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imagine-darksiders · 4 years ago

Text

Homesick - Chapter 2

Behind the door.

Warnings: implied child abuse, abusive parents, blood, nosebleeds, angst, themes of childhood trauma, ptsd

Tags: Darksiders, DeathxAzrael, hurt/comfort, angst, Reader, Found family, Reader needs a hug

Chapter 1

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“What lays beyond that door?”

Azrael's innocent question causes you to stiffen and your steps falter on the landing, knowing precisely to which door he's referring, but unwilling to even spare it a backwards glance.

The momentary delay hardly lasts for more than a second and goes seemingly unnoticed by the angel, whose gaze appears too focused on the locked, mahogany door that stands quiet and guiltless at the furthest end of your landing. Hanging back near the top of the staircase however, with eyes sharp and turned just enough in your direction that they catch the hitching of your chest, Death does notice.

Then, he blinks, and you're suddenly twisting your head over a shoulder to look beyond Azrael at the door in question, a smile on your lips but not in your eyes.

“Oh, that's just a storage cupboard,” you say casually, waving a dismissive hand through the air and continuing your journey to the opposite side of the house, “I've been in and out of there all week stacking boxes of junk up to the ceiling. Now, come this way, all the best human-y stuff is stock-piled in my bedroom.”

You're too quick to disregard the door, too eager in turning to walk towards your room on stiff legs and Death wishes the angel would turn to look at you so he might also see what the Horseman sees, if only to confirm that he isn't imagining things.

Alas, letting out an intrigued little hum, Azrael clasps his hands loosely behind his back and sweeps after you, all the while pivoting his head this way and that to take in everything your humble home has to offer.

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

You had so nearly forgotten what the joy of discovery looks like in another person. To see the eyes of someone else grow wide and bright with unbridled wonder at a world you've long since lost a taste for.

Azrael's fascination at the most mundane of human objects manages to put a genuine smile on your face, though the ensuing pain still throbs like the beat of an insistent drum every time your cheeks press against your bruised eye.

Luckily, the angel appears to have missed your subtle wince.

After first having dragged him away from your television, you've managed to introduce him to many of humanity's other wonders that lay dotted around your bedroom.

Before long, Death had even slunk inside to join you both, taking up the mantle of an uninterested observer and absently perusing your book collection in the corner whilst keeping a surreptitious eye on the goings on of his companions.

You've perched yourself comfortably in a bean bag, content to simply sit back and observe whilst Azrael explores your room, his wide, white wings folded neatly against his back in order to spare some of your ornaments from being knocked off their shelves.

“This... ursine mammal,” he says, pausing beside your bed and poking a finger into the fur of an old, stuffed bear sitting atop your pillow, “Does it serve some purpose?”

You're too preoccupied with fighting back a laugh to answer him right away, and by the time you realise he's watching you expectantly, Death pipes up in your stead, cutting off any explanation you might have offered.

“I imagine it's only there for decoration,” he muses, casting a critical eye over your bookcase and the dozens of unread stories scattered about on the shelves, “But then, I have to wonder if half the things in this room aren't just ornamentation.”

Knowing what he's implying, you spare the back of his head a scowl. It isn't as though you've had a lot of time to read those books he gave you, not between rebuilding your own home and helping humanity come to terms with life post-apocalypse.

“Ah!�� Azrael's head shoots up and he tears his eyes from the bear, glancing towards you instead. “It is symbolic, no? In resembling a most ferocious predator, this bear represents the perfect guard for your home.”

He looks so damn pleased with himself, you almost don't bother to correct him, instead wrestling your grin into a pensive frown and nodding slowly.

“Uh, sure! That is a pretty... exciting way to look at teddy bears.” Hopping to your feet, you make your way over to the bed and sweep a few of Azrael's primary feathers aside, picking up the toy bear and squeezing it to your chest. “But mostly humans use these for comfort at night, when we sleep. We usually get given them as children. And, as we grow older, I... guess we just get too attached to get rid of them. Most humans keep their childhood toys long into adulthood.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Death huffs, shaking his head with a smile hidden beneath the bone-mask, “You humans will get attached to anything that sits still for long enough.”

Azrael, on the other hand, looks as though you've just revealed to him one of humanity's greatest secrets. Rubbing his chin in thought, he says, “Remarkable! I've heard that humans are rather famous for the bonds they forge with other species, yet I never imagined that could extend to inanimate objects as well.”

“Yeah, you'd better believe it,” you smirk, placing the bear down on your pillow once more, “Someday I'll have to tell you about the woman who married the Eiffel Tower.”

At once, the Archangel blinks hard, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hair line. “A tower? Surely that’s a jape?”

So perplexed is his expression, you throw back your head and let out a bark of delighted laughter. “What are you, Shakespeare? Nobody says ‘jape’ anymore, Azrael!”

Off on his own side of your little bedroom, Death's neck twists around slightly to regard both you and the angel as you engage in a light-hearted back and forth about the use of archaic vocabulary. He doesn't even realise that one corner of his mouth has begun lifting at the sight.

There is a truth about the Horseman that even he is reluctant to acknowledge, and that is that the constant slew of bad things happening in the Universe is... wearing. It’s wearing. To be on a constant path that always seems to lead towards battle or tragedy? Sometimes it feels as though his entire existence has merely consisted of one battle after another.

He saves one world, only for another to be torn apart, he destroys a species, and another asks him to fight their war for them, he helps the makers but in doing so, inadvertently kills their elder. Century after century - a millennia of bloody battles and terrible sacrifices and trying to keep his siblings safe - If he ever stopped to think about it...

Death’s eyes slip slowly shut.

He has worked... so hard, hasn’t he? Is it really so wrong if he enjoys these moments of fleeting repose?

All of a sudden, a strangled sound leaves Azrael's throat and Death is yanked from his peaceful reverie. “Y/n!?” the angel exclaims, his expression shifting to horrified in less than a second, “You're bleeding!”

Apparently, mentioning your name and blood in the same sentence is enough to get Death's voice to crack as he whips around properly and barks, “What!?”

Baffled, you raise a hand to your nose, dabbing at a sticky wetness gathered there whilst the taste of salty liquid drips onto your upper lip. “Oh, so I am,” you observe casually, only to have a pair of chilly hands curl unexpectedly around your forearms.

Without warning, the terrifying visage of the Horseman is looming mere inches from your face and in another instant, one of his hands presses itself to your forehead and firmly – albeit gently – tips it backwards.

“Um... Death, we've talked about this. Personal space, remember?”

The Horseman remains eerily silent as he stares transfixed at the blood oozing from your nose and you squirm uncomfortably when the grip he has on your arm begins to grow even tighter. Meanwhile, his wordlessness allows Azrael to fret aloud in the background.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” the angel mutters, pacing back and forth behind Death, never tearing his eyes from the red straining your face, “You shouldn't be having all this excitement. You should be resting.”

It's difficult to hold back your groan of exasperation as you lift your arms and knock Death's hands aside, stepping out of his reach.

“Oh for - It's just a nosebleed! Honestly, what has gotten into you two?” With a hefty sigh, you skirt around the rigid Nephilim, dodge one of Azrael's wings as it tries to curl instinctively around you and march into your ensuite bathroom.

Almost immediately, the angel tries to follow, but he swiftly has the door pushed shut in his face before he can enter and soon, they hear your voice filtering out to them from the other side. “I'm not a baby, guys! Nosebleeds are no big deal, it's just happening because of... well, you know.”

Azrael's stomach twists itself into knots at the sight of yet another locked door standing between himself and his human friend. He's about to call out for you to let him see the damage when an icy chill sweeps across the room and he turns, his mouth falling open slightly at the sight of Death staring at him through unseeing eyes.

The old Nephilim's body has gone completely still and there's a haunted look about him, as though he's lost, or perhaps trapped in another time, another place.

“Horseman?” Azrael murmurs uncertainly, feeling the cold prickle at the hairs on the base of his neck. Seconds pass and he receives no answer. Hesitant now, the archangel reaches towards Death's shoulder and, when he isn't immediately shoved away, places a hand on the frigid, solid muscle that bunches under his gentle touch. “Death,” he tries again, and this time the Horseman's head snaps up to stare at him, as if only just realising he's there.

The angel ducks his head to better catch Death's eye, his voice soft enough that only the two of them can hear it. “Are you alright, old friend?”

A long silence stretches between them with only the faint sound of running water from your bathroom tap to fill it.

Then, giving a start, Death roughly shrugs the comforting hand off his shoulder and stalks past the angel towards your window, leaning his elbows heavily against the sill and stubbornly refusing to acknowledge Azrael's concern. He doesn't think the archangel has ever been that close to him before, close enough that the subtle scent of old books and clean linen invaded his nose and chased away the awful stench of your blood, effectively leaving his mind clear once again.

'Idiot,' he chastises himself, eyes still wide behind the bone mask. How could he have frozen like that? In front of Azrael no less. Creator, he'd never live that one down. He had – for lack of a better word – panicked, and it's as embarrassing to admit to himself as it is to have been caught panicking. But...

The sight of your blood... The smell of it, sweet and strong enough that it even settled on his tastebuds...

It's pathetic, really. He is Death. He's seen and caused far more bloodshed than arguably any being in any realm. So why then does your spilled blood hold his dead heart in such a cruel and unforgivably tight chokehold?

The redundancy of taking a calming breath isn't lost on him, yet he does it anyway, tipping his head up to peer out of your window, chest rising and falling with motions he could only have picked up after spending so much time around you.

It's begun to rain, he notes idly. Tiny droplets of water patter down onto the dusty window panes and Death follows the path of one until it merges with several others and is lost in the fray.

Down in the streets below, many passers-by have dived for shelter, yet there are still two figures who remain. One is an angel, whose golden complexion shimmers when raindrops trickle steadily down his face. He's standing in the shadow of a water-logged bus stop and beside him, leaning just a little too close, is a serpentine demon, scales black and glittering like obsidian. The odd pair rest almost shoulder to shoulder underneath the bus stop's awning, each sharing a brief respite from the rain with what was once a well-loathed enemy.

Death blinks upon seeing that their hands are intertwined. Dainty, golden fingers curl loosely around clumsier claws and suddenly, the Horseman feels as though he's intruding on their secret moment, so he turns back to face your room.

Azrael has drifted closer once again and there's a knowing expression on his face that causes Death to frown. Sure enough, the archangel spares your bathroom door a hasty glance before he looks at the Horseman once more. “...Death,” he says slowly, “It's... all right, you know. If seeing Y/n’s blood upset you-”

Hackles are raised in half a second, a set of sharp teeth clack together and Death hisses, “You think I'm upset?”

Judging by the flat look he receives, that is precisely what the archangel thinks.

Despite the obvious vehemence behind Death's tone, he's careful to keep his voice down, ever mindful that you're only a room over. Perhaps getting defensive isn't the best idea.

“There is no shame in it, Horseman,” the angel coaxes softly, “Y/n is my friend as well. There has already been far too much human blood spilled this century.” He casts another, baleful glance towards your bathroom, quietly adding, “I didn't think I would be seeing it again, not this soon. And especially not from our human.”

...Our human.

Death is unnerved by how natural that sounds coming off Azrael's tongue.

Expertly, the Horseman wills his shoulders to slump and his muscles to relax, then, with an unmistakable air of indifference, he folds his arms across his broad chest and turns himself deliberately away from the archangel, glowering at your bedroom wall.

And Azrael, wise enough to read the standoffish behaviour for what it is, allows his mouth to fall shut because he knows that, as far as Death is concerned, the conversation is over.

He has a care not to release a weary sigh. But with you shutting him out physically and the Horseman shutting him out verbally, it's difficult for even the composed archangel to keep exasperation at bay.

Just then, your voice calls out to them from the other side of the door. “Ugh, sorry about this guys. It's slowing down, but it hasn't stopped yet. I'll just be a minute!”

“So long as you're all right,” Azrael replies.

When he receives no response from you and no further input from Death, he lets his head drop into a disappointed nod, pressing his lips together. Suddenly, his presence feels a little too big for the space he's occupying. He needs to think.

Azrael leaves your bedroom with a far heavier heart than he'd gone in with, raking his fingers through fine, white hair and expelling a soft breath from his lungs, as if that might alleviate the weight settling across his chest.

So far, this first visit to your home has not gone as he'd hoped it would. Through no fault of your own, mind. But trying to focus on taking in everything you show him whilst he knows you're in more pain than you're letting on is woefully distracting. That's without even mentioning the creeping sense of unease that has been hanging over him ever since he first stepped foot through your front door.

Briefly, Azrael wonders if Death had noticed the way your breath hitched slightly and your reply had an almost imperceptible, underlying tremor when he asked you what lay beyond the door at the end of your landing. He'd have to ask the Horseman about that later, when he's in a more talkative mood.

Already, the archangel can feel the beginnings of a frown forging crevasses down the centre of his forehead. He composes himself in another breath and finally lifts his eyes from the carpet, only to stop in his tracks.

That door – that unassuming door to your cupboard lays ahead of him, quiet and solid as all doors should be, just sitting there under a flickering light bulb, as though it had been patiently waiting for him to notice it.

And notice it, he does, because something about the door has changed since he saw it last, something so obvious, yet also entirely unsettling.

Where it had once been shut tight, now it stands ever so slightly ajar.

Despite everything in him screaming that he must respect the privacy of his host, Azrael's curiosity grows too bold and he finds himself treading silently down your landing, his shoes making no sound on the grubby, cream carpet. Drawing to a halt, the angel's keen gaze sweeps over the wooden door, taking in hairline cracks and mottled rot that a hundred years has left upon it like battle scars on a warrior's face. Slowly, he roves his eyes down to the dull, brass door handle and he immediately falters, doing a double-take.

Sitting atop the handle is a very noticeable, very thick layer of dust.

His brows knit together until they nearly touch and he reaches out to swipe a finger delicately along the brass. When he pulls away, he lifts his hand for an inspection and, sure enough, the pad of his forefinger is now sporting the same, grey substance.

'Why would a door you claimed to use recently have so much dust upon the handle?' The feeling of unease that had been stealthily keeping to the back of his mind now pokes its head out a little more, creeping forwards, daring him to acknowledge it.

'Something's wrong...' a quiet voice tells him.

Azrael's hand reaches out once more, except this time, it curls around the handle entirely and rests there for a moment as the angel's mind starts to race. 'Y/n.... Are you hiding something from us?'

As soon as the thought enters his head, he can't shake it loose.

Yes - he trusts you - he knows you'd have no reason to lie to him, and especially not to the Horseman. And yet... Clearly there is something beyond this door that you're trying to divert their attention from and whatever it is has you spooked.

Feeling more and more like a common criminal, Azrael keeps one ear on the room behind him and slowly begins to twist the door handle, wincing when its rusty springs catch and squeak in protest.

His wings shiver with anticipation as he pushes the door open.

What awaits him on the other side is decidedly not a storage cupboard...

“A... bedchamber?” he murmurs to himself.

Within an instant, he's hit by an oppressive wave of must and wood rot. The smell spills like liquid from the room and seeps into your hallway, causing the archangel's lips to curl, though he's quick to smooth his expression out again because there's something far worse lingering below the initial stench, something that – even after a hundred years – still clings to the peeling wallpaper and broken, dust-choked bed in the corner of the room.

It isn't quite magic, more like the residue of a dark and terrible memory. Azrael knows as well as any angel that memories can be immensely powerful things and capable of haunting a place long after the living are dead and gone. Hesitating, he takes a moment to steel himself before stepping over the threshold and entering that old, foreboding bedroom.

At once, he notices that, as with the door's handle, absolutely everything is covered in a thick layer of grime and dust, the television on the wall, the various, glass bottles that stand on a table at the room's centre, amidst which sits a single, yellowing glass.

Against the wishes of his own nose, Azrael takes a brief sniff at the air and grimaces.

Alcohol.

Even the most pious of angels would recognise it.

He dismissively turns his attention from the bottles and glides over towards a worn dresser that stands to the left of the bed, a bed that stinks of an odour he desperately tries to ignore. Upon the dresser are a vast array of what you;d once called 'photographs,' all of which sit inside basic, wooden frames. Inquisitive, Azrael bends down and peers at them, a soft smile worming across his face when he sees a familiar human grinning back up at him.

You couldn't be much older than four or five, but he'd recognise you at any age. It seems even as a child, you possessed that same, mischievous spark in your eyes.

You're standing alone, and in spite of a clear gap where a tooth has fallen out, you're beaming up at the camera so hard, he imagines your cheeks had to have hurt. In fact, the more Azrael inspects the photo, the more he thinks your expression most resembles a grimace, not a smile. He shrugs it off however, and moves on. After all, the facial structure of humans is such that they're capable of expressions far more complex than those of angels or demons. Perhaps he’s only misreading it.

The next picture sees you looking a few years older, sitting in the lap of a tall, angular man wearing a white shirt that looks to have been frequently stained by all manner of substances whilst his face is stretched into a grin that makes Azrael's skin crawl. Captured in stillness, it looks menacing and shark-like. Worse still is the large hand that seems to have secured itself like a vice around your thigh, squeezing noticeably into the little, blue leggings you'd worn that day.

You aren't smiling as widely in this photograph....

The archangel's face begins to fall as well.

Humming, he moves on to the next picture and in an instant, that creeping unease suddenly rings in his head like an alarm bell.

Again, you're older here, perhaps early into your adolescence, and the smile you'd sported before is barely there at all. The same man is standing behind you this time, and his long, gangly fingers are clamped down over your too-small shoulders, fingernails digging so hard into the bare skin, the resulting indents are even picked up by the camera.

Your lopsided wince that could be mistaken for a smile at a glance shows off one side of your mouth and in it, Azrael can clearly see that you're missing a tooth.

He may not be the most well-versed on human biology, but he's definitely heard that children only lose the same tooth once. And that the process is a natural one.

Through the lense of the camera, your younger counterpart seems to peer up past the glass frame, past the fabric of time and space and straight into Azrael's misty, pale eyes, a silent yet clear plea in the tilt of your brows and the whites of your knuckles.

'Help me.'

All at once, the archangel feels sick. He staggers backwards, away from the dresser and doesn't even notice the golden halo on his back is thrumming with protective magics, pushing them outwards to envelope your entire house.

He doesn't need Jamaerah's second sight to know that you were afraid of that man who's eyes are stained the same colour as yours. Hazarding a guess as to why you were afraid causes Azrael's throat to tighten.

Swallowing hard, he tries to regain his composure. The archangel has always considered rationality to be one of the greatest weapons in his arsenal and if there was ever a time to use it, that time is now.

'Perhaps... I am mistaken,' he reassures himself, 'I don’t know human customs nearly as well as I-’

“Azrael?”

The angel gives a start and jerks his head around to face the door, only to find Death eclipsing it, his eyes blazing like twin fires.

Stepping forwards into the room, he hisses, “What are you doing in here?”

The Horseman is quite certain he's never seen Azrael look so guilty.

Instead of giving him an answer though, the angel slowly breathes, “Where is Y/n?” Soon, he droops in relief when Death throws a thumb over his shoulder and replies, “Still in the bathing room, tending to a bloody nose... You didn't answer my question.”

Beckoning the Horseman closer, Azrael keeps his voice to a hushed whisper and holds the last photograph up in front of him.

“What do you make of this?”

Azrael's behaviour strikes him as so uncharacteristically odd and secretive, Death actually hurries over to him and snatches the picture frame from his hands, making an effort not to appear curious about the room he's never been inside. The angel watches raptly as Death scans the photographs with his luminous, orange eyes. Then, all of a sudden, the Horseman's fingers tighten around the little, wooden frame, hard enough to make it splinter and Azrael knows his worst fears are being realised. He hadn't imagined it.

Death sees it too.

“You guys shouldn't be in here.”

A tiny voice, low and trembling calls from the doorway and the angel's gaze snaps up. Death, in the meantime, remains too fixated on the photograph to bother acknowledging your presence.

Azrael drifts towards you cautiously, as though you'll bolt at any second. He tries to decide whether it would be better to apologise for invading your privacy or ask you why you look so terrified.

“Y/n,” he starts, paying attention to the way your hands turn over one another incessantly, “We were only-”

“... How... How did you get in? The door was - it was locked! You can't be in here... Get out!” Your voice raises in pitch. There are tears leaking from your bruised eye, swiftly turning the skin underneath it slick and shiny and there’s still a trace of blood underneath your nose.

Death finally lowers his gaze from the photograph and holds you captive under a wide and menacing stare. “A storage room, was it?” he asks curtly, showing you the picture clutched between his ever-tightening fingers.

The moment you lay eyes on it, your back goes rigid and all the blood drains from your face. “Put that down!” you demand and lift your foot as if to take a step inside the room, but as soon as you cross over the threshold, you seem to remember something, and quickly jerk yourself backwards, stumbling into the hallway again and sucking down a ragged gasp, blurting, “Just – Just don't touch it!”

“Why not?” Death drawls and tilts his head to one side, calculating, “It can't be that important to you. You've had it locked in this storage cupboard for these past two years.”

He's pushing you, Azrael realises with a sinking feeling, he's trying to provoke you into an honest reaction, no doubt. The archangel doesn't like it, but he likes the look of that man in the photograph even less.

“That's none of your business!” you snap, heart pounding like a jackhammer against your ribs. Unfortunately, your response only seems to stir something in the Horseman, who draws his head back as though you'd struck him a physical blow and he growls, “I hate to disappoint you, but it is my business where your welfare is concerned.”

“My welfare stopped being your concern about two years ago!”

Death falls silent, jaw clenching.

He'd be remiss to say that your comment hadn't struck at a place he guards jealously. He's painfully aware of the angel's eyes burning a hole into the side of his head and he nearly squirms at the pitying look he's receiving.

It would seem that Azrael knows him a little too well.

“You never once stopped being my concern...” the Horseman mumbles, his gaze moving down to the image in his hand. A younger, smaller you peers back at him with woe caught like sleep-dust behind your eyelashes. Death's eyes shoot back up to you again, the softness gone from his voice when he growls, “Why did you lie to me?”

Tensions are high enough that Azrael doesn't think it prudent to mention you'd lied to him as well.

Apparently, a direct confrontation was not the best way to deal with this delicate situation, a fact that becomes clear when you cinch your jaw shut for a moment, gaze flickering to and fro between the angel and the Horseman.

Seeing two of your most trusted friends standing in his bedroom with a symbol of your shame and your trauma held quite literally in Death's grasp sends your heart rate skyrocketing, fear like poison dripping down into your stomach. You can hardly believe they'd invade your privacy like this. Death especially, who knows better than anyone the necessity for keeping some secrets buried.

He doesn't need to learn about that part of your history - neither of them do. You don't want to have them worrying. And God forbid they should pity you.

Squaring your shoulders, you spin about on a heel and begin to march purposefully down your landing to the stairs.

“Where do you think you're going?!” Death barks after you.

Chest heaving, you pause on the first step and cast a heavy frown over your shoulder at the Horseman, matching his ferocious gaze without a single blink. “If you won't leave that room,” you tell him, “then I'll leave this house. And I'll thank you both to be gone by the time I get back.”

And just like that, you continue to descend your staircase and disappear below the wooden balustrades. Seconds later and there's an almighty 'slam' that signals you've had an altercation with the front door before leaving through it.

For some time, the house is weighed down under a blanket of silence as the pair of unearthly beings are left to stand in the aftershocks of their actions.

“Oh dear..” Azrael's stare is vacant, worried, and he has several fingertips pressed to his lips. “I fear I've reopened an old wound..”

“No. This... isn't your fault,” the Horseman sighs, “I should have addressed this sooner. I've known for some time there was something Y/n didn't want me to know. And, I suppose, I'd always suspected that this room might lead to some answers.”

Taken aback, Azrael turns a mystified look onto the Nephilim. He'd expected Death to lay the blame upon his feathery shoulders, after all, he was the one who first ventured into this so called 'storage cupboard' and upset the proverbial applecart. Still, he finds it somewhat odd that the Horseman – a nosy creature if ever one walked the nine realms – hasn't ever tried to see for himself what lay beyond the door. Tilting his head, the angel asks, “You never thought to investigate?”

At the question, Death averts his gaze and shrugs one of his pale shoulders. “Admittedly, no, I did not.”

“Well... Why?” Azrael presses, though he already has an inkling.

After a moment of frowning pensively at the photo in his hands, the Horseman turns to look at him and he's once again thrown off by the level of emotion in those wild, striking eyes. Death really has grown since knowing you.

“I never brought it up because....”

“.... You didn't want to jeopardise your friendship,” Azrael finishes for him softly, and Death is only grateful that he didn't have to say it himself out loud.

At the same time, the two of them peer back at the photograph and the archangel is surprised at himself for the anger that boils in his lungs at the sight of that man’s hands on you. Death however, isn’t in the least bit surprised at the presence of his own rage.

“Horseman...,” Azrael says, his voice eerily calm, “You don’t supposed.... Y/n might be trying to hide something else, do you?”

"The bruise...”

Furious, orange eyes meet cool and misty white.

“It isn’t out of the question,” Azrael breathes, “A random attack from human zealots? Or-”

“- Or something a bit closer to home,” Death finishes as he tosses the photo onto the nearby bed and turns to face the door.

Outside, rain continues to hammer relentlessly on the house whilst a streak of lightening illuminates the bedroom and the two, imposing beings inside, one with dark magics crackling at his fingertips, and the other with a halo of solid gold on his back that thrums with violent energy as the glyphs on his wings begin to glow electric blue.

Without a word, the Angel of Death and the Grim Reaper slip from your house and stride out into the coming storm, their ancient minds focused solely on tracking down their human.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #darksiders 3 #Azrael #Death #Reader #abuse #child abuse #angst #Angel #Nephilim #Horseman of the Apocalypse #Hurt/comfort #found family #demon #guardian angels

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sohannabarberaesque · 4 years ago

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Meanwhile, some quality time among the Funtastic World of Hanna-Barbera among the World-Renowned and Far-Famed Ten Thousand Lakes of Minnesota

Sunrise unlike any other.

A few stretching exercises for Huckleberry Hound and his Clementine coming out of the pup tent they chose to sleep in ... and before going for the breakfast (never mind such likely being of dehydrated derivation), just a few minutes’ refreshing swim in the chill of the early-morning lake is in order. And chill though the waters are, it couldn’t have been a more interesting swim, including a brief swing underwater ... and some rather wonderful handfasting.

Once back on shore--

“Huck--?”

“Yes, Clementine?”

“I admit it may have been a little chilly this time of the morning ...”

“But--”

“But it sure felt deserving enough to have some coffee out of the way!”

“And who wouldn’t resist some coffee after such a dive?”

*************

At your typical old-school resort’s tap room, a somewhat rainy evening seems to have put a damper on the likelihood of a sunset campfire ... but with the blessing of the resort’s management, none other than Captain Caveman decides to regale the guests with a few observations from his own unique standpoint about freediving. Even if his language seems to be a little broken (”Unga-bunga ... Cavey can’t help but feel wonderfully at peace underwater! Cavey’s hairy body keep things confortable!”), such doesn’t seem to stop some of the fellow Funtastics from relating their own diving tales such as--

That time The King and Skids used some rather crude diver’s helmets to find what remained of a Mexican restaurant as submerged when a reservoir came along--and a “treasure” of canned Hatch chili peppers which took some time to dry out and get over. As well as The King and Sheena finding some diving experiences themselves just the other day on the same lake, getting a little playful underwater in the bargain.

Wally Gator once stunning a manatee while diving in some springs somewhere in Central Florida, yet the manatee didn’t manage to show any attempt at reprisal.

In a sleazy-looking motel swimming pool somewhere near Gatlinburg, the Bungle Brothers (George and Joey), otherwise just killing time in the pool late at night, found two of those metal RFID-blocker wallets which guests “must have foolishly let slip into the pool while swimming,” were turned into the office--and whose manager let slip the fact that the guests had somehow sneaked out in the middle of the night days before, and that it “might be rather lucky” if they could locate their rightful owners (who, as the police later explained to them, were Notorious Drug Dealers).

As a subsidiary activity of a fishing trip to the Northwest Angle region of Lake of the Woods, Breezly Bruin (and his new girlfriend, Betty) decided to take up some diving time ... “and what a hug we two had at about 20 feet under the surface!”

“Shaggy” Rogers, perhaps the one closest to the quirks of Scooby-Doo, related a rather crazy episode of when Scooby’s crew were snorkelling off the Florida Keys when Scooby somehow caught his paw on some rather sharp coral trying to feel what same felt like ... but as Shaggy was snorkelling close by, he applied a cloth to the affected paw, and Scooby managed to heal “somewhat gradually.”

And probably a few more like that, well until closing time ensued.

And though there was no offer of a prize indicated for the best such ... Peter Potamus, in closing out the display of diving stories, explained that “nowhere else have I heard such crazier or more lovable diving stories” than exchanged in the snug of the tap room on such a rainy evening! (He should know: Peter Potamus happens to be quite a diver himself.)

*************

Speaking of Peter Potamus and his crew of divers, we found them one muggy afternoon on a pontoon close to the deepest spot on the lake (including their underwater photographer, Squiddly Diddly) with some Unlikely Diving Guests in form of the Cattanooga Cats, who, as its leader, Country, explained, “we thought amusing to take up, not so much out of ‘bucket list’ desires than just to try something new.”

Even its female lead, Kitty Jo, and her pet hound, Teeny Tim, “got into the act” to the surprise of the scuba party-loving hippo (”Who said Southern gals couldn’t dive anywhere but Florida way has certainly got to be wrong, explaining my willingness to go along with ‘the boys’ and take up the SCUBA bit”--Kitty Jo) ... which certainly surprised the lupine members of the dive party (as in Loopy De Loop, Hokey Wolf and Mildew Wolf, Hokey adding later “Just be grateful those Cattanooga Cats weren’t wasting their time finding catfish underwater!”--and prompting Scoots, the pint-sized virtuoso of as much insturments as storytelling, to remark “That wasn’t exactly our intent ... we just thought taking up diving might be an occasional experience in killing time!”, with Scoots adding some detail about how he found diving when a certain Amy Catline came into his life).

As if that weren’t enow, said Cattanooga Cats were named Honorary Divers with Peter Potamus’ All-Natural Diving Company, with the open invitation to join them again when they crossed paths. Which had Lippy the Lion remarking “I certainly hope our diving club isn’t going to the cats all of a sudden!”, bringing quite the laugh over some Sprecher Cream Soda.

*************

Talk about father-son bonding: Augie Doggie challenged his ever-so-doting Doggie Daddy to a race of sorts--Augie swimming underwater, Doggie Daddy on a paddleboard--from mid-lake to the resort’s beach, loser to pay for a Friday-evening fish fry at a tavern just up the road. (Still, just to be safe, Augie’s swimming was just beneath the surface and Doggie Daddy kept his distance on the paddleboard.)

At any rate, Augie’s sheer precocia and overactive nature won the race by at least two lengths on his father’s paddleboard, prompting Doggie Daddy to ask “Augie, Son of Sons!! How exactly was it possible for you to swim underwater as fast as you did?!!”

To which the Son of Sons responded, “Dearest Father ... I’ve been taking up some lessons in underwater swimming technique from one Breezly Bruin.”

“BREEZLY BRUIN--?!! Son of Sons, don’t tell me--”

“Yes, Father of Fathers ... THAT Breezly Bruin. He may be a little dumb, but you can get to liking him if only you made the effort.”

“Heh, heh, heh ... that was my son talking there!”

(At any rate, Doggie Daddy covered the fish fry, of which Augie managed to go through no less than four refills just to recover from such energy expenditure.)

*************

It’s not unusual for the back roads in the resort country of northern Minnesota to see their share of traffic heading to the resorts ... including an inline-skating run of the Skatebirds (Knock-Knock, Satchel and Scooter) one Saturday morning of some five miles to some chintzy-looking supper club of “the old school” essentially, such as was likely to be found in the resort country, hidden behind some pines from the highway.

And what was that all about?

For a weekend brunch buffet which certainly saw the likes of plenty others as a “surprise” party, including the ilk of Huckleberry Hound, Secret Squirrel and Morocco Mole, Snagglepuss, the Hair Bear Bunch, Undercover Elephant and Loudmouse, Penelope Pitstop ... and, for good measure, The Banana Splits, who, by their admission, “were just passing through” on their way to an engagement Somewhere Near Duluth.

*************

Amongst some Adirondack chairs set in the shallows of the lake as sunset most vivid and beautiful reflected itself unto the lake, and over some Sprecher Puma Kola (well-chilled, mind you), Snagglepuss and Hair Bear were engrossing themselves in conversation while taking in the sunset and admiring just how spectacular it was.

“I just have to tell you, Snagglepuss,” Hair Bear exclaimed, “if Square Bear can pull off an Invisible Motorcycle, he can also pull off an Invisible Jet Ski!”

“Which,” Snagglepuss chimed in, “is rather rich, rather one for Ripley, even ... and yet, my ursine chum, how can it be possible?”

“I don’t know how he does it, Snagglepuss ... but he can pull it off faster than you can sing ‘The Minnesota Rowser’!” (Pause) “Yet, I admit there are times when Square Bear can get a little ahead of himself on that Invisible Jet Ski!”

“How so, Hair Bear?”

“So ahead of himself that he takes on that look suggesting a long-haul truck driver on amphetamines, supposedly heedless of any danger or risk inherent!”

“I just hope you’re not on amphetamines yourself ...”

“No, Snagglepuss ... we prefer getting our highs from what the French call the old joie de vivre, the joy of life!” (Pause) “Not to mention rather substantial appetites!”

“So I’ve heard,” as Snagglepuss let the last swig of Puma Kola trickle down his throat to appreciate such nuances of decaffeinated flavour in the face of a rather warm evening emergent. “Personally, I’d like to thank the folks who make that cola myself, maybe buy me a case or two even!”

To which Hair Bear chimed in with his own tasteful swig, “Hey, who wouldn’t? After all, the sun is setting rather beautifully ... the evening is barely young ... and what more could you ask for, aside from the thrill of discovering some misadventures from shortwave radio in the summertime?”

@warnerarchive @hanna-barbera-land @warnerbrosentertainment @hanna-barbera-blog @hanna-barberians

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kaldoreiyarns · 7 years ago

Text

Of Uncles and Nieces

[Edit: To get a better sense of what’s happening here, read Iyora’s Dear An’da #5 before this... Also, a big shout out and thank you to @bovira for letting me use her char Bo in this piece!]

A small, dim, ghostly wisp floated down out of the sky, winding through the trees until it came upon the Sentinel camp. All the indigo-hued tents were set up in military precision, the small, wooden crescent moons adorning their tops were catching the dying light of the day as the wisp rode the wind currents that blew lightly through them. People were already getting up and about, as sun-down was the natural time Kaldorei camps usually got moving as the wisp seemed to be searching for someone or something among the warrior women.

On the outskirts of the camp, several people were walking back with buckets of water, Iyora Silverhawk among them as she liked water duty in the evenings, going to the nearest source of water and collecting it for the camps’ use was similar to the Moonwell water fetching she’d use to do for evening rituals back in the Temple. Although there was one difference, the camp needed a ton more water than the Temple rituals ever did, but it was good exercise, building muscles on her arms that used to be so very skinny once upon a time. She used to be a lean little stick of a Priestess, but now that leanness was covered in a layer of muscles that added more definition to her form, muscles she was very proud of as she worked hard to become a proper Sentinel.

After setting down the last of the buckets near the cooking pit she gave Huntress Ever-Tear a big smile and a more proper salute as she was busy cooking breakfast for them all. Iyora spied that there would be enough time for her to go do her morning meditations and prayers before breakfast was ready, which was just how she liked it. She walked back to her tent as Nightpurr popped his giant head out of it sniffing and snuffling, obviously looking for his breakfast. Ducking into her tent she pulled out a ‘Saber meal’ which was packaged meat and other things (such as vitamins hidden in the meat) that were issued for the Sentinel Sabers to eat. She unwrapped it as the giant cat practically danced around her and then she put it down for him to grab and devour. With that done she got dressed in her duty uniform, grabbed her staff and washed her hands outside before going to a visible spot to her Sisters under a tree in the camp to start her morning Priestess rituals. She pulled out a small bit of incense, lit it and just as she started to go through the motions…

“Your ‘Uncle’ would like a word with you,” a gruff and gravelly female voice said above her in a tone of snooty amusement.

Looking up with alarm as she already had her staff in hand to fight she saw what at first looked like a wisp, a wisp that then turned into the familiar form of that small val’kyr that followed her Uncle around. The tiny winged woman smirked viciously at Iyora as Iyora just glared back, no one liked the creepy thing, including her own Uncle Ourrin Highblade. From what Iyora’s father had told her, the story was the little creature had to kill something to become a full val’kyr and had picked Ourrin for some reason. Iyora and her father Jartsam both surmised that since Ourrin was still walking around, that the creature had failed in her endeavors and now just followed their Twice-Born family member around due to some bit of twisted logic that only made sense to it. The val’kyr would do only what Ourrin told it (aside from ‘buzz off’, apparently when Ourrin told her that, she’d just do that creepy grin of hers and giggle and stay put) and if anyone else tried to talk to it, you’d be lucky if all you came away with was a series of painful gashes up an extremity or your face. Mostly he used her to send messages or be a spy/scout for his group of Twice-Born known as the Redeemed as if she kept insisting on hanging around, she might as well make herself useful.

When Iyora didn’t reply fast enough the little creature grinned wider trying to be as unnerving as possible, “He’s outside of camp waiting,” then she jumped off the branch she was perched on and sped off in the direction Ourrin probably was at.

Iyora’s irritated sigh came out more like a growl as she wondered what could her ‘Uncle’ could possibly want. She didn’t like him, he wasn’t her real Uncle Ourrin to her, as that man had died in the Third War. The Twice-born was just a walking, talking, unnerving abomination of his former self and she couldn’t stand being in his presence. Her brow furrowed, what under the Blue Child could he possibly want with her? All of his dealings with this Cadre has always been with the Commander only and thankfully he always left her out of it. He knew she didn’t like him even if her beloved An’da kept insisting his brother was still himself (despite being an ice-cold, no-pulse murder machine), and up until now Ourrin seemed to respect her wishes in giving her a wide berth. So what would…?

Then it hit her. Her last letter to her An’da… Oh. Ooh.

Getting up, she looked around for someone to tell, or go with her as she wasn’t about to walk out of camp proper alone. Finally she spied Guardian Nightbreeze getting out of her tent as she walked right up to her. Saluting her superior she let the Guardian know Ourrin wanted to speak with her. Bovira stood there for a moment digesting the news, looking around until finally she said she could spare some time to accompany her to where Ourrin was waiting. Iyora liked the Guardian the most out of all of her superior officers (if you could, could you do that? That may not be a proper thing to feel about your superiors) as she was the most… calm. Calm, unflappable, quiet and thoughtful, if Iyora needed help she knew out of anyone aside from the Commander, Bovira’s advice was usually the best to heed. Although, currently she hadn’t been exactly heeding Bovira’ advice of late, which made her feel rather guilty. The ursine-looking druidess followed Iyora to the edge of camp where the small val’kyr suddenly flared into existence again in front of them.

“You Sentinels sure are slow,” it chided, again with that smirk that made Iyora itch to slap it off of the thing’s face as then it regarded the Guardian, “But then bears are pretty slow and dumb, shouldn’t be too surprised I guess...”

Oo! Iyora wanted to rain down some holy fire on that smarmy little thing, but then she looked over to Bovira who didn’t even seem to notice it had said anything. The Guardian looked over to the Keeper with her usual serene gaze, a bit of humor dancing in the corner of her eye that somehow made Iyora’s anger just evaporate like morning mist on sunrise. The senior Sentinel wasn’t about to let the val’kyr get under her skin so, which made Iyora feel a bit sheepish that she was being rather thin skinned. The Guardian looked past the winged annoyance as there was Ourrin, mounted on something that almost made Iyora’s jaw drop right there and then.

“Sham’bala?” she choked out as it was indeed, she’d know that Moonsaber anywhere.

The female saber had been a gift between brothers, one of the first litters her Father had ever helped birth, he gave the biggest cub to Ourrin to train and ride as a battle partner and she did not disappoint either brother. She was a huge female and seemed to have just as much an appetite for battle as her rider did back in the day, she was also a proud mother several times over herself, putting off many fine kittens that were quite sought over as battle mounts themselves. Her bloodline is still the pride and joy of her Father, and well known amongst most Kaldorei saber-breeders. However the longer she looked at that Moonsaber, her shock faded into revulsion as she sensed something seriously off about her. As the large saber swung its head around to look at her, she gasped and almost staggered back, Sham’bala’s eyes were dead white and the more she looked the more she realized that Sham’bala was not of this world anymore, at least, not entirely; as one’s eyes traveled down the massive cat’s legs the paws seemed to disappear into vague, misty outlines. She had indeed died during the Third War with her rider and now, somehow she was back once more to follow Ourrin into whatever battle he chose to fight.

“Keeper? Are you alright?” Bovira asked quietly.

Iyora shook her head no, “Sham’bala… it’s a shock to see her like this. I don’t know if her coming back to Ourrin’s side is a blessing or a curse from Elune.”

The Guardian merely pursed her lips and said nothing to that as they saw Ourrin stiffen in his saddle a bit, probably over the fact he sensed Iyora’s discomfort as his jaw tightened under his seemingly paper-thin skin. He dismounted Sham’bala with a pat to the now undead cat’s great flank (a gesture he used to always do when they were alive too, which made the hairs on the back of Iyora’s neck prickle like a fiend) and walked down to meet them both. As he walked, the cat sat down and oddly enough started to clean one of her there-not-there ghostly paws (apparently even death couldn’t stave off feline habits!) as the val’kyr flew up and cackled at the Twice-Born Commander.

“Great job Commander Ourrin! You unsettled her more with your dumb cat than I could have ever hoped to achieve!” she called, very much loud enough to be overheard by Iyora and Bovira.

Suddenly a great paw shot through the air and SLAM! Sham’bala had neatly swatted the annoying val’kyr thing under her giant front paws in another display that alive or dead, a cat was a cat no matter what. The saber opened her translucent paws a bit to see if her prey was still trapped within as a faint groan could be heard accompanied by a small flash of light that meant the val’kyr had teleported herself somewhere. Sham’bala grunted in disappointment and returned to her position and to grooming her ghostly form waiting on her master.

It was Iyora’s turn to smirk now as it did have a satisfactory feel of karma striking the cruel creature, but it didn’t last long as she saw another mounted from behind the familiar Moonsaber as there sat Ourrin’s second-in-command, the only Twice-Born Iyora found even more disturbing than her Uncle, Mayet. Mayet was Ourrin’s shadow in every way as wherever Ourrin was, Mayet wasn’t far behind. The female worgen sat there, her unwavering undead stare seemed to lock into Iyora’s gaze as the Keeper had to turn away, she couldn’t handle the intensity of that woman’s stare for too long. Elune help her, she had stared down a demon once during a mission, but she couldn’t hold Mayet’s eyes for more than a moment without her skin crawling.

In the meantime Ourrin had stopped a few paces away from them and bowed perfectly in greetings to them both, “Guardian Nightbreeze, a pleasure,” his unnatural voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well despite him keeping his tone mellow with the two Sentinels.

“Commander Highblade,” Bovira bowed back in kind as Iyora followed suit, but a tad more stiffly.

“I have been sent to speak with my Niece on behalf of my Brother if I may,” his own unnerving gaze landed on Iyora as she wished she could pull her hood up over not only her head, but her face as well. Although she had to admit, Ourrin’s gaze wasn’t as harsh as Mayet’s, but then maybe Ourrin was modulating his somehow unlike Mayet. Ourrin always seemed more… considerate of the living than Mayet.

Bovira nodded at this, “Very well, I see this is of a personal nature. I will go give my respects to your Second then while you speak,” and with that she clasped her hands behind her back as she walked over to where Mayet was sitting on her mount.

“That’s going to be a very one-sided conversation,” Iyora muttered under her breath as Mayet brought new meaning to ‘silent as the grave’ when it came to trying to talk with her. She wondered if the worgen was in reality mute, but she also had heard her respond to Ourrin once or twice in the past.

Ourrin nodded as Bovira walked by as he pulled a letter out from his belt-pouch and held it out for Iyora to take. Trying not to make a face at him she took it rather hastily and saw her An’da’s handwriting on it addressing her. She didn’t open it yet, instead she finally raised her eyes to meet her Uncle’s otherworldly ones.

After a moment Ourrin finally spoke, “Your Father is concerned about you,” his echoing voice low, soft.

She eyed him for another awkward moment, did this creature just sound concerned for her as well?

“So he told you to come talk to me?” she winced as that came out far more accusatory than she had meant it too.

The Twice-Born didn’t even seem to notice her irritation with him or the situation, “He recieved your letter and spoke with me. He would come himself to see you, but I reminded him he had duties in Darnassus and that the Isles are an open warzone. No place for a family reunion.”

“Yet you’re here,” Iyora muttered again as she rubbed her thumb over the paper of the letter.

He didn’t rise to her childish baiting at all, “You can read the letter now if you wish.”

Ourrin didn’t have to tell her twice as she opened it and started reading.

Dearest Iyora,

I hope this letter finds you in a better place than the last letter you sent me seemed to have you at. I do not think you a fool my daughter, far from it, but at the same time, I do know love can make fools of us all. While it does sound like you have yourself in something of a pickle, it sounds like you already know the answer to the issue with your first friend there, you just need to do it. Soon rather than later would probably be the best bet, while I know you wish to do it in person, I do not think your lifestyle will give you such a chance and it’s better to just get it over with and make your intentions crystal clear to her. As long as you are firm and clear she should back off and I am sorry it came to this between you as it’s never easy to let someone go. If she persists, well, lets just hope she doesn’t and burn that bridge if and when we get there, eh?

As for your other issues… Oh Iyora, you’ve always had such a big heart. Watching you grow up, you’d love every saber you’d meet and it would always break your heart if we lost one. You’d always be out with me tending to wounds and illnesses when other girls your age would rather be out hunting with a bow and arrow. I knew one day you’d fall in love, and you’re somewhat right I was making that face while reading your letter, but your heart is your biggest asset and your biggest weakness. I know, because I have the same big heart and so does your Min’da, you are so our child. We just worry about you as we know you have a good head on your shoulders, but hearts can and will get people into trouble.

All in all, I just want you to be happy and I know you want to heal this boy, but are you sure he’s worth it? I am not criticizing you, just asking questions you should be asking yourself is all. Like you said, being a Sentinel is what you want right now and that is what you should be focusing on, yes?

I know I don’t talk about it much, but I have seen the devastation of using fel energy can bring, and I’m pretty sure with your second deployment in the Isles that you’ve probably seen it too. I don’t quite agree with the ‘Illidari’ stance of fighting fire with fire as in my experience that just gets your and everything around you burned. Your Mother, your Uncle and I, we all survived the War of the Ancients and the Sundering, it is hard for those as old as we are to trust these ‘Illidari’ (Couldn’t they have come up with a better name for themselves? Bah), but please Iyora, if he is using such powers willingly, I fear it cannot end well even if this path was forced upon him.

However I digress, again, I just want you to be happy my Kitten. If he makes you happy, then so be it, just be careful. But, as a concerned An’da I’m sending Ourrin to get a sense of the boy. Don’t get mad at him, he’s doing this on my request to make your old man feel better.

Next time you come home though, I’d love to meet your Heart-Sister Liall! Please bring her by, she sounds very nice.

Know I love you too and always will no matter what.

Love,

Your An’da

P.S. - You’re using protection, yes?

A hot tear escaped her watering eyes and splashed on the letter, blurring the ink in one spot as she quickly wiped her eyes (as well as the postscript making her suddenly blush furiously - An’da!!). Looking up through her moist lashes she noticed Ourrin had turned a bit to give her some privacy and was either not or pretending not to notice her reaction to reading her letter as he was looking off into the distance absent-mindedly stroking his chin stubble. The familiar gesture made her hair stand back on end again as she quickly folded up the letter and put it away in her own belt pouch. Elune, why did he do those things and freak her out? She remembered him doing that all the time when he was thinking, back when he actually had a fuller beard and would get out his long pipe to smoke a bit as well. Was it as An’da said and his former self was still there, just buried?

Finally his eye swung down as he turned to look at her, the moment of seeing her old Uncle again broken and lost as he said nothing, waiting for her to make the first move.

She cleared her throat, “Did you read it?”

“No,” the way he denied it rang like the noise of a hammer hitting a nail home, “It wasn’t addressed to me.”

This shade of her Uncle was a brutally honest one; Iyora relaxed a bit, “Now what?”

“I speak with your Vilaxian Dawnstorm,” his tone slightly more casual now, “Where can I find him?”

She wanted to squirm but restrained herself, “I don’t know. He could be anywhere…”

He could be watching us right now, she thought as she refused to let herself look up into the nearby treeline, however she was being honest, Vilaxian could be anywhere.

The Death Knight studied her carefully for a time, then his gaze rose up, over her head as he scanned the Sentinel camp behind her.

“Dawnstorm…” he muttered as icy shivers ran down her spine, “There’s a Sentinel of that name in your cadre.”

“Lieutenant Dawnstorm, his sister,” she replied quietly.

“Ah,” was all he said, whatever his intentions he wasn’t going to give anything away, least of all to her it seemed.

“D-d-don’t go and talk with her, s-s-she probably w-w-wouldn’t know where he is either,” her studder finally reared its head as she winced.

Again, those cold, cold eyes regarded her, “I wouldn’t, I’d just speak with Commander Wintershade.”

“No!” she yelped then flushed, how under the Blue Child did this man get under her skin so? She’d damn him, but he was already damned!

“So your Commander doesn’t know…”

“She also wouldn’t know where he is, he’s not welcome in camp,” she rapidly tried to change the direction that the conversation was going in, “And if you must know, it’s not exactly a secret, two of my senior officers know… about him and… me…” she flicked her eyes towards where Guardian Nightbreeze was with Mayet and started to envy her and her probable non-conversation with the other Twice-Born.

Ourrin didn’t follow her gaze, “What is the Sentinel policy on dealing with Illidari then?”

Physically deflating she told him, “We are not to go after them unless they attack us first, but we’re not supposed to associate with them unless the circumstances are dire.”

Silence descended between them as finally his gaze lifted off of her again and scanned around. He didn’t have to say anything her guilty conscious was doing enough damage inside of her as it was, this just brought it all back up for her.

Finally she whispered, “H-h-he’s not really an Illidari… just like you’re not really my Uncle.”

She saw the impact of the words hit Ourrin as his cool gaze, dimmed, the skin around his eyes crinkling up a touch, the air around them suddenly getting colder. She bit her lip as her heart leapt into her throat.

Sadness, bottomless sadness sprang up in those dead eyes, “Iyora… I…” he started, and for that split second, he didn’t sound like a Death Knight with their hollow, echoing voices, he sounded like how he used to sound, like the living, breathing Ourrin Highblade of yore that had saved her life once - the man that was her personal hero - and she just lost it.

“No! I am Keeper Silverhawk to you! I don’t know what you are, and you may have my An’da fooled, but you won’t fool me! My Uncle Ourrin is dead! You’re just some poor facsimile!”

Whatever the Twice-Born was going to say, it died on his frozen lips as they just pressed back together and his eyes renewed their chilly, still gaze. Turning crisply on his heel he said nothing more to her as he walked away, leaving her shaking with anger and remorse in his wake.

Bovira and Mayet had already been looking over as they both probably heard her last outburst as the Guardian nodded at Mayet and amazingly enough Mayet briefly nodded back as the Druidess left to return to Iyora’s side. In passing Ourrin, they both bowed again and said their polite farewells as Ourrin swung up into Sham’bala’s saddle as he urged her into a walk, Mayet’s mount instantly falling into stride next to them as they left.

The Guardian looked on Iyora with concerned eyes and asked for the second time this evening, “Are you okay Keeper?”

Just shook her head no, but didn’t elaborate further to her superior. Already she felt and inch tall, she shouldn’t have said that, she shouldn’t have said that… Oh Elune, I am horrible, terrible...

“Come on, let’s go get some breakfast,” Bovira said with reassuring smile and a hand on Iyora’s shoulder as she nudged the Keeper into starting to walk back to the camp proper.

As they walked back, she finally found her voice to reply, “I think I’ve lost my appetite.”

“You know why she yelled at you, don’t you?” the male voice died giving way to the hissing and crackling that let one know the Gnomish device was actually working (and not about to blow up, that was when it started whining as they had learned the hard way once… or twice).

Ourrin stood there for a long moment, not hitting the button so he could speak back to his Brother through the Gnomecorder. Mayet looked up at him briefly from her mapping something out on the papers spread out before her and gave him a knowing look, but didn’t say a word. They didn’t need to, theirs was a relationship where words weren’t always needed.

Mulling it over, he finally hit the button, “I pushed her too far.”

Jartsam’s voice came back over the speaker, “No, it wasn’t entirely that.”

Rubbing an eyebrow with a finger he was finding communication with the living tedious as usual, moreso today as he knew he shouldn’t have gotten involved in this. Why did he feel such loyalty towards this male?

It was a rhetorical question as he knew the answer, they were brothers, but moreso that Jartsam was still one of the very few to accept him as he was currently. Also one of the very few that he could go to for answers when his fractured memories decided to act up. The other was his daughter Sharina Sylversword, but she had her own mountain of issues, so he didn’t like imposing his problems on top of hers.

“You probably don’t remember, but you saved her life once. She used to idolize you,” Jartsam paused for a moment to let that sink in and then chuckled, “Heh, I remember she once came home from Temple with a bloody nose from a fight with another acolyte that had been bad mouthing your good name and our usually docile Iyora apparently stomped her.”

“She’s not all that docile,” he replied dryly thinking back to earlier this evening, “And I don’t believe I ever had a ‘good name’,” a bodiless cackle followed that from the ever present val’kyr annoyance hiding somewhere in the room.

Mayet got up to get something from across the room next to him as she put a hand on Ourrin’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. He gently lifted her hand to his lips for a moment before releasing it as she walked back to the desk.

Ourrin heard Jartsam sigh, “The point is, I feel with you she is still not over your death. It felt like betrayal to her for you to go off and die and now that you’re, well…”

“‘A poor facsimile of my former self?’” he quoted, banal.

“Elune, is that what she said?”

The Death Knight was not one to a) repeat himself or b) answer seemingly rhetorical questions so he just didn’t say anything as something of a grumbling noise could be heard over the line from Jartsam’s end.

“Aw, his little precious baby girl is just a big brat!” Serra cat-called from above them now, as he could pinpoint her location to be somewhere in the rafters above.

Mayet eyed the rafters of their room for a long moment, but then turned back to her papers, the worgen female had a propensity for attacking the val’kyr with her blood magics just on principle. His Second was also very good at biding her time.

The static broke to give way to Jartsam’s voice again, “She’s young… it’s probably just Kitten-love...”

“Don’t,” Ourrin stopped him dead, “She said her piece, the reasons aren’t important to the matter at hand. I will still go speak with this Vilaxian and get back with you.”

“Thank you Brother,” Jartsam signed off with a weary voice as Ourrin shut off the crackling machine back into stark silence.

Ourrin steeped his long fingers before him as he leaned back into his seat asking himself again why exactly he was doing this. However before he thought himself into a spiraling dark mood he felt Mayet slide up and press her body against his as he wrapped his arms around her. Her presence brought a measure of calm as the two just lay there, not saying anything as again, words were not required.

“By Odyn, you two are disgusting,” the val’kyr spat destroying the stillness which was promptly followed up by Mayet shooting a blood boil bolt, nailing Serra as the thing yelped and teleported off somewhere.

Silence descended once more as the two Death Knights just drank it in.

#world of warcraft #wow #short story #Ourrin #Iyora #kaldorei #kaldoreiyarns #azeroth #death knight #sentinel #night elves #Mayet

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