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imagine-darksiders · 8 months

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Eden's Heir, chapter 3.

A Way Out

Words: 6219

Summary: You're not on Earth, and that truth is as devastating as it is implausible. You have to get out of this Void. But there's only one demon who can offer an exit. Unfortunately for you, there's also a certain Horseman who' deems it necessary to keep you close, for curiosity's sake.

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There is very little dignity in fear.

When allowed to fester, even the tiniest pinch of it will start to bulge and swell inside you until it’s too large to be contained by the churning walls of your stomach. So, instead, it spreads through your bloodstream, eating up the space inside you like an infection as it strips away reason, humanity, and even hope.

Especially hope.

You’re not proud that the unexpected knowledge of your true whereabouts sends you into an immediate downward spiral of terror, but in the absence of any better ideas, you think it’s at least a little justified that you promptly stagger away from the otherworldly beings, drop to your backside on the cold, hard ground, gather your knees to your chest and proceed to come apart right there in front of an honest-to-goodness demon, and two Horsemen of the Apocalypse…

You’d always heard that wedding days are enormously stressful, but this is just ridiculous.

You’ve retreated to the precarious edge of Vulgrim’s plateau, not close enough that you’re worried about accidentally toppling over into the misty void, but at least far enough from War, Strife and the leery merchant that at least a diminutive fraction of your unease is lifted.

The blood on your arm has already dried to dark, crackling flakes, and it’s through unseeing, bulging eyes that you stare at the raised line of flesh wrapped in an arc over your forearm.

There’s one startling realisation plaguing your mind more emphatically than any other.

This isn’t Earth. This isn’t Earth.

A whirling onslaught of fresh, new terrors start to haunt you, terrors you’ve never even had to think about until now. You can’t find a voice for all the questions that clutter your mind. And you don’t pay much attention to the set of watchful, amber eyes that have remained glued to you ever since you stumbled dazedly over to the fringe of the floating platform.

Strife is abuzz with questions of his own, questions he’d readily bombard you with were it not for the vacant stare you’re currently aiming at the wound his brother left across your delicate flesh.

Grimacing, the older Nephilim twists himself sideways, keeping one eye on you and the other on War and the demon, both of whom seem more eager than Strife to turn the conversation back to other matters. Namely, business.

“Now then,” Vulgrim announces, clicking the tips of his long, curved claws together in eager anticipation, “I think it’s safe to assume you boys haven’t come here just to have me confirm the identity of this lost, little human…”

War’s lip curls unpleasantly, as if the mere act of even speaking to the merchant turns his stomach. Vehement, he growls, “Our work doesn’t concern you, demon.”

But Vulgrim, ever discerning, simply draws his mouth upwards to reveal the gleaming maw of fangs that sit crookedly behind his lips – a mocking reflection of War’s sneer.

“Oh, but it must,” the demon drawls knowingly, “Why else would you be here?”

War’s expression further twists as if he’s tasting poison on his tongue, and Strife has to stifle a smirk.

Drawing himself up a little closer to the demon’s height, War bites out, “Samael sent us here…” Trailing off to look Vulgrim up and down, he narrows his eyes and adds, “Maybe it was to collect your head.”

Far from threatened however, the conniving demon merely raises a single, slender finger and wags it back and forth in a manner that sets War’s teeth on edge.

“Ah ah ah~” he admonishes, “Careful, Horseman… Show the right temperament and I can be of… service to you. But first, you must be of service to me.”

Strife has to resist the urge to throw his head back and groan. He probably ought to have seen this coming a mile off.

Can’t spend five minutes in the presence of a demon without them angling for a favour…

War, it seems, has also cottoned on to the merchant’s less than subtle hint.

The Horseman’s armoured shoulders almost double in size as he bristles angrily, spitting, “The Council does not negotiate with demons. If you try to take advantage of them-“

“-And by extension, us-!” Strife chimes in.

“-Then there will be consequences.”

His latest threat complete, War narrows his ice-blue glare up at the hovering demon, who, to his dismay, only barks out a dark, mocking laugh and spreads his gangling arms out wide, as if to invite the Horseman to carry out the Council’s apparent ‘consequences.’

“Your Council has no power here,” Vulgrim drones, eyes as sharp as a whetted blade, “This realm is mine, and therefore subject to my rules. If anything were to happen to me, it would certainly prove tragic for you. You’d be trapped here in the void. For all of eternity.”

Strife’s trigger finger twitches of its own accord. He loathes that the demon has a point.

Just then, from the corner of his gaze, the eagle-eyed Horseman catches the rapid movement of your head snapping upright.

Curious as to what’s drawn you from your catatonic state, Strife swivels his helm in your direction, perking up when he sees you clambering awkwardly to your feet, struggling to move your puffy skirts aside.

He’d welcome you back to the present, but your stare is fixed with disconcerting precision on the demon floating behind him.

“Wait, wait a second,” you fumble out in a rush, taking a single, daring step closer, your cheeks still glistening with tears, “What did you say? Y-You’re the only one who can get me out of here?”

The mention of an exit… The hint of an escape…

A tiny flutter of hope drifts free of your soul and you latch onto it with greedy hands, like a child snatching at a butterfly, desperate.

It’s the only force in the world that could lure you closer to the titanic Horseman and their implausible acquaintance. That first, tentative step turns into several more, though you’re quick to freeze in place when three pairs of eyes flick in your direction, sending a rush of adrenaline racing up your spine.

You’ve never felt more like prey in your life.

The demon’s stare especially unnerves you. It seems to eat right into you like acid, hungry and all-consuming. His mouthful of teeth holds your focus as he lifts blackened lips into what you can only assume is a terrible grin.

“Now do I have your attention?” he asks smugly, tossing his gaze back over to the Horsemen, neither of whom give you the impression that they’re as hopeful about the latest revelation as you are.

After a moment, War bunches his hands into fists and tears his eyes from you, turning to glare down the merchant instead. Strife’s attention, however, remains locked on you for a further second before he too throws a dark look up at the grinning Vulgrim.

A shaky breath gushes past your lips once you’re no longer in their sights. It feels as though you’ve just been released from a cast of stone. For just a moment, you spare an absent thought to those Greeks of ancient myth who stared down the legendary gorgon, Medusa. You think you might finally understand, at least a little, what such a fate must have been like. The power of a predator’s gaze is not to be underestimated; it seems.

Vulgrim is still leering right back at the Horsemen with an awfully superior smirk plastered across his cragged jaws, a look that has Strife’s jaw clenching.

“Patience ain’t my brother’s thing,” he growls, “Or mine, now that I think about it… So, whatever point you’re trying to make, make it.”

The demon’s smirk shrinks at the curt tone, but nonetheless, he inclines his head and begins to explain. “Fine. The Lords of Hell are forever in conflict,” he says, “They seek power. Control… Lucifer and Samael most of all…”

You can’t help yourself from jumping in with an embarrassing squeak of alarm. “Lucifer!?” you parrot, once again earning their attention, “A-As in, like, the Devil? Satan!?”

In the span of a second, Strife’s irritation at Vulgrim lifts to make way for amusement at your interruption. “You know another Lucifer?” he quips, grinning down at you from behind his visor, “Big guy won’t be happy someone’s tryin’ to steal his thunder.”

A wave of anxious heat surges up the back of your neck and you throw a hand up to curl trembling fingers around a fistful of hair. “Oh my god!” you blurt, chest heaving, “Is this Hell!? Am I in Hell right now!?”

In response, Strife lets out a rough snort whilst Vulgrim merely offers you a shake of his great, ghastly head. “I’m afraid not,” the demon laments, casting a morose glance at the void surrounding his lonely plateau, “Sadly, Hell is several planes south of this one.”

For several, arduous seconds, you can do nothing but stare up at him in incredulous silence as your brain chugs along slowly, attempting to wrestle with the bombshell that not only does the Devil purportedly exist, but so too does Hell itself. You’re looking right at a demon, after all. It would stand to reason that a place of perdition exists too.

In contrast to the magnitude of the knowledge you’ve just been made privy to, a thin, rasping, “What?” is all that creaks out of your throat.

The question is answered by a low huff from War, who fixes you in his stern glower and rumbles, “This does not concern you, human.”

Gulping, you retreat a step back, almost tripping over your dress in the process as your eyes flit up to the broadsword strapped across the behemoth’s back. Your mouth dries at the very fresh memory of what he’d done to you the last time he paid you any attention.

Unbeknownst to you, Strife’s ears twitch at the click of your heeled shoes on the stone, and the catch in your breath.

Folding a pair of heavily armoured arms across his sizeable chest, he too takes a step away from War before ambling sideways, parking himself stubbornly between you and his brother like a living, breathing blockade. “Hey, come on. Lay off,” he retorts, jutting the chin of his helm out at War, “She’s just as lost here as we are.”

Just like that, the younger Nephilim’s expression shifts, his hardened expression lifting to a quizzical look that he aims at his brother, as if even he hadn’t expected Strife to come to your defence.

Still, despite his surprise, he’s quick to recover his wits.

You, in the meantime, can only stare agape at the armoured expanse of a back suddenly standing in your way.

“We are not lost,” War insists, furrowing his brow, “We’ve just been waylaid.”

“On the contrary, Horseman…” Vulgrim’s slimy tone encourages War’s expression to darken even further. Raising a slender finger into the air, the demon continues, “You are both precisely where you need to be.”

With a quiet scoff, Strife shifts his weight onto the opposite leg, throwing Vulgrim a nasty glare. “Figures you’d know more than you’ve been letting on…”

You almost jump a mile when War gnashes his teeth at the merchant and booms, “Out with it! You know why we were sent here. I demand that you tell us!”

“Demand…” Vulgrim clicks his tongue derisively, but after a moment, he concedes to heave his shoulders into a shrug and rolls his green eyes towards the foggy void above him. “Oh, very well,” he sighs, “Samael sent you here because he has learned that Lucifer is attempting something… unexpected.”

The mention of the latter’s name nearly sends you scampering back to whimper at the edge of the abyss.

Plainly oblivious to the nausea churning in your guts, Vulgrim continues, “He is extending a hand to his enemies, Horsemen. Offering something very desirable in exchange for their…. cooperation.”

“And Moloch is one of those enemies,” Strife hedges, though his tone indicates that it’s far from a question.

Suddenly, Vuglrim drifts backwards, a move that has you ducking into the shadow of the metal titan standing with his back to you, but the demon pays your flinch no mind, simply folding his lanky arms across his chest and cocking a sly grin down at Strife.

“Ah, nothing in the world is without cost,” he tells the Horseman, voice dripping with pompous bile, “If you wish to know more, we must enter into an agreement. You recall that I asked you for a favour?”

Now, up until today, you’d been of the entirely sane opinion that demons only existed in the pages of story books, or behind the screens of televisions and computers. But if there’s one thing you’ve learned from pop culture that could apply here, it’s that striking a deal with a demon would be about as sensible as sticking your head into the jaws of a starving bear.

The Horsemen, it appears, share the very same sentiment.

Strife tilts his helm to send a hostile glare up at Vulgrim, and you could swear you hear something that sounds so much like thunder rumbling away inside his chest.

Even still, War’s objection is far louder than his brother’s.

Peeking around Strife’s side, you observe as the larger Horseman’s entire body goes taut and rigid with sudden animosity, and he begins peeling his lips apart to bare a set of gleaming, white teeth. The animosity, though it isn’t directed at you, still draws the blood away from the surface of your skin, leaving you several shades paler than your typical complexion.

Vulgrim, in contrast, either doesn’t notice the dramatic shift in their demeanour, or he simply doesn’t care.

Bold as brass, he presses on. “A precious artifact has been stolen from me,” he laments with a roll of his wrist, “I sought Samael’s assistance in the matter, but…” Trailing off, he regards the pair of bristling behemoths with a glint in his sharp, green eyes. “Perhaps,” he adds thoughtfully, “You could recover it.”

Dead silence pervades the void for a long, awfully uncomfortable length of time whilst you send fleeting glances between each of the Horsemen, up to the horned demon, and back again.

“Know what?” Strife pipes up without warning, dropping a hand to rest casually on the barrel of a pistol, “At this point, I’m more interested in killing you than helping you…”

Such a nonplussed hint at murder throws your heart up into your throat, and you blanch, gaping incredulously at the spiked, black hair jutting from the Horseman’s helm.

You’re starting to deduce that Vulgrim must be used to such threats. How else could he stare down a man with a gun that size without flinching?

“That would profit neither of us,” he deadpans. Then, raising his voice to an enticing lilt, he adds, “It’ll be worth your while~!”

Strife’s shoulders jump with a sceptical grunt.

“It’s true!” Vulgrim retorts, “I give you my word.”

“Oh! Your word?” Strife echoes sarcastically, “Well, why didn’t you say so! We’ll do it!”

Blinking, the demon quirks a brow ridge. “Really?”

“Sure!”

Everyone, yourself included, stares at Strife in silence for a time, each of you expecting him to throw his head back with a laugh and tell Vulgrim that he’s joking. But as the seconds tick by in which Strife merely peers up at the demon without a word, you start to get the impression that he is not, in fact, joking.

After it becomes clear that his brother isn’t about to rescind his offer to actually help the merchant, War bodily whirls about to face him and scoffs, “You can’t be serious?”

Strife’s metal shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “Look at where we are, War,” he mutters, swinging his mask in an arc to take in the void around you, “If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”

Cowering behind him, you nervously cast a glance around his elbow again to see War’s face screw up beneath his crimson hood, ice-blue gaze flitting sideways to throw a look out at the darkness beyond the platform. With each passing second, you see his eyebrows knit closer and closer together, forming a solid line of white hair upon his strong forehead.

Though he’s loathe to admit it, War can see the sense in his brother’s words.

If they are to leave this place and continue their mission for the Charred Council, they’ll need the help of a demon to do it.

Spitting a Nephilim curse that would have Death reprimanding him with a smack around the head, War snatches his glare to the opposite side of the plateau, steadfastly refusing to meet Strife’s eye.

Sensing the Horseman’s acquiescence, Vulgrim’s toothy maw stretches into a too-wide smile, showing off fangs that glint like knives when they catch the murky light.

“Hah,” he declares triumphantly, “I will provide a serpent hold for travel.”

“A serpent hole?” you whisper under your breath.

You’ve heard of worm holes before, but serpent holes?

Frankly, you find it hard to conjure up the effort to actually care what kind of holes he’ll be providing.

If this ‘serpent hole’ means a way out of this place and back to that drab, terrifying church, you’ll take it.

“Well, all right.” Strife declares suddenly, and before you can move, the massive, metal man steps to one side, revealing you in full to the eyes of his brother and the demon. “Vague mission. Unknown dangers. Undetermined reward… What’s not to love?”

In response, War grunts, and then, to your dismay, his gaze lands on you, and you’re once again rendered stuck, pinned beneath the heavy weight of his preternatural glare.

Even with a demon hovering close by, it’s War’s attention that leaves you feeling the most exposed. The fresh, pink scar on your arm begins to itch.

“What are we to do with this human?” he mutters to Strife, who plants his hands on his hips and tilts his helm at you, not unlike how an inquisitive bird peers at something shiny.

“Just a suggestion,” Vulgrim cuts in eagerly, “You could leave her here.”

Letting out a fierce gasp at his words, you recoil from the salivating demon as if you expect him to pounce at any moment.

“Yeah, no,” Strife retorts for you, “Nice try. But that ain’t happening.”

Somehow, War’s perpetual frown manages to grow even more severe as he snaps, “You’re not suggesting we take her with us?”

You have to admit, you concur with the hooded giant. You’re not a fan of Strife’s idea either, even if it does mean getting out of this god-forsaken ‘void.’

Exhaling roughly through his nose, Strife hunches his massive shoulders and replies, “Why not?”

“Because this human is none of our concern!”

“So… what? You’d rather just leave her to be eaten by tall, dark and gruesome over here?”

Vulgrim hums a note of disdain as Strife jerks his chin in his direction.

Staring at his brother, War’s expression turns calculating, reminiscent of the way he looks over battleplans and strategies before a fight. “You’re being awfully insistent about this.”

“Oh, come on, War!“ Strife groans, slumping his shoulders and throwing his head back dramatically, "You’re not even a little curious? Don’t you wanna know what we were fighting for? This human is one of the reasons the Charred Council ordered us to murder our-!”

“-Do not dwell on the past, brother,” the enormous Horseman suddenly cuts him off, his nostrils flaring wide as he scowls down at his sibling, a warning hidden just beyond bared teeth, “The Charred Council gave us new orders. They are all you should be concerned about.” Throwing you a suspicious glare, he adds, “This… human is a distraction we cannot afford.”

“Hmph.” Eyes narrowed to razor-thin slits, Strife folds his arms petulantly across his silver chest and mutters, “Sounds like a distraction is exactly what you’re lookin’ for.”

Leather bracers strain with an ominous creak as War’s fists clench slowly at his sides. “What was that?” he challenges.

Giving his shoulders a nonchalant shrug, Strife just flaps a hand at his brother, as if to casually waft away the larger Horseman’s aggression, “Nothin’. Nothin’…”

Growling, War snaps his head towards Vulgrim, who has done little else but hover nearby with his eyes trained eagerly on the brothers and their quarrel, looking thoroughly entertained by the whole situation.

“Are you waiting for an invitation, demon!?” he snaps, “Summon a portal.”

Blowing out a hefty sigh, Vulgrim throws his hands up compliantly and swivels around in midair until he’s facing the centre of his raised dais, grumbling incomprehensibly under his breath as his wings give an agitated little flutter.

Impatient, War simply huffs, growing still when the back of his neck begins to prickle. There are eyes upon him that aren’t his brother’s.

With a sudden shift, the Horseman twists his head sideways and anchors it in your direction, subjecting you to an undeserved glare from beneath the lip of his hood.

Choking on a gasp, you drop your eyes to the floor near your feet quick as a flash. You’re so focused on not meeting the gaze of the crimson-clad giant that you fail to notice his brother boring a hole into the side of your head, regarding you with a pensive expression.

Obviously, leaving you here isn’t an option. Not least because frankly, he has way too many questions.

But he needs War on his side.

So, breathing a sigh, he raises his head to meet his brother’s eye and tries a different approach. “What about the Balance?”

And just like that, War’s body goes tense at his brother’s soft question. The haunting, blue stare you’ve found yourself caught up in starts to falter, drifting away from the pink scar running over your arm and moving towards the older Horseman. “Strife…” he begins tiredly.

There are very few beings in the Universe who could claim to know War as well as his brother. But one doesn’t have to know War deeper than surface level to see that honour and duty are among the youngest Horseman’s chief principals.

“The Council said Lucifer’s plotting humanity’s downfall as we speak…” Strife continues, unhurried.

Blinking rapidly, you forget your terror of War for a second and throw your head up again to blurt, “I- He- He’s what?”

“And these little guys-“ Strife jerks the chin of his helm at you, staring hard at the younger Nephilim. “-Are integral to the Balance.”

He doesn’t miss how War’s lips tighten into a thin, displeased line.

‘Gotcha.’

Though he knows his brother would have no way of seeing it behind his helm, Strife holds back the triumphant little smirk that tries to angle across his mouth. Just to be safe.

“You’d protect humanity,” he presses, knowing full-well that something is about to go ‘clunk’ in his brother’s mind, “But not a human?”

Lo and behold, no sooner has he asked the question than War’s steely countenance drops by a fraction – A fraction so negligible that only the sharpest eyes would be able to spot it.

It just so happens that Strife has the sharpest eyes in the Universe.

By his own claim, sure. But still.

“I don’t know what’s more concerning,” War grunts, shaking his hooded head, “The fact that you listened to what the Council said. Or the fact that you actually have a point.”

Strife stares hard at his brother for a long moment whilst you give them both a look of abject horror, pulse jumping in your temple.

“Woah,” the older Nephilim utters at last, “Did you just admit that I have a point…? Can I get that in writing?”

Slipping his eyes shut, the largest Horseman inhales deeply through his nose and exhales a breath in a noisy rush through his gritted teeth. “We’ll take her,” he concedes at last.

Straightening his back, Strife innocently asks, “What?”

“We’ll take her.”

You’d probably throw up at the declaration if you weren’t so irrationally concerned about staining the wedding dress.

Eyes as cold as tundra frost turn their attention onto you.

Fittingly, you feel the blood in your veins turn to ice.

“Human,” he growls, “You’re coming with us.”

“I-I don’t… want to…?” you croak weakly.

Slinging his chin sideways, Strife asks, “You’d rather stay here with this guy?”

With an audible gulp, you throw a glance at Vulgrim, only to find his gleaming, green eyes peering down at you hungrily.

Recoiling, you pull a face and send a beseeching, watery plea to the Horseman. “I-I just want to get out of here.”

“There, see?” Strife exclaims, jabbing a thumb down at you and grinning up at his brother, “She wants to come with us.”

Aghast, you immediately start to sputter, “That is absolutely not what I meant!” The courage it takes for you to return your gaze to the looming demon is astronomical. Raising a trembling hand, you gesture floppily at him and add, “He said he can make a -a snake hole for you guys! Can’t he make one for me as well?”

“It’s serpent hole,” Vulgrim corrects with a tut, still turned towards the centre of his platform, yet he spares you a glance over his sinewy shoulder, ebony horns shimmering in the sickly light.

“Whatever!” you screech, panicked at the mere fact that he’s addressing you, “Just pick a hole, open it, and let me go home! Please!”

“Ha!” Strife barks.

Struck by the sudden urge to scold his brother - though not quite understanding why - War shoots a scathing glare at Strife before returning his attention to you again. “The only ones with the power to send you to Earth are the Charred Council,” he explains.

“Then take me to them!” you try to demand, but the squeak of your voice is frustratingly prevalent. You imagine you’re no more intimidating to these beings than a mouse is to a lion.

“Listen.”

You leap out of your skin, literally clutching your pearl necklace as Strife speaks and shifts about on his feet to face you.

“Let me tell you something right now,” he says, “There are exactly two ways to get a summoning from the Charred Council.”

Taking a heavy step towards you, he raises the first two fingers of his right hand, counting them off as he starts to explain, “The first, is if they have a new mission for us.” He drops his middle finger, wagging his remaining digit at you. “And the second, is if we finish a current mission. And seeing as we’ve just started this one…” Trailing off, he tips his chin down, peering at you expectantly, observing in silence as your expression slowly begins to crumple.

‘Shit… Can all humans pull that face?’ he grimaces to himself, ‘Might be more powerful than they look.’

In the end, War puts words to what you’ve just realised.

“We will not be summoned to the Council until our mission here is complete,” he grunts.

The weight of his words drops into your stomach, sending the whole organ plummeting down into your shoes. Wringing your hands, your thumb brushes over an abnormal band of metal resting at the base of your third finger.

Wetting your lips, you lower your eyes to the sizeable diamond engagement ring sitting prettily on your left hand. Ever so briefly, you’re struck by a memory, of the first time you showed your father the ring that Cain had given you. You almost had to call the nurse into his hospital room because he laughed so damn hard and nearly tore out his drip.

‘He trying to marry you or buy you?’ he’d wheezed after a raucous guffaw, clutching your hand with skeletal fingers, his knuckles so swollen and arthritic, the only thing you could bear to do was look away. The guilt of averting your eyes haunted you until you fell asleep that same night.

You have to clench your eyes shut with vicious force to banish the memory. You can’t think of him right now, laying there, all alone with a tube in his arm and the grimmest of prospects waiting just a few weeks down the line.

“H-how long will it take to finish your mission?” you bleat, feeling the suffocating fist of helplessness closing around your heart.

You have to get back…

“Dunno,” Strife shrugs, “Depends how much more demon bullshit we gotta take care of… Though considering recent events… I’m not hopeful for a quick resolution.”

“But I need to go home!” you bleat, twisting your fingers around a handful of your dress’s tulle, “You don’t understand – Dad’s last chemo appointment is tomorrow, a-and I’m supposed to be getting married, like… like right now!”

“I have no idea what you just said, but it all sounds very important. Which is all the more reason to get this show on the road.” Turning to face the demon behind him, Strife claps his palms together twice and barks, “Hey, Vulgrim. Serpent hole. C’mon, look lively!”

The merchant sneers, grumbling as faces the centre of his platform once more, spreading out his palms.

You give a start when a pulse of… something sours the taste of the air around you, turning dry, musty breaths into thick and acrid gulps that seem to slide across your tongue with each inhale. Instinctively, you cover your mouth.

Wind whips your veil up into a flurry of white fabric. With a graceful whirl, it blows forwards and you have to throw a hand up to catch it, sweeping it back away from your face as you stare agog at the spectacle forming in front of you.

In a word… it’s… beautiful.

In a lot of words, it’s also incredibly bright and shit-inducingly scary. It isn’t natural to see magic, not outside of a children’s birthday party or a heavily edited video online. Your eyes take it all in – the circle of azure light that swirls to life in the ground before you. Where there was once a patch of dull, grey stone, now there’s a pool – not of water, but of something that moves and flows just like it.

Your mouth hangs open as Vulgrim lowers his arms and drifts back with a beat of his vestigial wings, away from the serpent hole.

“It’s all yours, Horsemen,” he declares, bowing with a grandiose sweep of his hand, “Oh, but before you go – Do be careful. The keeper of my artefact will be, ah… less than pleased to see you.”

“No one is ever pleased to see us,” Strife grumbles, wincing at the bitter undertone that shines through just a little too brightly for his liking. Clearing his throat, he gruffly adds, “That’s kind of the idea.”

They’re Horsemen now. Dreaded enforcers of the Charred Council… Hated. Despised.

“War?” Strife brusquely addresses the larger Horseman, gesturing towards you with a jerk of his head.

Throwing his brother a heated glare, War takes a begrudging, booming step in your direction, quaking the ground beneath your feet.

You’re nearly sent toppling ass over teakettle in your haste to back-peddle away from the armoured behemoth, launching your hands out in front of you and blurting, “Woah, woah, woah! Hang on a moment!”

You very nearly faint on the spot when, against all odds, the Horseman actually pauses midstride, a single, ivory brow quirking to peer at you expectantly. You’d have thought that nothing short of a tank could make someone his size hesitate.

Sliding his gaze smoothly between the two of you, Strife has the gall to tip his helm to one side and ask, “What’s the matter, Princess?”

‘Princess’ indeed. If he wasn’t the size of a skyscraper, you’d have half a mind to smack him with your bag. As it is, you doubt the satisfaction of striking him would be worth the painful death that’d surely follow such an insult.

“I’m… I’m not going anywhere with him.” You point accusingly at War instead, though you swiftly drop your finger after he gives it a look that suggests he’d like to cut it off.

“Oh, come on, he’s not as bad as he looks,” Strife prods encouragingly, “Is this about your arm?”

Incredulous, you gape up at the Horseman for a moment before pursing your lips with a shrug, as if to compose yourself. “No, actually, I just don’t particularly like his attitude- YES OF COURSE IT’S ABOUT MY FUCKING ARM!”

“He healed it up afterwards!” Strife replies brightly, as though you’re both having a friendly debate about the weather. If anything, judging by the upward curve of his luminous eyes and his jocular tone of voice, you’d almost wager that he’s actually enjoying your little back and forth.

One of your eyelids twitches, and you have to take a moment to think of something coherent to say, but when you open your mouth, the only word that leaps out is an incredulous, “What!?”

“And besides,” Strife breezes over you as if you’d never spoken, “I’m sure he’s very sorry. Right, big man?”

Pressing your lips together dubiously, you follow Strife’s pointed gaze up to his brother, who leers back at you with his stony face set like a dark thundercloud, his chest quaking around a resonant rumble.

You can’t imagine this beast has ever apologised for anything in his life - if he’s even had the inclination to.

Trying to swallow past a lump of nerves, you glower mistrustfully at the handle of the broadsword jutting over War’s shoulder, and declare, “He can be as sorry as he likes, but he is not putting me on his shoulder!”

Pursing his lips, Strife blows out a whistle, lifting a hand to scratch idly at his jagged, ebony hair. “Well,” he shrugs, “You’re comin’ with us either way. So… You wanna step through the portal yourself, or what?”

“… Hard. Pass.”

“Oh…” His gaze darts to the ground before he flicks it up to you again, one eye squinted halfway shut. “You sure?”

“Am I sure I don’t want to be carried through a mystical worm hole by the same brute who nearly cut my arm off not five minutes ago?” you clarify, subconsciously cradling the aforementioned appendage in your opposite palm, “Yes. I’m sure.”

Something of a standoff ensues between you and Strife, the latter of whom squints down at you for several, perturbing seconds, his hand still clasping the back of his neck. Another few beats pass, measured by the steady ‘thump,’ ‘thump,’ ‘thump,’ of your heart pounding in your ears.

Sadly, the relative peace only lasts another second when Strife allows his hand flop back to his side, raising one, silver shoulder into a shrug and announcing, “All right, suit yourself!”

“Suit my-wah!?”

Without warning, the Horseman takes a sudden, lurching step towards you, and before you can back-peddle clumsily out of range, two enormous, metal hands launch out to catch you around the waist, fingers spread widely enough to envelop your heaving ribs.

Struck by a sense of déjà vu, you waste no time in bunching your hands into fists and slamming them furiously down on top of Strife’s gauntlets, succeeding at nothing beyond hurting the heels of your palms. All the same, you dig right down into the bottom of your own, personal well and manage to scoop out enough drops of courage to holler, “Don’t you dare!”

With the same effort you’d use to lift a porcelain doll, Strife simply hoists you up into the air – still kicking and flailing – and slings you over his armoured shoulder. You land with a hard jolt of pain, followed by a yelp when something sharp jabs into your stomach.

“Should’a gone with War if you wanted a comfier ride.” The Horseman curls a cumbersome arm across the seat of your dress, pressing down the layered tulle and securing you in place much like his brother had not too long ago.

“You can’t do this!” you shout, “This is-! I mean, i-it’s kidnapping!”

Strife barks out a sharp laugh as he steps up beside his brother, and together, they peer down into the blue, swirling vortex that roars with dark and ancient energies, beckoning them in.

“Kidnapping?” he parrots, deliberately jostling you on his shoulder to get a squeak out of you, “Nah, nah, nah. If anything, this is a rescue. You don’t wanna know what Vulgrim’d do to your soul if we left you here.”

Half draped over the titan’s spine, you twist your neck to the side and meet the eerie merchant’s emerald gaze. Perturbingly, you can’t quite tell if he’s grinning at you, or if he’s displaying his thrawn fangs in threat.

You shudder, and that terrible, insincere smile stretches wider.

“Ironically, she may be in less danger here than she will be in whatever demon-infested pit he’s sending us to…” War points out.

“Eh, probably.” Raising a boot into the air, Strife takes one, long stride forwards into the portal, feeling the ground fall away below his feet as his matter begins slipping towards another plane of existence. Before he disappears entirely however, he twists his helm over a shoulder to catch your wild-eyed stare, throwing you a lopsided wink once he meets it.

“But comin’ with us is gonna be way more fun.”

#Darksiders #War x reader x Strife #Darksiders genesis #Vulgrim #fear #angst #innuendos #suggestive

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imagine-darksiders · 1 year

Text

Eden's Heir, chapter 2.

Innocent Blood.

Tags: Darksiders, War x Reader, Strife x Reader, hurt/comfort, War makes a mistake and then immediately tries to make it better, thank god Y/n has waterproof mascara, the dress must remain unharmed.

Warnings: Whump, Blood, injury, descriptions of wound, threat, violence, vague explanations of sanitary products to two, massive Horsemen.

Summary: Trapped over the shoulder of a giant, you're taken on a trip across the Void, all the while having your privacy invaded, your humanity called into question, and your nerves completely and utterly frayed. You meet another stranger, but you aren't too sure that this one isn't even more terrifying than your captors.

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It is with an... admittedly puerile reluctance that War has to admit his brother may have been right about the little creature currently draped across his broad, left shoulder.

While it's possible you could belong to any number of species, it's becoming abundantly clear to him that you might not be a glamoured demon after all. No demon War has ever encountered has been this... helpless. Though a few have admittedly come close.

That isn't to say you haven't been putting up an admirable fight – thrashing wildly beneath his heavy gauntlet and striking at his back with your tiny fists. It's just that the strength behind your fight is pitifully ineffective.

When it becomes clear that pounding your fists against his shoulder won't convince him to put you down, you resort to using your little, rounded fingernails to scrabble uselessly and frantically at the thin layer of black leather he wears beneath his armour, accomplishing little else but to satisfy an itch that's been steadily working its way up his shoulder blade.

It would seem, to War, that it's in your nature to choose flight over fight.

Even now, you're far more preoccupied with the desperation to be free than you are with finding a solution to earn your freedom. You haven't caused a lick of damage to the Horseman. It's as if you aren't even trying to.

Nothing about your makes sense to War. He doesn't believe you're a human, not for a second, though he'll begrudgingly admit that you bear many similar features to one.

But if not a human... then what in the nine realms are you?

The only explanation he can fathom is that you must be hiding behind the magic of a glamour. If that's the case however, then you should have revealed your true form by now. He and his brother might have dealt any number of blows against you by now.

Why continue to hide?

It's a conundrum the hulking Nephilim continues to silently ponder over as he trundles along the path ahead of Strife.

Ever vigilant, War keeps his senses honed on the void around him, a tricky feat given that his ears can't quite tune out the very one-sided conversation taking place at his back.

His brother, it seems, has taken it upon himself to antagonise their unwilling tagalong by absconding with the strange, white satchel you'd been carrying over your shoulder.

The younger Horseman's lips curl into a frown, disgruntled by his brother's tendency to pilfer.

With unashamed nosiness, Strife plunges his curious fingers inside, rifling through your belongings whilst you slump defeatedly over War's shoulder, one of your elbows dug firmly into his back with your chin propped up on a palm.

At least you seem distracted into silence by Strife's thievery, sparing the younger Nephilim's ears from your piercing cries and pleas to be released. With every step War takes, he instead catches the gentle rustle of your dress next to his ear.

“So, you got a name, kid?” the gunslinger asks, pulling an unfamiliar coin from your satchel and holding it up in front of his helm for inspection, “You can call me Strife.”

The tangible blanket of quiet he's met with is enough of an answer in itself. Perhaps sensibly, it seems you don't trust either of them with your name.

War almost snorts aloud at your stubborn uncommunicativeness.

If there's one thing he's learned from travelling alongside his brother, it's that trying to ignore Strife is like trying to ignore a grenade exploding near your feet.

Inadvisable, and simply impossible.

“No name, huh?” Strife shrugs his armoured shoulders, entirely nonchalant as he drops the coin into the depths of your satchel once more and begins rooting around for other treasures, “All right. Suit yourself. I'm pretty good at namin' stuff. How'd you feel about... uhh... Princess?”

War registers a minuscule fist bunching itself into the fabric of his cloak.

“No?” his brother pries when it becomes clear the only response he'll receive is your tearful, exasperated glare, “Tiny, then? Half-pint? Little Lady-”

The younger Horseman can hardly blame you when, after only a few seconds of being subjected to Strife's incessant suggestions, you finally cut him off with a nervous bark. “- God, fine! It's Y/n. Happy?”

“Y/n Happy?” Strife snorts, lazily pulling a piece of lint from your bag and flicking it off his fingers, “That's a weird name.”

Bristling, you grit your teeth and shoot back, “It's just Y/n...”

War can already hear his brother's terrible joke before it even leaves his mouth.

“... Oh, well then. Pleased to meet you, Just Y/n.”

You really should have seen that one coming. Closing your eyes, you unclench your fists and press each palm smoothly against War's back, forcing out through tight lips, “Y/n...”

All at once, Strife's eyes light up and he thunks a gauntlet to his helm, disturbing the peace of the Void with a volatile 'clang' of metal on metal. “Oh! Y/n!” he exclaims, “... Why didn't you say so?”

Rolling his eyes, War steps easily over a yawning gap between two, floating boulders, at which point you make the mistake of glancing down, spotting the continuous drop into the mists far below you - a sight that pulls a murmur of alarm from your lips.

“So, Y/n,” Strife adds as he hops over the gap after War, apparently unwilling to let the very unbalanced conversation peter out, “You got a lot of weird stuff in here. No weapons though. Sorry, War!”

Up ahead, his brother merely grunts in reply, though he's privately assuaged by Strife's forethought to at least check.

“Say, what's this doohickey?”

Heaving a weary sigh, you tear your eyes off the ground below you and raise your head to see what the Horseman has plucked from your bag, giving the little, cotton tube a brief glance before you deadpan, “That's a tampon.”

Unable to resist the lure of curiosity, War turns his head to spare a look over his shoulder at the unassuming object, slanting one, silver brow as Strife holds it up and dangles it in front of his mask, pinching a tiny, blue string between his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh... What's it do?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.

A part of you is half convinced that you've somehow died and this is Hell. And Hell is apparently a place where you have to explain sanitary products to a couple of armoured giants.

Your mouth drops open and you blink dumbly at the silver-clad Horseman. “Are you serious?”

You've met some clueless men in your life, of course, but with these two, you suppose you shouldn't be surprised as to their ignorance.

You're still not entirely sure if they're human.

Lifting his shoulders, Strife gives you a noncommittal shrug. “I'm never serious,” he tells you seriously, then adds, “But yeah, I have no idea what this thing is.”

Eying him dubiously, you turn your face to the side and narrow your gaze, cautiously venturing, “They, um... absorb blood.”

Over your shoulder, War lets out a grunt. “Hemostatic dressing,” he says, nodding in apparent comprehension, “You carry one around with you everywhere you go?”

“You must get yourself hurt a lot, huh,” Strife adds as he drops the tampon back into your pilfered bag and instantly starts digging around inside for your other personal effects.

Pursing your lips, you raise your brows and mutter, “Oh yeah, at least once a month.”

The Horseman carrying you shifts his grip and clamps his hand more firmly against the back of your thighs, taking a far larger stride from one floating platform onto the next, unsurprised to feel you twist your fingers securely into his cowl when the ground drops away below you once more.

Perhaps you really are as weak as you look.

It's to your utmost dismay that the next object to be pulled free from your bag is a golden tube of lipstick. “Woah,” Strife remarks, fiddling around with it until he works out how to pop the lid off, tilting the tube towards his mask to squint down at the colourful stick of wax, “What's this do?”

“What, have you been living under a rock?" you respond, voice taut, "That's lipstick.”

“Lip stick? The hell's that?”

Vexed at his brother's ignorance, War gives his tongue a sharp, impatient click and spouts, “Clearly it is intended to fasten the lips of her enemies together, to prevent them from running their mouths.” After a brief pause, he turn his head to address you over his shoulder. “Perhaps you would care to demonstrate its use on Strife.”

“Haa,” his brother chuckles wryly, “You'd like that, wouldn't you, tough guy? But which one of us is wearing a visor?”

As if in threat, spends a couple of seconds playing with the tube until he gives the bottom of it an experimental twist, successfully swivelling the lipstick up and halfway out of its casing before he aims the tube at the back of War's head, all of which you watch with rapidly dawning horror.

In spite of your sense of self-preservation, you fail to keep yourself from acting on an impulse.

“No!”

At once, to both of their surprise, your body jolts and you try to lunge forwards towards Strife, swiping an arm out as if to grab the stolen lipstick, but with a colossal gauntlet laying heavily across your thighs, you miss by a mile and end up collapsing back over War's shoulder, crying out, “Don't! Don't you dare waste that! That's Chanel! Delilah let me borrow it for today, she'll tear me to pieces if it gets ruined!”

“Relax, kid, I'm not gonna use it on you,” Strife says assuringly as he advances on his brother, “Just on War.”

“If you put your hands anywhere near my mouth, you'll lose your trigger finger,” War retorts flatly.

“Oh yeah?” Strife's golden eyes flare brightly with impish glee. “How're you gonna bite me if your lips are stuck together?”

“Th-that's not what it does!” you try to explain, struggling to get the words out fast enough, “It doesn't... I use it to turn my lips a different colour! That's it!”

To your relief, the lipstick's slow crawl towards the back of War's hood abruptly halts.

“Oooh...” Strife perks up, withdrawing his arm and snapping the fingers of his free hand. “Oh! Sounds like that stuff Fury uses to stain her lips. What's it called again?”

“Carmine,” War returns without hesitation.

Mouth agape, you stare apprehensively as the silver giant drops Delilah's precious lipstick back into your bag. Only once it's no longer in danger of being used as a weapon do you exhale the breath you'd unwittingly trapped inside your chest.

At least if you do manage to escape this, you won't have to worry about Cain's sister finishing what these two have started.

With a disgruntled shake of your head, you ask, “What are you two talking about? Who's Fury? A-and what the hell is carmine?”

Strife's eyes flash towards you just a little too eagerly, pleasantly surprised that you've asked.

“Fury's our sister!” he starts to tell you, only for War to cut him off with the answer to your latter question.

“-Carmine is extracted from the shells of bomb bugs and scarabs,” he mutters stonily, “She crushes them to extract the acid and and smears her lips with the remains.”

A palpable beat of silence stretches between the three of you. Slowly, you let your jaw creak open, brows twisting together. Then, when your expression adequately matches your revulsion, you let out a long, squeamish, “.. Eeeewww!!!”

The noise startles a laugh out of Strife, whilst War merely grunts his agreement. “Mm, I never did see the appeal in it myself.”

“How'd you know so much about Fury's lip staining habits anyway?” Strife asks.

The look he receives from the other Nephilim is cold enough to turn his blood to ice. “I do not wish to revisit the bleaker days of my youth...” War says slowly.

“... Oh yeah. I think I remember.” Throwing his head back, the older Horseman barks out another short laugh, resting his hands over his hips. “Death thought you two were tryin' to kill each other.”

“She was attempting to put insect viscera on my face. We were trying to kill each other.”

You're beginning to think you should have jumped off that rocky plateau while you had the chance.

“Hey,” Strife adds, his tone mockingly sympathetic, “At least you looked good in red, right?”

“One more word out of you, brother, and I shall stain my lips with your blood.”

Maybe if you could convince him to put you down for a second, you could still take that leap, on the off chance that this really is all a dream, and the sensation of falling will be enough to finally wake you up.

Apparently satisfied that he's managed to make the man carrying you nice and riled, Strife settles back into a lazy gait and hums pleasantly, raising his eyes to meet yours and tipping his head to the side like a curious bird. At least he stops pulling out your belongings, seemingly content for the time being to observe you instead, your bag dangling over one of his elbows. It'd be a comical sight if the straits weren't so dire.

Swallowing thickly, you lock your jaw tight and angle a watery stare at the uneven ground passing swiftly beneath the larger brother's boots. All the while, you can feel Strife's eyes sear the top of your head like a pair of burning suns.

He's studying you, and if you weren't so exhausted from your failed escape attempts, you'd probably have the sense to study him right back, perhaps search for any kind of weakness or a chink in his armour.

If it wasn't clear by size alone, the fact that War hasn't even vaguely struggled to keep you situated across his shoulder with a single hand is enough to convince you that you won't be forcing your way out of this mess. Apparently, you'll have to resort to using your brain... Which frankly doesn't infuse you with a lot of hope.

You couldn't even wrangle your way out of an unwanted wedding, how the Hell are you supposed to come up with a way to escape two, armoured titans?

Hopelessness is a heavy feeling. You bitterly hope it makes you heavier to carry, though War hasn't shown any signs that he's struggling to bear your weight as of yet.

It isn't long before your oddball kidnappers bring you to a curving stone staircase that sweeps and stretches in a spiral up towards yet another platform of rock floating high over your heads.

Sickly, green light spills over the lip of the steps, cast by some unseen source that originates from somewhere on the rock above you.

Ascending takes time, but even then, your stoic mode of transport doesn't even shift to adjust you in his grip.

Cain had once made a remark about putting his back out if he had to carry you over the threshold of your new home, but the man holding you now is as unimpeded as you would be carrying a feather. The strength in those muscles that ripple below your torso is terrifying.

You're jostled suddenly from your thoughts as War makes a wide step over a missing section of the stairs.

Your first clue that something isn't quite right is when hard, metallic fingertips gradually start to dig into your thighs through the dress until you wince, shifting around as if you could escape the pressure. Worried for the silk and tulle, you're just about to tell him to ease up when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a subtle change in Strife.

You don't like the way one of his hands has moved to rest languidly over the barrel of his pistol's holster, and for a gut-wrenching second, you wonder if you've done something to set them off, but the silver giant is no longer looking at you at all. His eyes are instead fixed on the platform you're steadily climbing towards.

Their sudden edginess only serves to whittle away at your flimsy backbone.

What could these titans possibly be worried about?

“Um... Where exactly are you taking me?” you gulp, subconsciously curling yourself a little more tightly around War's shoulder.

Strife's gaze doesn't shift from its unseen mark, even as he responds to you. “We're as much strangers in this place as you are, kid.”

At his admission, the darkness of the void seems to press in around you and you shrink even further into yourself, limbs too stiff with unease to reach up and tug your veil down over your face.

All too soon, War's stride leads you all over the top of the steps. He doesn't make it a metre from them before you're suddenly jerked in place as he stops dead in his tracks, body turning rigid as stone underneath your belly.

Strife however, stalks right past his brother and continues further out onto the rock until you lose sight of him altogether, unwilling to twist around to see past your captor's immeasurable bulk.

Facing back down the staircase, you're blind to whatever they have locked in their sights.

“Well, I was expecting Samael, but Horsemen..?”

Oh...

A new voice slithers into your ears, slow and shuddersomely cold, and you're instantly struck by the image of a snake flicking its forked tongue to taste the air around it.

“Things are getting interesting.”

It's the kind of voice that deters you from crying out to it for help.

You expect hostility from the two brothers. You even expect a fight to break out - They seem the type to be inclined.

You certainly don't expect Strife to promptly greet the stranger in a manner that could be construed as borderline friendly.

“Hey! Vulgrim, right?” he asks, “The Soul-Eater? Dig the nickname.”

You beg to differ with his last statement. “The what?” you hiss, whipping your head left and right, as though you might catch a glimpse of the being who could earn such a horrifying nickname.

“Strife,” the voice greets in a slimy, rasping lilt that slides up your spine like chilly fingers, grating on your ear drums, “Like me, your reputation precedes you.”

You're suddenly overwhelmed by the urgent need to see the owner of the voice, if only because you don't think you can stand to have your back to it a moment longer.

Planting your palms against War's sturdy shoulder blade, you push your torso upright, straining your neck over a shoulder to try and catch even a glimpse of the newcomer.

The Horseman's unreasonably large pauldron obscures most of your vision, but what little you do manage to catch in the corner of your eye is enough to still the rattling breath in your lungs.

The crown of a head looms high above the Horsemen, adorned by a pair of black, crooked horns that jut forwards like prongs from its hooded headdress, though that's all you're able to see before War promptly gives his shoulder a rough shrug, dislodging your hands and sending you crashing chin-first into his back once again.

“Ow! What the Hell was that for!?” you complain, only to receive a gruff, “Quiet,” in response.

You realise too late that he may have been trying to keep you quiet for a reason.

“Oh? What's this?” the voice crawls over the airwaves towards you again, “Have you brought me a delicious morsel on which to feast?”

The muscles below you somehow grow even more rigid as War bristles, and the sensation of cold, unpleasant air whooshes against the exposed skin of your ankles. Whatever it is has just swooped closer.

“Mmm, how enticing,” it gushes, “And... Oh! How daring! I assumed they weren't to be touched.”

All of a sudden, War's body quakes below you under the force of his own, booming shout. “Keep your distance, wretch!”

You doubt his hostility is out of concern for your wellbeing.

The resounding chuckle is by far your least favourite noise to have left this newcomer's mouth.

“Pardon my curiosity,” it drawls as a shadow slowly creeps around War's shoulder, “It isn't every day I'm offered meat as rare as this...”

Stiffly, you twist your head sideways, your pulse hammering fit to bust when the familiar sight of those jagged, charcoal horns poke into view.

Stale air fills your lungs, drawn in by a quiet gasp as an awful, impossible countenance finally reveals itself.

What had Strife called it?

Vulgrim?

Well.... It's grim, all right.

Half cloaked in the shadows of its purple headdress, a ghastly, hellish face peers down at you from around War's bulging arm, gaunt and skeletal with sunken eye sockets, inside of which sit a pair of shrewd, devilish eyes that gleam the colour of envy.

Your throat is too tight to scream, but you manage to eke out a croak of abject terror as you sweep a glance over its face, taking in the dark cavity where a nose should be, and – far more alarmingly – the wide jaw that's stuffed so full of large and jagged fangs that they seem to spill out of its mouth, unhidden by any semblance of lips.

Its eyes lock with yours and that same mouth stretches into a lecherous grin, pulling at sallow, grey cheeks until the skin creaks in protest.

The... creature – for what else are you to call it? - parts its jaws to speak.

But you beat it swiftly to the punch.

“FUCK!” you promptly shriek, scrabbling sideways along War's back as best you can and keeping yourself at bay by digging the heels of your palms behind his spine, “What in the mother of FUCK!?”

That's not possible... It can't be possible.. That's... beyond the scope of your imagination, of your comprehension. You can only stare in dread at the monster leering down at you, your eyes burning with the absence of a blink.

'Vulgrim's' smile only grows wider.

“Vocal little thing,” he remarks, drifting backwards on a pair of leathery, vestigial wings when War shifts his weight around to face him again. Evidently, the Horseman is reluctant to let him get too close to his blind spot.

You however, find yourself facing the opposite direction once more, a fact that you vehemently loathe now that the creature is behind you again. What in God's name was that?

“How in the Nine Hells did you get your hands on a human?” Vulgrim continues as if you aren't currently flailing your legs to ward him away, “I thought the Council burned every path to the Third Kingdom. Not that I'm complaining, of course... I hear they're a delicacy.”

Your valiant efforts to yank yourself out from under War's colossal gauntlet is as fruitless as ever, yet still you try, your grunts and whimpers through gritted teeth the only sound that permeates the silent void.

You don't even notice how the air around you has grown charged with electric animosity.

Eventually, it's Strife who speaks up, and the dangerous growl in his tone is enough to stop your escape attempts.

“What'd you just say, demon?”

You fall deathly still as metal boots stomp across the stone, growing more ferocious with every step, like he's trying to cause the ground itself to crack through his weight alone. “Vulgrim, what the Hell did you just say!?”

To his credit, Vulgrim actually seems perplexed when he responds. “The... Council? They... destroyed-”

“- every path,” Strife brusquely interrupts, “Yeah, we know. Before that – you asked how we got our hands on a human.”

Tentatively, you boost yourself up on War's shoulder again to try and see what's happening past the ruffles of your dress.

“Yes, I did...?” Vulgrim draws out the answer, green eyes devoid of pupils darting between you and Strife, as if he's trying to connect a pair of crucial clues. “I fear I'm missing a point of some kind.”

You flinch again when War booms out, “Why claim she's a human?”

To this, the stranger almost sounds offended. “Well, I may not have the nose of a hound or a goreclaw, but I can assure you, I'd recognise the stench of a human anywhere...” He scowls at you disdainfully for a moment, sending you ducking your head to hide a bit further behind War's pauldron, “Even if it is disguised beneath that rancid, floral odour.”

Belatedly, you realise he must be talking about your perfume.

The metal fingers sitting heavily on the back of your thighs suddenly clamp down like a bear trap, hard enough to pull a squeak of pain from your lips as sharpened tips poke at you through the layers of your dress.

To his credit, War's hand goes slack almost as soon as you cry out, though you hardly take that into consideration when Strife pipes up again. “Okay, but how do you know she's human? How'd you know she isn't a glamoured demon?”

You almost want to interject with a scream. Not this again. How can they know what a human is yet not recognise one when they see it?

Vulgrim seems only too pleased to elaborate. With a wave of his grey, spindly hand, he replies, “While your little morsel here only bears a vague resemblance to a human being-”

You can't help but scowl, realising that you should probably be offended.

“- and though it certainly smells a great deal cleaner, there's no hiding that underlying stench. Every species has a unique aroma. It's... not unlike a fingerprint, I suppose. And besides, glamour cannot fool a demon,” he finishes smugly, “Or did you forget that we're the ones who came up with that magic?”

Neither Horseman speaks for some time, long enough that your arms start to ache and you reluctantly ease yourself down, losing sight of Vulgrim again, much to your chagrin.

“Yeaaah... I call bullshit,” Strife scoffs suddenly, sounding far more casual now than he had been moments ago.

You hear the distinct sound of a tongue being clicked before Vulgrim spreads a pair of long arms out wide, drawing your gaze to the three-inch talons that sit at the end of each finger. Only four fingers, you note absently, including the thumb... Hardly information you'll retain, but in the moment, it strikes you as something utterly and horribly inhuman.

“Tch! If you don't believe me, Horseman,” he gripes, “You can always just kill it to be certain. Glamour magic wasn't made to withstand damage.”

Oh. You're really starting to hate this Vulgrim character.

Raising your palm to smother a choked sob, you try to think of something – anything you could say that might turn the Horsemen away from such an unfavourable idea, but before the words spring to mind, War speaks, grasping your attention.

“Perhaps we needn't kill her,” he rumbles slowly, shifting his hooded head, presumably to address Strife, “Do you recall Death's story? Of how he dispelled the disguise of the demon, Asmodeus?”

There's a beat of silence before Strife replies with a baffled huff, “You actually listen to his stories?”

“All it took was one slice of Harvester's blade,” War forges ahead, heedless of his brother's inane query, “Even the most powerful glamour will fail if blood is spilled. The demon speaks the truth.”

Without warning, thick, metallic fingers curl into the back of your dress and you're hoisted rudely off the Horseman's shoulder, and before you can even utter a word of protest, you're dropped in a rumpled heap on the ground.

“Oof!” Your chin smacks painfully against hard, unforgiving stone, yet you aren't given a second to recover. Once again, War's gauntlet snatches your forearm and with a single and effortless tug, he hauls you onto your feet.

The moment your shoes touch the ground, you try to make a run for it, though your escape attempt is cut woefully short with War's grip fastened around your wrist.

Snarling, he yanks you back towards him, looming over you as you twist in his grip and start to beat frenetically against the metal fingers of his gauntlet, crying out, “Please don't hurt me!” You're entirely nonplussed by the way your voice catches pitiably in your throat. “I'm a human! I – I swear! Why are you doing this!?”

A hot breath hits you in the face, followed by War's deep, resonant growl. “To expose a liar.”

Behind you, Strife chimes in, “To find out if you really are who you say you are.”

Then, in an soft tone that doesn't sit in keeping with his stature at all, he adds, “Nothin' personal, kid.”

“Wait, w-wait! Wait! Please!” you cry.

“Face your fate with some dignity,” War rebukes, glowering down at you until you seal your lips together and sniffle wetly, terrified that if you make too much noise, he'll do far worse to you than whatever it is he already has planned.

Only after you fall silent does he emit a dismissive grunt, flicking his gaze over to Strife. “Would you care to do the honours?”

Tears glisten persistently on your eyelashes and no matter how much you try to blink them away, they're only replaced by a fresh coat moments later, their predecessors rolling like rivulets down your cheeks and dripping off your chin.

Following War's gaze, you fix your bleary eyes on his brother, unable to see whether or not he's peering back at you.

He is, of course, though you can't tell through the tears warping your vision. That sharp, unreadable glare studies your face for a long moment until at last, Strife twists his helm sideways with a huff and folds his arms over a wide chest.

“Nah,” he sniffs, “I don't wanna get blood on my boots.”

Charming.

You nearly miss the moment War pulls his immense sword off his back and yanks on your wrist, drawing you roughly towards him with a single tug.

But you don't miss the cold, deadly-sharp blade pressing against your open palm.

“Wh-!” Your heart's frantic beats reach their deafening crescendo. “What are you doing!?”

War doesn't bother to respond, he only tightens his already crushing hold on your wrist until your knees start to buckle and you let your mouth fly open soundlessly, fingers curved into rigid claws as the pain of bone grinding on bone momentarily overrides your panic.

All the while, Strife's eyes remain hard as stone, but beneath his mask, hidden by the metal, his teeth close firmly over his lower lip.

His brother's gauntlet flexes around Chaoseater's grip, blue eyes narrowing on the palm of your hand.

One cut to find out the truth.

Sure it'll hurt, but the ends justify the means...

… Don't they?

Strife's hand twitches once, and he has to bite down on an exasperated groan. “Oh for the love of... Hey, War?”

Just like that, everything stops.

His brother's eyes burn under his hood whilst yours spill liquid like a broken fountain, whipping your head around to stare blearily up at Strife. He can see the desperate pinch of hope on your face at his interference... All at once, he finds it surprisingly difficult to meet your gaze.

Tearing his eyes away from yours, he glances down to where Chaoseater's blade is still pressed to your palm.

“Cut her forearm instead, yeah?”

From the corner of his eye, he watches your face crumple as the last of your dwindling hope falls out through the bottom of your shoes.

War's expression, however, has turned notably sardonic, brows raised and eyelids lowered to half obscure the flat stare he aims at his brother.

There's only one way to perceive Strife's sudden request.

Regardless of species, a common rule of biology is that there are far more nerve endings in the palm of a hand than there are in the back of an arm.

It doesn't really matter where the Horseman draws blood – he'll get it from you one way or another, but it'll hurt you a hell of a lot less if he takes it from your forearm.

Strife is offering you mercy.

War might have taken the moment to accuse his brother of going soft if he didn't think it'd earn him a black eye, and besides, he doesn't necessarily have to follow Strife's suggestion...

The younger Horseman spares your face a fleeting glance.

Glistening cheeks, intricate eyes that dance with tears, a quivering bottom lip... He hasn't even hurt you yet, and this is the state you're in?

Grumbling something in a language you don't understand, War heaves a begrudging sigh, but after a brief hesitation, he finally pulls Chaoseater from your palm and moves the blade to rest against your outer forearm instead, in the space between his gauntlet and the juncture of your elbow. Pausing, he quirks a sleek, white brow over at his brother as if to say, 'Happy?'

Strife's only response is to offer a nonchalant shrug.

Ignoring your blubbered pleas for him to wait and 'think about what he's doing,' War returns his attention to the task at hand, testing the weight of his sword and eyeballing the width of your arm.

Time to expose you for what you really are.

At last, in one, fluid motion, he draws Chaoseater's cragged blade easily across your skin.

You think you scream.

The agony that wraps itself around your limb is quite unlike anything you've ever had the displeasure of experiencing before in your life. In an instant, you realise that up until this moment, you've lived a relatively pain-free existence.

Right in front of your eyes, your forearm opens up for the hungry blade. Paper-thin skin falls apart in the wake of the sword's path, exposing the muscle below and unleashing a torrent of crimson, glistening blood that begins to gush abundantly from the wound, streaming down the curve of your arm like water.

You suddenly become aware of a hideous ringing in your ears, loud and unbearable as an ambulance siren, and it's only when you run out of breath that you realise your mouth is hanging ajar and the bloodcurdling scream is pouring out of you.

Without warning, the metallic hand releases your wrist and you go tumbling backwards, landing painfully on your coccyx, though your eyes remain transfixed on the inch-deep cut that's been gouged out of your flesh. It burns like someone has lit a fire under your skin, a fire you can't get away from.

Pulled down by gravity, the blood begins to gather beneath your arm. Your eyes flash to the widening droplet that threatens to fall at any moment, and in a burst of sheer thoughtlessness, you hurl yourself forwards onto your knees and stretch your bleeding limb out in front of you, keeping it well clear of your wedding dress.

Your head feels woozy, a pounding pulse beating against your eardrums, muffling Strife's voice as he hisses through his teeth. “Dammit, War! Did you have to go so deep?”

Slowly, shakily, sounds begins to filter through the haze of your agony and panic. Everything turns sharp again in a flash – a little too sharp, likely an effect of the adrenaline currently sweeping through your veins.

Staring down at you, War resists taking a step back, his brows slowly drawing together until they form a solid, ivory line across his forehead.

“She hasn't changed,” he hedges.

Up until now, he'd been convinced that you were lying. He just.. hadn't figured out to what extent. He never dreamed you'd actually been telling the truth, when the truth was just so unbelievably farfetched.

But as he eyes you bleeding on the ground, he doesn't catch even the tiniest ripple of failing magic, nor a whisper of another form hiding underneath your skin.

You... weren't lying... And if you weren't lying, then that means... he's just put his blade to someone who never had a fair chance to fight back.

Perhaps if he were a different Horseman like his older siblings, he'd brush that fact aside with ease, but War's principles have always been abnormally high, especially for a Nephilim.

You hadn't attacked him. Hell, you hadn't posed a threat at all to either of them. It had never been a fair fight. You aren't even armed, for Creator's sake.

A sense of wrongfulness settles like a rock in the Horseman's expansive chest.

Drifting up beside him, Vulgrim reminds everyone of his presence by smacking his lips and announcing in a smug drawl, “I tried to tell you.”

Slowly, War's hardened stare drops down to Chaoseater. The blade is thrumming hungrily, unsatisfied with such a meagre taste of blood and wholly unconcerned by the realisation that's swiftly dawning on its wielder.

“She's an innocent....” War stresses, predominantly to himself.

The heavy thunk of metal boots signals Strife's arrival at his side.

“She's a human,” his brother breathes incredulously, his eyes growing round with wonder.

Together, they stare down at you with equal degrees of astonishment, neither Horseman quite sure what to make of this development but both certain that they've just stumbled upon the impossible.

Sudden movement to War's right snaps the two brothers from their state of shock as effectively as a slap to the face.

Vulgrim has made the ill-fated decision to drift a few feet closer to you.

A 'shing' of metal accompanies the click of a gun's fallen hammer, and the demon stops short, suddenly finding the tip of Chaoseater pointing directly at his exposed throat.

In a jarring shift of priorities, the Horsemen round on him as one, War's shoulders squared and his expression set in that infamously thunderous scowl that would send a lesser demon running. Strife too has shaken off any lingering vestiges of shock to glower up at the merchant, growling, “That's close enough, pal.”

Vulgrim may be many things, not all of which are particularly pleasant, but he's no fool.

Flitting backwards at once, he holds up a pair of long, bejewelled hands in a placating gesture, yet he can't resist casting a hopeful glance over Strife's head, his green eyes drinking in the sight of freshly-spilled blood.

“Oh, come now, Horsemen,” he gripes, “You'll spill a human's blood all over my floor, but you won't even let me have a taste?”

In the corner of one eye, Strife notices his brother's finger twitch around Chaoseater's grip, the closest thing to a flinch War will ever permit himself.

The silver-clad Horseman's brows furrow beneath his helm as he absently tries to recall whether War had flinched even once during the battle against his own kind.

“Not another step, demon,” War growls.

Gradually, so as not to spook you, Strife turns himself about, trusting that his brother will keep Vulgrim at bay if necessary.

Amber eyes fall upon you and instantly sweep down to the arm that you're cradling out in front of you, your features pinched by a glazed, faraway expression.

Shock... he imagines.

“Ah... shit.” Exhaling softly, Strife risks a step closer and lowers himself down onto one knee within arms reach of you, lifting a hand to rub awkwardly at the base of his neck.

You don't react to his sudden proximity, never once tearing your eyes from the cut in your arm.

A Nephilim – Hell, even a demon or an angel wouldn't even balk at such a shallow wound... But then... you're not a Nephilim, are you? Nor are you a demon, or an angel...

'... Human...'

The name of your species still sounds so foreign to his ears.

A thousand questions fly at him from every direction his mind tries to spin him in, but it's the most pressing that rises above the others and falls off his lips in a quiet murmur.

“You okay, kid?”

Even before he says it, he knows it's the daftest question he could have asked. You're clearly not okay. But what the Hell does one say to a creature who isn't even supposed to speak the same language? Who's barely supposed to have even developed a language at all?

They may have solved the mystery of what you are, but all they've really accomplished is to open up yet another puzzle for them to solve.

If nothing else, at least his voice seems to be the catalyst that eases you from your shock.

Everything inside you is screaming for you to run – flee. Danger is still very much present. You can't stay here, you're going to bleed out.

It's a challenge to string a complex thought together, yet at the sound of a low, husky voice calling out to you, you grow entirely still, suddenly becoming aware of the presence that looms in the space just ahead.

Wrenching your head upright is the only way to drag your stare off the blood cascading from your arm, but finding the Horseman's silver helm so close to you startles a shriek right out of your lungs.

In a burst of desperation, you scrabble up onto your feet, still clutching the underside of your injured limb. “Don't!” you exclaim.

To your dismay, Strife follows you up, towering high over your head as he stretches out a cautious gauntlet.

Bridling at its approach, you snap, “I said don't!”

Quick as a flash, he retrieves his arms, holding them up as if he's trying to soothe a spooked horse. “All right, I gotcha,” he assuages, “No touching. Read you loud and clear.”

Quivering with adrenaline, you retreat a step, horrified that he maintains the distance by taking a single stride forwards.

You recoil again when the silver titan splays his arms out wide, offering you his palms with a little shrug. “Hey, at least now we know you were tellin' the truth, right?” he chuckles breathlessly, like he's as thrown by this entire situation as you are.

The sharp retort that builds on your tongue is swallowed back an instant later when the red-cloaked giant turns to face you at last, his square jaw set like a thick, steel trap.

The demon behind him remains floating in place, apparently knowing better than to push his luck.

Suddenly, War begins to approach, sending your nerves flaring in palpable alarm.

On clumsy feet, you stumble backwards, eyes bursting open wide, though you soon find that War's lengthier gait vastly outpaces your shuffling retreat, and in terrifying seconds, he's upon you, his immense gauntlet reaching out for your arm once again.

The open wound gives a searing throb, as if it remembers the man who carved it in the first place.

With startling swiftness for such a large brute, he shoots out his hand and clamps it around your fist before you can pick a direction to flee in, swallowing the entirety of your appendage in his palm.

“No, no, no! Not again! Please!” you babble, wrenching on your trapped limb, only to let out an aborted cry as his grip turns crushing.

This time however, at your choked exclamation of pain, War hesitates.

For a second, he cocks his head, studying your twisted expression. And then, like a light has finally switched on in his skull, he blinks, and to your immense relief, his hold loosens considerably, as if he's only just realising his own strength.

Regardless, the iron grip on your hand still doesn't allow you to wrench yourself free. Tugging at all only earns you a rumbling growl that seems to emanate from somewhere deep within War's almighty chest.

With his other hand, he begins to reach for a small, brown pouch hanging from the scarlet cumberbund that's wrapped around his waist. In your fear-addled mind, the only thing you can imagine he's reaching for is that sword strapped to his back.

Knowing full well that fighting back is futile, you let out a quiet sob and screw your face up tight, ducking your head down low between your shoulders and feeling that telltale creep of anticipation along your spine.

With your eyes clamped shut, you don't see the strange vial filled with swirling, green liquid as he pulls it from his pouch, held delicately between two of his massive fingers. You don't even register the sound of a cork being unplugged from the bottle by a set of teeth.

But oh, you sure as Hell feel it when a hot, viscous substance is poured unceremoniously into the gash across your arm.

In an instant, your eyes flash open again and you have to stuff your teeth into your lip to hold back a scream when that caustic burn spreads out inside your limb.

Your first, perfectly rational assumption, is that he's just poured acid over the wound, but as you watch, squinting through streaming eyes, you quickly come to learn that isn't the case at all. Wisps of shimmering, emerald smoke rise out of your wound with an ear-scraping hiss.

Perhaps more distressingly though, you can see the blood inside the wound drying up, crusting over and turning brown at the edges, like you're watching a scab heal over in fast-forward. But the pain? The pain has already begun to subside.

“What... have you done to me!?” you croak, only to gag when the smoke disperses and you're left with an uninterrupted view of a shallow, pink cut, its margins significantly contracted, pulling towards the wound's centre. It almost resembles a particularly nasty scar, but you don't give any thought to whether it'll be a permanent feature on your arm, not when you have far more pressing concerns to address.

Against all odds, the excessive bleeding has stopped, and if it weren't for the trails of sticky blood coating you from wrist to elbow, you'd almost think it could have been an injury you sustained weeks ago.

Exhaling a raw, uneven breath, you blink dumbly at your own arm as War releases you and drops the half empty vial back into the pouch at his side, letting out a surly grunt. "There. Now, cease your incessant whining."

His brother sidles up beside him, staring up underneath his hood with such scrutiny that War begins to wonder if he's grown an extra head.

Amber eyes bulge comically behind a silver helm as Strife points an accusing finger up at his fellow Horseman and exclaims, “Was that a poultice?! Since when did you start carrying poultices!?”

War understands his brother's bafflement. It's a reputation he's rather proud of – to be known as the Horseman so sturdy and unassailable that he rarely, if ever, needs to rely on magic to heal his wounds.

Outwardly, one of his immense shoulders lifts into a shrug. “When Death caught wind of this mission, he came to find me and insisted I stock up,” he offers.

Underneath his helm, Strife's mouth tilts into a sly grin. “Aw, the miserable bastard cares about you after all, huh?”

“He did not give them to me for my own use,” War replies evenly, his own lips quivering against the temptation of a smirk, “He thought you'd be offended if he tried to hand them straight to you. He asked me to hold onto them in the inevitable event you'd need to see their use.”

Predictably, Strife's indignation becomes all too clear with the swell of his chest and the bristling of his black, spiked hair. Blowing a hot exhale through his nose, he snaps, “The Hell's he tryin' to imply? I don't need that asshole watchin' out for me!”

War only lifts his lips into a flat, placid line. “That remains to be seen, doesn't it.”

Their ensuing argument is abruptly cut off by a thin and rasping voice croaking out, “What... what was that stuff?”

As one, the Horsemen return their gazes to you, finding your wide, watery eyes blinking back up at them, still with your bad arm cradled out in front of you.

Strife has to admit, he's impressed you've managed to keep that strange, white garment blood-free. He's seen enough ivory feathers stained red to know that anything white is nearly impossible to keep clean.

Cocking a hidden grin at you, he replies, “That's a healing poultice – My brother's recipe.”

“Your...” Bloodshot eyes dart over to War and a little, pink tongue shoots out to nervously moisten dry lips. “Your brother?”

“Oh. No, not this one,” he amends, jabbing a thumb at War, “Our eldest. Death.”

What little colour had remained in your face drains away, leaving you with a complexion that's ashen and haunted. “Death?” you quake, “What the Hell kind of-... Why can't any of you have normal, innocuous names like... like Tim, or Greg!?”

At the back of the group, the demon pipes up, “What's wrong with Vulgrim?”

Barking out a derisive laugh, Strife shoots back, “Man, what isn't wrong with you?”

“She's trying to run,” War pipes up conversationally.

It takes a second, but soon enough, Strife's helm spins forwards again so quickly, he almost gives himself whiplash.

True to his brother's word, you've turned towards the staircase and made a rather pitiful escape attempt, your white dress bobbing up and down with a noisy rustle of fabric as you half stagger, half jog away from the Horsemen.

“Woah! Woah, hey! Hold up-”

You let out a strangled gasp when a pair of thick, armoured limbs curl around your waist and hoist you effortlessly into the air, legs kicking out to try and unbalance the behemoth at your spine.

Without warning, you're spun about with a shriek and plopped back onto the ground in front of War, who rises like a living mountain over your head, scowling at you down the length of his nose, though you're beginning to wonder if that's just the one expression he's actually capable of making. Strife, meanwhile, remains at your back, and it's with a terrible, sinking dread that you realise they've boxed you between them. A Horseman ahead of you and a Horseman behind you.

… Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place....

“Okay, human,” Strife announces, his hands alighting on his hips, “Think there may be a few trust issues here.”

A resentful scoff escapes your lips before you can seal them together. “A few?! You nearly cut my goddamn arm off!”

“Ah, c'mon,” he brushes your concern aside with a flippant wave of his hand, “It wasn't nearly that bad. Right, War?”

The larger Horseman flexes his oversized gauntlet that obscures his left hand, grunting in apparent concurrence.

“Besides!” Strife continues, “It was necessary.”

Shaking your head in disbelief, you retort, “It was barbaric!”

“Hey, he healed you up afterwards,” he argues with a petulant huff, “You ought'a be grateful.”

“Gratefu-!” You have to cut yourself off, squeezing your eyes shut and inhaling loudly though your flared nostrils. Only when you trust your voice not to squeak do you peel your eyes open again and aim them at the ground near your shoes, shakily uttering, “I would be grateful if you'd just... let me go home...”

At that, Strife falls deathly silent, prompting you to force your gaze up the length of his armoured body until you can bear to meet his eye.

You can't even begin to fathom what's going on behind that helm, and even his voice is devoid of emotion when he finally responds, only to say, “We can't.”

Those two, damning words scare you almost as much as his brother does.

Your stomach rolls anxiously. “But... why not?” you beg, voice thick with desperation, “I don't want any trouble! I-I just want to go home!”

To your surprise, the Horseman abruptly shifts his weight back onto one leg and offers you an apologetic shrug. “Hey, look – If I could take you to Earth right now, I would-”

“-This is no place for a human,” War adds, nodding sagely.

“-Right,” his brother continues, “But when I say we can't, I mean we literally can't. Earth has been cut off.”

“...What?” you press, stomach sinking down to your shoes, “Cut off?”

You really don't care much for that phrase at all.

Strife's shoulder lifts in yet another shrug. “Council's orders. Access to Earth has been pretty much revoked.”

You can't believe what you're hearing. Literally. How can he expect you to believe what he's telling you? Shaking your head, you close your eyes and raise your hands, pressing manicured fingertips delicately to the inner corners of your lids. “And who the Hell is this... this Council!?”

Hesitating, the Horsemen exchange a furtive glance before Strife returns his gaze down to you and answers, “Well, they're... kind of in charge.”

When he doesn't elaborate further, you fling your eyes open and urge, “Of what?”

“Uh, everything? I guess?” Raising a hand, Strife scratches at the hair that juts from the back of his helm like ebony spines. “I'unno, I dont' really pay attention in the meetings.”

Furrowing your brow, you drop your eyes to the ground once more and stare pensively at the stone underfoot, your brain chugging along as it attempts to unscramble the vast influx of information you're being fed. It isn't long before a dull throb starts up in your temples.

Fine. You'll have to deal with your apparent descent into madness later. Right now, you have to solve this problem and try not to dwell on it too closely.

“You keep saying 'Earth,' like it's a third party...” you hedge carefully, lifting your head to Strife, “Why?”

You're startled – and somewhat agitated - by the Horseman's brusque snort of laughter. “Ha, for such an advanced human, you sure are-”

“-Ignorant?” War offers.

If you weren't so terrified of getting that sword drawn on you again, you'd shoot him a rancid glare.

Appeasingly, Strife replies, “I was gonna say uninformed."

You don't know how much longer you can stand this. It's as if neither of them can grasp the gravity of your situation. Or perhaps they don't want to. Pressure builds inside you like steam in a valve, piling on your wrecked nerves until at last, you let it out in a cry of frustration, stomping your pearly-white heel on the ground. Immediately, the pair of titans fall silent, turning to stare at you.

“Just.. tell me-!” you plead, “- if I'm on Earth right now, please? I-I just want a straight answer. Something that makes sense!”

Strife doesn't even hesitate.

“No, you're not on Earth,” he says.

And nothing more.

#darksiders #darksiders genesis #reader #war x reader #strife x reader #Vulgrim #We're getting there #had to split this into 2 chapters #Whump #hurt/comfort #fluff #Clueless Horsemen #Confused Reader #Horsemen of the Apocalypse #blood #injury #swords #demons

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