fire traveling across dirt, catching at wriggling legs but never reaching the intended target. The beast disappearing beneath the ground— emerging too close, too sudden.

The bitter taste of swallow down the back of his throat, followed by the sweeter burst of cat as the giant centipede leads him farther into the trees. His body stings with each movement as though being branded, muscles twitching against the toxins— he’d had thunderbolt and petri’s philter before approaching the site of the attacks, and they’ve barely worn off. Too many potions, too soon.

But there’s only one centipede left from the bunch, and he’ll be damned if he’s struck down by a bug tonight.

At last, a burst of igni catches the monster between its mandibles, stopping its spew of acid with a small explosion and providing enough distraction for Geralt to bury his blade in its underside. Geralt rolls out of the way, avoiding the writhing body as it collapses beside him. He remains kneeled, watching the life drain from the bug. His mind ticks through Vesemir’s lessons, the alchemy ingredients he should collect and store before they rot in their own toxicity.

His hands, though, tremble against his knees. He still tastes potions on his tongue and teeth and gums and cheeks.

Too many potions. Too soon.

He stands slowly, wincing as even the small action overwhelms his senses. It’s a nasty side effect, heightening his senses until the slightest breeze through the grass could make him vomit, and it’s been a while since he’s been so stupid. Dirt crunches beneath his boots as he walks, the sound aching against his head.

Still— one foot after the other. He breathes deeply through his nose, hoping to ignore the taste of dead centipede stuck in the air.

As he inhales, though, another scent hits him in the guts.

Jaskier

Geralt stumbles to a stop, nearly dropping to his knees once more as the distant tones of plum and wine drift across the wind. Of course, he knows Jaskier is near, knows that he left him safely at camp— it’s a warm night, after all, and Jaskier refused to watch the centipede fight after the last one ripped his doublet—  and Jaskier likes to compose when Geralt’s gone, likes to practice and hum and talk to Roach but—

But Geralt shuts his eyes and breathes in again. His hands fold into fists.

Sweat and the sound of Jaskier’s panting breaths, small whining and whimpering beneath each gasp. The smell of precum and the vial of Jaskier’s favorite oil.

Potions don’t let Geralt view so far into the night but, when he opens his eyes, he imagines he can see the scene before him— Jaskier spread across the lush Toussaint grasses, cheeks flushed and hair a mess as he reaches between his legs to touch and feel, his voice wrapping around Geralt’s name in that way it does when it’s Geralt above him, touching and feeling like he owns what his fingers find.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. With the sting from his potions still in his throat, it sounds more animalistic than he means.

Geralt’s body pulls towards Jaskier’s sound and scent, lust hanging in the air like a crumb trail for Geralt to follow. The world and its horrors of too much too much too much weaken until it’s only Jaskier, only a bard and the soft sounds he makes in the dark. Geralt’s hands twist at his sides as though they can feel Jaskier from here— and, with witcher potions in his system, who’s to say he can’t? Maybe the breeze scraping over his palms like a cat’s rough tongue is the same wind that brushed through Jaskier’s fingers as he undid the fastenings of his trousers. Maybe the subtle taste of dirt in the air comes from the dust that lifts from the camp as Jaskier twists against the ground.

Geralt’s breath trips hazardously into his throat at the thought, nearly stopping as his senses, once again, expand to include everything. The birds crying on the other side of the forest, the starlight burning against his eyes.

Above all, he feels Jaskier the most— breathing painlessly doesn’t seem too important, then, when it’s still Jaskier he’s sensing.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Geralt arrives at camp a few moments later— a handful of moments but the potions make it hard to tell time, make it hard to say if he’s been walking for days or seconds. All he knows is that he followed Jaskier here.

And all he knows is that he found him as expected, nakedly tossed upon the ground with his cock in his hand.

Jaskier doesn’t move when he spots Geralt, though a slow flush deepens across his chest and cheeks. This close, standing on the edge of their camp, Geralt picks through the floral soaps and perfumes always clinging to Jaskier’s skin, breathing heavily until these, too, become nothing more than distractions to cast aside. Geralt’s chest grows tight as he locates Jaskier beneath them, his arousal and his pretty plum-wine smell.

He’s never been so near to Jaskier like this, body thrumming with potions that make everything feel imminent and bigger. Like this, he can see Jaskier’s pulse jumping in his throat. He can see each bead of sweat stretching across his skin like a caress. Geralt lets himself stare— if he looks away, he’ll be faced with a world that’s still too fucking much.

And, he thinks, if he looks away, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the chance to see Jaskier like this again— so vivid and surreal, like a painting whose colors have shifted into reality.

A quiet whisper of his name and the brush of the bedroll against the grass jars Geralt from his thoughts. Jaskier sits, shifting onto his knees. As Jaskier moves, though, the air around him changes, the very threads of the world twisting and tightening, rearranging around the blurry shape of Jaskier as Geralt stutters over a breath. He’s torn between wanting Jaskier pressed against him, breathing him in until there’s nothing left, or simply keeping him in place— keeping him still and hard, a pretty thing for Geralt to look at until anything else becomes bearable again. His head hurts and he doesn’t know what he’ll say if Jaskier reaches for him, if the pain of his touch is worth the pleasure of knowing it's Jaskier touching him.

But Jaskier, somehow, keeps quiet. His eyes study Geralt’s face— and Geralt knows he sees black eyes, dark veins, pale skin and tremors in each breath. Jaskier’s own inhale slides towards an understanding sound— and, even that, Jaskier tries to keep quiet.

The realization of Jaskier’s realization causes affection to curl warmly against Geralt’s skin— an affection that slips into arousal when Jaskier wraps a hand around his cock again.

“I know the world’s a lot right now,” Jaskier whispers— without witcher hearing, there’d be no way for Geralt to know he’s spoken. “So just focus on me until it all wears off.”

Geralt feels Jaskier’s voice as it travels through the air, the whispers like hands against his skin that bring him to his knees, mimicking Jaskier's position with his legs spread in an obscene V. He leans forward as Jaskier leans back, the bard stroking himself with gentle flicks of his wrist. Geralt's cock twitches in his pants but he makes no move to touch, knowing how the sensation would only ache as the potions make him sensitive to everything— everything, including the way Jaskier’s breath shudders out from between his lips, the taste of berries and sugar twisting through the air and onto Geralt’s tongue. Gods, he can taste Jaskier’s breath.

Geralt’s gasp hitches in time with Jaskier’s as nimble fingers pinch the head of Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier runs his thumb across the slit, gathering a drop of precum before circling up and down his length. Something between a whimper and moan echoes in the night, and Geralt doesn’t know which of them the sound belongs to. His eyes stray from Jaskier’s face to his hands, unsure of where to stick, unsure of what the prettier sight is. Jaskier makes the decision for him, blue eyes catching Geralt’s with a hot light within them— a gaze that burns into Geralt’s very core before guiding him down.

“Slowly,” Jaskier breathes. “Don’t rush yourself. I want you to see everything.”

Does Jaskier think he doesn’t? That he doesn’t see the way his cock twitches in his hand, or feel how his voice rasps against his throat? He furrows his brows and tries to form words to explain what he sees, what he knows— but then Jaskier bites his lip and raises his other hand to rub at his nipples, and Geralt only groans.

Jaskier’s arousal spikes as he circles a thumb across a nipple before pinching the pink nub, hips jerking even as his hand stills around his cock— teasing himself, torturing himself, face collapsing into nothing but desperation and need. He begs softly with each breath— no words, only small sounds that rock through Geralt’s very being, sounds that Geralt feels inside and around him—

Geralt doesn't forget the world-- it's just that world is simply Jaskier.

Jaskier’s body tenses and Geralt can see how much he wants to let go, how hungry he is for his release— though, perhaps, it’s more than seeing. In this moment, with all his senses as intensified as they can be, he and Jaskier feel like one and the same. Jaskier’s lust and need wrap around Geralt’s throat, choking those same wanting sounds out of him, scratching down his chest and back like Jaskier’s nails when they fuck. His hips move with the same aborted thrusts that Jaskier’s fighting so hard to keep back, building his climax with his eyes always on Geralt’s face.

I want you to see everything , Jaskier had said— and Geralt wonders, for a moment, if Jaskier knew that he's always everything to Geralt

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps, back arching as he finally starts to stroke himself again— no pattern or rhythm, nothing more than a chase for the pleasure he’s denied himself.

“I can feel you,” Geralt finally says, feeling disconnected from his own voice. The world spins in colors that can’t exist, colors of Jaskier’s breaths and desires, the shades of every sense Jaskier fills.

Jaskier gasps as though he's used the last of his words on Geralt's name, as though nothing else matters more than the senseless and desperate sounds he makes. Geralt's voice growls and Jaskier shudders as though he, too, can feel things he shouldn't.

“It’s like—” Like Jaskier’s touching him, like Jaskier’s beside him, like Jaskier’s controlling each of Geralt’s senses. “Like you’re within me and around me. Even as far as you are, you're still right next to me.”

Geralt drags his gaze back to Jaskier’s eyes— he doesn’t need to see Jaskier’s cock to know how close he is to coming; he can sense it in the way Jaskier’s whimpers shape the space around him them, carving through Geralt's skin like a wound aiming for his core. He feels Jaskier’s gaze upon him as his hips jerk against that phantom touch, but all Geralt does is spread his knees further apart, incapable of hiding from Jaskier when their mutual desire has trapped them here together, some almost tangible thing that separates them from whatever is left of the world.

Jaskier’s orgasm hits them both at once— their voices colliding until it’s just one sound, one cry, one release as the scent of their climaxes fills the air.

For a moment, Geralt doesn’t move, doubled over as his cum absorbs into his trousers. He watches Jaskier, fascinated by the softening cock in his hand. The orgasm helped with the potion's effects but he can still see the smaller details, can still sense Jaskier’s feelings as strongly as though they’re his own. He shuts his eyes and breathes deeply, collecting air in his lungs before letting it out in a huff.

When he feels like he can move again, he shifts closer on his knees, half-crawling until he sits before Jaskier. Jaskier blinks at him, eyes glimmering from the satisfaction of his release— but, then, he smiles. Tiredly, lazily— fondly.

Geralt leans into him, all potion pain and toxicity forgotten as he takes Jaskier in his hands and pulls him into a tender kiss. It’s not long and it’s not much, but it sends sparks up and down Geralt’s skin in a way magic and potions never could.

Jaskier still smiles when they pull apart, a hand resting against Geralt’s chest.

“It wasn’t too much, was it?” He asks, eyes checking over Geralt’s face.

Geralt hums softly at the slight tone of concern in Jaskier’s voice. The last of the side effects fade away, bringing the world back into a manageable state. He rests his hand over Jaskier’s wrist— even without the potions, he can feel Jaskier’s pulse against his touch. Jaskier’s fingers— not quite nervous but never still— tap against his armor as though finding the right chords on his lute, trailing down until they rest against Geralt’s thigh. Jaskier drops his gaze only to bring it back up when Geralt leans forward to rest their foreheads together, tired from the hunt and the potions and his own messy orgasm.

“Perfect,” he says, meaning it as more than an answer to Jaskier’s question.

Geralt smiles when Jaskier’s hand twitches against his thigh, settling with a soft breath that brushes Geralt’s lips. He’s close enough he can still taste what lingers there but it’s not like it was before, not all encapsulating and demanding.

Instead, it’s just nice.

Just right.

Just enough for Geralt to press his lips to Jaskier’s again, the two leaning into each other— until they once again feel as though they’re one and the same.

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 12 - Left Out.

Summary: As far as bad ideas go, disobeying a direct instruction from the Grim Reaper himself is definitely not one of your best. But when tensions spiral out of control and a friend is in the firing line, you realise there’s a fall you have to take. 

Tags: Fluff, Angst, Mild jealousy, One sided pining, Male/female friendship, Reaper Form, Death, Karn, Reader

---

Long ago, even in times before Corruption had arrived, the Forge Lands was always regarded as a wild and dangerous territory. There are things hidden in the realm's secret depths whose very existence perpetuates this reputation and encourages foolish travellers to try unearthing treasures that are better left buried and forgotten.

Far to the north, beyond the trees of Baneswood and nestled at the end of a lush, mountain pass, is one such lost treasure.

A temple - vast, ancient and overwhelmed by thick vegetation – stands proud, but neglected, left to go to wrack and ruin by the bygone makers that had built it eons ago. For countless centuries, it has lain empty and undisturbed by creatures of flesh and bone, the only residents being constructs that have withstood the creeping passage of time.

Their bodies are imperishable, their heads devoid of wilful thought.

They were the perfect hosts for Corruption.

-----

It isn't the first time Death has travelled alone. And really, he should not be looking back as often as he is, to check on somebody who isn't there.

For the third time since he stalked into the Lost Temple, he catches himself glancing over his shoulder with half an expectation to see a nervous human traipsing along at his heels. Lips curling into a sneer, the Horseman jerks his gaze forwards again and focuses intently on the courtyard stretched out around him and – more jarringly – the hulking construct that blocks his path across it.

The beast shakes the interlocking plates around its neck and lets its frustration out in another, tremendous roar, only to be met with an unequivocally fed-up growl from the object of its wrath.

Death has found himself at something of an impasse.

He would very much like the construct hulk standing in his way to hurry up and die, whereas the construct in question would very much like Death to stand still so that it might squash him to a pulp on the cold, hard ground.

Naturally however, neither of them are proving very easy for the other to kill.

An undesirable outcome for both warring parties.

In a move that feels as though it’s been repeated far too many times, Death flits between the monstrosity's bulky forearms, narrowly avoiding a crushing blow from the pair of wrecking balls that stand in place of its fists. With scythes in hand, he dogs the enormous construct as it tries to stagger backwards on disproportionately short legs and he slashes, again and again, at the solid cage of ribs that wrap protectively around a heartstone that had once pulsed a brilliant, electric blue. Now however, it stands cold, dark, sick with rot and blackened by writhing tendrils, and for all the Horseman's preternatural power, the stone ribs remain intact, sealing away the corrupted core and keeping it from shattering beneath his blows.

Vines oozing filth burst from the construct's gaping maw as it drops onto its fists and tries to catch the Horseman with a vicious head-butt that skims his chest before he manages to leap out of range.

Battling down a swell of frustration, Death narrows his eyes and drops back, putting some distance between himself and the raging construct, if only to give himself a few seconds to think.

He's been at this for far, far too long now, hacking away at it with his scythes, shooting at it with endless rounds from Redemption, even calling upon his necromantic magics, all in an effort to bring it down. But unless he can reach the squirming mass of corruption that's woven itself inextricably around the heartstone, Death knows his endeavours are futile.

Every blow he makes that would topple lesser constructs are ineffective. Every limb he severs is stitched back into place by corruption's prehensile tendrils.

'It's smart,' he realises as he watches the beast prowl from left to right, the stone plates on its back flaring aggressively, daring him to approach, 'Smarter than the strain that had attached to Gharn, at the very least.'

Briefly, he wonders whether you might have spotted a way to defeat it by now, though he roughly shakes the thought away, as if it were an annoying stinger. If you were here, you'd probably be dead. He left you in Tri Stone for a damn reason.

A low, rumbling growl alerts him to the construct's impatience and he shoos away his musings, crouching low instead with a foot braced in the dirt, ready to move when the behemoth in front of him inevitably initiates its charge.

Mad with corruption, with malice, the colossus rears back, throws its stony head up to the sky and bellows out a roar loud enough to rattle Death's teeth in his skull. Once the sound has echoed through the surrounding forest and out of existence, it lowers its head again and spreads it's long, bludgeoning arms wide.

It's a taunt, a show of arrogance that exposes its chest for the Horseman to see, safe in the knowledge that everything he's tried so far has failed and will likely fail again.

Death's hands ball into fists and clench down viciously on the grips of his scythes.

The toe of one boot begins to press into the stone below and he leans his weight forward, half a second from launching himself at the construct for another try. No sooner has his back foot left the ground however, than a strange shadow flies over his head in a graceful arc and freezes him in his tracks.

One of the Horseman's eyebrows quirks underneath his mask when the familiar, ball-shaped object connects with the construct hulk's stony ribs and it sticks there, wedged between the gaps.

For just a moment, in spite of its rigid features, the construct manages to look just as surprised as Death, a fact he might have considered amusing if he weren't in the throes of befuddlement himself. Unfortunately for the poor beast, it isn't given another second to ponder the strange origins of the spiked ball, for hardly an instant after the projectile lands, a gunshot rings out across the courtyard.

Death has only just realised what that sound entails when the construct's chest suddenly explodes outwards with an almighty 'BOOM!' spewing shards of rock and debris in every direction.

Something blue and pulsating falls from the creature's chest before the rest of it crumbles to the ground, its body rent asunder and the yellow light that flickers behind its eye sockets sputters out. All the while, Death's gaze remains fixed on the beast, his mind reeling.

'What in the name of-?'

“Ha! Nice lob, Karn!”  

'….No....' Death's bloodless lips screw into a slow, icy snarl. 'They wouldn't...'

“Well, you're the one who hit a bullseye with tha' wee pistol!” a different voice pipes up, gruffer, lower and yet somehow far more grating than the first.

With his jaw clinched tight, the Horseman turns on the spot and fixes his burning glare on a pair of figures standing not too far behind him on the courtyard's southern staircase.

Had he any blood left in his body, his face would be crimson with rage.

There before him, grinning like the pair of clueless younglings they are, is an irksomely familiar duo.

Karn - with shining eyes and a puffed out chest – swaggers across the courtyard towards Death, his head twisted sideways to smile dopily at the human perched upon his broad shoulder. You've raised a hand to cover your cheek, no doubt in an attempt to hide the dazzling grin etched there, yet your eyes are meeting the maker's and they – like his – are sparkling with exhilaration.

So far, it's the happiest Death has seen you.

The Horseman's freezing stare rakes over you once more, acknowledging the fact that you’re here in front of him and he isn’t mistaken.  

And then, everything stops.

An eerie stillness settles over the courtyard like a thick blanket and the leaves that had been drifting lazily on a gentle breeze drop from the air without a whisper of warning.

Karn notices first that your hair has fallen perfectly still, undisturbed by even a single gust of wind and the skin on the back of his neck begins to prickle. With a creeping sense of unease, he swallows, reluctantly dragging his eyes off your pleasant smile and turning them onto the Horseman up ahead. Noting your companion's ears flattening against his skull, you follow his gaze, heart sinking when you spot Death as well.

The two of you knew he'd be angry that you followed him here.

But the indigo smoke rising from the shadow at his feet betrays more than just anger.

He looks downright murderous. 

Then, as abruptly as it had dropped, the wind picks up again.

A sudden gale sweeps in from behind you and you're forced to grab Karn's scarf to keep yourself from toppling off his shoulder. Neither of you are smiling anymore and all memories of the adventure you'd both shared through the temple vanish, along with your jocular mood.

Death's matted, black hair whips around his bone mask, though the rest of him remains eerily still, like a tree that refuses to bow to nature's might.  

“Y/n...”

You nearly flinch upon hearing your name hissed above the roaring wind, as if it had been whispered directly into your head.

One of Death's boots lifts off the ground and he takes a deliberate step towards you.

He doesn't even seem to notice the movement at his back.

Karn does though.

“Ey! Horseman!” he suddenly hollers, wrenching his eyes away from Death's unrelenting stare and pointing to something behind him, “The heartstone! Destroy it!”

Somewhat to your relief, Death stops and whips his head over one shoulder to see what the maker is indicating. Through the smog, you can make out the construct you'd blown up and find that it has begun to move. Long, black tendrils of corruption are pouring out from between its shattered ribs, reaching like slippery, elongated fingers for the fallen heartstone. They wrap around and underneath it and before you know what's happening, they start to drag the pulsating life force back towards their host's chest.

“It's trying to rebuild itself!” you realise aloud.

The Horseman turns to fully face his quarry and takes half a step in the heartstone's direction. He places one boot down, hard and suddenly -

‘WHUMPH!’ 

-  a pulse of dark magic explodes from the point of contact, rippling outwards in an invisible shockwave that blasts your hair back and knocks the air from your lungs. Even Karn staggers backwards as though pushed away by the force of it. 

A chill sweeps over you as, for the second time in a single day, Death begins to change. 

In the span of mere seconds, his body is engulfed by indigo smoke that swells and bulges and then, it solidifies, taking form and shape until it becomes the billowing cloak of his spectral counterpart. A cacophony of cracking bones follows as wings sprout from the creature’s back and they flex, flaring up and out to either side.

The thing is every bit as haunting as you remember.

Suddenly, your mouth feels dry and you fist your hands even more firmly into Karn's scarf, too fixated on the beast ahead to feel the maker's body go rigid beneath you.

In another blink, the Reaper thrusts his wings down and surges forth, driving the sharpened end of his scythe down into the heartstone before it can be completely pulled inside a rapidly reforming ribcage. In response, the construct howls furiously, but the sound turns nearly frantic as Death's spectral shade yanks his weapon out of the stone and uses it to instead viciously cut down through the construct's arms, severing them from its torso.

Weak, half-formed, the wretched beast tries to lift its head and bellow out a final cry of defiance, but the Reaper pays this effort no mind.

Swinging his scythe down and back, he raises his bony wings high overhead and launches himself into the air with an almighty flap, heaving his weapon forwards and up in a sweeping arc towards the heartstone.

There isn't even a hint of resistance this time.

The blade slices cleanly through the middle like a hot knife through butter, severing the oily tendrils and cleaving the solid stone neatly in half. The two, separate pieces fall heavily onto the ground with resounding thuds and they're followed shortly after by the rest of the construct hulk's body. Debris crashes down to earth and it's the Corruption that lets out a last, lingering scream of outrage before it slips between the cracks of stone paving underfoot and disappears, leaving behind the broken, crumbling husk it had once possessed. Drifting silently back to earth, the Reaper offers his own farewell in the form of a disparaging hiss.

When the dust settles and all grows quiet once more, Karn sags and blows out a long, impressed whistle. “Did you know he could do that?” he asks you from the corner of his mouth. However, before you can reply, the unmistakable cracking of bone fills the air again as that ghostly wraith snaps his hood in your direction and emits a shrill screech.

Beneath you, the maker shifts and the next thing you know, you're being plucked swiftly off his shoulder and lowered to the ground. “Stay back,” he murmurs, never once taking his eyes off the looming Reaper as he nudges you behind his leg. 

And some, selfish part of you is grateful that there's a solid wall of flesh standing between you and the nightmarish being you've seen depicted in books and films.

Those skeletal hands grasping an immense scythe.

The tattered, billowing cloak that obscures a hellish face.

And the cold – like icy fingernails stroking up and down your spine once you find yourself locked in place by a stare emanating from the inky darkness beneath that terrible hood.

This is the Death you've grown up knowing.

This is the Reaper. Grim indeed, as the tales suggested.

Your heart throws itself madly against the ribs holding it and you press a hand there in some, futile attempt to keep it still. You aren't sure, but there's a nagging sensation at the back of your head that tells you the Reaper can actually hear every frantic beat.

The spectre begins gliding forwards, heading straight for the young maker, who stiffens at its approach but he remains stubbornly in place, failing to notice you peeking around the side of his boot. 

Long, rawboned fingers knead the handle of the spectre’s scythe and the bony wings on his back have flared out like raised hackles. You realise with a jolt that he has his unwavering sights set on your gigantic companion.

The pounding of blood in your ears begins to drown out the rattling hiss that drifts from the spectre's hood.

If Karn gets hurt because you made him bring you out here-....

It's that thought that rises above the icy dread choking your lungs and before you can talk yourself out of it, you explode into action.

With your heart now galloping at full tilt, you burst out from behind the maker's leg and – to your own, immense surprise – run straight towards the ghastly Reaper, skidding to a halt just in front of him with your hands raised and splayed in a gesture you hope it knows is supposed to be mollifying.

“Death!” you cry, lower lip trembling, “Stop!”

And incredibly, inexplicably, Death stops.

“What're you doin'!?” All the colour drains from Karn's face when he realises you've left the safety of his shadow.

Cartilage creaks beneath the Reaper's robes like the branches of an ancient tree swaying in the wind. At a painfully slow pace, he lowers his head to peer at you and as he does, you glimpse two pinpricks of brilliant, white light hovering in the darkness, side by side. It suddenly occurs to you that you're staring right up into the Reaper's eyes. They pin you beneath their ethereal glow and you fight down the natural urge to cower away, instead lifting your chin and jutting it out in a display of courage you don't really possess. You aren't even sure if you're trying to fool Death or yourself.

“I-I'm sorry we followed you out here!” you call up to the spectre, hoping there’s enough of Death still present to be reasoned with, “But...but please! Don't take it out on Karn!”

Behind you, the young maker blinks, his mouth hanging slightly agape, awed. You're...actually standing up for him? 

If his heart hadn’t been throbbing when you stepped out in front of him to face down one of Creation’s most formidable forces, it certainly is now. 

The Reaper raises his head again and directs a cold, accusing hiss at the youngling, but he's interrupted by your waving hands. “This is not his fault,” you continue, “I made him bring me here. So.... so if you're going to be angry at anyone, be angry with me. Not him!”

Once more, the eerie lights flick down to you and linger for a while as his wings gradually begin to twitch lower until they lay against his back. All of a sudden, the spectre emits a series of bizarre clacks, akin to teeth being snapped together, before he promptly leans down and tilts his head at you, reaching out with an enormous, angular hand.

Almost immediately, Karn makes a small noise of alarm and starts forward but another sharp snap of the Reaper's teeth is enough to dissuade him from interfering. It takes every ounce of your very limited bravery to remain stock still when the grim figure extends a long, bony finger and brushes it gingerly against your battered side.

Aside from a brief sting of cold from the touch, you barely even feel it.

Arching a quizzical brow, you glance between the hand and the creature it's attached to, asking nervously, “What? What is it?”

By his own, wordless means of a reply, the Reaper rattles his wings and his finger presses a little more insistently into your skin.

“My...my side?” Bewildered, you can only hazard a guess, stepping back when the enormous beast chuffs approvingly and his hood bobs up and down in a definite nod. “Oh, um-” You risk a quick glance back at Karn and find he's taken to chewing on the ends of his fingernails, eyes wide and fretful. Facing Death once more, you at last offer him what you hope is a smile and say, “I-it’s all right. Only a bit bruised.”

'Bruised' is beyond an understatement.

You're painfully aware of what a close call your run-in with Karkinos had been. But luck – and an enormous, shadowy wraith – had been on your side in that bug-infested cavern. Not to mention the help you'd received from Eideard and Muria afterwards. You doubt you'd even be standing here if not for them. And while you're not exactly raring to go toe to toe with an oversized beetle any time soon, you feel more than well enough to cope with just 'a bit bruised.'

As if to prove your health to the Reaper still hovering over you like a dark storm cloud, you give your foot a few, hard stomps on the ground and even manage to suppress a wince as a bolt of pain flashes up your leg and into your ribs. “See? Fit as a fiddle.”

The beast observes you for several, tense seconds in total silent and you're halfway expecting him to simply sweep you aside and continue advancing on Karn when suddenly, he lowers his head until it looms before you, so close you can feel the frigid air seeping from beneath his hood, cold enough to make your breath come out in clouds of condensation. The last time you came face to face with him, you’d been delirious from pain and on the verge of passing out. Now, you’re painfully aware of the immense skull staring down at you with such intensity, you feel as though your very soul is under scrutiny. 

Teeth pressed together in that permanent grin, his head shifts towards you, this time without a sign of stopping. You let out a gasp and try to back peddle, but the Reaper reaches you first and freezes you to the spot when he pushes his incisors flat to your shoulder, a gentle warble travelling up the vertebrae on his neck. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been so caught off guard. 

“Death?” His name crawls out of you in a whispered breath. 

As if in response, the Reaper allows a jet of cool air to flow from his hollow nose and hit your back, raising goosebumps all over the skin where it touches. 

Then, as abruptly as it had approached, the massive skull draws back and he rises to his full, imposing height once more. 

Smoke the colour of a midnight sky seeps out of the hood and within moments, the creature is lost in a hazy smog, collapsing in on himself, shrinking down and inwards until at last, when the smoke clears, in his place is the familiar, pallid form of an absolutely livid Horseman. The bizarre gentleness he’d exhibited just seconds ago is nowhere to be seen.

Your racing heart comes to an absolute standstill in two seconds flat and a whole different breed of dread settles like a weight in your belly.

While he may not be in his gargantuan reaper form any longer, he still has the look of a volcano on the verge of erupting.

“You,” Death seethes, pointing a quivering finger down in your face, “And you-” Here, that finger lifts towards Karn. “-have precisely three seconds to explain what in the Hell you're doing here, before I drag the both of you by your ankles into OBLIVION!”

His bellow rings out across the courtyard and the power behind it almost bowls you over.

Karn's throat is thick with tension, but he manages to falteringly croak, “Erm, Horseman? We were jus-”

“It's my fault,” you interject, wringing your hands together and looking down at your feet.

Death's head whips between you and the maker several times before he eventually decides to grant you the full force of his glare, a small part of him bitterly satisfied when you wince and press your lips together in a grim line. “I would suggest,” he growls dangerously, “that you hurry up and explain yourself. Before I really lose my temper.” Not that you especially needed a prompt, but for added measure, Death flexes his hands and the bandages wrapped around them creak and stretch audibly.

The muscles in your legs lock, refusing to budge. Despite what you'd like to believe, it's only fear that keeps you from backing away, as if moving would activate some long-buried, predatory instinct in him. From what you've seen of the Horseman so far, that concern isn't exactly irrational.

Curling your arms around yourself, you softly confess, “I convinced Karn to sneak me out of the village.”

At this, Death flings his stare up to the maker, prompting you to hastily add, “He – he didn't want to though.”

Behind you, your enormous friend’s face has twisted into a gentle frown and he still hasn't taken his eyes off the back of your head. He doesn't even seem to notice he's drawn the Horseman's ferocious gaze.

“But why...” Death utters in a voice no louder than the ghost of a breath, “... would you leave... after I explicitly told you to STAY!”

His abrupt shout at the end of an otherwise soft sentence causes you to flinch and suck in a shuddering gasp and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “I was worried about you, okay!? Shit!”

This time, it's the Horseman's turn to flinch, though it only shows in a rapid blink of his scorching eyes.

That feeling. There it is again. Death's hand strays to his chest of its own accord and he tries to scratch at an irritable little tingle that has started underneath his flesh – the same tingle which had appeared when you alluded to him being your friend.

Nobody worries about him.

Nobody.

Not even his own siblings, really. Oh, they might grow vengeful if he's severely injured, they might actually care if he's ever killed. But they don't openly worry. And certainly not without good reason.

Death realises his eyes must have lost some of their fire because you're meeting them again.

Spitting an ancient curse, he whirls about and paces several steps away from you where he stops and places both hands on his hips, eyes now squeezed firmly shut.

“I was worried,” you say again, daring to continue with a little less trepidation considering you aren't dead yet.

Your cautious gaze watches the Horseman's shoulders slump as a modicum of the tension seeps out of them. “You were worried...” he sighs your words back to you wearily and raises a hand to rub at the underside of his chin. After another few seconds of terse silence, he inches his head around and you can see the yellow glow of his eye through dark, matted hair. “I thought I made it clear, I don't need your-”

“I know you don't need my help,” you interject in a rush, “And I know you don't want it.” A rogue tear burns at the corner of your eyelid and you fiddle idly with the sleeves of your jumper, glad that he isn't looking directly at you when you murmur, “But I don't think I've got it in me to just stand by and watch as-... as..” Your mouth continues to move even when the words stop coming out and you stare listlessly at the ground in front of Death, overtaken by a memory you hadn't meant to conjure up.

The church.

Father Michael.

All those people, screaming and crying out to be saved.

What had you done?

With a blink, you're back in the courtyard and Karn is behind you, the Horseman ahead.

You'd.... watched.

It's a helplessness you never, ever want to return to.

One of your hands rubs unconsciously at the wound on your side. “So.. so please... For my own peace of mind...” You raise your eyes to meet his. “Let me worry.”

He must recognise something in your face because for just a moment, Death's glare falters and his clenched fists begin to unfurl. He doesn't speak though.

Even Karn - as tempted as he is to let his mouth fill the uncomfortable silence – keeps his lips pressed firmly together.

Gradually, the quiet becomes louder than the wind whispering through your hair and when you can neither bear it, nor the Horseman's stare any longer, you wipe the tears from your eyes and risk a hesitant step closer to him. “You know, I...I had to really convince Karn to sneak me past Thane. And I mean, at least he's with me. It's not like I came out here by myself.”

Death could almost scoff at your glaringly obvious attempt to protect the young maker, as if you were any viable kind of defence....

He pauses.

Technically, you had stopped his Reaper form in its tracks before it could take a chiding swing at the back of Karn's head....

'...Huh...'

It takes a few moments for the Horseman to wrangle his thoughts back together and bite out, “You weren't supposed to come here at all.”

To that, he receives no response save for the sound of your shoe scuffing against the ground.

After another second, Death finally stalks up to you once again. You don't even realise you've peddled backwards at his sudden approach until your heels hit the toe of Karn's boot.

The old nephilim resists an urge to pinch the bridge of his mask's nose. Instead, he heaves a long-suffering sigh and trains a fierce glare on the youngling, whose forehead puckers at the sudden attention.

“Tell me, Pup, because frankly, I'm curious. How exactly did this tiny human-” He thrusts his hand in your direction. “- convince you – a grown maker - to bring her out here?”

“Well, I, uh... I...” Karn swallows a lump and glances down at you, finding you looking back with your bottom lip caught nervously between your teeth. Puffing himself up, he rolls one, massive shoulder and fixes the Horseman under a resolute frown. “Friends help each other,” he replies, and your mouth parts slightly at hearing your own words on the maker's tongue, “N'I'm not losin' the only one I've ever had by keepin' her stuck in the village!”

Death blinks.

The response is... far more honest than he'd expected and when he glimpses your mouth go slack, he guesses you hadn't expected it either.

'But then, that's what they are, isn't it?' a voice in the Horseman's mind tentatively suggests as he shifts his eyes between you and the maker, 'Friends?'

He'd had an inkling back at the Cauldron, that the pair of you would bond, and it would now seem that his suspicions had been spot on after all. However, he'd never once suspected that your blossoming friendship would leave him feeling just a fraction.... ignored, as if the spot he's occupied since pulling you off your burning planet has been suddenly and brusquely encroached upon by a younger, more convivial maker who's perhaps far more befitting of your company than a bitter, old Nephilim. Wrenching his head away from the view of you offering Karn a meaningful smile, Death's conflicted glare falls onto the pile of rocks and rubble nearby.

There within the mess, lay the heart stone's shattered fragments, sparkling like glass in the evening sunlight.

As excruciating as it is to admit, that had been a damn clever move to use a shadow bomb. Not that he'd ever give you or Karn the satisfaction of hearing him say that, of course. He hadn't even known there were any in the area but it had been a severe blow to his pride when you and the youngling had shown up and figured out a solution.

The sigh that tumbles out of him expels another few modicums of his pent up frustration, enough that he's instead left with more of a gentle exasperation for the pair before him. “Hmph... Younglings,” he grumbles bitterly to himself.

Much as he'd like to remain the indignant, bristling Horseman, one simple truth remains; You're still alive. Against all odds, you're still on your feet. And whatever howling outrage had seized him when you came into view astride Karn's shoulder lowers its head and backs off from the forefront of Death's head. That doesn't mean you have to know he's slowly calming though.

Raising his voice to a stern growl, he jabs his finger at you and your gigantic friend. “You two,” he bites out, “are on thin – and I do mean extremely thin – ice.”

Both maker and human gulp simultaneously.

“But...” With a huff, he folds his arms and jerks his chin at the rubble. “You did help me destroy that construct hulk. So, I suppose I can't maim either of you. Not yet.”

Without being able to see most of his face, you can't tell if he's being serious, but you let out a nervous laugh anyway, just in case.

Karn however, has heard enough stories about Death's unsavoury exploits to know that the threat may very well be genuine.

“So,” the Horseman says curtly, spinning about and making his way towards a staircase at the far end of the courtyard, seemingly content to disregard his prior outburst, “Who's idea was it to use a shadow bomb?”

For several moments, you and Karn share a furtive glance. “Uh, well, I'm the one who... who spotted it, when we were coming up to the courtyard,” you admit eventually.

 With the maker sticking close on your heels, you begin to take hesitating steps after Death, wary of attracting his ire again. Karn, however, seems to have recovered from his near-death experience with relative ease. Now that the Horseman no longer has his sights set unblinkingly on him, he feels his courage returning. 

“You’ve got a real good eye for findin’ hidden stuff.” He turns to flash you a toothy grin and you return it, dropping one of your eyes in a wink. 

“Ha ha! And you’ve got a good arm for throwing.... stuff!” 

The pair of you share a hushed snicker and the Horseman can’t help but feel as though he’s missing some kind of inside joke. 

“Just look what else she found in the temple!” Offering no other words, Karn thrusts a hand into one of the satchels on his belt and Death turns his head in time to see the maker retrieve a small, square trinket.

A proud grin lifts the maker’s cheeks as he holds it out. 

“It's me old compass,” he declares, completely missing the bored, frankly unimpressed look Death is levelling at him, “You would 'nae believe the treasures I used to find with this ol' thing!”

You don't bother to hide a snort of amusement and spin around, taking the steps backwards as you send him a teasing grin. “You'd have spotted it too, if you hadn't been so busy daydreaming.”

All at once, Karn's ears flush a rosy pink and he lets out a chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Er, aye. Aye, I s'pose there is that...”

The maker would never admit that his 'daydreaming' consisted solely of gazing down at you whilst you explored the temple in front of him, laughing at something stupid he'd said. In hindsight, it probably wasn't a sensible idea to let himself be so distracted.

Meanwhile, Death rolls his eyes and stomps on ahead, wishing he could tune the two youngsters out. He doesn't especially care to hear about your little escapades with Karn and he vehemently reminds himself that this is because he's still downright furious with you both, and not because a tiny part of him is busy wondering if you preferred travelling with a maker over a Horseman.

With one, firm shake of his head, Death tosses the thought into the furthest corner of his mind and focuses on climbing the final few steps until he emerges out onto a wide quadrangle, hemmed in on three sides by towering walls of stone. An overhanging ceiling stretches dozens of metres above his head and has almost entirely crumbled away, only spared from total collapse by a pair of gargantuan pillars that have managed to withstand the test of time and valiantly hold the roof aloft. 

Slowly, Death's gaze travels along the temple's curving facade before finally coming to rest upon what, at first glance, appears to be nothing more than a monolithic slab of ecru stone. He nearly permits himself a tiny flicker of satisfaction upon seeing it. This is what – or rather, who – he had come here for. Covering the distance with long, steadfast strides, he arrives at the foot of the large wall and halts, neck craned back to scan its surface.

It doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for. 

Running from the top of the slab all the way down to the bottom, is a jagged, uneven seam, at the centre of which has been carved a hole, a perfect circle that looks to have been cut for the sole purpose of housing something roughly a few feet in diameter but now stands empty and hollow, a key component missing.

“Not for much longer,” Death murmurs. Delving his fingers into his pocket, the Horseman's fingers fish around as you and Karn wander up behind him, idle footsteps slowly fading into silence.

“Oh,” you huff, clapping your hands on your hips and craning your neck back to look up at the seemingly impassable obelisk, “Well, now what?”

Despite himself, Death lets a soft snort escape him, though it's drowned out by Karn's far louder one. “Just watch,” the maker tells you, a sly grin on his face.

Arching a brow, you do as you're told and simply observe the Nephilim as he pulls Eideard's intricate key from his pocket and holds it high above his head.

At first, nothing happens.

But just as you open your mouth to speak, Death begins mumbling something, his voice so soft that it's almost lost entirely to the wind. Right in front of your eyes, the key floats out of his grasp, pushed up into the air by purple threads of magic that flow like water from the Horseman's fingertips. Enraptured by the display, you let your jaw hang slack.

The maker key, fed by magic, is coaxed towards the hole in the wall and it suddenly stops right at the centre, suspended in midair where, without another word, Death flicks his wrist clockwise.

And in perfect synchronisation, the key turns as well.

All of a sudden, there's an explosion of bright, blue light in the middle of the hollow and in order to save your retinas, you're forced to squint, shielding your eyes with a hand. A few seconds later, and the light has dimmed to an acceptable intensity, leaving you free to gaze up and see that where it had bloomed, there's now a pulsating orb of the most indescribable blue, nestled snugly in the round space.

“What is that-” you begin to ask, only to find yourself abruptly cut off by an awful cacophony of noise. The ground beneath your feet comes alive as what feels like an earthquake rolls across the courtyard and threatens to throw you off balance. Without warning, a split appears down the middle of the wall, running from top to bottom whilst you gape on, struck dumb when the two pieces draw away from one another like divergent, tectonic plates before they both lift up, spinning outwards in a motion more in keeping with a pair of gates than a solid wall. Once they've parted entirely, all the air rushes out of your lungs in one, flabbergasted wheeze.

Through the curtain of dust that rains down from ancient stone, a face emerges, though you barely have the time to register this new feature before the earth shudders again after two, stony hands crash down on either side of you, each so vast, Death would barely reach the height of one of the fingers. You don't even notice that you've stumbled closer to the Horseman, too transfixed on the construct rising up on sturdy legs as it pushes itself up properly, drawing its hands back off the ground and rising to its full, intimidating height.  

“Oh my...” you breathe, tipping your neck back to a painful degree.

The behemoth drops its solid jaw to yawn, long and loud and slow, and when it does, stale air blasts from its gaping mouth and you suddenly find yourself awash in dead leaves and the distinct scent of cedar wood.

“My stone....aches...”

The slow, steady voice thrums deep inside your chest, a constant rumbling that carries the strength of a mountain.

Death steps forward, calling up to the giant, “You may ache, Warden, but you're not corrupted.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Not yet.”

Twin spheres of cerulean light swirl around in hollow grooves that have been carved out of the stone head to resemble a pair of eye sockets, not unlike that of a skull's. The lights blink, or rather, they dim and brighten again a few times before, sluggishly - as though even the most mundane action takes a tremendous amount of effort – the construct's head bends down to look at the three, tiny figures that have gathered at his feet.

“...Visitors?” he rumbles and lowers himself onto one knee. It crashes against the ground and another quake rattles your bones. “Are you the ones....who have awakened me from my...slumber?”

The maker standing behind you steps up to your side and replies, “Aye, that's us!”

At once, the construct's gaze swivels onto Karn and his craggy jaw lifts into something suggestive of a smile. “Ah, a maker. I greet you.... son of the stone. Though, I do not know.... your face.”

“You've been asleep for a long time, Warden,” Death interjects before the youngling can start a lengthy introduction about himself, “I wager there'll be very few faces left that you do know, now that Corruption has spread over your realm.”

The construct shifts again, this time turning to peer down at the Horseman. “Corruption?” There's something rather disconcerting to see a face made completely from stone fall into an expression of apprehension. “... It was not a dream?”

“M'afraid Corruption's real as can be,” Karn informs him, leaning his weight back to meet the Warden's eye, “Damn stuff's taken the Forge Lands, and most of us with it!”

The sound of creaking stone fills your ears as the construct's jaw grinds together and he raises his head, gazing off into the distance. “Then....the makers have need of me....”

“The makers say that you can reach the Foundry-” Death at last gets to the crux of the matter. “-and that a Guardian lies within.”

For a moment, the Warden doesn't respond and you're just beginning to wonder if he'd even heard when he bows his head and focuses on the Horseman again, trepidation still hovering around his sonorous tone. “The Foundry....Yes. It is where I was...cast.”

Despite being perfectly happy to stay safely out of the colossal construct's notice, you feel a soft frown draw your brows together and before you know it, you're asking, “Wait. Cast? As in, made?”

You almost wish you could glue your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Even Death looks surprised that you'd spoken up, turning to face you, his eyes wide and curious. Although his glancing intrigue is nothing compared to the construct's.

You never thought you'd see a creature his size give you a double take.

Karn – oblivious to the staring match happening between you and the Warden – answers your question. “Aye, the Foundry's where all constructs round here were made. Pretty sure that old place has been standin' since Eideard was a lad.” He continues to ramble on, making some joke about Eideard never really being young but you aren't particularly invested in what he's saying. You're much too preoccupied with watching apprehensively as a gigantic hand reaches down for you at a snail's pace, as though its owner can't quite believe what he's seeing.

“What manner of creature is this?” the Warden murmurs, extending a finger. Were it not for the reassuring presence of both Horseman and maker, you'd have turned and bolted by now.

“She's a human.” Death's eyes are fixed – as yours are – on the construct's hand. “A relatively young species. They haven't been around for very long.”

You don't see him stiffen, bristling when the stone finger comes just a little too close and you take an involuntary step back. “-And they're unbelievably fragile, Warden. So if you don't mind...”

There's the slightest hint of a warning in his growl which stops the construct in his tracks and even draws your eyes from the finger hovering a mere foot away.

You blink at the Horseman, at last noticing that one of his hands has dropped to the handle of a scythe, though once he realises you're staring, he immediately folds his arms and pointedly ignores you.

To your relief though, his warning hadn't fallen on deaf ears, and the Warden slowly withdraws, tilting his head curiously at you instead. “Forgive me, hu-man,” he tests the word, casting his gaze over your wobbling knees, “It is not every day... that I meet someone so....” Hesitating, the giant considers you carefully for a few seconds before he settles on, “...new.”

“That's okay!” Your response comes out as more of an embarrassing squeak, so you quickly clear your throat and add, “It's, uh, not every day I meet someone so...” You gesture helplessly at the Warden. “Um... big?”

Behind you, Karn huffs out a laugh. “F'you think the Warden's big, wait'll you see the Guardian.”

Pulling a face, you throw the maker a horrified look over your shoulder, but before you can ask him to clarify just how big this Guardian is, Death cuts in loudly.

“- Which is precisely why I came to awaken you, Warden,” he snaps, tossing a hard glare between you and Karn, “I need to get to the Foundry, and the makers tell me the Guardian is the only thing that can clear Corruption from around the Tree of Life.” Falling silent, Death's shoulders slump and he lets out a soft sigh, asking, “Will you help me, Old one?”

The construct drops his head in a slow, deliberate nod. “... Yes.”

Without another word, he braces one hand against the ground, lowering his chest and at the unspoken invitation, Death suddenly starts forwards and leaps for the Warden's bent knee.

Your jaw drops of its own will as you watch him scale the giant with as much effort as you might use to sneeze. Eventually, he settles himself on a tree root beside the construct's head, fingers digging into a notch between the slabs of rock. Then, as if he hadn't just performed a nigh impossible feat in three seconds flat, he casually leans an elbow against the stone at his back and stares down at you expectantly.

After a moment, you pick your jaw up off the ground and scoff. “Yeah. There's no way I can do that.”

“S'alright!” Karn chirps eagerly and you turn to find him offering you his hand, “I can give you a lift back. Reckon I fancy the walk. Hop on!”

Grateful, you flash him a smile, inadvertently causing his cheeks to burn.

Only the Warden notices his passenger tense. Small, sharp fingernails scrape shallow grooves into his body and before you can accept the maker's offer, Death barks, “Are you quite certain, Pup, that that's a good idea?”

His tone has an immediate effect on Karn. The youngling ducks his head and gives you an apologetic grimace, whispering, “On second thoughts, best not push our luck today, eh?”

Casting your mind back, you recall the chilling rattle of Death's Reaper form and you have to suppress a shudder. “Yeah,” you agree, “Best not.”

There's a loud thump behind you, and when you turn to face the Warden again, you see his colossal hand resting palm-up on the ground, waiting for you.

A quick glance at Death confirms that he's tapping his foot on the tree root and you sigh, rolling your eyes.

Offering Karn a departing shrug, you gingerly approach the hand, only pausing for a second to peer up at the construct's bulky face. He watches you with rapt attention and an everlasting patience that could only be attributed to a being made of stone, never moving or twitching his fingers to indicate that you should get a move on. If it weren't for the blue light pulsing rhythmically in his chest, you'd think he'd turned back into a lifeless statue. Swallowing thickly, you venture closer and brace your hands on the solid palm. However, no sooner do your fingertips touch the stone than you pull away again and gasp, shocked by the warmth radiating from it.

“Whenever you're ready!”

You flinch and throw your head back to glare up at the Horseman. “Okay, okay! I'm coming!”

Shoving aside the strangeness of having stone warm the underside of your hands, you haul yourself up into the Warden's palm, feeling far more dwarfed than you had when you were just standing below him.

Settling yourself down cross-legged, you hear the Horseman ask, “Shall we?” and a responding hum from the construct that sends reverberations through your body.

The Warden sweeps his eyes down to give you a swift, once-over and then, in a voice that booms like thunder, he says, “Hold on, little ones.”

In spite of the warning, you still suck in a breath as he begins to stand and pulls you up against an impervious chest. There's something fascinating in the way his stone plates move over one another, shifting and sliding in perfect synchronisation with every gesture.

When he stands up to his full height, your eyes are drawn to the horizon and you can't help but let out a soft, 'Oh,' at the sight. 

From your new vantage point, you can see clear over the crumbling temple and beyond, towards the skyline. The first of the two suns has been swallowed by a far off mountain range, while its sister is just beginning to kiss one of the highest peaks, sending a vast shadow creeping down into the valley while the clouds overhead seem to burn like flaming gold, as if someone had set the sky alight.

Hearty laughter reaches your ears and you tear your eyes off the remarkable sunset, glancing down over the Warden's hand to see Karn peering up at you with a grin on his face. “Enjoyin' the view!?” he calls.

“It's.... pretty nice, actually!” you shout back, expelling some of your prior tension in a sharp breath, “You sure you want to walk back?”

The maker waves you off as he begins making his way back towards the staircase. “Nah, nah. I'll head home this way. Maybe I'll find some more treasures on the way back!” He reaches the bottom step and then turns, cupping a hand around his mouth to holler. “Oh, and Warden? Keep yer grip steady, eh?”

And with that, the young maker stuffs his hands into the pockets of his tunic and lumbers off the way you'd arrived, a merry whistle carried back to you on the wind.

Before he disappears from view entirely though, you shout, “You be careful! Okay!?”

A hand is raised and waved, and then, he's gone.

“Careful'... I'll give him 'careful,” Death's voice grumbles from above your head as the Warden heaves his bulk around and treads evenly through the enormous passageway he'd been parked in front of. Every step produces a tremor that rattles the teeth in your skull, though his gait remains slow and his vast fingers curl inwards, an unconscious response to holding a diminutive life form in the palm of his hand. You just hope he remembers what Death had said about humans being fragile.

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

The journey back to Tri Stone is surprisingly peaceful when you don't have to worry about demons or corrupted constructs leaping into your path, and after all thoughts of being accidentally dropped, crushed and stepped on taper off, you start to actually enjoy the ride.

There's wind in your hair and the scent of earth swirling in your nose and the horizon is now truly aflame with rich scarlets bleeding seamlessly into indigo skies to the east while the mist that rolls down from distant mountains is tinged by the same golden flecks burning in Death's irises.

'Death...' Slowly, your eyebrows knit together and you purse your lips, fighting the temptation to glance up at the Horseman.

Although you aren't directly looking at him, you've felt his eyes scorching a hole into the back of your head all the way from the Lost Temple.

The enormous construct seems oblivious to the silence of his passengers as he strides out of the canyon pass connecting Baneswood to the Stonefather's vale. “In my slumber,” he drones absentmindedly, throwing a perturbed look towards the pustulating mass of corruption guarding the Tree when its singular eye swivels in his direction, “I have felt the Guardian, reaching to my dreams... He is the strongest of us all.... But, in his heart, there is a hunger.”

Death doesn't seem willing or bothered to acknowledge the Warden. You, on the other hand, find reason for alarm in his last statement. “A h-hunger for what, exactly?” you stammer, throat oddly dry.

“For destruction.... For the end of Corruption's existence,” the construct replies and you can't help but let out a tiny breath of relief. The answer you'd been picturing was far more gruesome. “It is what he was built for....”

“Built to destroy, huh?” Your gaze dips to the stone under your legs. “Sounds like this Guardian has something in common with Corruption.”

The hand beneath you gives a sudden lurch as its owner huffs amusedly and the heartstone behind you flares for a second.

“It seems we are of the same mind, little one,” he rumbles, drawing to a slow halt in front of the arching gateway that leads back into Tri Stone.

Cautiously, the Warden begins lowering himself down onto one knee whilst keeping his eyes glued to the hand you're sitting in, ensuring his descent remains steady. Before he manages to plant his knee firmly on the ground however, a grey blur whizzes past you and you jump, only realising it's Death when the Horseman lands gracefully on the vibrant, swaying grass and spins about to face you again.

“Showoff,” you grumble, earning a tilted jaw from the Warden.

Luckily, Death's earlier warning about your fragility seems to have registered, and the next thing you know, the massive construct has placed his hand down with far more care than you'd have anticipated from something of his size. He remains perfectly still as you crawl to the side of his palm and slide off, calling up to him, “Thanks for the lift.”

The old construct looks taken aback and he tilts his head at you, a curious glimmer in his ancient gaze. “You must ensure that you are prepared to cross over,” he tells you and the Horseman, hauling himself off his knee and stepping over your heads to the cliff wall surrounding Tri Stone and you note, with no small amount of awe, that he stands over half its height. There, he hesitates, curling his fingers around a ledge and tipping his head to the side, regarding you from the corner of one, cerulean eye. “There may be no crossing back...”

And with that ominous statement, he gives you a final nod and turns back to the wall, dragging himself up the side of it and over the lip, dropping down on the other side.

You listen to the retreating thumps of his giant footsteps for a few moments before noticing that the glowering Horseman has begun to march purposefully up the slope towards the village entrance.

Catching a lip between your teeth, you bite down hard, considering the tunnel's dark maw.

“Wait...Death? Can... Can we do something first?”

The Horseman pauses in front of the curving archway. He doesn't speak, so you take his silence as an invitation to proceed.

Fiddling awkwardly with something in your pocket, you take a breath before you tug it out and lay it flat in your palm. “So, me and Karn did a lot of talking in the Temple-”

Unsurprised, Death snorts but you ignore him and press on. “- and... and we got onto the subject of Blackroot, thought Karn'd know what stonebites look like. Well, it turns out he did. And... I think we found some.”

The Nephilim spins on his heel and marches back towards you, squinting down at the object in your hands. It's a stone about the length of his forefinger, its yellow surface glittering closer to gold in the dying sunlight.

“A stonebite?” He looks up at you and arches a brow. “...You... remembered.”

“Well, yeah? Of course I did. I mean, he said he was going to starve.”

“I see...” he hums, arms crossing over his chest as he shoots you a suspicious squint, “And you aren't merely trying to postpone a confrontation with the makers?”

Suddenly defensive, you shove the stonebite away and mimic the Horseman's stance, folding your own arms and huffing, “No.” Yet when you see the corners of his eyes start to crinkle, you add, “Maybe.”

For several, long moments, Death regards you coolly. Then, with a gentle huff, he reaches into the pouch hanging from his belt and pulls something out of it.

“Hey!” you exclaim, dropping your guarded stance and staring down at the Horseman's hands, “You found some too!”

“I did,” he replies and watches as you eagerly take in the pair of similar stones. But just then, your expression flits from surprised to smug and a sly grin spreads gradually over your lips.

After a moment, he shifts on his feet and demands, “What?”

For someone who'd stood shaking before him not too long ago, you're awfully brazen when you say in a sing-song voice, “You were worried about Blackroot.”

The accusation catches Death off guard and has him bristling like a cornered cat. Perhaps if he'd been prepared, he would have responded with something a little more dignified than a snappish, “I was not.”

He almost kicks himself when your grin just widens and your eyes begin to twinkle with mischief in a way that reminds him far, far too much of his brother, Strife.

Shifting back on your feet, you gesture to the stones in his hands. “Well, then why did you bother picking these up?”

Death's eyes narrow to dangerous slits. “Do you remember that thin ice I mentioned earlier? It's getting thinner by the second.”

Memories of him bursting into that hooded monstrosity wipes the smirk of your face in an instant.

With a grumble, he turns his head away, and from underneath the bone-white mask comes a shrill whistle, spilling over the vale in one, long note. Before the sound even echoes out, there's an answering whinny.

The grass nearby suddenly explodes into sickly, green flames and you twist your head over a shoulder to see Despair lurching out of the ground, his thunderous hooves kicking up a swirling vortex of the ever-present mist that accompanies him wherever he goes.

The decaying horse strides up to his rider, greeting him with a snort and a quick toss of his spectral mane. In turn, Death drops the stonebites back into a pocket and reaches out to stroke a firm hand down Despair's neck, following the exposed musculature down to his shoulder.

“I imagine you'll soon be sick of carrying us to and fro across this wretched valley,” he tells the horse softly, prompting you to perk up.

“So, we are going to Blackroot?”

A sharp 'hmph' leaps from under Death's mask as he steps away from Despair and gestures lazily to the saddle. “Well, I'm certainly not lugging these stones around in my pocket until the end of time,” he mutters.

You're careful to conceal a grin.

Despair wickers at your approach and leans his muzzle down to catch your sleeve in his teeth, giving it a tug.

“Uh oh,” you laugh, “Have you finally decided to try human meat?”

“The last he saw of you, you were unconscious and barely moving,” Death hums, quietly observing while you lift your hand to give Despair's exposed nose bone a few, long strokes. With delight sparkling radiantly on your face, you tilt your head and peer into one of the horse's milky eyeballs.

“Aw, checking up on me, are you?”

Predictably, Despair doesn't reply, just pushes heavily down on the fingers scratching at the underside of his jaw.

The sound of Death roughly clearing his throat startles you away from the horse and you scurry over to his saddle, muttering a quick apology. He barely waits for you to cock your leg back before he bends down and grabs your shin, throwing you upwards so abruptly, you almost shoot over the other side of the saddle.

“You know,” you grunt, righting yourself and hotching backwards to give Death some room, “I'm starting to think you're still upset with me.”

“Really?” His response is positively dripping in sarcasm as he pulls himself expertly up in front of you. “What in the world gave you that impression?”

“I said I was sorry!”

This time, he doesn't bother to reply. Instead, he clicks his tongue and Despair breaks into an even trot, sensing no urgency from his master as he had on his return from the Drenchfort.

“Why were you so against me coming anyway?” you mumble, scowling ahead at the Horseman's spine. There's a sharp intake of breath in front of you, and then a split second of hesitation. It's hardly there, a hair's breadth of a moment, but enough that you notice.

“Well, if you'd have died, then keeping you alive so far will have been a supreme waste of my time. And I despise having my time wasted,” he states matter-of-factly.

“...Oh...”

The Horseman feels you slump behind him and he's almost caught off guard by his own voice rising insistently at the back of his mind. 'Heartless bastard,' it hisses. He does his best to quell it, grinding the reprimand beneath a proverbial heel. Because how in the world is he supposed to answer?

That despite his name and reputation, Death doesn’t actually derive any pleasure from seeing innocents get hurt?

That if you die, he'll lose the one creature in existence who considers him a frien-...?

‘... Oh.’

Death contemplates the little human at his back for several seconds before heaving a tremendous sigh. “And -” he groans, carefully selecting his words, “I... thought you'd.... put yourself through enough suffering these last few days. I could see your body needed rest, even if you believed it didn't-”

'I was trying to look after you.'

“-and I couldn't guarantee your safety in the Lost Temple anyway.”

'I failed to protect you from Karkinos. What was to stop me from failing again?'

For a few, long minutes, the ride lapses into a wordlessness that could put Valus to shame.

Unheeding of the silence – or perhaps accustomed to it, having travelled with Death for so long - Dust flies high overhead, riding the warmer air currents that rise off a sun-warmed vale and he lets out a proud, strident squawk, relishing the wind under his feathers.

Death has just decided you must still be disheartened when a sudden weight presses upon his back and he realises you've rested your face there and turned it to the side so you can idly watch the crow soar above you. “You know? I don't think safety is something you can guarantee.” Your cheek is distractingly warm against his cold, ashen skin. “But... I guess I'm grateful you're trying.”

There's a prideful, adamant twist of his brow and he opens his mouth to argue that he doesn't 'try,' to do anything. He's a Horseman. He only does.

But then, his fiery gaze drifts down to the small, soft hands that are clasped loosely around his front and lingers on them, examining the grazes painted across each knuckle.

Karkinos had sent you flying, and a few bruised ribs aren't the only signs that you'd survived an encounter with her.

The evidence is plastered there for all to see, on your hands, on your ribs, in your eyes.

The last human in the universe, and Death had failed to keep you from a brush with the other side.

“I-” The Horseman's mouth moves before his brain realises what it means to say. Had there been an apology on his tongue? He doubts it. He could count the instances he's ever felt the need to apologise on one hand. And this instance just seems too.... anticlimactic. So instead, what he says, what he pushes from his reluctant throat is, “I shall have to... to try harder.”

“Sooo, is that ice I'm standing on getting any thicker yet?”

“Human, if I was angry with you every time you did something I told you not to do, I'd spend every waking moment perpetually furious.”

“You? Perpetually furious?” you snort, “Now that would be weird.”

Death knows better than to encourage you.

He knows better, but he laughs anyway.

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

The mossy construct lifts his head to peer over the side of the plateau. 

Trotting across the fjord with a trail of green mist streaming along behind them, are the strange but kind fleshlings who'd greeted him on their journey west.

The stones that form his brows jerk up in surprise.

He'd hardly been expecting them to return at all, never mind so soon.

A small figure leans out from behind Death and spots the construct standing on his ledge and she lifts her hand, waving eagerly up at him, a gesture he returns with just as much enthusiasm.

Despair hits the slope and slows to a walk, puffs of air blasting from his parted jaw. Once he nears Blackroot, his rider gives the reins a gentle tug, stopping the horse altogether and he obediently drops his neck to nose idly at the grass underfoot.

“Hey, Blackroot!” you chirrup, sliding from Despair's saddle and landing on the ground with a hard thud.

Death throws you an exasperated growl when the impact causes you to suck a breath through your teeth, although you're quick to wave him off and venture closer to the construct.

“Greetings, little friend!” he replies, raising his jaw into a clumsy smile, “You have returned!”

The Horseman is hot on your heels once he too has dismounted, halting close to your back and cloaking you in his long, dark shadow, grunting, “You sound surprised.”

“Pleasantly,” Blackroot assures him.

Offering the construct a secretive wink, you dig a hand into the pocket of your skirt and explain, “Well, we just thought we'd stop by 'cause we got you something.”

In a flash, he perks up, his small, yellow eyes wide and keen as they focus intently on your rummaging. Seconds later, he's finds himself presented with a blessedly familiar sight.

“Stonebites!” he exclaims, his fingers hovering over your splayed palms. He stares down at them for a second before the elation slowly slips off his face and a look of heartfelt gratitude replaces it. “You... actually found some, for me?”

“Of course we did. We both did!” You press the stones into his moss-covered hands. “Hopefully these'll keep you going until we can find some more.”

Reverently, the construct's fingers curl around his new treasures and he brings them close to his chest, jaw skewed to give the impression of a happy beam. “This is the kindest thing anyone has done for me.” He pauses, shuddering, and you'd swear you can see droplets of dew forming on the tufted grass sprouting from his shoulders. “How can I ever repay you?”

Humming, Death purses his lips in thought. “Well, actually-”

“Don't be silly, Blackroot!” you smile, cutting him off, “It was my pleasure.”

The Horseman's jaw clicks shut and he stares down at the back of your head.

Perhaps by now, he ought to have expected as much from you. Then again, he can't quell the fleeting surprise that lifts his brows and causes him to falter. He's been around for a very, very long time. Long enough that acts of altruism are few and far between. Doing something for nothing is...

Well... It's just foolish.

Death nearly tells you as such, but then Blackroot is tossing the stonebites into his cragged maw and crunching down on them, filling the air with the sound of splintering crystal and grinding rock and there's a horrified grimace on your face that steals a laugh right out of the Horseman's throat.

“Well, what did you think he was going to do with them?” he asks, moving past you to toss Blackroot another few stonebites from his pocket.

The construct swipes them up and immediately proceeds to wolf those down as well, gulping noisily and letting out a hum of satisfaction whilst you watch, a hand pressed to your throat, wincing at the sound of stones clinking down his gullet.

“Don't you think you should have saved some of those?” you ask, “You know, in case you get hungry later?”

In response, he merely lifts his shoulders as if to say, 'whoops,' and you can't help but respond with an exasperated smile.

Just then, a cold hand falls onto your shoulder and you twist about to find Death standing close behind you, his head angled out towards the north sky and the rolling landscape stretched out below the fjord.

“It's getting dark,” he murmurs, and when you turn to follow his gaze, you at last notice that a blanket of stars has already begun to sweep in from the far horizon. With the darkness comes a sense of trepidation, for tomorrow, for what awaits you in the Foundry.... For what Thane is probably going to say to you once you get back.

A slow shiver rolls down your spine when Death slides his hand off you and turns around. He heads for a very bored-looking Despair and grunts something that you imagine is a vague instruction for you to follow him. You try not to let your feet drag as you make your way to the horse as well.

“You are leaving already?” Blackroot complains, the tree growing from his back drooping over when he deflates.

Shooting him a guilty grimace, you allow Death to hoist you back into the saddle before replying, “Sorry, Blackroot. I wish we could take you with us...”

“Speak for yourself,” the Horseman mutters under his breath as he climbs on in front of you. As tempting as it is to roll your eyes, you manage to control the urge and instead reassure the construct.

“Don't worry though. I'll ask Eideard if there's a way to help you, I promise.”

Blackroot's voice falters. “I-if it is not too much trouble. I would certainly be glad to move again.”

Flicking the reins, Death turns his steed towards Tri Stone. “I wouldn't get your hopes up,” he warns, and this time you have to battle a temptation to kick him when the construct's shoulders sag even further.

“Hey, don't listen to him. If anyone can figure out how to help, it'll be Eideard!”

That, at least, seems to put a little wind back in Blackroot's sails and he perks up, raising his bulky hand to give you a parting wave as Despair throws his head back and bursts into a loping cater, forcing you to loop your arms around Death's scrawny waist to avoid topple off backwards. Once confident you won't be falling off, you twist around in the saddle and wave back at the slowly diminishing construct.

“So!” the Horseman calls above the thudding of hooves and the wind roaring by, “Are you planning to ask Eideard before or after your inevitable run-in with Thane?”

A self-satisfied smirk grows underneath his mask at the ensuing groan and your forehead clunks heavily against his spine, pinching when his chuckle reverberates through your skull. Below you, Despair snorts in sympathy.

After a minute of peering glumly at the Horseman's pale skin, you eventually raise your head again and sigh, eyes roving up to gaze at the stars blurring by instead.

“Well, whatever happens,” you begin, “An angry maker can't be any scarier than you, right?”

[cozykhaos]

A New Sun Part 12

Hello! Sorry this chapter is so short, I find the chapters where I have to copy scenes to take a lot longer and be much more exhausting to write. I’ll make up for it in the next part! Any who, enjoy! 

Also, do any of you think that the Wizard might be Abbie’s father? What are some fan theories that you agree with?

----

I watched as the green apple sized creature danced on top of my mail box, its little legs kicking back and forth in the worlds smallest Can-Can Dance. I hadn’t seen the little creature since the Egg Festival, sometimes I would hear it’s little chirp could never find where it came from. It leaned over and patted the top of my mail box.

“Aren’t you a little bossy thing?” I quirked an eyebrow at it as it continuously pat the top of the box.

I opened and my mouth dropped open. It was filled with letters, I hadn’t even thought about checking the mail since I came out here, figuring if anyone wanted to talk to me they would just show up. I riffled through the envelopes, curiously a couple of them were from Lewis. The last letter sent a tingle through my fingers, a small current running through the tips, up my arms and into my heart. It wasn’t unpleasant, it was a way of way of saying ‘hey, I’m here, I’m important. Look at me. Read me.’

Somewhere behind me Asher snuffled. The tiny creature noiselessly bounced in place. Eos Farm held its breath. I opened the letter. It breathed again.

My sources tell me you have been poking around inside the old Community Center.

Why don’t you pay me a visit?

My chambers are west of the forest lake, in the stone tower. I may have information concerning your…

‘rat problem’.

-M. Rasmodius, Wizard

I turned the letter over, blank. I looked at the small creature, who was starring up at me with glossy black eyes and a tiny smile.

The stone tower? I turned and looked in the direction of the tower, I could see the peak of the blue roof from my farm. As children we tried so many times to get inside that tower. All of us, Abigail, Sam, Sebastian, even Haley and Emily. We would stand out there, staring up at the stone structure, discussing ways to get inside. We could always hear movement on the other side of that thick wooden door. We tried climbing the side of it, to get to the top window. We would grow tired before long, the tower seeming to stretch on forever. Once Abbie fell, instead of plummeting to the ground, she gently floated to the grass below. After that we stopped trying to get inside. We would stand at the bottom of the hill and tell stories about what we thought was inside.

Sam said it was a pizza buffet.

I picked up the little being off the mail box and put it on my shoulder. It grabbed my curls and wrapped the tendrils around its little body. That would be a pain to brush out later.

I whistled for Asher and off we went towards the tower.

It was just as intimidating as I remembered. The thick oak door, the stones soaring into the sky, Rapunzel’s hair wouldn’t even make it to the ground. I told myself to be brave and I knocked.

“Come in!” A voice roared from the other side. I stared at the bare door, no door handle to be found.

“Uhhh how?” I asked. The tower seemed to sigh and the door opened on its own.

“Sassy fucking tower,” I muttered under my breath and entered the tower.

The room was basic but my brain couldn’t grasp what it was seeing. Everything seemed to be covered in a haze as if an illusion, from the basic oaken floors with the bubbling cauldron that reeked of spoiled eggs and rotting apples. The far right of the room stones took over the floor, white symbols painted on top and so many candles with too many different fragrances. Lavender, basil, sage, nutmeg, ginger. It was an assault on my senses and I felt feint. Ash whimpered next to me.

A man I had not seen made his way from around the symbol painted on the floor. “I am Rasmodius… Seeker of the Arcane Truths. Mediary between ethereal and physical Master of the Seven Elementals. Keeper of the Sacred Cha- You get the point” He had a voice that rose from the earth, it was hard and closed around each word at the end. It rooted me back to this place, back to this tower. I stared at the wizard he stared back but averted his dark gaze, familiar purple hair poked out from underneath his cowboy hat and covered his face in a handle bar mustache and goatee. I gawked.  

He approached me. “And you... Kit. The ones whose arrival I have long foreseen.” His eyes shifted to the circle next to him. “Here. I have something to show you.” With a flick of his wrist and a “BEHOLD” my little friend appeared in the circle. The little creature chirped inside the now glowing circle, lights danced from the edges and upwards. The creature chased them, dancing around the circle like it was a stage. “You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?”

I nodded. “I mean, it did tell me to check my mail.”

The wizard’s dark gaze landed on me. “We will get to that in a minute. They call themselves the ‘Junimos’. Mysterious spirits these ones. For some reason, they refuse to speak with me.” He flicked his rest again and my friend disappeared. I looked around but it was no where to be found.

“I don’t know why they have moved into the Community Center,” the wizard continued. “But you have no reason to fear them.”

I looked down at Ash who noticeably gulped, his tail tucked between his legs. I picked up the pup and cradled him close. Rasmodius looked at me with his head cocked to one side. “Inside the Community Center, there was a golden tablet in one of the rooms,” I said. “It had a language written on it that I’m not familiar with.” It seemed important to tell him.

“Most interesting, stay here. I’m going to go see for myself, I’ll return shortly.” With that he disappeared. I stared at the spot that the wizard was just standing in. I pursed my lips into a duck bill and waited. The door behind me open, I spun and stumbled backwards as the wizard entered.

“What the fuck!?” I yelled at, holding Ash closer to me, he growled at Rasmodius.

The wizard ignored my reaction. “I found the note. The language is obscure but I managed to decipher it: We, the Junimos, are happy to aid you. In return we ask for gifts of the Valley. If you are one with the forest then you will see the true nature of this scroll.” He walked to the cauldron staring into the green cloud that steamed from it. “’One with the forest’” He mused. “What could they mean?”

I glanced down at Ash who looked up at me. He wiggled in my arms and I sat him down. The wizard was stroking his goatee in silence, lost deep in thought. Rasmodius paused, his eyes wide as he said “AH HAH!” He pointed at me, I flinched, almost expecting to be struck by lighting, or turned into a frog. “COME HERE!”

I looked around, hoping to see someone else standing close enough that I could throw them in my path. Asher had army crawled away on his stomach and into a corner. Traitor.

Hesitantly I walked over to Rasmodius and in front of the cauldron.

“My cauldron is bubbling with ingredients of the forest.” He started.

The smell was much much worse this close to the pot. “Baby fern, moss grub, caramel top toadstool, can you smell it?”

I gagged.

“Here. Drink up. Let the essence of the forest permeate your body.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I looked at him.

“Drink up. Let the essence of the fores-”

“No no, I heard you.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“It wasn’t really a question.”

“It sounded like one.”

“I was being facetious.”

The wizard stared at me unblinking, taking a cup he filled it with the goop from inside the cauldron and shoved it into my hands. I glanced down at the slim, something inside of it bulged like a frogs throat before popping.

“Drink.” The wizard ordered. I plugged my nose and took a deep gulp of the brew. It spilled out the side of the cup and down my chin onto my shirt. I set the cup down, it took a moment for the taste to assault my taste buds. Boiled mushrooms, hot mud, rotting leaves, algae and a feint hint of raw ginger. I heaved.

I hit the ground with a thunk.

Asher scrambled over to me.

Visions floated before my eyes.

Thick tree canopies, with leaves drifting down to the forest floor. The trees became thicker, growing into a lush forest, they swam before my eyes.

Then.

Darkness.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

if not by blood, then siblings by bloodshed (part two)

Part 1

Note: Kitty’s age has been changed to seven! I was writing her way younger than an eleven year old would act, so I changed it

TW: Blood and gore, violence, animal violence, death

——————

Undead Lullaby

Water.

Water was what the air in and around this part of the forest smelled like the most.

It was in the deep, earthen musk of the damp soil that lay beneath the lush, dew-soaked grass.

It was in the marshy fumes, sometimes sulfurous, sometimes sickly-sweet, of the patches of hidden swamp that lay in wait for unsuspecting feet.

It was in the carpets of fallen leaves that hid hollows between the tree roots, where pools could collect and play host to all things that crawled or squirmed through the wet.

It was in the very forest itself, coating wet leaves and bleeding from the dark, pulpy wood of the gnarled, old trees.

There was nothing dry about this place.

Fog, ghostly-grey and creeping on silent feet, drifted in low wisps over the crumbled and cold earth, painting the normally-stark outlines of the trees so pale that they faded into the sky rather than stood boldly against it. The mist had dissipated somewhat since anyone had last passed through this particular stretch of rarely-visited meadow, but not by much. Hours, though, or perhaps a day before, it had been as oppressive and thick as cold clam chowder.

Now it was slowly thinning out, listlessly lacking the eerie, almost lifelike malevolence with which it had pressed in upon the very soul before. There was a certain…uncertainty about the way it was hovering now, no longer pouring into every little hollow and alcove like milk over cereal. It was just there.

There, in a sort of in-between way. Lingering.

All was still, and- save for the rhythmic pitter-patter of falling rain- all was silent as well.

Except for herself, of course.

It was movement in the stillness that preceded the first disruption of the tranquility of the forest; the silk-thin web of drifting mist that hung in the air like lace slowly began to slide forward, rolling away from her feet like a translucent white carpet, perhaps in front of some ghostly noble attending an afterlife celebration in their name. Right from the raid the day before, her movement through this strange, still world, which her life had become, had felt alien and out of place, but it had never felt that way more than right now.

With each footstep, a narrow patch of soggy grass pressed down and sent a miniature pool of moisture bubbling up around the edges of her boots and in through invisible gaps in the leather, oozing into her already-saturated socks and settling in icy little pools in the dips where her toes went, setting the blisters on the skin alight with fresh pain. If her feet hadn’t already been numb from the wet and cold, she might have cared more. But everything from her toes to her feet and the soaked leather that clung stiffly to them was in no shape to feel anything but the dull warning stings of oncoming pins and needles.

Besides, Joan had other things on her mind right now.

Like how the old, rickety bow she had slung across her chest had its arrowheads tipped with red. And it wasn’t rust. (Could flint even rust?)

Like how the sharp, metallic tang of blood and bile and sweat was gushing off of her in waves and invading her nostrils with each breath. It was so overpowering that at times it made her want to choke.

Like how lifting her feet from the indents they made in the muddy undergrowth kept on getting harder and harder to do. Her legs felt heavier with each step and the little grassy pools made squelchy noises of protest, sucking hungrily at her feet each time they left the earth. Behind her in the grass, there was a long trail of tiny shoe-shaped lakes, like murky little grey-green cousins of the ones she had read about in books.

Like what had happened just fourteen hours before.

There was a clank-CLONK and a gentle patter as droplets of condensation came raining down from where they’d collected on the bars of the town gate. There was no real latch, so she just pushed it open. There had been one once, but it had rusted away under the perpetual wet.

…Or maybe it hadn’t.

The gate’s movement ground to a halt after a mere few inches, hindered by tufts of almost-oily grass which had been allowed to grow out of control around the edges of the compound for what had probably been years. They snagged on the metal almost as though they were alive, gripping its frame with the sort of desperation one normally only saw from a particularly needy child clinging to its mother’s arm while she was on her way to work.

A half-hearted hiss of frustration escaped her as the gate’s creaking cut off. She clenched sore and swollen fingers around the wet bars, feeling flakes of rust and ancient, now-colorless paint crumble away and stick to her fingertips, which the condensation in the air had turned pruny and pale pink, like anemic raisins. When further shoving only yielded that rubbery, elastic sound that wet wild grass sometimes got, she let out a puff of air and gave up for the moment, leaning in to rest her forehead against the cool metal as she slouched, peering through the bars at the army of houses lined up within. She was so close to a roof over her head, food, maybe even water, and a damn hunk of metal was standing in her way.

“Joan?”

Joan hadn’t even realized she was dozing until the voice snapped her back to awareness. She reared back slightly, shaking her head, then looks down at the girl holding her hand at her side.

She could tell Kitty was as tired as she was. Their legs were still sore from all the running they did the day before, the rest they got was more of a doze, and they had been walking since dawn.

At least it had been dry yesterday. And relatively warm. Summer had breathed its last breaths on the tragedy, and fall replaced its absence with quick chills and a drizzle that proved to be just as hellish as a full downpour. After walking for hours through autumn’s first wrath, the town that appeared in the distance was a blessing. Now they just had to find a way in and hope the villagers wouldn’t mind.

They’d have to squeeze their tired bodies through that narrow gap, Joan realized, and she just wasn’t ready to deal with that. Maybe in five seconds. Yes, five seconds sounded good. Five seconds was plenty of time. In five seconds, her aching legs would feel a little better, her blistered feet would stop crying in agony, and she’d stand tall, shove that gate wide open, and continue her trek with renewed determination.

But that was just wishful thinking. In five seconds, her legs continued to hurt and the gate still refused to open.

“We’ll have to squeeze through,” Joan finally said. “Think you can fit through there, Kit?”

Kitty nodded and let go of Joan’s hand.

They both suddenly felt it- the cold, horrifying feeling of letting go of one another. It took everything in Kitty to not immediately cling back to Joan, but she gathered up enough courage to slip through the small opening of the gate.

“Good girl,” Joan smiled in relief.

“Your turn!” Kitty said, smiling slightly. “You can do it!”

Joan took a deep breath and pressed her body through the gap. She gets one half to the other side, then got stuck.

Icy cold fear shot through her veins, drenching her insides like a thick, dark oil spill. She knew she shouldn’t have eaten some of that deer yesterday- now she’s going to be stuck in between this gate forever.

“Joan?”

Two small hands closed around hers, squeezing tightly.

“Joan, it’s okay. You’re almost there!”

Joan screwed her eyes shut and let out a small, choked sob. She doesn’t think she’s crying actual tears, but her chest aches like she is.

“Come on, Joey. I believe in you! I’ll help you!”

There was a tug on her hand. She pushes with her foot that was still outside and inches forward, no longer wedged completely between the gates, but then a sharp pain streaks across the back of her shoulder.

“Stop! Stop!” She cried as the sharpness pressing deeper into her skin.

“You’re almost through, Joey!”

Joan struggled, deepening the pain, but manages to wiggle out to the other side. She staggered forward, nearly falling face-first into the weathered stone pavement, but manages to catch herself. She winces, feeling warmth spread across the back of her shoulder.

“You did it!” Kitty grapples back onto her hand, smiling. “I told you you could do it! I’m so proud of you!”

Joan smiles wearily at her.

“Thanks,” She said.

The two looked forward, examining the town now set before them.

The mist and drizzle may have made it hard to see, but the streets were definitely empty. Wet wood wafted heavily in the thick air from the splintering, old houses packed tightly together along the roads and alleyways. Flies buzzed wildly around rotting food, long-abandoned by their merchants.

What happened here?

Kitty and Joan walked quietly through the town, getting enough context clues to know that something wasn’t quite right. Crumbled, cracked stone pavement crunched beneath their feet; the crackle of the gravel seemed to be the loudest sound in the world on the road, but it was much better than the sloshing stew of mud out in the forest by a mile.

“There’s nothing here,” Joan muttered.

“Do we leave?” Kitty asked.

“I...I don’t...know...”

The reply came out slow as Joan’s body suddenly became heavy. She stumbled, becoming aware of a sharp sensation in her neck. The ground rushes up to meet her as everything around her began to bleed together.

The last thing she saw was Kitty’s horrified face.

————

To say that she was dreaming would be inaccurate.

Being knocked out wasn't like being asleep, even if it resulted in more or less the same comatose state.

The dark and restless thoughts that ran through her head like little mice skittering up and over and in and out of the gaps in a rock wall were not dreams so much as memories. Or memories of memories. Or maybe they weren't memories at all, and her brain just thought they were. The images flickered across the inside of her eyelids so quickly that she could hardly make sense of them before they were gone, like flipping through the pages of a book. All of it was accompanied by a strange, twisting sensation like her whole body was twined around a fast clock, inching round and round in tiny little circles.

If she'd been awake, the feeling would have made her nauseous.

But she wasn't awake, so all it did was add further confusion to the mess of images and muffled sounds that were streaming through her brain like ancient text on a stone wall.

Then, suddenly, she wasn’t out.

The mismatched dream of patchwork, out-of-order memories dissolved and Joan was suddenly jarringly awake and aware of several things all at once: that she was lying on her back on something soft and lumpy and scratchy, that her nostrils were so plugged that she'd have had more of a chance of inhaling through her ears than through her nose, that every inch of her legs ached profoundly, and that she was very, very cold, to name a few.

But more than anything else, she was aware that something hard and slightly sharp was digging into the pouchy, tender flesh on stomach and chest. It hurt.

“...Hnnnnnnhg. H...hel...help....nnnnnn!”

Making her lips form words was distinctly harder in real life than it had been in a dream. There was a whole process to it. First she had to make them form the letter-shapes, and then she had to somehow summon the energy to make her vocal cords work, and all in the scant amount of time she had before her lips forgot what they were doing and went back to being useless and rubbery again.

The mumbled pleas went unnoticed.

Her head had mysteriously gotten heavier since the last time she’d paid any attention to it and it now weighed approximately as much as a large boulder.

It wouldn't move, no matter what she did to it. She tried lifting it, but in addition to being a boulder now, it was also apparently magnetically attached to whatever she was laying on. She tried again to move it by arching and rolling her shoulders, but all that did was send a lightning bolt of agony up and down her spine and she crumpled down with a whimper.

It's a struggle to breathe; the weight that lies on top of her is crushing her. When she tries to squirm, the sharp, hard thing digs further into her ribs. Pain pulses behind her eyes. Her neck really hurts. There's the salt tang of blood on her lips.

She forces her eyes open. Pale light stabs at her. Weak sunlight behind an unbreakable wall of grey clouds. It glints off the rings of the mail shirt worn by the dead body she lies on, and the one that lies atop her. There's a face next to hers, bloodless, mouth slack. Its helm is split in two.

The weight above her is another corpse. When her limbs stop tingling, she heaves at it with rising panic and it rolls aside like a sack of grain and now she can breathe.

As she’s gasping, someone laughs, a guttural bark, and a figure looms over her. Long pale hair, tattered furs and leather and the gleam of exposed muscle.

“Don’t squirm around too much, dear,” The skinned old woman said, “You might black out again. I may have put a little too much poison on that dart.” She laughs again, then looks Joan over, “My, your eyes went wide. Don’t worry, it’s not the kind of poison you’re thinking about. It just slows your heartbeat so the guards think you’re dead.”

Joan swallows hard. Her throat is dry and scratchy. Her tongue feels a little swollen, like it had been stung by a bee.

“Come on- get up. You must be thirsty.”

Despite her age, the old woman pulled Joan to her feet effortlessly. Her hands were unnaturally smooth.

Now that her vision was cleared up, Joan was able to see that she was in a moderately sized pit filled with dead bodies of varying stages of decay. Off to the side, there was a wooden door, which she was taken into. Inside, a bunker filled with cats and lit by a fireplace was hidden.

“Here,” The old woman handed Joan a clay cup full of water. “Drink. Slowly.”

Joan obeys and drank. The water tasted amazing to her dried mouth, and she couldn’t help but gulp it all down greedily.

“Where-” She panted for a moment, “Where’s Kitty?”

“Kitty?” The old woman blinked, “You mean that little girl? She saw me before I could shoot her. Ran off into the village.”

Fear poured through Joan, just like when she had gotten stuck at the gate, but somehow worse.

Was Kitty okay? Was she alive? These questions viciously gnawed away at Joan’s mind.

“Why did you even shoot me?” Joan asked.

“You really don’t know, do you?” The old woman said, “Although, you did just waltz into this town like you owned the place. So I’m not surprised.” She sighed, “There’s a plague going around. Viral illness. If all the bodies in that pit didn’t say anything.”

“A plague?”

“Yes, a plague. Spread by rats and something people are calling ‘Hellhounds’. Vicious dogs with deadly bites.“

Joan‘s mind flashes back to the dog at the stables.

“People are losing their minds over it. That’s why this place is under such heavy lockdown. Everyone is scared to come out of their houses and anyone caught coming in from the outside aren’t exactly welcomed with open arms.”

“What...what about you?” Joan asked.

“I had all the infected flesh stripped off of me.” The woman woman answer openly, “I hide down here, now. Don’t worry if you think I’m lonely. I have the cats to keep me company.” She gestures to the several felines roaming about the bunker, “They’re special, you see. Not your normal cats. They’re good at detecting signs of the plague. Especially the dogs. Strong, too. If you’re thinking about going back out there, you should take one.”

“I have to. I have to find Kitty.”

The old woman hums. She looks around, deciding on a sphinx with grey spots.

“Take him.” She said, waving her hand. The cat jumps onto the table and sits in front of Joan. His eyes are dark amber. “His name is Mercy.”

Joan nodded silently. She watched the cat leap with his strong, springy legs and perch on her shoulder.

“Go on.” The old woman said, “I suggest checking the church for your friend.”

“I will. Thank you.”

The old woman hums again.

“One more thing. Take that.”

————

Like the old woman said, Joan found Kitty at the church. Mercy led her up to one of the window sills so she could peek in, and she watched as several villagers through stones at Kitty, laughing at the way she tried to evade them like she was a little mouse. The sight made Joan’s blood boil in her veins.

The crashing of glass interrupted the horrible game. Joan leapt down from the window- landing from such a height sent pain rattling up her already-sore legs, but she ignored it.

“Fuck, she’s alive!” One man yelled.

“Did the disease reanimate her?” Another shouted.

“I thought she was dead!” A third hollered.

“Shit, she has a weapon!” One cried.

“THAT’S RIGHT!” Joan screeched as pandemonium broke out in the church, “RUN, YOU BASTARDS!!”

The villagers were all running in different directions, desperate to get away from the “infected girl”. A few actually attempt to attack her, which she moves a bit too slowly to evade. Her throat was about to get cut wide open when a hiss came from up above. There’s a flash of pink and grey; the man is howling in agony- Mercy has his claws driven deep into his eyes.

Joan watches as he scratches and scratches and scratches until one socket rips down in a large, bloody trench, and the other eyeball gets ripped right out, dangling from the string of flesh like the ball of a child’s paddle toy.

Joan stares, slightly stunned, before seeing a man charging at her out of the corner of her eye. His knife gleams in the torchlight. Joan lifts her axe and drives it into the side of his head.

The man’s skull shatters upon impact. Blood spurts into the open air. He stumbles then falls. Joan heaves the axe back down, carving a deep gash in his face. As she does so, words bubble up.

“NEVER—” There’s a horrible crack and crunch of bones. “EVER—” Brain matter, squished skin, and other fluids squelch wetly. “TOUCH—” The flesh splits open wide; muscle and tendon fray so easily. “HER—” Blood sprays out onto Joan’s face. “AGAIN!!!”

With one last strike, the man’s head, caved in and gored beyond belief, breaks open in two. The image of a melon being cut comes to Joan’s mind. Except melons don’t usually have a mutilated, mushed brain inside of their outer layer.

Joan’s lungs burned from exertion. She took deep, heavy breaths and raised one arm to use her sleeve to wipe away the sweat and blood dotting her face. The red fluid smears across her skin, but she scrubs it away as best as she can.

The axe wedged in a chunk of skull and brain matter squelches loudly when Joan pulls it free. It feels secure in her hand- normal. The weight of it is...comforting.

Mercy trots over. His paws and face are coated with blood. Joan remembers back to what that old woman said about the cats being different. When she saw the eviscerated body of an armed woman a few feet away, she believed the skinned lady about her statement- there’s no way a regular cat could spill someone’s guts like that.

Mercy jumps onto Joan’s shoulder. She uses her other, slightly cleaner sleeve to wipe off his feet and face. While she’s doing so, exactly why she just caved in someone’s skull came back to her.

“J-Joan?”

Joan whirled around. Mercy had to cling to her shoulder with his claws so he wouldn’t go flying off.

Kitty was huddled under a pew, shivering with tears streaming down her cheeks. Joan runs to her and immediately pulls her into a tight embrace.

“Oh, Kitty...” She whispers, holding the girl tightly. “I was so worried about you... Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“Th-they threw rocks at me,” Kitty whimpered, “C-called me a witch! I’m not a witch...”

“You’re not.” Joan said, “Those bastards don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Language,” Kitty squeaked.

“Sorry.” Joan said. She squeezed Kitty again. “It’s okay, now. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Kitty buried her face in her shoulder and Joan rocks her soothingly. The younger girl cries for a few minutes, but eventually calms down. Joan gently strokes her hair.

“Feeling a little better?” Joan asked.

“Mhm...” Kitty nodded. She looked up at Mercy, who was watching her with big eyes. “Oh! A kitty!” She giggles, “Like me!”

“That’s right,” Joan chuckles. She picks up Mercy and sets him in Kitty’s arms. “His name is Mercy! He’s gonna be coming with us.”

“Mercy,” Kitty repeated. She giggles, nuzzling her nose into the cat’s neck. “He’s warm!”

Joan smiled and stood up, taking one of Kitty’s hands. She slips her axe into her belt and the two began walking out from the church’s back entrance.

“Joan?”

“Yeah?”

“When are we going to see mummy again?”

Joan faltered in her step for a moment, then continued her normal stride. The image of Jane with an arrow through her throat flashed through her mind, but she shoved it away.

“Soon.” Joan finally answered. “Soon...”

“Okay.” Kitty nods. “Where are we going?”

“To...Catherine of Aragon.”

“Oh! She’s nice!” Kitty smiled. “She always wears pretty gold dresses. I think that’s her favorite color.” She pauses. “What’s your favorite color, Joey?”

“My favorite color?” Joan thought for a moment. “Light blue is pretty. So is grey. What’s yours?”

“Pink!” Kitty said proudly.

“Oooh, good pick,” Joan smiled down at the little girl.

“I know!” Kitty said, then gasped, which made Joan’s hand fly to her axe. “Joey! Joey, look! Flowers!”

Kitty ran forward, letting go of Joan’s hand. She set Mercy down in front of a large patch of flowers growing in the church garden, then started picking some for herself. Joan walked over, slightly less tense.

“Come here, come here!” Kitty waved her over excitedly and Joan crouched down next to her. “Look.”

Kitty began weaving several flowers together in elaborate strands until they formed a beautiful little crown. She reaches up and sets it on Joan’s head, taking a moment to fix her unruly hair, then stepped back, admiring her handiwork.

“There!” She beamed, “Perfect!”

Joan couldn’t help the blush that dusted her cheeks. She raised a hand and gently touched the flower crown as if it were the most precious thing to ever exist (and it very well may have been).

“Thank you,” She whispered.

“It’s for protection.” Kitty states.

Joan nodded, smiling softly.

“Thank you, Kit. Really.”

Kitty grins widely. She quickly clings back to Joan’s hand, nuzzling her head against her arm. Mercy leaps up onto Joan’s shoulder.

“Onward!” Kitty suddenly cried, “Catherine of Aragon, prepare for Princess Kitty and her trusty bodyguard Joan: lord of the flowers!”

Joan giggled. “Don’t forget our fierce knight, Sir Mercy!”

Mercy meows.

“Oh, of course! Of course! Princess Kitty, Joan: lord of the flowers, and Sir Mercy!”

“The most powerful band of warriors to ever grace England!”

“The most fearsome!”

“The most amazing!”

Mercy warbles a meow.

Joan and Kitty burst into fits of laughter.

(It’s strange, Joan thinks, how she’s able to laugh and play pretend like this after what happened in the past two days. After she murdered someone.)

(She likes laughing and playing pretend with Kitty.)

(She likes being Joan: lord of the flowers.)

“That Catherine woman isn’t gonna know what hit her.”

[bricousland]

The Doors

Leya has been sent into the Emerald Dream to help deal with the Void threat. The task becomes far more than she can deal with when she's trapped in a maze of doors, visions, and madness. For the first time in a long time, Leya must overcome a challenge on her own with only Shade, her nightsaber at her side.

Leya went deep into the Dream, following the trail indicated by Ohn’ahra. The fresh air invigorated her and allowed her to keep a fast sprint through the forest.  A warm breeze guided her, and for every stride, the Dream became quieter and less groomed. The once clear path became overgrown with roots, twigs, and bushes. Branches hung low, forcing Leya to duck and leap. No birds sang this deep in the forest. It was lush with flora, and vines as thick as her thigh, choked trees as round as two of Darkshore’s largest Elms. Though there was no sun, sweat trickled down her back and hung on her brow. Leya ripped a vine from a nearby branch and used it to tie thick red locks of hair behind her shoulders. The path finally ended at the base of a lush green hill, Leya had to stop to squeeze between two ancient trees to reach it. The wind rushed past her and tore leaves from branches and swept them over the hill. With a sigh, Leya dug her fingers into the fertile soil and began to ascend the tall hill; it came loose under the weight of her feet making the climb difficult enough to force her to bury her boots into the hill to create a stair for every step she took. When she made it to the top, a valley spread out before her. It was decorated with ethereal flowers of every color and white trees similar to the ones she’d seen in Pandaria but larger and grown in odd spiral shapes. They hung, floating above the flowers, their roots dangling in the air and surrounded by a soft green light.

That’s when the stag appeared; he walked from the forest’s edge and stood so large that the meadow’s tall grass tickled its underbelly. He was white with twisted silver antlers and big silver eyes. Leya met his gaze and felt familiarity stir deep within her. His haunting eyes beckoned her and his ears turned forward. All of his attention was on her. She had seen deer similar to it wandering Azeroth but none quite so large nor noble and none called to her as this beast did. Its ears swiveled and his head whipped in another direction as if it heard something. In two graceful leaps, it disappeared into the dark edges of the forest.

There was no time for thought. Leya skidded down the hill in pursuit; soil and grass sprayed up behind her as she sprinted to catch up with the stag. The grove’s winding path opened up to her again, the claustrophobic trail became wider with each stride. She could see the stag fading in and out of the trees, its white coat glistening against the deep browns and greens of the forest. As she followed, the air began to grow stale and the smell of decay filled her nose. She coughed and came to a log barring her path. Not wanting to lose momentum, She leaned into the log and prepared to vault across. The rotting wood caved beneath her palm and sent her rolling inelegantly against hard, dry dirt. With a thud, her head met the root of a tree. The pounding sent the sky in sickening twists above her. She sat up, and the world meshed with the sky in a whirl of greens, blacks, and browns. Leya touched the sore spot on her head and felt warm blood on her fingertips. The stag was gone. 

Great.

When the world stopped spinning, she found herself kneeling at the mouth of a cave. The grass around it had shriveled and died. For every step she took, there was a bubbling impression of refuse left behind. The cave was far larger than its entrance suggested, its smooth and round walls stretched high above her head. Had it been Silvermoon, the dome above would have been colored glass, and sunlight would have shown through and lit up the dirt floor. Instead, there was darkness. Along the stone wall clung withered, old vines that had once held flowers as large as her fist. They climbed to the highest point of the dome but were so dry and brown they would crumble if touched. At the center of the cave sat a pile of bones with a large feline skull staring back at her. It stared at her with empty sockets and bared fangs, a dead guardian there to remind her that she was not welcome in the Dream.

A bone fell in soft clinks down the pile. Another soon followed and then another until they were loosely spread in the middle of the room. The pounding in Leya’s head made it difficult for her to focus. Her bow felt heavy and clunky in her hands as she struggled to pull it from its place on her back. The vine around her hair rotted away and thick red locks spread across her shoulders. Her heart pulsed in her throat as she watched the bones tremble and pull together. She nocked an arrow. Its massive paws came together first; then its legs, body, and skeletal head reattached at an alarming speed. The sinew came next, growing in white strips around knuckles and joints. The muscle bloomed from the ligaments and wrapped like ribbons around the night saber’s form until it was a hulking mass of red muscle and green eyes without lids. 

Leya took aim at the half-formed mass of flesh and bone. Before she could shoot, soft fur brushed against her arm. It was the stag, and with him, fresh air returned to the cave. The withered vines turned green again and stretched across the dome of the cave to create a beautifully woven canopy. The silver of his coat brightened the place with a soft white light. He lowered his antlers and tossed his head towards the cat. The night saber barely came to the chest of the stag, but it was defiant letting out an angry snarl. It swiped at the stag's antlers but missed. The stag forced it back up against the wall and touched the beast on the brow with the tip of his antler. Its image rippled and dispersed into a ball of formless void that hissed and raced to the edges of the cave.

“The Void is strong here, Child.”

The throbbing in her head dulled to a mild tenderness as the corruption was pushed back. In the clearing, where the illusion had been, Shade slept. Leya, struck with panic and fear, ran past the stag and threw her arms around him as the truth of the situation settled on her. She hadn’t felt the Void’s influence rioting her emotions and pushing her to fight. She’d only felt the throbbing of the wound on the back of her head; but now that the stag was there, she could feel the Void all around her, escaping to the shadowed edges of the room. Its anger was clear now, it lashed out in Leya’s mind.

He holds you back! A weakness that limits your potential!

It was always her mother's voice, dripping in disappointment, forcing a pang of heavy guilt on her heart. The taunts were as familiar to her as breathing. She ignored them. Shade stirred beneath her touch; the warmth of their connection touched her mind and the fear faded. Leya sensed recognition and respect from Shade as he laid eyes on the stag, something Shade rarely reserved for his dinner. But, the flicker of a name touched Leya’s mind and she understood.

"You're Malorne."

"I am." His antlers scraped against the upward curve of the cave as he approached her and Shade. "Ohn’ahra said you would come to my Grove. A young hunter with promise and ability to fight the Void." He paused and touched Leya on the forehead with his antler in the same way he had touched the monster. When he did, Leya was revealed. Her soft white complexion shimmered away, leaving deep bruise-colored purple skin exposed. Her hair, no longer the color of a rose, deepened to burgundy, and individual strands pulsed with void energy.  Leya stretched her hand out in front of her as the facade faded away. Even in the Dream, she wouldn't be allowed to escape it.

"Interesting,” Malorne said, nothing in his voice betrayed how he felt about her true form. She felt exposed and Malorne did nothing to ease her discomfort. He had his head held high and level with the ground, tilted only enough to keep her in his sight. He was one of the few Wild Gods she knew by name. Van had brought her to many of his people’s temples and shown her the wooden etchings that depicted the story of the great stag who loved the moon. Of all the stories he’d shown her, that one had been her favorite. At the time, Leya could relate: pursuing someone even when you know you shouldn’t. Choosing to love them even if it risked your own sanity. It’s how she had felt when she decided that Van was worth more than the few months they'd spent together. Ari had told her a different story, however, a retelling that he’d learned from the Tauren on his adventures. According to him, they said Malorne’s love was born of a desperate bargain between him and Elune. He required shelter from Tauren hunters who chased him for his pelt. They say he bargained his love for her protection.

Leya preferred the Kal’dorei’s tale. 

If only her story had ended like his, and that brought her to wonder if the moon had mourned as she had on the day Malorne was vanquished. Unlike the Gods, however, Van was not eternal. He wouldn't come back to her as Malorne had. Did that give Elune comfort? To know he'd always return? 

Leya stroked the soft fur between Shade’s eyes and pushed the questions out of her mind, it didn't matter. “She did, and I want to help.” She stood up from where she sat and took a step back to completely take in the form of the stag in front of her. 

“Do you?” with slow, delicate steps he strode to the other end of the cavern, fresh blossoms, caught by his antlers, floated down from the ceiling. The petals that were unfortunate enough to glide to the edges of the room dried up and withered. “Your people have manipulated and perverted powers beyond their understanding. They abandoned the ways of the Wild long ago, Child. How are you different?”  

Leya knew she had never been a part of the Wild like Loth or Van had. Until recently, she couldn't connect to the flow of nature like Ari. She even continued to struggle to maintain her connection to Shade. Leya wasn't different, and she wasn't special. She'd become Ren’dorei without thinking of what that would mean. She corrupted herself and separated herself from nature to escape life. There was no reason Ohn'ahra should have chosen her. “I’m not.” she said, “not really. In some aspects, I am worse than many of my people. I took the power of the Void to escape, not to fight.”

“And it gave you peace?” 

“No.” She admitted, regardless of her own hesitations, Leya had to try. “The... Kal’dorei are your people. Elune’s chosen?” His ears swiveled forward and Leya pressed on, “They are my family too, and if the things I have done to myself can help them. If it can be used to protect the Dream then I want to give back and protect it for my family.”

“Hmm.” His hoof was a clap of thunder against the floor. Hair-line fractures bled nature magic beneath his hoof and cracked open to the wall behind her. Malorne’s magic rose from the crevasses in a thin green mist that filled the room and revealed a curved seam in the wall.“Ohn’ahra and I have contained the Void Seed here, it will not be long before it floods my grove and roots itself in the Dream.” He stared at the door with contempt, the only emotion Leya had been able to gauge from him since he'd come to her. “I will tell you the same thing I told my Druids. The way in is the way out, yet you cannot turn around. To reach the center, you must always take the first door on your right. If you come to an incline, always descend. Always down, always the first door on your right. The Void will tempt you, Child. It will show you many things. It will show you visions of desire and horror. You may see the injustices of the past, wonders of the future, and days that never were and never will be. Speak with the visions as you please but do not go into any other door. Always to the right, always down. You will be lost, otherwise, and I cannot save you. If the Void becomes too much of a burden the path to return is the same.” 

“To the right and down?”

“Yes, this is the Dream. It is bound to your heart, not a direction. It will take you where you desire." 

"I understand."

"Good." The heavy stone scraped across the cavern floor and opened to only darkness within. "Succeed, Child of the Void, and the Dream will welcome you."

Darkness poured from the open door. Even with Shade nearby to enhance her vision, there was nothing, just a steady rhythm of Void washing over her. She looked at him once more and found the night sky sparkling behind the soft silver light in his eyes. “Destroying the Void has become somewhat of a hobby of ours. We’ll be back.”

Leya stepped through the door and as she did, the way out disappeared with the sound of a heavy door swinging shut. A circular room with four wooden doors appeared in front of her. Without a moment of hesitation, she took the door to her right. The next room she entered was the same as the last. She opened the door and this time it was an octagonal obsidian room with five doors. 

Is this the Dream’s doing, or the Void’s? It made no matter; she pushed through the door to her right. 

At fifty-three doors, she stopped counting. The only sound to follow her was the sound of the doors opening and closing; even the whispers had gone silent. The steady rhythm of the Void was her only company which also lent her no guidance. It got neither stronger or weaker the farther she went. 

Sometimes, the rooms rose high above her with nothing but doors to choose from, and other times, the shapes were so obtuse she could barely discern right and left. The repetitive nature of the maze was enough to drive her to madness. Her world was consumed by doors; hours spent walking through the same door over and over and over again. She was always greeted by stone or obsidian rooms with the same rotting wooden doors, the same rusted iron latches that curved into the shapes of tentacles, and the same naked eye clumsily scratched into the wood. Always the same door, always to the right, always another room.

Doubt began to take root as she and Shade progressed through a door. Maybe Malorne had mistaken and Leya was lost. She cursed as she thrust another door open. If she went left, perhaps the continuous circles would cease and she could walk in a straight line again. Another door opened and closed. If she were going to be lost to madness then at least she could be comfortable.  

She put her hand on the door to her right but stopped to consider the one to her left.

This room had three walls and it was so cramped that she and Shade nearly filled it. Shade’s growl filled the room as she touched the wooden door on the left. His tail lashed violently from side to side and his fur prickled down his spine. Shade’s discomfort pulled on Leya’s own emotions and steered her away from the leftmost door. He spun in a circle, his agitation flaring in the back of her mind, Leya watched as he reared up on his hind legs and clawed through the rotting wooden door and tore the iron-wrought tentacles off the frame. The wood of the rightmost door crumbled beneath his paws and the sound of fallen iron echoed in the room. He glared at the Void mist that poured from the door and his thunderous roar boomed in the darkness. The mist was unaffected by his growing anger and danced into the room, wrapping playfully around his paws and her legs. She touched Shade on the top of his head and his irritation receded. He continued to growl and lash his tail but followed Leya into the abyss.

The next room was oval and decorated with images of a city. It was barren of life and homes. There were no plants that she could see, no markets, or parks. The only inhabitants walked in dark robes with sweetie limbs hanging out of their hoods. The world was paved in sleek obsidian, its structures rose in sharp obelisks and layered platforms. The sky around it was red and hot. There was no moon, and the sun was hidden behind thundering black clouds. 

The sleeping city wakes.

Six corridors stretched out from the painted room. Leya chose the rightmost and entered a long tunnel. The hall was so narrow that if she were to stand on her toes, her head would touch the ceiling. Beneath her feet, the ground squished and sloshed under a thin layer of stagnant water. The smell was magnified through her connection with Shade; the stench made her stomach twist and her mouth water. She had to stop and breathe before she could swallow the bile in her mouth and continue forward. 

A deep red light lit the passage, though she couldn’t say where it came from. Like everything else in the maze, it seemed to exist without reason. There was an endless row of doors to her left, but nothing to her right. Leya tapped against the right wall and found nothing but thick stone beneath her hand. She continued forward, pushing and pounding against the wall to her right. The sloshing and squishing beneath her feet did nothing to ease the sounds she heard. There was scratching and scurrying within the walls that made her think of rats. Shade heard them too for when he looked in their direction, they stopped. He would bare his teeth and snap at the air, his irritation slowly returning. The sounds behind the doors were even more disturbing. One of the doors shook and thumped. From another, a woman cried from the other side pleading for someone to open the door. Then further down came a pained shriek that elicited a panicked growl from Shade. He swiped instinctively, and his anxiety trembled in Leya’s mind. Leya touched him and his anxiety lessened. The two hurried passed. 

But, not all the doors were closed.

Resolved not to look, she kept her attention to the empty side of the tunnel. There had to be a door somewhere but as she searched, she found nothing, and eventually, her curiosity got the best of her.

In the first door, a valley of white-barked trees with golden leaves was lit up as if it were aflame, yet no fire was anywhere to be seen. Old Pandaren temples stood abandoned and crumbling with thick black tentacles protruding through the stone. The burnt orange that lit the city highlighted the floating obelisks and staggered platforms. Engorged parasitic worms flew overhead, carrying servants of the Void. And eyes, like the ones carved into each door, bulged from the trees, temple walls, obelisks, and monuments. The swiveled back and forth, up and down: looking, watching, observing its masterpiece. The black storm clouds parted and that’s when Leya saw the god that loomed over the valley. Its dome-shaped head was split down the middle with teeth stretched towards the sky. It wanted to consume it all, Leya could sense his will pulsing in her veins. It wanted everything. It wanted her to have everything: the valley, the sky, the moon. It would all be bathed in his image. It felt her too and in unison, hundreds of orange eyes looked upon her through dark slitted pupils. The whispers in her mind soared.

All eyes shall open.

Leya forced herself to meet the gaze of the god before her. Aerren and his bitch had thought themselves Gods. They had no idea. This god was power, this god had a plan. They were fleas compared to what this thing could do and Leya was afraid. Black smoke snaked through the valley, reaching for her, but before those bits of corruption could drag her in, she slammed the door. The sound traveled down the hall and the wooden carving of an eye stared at her. Leya could hear her heart in her chest, beating to the rhythm of the void that surrounded her. In a fit of rage, she screamed and buried a purple and white fletched arrow into the center of the wooden eye. Gathering some catharsis, she moved forward but only as far as the next open door. The sweet smell of sap and heavily spiced food gave her pause and she peeked through to find...

A home with no door. 

Steamed grape leaves sat in a woven basket, sitting atop a pot of boiling water. She’d never forget the disheveled bed that they never bothered to make or the wall that Leya had started carving important dates into. The day they met, their wedding day, Ari’s birthday because she always forgot. And there, just inside the archway were their initials. A.S. + V.L.! It was a silly thing Leya had done once they’d realized they’d swapped names. The entire home was like that: a chaotic mish-mash of red and gold, violet and silver. It didn’t match at all. Nothing in their home belonged. The sight of it made her heart ache with longing.

My home.

As soon as she thought it, steam breathed out of the basket signaling that the meal was finished. Van came into the scene and knelt at the hearth. His long hair was tied back and a quiet smile was on his face. Leya’s heart jumped in her throat and her hands quivered. Even Shade mewled quietly at her side. Van carefully took the basket from the fire and set it aside. He glanced over his shoulder and his kind silver gaze found her. “Leya.” his voice purred in her ears as he stood and held his hand out to her, making a sweeping gesture to the food. Tears stung her eyes and her foot edged forward. 

She wanted nothing more. Even if it was a lie, it was beautiful.

Shade’s cold wet nose touched her palm and the grief she felt in him matched her own. No. Leya thought. She pulled her foot back and touched the top of Shade’s head, searching for strength. “I can’t, I have to go,” she said to Van, her cheeks wet with tears. “Others are counting on me. I love you.” Van’s smile fell and his brows knit together in worry. He took a step towards her, reaching out to hold her, to comfort her. 

She shook her head and backed away from the door, I’m sorry. It’s gone. Our home is a pile of ash. I can’t go back. She closed her eyes and let Shade lead her away. 

Further on, Leya came upon a feast of corpses. Soldiers, savagely slaughtered, laid in pools of congealing blood. Some had been separated from their heads while others were cut open and bleeding with their innards poured out of their bellies. Flies buzzed around severed hands which still clutched their swords and shields while carrion perched on rotting flesh and picked at the eyes. Standing in the center of them all was a woman tall and lithe in stature. Her skin pulsed with a deep blue void, hiding the trail of freckles across her nose. Her eyes, wide and black met Leya’s and she spoke in a tired, twilight voice. “This is how we save everyone.” Behind her a man appeared, silhouetted in the red darkness by golden light. A loving smile touched the corners of her lips. Pleased, she winked and put her back to Leya. “Hello, Hummingbird.”

Leya ran.

The hall went on and on, door after door on the left and never on the right. There were more doors than she could count. Open doors, closed doors and none of them would draw her attention. Shade ran beside her, growling low, and Leya ran until she could run no more.

Finally, she came to a pair of double doors emblazoned with gold. They swung open with such force that it made Leya stop and look. A fair woman lay sprawled on barren dirt with a sword run through her chest. Her flesh had been picked from her body and from the blood that pooled around her, flowers of blue and gold bloomed. Many of the petals had been picked clean and the woman still bled. Gasping and convulsing she was focused on the sky above her. Her cheeks dusted with dirt and tears, her mouth stretched open in an inaudible scream as the sky shattered into shards of thin glass and a chained hand reached down, bloody and desperate to finish her. Leya watched as the woman’s life was taken and in a panic, she turned away. They had to keep moving.

With us, you will find salvation.

It would be another hour before the long hall finally ended in a rising wooden staircase. Every door opened or closed had been to her left. Leya looked back. The unnatural light that guided her was going out, she realized with a start. The Void wouldn’t let her do this forever. She could see only thirty doors at most and as she watched one more disappeared and the darkness came a little farther down the hall, creeping towards her. As she watched, she could hear something moving. It was the rattling of broken chains and a form shuffling, dragging itself slowly through the stagnant water. There was a slop and a hiss that made the walls around her tremble. The void in her surged and her fear rose, manipulated by the unseen force. It was powerful and it promised death. She could not go back and she could not stay here. There was no door on her right and the stairs went up. The Void would have her and she’d be lost. Better to have gone through the door with Van than face this unknown.

Another door disappeared. Then another. The sounds grew louder. Shade’s tail lashed from side to side and his hackles rose as he pressed himself back against the wall. 

He hears it too. He’s afraid.

Leya began to pound her fist against the wall on her right. There has to be a secret door I cannot see. 

Another door disappeared. 

Another. 

The first door on the right, he said, always the first door on the right. 

Leya looked over her shoulder at the row of doors still left. The first door on the right... It came to her. … is also the last door on the left! The Void loved technicalities. There was no time to doubt. Leya turned around and threw herself through the door. Beyond was another room with four doors. To the right, she went. With new vigor, she went to the right and to the right, and to the right, until she was once again dizzy and out of breath.

She stopped in another obsidian chamber, but only one door awaited her. It was the mouth of a cave and Malorne waited on the other side. “Child.” he said, “You have made it out safe.”

“What?” Leya said, confused. “I’ve been in there for hours and still not found it.”

“You have taken a wrong turn, then. Come, I shall show you the way.”

Leya started towards the mouth of the cave but hesitated when she saw a small wooden door to her right, closed...

“That is not the way, Child.” Malorne’s voice was firm, “The Void Seed continues to corrupt the Dream and you must find it.”

“You cannot save me.”

“Stubborn child, you will be lost and never found. Your brother will die trying to find your bones.”

Leya walked away and Malorne shrieked, “No, No! To me, come to ME I say!” His horns collapsed inward and his face crumbled until it was nothing but a skull. Yellow and red eyes bulged from his sockets, staring at her while a tentacle lashed between bone-white teeth. “You are mine!”

She left the nightmare behind, entering a stairwell. One that went down. She and Shade began to descend and before long her legs were aching. The staircase finally ended and opened into a room. It was fashioned with doors made from dark, heavy wood. Leya laid her hand against the one on the right and she could sense the power of the Dream radiating off of it. The wood of a World Tree. It was beautiful; unlike all the other doors she had encountered, this one was heavy and healthy. A picture of the moon with the clouds and the stars was intricately carved into it. The fear that had chased her, washed away as she pushed the door open, praying to whatever god that would listen, for this to be the last.

The room was bathed in twilight. All walls had fallen away so what remained was a night sky full of stars. The moon was nowhere to be seen, but the flood of stars in the sky was enough to light the obsidian dais in front of her. On that dais was a flower of incredible beauty. Its petals were broad and navy blue. There was but one singular center petal curved protectively around the stamen. From its center, a mist of concentrated voice seeped out then dispersed in an indigo light throughout the room at the pace of a steady heartbeat. 

We knew you were to come. We have been waiting, Ada’Leya. We have knowledge to share with you, the flower beckoned, And power to bestow. You have passed every trial. Now come, all your questions shall be answered.

“I’m not interested in your power or your answers.” Leya took a step towards the flower and Shade snarled. His distrust mingled with Leya’s and it gave her pause. Shade stalked around the altar and his nostrils flared as the flower sent out another wave of corruption. His anger was as strong as hers, “The Void has done nothing but cause pain.”

She reached for the flower but before she could, she heard a voice as thin as a mouse's whisper. “Leya.” The small voice was a shout in the quiet of the room and did not reverberate in her mind like the others. It was small, sweet, familiar, and real. She found him in the far edges of twilight, his bright blue, laughing eyes disguised by all the stars around him. He came forward, dressed in the armor of a Farstrider. He had Ari’s face and deep red hair just like hers.

“Dad.”

A gift… gift… gift… The flower echoed in her mind. She stared at the man she had not seen in nearly twenty years. He was exactly how she remembered him. We can give you a family that loves you… accepts you… 

Her father embraced her. “My little girl.” His voice was soothing. Had it always been? Her mind grew foggy as she tried to recall memories of her father. His hand slid lovingly through her hair, his voice becoming a distant echo. “My free, brave little girl. You are perfect.” Her knees buckled under her own weight and her forehead rested against his chest. “That’s it, my girl, rest.” She lifted a hand and watched as ribbons of void were pulled from her fingertips. 

Another trick. It’s always a trick. Leya tried to push away from him but she was too weak. Another pulse of the void came from the flower. It rippled through her bones and held her where she stood. It commanded her to be still and her body was too weak to resist.

Her eyelids grew heavy and her father’s face became a blur. Shade. She could barely make out the shape of the nightsaber charging towards her. Let me in… she went limp in the arms of her father and her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

It was Shade’s anger that woke her. A wave of deep rumbling anger at the monster who dared touch his master’s Life Mate. The Hunt replaced the Void in her veins and the urge to fight, to protect overwhelmed all other desires. Her eyesight was sensitive enough so that the darkness of twilight was more like dusk. Her tail thrashed from side to side and her fur stood along her spine. She saw her weaker body, limp and weak, through Shade’s eyes. 

She bared her fangs as the corrupted scent of the Void hit her. The smell was wrong. This whole place had the wrong smell. Shade’s thoughts intruded upon her own, ... not the smell of nature, it told her... corruption, kill it… protect. Her father watched her with a satisfied smile “Unruly beast. You can do nothing without the command of your master, can you?” He spat, he raised his hand and in tandem with the heartbeat of the flower, pushed her away with shadows. The force of the spell was enough to throw her off balance but not enough to knock her off her feet. She was powerful now, there was real strength in her paws, and her feet and mouth were daggers that could not be taken away. The small elf couldn’t stop her.

The monster continued to pour Leya’s void into the flower. It became engorged the more it was fed and its roots dangled off the edges of the dais while the stem thickened and took on a bark-like texture. Leya crouched and when her father’s back was turned to her, she lunged and tackled him to the ground. Her elven body dropped in front of the dais, but she paid it no mind. The only thing she could see was her target. Her razor-sharp claws shaved metal off his breastplate and her fangs crunched into the armor. Her two massive incisors punctured the metal and crushed his lungs. The bones gave under the pressure of her bite and the taste of hot blood flooded her senses. It fueled her anger as she flung the body of Arithil Lightweaver across the night sky. 

His body hit something solid with a crack. He stood and with one side of his chest caved in, laughed. Leya licked the blood from her nose and let out a loud roar. She charged and tackled him once more. The two of them tumbled in a haze of fur and flesh. Her back legs found him and ripped through his abdomen while her front claws tore the flesh from his face. As she reached with open jaws to remove his head from his shoulders, he struck her with a powerful surge of Void energy. She skidded across the ground with a hard thud. Her fur rubbed raw as she hit the altar, nearly crushing her weaker form. Her chest was on fire as the direct hit from the void began to seep into her skin. She roared and then everything went black. 

She woke up. 

Shade was a mere five feet away from her, standing and readying to charge the Seed’s servant. His shoulder was naked from his fall and she could see the Void creeping across his exposed flesh. Leya took advantage of his distraction and scrambled to her feet. She stood with such speed that whiplash turned her stomach in knots. With the taste of blood still in her mouth and her head pounding, Leya wretched. She grabbed the corner of the dais and pulled herself up, coughing while her entire world spun, the sensation threatening to relieve Leya of her stomach’s contents a second time. Shade’s anger and pain gripped her through their connection, she regained her focus and reached across the dais, grabbing the flower by one of its delicate leaves. How dare you -- Leya tore one of its petals off. For my mother. She pulled off another one, For my father. Both hands clutched the last two petals and she tore them from the heart of the flower. My sisters. 

Shade roared in pain behind her. Another blast of void struck him, and she could sense its corruption seeping into their bond. There was a hard push on the back of her mind. The Void tried to take over again but her own void, fueled by anger, pushed past the pain.

You will die for this!

I hope so. She reached into its center and grabbed a hold of a soft, fleshy mass on the inside and pulled. For Ari. The void’s servant screeched in pain. From the corner of her eye, she saw Shade grab him by the back of the neck and in one quick motion, snapped it. 

She smiled.

Leya yanked harder and pulled out the core of the flower. A heart of bruised blue sat in her hand, pulsing with corruption. The night sky around her fell away leaving nothing but a stone cave littered with the bones of the lost Kal’dorei. She looked around at the dozens of bodies that surrounded her. All appearing as if they’d been there for years, the flesh long rotted away and their robes faded and moth-eaten.

Leya clutched the heart and took an arrow from her quiver. She shoved the head of the arrow into it and when it persisted, she let out an angry scream. She tore the arrow out and stabbed it again and again until it came to its final beat. As the beating heart slowed, Leya’s anger began to subside and relief started to replace it. The heart bulged in one final beat but then exploded. Leya flew backward and the void sizzled inside her. It was everywhere, in her fingertips, her toes, her blood, and her heart. It seared her from the inside and bombarded her mind with taunts and whispers. There was so much, she couldn’t try to comprehend it. She felt shade at her side and his paw on her chest. The void, in slow pulses that followed her own heart, balanced and returned to normal. The flower sat rotted on the dais and the heart was nothing but a mass of torn flesh in her hand.

Leya threw it to the side and climbed to her knees. Her under armor was soaked through with sweat and her unbound hair stuck to the side of her neck and cheeks. Her eyes felt heavy and a dull throb of pain endured at the back of her head. She leaned into Shade and pressed her forehead to his. The Void corruption in him was gone with the flower and she breathed a sigh of relief.

The cave spun and suddenly they were in darkness once again. But she couldn’t discern the Void’s presence anymore. It was gone, and all she could feel was the flow of nature wrapping around her skin invigorating her and returning her energy.

Malorne appeared, “The Void is gone, Child.” He walked towards her, big silver eyes the only two stars she could see. “Ohn’ahra was right to choose you.” Leya stayed quiet as he touched his nose to her forehead. “You have my thanks, and my blessing, Ada’Leya Starwind. Use it wisely.”

As he turned to walk away, the darkness began to fall and she could feel herself being pulled out of the Dream. Leya quickly scrambled to her feet. “One question!” Malorne stopped and looked over his shoulder at her, ears turned forward, waiting. Even as she gathered her words, his image was fading and her mind was beginning to clear. “Which tale about you and Elune is true?”

The stag seemed to smile and his answer woke her up. 

[blackleatherjacketz]

My Brother’s Keeper: Chapter 12

Negan x Reader

Featuring: Laura, Morgan Jones

Summary: Your brother runs away from the Sanctuary and you pay the price. This Chapter: You start your journey to the Kingdom to keep the rest of your family safe.

Word Count: 2009

Author’s Note: I’m taking some creative license with Morgan in assuming (for this story) that Carol stayed with Rick in Alexandria.

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Zombies, Grief, Mirages, Self-Doubt, A Reference to Glenn, Lying

Read the rest of the story HERE!

The road ahead was long, heat rising off the pavement in waves before disappearing into a lush green border of trees that stood on each side. It went on like that forever, dipping down into rolling hills as the translucent waves turned into mirages of puddles in each valley that disappeared as soon as you reached them. The sudden image of water reminded you of just how thirsty you were, the summer sun sucking all the moisture from your body into tiny droplets of sweat on your forehead.

You wiped your brow with the back of your hand, running it through hair that Laura had cut short for you earlier this morning. She’d told you that you needed to be unrecognizable from before, just in case anyone at the Kingdom remembered who you were.

She took the clothes off your back and replaced them with bigger ones, giving you the look of someone who had been starving on the road for a considerable amount of time. She took the polish off your toes, the earrings from your ears and the metal Rolex off your wrist. Instead she replaced them with a worn-down watch, a knife, a lighter, and a canteen full of water. She did all this before going over your backstory and fake name, making sure you remembered what Negan told you to do.

“The Kingdom’s six miles down that road,” she’d said before slowing the car to a complete stop. “Take a right at Glenn Avenue and you’ll see the ghost town a few yards in.” She paused, squinting as the sunlight blurred her vision through the windshield. “Look, I know this sucks, but I’ll keep an eye on your dad and sis for you, make sure they stay out of trouble.” She kept her eyes forward as you visibly saw her cut ties with you emotionally.

You wondered for a second what she did before all this, regretting not asking her when tensions weren’t so high. You could see her as someone like a prison guard or maybe even a soldier in one of the military branches, but you decided it was better not to know. If she was distancing herself from you, well, then, you could do the same thing back.

“Yeah,” you answered, leaning down in the passenger seat to grab your backpack. “I appreciate that.” You tried not to show how disappointed you were that Negan couldn’t drive you all the way out here himself. If it had to be anyone else, though, you guessed Laura was the next best choice.

You came back to the present and let your hand fall down to your canteen, unlatching it from its container on your belt. You kept walking forward as you slowly unscrewed the top, keeping your eyes peeled for a street sign named Glenn. Even though you were pissed at Negan, it didn’t change the fact that he still had your family at his disposal, or that you secretly still wanted to please him.

When Laura dropped you off, you felt like a wounded animal being brought out to pasture, a useless creature sent away before your master shopped around for a newer better version of you. That dark feeling started to take root in your chest, but you didn’t let it take hold. You kept your head up and refused to be that gimpy dog kicked out on the side of the road. This journey was going to make you stronger, sharpen your fighting skills and survival tactics while your master was away. You had to reach your destination no matter what; if not for him, then you definitely had to do it for your family.

You brought the canteen up to your mouth, taking the first swig in an hour since you’d hit the road. It was still cool as it hit your coffee-stained lips, washing over your teeth and tongue as you swished it around and swallowed it down. You never regretted taking the running water in the Sanctuary for granted until now; all those times you used the toilet, washed your hands, took a shower or even drank several glasses of water without even thinking about it… what a selfish bitch you used to be.

The sticky Virginia heat brushed past you in a long-awaited breeze, moving the leaves on their branches to the left in a calm and soothing wave, almost as if the sky itself were an ocean full of currents and undertows. You took another sip to cool yourself down, closing your eyes as the breeze brought fresh air around you. Ahh, you thought, spreading your arms out wide like a scarecrow, this is the good stuff.

The sound of the leaves rustling up above was interrupted by hoarse wheezes down below, forcing your eyes to open. You saw what you hadn’t seen in years, what Negan had ‘saved’ you from all those years ago when he brought your family to the Sanctuary. Half-dead bodies crept out of the green forest, their limbs dangling by sinews and tendons as they attempted to climb up the small hill onto the road. Their wheezes got louder as they saw you, mouths opening wide in anticipation of a fresh meal that they hadn’t had since God knows when.

“Oh, shit,” you whispered, putting your canteen back in its container. You hadn’t killed a deadbeat in gosh, three years… had it really been that long? You remembered celebrating three Christmases with your family behind concrete walls, so, yeah, it had to have been that long.

You pulled the knife that Laura gave you out of its holster, the handle a little different than the one you had before, and tightened your grip. “Go for the head,” you coached yourself, “Go for the head.”

You spread your legs to broaden your center of gravity as the first one approached you. Its guts were spilling out of its abdomen, dangling down below its knees as it came toward you with a hungry yawn. Arms outstretched in a coarse and desperate scream, it tried to grab hold of you, but you dodged its grasp. You ducked to the right and rammed your blade into the side of its skull, destroying what little brain it had left. You heard the last of its screams as it stopped moving and finally fell to the ground. Phew! So that’s what that felt like; you’d almost forgotten!

You felt your heart begin to race as you took out the next one, feeling good as you ended the ‘lives’ of the undead. One, two, three fell down on the pavement as you got quicker with your technique, getting used to the weight and feel of your new knife. You wasted a few more as you pushed through them on your path to the Kingdom, stopping as you saw one in particular that looked familiar.

This deadbeat happened to be a woman of middle age, her eyes gray and blue as the veins surrounding them burned jet black. She was slower than the rest, waddling toward you with caution as she wore the face of your mother. Her hands grasped at the air in front of her; your mother’s wedding band glistening in the sunlight on her finger. Oh no, no, no, no. No, it couldn’t be. Your brother would have… wouldn’t he? Alex had to have taken her down when she turned, he couldn’t risk her turning and then… Wait a minute, did he just leave her here to die by herself? Was she all alone in her final moments?

The sound of hissing screams tore you out of your hypothetical list of ‘what if’s. Your mother, or what was left of her anyways, had a giant staff lanced through her head. You blinked dumbly as her blood splattered across your face, those blue eyes closing forever before the staff caused her body to slump onto the floor.

You stared at the blank space in front of you, where she stood before any questions of your mother’s fate were left unanswered. You wanted to say thank you like a normal person, but felt yourself unable to speak. You turned to find that the man who saved your life was just around your father’s age, pulling his staff up and out of your mother as he brought it to his side.

“You know her?” He pulled a rag out of his pocket and began wiping off his weapon.

“She was m...mmm...mmmy...mmmmy,” you stammered, looking back down at her. “She was my mom.” A tear fell down your cheek, and for the first time in your life you weren’t afraid to show such emotion.

“I’m sorry.” The man spun his stick in a skillful circle and planted it firmly between his feet. “I know how hard it can be to put down a loved one.” He placed both hands on top of the staff and leaned slightly forward.

You forced a smile and bent down next to your mother’s corpse, looking at her one last time. You noted the bedazzled shirt she had on, the loosely sewn-in sequins shining a colorful rainbow onto your skin as you leaned in closer. She always loved to be flashy, even when the deadbeats were chasing her down the road.

You laughed to yourself and took the ring off her finger, necrotic flesh and blood coming off the bone. The smell of her rotting body finally got to you once the adrenaline of the kill had worn off; gastric contents and mucus mixing together in a sickening stench that only worsened in the rising heat. You swallowed down your breakfast as it threatened to travel up your throat and into your mouth, wiping the remnants of your mother’s jewelry onto your shoe before placing it in your pocket.

“I’m Morgan, by the way.” He offered, waiting patiently as you took your time to stand up.

“I’m Maria,” you muttered, the first of many lies you’d have to tell on this journey. The name sounded extremely foreign coming out of your mouth. Maria, Maria, Maria, you chanted in your head. My name is Maria.

“Where you headed, Maria?” His squinted eyes widened as he turned to you, the scalding afternoon sun beating down on his nearly bald head.

“Nowhere in particular,” you lied again. “You?”

Morgan laughed under his breath, picking his staff up off the ground before stepping forward. “Nowhere in particular. You part of a group?” He cocked an eyebrow upward, his suspicions rising with it.

“I was… well, she was and my brother was…we were...” The fear that this man may have been planted by Negan overruled your innate desire to trust him.

“Just them?” he prodded.

“Just them.” You looked at your boots as you continued to walk, each stride getting wider with each step. “How about you? You part of a group?”

“I was.” He stared off into the distance. “Didn’t work out.”

The two of you walked alone together in respective silence after that. You kept your hands on your weapons, offering each other food and water every hour or so until you finally reached Glenn Avenue. You stared at the placard as it drew closer, white letters on green looming over you like a warning sign as you thought of a reasonable excuse to turn right.

Morgan signaled to you as the sound of hooves interrupted your paranoid thoughts. He twirled his staff around himself in a protective barrier, readying himself for action as the sound grew louder. Luckily for you and your lying quota for the day, the sound was coming from down Glenn Avenue. You let out a sigh of relief and took out your weapon, feigning surprise and readiness as the sound of screams quickly accompanied the sound of hooves on the road.

“You hear that?” He whispered, glancing at you. “Someone’s in trouble.” Without a second thought Morgan sprinted off down the road, approaching two men on horses as a small group of deadbeats started to attack.

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

Tags: @irrelevantwriter @genevievedarcygranger @chamberofsloths @letsby @negans-network @annablack1102 @negansdirtygirl22 @rasa1945 @bodhi-black @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @namelesslosers @collette04 @mblaqgi @bishsposts @haleyea @ptite-shit @jamiekingofmen @ibelongtonegan @marriedtonegan @chloejanedecker1 @divadinag @dxloverpunk @tylersblurrylittleface

[with-a-gilded-quill]

The Fae in the Forest: Chapter One

It was a day like any other. Autumn had come to the central midwest, in the little town of Spring Green, Illinois. It was hardly large enough to place itself on a map, with a population of 500 people, and nothing to see except a library, a park, a gas station, and an abandoned house that even some of the adults were sure was haunted. The town, like most Illinoian towns, was surrounded by dense fields of corn and lush green forests. It was only able to be accessed from a fifteen minute drive down country roads.

The town was rather ordinary. Those who lived their all their life and never left didn’t believe it was different than any other town. Those who visited felt strange there, as if it had birthed a culture known only to those who had lived there forever. The visitors, generally speaking, were right. Most of the townsfolk never even knew what was so odd about their town. Most of the people who left never came back. 

                                                              ***

The world was spinning, spinning, a dizzying swirl of bright fall leaves in front of her eyes, burgundy and violent crimson and goldenrod and burnt orange all at once. More of them fell from the trees with every gust of wind as she lay beneath them, drifting downward to rest beside their other fallen brethren. The sounds - the rustling of dead leaves, the melody the wind played as it wove between limbs - were comforting. Autumn had always been a time of magic. Anything in the world could happen, and that was why she was here.

She did not want to return to the house she’d stormed out of seven years ago. There was a reason she had left there in the first place. But here she was, being called back from the comfort of her new home, in a new town, with her new life states away, to crash in an old friend’s basement.

A lonely reddened maple leaf fell on her face rather unexpectedly as it descended toward the rest of its family. She sat up, taking the leaf gingerly between her fingers, and sighed. She thought of her childhood, of building leaf piles and jumping into them, as if that had ever been any fun at all, and everyone didn’t just end up stabbed by twigs or with bugs in their hair. But kids never cared about any of that, and maybe that was the fun in it all.

She  was lost in her own thoughts by the time she heard the voice calling her. It had begun, quite ruthlessly, to rain, and the deep, billowy sound was whipped this way and that in the furious blustering wind. Despite it not being too far away, it was still almost lost to the storm. It was calling her inside. Reluctant, but willing, she conceded and headed toward the house, slipping in through the back door, pulling her worn green flannel tight around her It was meant to provide warmth and comfort, but seeing as it was entirely soaked in rain - as was the rest of her - it did no good for anyone, except for making her feel more cold.

The voice matched the man it came from. He was tall, a towering 6’4, a giant compared to her, who was not taller than a measly 5’3 (and by most accounts, was a perfectly even 5’2). He had an abundance of muscles from his work in a lumber yard. It seemed he had the lumberjack look down to a T, and it suited him well, with his black beard, long curly hair, and his assortment of solid colored gingham button-ups, soft with the same flannel material currently wrapped around her torso, only almost always far less wet. But looks, of course, were often deceiving, and anyone that knew anything about Cedric Perez would know that he was perhaps the kindest, most caring, most sensitive person they had ever had the pleasure of knowing.

“Hazel, you’ll catch your death in that rain out there, y’know. C’mon, we’ve got coffee for ya, kid.” Cedric said, beaming, as she slipped between him and the door, knocking into his arm on purpose. Hazel glowered at the towering man in the way only a best friend could, more annoyed than angry. Cedric Murphy was exactly one year younger than Hazel to the day, even though he looked like he was old enough to be her dad. Often, Cedric did indeed act like he was. Most people would say he was too nice and too caring for his own good. This did nothing to stop Cedric from being either of those things.

“Thanks, mom.”  Hazel said, wrapping her arms around herself before she finally thought better of it and stripped of her flannel, leaving her in only an equally soaked black tank top. Hazel shuddered from a sudden rush of chill, before a fuzzy green pullover sailed its way right into her face. It was Cedric’s, of course, judging by the size of it, and Hazel gratefully slipped it on over her head, relishing in the warmth of the soft fleece. There in the kitchen, Hazel leaned back against the counter and slid slowly - and even a bit dramatically - to the linoleum floor, sitting with a thump. Cedric joined her there, slightly more gracefully, and handed her a blue mug decorated with small white stars, and steaming with a hot, caramel colored liquid, not unlike the warm shade of his own hand.

“Just the way you like it.” Cedric said, grinning. “Creamer. No sugar. Now drink up. You’re freezing.” Hazel was. This was not difficult to discern, as the shivers that took over her body were dramatic and obvious. “What were you doing out there, anyway?” Cedric continued, doing his best to sound very stern and accusatory. Hazel sighed, loudly.

“I was just thinking.” Hazel muttered over her mug. As much as Cedric liked to make fun of her for lying in the rain, he understood the simple need to be alone. Sometimes, thought Hazel, the cold and the rain understood her better than any person ever could. Cedric understood that, too, at least enough to give her many free rain-laying passes. There was a long moment where Hazel wouldn’t meet his eyes. She must have looked particularly tired or cold to Cedric, because he had left to get a blanket and returned with it, throwing it over her rather unceremoniously. Ordinarily, this gesture would have been seen as sweet or romantic, but this time it ended up just funny, as the blanket, much like the fleece, hit Hazel in the face and shrouded her. For a few minutes, she refused to move it. It was a wonder she didn’t spill a drop of coffee.

“Emily and Percy are downstairs,” Cedric said, taking a seat again in front of Hazel, and nudging her with his foot. She grimaced in a way that accurately described how she felt, although it didn’t seem to get the message across, as Cedric just kept on talking. “You know. Doin’ the do. Cuddlin’ naked. The body dance.” Hazel removed the shroud of blanket from her face for the express purpose of glaring daggers into him, before simply tearing her gaze away and shrugging.

“No one calls it ‘the body dance’, you egg.” Hazel scoffed. The situation was complicated. Emily met Percy during their junior year of high school gym class. They began dating a week after, and were essentially inseparable from that moment on, until just after high school, when they broke up for three months so Percy could go to Math Camp. When he returned in the fall, Percy and Emily fell into each other’s arms like long lost lovers once again.

“You wanna tell me again what the big deal is with the two of them?” Cedric asked, his tone taking on something far more serious than he had sounded even with his condemnation of the rain. Hazel shrugged.

“I just don’t know him. That’s all,” Hazel said. “I wasn’t really friends with Emily in high school, you know that. We might have spoken sometimes, but that was it. She was friendly to me. Guess time weathered away the deep loathing she had for me.” A silent pause, then, and a perfect moment for Hazel to sip her coffee. It was still hot enough to scald her tongue, and she savored the warm feeling of it as it entered her belly. Cedric remained silent, as if asking for more details. Hazel closed her eyes, feeling for the words, before she said, “We were inseparable in middle school. Together all the time, no matter what, basically twins; that sort of thing. In English class, we refused to be separated and talked our teacher into letting us sit next to each other every semester. Luckily, we were good students, and smart, and given the privilege of mostly doing whatever we wanted. When we were assigned to read books, we would make sure we read the book ahead of time, getting us out of class assignments as long as we passed the quiz we were given. We loved all the same weird things, too, you know? Weird clothes, anime, J-pop, books, alternative music: all the things that made you an outcast in middle school. But Emily was always more popular than me, if you could even call what she was “popular”. For all her strangeness, she was beautiful: tall, long blonde hair, pale skin, freckles, and the brightest green eyes I’d ever seen, as bright as emeralds.”  Hazel paused here to steal a glance at Cedric, who was watching with a little knowing grin. Hazel pressed her lips together, and then let her face go slack. “I… might have loved her a little bit. We were like magnets.”

Cedric listened. He was good at that, listening. He always had been. It was part of what made him such a wonderful friend. His ability to empathize and understand and learn from others was unmatched. It came, he often said, from being almost always misunderstood, and treated like some kind of criminal delinquent. When Hazel seemed done speaking, Cedric nudged her again. “And?” He prompted, leaning forward. “So what? What happened between you two?”

“And then everything fell apart.” Hazel said, grasping her mug in her hands as tightly as she could, feeling the warmth of the drink within it seeping into her palms, warming her up. “There was one summer day in the woods… I thought it was going to be like every other day, but it wasn’t. I can still see it if I close my eyes, if I think about it. The smell of hot, rotting flesh, the blood… all the blood. And that was it for us. There was no going back.” Hazel closed her eyes, as if remembering. “I miss her sometimes, of course. Sure, once in a while we would talk, but that hardly felt like enough.” Hazel was glad for Cedric. Without him, she didn’t think she would have ever made another friend. She never felt lonely around him. He made the dark days brighter. He could make her laugh, and he always knew when all she needed was a good cry. Besides, the two were now the most inseparable of friends: approaching 22, one would think their interests would differ greatly from when the were younger. They’d be right, but not in the ways most would expect. Instead of j-pop, anime, and scene kid clothes, Hazel and Cedric’s interests lined up on an entirely new scale: both enjoyed punk clothing, rock music, comic books, Disney movies, and, perhaps most relatable, girls. They could talk about girls for hours.

“Then it was high school.” Hazel said, and looked up at her still-silent friend, who was staring with big, round eyes. “I was very gay, and you were there, big and burly by nature, and the new guy.” Cedric smiled. He remembered. He was protective by nature, too, and went out of his way to intimidate anyone who had anything to say about Hazel and her romantic interests. “And then there was Emily, smiling at me occasionally, letting me know that it was okay. That she was glad she knew me.” Hazel released a slow, long sigh, and grimaced. “And then there was Percy.”

Cedric opened his mouth, ready to offer encouragement to continue her little story. But he did not get so far. Just then, the basement door opened.

[berry-cat7]

Treasure

@kurokolovesakashi

For AkaKuro Month! The prompt is Fairy tale AU, so I went with trapped in a tower with a dragon, but with my own twist.

Can be read on AO3 or Fanfiction.

Kuroko no Basuke

G Rating

Brief mention of nudity

2,032 Words

Characters: Akashi Seijurou, Kuroko Tetsuya, Momoi Satsuki (Ft. Aomine)

Summary: A new knight approaches Kuroko's tower. It goes better than expected.

"Oh dear." Kuroko remarks rather flatly.  

His reaction is more appropriate for noting an impending rain, rather than the sight of another knight preparing to storm his tower. However, he feels mild annoyance towards both phenomena, so perhaps it is quite fitting. If they were a messenger, they wouldn't have been so heavily armored, and nobody lugs around a broadsword for fun.

This knight can't be too unreasonable if they decided to make their approach from the forest though. While it is filled with many dangerous creatures and the terrain quite treacherous in general, it does provide excellent cover from the dragon's fiery gaze. The last fool who thought to take the mountain path directly to the western face of his tower saw their death approaching long before they had a chance to even catch a glimpse of the 'damsel' himself. Admittedly his keeper was feeling rather agitated that day, since that was the fourth challenger that week; usually the dragon is charitable enough to at least let them approach his fence, and give him a chance to send them away with their lives.  

Not that they ever listen.

Between their greed towards the ridiculous amounts of riches the dragon has amassed in this castle, their desire to slay a mighty beast, and the power they've attached to his name; many chose to ignore him and press on.  This usually results in the forest fauna coming out for a midnight snack on the remains if the dragon is out of sight. Kuroko doesn't like it when the dragon chars his lawn to burn the bodies, and the dragon refuses to actually eat them, so what isn't scavenged, is scattered along his grounds in warning.  

This knight is definitely promising though.

Rather than charging in blindly while the dragon is still out of sight, they slow their steed to a trot and carefully examine the area. Kuroko knows that his companion has taken to the skies, silently observing the situation. The knight is too far for Kuroko to read the insignia painted onto their shield, but the powder blue of their cloak, and the style of the horse's reigns match those of Teiko, his kingdom of origin. Despite their cautious pace, the knight approaches with absolute confidence. The vibrant red plume decorating their helmet wavers in the wind, and their cape billows artistically as they draw nearer. Honestly, Kuroko is rather impressed. Usually people don't have that kind of flair for dramatics anymore.

At this distance, the golden dragon insignia of Teiko is clear and just as they reach they the barrier around his tower, they pull their horse to a halt. The knight is silent for a moment, before they reach up to remove their helmet. Messy pink hair drawn up into a loose bun, and a feminine face. It seems to be another woman this time.

The knight's voice rings loud and true through the clearing. "Fair prince, I am Sir Momo! Momoi Satsuki! And I have heard tales of your beauty and virtue! They say you are held captive by a fearsome beast and I have arrive to rescue you, and offer my hand in marriage! Where is your captor?"

It's a pain to strain his voice, but Kuroko addresses the challenger from his window. "Fair knight, I thank you for coming all this way, but I fear your quest has been for naught! I am in no peril! And I am no prince! Nor am I looking to marry!"

Her eyes widen in surprise.

"...Then who are you? There are many tales of your royal status!"

"I was but a humble farmhand! I befriended the local dragon, and moved into this tower! People have come and gone, spinning ridiculous fables of increasing fantasy!" That's quite an over-simplification of the situation, but it's unwise to shout such a long and personal story out of a window to a potentially dangerous stranger.

Overall, he's not quite sure how things escalated to this point himself. At first a few travelers stumbled across his little abode and the dragon was content to watch from afar. But once he had almost been killed by a roving band of looters, he supposes some rumours had begun to spread once the survivors regaled their harrowing tales. The average wanderers stopped appearing, and the warriors and knights started flocking in for various reasons.

Kuroko is far from captive when he travels back into town every other week for supplies. Not that many can recognize him.  

"I apologize that you have come all this way! I can only offer my regrets." The last time he had bribed away an intruder, the dragon had sulked for days, curling around the tower's treasures possessively until Kuroko polished quite a few in repentance.

The knight shifts on her saddle as she thinks over this new development. "...Are you sure you require no aid? Are you truly unthreatened by the dragon?"

"Not unless you offer repair services." All of the rain has been rather troublesome. His wood fence is starting to rot from all of the moisture.

"Unfortunately, my main craft is the blade. My apologies for the disturbance then. Though I do hope you won't mind if I return for a visit? Someone as lovely as you should at least have human company every now and then." Ironically, he gets plenty of human company, it's just that they're usually hostile while the dragon is a reprieve.

She's been polite, outwardly nonthreatening and respectful, patient. Kuroko is about to grant tentative permission when a distant roar echoes in warning. It seems the dragon has grown tired of their guest. Thankfully she's aware enough to understand this unsubtle warning herself. "It seems I've overstayed my welcome. I bid you farewell, and may our paths cross again." She says with a sweet smile and a wave. Quite the juxtaposition from the worn armor broadening her frame and the gleaming blade strapped to her back.

Although she intended to take her leave, it seems her horse has other ideas. It continues to graze on the lush grass of his property, regardless of its rider pulling at its reigns. "Oh come on! Dai-chan, you can eat later!" The horse takes its time chewing through one more mouthful before it finally heeds its master's cries. And once the knight disappears into the forest from whence she came, the dragon is quick to land.

Kuroko rolls his eyes to himself once he is safely out of sight, and heads to his front door in order to greet the dragon in person, taking the spare cloak with him. He really is a sight to behold, gleaming wine-coloured scales and magnificent wings. Large eyes focus on him, one cranberry red and the other daffodil gold, both scanning for a hair out of place even though the knight hadn't even unsheathed her weapon. It's ridiculous and over-protective, but he can't complain when it's done for his sake. The dragon sort of sighs out a puff of smoke and a flurry of embers, a sign that he is satisfied with what he sees and Kuroko is permitted to move.

"See? I'm fine. But thank you Seijurou."

The dragon's lipless mouth is unmoving, but a velvety smooth voice can still be heard. "I don't understand why you won't just leave with me, and be done with these vermin."  

Kuroko puts a hand on the dragon's warm snout, each nostril almost half of his height and every exhale a visible heatwave. "As hot as you can keep the cave and as lavishly as you furnish it, I'd rather not actually live in a cave. Kagami-kun already claims that I'm so isolated I may as well live under a rock, the last thing he needs is validation."

The dragon releases a burst of hot air at the mention of one of his few friends. He's close enough that the twin jets of scalding steam billow out past him without harm, but it's still uncomfortably hot at this distance. He smacks the dragon with a frown in reprimand, but the gesture is more symbolic since he doubts it was really felt through such thick skin.  

"I can be human too." Kuroko is sure it's supposed to sound ominous or maybe even vaguely threatening, but he's learned to associate that tone with a petulant child. He absently resumes running his hand against the dragon's face. The larger, shield-sized scales covering the rest of his body are mostly cold and sharp, but his face is covered with smooth snake-like soft-scaled skin.  

He has to tread carefully, because the last thing he wants to do is offend. Inter-species relationships – romantic or otherwise – are always complicated. "...Yes, I know, but even I would like to see other faces every now and then. I'm not a jewel Seijurou, I need more than just safety."

He can feel scales heating beneath his palm, just shy of painful as the dragon shifts. He closes his eyes against the bright light but he can already feel a feverishly warm cheek resting in his hand. Two very human hands grab onto him. One rests overtop of his, while the other carefully grips his fragile wrist. It wouldn't take much to turn his joints into mush, break his legs and render him immobile – completely helpless and dependent. But the dragon is careful, his touch always almost annoyingly feather-light with his unspoken fear.  

He opens his eyes to meet red and gold.

There is a possessive look in Seijurou's eyes as he speaks, low and reverently. "I know human's require a lot of care to remain in optimal condition, but I can't help but place your physical well-being before your happiness. It's fine if you hate me. As long as you are alive and within my sights, I don't care what you do if it's not detrimental to your health. Your life is short as it is. You are my most precious treasure." The dragon places a tender kiss over the pulse point of Kuroko's inner wrist, and the human flushes a bright red as he recalls Seijurou's bare state. Seijurou himself always stands proud, completely unbothered by his nudity because he only wears what Kuroko forces onto him.

Without context, that whole speech would be rather concerning, no doubt that knight would come sweeping back to rescue him had she heard some of the other things he's said. But Kuroko knows that the dragon would never treat him like that. An object to be hoarded in the dark. He's merely voicing his opinion, the disgruntled grumbling of the guard of a particularly troublesome treasure. Kuroko pulls Seijurou into an embrace, surrounding himself with the dragon's heat. He rests his chin over the other's shoulder. "I know. You're my most important person too."  

In all of his years of life as a simple farmhand, Kuroko Tetsuya had never seen much value in his life. He considered it a good life, but like any peasant, he thought he wasn't worth more than the mud he toiled in. It was mere chance that he had stumbled across this abandoned structure filled with wealth, and perhaps some would call it misfortune that it turned out to belong to a dragon; but his restraint had been his saving grace, and once the dragon had located him further down the path the rest had become history.

It's another irony, one he thinks about every day, that a dragon – creatures notorious for their material greed – believes that his life is worth more than his weight in gold.

It's easy to slip out of Seijurou's hold, all hard muscles and soft grip. It's not as bad as it used to be, but he's still embarrassed that he was in the arms of a naked man out in the open. He carefully throws the cloak he brought over Seijurou's shoulders, one of the only articles of clothing he'll wear without a word of complain, and leads the dragon by the hand into his castle.

The lifeblood rushing through his veins, every breath he draws, every day for the rest of his days – all of it, Kuroko is more than happy to give him to cherish.

[srbija-1389]

Reed’s Land of Death

Soiled, torn streets, clouds of smoke and dust, smell of gunpowder, arsons and rotting human bodies piled on top of each other: this was the picture of Serbia in the Great War. The courage of this small country that has stood shoulder to shoulder with the world powers, has intrigued many. Among them was an American journalist and writer John Reed, who visited this “land of death”, as he himself named it, being unaware that he would even take part in a ritual of fraternization at the end of his journey, at the insistence of a postman from Obrenovac.

The journey of John Reed was concentrated on the route of Niš – Belgrade – Kragujevac – Rakovica – Ada Ciganlija – Obrenovac – Sabac – Prnjavor – Loznica – Gučevo – Krupanj – Zavlaka – Valjevo. Over the course of his expedition through the tormented country, Reed made convincing descriptions of landscapes, soldiers, ordinary people and buildings that even nowadays represent a unique portrayal of life, death, poverty, as well as courage, dignity, faith and hospitality of the Serbian people and the army.

Niš, A City Decimated By Typhus

The horrors of war, vicious diseases and death did not bypass Niš, which was the first “station” for Reed in his war travels. Passing through the city stricken with typhus, as if a malignant tumor engulfed it, without a hint of embellishment Reed describes the houses with long, black, sinister flags, and pale, exhausted faces of prisoners leaning on dirty blankets and protruding through the window of the hospital, while in the front – dozens of them lie in the dried mud.

On muddy and plowed streets of Niš, the Austrian prisoners in uniforms roam freely. Some haul the cart, others dig trenches, and hundreds of them are idly strolling up and down. Crossing the muddy Nišava river at the foot of the bulwark of the famous Niš fortress, Reed sees hundreds of soldiers lounging, sleeping, removing lice and shaking with fever. Further down the road to Belgrade, John Reed and his companion, an illustrator – Bordman Robinson, meet the representative of the Press Bureau Vojislav Jovanović Maramba.

Belgrade, A Quiet City Destroyed By Bombs

Like much of the town, the Belgrade railway station was bombed and destroyed. Reed, Robinson and Maramba got out at the station in Rakovica, and travelled in a ramshackle carriage to the city center. Reed then wrote: “The grass and weeds are growing between the cobblestones, no one has passed here for half a year, and the guns are completely silent. The consequences of cannonfire are visible everywhere. Large holes having 5 meters in diameter gape in the middle of the street.” A thought that the Austro-Hungarian guns can resume bombardment at any moment, as they have done dozens of times , was the constant threat in the air.

Military Academy, Ministry of the army, King’s palace, University of Belgrade and ordinary houses, sheds, restaurants and hotels were often without roofs and doors, and window frames without glass were swaying aimlessly in each building. After touring the trenches built for Belgrade’s defence, and travelling on a cargo ship “Nebojša” that had countless loopholes drilled on the sides, they reached the makeshift firing nests where the soldiers were lying face down in a muddy embankment, unshaven, unwashed and gaunt from malnutrition. Following a meandering and furrowed road, they went further into deep interior of Serbia, glancing for the last time at the white city, which was refusing to surrender.

Mačva and Drina, Havoc Causing Grief

The road led Reed and his companion to the areas where, except soldiers, men were gone. The vicious disease typhus devastated those lands. After about a kilometer of walk Reed was able to count one hundred white crosses on the fences of houses, and each meant that typhus claimed at least one life in that house. “It seemed that this lush and fertile land consists of nothing but death and commemoration” noted Reed. The landscapes they passed through, suffered the most in bloody battles of 1914.

The train they were traveling in was full of miserable refugees, mostly women and children who were forced to leave their homes due to cruel military attacks of Austria-Hungary. The whole area was burned, looted, and people were slain. For miles, it was almost impossible to see neither a bull, nor a man. “Sometimes our train stopped so that refugees could get off. They were standing right next to the railway with all their assets packed in a bag over the shoulder and silently watched the ruins of their country”, wrote Reed.

Gučevo, A Death Valley

Reed presented his strongest condemnation of the war by describing Gučevo and huge losses that the Serbian army suffered in that region. During the second attack the Austrians seized the peak of Gučevo, and they entrenched there. Under the enemy’s hurricane fire the Serbs scrambled step by step, until their trenches formed on a narrow ridge. Then, on the 16 kilometers front, at the very top of the mountain, one of the most horrific battles in the Great War was fought – The Battle of Drina. After 54 days of bloody and difficult struggle, the Serbs withdrew, only because the third Austrian invasion broke through their lines in Krupanj.

There were abandoned huts covered with leaves and branches, and dugouts in which the Serbian army lived for two months in the snow, all over the forest. The lower parts of the trees were covered with leaves whilst the top parts looked lifeless. Nine kilometers along the peak of Gučevo, dead soldiers were stacked, 10,000 of them.

From the “Land of Death”, John Reed brought images of horror and a sense of admiration for the heroic and dedicated Serbs.

Who was John Reed?

John Reed (1887-1920) was an American journalist, poet and socialist activist. He is remembered as the author of the anthology book “Ten Days That Shook the World”, “Rebel Mexico” and “The War in Eastern Europe”, where a chapter about the war in Serbia is found. As a war correspondent in the early 20th century he visited all fronts describing the horrors of war and sufferings. He visited Mexico, Russia, Greece, Serbia, Bulgaria, France, Italy and Poland in order to meet the U.S. public opinion with the pure and awful truth.

An American Journalist And A Serbian Postman: The Blood Brothers

With unabashed enthusiasm Reed wrote about the hospitality of the people who were dying and starving. He could not reject fraternization with the mailman from Obrenovac. “Brother, we shall become blood brothers now. It’s an old Serbian custom. We have performed an act of fraternization and from now on, we’re blood brothers with Gaj Matić” Reed noted down. As is known, this was John Reed’s only experience with fraternization; and he was a world traveler.