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askthedarksidersfam · 1 year

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Empty Saddle

The Black Stallion

Summary: After the skirmish with the demons, you come face to face with the beast you’d charged into battle for. What are you to do now?

A/N: omg I’m so sorry this came out later than expected, but with college, writers block and personal matters I’ve been swamped. Hopefully this’ll make up for the wait!

‘What have I gotten myself into?’

It’s the only thought that swirls around your cranium like it’s caught in a lazy whirlpool, spinning endlessly. The only thing you’re able to manage is a single blink, feet frozen in place as if you’d been cast to forever be stuck to the broken road.

You’re sure there’s reason to be stock still like a rabbit caught under the sight of a wolf. You just can’t find yourself to move away, not even if your life depended on it. Not that you could outrun this absolute monster.

The stallion stands tall, but if you weren’t an expert in knowing horses aren’t supposed to be the size of a goddamn elephant you’d credit his sheer size on his breed. At least, what breed he mimics, given this is no animal of Earth. If you’d have to bet, you’re between a Clydesdale or Ardennes given his heavy, draft-like build.

He’s huge, your mind still can’t comprehend an animal so enormous as he, yet here he was before you. He bears a solid coat black as soot, yet it doesn’t hide the flex of every single muscle nor the scarring both old and new from times of unknown battles. What gets your eyes to widen in a world full of impossible creatures such as real demons and angels was the endless plume of flames radiating from each hoof, glowing a blazing orange under the molten slabs of rock protecting the foot walls.

Perhaps you were too quick to assume that was the most bizarre factor of all once you incidentally make contact with his glowing reddish eyes, framed behind a wispy lock of flowing dark gray bangs despite the lack of wind. It’s eerie how intelligently they gaze back at you, no doubt gauging your threat level given how his ears are pinned back to his skull.

The silence is interrupted when a shoulder bullies you backwards, pushing you by the hip to make a safe distance away. A familiar black spine protruding from a muscular back was hint enough to tell of your loyal savior who’s quite well aware and conscious of the still lying danger. Yes, the main threat was eliminated, but that didn’t mean that the horse wasn’t as dangerous.

Pongo pushes you back again, but this time you make a sound from the back of the throat in protest. The hound however doesn’t listen to your half attempt of resistance, instead making it his mission to act as your shield, even as you try to walk past.

“Pongo,” you try to command him, “cease, it’s okay!” He doesn’t let up, instead turning his head to growl warningly at you as if to say ‘I hear your commands and that won’t stop me because I’m suddenly deaf!’

“I know you can hear me! C’mon!” You uselessly beg, keeping an eye on the horse who seems to be warily gauging Pongo. The hound however, yaps at the order as he tries to again shove you away.

“Pongo! Sit! Heel! Something!”

The hound chuffs. The stallion snorts softly and for a second you’d assume it was a laugh.

“Pongo look at him!” You say, not thinking about the fact you’re literally talking to an overgrown dog as if it were a person. ‘They’re more intelligent then they let on,’ Grace’s voice rings distantly, ‘speaking as if they are people gives them respect and they return it in kind.’ Blessedly, either from the thought of the teen herself that pacified his frantic attitude or maybe the urgency in your tone that Pongo is ever so responsive to, he actually stops.

You place a hand in his shoulder, stroking the leathery skin as you gesture gently to the stallion again, looking far more exhausted than before. “Just look at him, he’s tired, he’s bleeding out, he’s weak. He needs our help.”

Briefly you wonder when such a beast seemed so… feeble.

“Pongo please…” please let this work, “what would Grace say if we left him behind?”

That makes the hound stop. His taut muscles that quiver with the urgency to run cease their movements, his own fire tipped tail had lessened its protective glow. Although a spark of guilt had begun to rise in you for having to use such a tactic against him. Guilt tripping an animal-demon wasn’t exactly the best thing to do.

Despite the beast being your companion, he still held an attachment for the one who saved him from an untimely death in the streets. The girl who’d patched up their wounds and fed their empty bellies comparable to the company of demons who’d kick or starve in the name of cruel self satisfaction.

A kind hand was alien to them and upon first contact of affection, the rescues had been unwaveringly smitten since.

In a sense, they’d seek her approval in return for genuinely caring for them.

Like a child to their mother.

Presently, your companion chuffs as he stares at you, but behind those bright eyes, you can see the thoughts running about his brain. The meticulous picking of the choice words you’d used to coerce him. At least, attempt.

Pleading, you stroke the fin that juts from his back, just between the shoulders, scratching the good spot that he could not reach. Pongo gently grumbles under the ministrations, leaning into your fingers to encourage you to keep going. You do oblige his request, watching the way his tail swishes as his tongue peeks out his maw.

Now to try your luck again. “Please? Just let me help him,” cautiously you glance to the stallion whose ears are pointed at you, listening intently, do you lower your voice to a whisper. “If he does try to hurt me, you’ll know what to do.”

Pongo huffs, sending an almost nod your way. Then he lifts his nose to the air, sniffing cautiously, huge ears flicking to the horse, then swiveling about for any faraway sounds. You know what he’s doing. He’s searching for any nearby threats.

Your heart picks up, a smile slowly stretching on your chapped lips. He’s done this ritual before giving the okay to pass a dilapidated threshold.

A few moments of deliberate slowness pass by at a snail’s pace with your thrumming heart. Each second feels like an eon moving at a glacial speed. One flick of the ear, a twitch of the nose.

The snort of a weakening horse.

Huff!

The okay was given. And you waste absolutely no time. Running to the untouched wagon, you push the clothes away until you could get a glimpse of the gardening supplies below. Wedged between the wagon wall and fertilizer lay the object of your needs. Wire cutters.

Snatching the tool, you keep pointed downward as you then make your steady, careful approach to the stallion, determined not to spook him. Having just been attacked you’d guess he’d appreciate not having more metal weapons pointed at his face. Pray he just isn’t wild enough to try and kick you with those monstrous hooves that can knock your head clean off.

Pongo keeps a vigilant eye as you approach, hackles raising when you reach within arms length. He offers a terse growl to the horse who hasn’t even made a move. But the threat is clear as day.

Touch them, and I’ll kill you.

As you start to enter the steed’s personal bubble, you keep your movements slow and deliberate as to not upset him. And in the time you spend nearing him, you can really take in the sheer size of this beast.

True to your assumptions, he’s impossibly tall, with your head just barely reaching the elbow. His head hangs low and you can see it’s the size of your torso, and nearly just as wide. Those eyes, intelligent and eerily aware of you, never once break away from you as you finally come to his legs where the problem lay.

The damage is far more intense than you’d expected before, barbs digging into muscle and wire choking the limbs to a painful degree. The left hind leg hung like a dead weight, blood pooling down the gaping wound that brings you to gag. The acrid taste of your meager lunch stinging the esophagus as you try to swallow down both the food and your nausea.

He must be in unimaginable pain. The pitiful thought comes to mind, and your brows furrowed as tears sting the back of your eyeballs. You blink back the tears as your jaw locks up, lip quivering dangerously. No, don’t cry, not now. He needs your help.

Though you attempt to push away the onslaught of tears that threaten to fall out of your eyes, it’s inevitable as you lift the cutter to assess the situation. The wires are messily tangled across his chest, caught in the metal of a protective chest piece that you hadn’t noticed before. They coil around his legs and trail down the chain link straps connecting to his oversized saddle and entwine into the soft- er, well, softer skin of his belly. Just a few stray cables manage to snake around to his bad leg tight enough the limb is unable to even meet the ground. All in all, a terrible position.

Before your brain catches up, your mouth opens up for you, “Oh, you poor baby,” his head picks up at the words, ears pointed to you. Impulsively a hand raises up to stroke the tiniest bit of unmarred skin just under the stirrup nearly as big as your face. Whoever rode him must’ve been enormous.

His side quivers under the touch, with a snort he leans just centimeters from your hand. A deep grumble you’d come to realize as a warning growl from the beast. ‘Don’t’ is all but he conveys. Pongo from behind snarls, sending his own threat to the two of you. You send out a placating hand to the hound, attempting to ease his mood so he won’t feel so inclined to do anything you’d regret.

“Easy boy, it was my fault okay? Just stay there.” Pongo scoffs, but obeys, the tension in his hackles lessen just a millimeter. Returning to the task at hand you take the handle of the tool in each hand, then place the metal mouth to a wire on the leg and begin to cut.

At the first, glorious sound of the cable snapping the steed grumbles, whether discomfort or elation you’ll never figure out. He does shift ever so slightly when the cutter presses flat against his hot skin to pry off the especially stubborn strands, but he makes no further fuss.

Peeling the cut cords free, you toss behind you, far away from the three of you. Thankfully it seems your efforts are beginning to shine through, although the work is far from done, your acquaintance seems to be satisfied with the slow, but steady progress. His huge head is held higher, tilted just the slightest of a fraction to watch you currently work on untangling an especially confusing knot on his chest piece.

“Piece of shit, Ugh- wire!” You mutter to yourself, using the clipper to snip away the stubborn knot. “How exactly can something get so tangled, makes no damn sense.”

Snip snip snip.

“You know, I have to say something,” the silence is unnerving and the pairs of eyes focusing on your work doesn’t make you feel the slightest comfortable. You just had to fill the silence for some peace of mind. And maybe, just maybe, the big lug might under the microscopic chance, appreciate some small talk. It could help you win him over if you’re to bring him back to Haven.

Am I actually doing this?

You stopped for a moment, thinking about what would happen if you just came in with a hellish horse trotting along into the settlement.

You wouldn’t be the first one to bring in an otherworldly creature to the tree, that title being given to several predecessors. It wasn’t the size or type of animal, but rather the type he was, most likely demonic.

Now even though there are plentiful demonic companions, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park when they’d first step foot in. You vividly remember the absolute shitshow between Grace and Ulthane when she was commanded that her two ‘friends’ were to be separated and most undoubtedly… dispatched by the other Makers after being relocated to the Maker Tree. You’ve never seen the mild mannered girl lose her temper like that, or scream as loud as she did between the onslaught of tears.

You know the Maker would pitch a fit. He’d definitely tell you to take the beast out to the streets in the prospect of his rider coming back if he still lived, or cull him as an act of mercy. Maybe even for meat. He’d be final in his decision.

But just as stubborn as the Maker was, he was just as ironically, a pushover in the face of human begging. You witnessed the great giant turn to an absolute mush at the sight of survivors pulling puppy dog eyes or a well placed lip quiver. Perhaps, with a bit of luck and some acting if worse comes to worse, you’d be able to keep him.

“I don’t quite understand how a big old thing like you,” his ears pin back when you refer to him as a thing, but you digress, “could get all tangled up in wires like this. How did you even manage that in the middle of a city?” You clip him free of an especially irritating wire. You don’t expect an answer, but you’ve heard how some animals are just injury magnets, especially with horses. So you don’t put it above that possibility. Oh to be as lucky as he.

You wipe away the sweat that has begun to trickle down your brow, the sweltering heat from his hooves the culprit. But strangely despite the flames damn near licking your own arms, you don’t feel the sting. It then occurs that in your manic need to help him you plum forgot those fire spitting legs of his.

You decide not to question the legitimacy of fire physics and logic coming from an elephant sized horse. Lest there be a headache from picking apart the science of it. Just chalk it up to magic. Magic, as if that answer doesn’t send your head into a tizzy.

Shaking your head loose from the tizzy, you refocus on the task at hand, clipping away mindfully. You were making progress as you’d managed to clear him of most of the cable, freeing his legs and chest. The only bothersome pieces were those too far entwined into the metal saddle to properly dislodge in the dying sunlight.

It was starting to get late, far too late. Enough time had already passed that the sun was nearly behind a cover of clouds. Soon enough it’ll hide behind the horizon and leave you in the dark. The only guide would be half functional street lamps and the sight of your own eyes. Pongo would help, but you'd rather not leave it up to him to guide you in a rubble ridden city with a questionable stallion with an unknown temperament.

With time running out, and a job not finished, you looked between the horse and the hound who picks his head up under your gaze. You had to think of a plan.

‘It took me about forty five minutes, I think? to get all the way over here.’ You set your hand to the sky, palm facing you as you stick your fingers out. Lining up your fingers to the sun, you squint under the light as you adjust your pinkie just below the horizon. If memory would serve you right from time lessons with the hunters, you’d have about an hour of light at best.

Now you have two options: finish the job thoroughly, but likely risk a run-in with a hungry demon or livid Maker, or botch the job for the sake of time and get back to Haven before a search party gets to you first.

And most likely not let you get this beast to Grace so you can get her more expert opinion on what to do. Yes, you know she isn’t exactly a surgeon, but has done her work or two patching up the beasts.

Normally you’d turn to one of the people who knew how to fix up human injuries. The Makers were out of the question as they were the last person you’d turn to at the moment. You wouldn’t call them medics as no one was properly trained, but only a handful had some basic knowledge with first aid. This one is on a much more colossal scale and the “patient” might object to the prospect of surgery. He’d need a person who has more experience with handling as you have next to none, current demonic company notwithstanding.

“Pongo,” the beast lifts his head, tail thumping on the concrete as you tilt your head, “go get the wagon.” Obediently Pongo trots over to the plastic wagon to retrieve it. Leaving you to turn over to the horse and look back at the half finished job. You’ve noticed that his big head is turned more to face you, those fire red eyes flitting over you, a question hidden beneath.

“The sun’s going down, and I have to get back before dark.” Rolling your aching shoulders to soothe the strained muscles, you return to the job, eyeballing at the largest barbs, mainly the ones holding his bad leg. The salty stench of the wound is enough to make you pause, trying not to gag when you get an unfortunate closer view of his muscles. Suppressing a shudder, you swallow the urge to make a strangled sound of the grisly sight, instead taking one deep breath despite the odor.

Biting your cheek you begin to angle the cutters to his gaskin where the culprit cable coils painfully into his limb, lifting it several inches above ground. Just one last cut and this would be the end of the job for now, as you’d made the final decision that an angry Maker isn’t how you want to end this day.

Technically, this wasn’t the end to the day you’d imagined. You’d imagined returning back with your haul in tow and maybe a few moments of congratulations that would lift your spirits. Hunters and gatherers alike were given praise that they’d mostly sheepishly accept as it’s nothing more than a job to feed hungry mouths.

Maybe show off the seeds to the others so they’d get the greenhouse started, then end it with tonight’s dinner- undoubtedly a stew of sorts mixed in with savory spices and the hunks of meat from the latest kill. Definitely give Pongo a few scraps of the stew for his good work, before curling up in some undistinguished corner with a salvaged book the others had scrounged from the old stores. Then drift off to sleep.

And in the bouts of moments you wake from the dreamless sleep, drowsily wondering what tomorrow will bring. If not the same pointless, meaningless day that drones by one after the other. Isn’t that what this life had been reduced to after the apocalypse? Since you’d been shuttled into the tree? The same, wash, rinse and repeat of the day, going nowhere in a hurry.

At least in the old camp there’s been a sense of urgency, and that made the days go far quicker…

A whinny from your left interrupts whatever train of thought is running through your head, making your heart leap to your throat. Frightened that the horse sees a threat that you can’t, your head whips around in all sorts of directions, searching for a hidden predator in the creeping darkness. Pongo would’ve caught it, or chased it off, but there he was, the rope tied to the wagon’s handle in his mouth. Hauling it with little difficulty and little care to the threat the horse sees.

“What is it?” You try, turning back to the large herbivorous (at least you hope) animal, following the direction of his ears pulled back to his neck. Those big eyes pointed not at you, but the space between him and you. A sound that you can only describe as a growl rumbles deep in his throat that you can feel in your chest.

Hurriedly you follow his gaze and understand immediately why. In your daze your hands had lost their place and moved the clippers away from the cable and rested on the piece of flayed skin that hung limply. He’d thought you were going to cut him.

“Oh shit!” Pulling the cutters away as if it were to set him on fire, your brows shoot to the air as you look at the beast. His huge ears point back to you, the hard stare lessening as his tail flicks, swatting your shoulder. “Okay, I deserved that. Sorry big guy,” he tilts his head upon the word ‘sorry’. “I was just… distracted.”

Distracted isn’t even half the truth. A distracted mind at least would return from the deep recesses of the subconscious and carry in with the day, the last thoughts lingering in the cerebellum. What you’d be able to describe, at least to the best ability, was a constant never ending cycle of brain numbing thoughts that piled one after the other.

It was endless, this constant battle of the weak attempts to stave off the endless images and wonders that could be described as killing the human spirit. Like putting a resplendent bird most beautiful and free into a rusty barred cage in a corner. Slowly killing the beast with each slow, excruciating day.

It was simply best to try and cope. Emphasis on try.

Placing the mouth of the cutters to the wire, the horse from beneath it began to shift his weight, pulling himself away.

“Hey, no, no, no, you’re fine, it’s okay,” you attempt to soothe him, stubbornly following him as to not lose your position on the last piece. “Look, it’s no problem just stay-” he doesn’t simmer down as you’d hoped, but you’d take this chance as you’d expect to not be given another one.

Clip!

The result is immediate, as his leg is finally freed from the strangling hold, “-still, there see? All better!” You pry the pieces away and toss them aside, admiring the fruits of your work. At least he didn’t look so gnarled up as before. The damage however still stands, evident by the big wounds that need immediate medical attention, but for now you’d take this little victory.

Pongo huffs from behind you, his hot breath fanning on your wrist as his mouth comes to tug on your sleeve again. The wetness of his nose is cold to the touch, but grounding. He’s giving you the message, ‘it’s time to leave.’ One glance to the retreating sun and you take one moment to take in the orange painted clouds, the hue glowing so brightly against the inky evening sky.

You don’t remember seeing the sky so alive before. Not in a long time. The small tug of your lips pulls into something bigger, you don’t let it die even as you tuck the tool away in the wagon.

“Alright boy, let’s go home.” You hand off the rope to Pongo for him to bite on, giving him responsibility to pull it. The hound wags his tail as he gives the rope a playful shake of his head, accepting his duty with no complaints. Your smile doesn’t fade away when you watch Pongo gnaw at the rope, not hard enough to sever the fibers but just enough to sate his need to bite.

Upon the sight, there’s a pull in your chest almost nostalgic as you think back to the times before… everything. Images recalled by a hazy brain reminisce of scenic parks lush with spring flowers filled with the yapping of playful dogs big and small. Seated on a bench, you’d watch a German Shepherd wrestle a knotted rope toy from an especially competitive Golden Retriever.

Although Pongo was far from a fluffy Goldie, he was so alike to those dogs in the park all those years ago. Playful and lively. In this instance alone you’d thought he would’ve fit right in with those canines. You could practically hear his bark mix in with the ambience, chasing playmates and huffing greetings to the rare trustworthy stranger. Perhaps snooze in a patch of sunlight next to the older dogs after the play wears him down.

Briefly, you chuckle at the thought of a park for Hellhounds. What would it look like? And would the other demonic “companions” you’d seen be allowed to enter. Maybe giant bird perches and toys ten times the normal size would be a hilarious sight to behold.

Speaking of things ten times their size…

You make your way to the horse’s shoulder, hand brushing gently on his side as you go so as to not spook him, muscles quivering under the touch. Although he is heads taller than you at just the withers, you can get a clear view of the chain link reins resting on his thick neck. You briefly think about the weight, pondering if you’d be able to lift them as each link was almost as large as your fist. No time like the present.

Rising to the top of your toes you barely make any difference in the height that the horse holds in spades, however you’re determined to get the reins unhooked from the saddle horn. You lean an arm against him as the other strains to reach far above your head, the distance isn’t going to be closed and you know this but it won’t hurt to try. Bending at the knee, legs spring upward with a jump to offer a momentary boost, and your heart rate jumps when you actually feel the pads of your fingers just brush against the cold metal.

Thankfully the beast doesn’t spook as you noisily collide with the pavement. He does however cock his head to watch you with curiosity, ears pointing at you whilst you prepare for another jump. Tongue sticking out in your concentration, legs push off with as much strength that could be mustered, sending you several inches higher than before, yet still out of reach.

“Oh come on!” You send a glare at those towering legs that oh so easily outsize your torso. He blinks lazily with those big, glowing red eyes. It almost feels insulting to be stared at with such disinterest, as if he’s enjoying the show.

Eyeing the stirrup that’s just above your head, you begin to think of a plan. Gears whir as you try to calculate the best approach to this next idea. There’s a chance this could work and the end result of getting the reins is reached, but if it fails? Probably kicked to the face.

‘Would it hurt him with the additional weight?’ One voice whispers, wincing at the fresh wounds.

‘It won’t, it’s only for a minute at most.’ Another voice protests, more urgent than the previous. Abandoning logic in an effort to find a quick solution.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Taking a moment to take in a shuddery breath, you look up to the stirrup that’s well within reach. Just in perfect range of the reins. Yes, this’ll do you good, now all you have to do is jump one more time.

Your hand shoots up to powerfully grip the blood flecked metal, there is very little give as it barely buckled under your probably feather light weight compared to the beast who rode this animal. Gathering strength for hopefully one last go, you push off the ground whilst simultaneously lifting yourself onto the beast. Your leg struggles to find a foothold on the saddle, but you don’t let that stop as your free arm scrambles for the saddle horn where the precious reins lay.

Unfortunately as you’re distracted, you don’t hear the panicked yelp coming from behind, nor the horse’s ears pinning back as a pair of heavy paws run in your direction.

Though you’re not completely without upper body strength, you’re not an Olympic athlete either. Which makes everything even harder when the black stallion starts to agitate beneath you, jostling you so roughly you nearly lose hold. He grumbles a warning, warning you to get down.

In an effort of strength you hadn’t performed before in your life, you pull yourself up with one arm that would’ve put gym bros to shame. Then in one fell swoop, you unhook the unbelievably heavy reins from the horn and toss them aside, sliding down the steeds neck to hang loosely. Success!

But before you can celebrate, something clamps down on your leg and yanks you down. You scream when your grip rips free from the stirrup. You don’t know if the fall won’t break anything too vital, but you know it will hurt.

If Ulthane finds out you broke a bone he’ll kill you. If he finds out at all.

That old Maker would eventually sniff out any injuries sooner or later, so hiding wouldn’t be an option. You’re so fucked.

Bracing for a hard fall,you come to a surprise when your descent falls short as you land on something cushy. The wind is knocked out of you. Although it was better than concrete, you don’t appreciate the jutting surface that digs painfully into your back. It’s just then when hands come to push you into an upward position so you feel a familiar leathery creature under you. Pongo.

He broke your fall.

If you weren’t still reeling from the breathlessness you’d be singing praise. However any thoughts you’re able to formulate are cut short as Pongo backpedals, roughly jostling you while he growls. Dizzily, you push yourself upright, but cling to Pongo’s fin so as to not suffer falling off him as well.

But was it an accident? The giant slobber mark on your pants tells otherwise.

“Pongo, are you serious?” You swing one leg over his head and soundlessly slide off his back. The hound huffs, offended at the tone. His huge ears are pulled back as he tilts his head to send a half hearted glare your way. ‘Are you serious’ is what his gaze practically screams.

Here we go again, you think mildly annoyed. “Listen, I was fine,” you gesture to your whole uninsured self, but his hard glare doesn’t break, not even as you slowly inch back to the horse. “I didn’t die right? And you’re here to save me anyway. My hero.” The Hellhound gruffs at your sardonic tone.

It isn’t until you feel the rolling heat on your back do you turn to the horse whose eyes don’t leave you. The reins dangle from his mouth. You smile, now that this whole debacle is almost over with. Taking the heavy chains in hand, your thumb runs over the tiny nicks and scratches that litter the chains. The untold stories behind every mark like a scar, you wonder what tales would be told if the beast or his equipment could speak.

What of his rider? Would he return to tell one more epic in the form of a daring rescue? You pray not, having dealt with enough drama for a lifetime.

“Come on boy,” you click your tongue, amazed when he obediently follows after a few moments of resistance, “I know someone who’d love to see you.” You then begin leading him back down the route you took, Pongo in tow.

You just hope this big beast will be able to handle the trek back to Haven. You have to get to Grace, she'll know what to do.

———

The human is odd. Ruin has come to finalize in his mind. An anomaly indeed. Though the age widened beast had no personal contact with humans in his long lifespan, he has heard about humans from his rider and all other company he’d been with.

All talk of the species had been boiled down to a few defining features: young, vulnerable and most notably, flighty in the face of danger, like prey.

But it was this young foal of a human that had the Red Horse tilt his head in questioning. In his scrap with the demons, Ruin had been taken in for a huge surprise when he’d seen the tiny creature, barely reaching his shoulder, so courageously charging headfirst into battle. It briefly reminds him of War in the visage of similar snarling teeth, but far more reckless.

You’re certainly something to keep an eye upon. That battle prowess is not exactly impressive in the company of immortal warriors, but the quick thinking left much room for desire. Under a guiding hand, who knows how well the human could turn out to be.

Typically, Ruin wouldn’t have come so willingly for anyone, but within his exhausted riddled mind, rest and recovery was a priority. In such poor shape he’d certainty perish in worse battle conditions. Though proud and stubborn to a fault, Ruin knew where his limits had been strained thin and when it was best for a tactical retreat.

Under these dire circumstances he should’ve been just as on guard with the human as he was with demons, yet he couldn’t find himself to. Since he’d first laid eyes on the tiny creature, he’d felt no ill will, not a single whiff of malice in their actions. Even the pats on his neck were delicate and soft, as if he’d break, which was rather foreign but… oddly nice. The human even deliberately kept a slower pace to accommodate his heavy limp, although it was a wound to his pride.

What he found most intriguing was the loyalty the Hellhound held for them. The beasts had only loyalty for their keepers, which were all demons. Yet this hound seemed to have known this fact and kept it to heart, not in savagery against them, but a fierce protectiveness like a mother to her pup. This strange relationship reminds him of his own companion.

War…

Ruin could not feel his connection any more, and what frightened him most was how similar this was back when he’d carried the Abomination with him. Was it possible his rider was dead-?

Yet, who could be excited to see him if he wasn’t? No one else would be except War. Maybe, in the greatest impossibilities against him, War was indeed alive and with humans? Ruin had heard one tale through the mouth of an angel of humans taking care of sick creatures outside their own species for the sake of their compassion.

Although Ruin was as practical as a horse can get, he didn’t stop the gentle rise of his head. Something ignited within his chest that left him just a slightest bit lighter.

———

It isn’t until you see the familiar winding roots of Haven do you finally feel the weight on your shoulders lift. It’s nearly sundown and you’ve managed to shave enough time before a certain Maker will begin his obligatory ‘class attendance’ as everyone liked to jokingly call it. There’s enough dying light to illuminate the winding root roads back to the impressively massive trunk.

Almost there.

Pongo can sense it too, with his tail haphazardly thumping against your leg. It hurts a bit actually. The horse too peers through heavy eyelids, attentively taking in every detail. Gently you pat him on the neck as you steadily hop onto a carved root, the beast slow to follow.

When molten hooves meet solid wood, blackened scorch marks form beneath. You grimace at the fresh blemishes, as if the giant ass horse wasn’t a screaming giveaway. You can’t even think of the nightmare of trying to sneak him in.

Oh shit.

Oh shit…

You hadn’t thought about that until just now.

There’s plenty of eyes from overprotective Makers who’re more than likely keeping an eye out of the doorway for stragglers scrambling back to safety. Not to mention the other humans who’d incidentally rat you out when you’d drag him in, clamoring to get a close look or shrieking in fright. You shudder at the thought of one of the refugee Angels finding out.

And there’s the matter of Grace’s own companions. Her winged companion, a territorial GrimHorn as they're known as, would try to chase the horse off. That is if the GrimHorn, known as Tarya, wasn't in the tree canopy tonight and out for a late night hunt.

Peering up at the expansive canopy above, you squint to get a better look through the branches to spot a silhouette, maybe even a tail poking through the greenery. So far you don’t spot the red tipped tail, or the patterned striping of the demon’s wings. Then, just as quick as you are to start your search, you end it, finding no point in trying to spot the creature that’s well over 400 feet in the air and striped in a manner that’s meant to blend in. You’d rather waste your time continuing this crazy task than play Where’s Tarya?

Your eyes do follow the flow of the monumental trunk down to where root meets concrete, lazily trailing the twisting paths they create across the city and-

Wait a minute…

There’s something that catches your attention just barely hidden behind the trunk's natural curve, it’s so subtle you’d almost assume it was a trick of the eye.

Moving along with the natural growth of the twisting wood is a flat surface of a shoddy carved out path from a rogue root that snaked up from its original spot to coil around the tree. It almost seemed too coincidental to be a chance happening, the mathematical possibilities were probably in the trillions in the chance of this stroke of luck.

But with the fact that the winding path is partly carved hints it’s been in use. So that means that it leads inside, it could be the advantage that you need. Now, all you had to do was find a way down.

Eyes trailing over the haphazardly grown roots, trying to trace a path to lead you in the direction you need. Though you had to admit it was a hell of a security measure to have a fuck ton of roots made into a maze to keep unwanted intruders out. At least those who can’t fly or just climb up.

Before you can finish your searching, Pongo pads ahead with a huff, as if scoffing for you taking so damn long to get a move on. “Hey, where are you going?” You don’t get an answer as Pongo takes his haul down a root that merges with the one you’re currently on. You actually hadn’t seen it, now that you notice it, it’s so cleverly blended in to appear as a knot or growth too thick to cut through, on top of the moss that stubbornly clings to the top, a perfect camouflage.

You’d come down this route this morning and didn’t even notice the growth. You feel like a fool for missing it, but you supposed it’s good that it’s hard to spot if you’re not paying attention.

As you watch the hound slowly slip from view as the pathway dips and follows the curve of the road before breaking off to hang in the air almost dangerously if it weren’t for its strong frame. Even though you’d spent a good while in Haven almost a hundred feet up still doesn’t make your heart lurch when you see the view below. Seemingly since Pongo knew a shortcut away from the main entrance, it was best to follow him.

With a click of the tongue, you carefully guide the stallion onto the new path, taking extra special care to ensure you wouldn’t fall as you turned around to helpfully encourage him with a gentle pull of his reins. You wouldn’t blame him since the root was without any railings or protection from a lethal fall. The hesitance was natural, so you’d allow him to take some time to adjust before resuming to be his guide. Though you have to admit, the beast, if he really shared the mentality of a real Earthen horse, was rather well mannered in the face of new and frightening things. He hadn’t spooked once, nor fought you when normal animals would.

If only you could be half as level headed as he is.

After finally getting back to a sensible pace, you finally let your shoulders relax as the comfortable silence between the three- well two of you, fills the oncoming night. Pongo was far ahead by now, tail wagging with eagerness to finally be home. “Mood.” You say to no one in particular.

It wasn’t long until the road mended with the tree and thankfully was far more safer, or rather felt safer, than dangling in the air and praying nothing goes astray. Your new companion, although new to him and his behavior, you’d recognized his own relief with his head more lax than before. A small smile worms its way on your face, gently you pat him on the shoulder, his skin hot to the touch.

That’s slightly concerning. He wasn’t this hot earlier.

It’s enough motivation to make you pick the pace, your company not too far behind with his huge strides.

“Pongo, you better know what you’re doing.” You say to him, hoping that this won’t be a disaster. You won’t waste anymore time getting this animal the help he needs.

Ahead, Pongo chuffs, and you take it as a yes. But you’d doubt putting your trust into a mysterious road from a Hellhound is the best idea. And it’s about to be tested. Wonderful.

Dead ahead hidden behind a curtain of dangling vines laden with moss is a gaping mouth of an entrance. Mushrooms and small flowers doggedly grow around the lip of the doorway. Its width is almost double your arm-span and nearly as tall as the horse.

You can only gape as Pongo’s head pokes out from the curtain and roughly barks at you insistently, it’s far from a pleasant sound, but you know there’s no malice. ‘Come on!’ He’s all but conveying.

Questioningly, you share your new companion an unsure glance that he reflects back at you with those almost inhuman glowing eyes. He tosses his huge head forward with a snort before stamping a hoof on the grassy road. You’d almost take it as a ‘get a move on’, especially when he takes a few steps forward without your lead. Clearly more confident in entering a never-once-set-foot-here door.

Jogging to get ahead of him, your hand goes out to pull at the curtain, surprised by its light weight. Peering inside, the last of the evening's dying light filtered into the dark tunnel. From what little light is provided, you can see the tunnel overall remains the same width and height. Plenty to sneak your cargo in.

Clicking your tongue, you take a tentative step forward, free arm forward to act as a guide in case of any unexpected turns. That plan however is thrown out altogether when the horse’s fire laden legs illuminate the dark hole with his warm glow.

The sound of his clopping hooves was amplified with each step, each echo felt as loud as gunshots. It’s as if the beast wanted you to get caught, but he can’t help it being as large and weak as he was. But the grimace and white knuckled grip on the reins doesn’t fade away as you traverse deeper into the tunnel.

“We’re almost there bud.” You gently say as the first signs of light stretch out from the other side. He heaves a huge sigh so powerful fire spurts from his nostrils, eliciting a barely contained shriek you have to bite down. “You’re just full of surprises.” You humorlessly joke past your racing heart. His ears pull back, sending you a half hearted glare.

As you continue deeper into the passage, you come across a most curious sight. The walls themselves shift upwards above your head, your legs bowing down to accommodate a gradually steepening floor. Just dead ahead, the source of the light, the exit, is not parallel to you, but just above your current position. It seems for a good portion of the walk, you’ve been climbing uphill, or rather, up-tree.

Thankfully after being stuffed in a cramped spot with an on fire horse for a handful of minutes, the choking heat was gone as you poke your head out of the tunnel and into a new room. The cool, fresh air kisses your skin as you take in a lungful of crisp oxygen. Momentarily you take a moment to spy the surroundings about you.

There is a plethora of junk ahead of you. Boxes and crates filled to bursting with all sorts of items. They’re stacked almost haphazardly, reaching several feet above you. You peer above the mess to further investigate the new room.

The room rises high above your heads, probably almost twenty or thirty feet at the top at most. Through the stacked boxes and other miscellaneous items that lay strewn haphazardly around the tunnel entrance there’s a multitude of stalls you spot. They’re all in different stages of being built, with at least four in the stages of completion, but they’re all empty.

‘The livestock pens.’ Your brain recognizes, this is what the Makers and survivors were planning on in their meetings. You knew about it, as did almost everyone, but you’d never seen it in further detail such as this. You’d never really concerned yourself with this project, at least, until now that is.

Behind you, a hot breath fans across your back, an aggressive snort coming from behind, impatient. Jolting from your spot, you utter an apology as you walk out the opening, carefully you help bring the big beast up, mindful of the boxes and junk that would otherwise hinder his space. You resort to pushing them aside with a foot when you’d deemed it too hazardous to keep close to open flames from his legs.

Your heart thrummed ferociously beneath your ribs, sending blood to roar in your ears as if you’d run a mile despite standing. Now that this was over, now came the hardest part of all: getting help. You decided against running around Haven looking for the girl, since anyone could stumble on the beast, or he would go wandering where he shouldn’t, but you couldn’t just sit and wait while he bled out. You in no way had the proper equipment or even basic first aid to do a DIY surgery. It was a total stalemate.

‘Maybe if I store him in a pen, it’ll be enough for me to get help.’ Yeah, as if he couldn’t tear the walls down like wet cardboard if he felt like it. But it’s worth the risk if it means it can give you the break you need.

“Stay here.” Letting the reins go for just a moment, you carefully tiptoe across the minefield of a storage area, mindful not to knock anything over lest you make a ruckus. You wonder briefly how Pongo was able to navigate this mess, wherever he is now. Once you’re at the edge, you take a moment to peer at the area with a better view, and find it to be totally empty. Excellent.

Now all you have to do is-

THUD!

Your heart absolutely lurches to your throat as you can hear what’s almost like an avalanche to your ears. In the periphery of your vision you can spot a stacked pile of plastic tubs tumbling across the floor. You don’t have to guess the culprit, as his huge head bends over the tubs to glare at them, grumbling angrily. You shush the beast, scrambling to grab his reins and stop his huge head from knocking down anything else.

Someone definitely heard that.

“Leave it alone!” You whisper-yell, not wanting to tempt fate right now as you freeze in place as you can hear distant footsteps. The muscle beneath your breastbone pommels under the bony cage, fierce as a war drum as the footfalls only got louder.

Shit, shit, shit!

In a mad scramble that your own brain failed to comprehend, you start to push the horse’s huge head, attempting to get him to move back. “Move! Come on, come on!” He doesn’t budge under your hands, but offers a glare as your hands remain firmly on his muzzle. If you weren’t so worried about trying to keep him from being kicked out or killed, you’d be very uneasy about the unnaturally sharp canines he’s currently baring under his pulled back lips.

The heavy thuds are practically just around the corner. You’re out of time, and your body feels as if it’s never been more than ready to fall apart at the atomic level.

In one last spur of the moment desperation, you snatch a heavy quilt from a woven basket of rolled up blankets and toss it over his head, hoping it was enough to obscure him. He snorts from underneath questioningly, but otherwise remains in place. Maybe if whoever is coming is going to make a quick glance, they’d assume he was a bit of storage. You’d take a lecture of not being in here or why blankets shouldn’t be so lazily strewn about to prevent damage or attracting pests to nest in the fabric.

“Who’s in there?” The voice growls, it’s deep, rough and familiar.

You turn around just in time to see the very rugged, but memorable face of Jones, a fellow survivor like yourself. He’s got his serrated combat knife in hand, unsheathed and poised at the ready to strike. His teeth are bared, gleaming dangerously against the coarse beard that frames his half shadowed face.

Before Jones is able to take another step, you beat him to it by breaking the silence, “It’s me, Y/N!” Waving a hand, you catch his eyes and watch as the tension steadily seeps out of his body, his eyes lose their protective ferocity as he realizes it’s nothing more than a friendly face.

“Kid, what’re you doing in here?” He questions, lowering the blade to fall to his side, though he doesn’t sheathe it. You don’t blame him considering, well, the Apocalypse.

“Oh, nothing really…” you draw out, shrugging too casually as if you didn’t have the crimes of the day standing behind you. You can feel the horse’s muzzle bump your back, but you play it off as merely rocking on the balls of your feet. “I’m just…” you hesitate to come up with a lie, “looking through the storage, I was just wondering if there was something in here one of the others might’ve moved.”

‘Oh fuck please don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask. Just go away!’

You swear if your shit acting skills don’t expose you, the beads of sweat that are collecting on your brow will.

Jones raises an eyebrow, but whether from skepticism or amusement you’ll never know. He merely cocks his head, “Well that’s strange considering no one’s really been in here, you know how this is more of an active construction zone.”

‘Good, good, he’s not completely onto me. Maybe if I can just redirect him out of here.’

“Yeah well,” you nervously wring your hands, and nearly freeze as a snort sounds from behind you, the best you can do is roughly clear your throat to drown him out.

“Since when does anybody ever really listen? You know how we all are, yeah? Giving Ulthane heart attacks and such…” Please just turn around and go away is the only thing your mind chants over the roaring of your racing heartbeat.

The silence is deafening as Jones remains silent. It’s almost as if a pin dropping would be a tactical nuke in this choking emptiness. A single breath felt like it could alter the outcome of this conversation. It explains why you’re holding it.

That is until Jones chuckles, the sensation like shattering glass, sudden, loud and scattering as you nervously join in despite the fearful jump of your shoulders. “Yeah,” he drawls, storing the knife away to its holster, “well I wouldn’t put it past you knuckleheads.”

“So uh, yeah…” you begin awkwardly, the back of your neck rippling with waves of hot embarrassment, or maybe it was the animal’s fire hooves. “I’ll just be, a few more minutes. Still gotta search. So don’t mind me.” It’s the best you can manage without outright dismissing him.

Blessedly, Jones seems to get the message as he starts to backpedal. There’s an invisible weight that lifts off your shoulders, and the stale air in your lungs scrabbles free in a sigh. Just a few more milliseconds and he’s gone.

Just as Jones is teetering between the carved entrance between the stable room and the main room, he pauses to give you a lazy glance back. There’s an easygoing smirk on his rugged features, “Anyways, don’t take too long in here, or…” his eyes widened considerably as he trails off. Those dark eyes are pointed just above the apex of your head, and hot breath fanning on your hair makes your blood turn to frozen slush.

Jones’ mouth does a wonderful impression of a goldfish, completely dumbfounded. Thankfully he doesn’t run away or pass out as you’d expect, but his frozen in place gaping isn’t exactly any better. Especially at the mouth of the door where any wandering eyes can see.

Without even thinking, you bolt forward to grab Jones by the wrist and drag him back until you two are hidden within the room. Stopping just before one of the finished pens next to the storage space, you slap a hand over his mouth before he could scream. That is, if he’s capable of doing so as he claims nothing really bothers him. But it doesn’t mean he can’t.

Jones’s hands come up to clamp onto yours, brows furrowing as his wide eyes dart between you and the horse behind the pen wall. You grimace in panic as you hear his muffled voice throwing a million questions at you. Still riding the waves of the anticipation of being caught, you shush him until he calms down enough.

“Listen, I know this looks bad at the moment,” an absolute understatement, “but I need you to calm down. I found him while I was out and he’s friendly.” Distrust glints in his dark brown eyes. You continue. “You’ve got a million questions I know, but I need some help. That’s all. Can you do that?”

Jones doesn’t respond. You gently shake his head to bring his attention back, pleading. “Please Jones?”

His lips purse under your palm, considering the question. In your opinion, he’s taking too long to come to a conclusion. Until, finally Jones nods his head, though his willingness doesn’t match his eyes. Satisfied, you peel your hand off his face, and he takes a deep breath.

“Alright fine I’ll help. But this does not mean I’m fine with it. I expect answers from you. Now.” You shake your head and he frowns.

“Not yet,” Jones shoots you an incredulous look, “this big guy needs help now. Where’s Grace? She knows how to patch up demons and such.”

He raises a bushy brow at the mention of her name. It’s no secret Jones knows where she is at all times as he’s always checking on her as she is rather reclusive. You’d say he has something of a soft spot for her.

“The kid? She’s up in her nest as usual. She’s probably out watching the world below with Tarya as usual.” The ‘nest’ as it is commonly called, is a makeshift room in the tree canopy naturally formed by a pocket of space between the branches and the trunk. Apparently, it was accessed by the winding staircases that climb the tree’s trunk, the lift and some climbing by the teenager purely by accident when she was exploring. You don’t know every intimate detail, but Grace soon turned it into a living space for when she needs some time to get away from everything as she is rather asocial. Others have been up there before for peace of mind, but not many frequent that place like her. In fact, you’re sure she snuck a mattress up there when Ulthane wasn’t looking. Either way, total hermit behavior.

It makes Ulthane worry about her with how often she won’t show her face for hours on end.

Before you can think, your feet carry you forward, but Jones grabs your shoulder and you wince. His eyes widen as you can’t stop the hiss that comes from your throat, a curse whispered beneath his breath.

“Stay here, I’ll go get her. If Ulthane sees you like this… he’ll lose his shit.” You snort humorlessly, hand protectively wrapping around the bruise whilst the other wipes at your bloodied chin. Flakes of already coagulating blood coat your fingertips, but you spot redness of fresher blood from the still open wound. Ouch. He does have a point.

“I won’t be long. Just stay here.” Jones breaks away from you, and there’s a weight that lifts off your shoulders. One burden lifted. As he whisks away into the darkness, you begin to slouch as the events from earlier this day finally hit you like a freight train. With the adrenaline finally wearing off for good and the safety of solid walls steadily putting you at peace, your whole body aches fiercely.

You’re finally aware of the full pain running through your arm that you’re suspicious of having been sliced open to a degree. If not just heavily scraped. Keeping a moment to stay in the pen, you take a small breath before peeling back the torn sleeve as far as you can to inspect your forearm. Hissing gently, you can feel the fibers separate from skin, welded together with the sticky substance that is blood.

Suspicions are confirmed. There’s a gash that runs along the outside of your forearm, starting at the wrist and fading to your elbow in a litter of smaller, less severe scrapes. Must’ve been from the litter with that scrap with those demons.

Demons. You fought actual demons.

That thought is disconcerting as it is badass. If you were a video game character and not a real, breathing person with real problems in the post apocalyptic world. But it still sounds cool.

A snort emanates from the side, drawing you to side-eye the huge culprit who peers at you most curiously, ears pointed to you. Distracted, you give the horse a weak, toothy grin as you keep inspecting the wound that is beginning coagulation. You’d have to get it cleaned soon. Surprisingly, he seems to be staring at the wound intelligently, taking in the fact that this is somewhat similar to what he is sporting.

“Heh, look boy. We match!” You give him a once over and see the further extent of his own before deflating. “Sorta…”

You can’t fathom why, either from his own pure empathy for a wound on another creature, curiosity or boredom, the beast with precision gentleness, bumps his muzzle against your arm. Though a bolt of pain shoots through the tender spot, you hold back a wince. The soft whiskers tickle your flesh as his lip carefully feels the cuts.

“Ah don’t worry about that,” you say as he continues to inspect the gash, ears flitting slowly as his hot breath fans over your skin, “it’s just a cut, nothing more. I’ll be right as rain after I get it patched up.”

Not thinking, you raise your free hand to pat him on his muzzle, feeling acquainted enough to warrant a little pet. What you didn’t expect was for him to pull his nose away from your arm and stare down at you. A bout of newfound fear shoots through you as you fear the beast isn’t taking well to the ministrations and he’s about to take a bite. You fear those fangs of his may be coming to use soon.

In those brief seconds that you are betwixt bolting and being bit, time never seems more suspended.

Until he simply huffs a hot plume of flame from his nostrils, blowing harmlessly on your face. You smile at him again, glad to have not been bitten.

——

There were many things Ruin had seen within his very long life. But yet it seemed there were still many surprises left in store for the old warhorse.

More intelligent than he puts on, Ruin had listened to the whole conversation between the human who brought him here and this Jones. Something about this Jones man sent alarm bells off in his head, even for the brief minute he was in his vicinity. He seemed… familiar. Strange considering he’s never met a human before.

Ruin would have to keep a close eye in the meantime.

After you’d peeled your flimsy sleeve back, he had been greeted with a well known sight. Torn flesh, although in this case very mild in the eyes of a great war beast like him, it was concerning on a creature like you. A young foal like yourself would’ve, no- should’ve squealed or panicked at such an injury considering how delicate you are. Instead when you inspected the laceration, you barely flinched and even smiled and showed it proudly with a grin.

Although you weren’t his own companion, he felt a twinge of pride. A small foal such as yourself showing off your marks of battle! Truly the making of a warrior!

In a moment of encouragement he’d felt your cut as to, in his own way, commend you on the new upcoming scar from your victory. When you did an unexpected move even he couldn’t predict.

You’d placed a hand on his nose and gave him the softest pats he’s ever felt. Sure, War gave him affection on the rare case of his own accord, but none had been so featherlight and foreign. It felt rather wonderful, not that he’d admit it.

But it had shocked him how openly you gave it to him. Briefly Ruin wondered if you’d continue to do so.

However, he brushed the thought aside, refocusing on the person who’d you promise would like to see him. War must be here then? Yet he doesn’t feel or sense him anywhere within this spot. Perhaps somewhere else recovering from his fight?

But Ruin can’t find himself to imagine tiny humans such as yourselves dragging his hulking form out of rubble and into this place. Not with those huge winding roads and twisting root pathways, you’d all be winded carrying him!

Just before the Red Horse could continue to rationalize his thoughts, his supernatural ears pick up the footfalls of two approaching people. One heavy and the other much lighter. His head swivels to the doorway as he awaits the approaching culprits. He doesn’t recognize them as War’s, and his mind is put in the familiar practice of going on the defensive.

“Whoa easy boy,” the human intervenes as he tries to position himself to face head on, giving his huge hooves a perfect direction for clobbering. A tiny hand shoots up to grab the reins, keeping him from fully facing the assailants. Not that he couldn’t just swing the tiny creature across the room with a sneeze of effort. Though, he doesn’t think they’d appreciate that.

“Nobody’s coming to hurt you. They’re here to help.”

———

You’ve never felt more anxious until now. Not when you fought those demons, dragged Ruin here or left Haven this morning without a word. Without warning, the horse started to fuss, ready to bolt or strike. Either way, he’d make noise and draw unwanted attention. The organ between your lungs never pounded so hard and fast as he stared you down when you’d snatched his reins in a mindless effort to stop him.

As hard as he might try to melt you with his eyes, at least he stopped.

Good thing too, for help had just arrived in the nick of time. The girl of the hour was finally here and you let your shoulders sag ever so slightly. Thank fuck, you don’t know how long you can take this.

Just as she steps into the premises, Pongo jumps to his feet, giving the girl a quick lick on the cheek as she greets him back. Wait a minute, was Pongo in the room this whole time? ‘How’d I miss him?’’ you think as Grace gives his neck a few good solid pats. Jones is right behind her as he pushes her in your direction, reminding her of the job at hand.

As her eyes land on you two, Grace’s brows nearly shoot up into her hairline as her lips pull back into a huge open mouthed grin. Her unoccupied hand shot up to cover her mouth to catch the awed gasp that leaps out of her throat.

“Oh my…! Is that fire from his legs?! Holy shit, you weren’t kiddin’!” Grace exclaims, her southern accent slipping in her awe as Jones nods, not as enthusiastic as the younger.

“Oh he’s beautiful!” The teenager says, stepping forward she begins to give him a once over, her bright expression slowly falling as she assesses the damage. You notice Jones’ grimace, a contradiction from the girl. Just before the teen could do anything else, you elect to speak up.

“I- uh, found him in the streets, he was fighting some demons when I came in to help. He was caught in some barbed wire, and I got him out. But the real problem is his back leg.” You point to the limb in question, and she hisses through her teeth as she skims past you to inspect the wound. Grace readjusts her glasses as she starts to get a closer look at the injury, standing on her toes just to get a closer look due to his incredible height. And you’re not the only one to notice.

“Maybe you need a stool.” Jones says from behind, his smile is damn near heard as he pokes fun at the girl. She sends him a sideways glance, lips curling in a smile. “Har de har,” she deadpans, Jones snorts into his hand. You can’t stop a small chuckle.

“Maybe I’ll steal your kneecaps old man, then see who’s laughing!” She retorts, inspecting the wound a bit further as Jones chortles. “That’s if you can even reach them!”

You nearly choke on air as Jones pokes at her height once again. He was strangely playful despite his earlier attitude. Jones wasn’t exactly a stoic man, but you’d never seen him do anything too crazy up close. But then again, fun wasn’t on the top of the list of important things to have in the post apocalyptic world.

“Oh, I’ll reach them alright.” Grace says, dropping back to her feet, she turns to you. “So uh…” she snaps her fingers, muttering several names to herself before Jones chimes in, “Y/N.”

“Yes! Y/N! Sorry about that, I’m horrible with names. Thank you J,” she brushes her hand through her red-dyed hair, sighing heavily. You perk up as you can finally get an opinion. “Yes?”

“There’s a lot of work to be done here. He needs a lot of stitchin’ to close the big cut. But the good thing is, he doesn’t seem to have any severely broken bones. It all appears to be skin and muscle that got nicked.” You release a huge sigh, completely floored by this good news. He wouldn’t need any amputation, or have to be put down as your worst fears had assumed.

“He’ll need a lot of time to heal, and it will be difficult. Without proper medication, I’m afraid he’s likely to have a limp. It’s a miracle there seems to be no infection.” Lucky indeed. Especially with those odds working in his favor.

“What about the smaller cuts? I cut him free from some barbed wire that he got tangled in” You press on, feeling that he’s not out of the woods yet. Grace can merely offer a heavy sigh, clearly overwhelmed with the mountain of problems. “Given that they’re shallow cuts, it’s not impossible for him to heal just fine, but I’ll go over them to ensure there’s no leftover metal that will cause infections or delay healing.”

Nodding, you hold on to each word. Hopeful that things might turn around for him.

“First thing we need to do is get this saddle off him, then get him tranq’d so he’ll be calm during surgery.” Jones tilts his head as you do as well.

“Tranq’d? But I thought you said you didn’t have any medicine?” You said, and Jones gives the girl a suspicious glare, lips curving into a scowl. You don’t wish to know the implications of that stare.

But the girl doesn’t falter much, bringing up the rusted box kit in hand, “I had some… help greeting my hands on some meds. I would’ve given it to y’all, but they’re veterinarian use.” The hesitation in her assistance sends Jones into an overdrive as his loops pull over his teeth.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve been dealing with that demon!” He spits the word like it’s rotten on his tongue, “He’s nothin’ but trouble!” Grace’s shoulders sag as her face falls considerably, “Vulgrim ain’t that bad if you’re nice to him! ‘Sides, he owed me a favor.”

Jones’ head nearly snaps off his neck at the speed he looks up, “He what?!?” The man nearly shouts, but the girl shushes him. “You can yell at me later, but I need to get to work.”

“Oh, we will have that conversation.” he says, and the girl ducks here head down under his hard stare. As the two stared the other down, you never felt so out of place. It was rather awkward.

However, she clears her throat, cutting the silence with a call of your name, “Y/n?” Your head snaps to attention, and she gives a brief smile. “Can you please help me? I need you to keep him steady as I patch him up and he might get fussy.” Although you doubt you can keep this big guy calm, more likely to be trampled under him, you nod. Grace will need all you can give her.

“Jones,” the man’s lips pull to a scowl, “I need you to help me as well,” he scoffs, crossing his arms on his chest as he cocks a hip, Grace shoots him a tiny frown. “What?! Me? I’m not going near that thing,” the horse whips his huge head around, nearly smacking you in the process as he sends an impossibly scornful glare, he snorts a plume of flames and his ears are pinned back impossibly flat to his skull.

Jones points at the beast just as he starts to pull his lips back to bare his teeth, making his point, “Hey- see?! He’s going to kick the shit out of me as soon as I get close!”

“I’d say more likely to bite you with his leg,” Grace says plainly. Even though she said it with little humor, you can’t stop from snickering. Jones’ head whips to you, offended. Your lips seal themselves shut to prevent any more of Jones’ ire.

“He won’t.” She reassures, though you doubt that genuinely despite her confidence, “Y/n will hold him. You’ll see when he’s coming for you.” ‘Likely after he throws y/n’ is the implication she gives. She’s rather… straightforward with her point.

You don’t know if that trait is reassuring or disconcerting.

Jones still only sends her a scathing look, his nose curling distastefully as the girl gives him a pleading glance. The tension between them is thick until finally, Jones cracks.

“Fine!” He throws his hands in the air in finality, tossing his head back to release a groan as Grace merely grins. “I knew you’d come around.”

Just as if a switch is pulled, Grace’s light banter is traded in for professionalism. She carried herself with a more serious air as she started to get to work, giving orders to Jones to help get the saddle off as she promised.

Together, Jones and Grace work effortlessly to unlatch the cinches, all the while you kept the stallion busy with pets so he wouldn’t freak or bite. Even if it was best to keep close to a horse so the kick wouldn’t hurt as bad, does the same rule apply to this one? You’re sure he’d lob your heads off at point blank…

The jingling of metal meeting solid ground fills the air as Jones unlatches the flank cinch, the metal compartment clattering gently on the floor. Jones then, in a complete show of impressive strength, pulls the impossibly huge saddle of the horses back with little effort. The does place it down with a gentle toss aside with a grunt, the horses flanks quiver at the sudden loss of weight.

How many pounds was it? It was nearly larger than Jones!

Grace starts to give the horse another once over, your eyes follow her as she walks all around him as her gaze rove over him. Noting each and every injury that might need her attendance

Then, after making her round she nods to herself before coming to you. “I’ll give him the medicine now, but after that can you please guide him to the stall so we can get him started. He’ll be nice and drowsy after I stick him.” She produces said medicine in hand, a small, but full vial of tranquilizer, the label is barely legible aside from the printed words “equine usage only”.

You nod, allowing her to duck under your hand holding the reins as she picks a clean needle from her kit. She sticks the needle in the vial top, and siphon the medicine into the plastic barrel.

Then, after inspecting the bottle for any bubbles to rid, Grace turns to the animal who seems apprehensive at best. You’d guess between his exhaustion and weariness from giving Jones a hard time he doesn’t have it in him to fight much. But you’re still on guard.

Quick as blinking, Grace jabs the needle in the horse's huge neck and administers the medicine. The animal startles, nearly yanking the reins out of your grip with how quickly he jolts his head up in surprise. You place a hand on his nose placatingly, distracting him from the sting. “Easy boy, it’s all over, see?”

He sends Grace a hard glare behind drooping eyes, snorting a plume of flames in your face and you sputter. You pat him on the neck, even as you try to spit out a bit of ash between your teeth.

Briefly you wonder if the ash counts as mucus, but that’s quickly brushed away as Grace gives you a direction. Obeying her task, you click your tongue and guide the big beast to follow, and he does at a very sluggish pace. Almost lackadaisical in his huge strides, the animal gives little fuss as you take him inside his stall, taking a few seconds to even eye the location with lazy interest.

But whatever curiosity within him is sniffed out as he begins to lower himself to the ground, finally on his last leg of consciousness. You keep watch over him as he slumps to the ground with a deep groan, thankfully on the proper side so you wouldn’t have to bully him into the desired position for Grace. Poor thing just seems so exhausted…

Just as you feel the weight of that huge head of his pull on the reins in your hands, you slowly slacken your grip until his head is lying flat on the ground. He stares up at you with those intelligent eyes, and now instead of a raging fire of a wild stallion, you see something gentler. Something tired and dare you say… nervous? You almost feel sorry for the poor thing.

You don’t stop yourself from lowering down to his level and plopping down next to him, gently stroking his neck as he fights the effects of the working drugs. He releases a hefty sigh as you keep close, not even giving a notice to the teenager who’s now at work fixing your little stowaway companion.

You give him a small smile just as his eyelids finally seal shut, losing the battle of staying awake. However despite that fact, you don’t stop the ministrations, feeling every scar and muscle under your fingers.

To your side, Grace is deep in her work, hands already stained with his blood and covered in a small sheen of sweat, but you don’t pay her any mind as you remain glued to your spot. Unwilling to leave him, not that you’re sure you’d even want to. There’s a conversation between the two of them, but you don’t take the time to listen as you’re only focused on the horse in front of you. Taking in the fascinating creature, you’re able to notice the tinier details about him.

You’d never noticed the markings before. So sharp and precise you’d almost confuse them for brands or tattoos. On his neck, the color of burning coals and even holds the same dull glow are unknown sigils. There’s a total of six, with the largest ones easily twice the size of your open hand. Strangely enough when you peer at the sigils closer, you swear four of the strange symbols spell out ‘CAGE’ in harsh, scrawled writing.

“Y/n?” Jones brings you out of your reverie, looking up to him with tired eyes, he stands but a few feet away, a bottle and gauze in hand. “Come on kid,” he gestures to follow, “let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

Turning back to the animal, you give him one final pat before slowly rising to your feet. You cast a hesitant glance to Jones who patiently waits at the stall door. He moves his head to gesture for you to come, and finally, you go, but not before giving some parting words, “Please take good care of him.”

The teenager offers a two finger salute from her spot, “Will do boss, go and get some rest.” Half heartedly, you chuckle as you finally find the willpower to step out of the stall.

#darksiders #Empty Saddle #ES #ES series #Ruin #reader #13K #oc #og this was probably gonna cap 15k #I tried trimming it down as much as I could #oh my tumblr won’t forgive me for this huge text ;-;#i lied i posted this at 2 am

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