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askthedarksidersfam · 2 years

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Empty Saddle

Chapter 1: Lo, Behold the Red Rider!

“And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.” - Revelation 6:4

———

The sky above thundered with the clash of swords and claws, the shrieking whistles of descending warriors like falling stars. To Earth where the battle raged, and from the ground did fire erupt like rising waves. Creatures most unholy and unsightly clambered from the destruction to take arms against the heavenly soldiers of gold and white.

Between battle cries in the name of a heavenly father and guttural roars deep as sin, did the screams of the frightened bleed through. Humans so unlike the invaders, in their comparably unpreparedness scrambled for safety. Running from the heart of battle, seeking safety in the buildings, homes or underground subways. They all fled, frightened.

Amongst the humans only a few brave faced their worldly assailants, whether from their flimsy firearms or whatever could be scrounged to serve as a weapon, be it metal pipes, rubble or even their own fists. Determined to protect their home, their lives or loved ones as they cried their names on shrieking lips.

Such bravery only guaranteed their demise.

The heavenly warriors and deformed creatures alike made easy work of the humans indiscriminately. Whether retreating or fighting, the humans would perish before hitting the ground, rapidly turning their gaze to another soon-to-be victim. Laughter would ring out shrill as a bell from the sadistic monsters as they toyed with their targets, reveling in the chaos.

The cries, screams and laughter all weave together in a symphony of a war most grand, for it was a war of global scale. Not one corner untouched, and not one note silent. The warriors playing their pieces, their heartbeats the pounding drums, the humans the piercing, whining strings and demons, the woodwind their roars.

And a trumpet call of a Horseman.

Through it all, a call deep as a foghorn and just as deafening blasted to the air. So powerful that it rattled the gargantuan metal buildings and shuddered the ground like an earthquake.

A fear so ancient and unspoken swept through the roads, instilling terror into the very atoms of all who walked the earth.

All stilled as the sounds of a distant whinny and an accompanying battle cry echoed through the air.

The roads cracked and webbed out in a great continuous line, as if some invisible force was carving the road out. Sparks and smoke rose from the crater, and the nearby warriors watched the smoke before fleeing as they cried out.

“Behold, a Horseman arrives!”

Then, the ground erupts in a grand burst of swirling fire as from the heat came a horse and his armored rider. Both bared their teeth as the red horse charged into the fray, powerful hooves digging into the ground. The rider with his greatsword swung the bade, catching both flesh and metal, blood red as his hood staining the carven wailing faces.

The scent of blood hung high in the air, the kiss of the sword’s edge sent the rider into a frenzy, encouraging his bloodlust. The riders lust so powerful even the panic stricken humans too raised their own fists and turned a heel to battle. Humans began to turn their rage to others, scrapping amongst themselves even as their own deaths eclipsed over them like shrouds.

Soon enough, even the angels high above felt the effects of the raging rider. In their disciplined minds the mist of red wafted into their noses, altering noble senses to betray. Long time friends turned their blades on those they trusted, raging bellows as the swords clashed.

When their friends had fallen, their gazes kept turning to the nearest target, hungry for destruction. No matter who it was, be it a superior commander, a stranger, or even a loved one, all craved to slate their bloodlust.

Together in a scrambling free-for-all, the massacre swelled, at the apex of the swords swing-

All the warring parties stopped, confusedly shaking their heads free of the carnage as the fog lifted.

In the blink of an eye, when the rider passed by the damage had been dealt. Before them lay a scene so dastardly, so vile it brought them to their knees. Angel and human alike wailed for their fallen, grief stricken by their unspeakable actions.

TheThe vicious cycle however, was not broken as the Horseman rode on. Instead, the rider continued to leave chaos in his waking steps, leaving behind ruin and destruction in the rubble.

The Red Horse, Ruin, charged further into the crowd, his legs digging so deep into the ground it left behind molten imprints of his strides. War upon his back bellows a battle cry before swinging the greatsword in a wide arc, catching the approaching wave down to the bone. Pained shouts and yelps his reward.

As the steed carried on, War tore himself from his carnage eyeing the scene before him. In the legion before him, between the opposing parties did War find a familiar face.

Among the beastly visages of Hell, there was one of the best of their commanders in the ranks. An unmistakable creature of uncountable eyes deep as an empty night sky and wings so vast and shadowing, it could be mistaken for an approaching thunderstorm. Her fated enemy was destined to battle her to the death, an antithesis to herself.

A noble Cherub whose skin shone brightly as the suns of Heaven to combat her darkness and numerous swift small wings deeming him a quick warrior. Although he was vastly outsized, he was to be the one to kill her. Or, she’d be the one to kill him.

Although he spotted one of the chosen generals, those few who were decreed to be summoned to Earth upon the End Days.

There they were…

But yet, where are his brothers?

It wasn’t just for concern of not being within his sight, for War knew that the little blue planet was far larger than the borders of the city. What made him, the Rider of the Red Horse, incarnation of warfare and chaos cause his calm demeanor crack was the absolute absence of their presence. War, like his brothers and sister, had the preternatural sense to feel their souls, giving them a distinct advantage of knowing when they were near.

But he couldn’t sense even a whiff of their unmissable company.

Not the heavy cold weight of Death, the hot and irritable spirit of Fury flickering like embers, nor the metallic conflict within Strife like an unpredictable storm.

It wasn’t until a huge winged silhouette that drew the Horseman away from his thoughts.

The shadow belonged to an Angel, but so unlike the soldiers his wingspan was far larger and feathered, compared to their armored plating. An Archangel. But it wasn’t the ranking that piqued War’s interest, but rather who he was.

Through the visage of his hood, War spotted the aged face of one of Heaven’s finest generals to date. The golden patch above his right eye was hint enough.

Abaddon.

But, it couldn’t be?

What was he doing here?

He wasn’t one of the generals to be called upon Earth. No, something was amiss.

Ruin, sensing his rider’s befuddled mood, throws his head back with an unearthly neigh like a deep roar. The steed's smoky mane tickling War’s nose coerced him to refocus his attention, his fist tightening on the reins.

“Go, don’t lose him.” Ruin looks up to Abaddon, immense legs pushing against the ground determined to keep the speed. Despite the order, Ruin snorts as he follows, clearly in an attempt to interrogate his rider. War could practically hear the question coming from Ruin, at least if the horse could talk, but he simply shakes his head.

“This isn’t right…” War looks to the frenzy about them, keeping his sword idle in his hand far too caught off guard to fight. Ruin’s pace kept steady but not ceased his own fighting, pommeling underfoot demons and roughly shouldering angels.

War remained motionless, not even reacting as an Angel took a swing at him, barely earning a scratch before the horsemen finally snapped back to reality. Broken from his reverie, War bares his fang-like teeth as his sword swings at his returning assailant, catching him in the shoulder and embedding deep into his collarbone.

The Angel fell limp as War flung him off the blade. Prowlers crowd the corpse, guttural chuffs escaping their maws as they sink their fangs into metal, doggedly fighting the armor off for the meat beneath.

“Something is amiss,” the Nephilim admits as his eyes rove to the scene of abundant angels laying waste to a pack of Hellhounds, their master dueling with an angelic centaur, devastatingly overpowered. “The Six, the ones destined to come to earth, from Heaven and Hell, they’re here…” A singular ear perks up, listening intently.

“The others however, Death, Fury and Strife…” War pauses to catch his barely restrained uneasy disorientation, he’d never expose himself in such a weak moment. As practical as War was, the inability to make sense of the situation put him on edge. More than just a tactical disadvantage, War couldn’t even begin on where to start with this mayhem.

Abaddon, he must know something.

Although their last alliance, if it could be called that, lasted no more than a few days when humans were early in their infancy, War knew the general must be here with reason. He didn’t care if he’d resort to other methods, War wanted answers.

Gradually, the streets began to open up to a battle strewn plaza. Heavily populated and far more hazardous for Ruin to navigate between huge road collapses and broiling lava pits, add on the growing number of corpses. Ruin however, made haste with the obstacles, performing great leaps and stampeding over all those too slow to dodge.

War’s air of combat wasn’t overbearing as before, bloodlust overridden by his need to pursue the Archangel. Albeit there was an occasional bystander who’d fall prey to the lingering mist like a pheromone.

As Ruin cleared an especially wide lava pool, War kept his sights focused straight on Abaddon who was otherwise occupied cleaving a Prowler in two. A gargantuan lake of lava separated him from Abaddon, stretching so far the perimeter that the buildings nearby began to sink into the bubbling fire.

Ruin nears the pit's edge, bellowing a mighty neigh like a roar as he rears, ever so dramatic. Definitely adopting that streak from his rider, and mayhaps, the rider's eldest brother.

“Abbadon!” War shouts, voice powering above the sounds of battle startling the angels, feathers ruffling defensively. As if they could intimidate the embodiment of warfare into submission with such measly intimidation displays. Swords pointed towards the Nephilim accompanied with sneering calls of his name, demanding the reason for his presence. The Archangel lifts himself into the air with a powerful push of his impressive wings, his feathers gleam golden from the glow of the bubbling lava.

His singular eye, milky white widens as his brows before furrowed rise to his hairline, jaw slackening. The lavish feathers upon his immense wings flared in alarm, similar to his subordinates, however Abaddon carried far less grace as he had lacked the discipline to keep his mouth shut. A most unbecoming appearance of a most esteemed Hellguard general. At least his soldiers could hide behind a helm to mask their surprise.

But it was his astonishment that had begun to make War far from reasonably suspicious. Alarms were ringing within his head screaming that his theories were coming into the light.

There’s foul play afoot.

“War…?” The Horseman’s sensitive ears picking the voice over the frothing of liquid fire and faraway screams, lips curling distastefully as the general gaped.

“Abbadon! What is this?” War’s grip on Chaoseater tightens, pulsating with need, thirsting for blood, exacerbating the tension within the Nephilim. War with all his discipline curbs the incessant cries for carnage, refocusing upon the pressing matter at bay.

“It cannot be…” Abbadon is able to choke out his grip upon his sword slackening. His singular eye remained upon the Horseman, blinking endlessly as if he were willing him away from his sight. Were such a thing possible.

Ruin neighs, dragging a hoof through the tarmac as if to say ‘you best believe it!’ But War doesn’t share his steed's attitude. His nose scrunches, his prosthetic arm keeping an ironclad grip upon the steel reins

“Explain yourself!” War bellows, Ruin shifts the weight on his hooves, filling up with irritable energy akin to his rider, “What is your purpose here, and where are my brothers?” The Archangel doesn’t answer. In fact, it seems that all the capabilities of complex speech have flown from his throat, minus a few key phrases. It’s all he manages to choke out of his low hanging jaw.

“I- The- no, the Final Seal-!”

Before another word, or rather round of babbling could be said, the angel is pulled from his nonsensical ramblings. The gargantuan form of a Fallen slams her full weight into Abbadon’s unsuspecting side, the collision so powerful all Abaddon could manage was a weak wheeze. War can merely watch the one sided scuffle, unable to reach the airborne duo.

The Fallen wraps her clawed foot around Abaddon’s comparably small thigh, gaining a hold upon him, she raises a clawed fist to ready a blow. Her huge wings beating madly to gain lift, gracelessly is the heavenly general towed behind, scrabbling to upright himself.

Beneath the ground a great rumble like an earthquake surges, the tarmac cracking and overhead buildings groan, frames rattling dangerously. Ruin rears with a squeal, backing away from the rising tide of lava overflowing from the lake.

A deep grumbling far underneath shook the air, vibrating deep even within War’s bones. For just a moment, all around them were forced to pause, as if the force would snatch them up if one dared to draw breath.

Apparently, all included the demons as the Fallen remained stationary, head whipping about searching for the mysterious source. The angel used her distraction to his advantage. Wildly, Abaddon shouts indignantly whilst he swings his upper body with enough momentum to crash his head straight into the Fallen’s.

The blow strikes true as the demon’s grip loosens, head flying back from the impact. Taking the initiative, the angel wrestles himself free, powerful legs pushing off the Fallen’s torso to put space between them. All the demoness could do was cry out for her lost kill, reorienting herself from Abaddon’s rather strong push.

A huge horned head refocuses upon her prey, tail flicking maliciously. Her target stares her down, wings beating hard to find the proper upright position. She licks her chops, drool dribbling down her gaping maw.

“Argh!” A feminine cry erupts from above, a small but quick frame of an angelic soldier cuts through the air, piercing the demon's skull.

“My lord, are you alright?” The dark-skinned angel asks her superior, but he doesn’t meet her eyes. War’s lips curve down, eyes beginning to wander around the surrounding architecture.

Something must be climbable, if he has to jump and drag him down-

“No… nothing’s right Uriel,” The mentioned Angel rips the sword free, tossing the now corpse into the lake with a sneer, “the Seals… he’s not meant to be here!” Snowy brows knit together, sharp canines digging into soft flesh as War digested Abbadon’s words, or rather, those he could spit out.

The Seals?

What is he blathering about?

“Explain yourself Abaddon, I will not ask you again!” War demands, patience dwindling like sand through his metallic fingers.

Another rattling shift of the earth below cut off what words War had lying in his tongue, the lava cascading over the edge. Ruin neighed dangerously, the fiery steed grumbling deep as the wave neared far too close to his fiery hooves. War watched the flecks of lava land on his hood, eating away at the cloth til it left behind small holes, entirely unaffected.

“How could this happen?!” The winged male growls. A blast erupts from the air, the horn of the Horsemen wailing above the noise. Absolutely deafening.

A shot of pain racked through War’s entire being, setting each cell on fire as a barely restrained shout passed the riders lips. Ruin too felt the magical effect, nickering incredulously as he too felt his strength wane. For just a heart pounding moment, did the Red Horse feel his tethered connection to his rider, his supernatural ties to War’s very soul, fade. Just as quick as the fade came, the connection resurfaced.

War upon his back however didn’t escape the strange attack so swiftly. His prosthetic hand with reins still in hand, shot up to his side whilst harshly tugging on Ruin’s head in the process. His grip upon Chaoseater near splintering as he leaned in on himself, forehead bumping against Ruin’s neck. The smoky mane engulfing his face and hood.

“The Seventh Seal was not broken!!” Abbadon finally bellows, lifting himself into the air. War’s eyes shift over to watch the angel, only to witness a horrific sight.

Rising from the pool below came a singular arm so large the Archangel was barely as long as a singular knuckle. The gauntleted hand flexed its fingers, outstretching enormous digits to surround the Angel, each hooked claw entrapping the general.

The hand lay in wait, poised to strike like a readied serpent, and Abaddon noticed.

But he was too late in his escape.

Just on a great downstroke of his wings lifting him high above the claw, the fist sprung up into action. With speed greater than the general could ever hope to achieve the claws snap shut around its prey, Abbadon.

A single scream tore through his throat before fingers snapped shut around him, entrapping him followed by a symphony of cracking bones loud as thunderclaps. Feathers fluttered as great wings twitched with the last signs of life bleeding away, soon falling still.

War could merely watch in pained anger, his one chance of making sense of this madness… gone.

“What in Heaven’s name have you done?!?” Uriel accuses, tone raw with seething outrage.

The Nephilim raises his head as he stares down the visage of the demonic culprit emerging from the pool. An unsightly creature as imposing as a tower and donning impenetrable armor with glaring saffron eyes and a cragged maw. The new opponent sizes the Horseman, eyes flickering over his comparably minuscule size, lips curving wickedly with a bellowing cackle.

War feels his own lips pull back to bare sharp teeth at the demon.

“I answer the call.”

The imposing demon upheaves his body from the lake, rising high above even the airborne angels, gigantic shoulders scraping the metal walls of the towers. He discards Abaddon’s lifeless corpse to the side, the armored body landing gracelessly into the lake. The last remnants of his existence merely feathers on the wind as he sank below.

Uriel bellows a scream as the corpse disappears from sight, a requiem for her fallen leader. Upon hearing this, Straga, the newcomer guffaws whilst swatting away a duo of angels as if they were mere gnats.

“Rider! Come to die?!” He boasts, pulling an impressively crafted club from his hip hidden beneath the bubbling surface. War adjusts himself within the saddle, grip upon Chaoseater’s hilt ironclad. Ruin’s muscular flanks quiver, hooves dragging through the tarmac as he teeth gnash the bit.

A semblance of a snarl paints the Nephilim’s features, his skin shuddering underneath his armor. The bloodlust he’d slaked began to resurface, boiling his blood into a pounding powerful as a war drum.

“I’ve come for your head!” War retorts.

“Straga will enjoy killing a rider! Straga hears horse meat’s delicious!” The demon’s lips curve into a cruel gaping smirk, tongue lapping at his chops with a chuff. War’s jaw clenched shut at the statement, Ruin’s ears simultaneously pin flat on his skull.

Reaching from behind, Straga swings his arm out in a wide arc, spraying the lava towards the Horseman, obscuring his view. The steed sprung into action carrying himself across the street with impossible speed, but not beyond reach of the attack as the lava singed his flank, War too felt the heat land upon his shoulder. The horse unleashes a piercing squeal, lamenting his pain.

Before War could shake away the lava dripping off his armor, a car whizzes by, clipping Ruin’s hindquarters as he bellows. War’s prosthetic fingers come to pat Ruin’s neck, offering a nonverbal comfort through his undoubtedly painful hit. “Steady.” He mutters, blue eyes glaring Straga down. Outsized, clearly overpowered and currently with an injured party, War put his gaze to the environment around him, gauging for an advantage. There were far worse odds he’d faced in the far past.

For just a moment, War is reminded of a great foe so vast in comparison, a mere tooth outsized the demon before him. An unconscious tug pulled upon his lips reminded of the glorious, bloody battle.

The only downside to killing such a beast were the complaints from Fury of his stench. She still claims to get a whiff of the foul odor when she nears the Red Rider. After that, Fury avoided being in the same room with him for a few hundred years.

Always complaining.

In that battle, War had taken the tactic of exploiting the weaknesses of unprotected spots. Any spots of soft flesh: eyes, ears, mouth or even disgustingly enough, the nose.

Straga’s armed hand holds high above his head, poised for a powered swing. War’s eyes locked onto the club, gauging the timing of the downswing, then darted down to estimate the distance to reach a desired position. Something to give War some equal level to Straga. Albeit large and undoubtedly carrying strength in spades, speed was a sacrifice. He’d have to time this perfectly to gain an advantage.

A mighty bellow erupts from the demon's throat, swinging at a downward arc intending to crush him flat from above. Ruin’s flank quivers again as he stances for a full on sprint, anticipating War’s pending command to run. It was a comfort for the rider to his steed to be just as unwavering in the face of adversities grave as the current present.

As the club’s shadow eclipsed over the two, War finally springs into action, kicking Ruin’s sides with an encouraging shout. The beast’s head swung to the right, his body following the direction at break-neck speed out from the fast approaching shadow and to the light. Not even a few seconds later the weapon made contact with the concrete, shattering the road and shaking the ground. The barbs were barely in reach of Ruin’s rear in the little time he remained close, that is.

Ruin stumbles under the shockwaves, but otherwise his stride remains true as he obediently follows under War’s guiding hand. Heart pounding in his chest, War eyes the giant mace warily, observing Straga’s attempt to dislodge his weapon.

One hard yank. Another.

An idea came into mind. A completely deranged scheme to make even Strife recoil if he were to fumble, despite his love for when his siblings' plots went awry.

‘Stop it,’ he scolds himself, shaking his head free of the memory of his older brother, ‘you’re becoming distracted. Focus.’

“On my mark Ruin,” War sheathes Chaoseater, retiring his hold upon the reins, boots lifting his weight in the stirrups. Testing the give, but was otherwise well versed in performing high jumps from millennia of practice.

The old nag neighs questioningly, head turning to eye the Nephilim no doubt to the now untouched reins, the heavy weight cool against his hot neck. The momentary loss of War’s immense weight from the saddle.

Ruin nickers, to untrained ears it would be interpreted as an aggressive warning, but to War, he felt the undertone of his judgement. However, he sighs to himself, resigning to his role, understanding of the riders plot. Tail flicking, Ruin readies for another sprint, chomping the bit whilst keeping an eye upon Straga who just about pulled his mace free.

“Easy now.” War utters, muscles growing taut, ready to pounce.

A mighty shout, a low sweep of a club.

“Now!”

Thunderous hooves pound, echoing above War’s battle cry and Ruin’s whinny. The distance between War and Straga closed in impeccable time, nearly at break-neck speed.

The club's barbs jut out at an outward angle, low enough to nearly cleave the rider and horse both if they kept running. There wasn’t nearly enough space below for Ruin to duck, and certainly no way to escape if the horse had decided to ditch at the last minute. However, Ruin wasn’t a coward by any means. Neither was War.

The Nephilim eyes the barb, longer than Ruin and twice as thick but ending with wicked sharp points. The crook is sizable enough to serve as a wedging spot, a Horseman sized pigeonhole.

Just as Ruin was close enough to kiss the blade, the Nephilim put all his weight to the stirrups and with all the supernatural strength he could summon, leapt into the air, hand reaching out for the blade.

Simultaneously, Ruin began to sink into the ground in a trail of fire, narrowly evading the hit, a spectral whinny haunting the air as he disappeared into safety, gone completely. It was as if he were a ghost, an apparition lost to the winds and only remembered by the minds of the living. The only telltale sign of his existence were the huge imprints of his molten hooves in the tarmac and the scent of lingering smoke.

War’s hand gripped the metal, maneuvering himself to settle within the notch, awaiting for the proper moment. His hold ironclad as to not fall as the mace continued on its swing.

Straga’s cackles from above lessened, not hearing the telltale signs of crushing bones or even a shout. A whinny, deafening hoof beats and simply… nothing. No, trickery was afoot. But War wasn’t the tricky one, it was the others. Or was he?

Lifting the tons heavy weapon easily over his head, Straga’s eyes raked over the decimated street searching between the crater like cracks for a bloody stain of what once was the Horseman. Perhaps the slightest hint of gore to satisfy Straga’s resolve, just a tiny speck.

Ears pin back against an unshapely skull, jaw locking together the more Straga surveyed. The lake that surrounds him began to froth and broil even hotter, mirroring the demons arising bewilderment. The only mark of their existence and proof of their presence were the molten hoof prints still fresh.

Where was the accursed rider?!

Suddenly without warning, a weight akin to that of a mere pebble scaled down the length of his bicep. Instinctively Straga turns to face the unknown nuisance, eyes dragging along the outline of his arm following the culpriting creature.

A tiny, hooded man in red.

Just as his eyebrows are able to shoot up, the tiny Horseman leaps off the edge of his armored shoulder, flying alarmingly fast right to his face. A flash of glinting grey the last thing Straga witnesses before War slams right into his face, blade skewering his right eye.

War presses the blade deeper until the hilt is buried within the eye, intent on making the blow painful. Chaoseater wails in lustful ecstasy at the taste of the torrent of blood fed to it, War flexes his muscles, feeling a rise in power. Thick lips pull back revealing sharpened canines, summoning strength to pull the sword out.

Huge fingers abruptly interrupt War’s concentration, yanking him free from his planted position upon Straga’s eyelid. The sword pulls free with a squelching pop. A strangled shout erupts past War’s lips as another blast of the Horn tears through the sky, a ring of magic bursting from his skin. Startled, Straga throws the Horseman, unsure of what the magic would ensure, most likely his own suffering.

War’s body soars through the air uncalibrated, a reflection of his unguarded slip. The pain he felt within himself was near indescribable, his strength waning away as if it were siphoned. There was no plan he could summon in his befuddled, agony riddled mind. Even between the throes of pain, the only thing War could do was to throw a mental call for Ruin as the ground came even closer.

But no answer.

‘No,’ the Nephilim thinks, momentarily the creeping chill of dread seizes his chest, ‘this cannot be true!’

Within mere feet of kissing the pavement, War slams into a solid and familiar back, awkwardly his legs dangle over Ruin’s shoulder and his head snugly pressed to his neck. The horse stumbles over his own hooves, trying to find his stride, disoriented.

Dazed, all War could manage was the feeble grip on the reins, world spinning around him. Ruin, still clumsily staggering, hoarsely neighs garnering him to weakly raise his head. He simply watched the buildings pass by, turning his head to watch his abandoned sword shrink in the growing distance.

Swiftly following after, the demon’s mace slams into the ground where they just were. The earth shakes under the tremors, buildings twist and moan. Too close to comfort.

“Ruin…” War coughs, overwhelmed by the ring of draining magic, “do you feel it…?” The steed near trips, caught up in the question and the implications from his master. Of course he can, he felt in every microfiber within him that his tether was weakening, fraying apart like an aged rope far beyond its use. Never in the millennia together had Ruin experienced their bond waver, not once even in War’s own death after protecting the Abomination, for even within the Dead Kingdom Ruin still felt his soul.

But now?

Ruin could barely answer the summons to catch War, the most basic of his commands. More and more did he feel War’s ties shrivel away, and with it, the last of his powers gifted along with being the Horseman’s steed.

“Ruin!” War shouts, pulling himself from his prone position, a squeal pulls from his throat as the road ahead splits in two, lava spewing overhead in a great geyser, splashing on the two. Ruin’s feet scrabble for purchase, rearing as to save his front hooves from an unwanted dip in the newly formed crack. Lava flecks landed painfully on his body, but he made no further noise to hold at least a bit of dignity, having been caught off guard enough.

Ruin eyes the crack, gaging the distance to make the jump, but deems it too wide to clear. The severed road ahead began to rise higher than them, or perhaps they were beginning to sink, either way, there was no immediate escape.

No way out, other than back to Straga.

‘Yes, to the demon.’ Ruin rationalizes, feeling foolish enough as it was for running away from battle, his very purpose of living.

‘The sword,’ he thinks, ‘the sword will rejuvenate War, and he can kill the demon.’

Turning on his heel, Ruin gathers the waning strength within him, throwing War a cautionary whinny to hold on. The rider groans gently, but otherwise fixes his posture and properly seats himself in the saddle, but heavily leans his weight upon his neck, reinforcing the need to run. Then, he breaks into the fastest gallop he’s ever managed.

War keeps his hold steady as the distance is closed in record time, barreling through stray demons and flimsy earthen debris. The Nephilim’s weight shifts to the side of the fast approaching sword, prosthetic arm keeping an iron grip upon the saddle horn.

‘Just a bit further’, Ruin’s nostrils flaring as his breaths become more erratic, accompanying his heavy gaited run. The blade was so close he could almost smell it.

War’s hand stretches out past Ruin’s shoulder, leaning far off the saddle he was nearly falling off were his one leg and hand keeping him anchored. Just a bit further. Just a few more steps to the sword.

Until War took one glance up did time seem to slow to a crawl.

Overhead, Straga’s weapon was sweeping in their direction, low to the ground and fast approaching. Too fast. There wouldn’t be enough spare time to change course. War’s eyes widened as he stared on in growing disbelief. The main source of his distress is a perfectly placed barb long enough to sever him and Ruin in half.

War, in a split second decision, threw the entirety of his weight into a powerful pull downwards, yanking the horse’s head to the floor, forcing his body to follow suit into a roll. Ruin squeals as his balance is lost, and an unimaginable agony rips through his left hind leg whilst he rolls over his rider. War is crushed beneath the weight, earning a shout, but otherwise remains seemingly unharmed as the shadow eclipses over them both.

The colossal horse feels his world continue to spin about, exposed skin scraping away at the concrete and debris. It only stops when he slams into an overturned car that collapses under him with a crunch. The breath is knocked loose from his lungs, the steed fighting for air and the dizziness in his pounding head.

Above the mace slams into the building just meters away from Ruin’s back, glass raining down in sharp shards. He closes his eyes to spare himself from going blind from a shard to the face. Then opens them once he felt it all had passed to behold a horrific sight.

War, bleeding profusely out his arm and chest from a great cutting deep within the muscle, as well as his face, blood pouring out his nostrils and an impressive scrape on his cheek revealing muscle beneath. His arm, his only arm lay bent at an unimaginable angle along with his left foot which twisted the wrong way. Not far away lay Chaoseater, the blade suspiciously covered in a fresh lining of blood.

Slowly, the sun began to return and a new sense of urgency from Ruin when War made no moves save for his shallow breathing.

Finally, Ruin had put two and two together and neighs incredulously, realizing War’s intent.

You fool! He conveys with a whinny, but War makes no retort, only making the nags heart race faster.

Determined to get to War, Ruin rolls his weight only to feel the worst agonies assault his nerves. He elicits a pained bellow, head raising skyward he catches a glimpse. The skin upon his left quarter is flayed, a deep cut ripping into the muscles of his hip and traveling down his leg to stop at the hock. With a mere twitch of his leg, Ruin could see each tendon flex and muscle shudder under the gleaming blood.

Even with the wound, determination only filled his gut, urging to move, to run and fight.

Especially with a new pack of Prowlers stalking close, encircling him and War. Tongues lapping at their chops, bug-like eyes glimmering with their insatiable hunger.

Ruin sucks in a breath, his teeth clenching together under a powerful jaw, preparing for the inevitable pain. Ears pin back against a thick neck as fiery red eyes glare down the encroaching Prowlers venturing dangerously close to War, still downed.

Throwing his head to the ground Ruin then whips his head into the air, acting as a pendulum to swing his uncooperative body as his working legs search for purchase. When it wasn’t enough the steed forced his head to swing once more, shoulders working in tandem to command his enormous body to follow.

Finally, his hooves found enough ground to pull himself up albeit with more difficulty than he’d ever expect with only three working legs. The left could barely support any of his mass, rather deciding to hang uselessly like dead weight. ‘No,’ Ruin shakes his head, ignoring the incessant screaming of his injuries, even past the adrenaline, ‘there’s worse than a lame leg.’

A dead War is, in his opinion, far more dire.

His heartbeat roars within his ears, nostrils flaring upon each labored breath, plumes of fire spouting from his nose. The flames flowing from his hooves accumulate in great bursts, matching his flaring aggression. With the swagger of an amped fighter, Ruin stomps his way to his incapacitated rider, stopping short of standing above him.

His ears flit towards the intruding Prowlers, huge head thrown their way with snapping teeth, warning those who get close. But with each successful drive away, two more take its place, driving the horse to chase them in an endless, losing cycle.

In a final ditch effort to keep the scavengers at bay, the war horse assessed the situation far too risky to continue. Instead, he settled to keep his head close to his rider, utilizing his hind legs as a means of defense despite his current lameness. His weak leg, optimized as the kicking, proved to be ineffective in bearing any of his mass.

So far, the plan was proving effective enough when a swift kick to the head sent a Prowler into a limp, convulsing heap on the ground. However, it proved only counterproductive in the end as a death in the pack only began to rile them up further, amplifying the pack’s need to kill.

Head now on a swivel, the Red Horse kept a hawk's eye upon each intruder, whilst keeping close to War, giving encouraging nudges to get up. A bump from his nose, a light jab from his hoof, anything to get him to rouse, far too still for his liking.

In a moment of vulnerability Ruin lost his focus when he took a second to nudge War’s shoulder, a Prowler took the opportunity to pounce, latching onto his back and digging its teeth into his flesh. Roaring in rage, he did what he could to buck the demon off, but the hold was just too tight.

With each ticking second, the reserves of his strength were beginning to wean away. The combined loss of blood and perpetual exhaustion from the waning adrenaline were finally taking its toll, evident by his lack of vitality and sluggish movements. The additional weight of the enormous demon only increased his growing fatigue.

In a last ditch attempt of freeing himself Ruin decidedly slams his weight to the ground, a sense of smug satisfaction runs through him when he feels bones of the arm crunch, followed by wounded screams. Immediately the grip slackens enough for the horse to scramble back to his feet without an unwanted parasite atop his back.

Just before he could cave in its bulbous head, a shine of metal cleaves into the chest of the demon, stealing his kill. Under another circumstance Ruin’d be fuming that his prey fell to another, his ego bruised, but for now he welcomed the theft.

War, dazed and just as worse for wear as him kept himself on an uneasy footing, taking the liberty of leaning on the sword as a crutch. His broken arm hanging limply, akin to his marred leg. Ruin still shoots War an unimpressed glare.

“Don’t give me that look,” Ruin snorts, disdainful, “would you rather let it rip your back open some more?”

The flattening of his ears and a huff is all the response Ruin provides.

Despite the gnarled foot greatly hindering his stance and a broken arm, War spares no time in leaping into action. Dispatching the stalking demons when they ventured within the swords reach, slowly lessening their numbers to a more manageable group. Deep within his chest, Ruin felt another tug at the invisible tether, the connection remaining strong. War’s strength gradually returns from the carnage consuming sword, his wounds beginning to knit themselves closed.

It was all he needed to keep him fighting.

A Prowler, the biggest one of the group, had been keeping its distance, unlike its smaller and more eager brethren, gauging. Those beady, bug-like eyes never once blinking even as Ruin sent a warning kick his way, tossing dust in the air. Undeterred, the monster stubbornly remains, suspiciously lingering near the corpse of one of its dead brood.

Turning to face his opponent head on, Ruin drags a hoof through the ground, like a bull readying a charge. He tosses his head back, the jangle of his metal bridle gently rattling. The demon merely licks its chops, cragged teeth glinting in the light.

Together, they stared each other down awaiting the first attack, their flicking tails the only movement between them. Not even with War leaning all his weight on his weakening hind leg did the Red Horse flinch.

Ears flick forward. A scaly tail twitches.

Then…

The earth trembles.

Caught off guard by the quake, Ruin’s focus turns to the ground, ears flitting between the sensation below his feet and back to the equally startled demon. It too was looking about in its confusion, searching for a viable culprit.

This wasn’t an earthquake, this was different.

Another rumble traversed through the concrete, this time moving like an undulating wave, moving in from ahead where the demon Straga remained.

Wait-

Straga-!

It was as if an invisible rug were placed beneath their feet only to be violently swept, upsetting the feeble balance the injured horse and rider could manage. The two collapsed instantaneously like dead weights, unable to even manage a dignified fall as the air was stolen from their lungs.

A dreadful feeling shot through Ruin to ignite his veins, urging him with newfound desire, no, a need to get back up. Even as his body protested and his knees were shaking under the strain, he pushed on.

C R A C K !

Just as his very two legs were firmly planted, an impossible feat of might ripped the road free off the ground, the powerful sensation of being catapulted upwards slams Ruin flat on his back, roughly knocking his head in the process.

It was as if time were slowing into a crawl as all witnessed the unthinkable. At least, in the eyes of humans, but not even Ruin could imagine such a scenario possible.

At the end of their sight Straga held the street in his arms, fingers leaving behind impressive grooves whilst he slowly raised War and Ruin into the air. A most vicious upcurl of his lips accompanied by a most devious glint in his remaining eye. War’s eyes widen immediately upon the scene.

A deep, bellowing howl bursts from Straga’s throat, resonant and damning as a church bell upon the gallows.

“Ruin,” War gasps, helplessly he can only spectate as the upheaved ground begins to tilt, debris and corpses following gravity’s pull to the awaiting demon and drown into the choking lake. The aptly named companion promptly raises his head, then rocks himself upright, never once breaking eye contact with Straga.

Ruin keeps his hard gaze as if he could will the demon to drop dead, not even as his body slowly begins to slide down, hooves digging in stubbornly. A metallic shriek of scraping steel pricked War’s ears enough to take notice of the unbearable sound. A truck nearly Ruin’s size was beginning to hurtle towards them.

“Move!”

The truck careens on its side, knocking them off balance and together, rolled down the slanted road. Ruin couldn’t find any footing, wildly scrabbling for any foothold to slow him down. His rider, just as equally hopeless in the situation turned to his horse and with an act of desperation sent a mental call to banish him.

Fire engulfed him the further he fell, but when fully encased Ruin didn’t vanish as he had before. Instead, the flames died out like a candle in the wind, leaving the horse behind, just as physical as he. In a moment of vulnerability, icy terror grips War’s chest, turning his roaring blood to chilled sludge.

The sensation of being upheaved shoots the rider into the air, sending him hurtling down at an alarming rate, Ruin not far behind. In fact, due to his colossal weight alone Ruin eventually gained a few yards gap, descending at an even faster rate than his master. He’s far out of his element here, and in the bad state Ruin was in only exacerbated the situation. Everything was working against him, and the distance between him and Straga was shrinking exponentially.

War, forgoing his own agony of a broken foot, scrambles down the road chasing the downed horse to snatch the chest piece, then stabbing Chaoseater into the concrete, acting as an anchor to catch them. A bellowed cry flies from War’s lips as his broken arm is pulled beyond its limit. The chest piece strained under the hold, iron chains reaching their absolute limit as they hung suspended in the air. War screams upon the demanding strain.

Caught in an awkward position as this isn’t exactly what War would’ve wanted, finding his current lack of a tactical mind irksome far more hazardous than he’d care to admit. Between the overtaxing burden of keeping Ruin in his grip and not falling, War could spare only a second glance at the environment around him. The world was currently tilted, that much was evident. The only viable escape route was impossible to climb and the way down was barred by Straga and a lava pool.

‘But,’ his brain supplies helpfully, ‘the buildings still remain.’ Yes, War peers through the glass and his own reflection, finding an otherwise unoccupied floor. Already at lightning speeds, a plan formulated within his brain. War’d run across the road with Ruin in tow, smash through the glass and use the floor to create an actual battle plan and not the impromptu, reckless “winging it” sessions as Strife had once said after a mission gone sour. As much as the youngest Nephilim hated to admit it, he was beginning to believe that the “making shit up as he goes' ' tactic in Strife’s arsenal might be beneficial. But he’d never let Strife hear this from his own mouth.

It might be extremely helpful now, considering his broken arm was beginning to weaken, the added steed’s frantic scrambling only worsened his slackening grip. This only reinforced his urge to move. But War would have to be absolutely perfect.

Sucking in a massive breath to ease his racing heart, War’s eyes lock onto the target ahead as his eyebrows furrow with concentration. For just a moment he allows his eyes to close as he gathers the last reserves of his power, channeling it into his body, pulling his muscles taut like a coiled spring, ready to spring into action. Ruin from below took notice of War’s telltale signs of his latest ploy, in this case readying to charge forward. Upon his recognition Ruin curbed his wild flailing, trusting in the process, as idiotic it appeared in the horse’s eyes.

Within War, the last drop of his power filled his muscles, each fiber of his being poised for motion, awaiting the great leap. Then, his eyes snapped open and with great confidence within his body, surged forward. Ripping the sword free, gravity began to pull the rider down, but he planted his feet on the wall using the uneven surface to run. He was covering great distance in impossible time, even Ruin, who’s seen his fair share of unfavorable odds against War, was impressed.

It seemed that this beyond insane plan was going to work.

Until an eerie familiar horn that once announced the Horseman’s arrival, the ultimatum of the Apocalypse, booms through the air like a thunderclap. A blue ring of magic engulfs the Rider, ripping a scream loose from his throat as his energy is siphoned from him. As the last of his powers are stripped away, War’s body surrenders to the physical demands that can no longer be met, forcing his body to collapse in on itself and his balance to be upset by an unsupported foot and a war horse in his hand. The Nephilim falls.

An unearthly neigh echoes through the city as Ruin soars helplessly through the air alongside his Rider who remains eerily lifeless. There was nothing he could do to save War or himself but bellow for him to wake up. He didn’t even twitch.

In an absolute moment of vulnerability, unbridled dread reared its ugly head from within Ruin’s chest, clenching his heart like an iron vice. His heart felt as if it were about to burst, in all of his years of battle and in times of the most intense running sessions never once did the organ between his lungs burn as it did now. There was not enough air to satisfy the ache in his lungs or a poultice potent enough to soothe his nerves.

He would’ve been filled with confidence within his rider that all would be fine, that the odds would shift to their favor, as there was no such thing as luck. War held no beliefs of such a childish thought and thus, so did he. Luck did not win battles or save the weak and scared, it was meticulous planning and years of refined skill.

But now?

Falling from the sky, littered with countless wounds deadly enough to make him lame, and weak from magic being stripped away until he felt as feeble as he did upon the open fields before meeting War?

Ruin would never admit to it, not even if he had the miraculous power of speech.

But he had hoped for some sort of miracle. Some other worldly intervention to swoop in and give an upper hand.

But the ever imminent threat of the fast approaching lava pit was the only thing he saw coming. The only thought that came to mind was how long it would take until he would see War again.

Pain be damned. It was part of his occupation with his rider, thus he didn’t fear it but welcomed it instead. A final reminder of the life he’d endured, and relished.

With one last glance at War, Ruin feels the unseen tether connected to him begin to tighten.

Wait-

Tighten?

War’s eyes were open, his palm outstretched to him as his blue eyes were locked straight on him. He was awake, but what in Oblivion was he doing?

Ruin got his answer when the well accustomed flames engulfed his body, this time, growing stronger. His eyes widen upon the revelation.

A defiant whinny his cry of protest as the rider soon became veiled from his vision, disappearing into the inferno. No, he couldn’t do this, he’d perish!

“Goodbye Ruin.” War whispers above the roaring wind, just barely caught by the horse as his body disintegrates into nothing more than a trail of blazing flames. One last bellow escapes his throat before he is lost. Leaving War to his fate of the demon who catches him within his fingers.

Then, all that effort to catch the Rider is rewarded when the hooded Nephilim is crushed with a mere flex of muscles.

———

When cast from the rider's side, the Four’s steed remain in a state of a suspended limbo. Neither in life or death, but a paused existence that keeps them in the condition they were summoned or banished to. There is no dying.

Yet likewise, there is no recovery.

Ruin, just as battered as the moment he was on Earth, retained his injuries, yet no pain was received. A somewhat blessing in disguise had it not been for the fact this was a most undesirable position War had thrust him into.

Upon his exile, Ruin tried to fight the limbo itself to return to Earth, find War and drag him by his hair for making such a stupid, self-sacrificing decision. He swore by all things he’d pommel him if- when, he found the Nephilim. But of course by all logic, Ruin couldn’t fight a plane of non-existence out of sheer spite of his companion. It simply didn’t work that way. He’d have to be summoned.

But how long would that be?

———

Days did not matter. For all Ruin knew, years could pass and he’d be none the wiser. No infection spread to poison his blood and weaken his body. No healing to stitch his muscles together again until only a scar remained.

Without the passage of time from his body through rot or recovery, not even the rare sting of hunger to rack his stomach, Ruin remained without answers. Even the invisible connection was beginning to become unreliable in telling War’s condition.

In the unknown, War’s heart remained strong, keeping his half of the tether tied. But at moments, Ruin felt his life force lie still, as if he were at rest or even dying. Those moments were the most anxiety inducing.

But it was the only thing anchoring Ruin from going mad in the empty realm.

———

After an uncountable amount of nonexistent days, maybe even weeks, Ruin’s greatest fear had been realized when he took the moment to rest to fight the boredom. The dream realm at least offered a modicum of amusement with distant dreams of glorious battles. Only when he opened his eyes did the reality sink in that there was no field before him to run in, nor a blood-soaked Nephilim upon his back.

It left only a deeper ache in his chest.

During a fantasy of an open field accompanied by his own brethren did the pull of his supernatural link start to slacken, ripping him from the images of a grassy plain. The faces bleeding away like bloodstains in the rain.

Awoken by the pain, did Ruin feel War’s end shrivel away like dying plants under a scorching sun. His side was engulfed in an agony all its own, and worse yet Ruin could do nothing but sense War’s life slowly drain away.

Panicked and confused, Ruin throws his tucked in legs out, wildly kicking as if he’d find a patch of ground in the endless void, roaring frantically the entire time. War was dying. And he wasn’t there to stop it.

Despite the inescapable void that contained him Ruin only fought even harder as War’s end weakened and frayed. Ever closer to death’s doorstep, and not the one of his brother's home.

Releasing a great roar, Ruin thrashed and flailed with great abandon, uncaring of the flexing wounds for he felt no pain.

Then, a single pulse akin to a heartbeat came from the other side. He recognized it as War’s in his final moments like all those centuries ago. No, he can’t perish like this!

Throwing his head back, Ruin lets out a most frustrated scream, not noticing flames engulfing his form, sending him back to Earth.

Back to the world he didn’t know, back to a place where his death was assured.

———

Earth wasn’t as Ruin had left it.

A hubbub of activity filled the city streets with the presence of all of the Kingdoms at once, mingled together in a mismatched crowd. But now the crowds of fleeing people and raging warriors were as real as ghosts to the wind.

Although everyone was gone, the city remains.

Buildings like dead skeletons bore the test of war, broken and scarred just like the land he had burst through. The time in the void had gifted Ruin the luxury of a painless existence, the actions of the physical world left behind, unable to chase him until now.

As soon as his head emerged from the tarmac he’d felt as if he’d been hit by a lightning bolt, setting each nerve alight with the old reminder of his wounds. But that wasn’t the greatest ailment for him, no, the great war horse having faced far worse in combat in his millennia long life. It was the bleary exhaustion deep within his bones that had the greatest effect.

Once powerful legs capable of pommeling heads off with a mere flex were barely able to support his own weight, often buckling when he found the motivation to walk. Each step felt as if he were carrying tons upon his back, muscles screamed for respite and the gaping hole in his hind leg only oozed more blood, spilling what precious energy he had to spare. His eyes drooped lazily, feeling heavier than lead.

The promise of sleep was far too alluring to ignore, tempting even as his barely manageable stride slowed to a standstill. Maybe… just a few minutes wouldn’t be too bad to catch a breather.

A humongous head drops low to the ground, whiskers barely brushing the dust littered concrete as heavy eyelids slid closed. Ruin’s shallow breathing became just the slightest bit more manageable, lost in the bliss of sweet darkness.

Just a few minutes.

Until the sound of faded footsteps echoed through the air, making Ruin’s ear prick up to the intruding noise. Too heavy for Prowlers, but lighter than a Trauma. Eyes snap open as they search for the culprit. Then, he spots it: Phantom Generals stalking through the scattered debris.

A squad of four, the most decorated of the group confidently strode through the street, his lower ranking troops marching behind to bring up the rear. Otherwise, they seemed to be patrolling at a leisurely pace, almost caught up in their own personal bubble given the idle conversations passed betwixt them.

“I’m tellin’ ya,” pipes up the blue skinned demon to the left, “the Arena is far more entertainin’ with nags against them brute hounds. Watchin’ them break open their skulls with their feet is more fun than watchin’ riders galavant against Traumas.” The purplish one with a broken horn huffs, swinging his axe in the air, smacking his comrade with the flat of his blade.

“O’ course you enjoy the lesser entertainment you brainless brute!” The former hisses, “you wouldn’t know fine entertainment if it came and socked you in the jaw!”

“You’re sayin’ that cause you lost that bet against the nag! Dogs never win!” He retorts with a snap, and the other snarls.

“That big Hellhound was a good fighter! She had held her own against bigger threats than a rotten horse! That fight was rigged and you know it!” He defends himself, bristling indignantly.

Ruin’s ears strain at the conversation. Arena? Hounds? Bets? They were setting up fights for their simple entertainment?

“How was it rigged when the fight didn’t even finish when the beast escaped?” The blue barks.

At this moment Ruin eyes the now closing in demons, not wanting to be caught up in their sights. If he knew anything, a demon capturing one of the Four’s steeds could do whatever he so wished. Slowly, he began to do his best to sneak past them, putting his energy into the lightest steps he’d ever managed before.

“I still lost everything-!”

“QUIET!”

Ruin freezes, fearing his steps were heard.

“I tire of your bellyaching,” the leader snaps, turning to face his troops who stare back, a perfect moment to run.

“It matters not what coin you’ve lost, what matters is…”

Using the cover of his booming voice, Ruin bursts into a gallop, ignoring the roaring pain, the only importance was to keep himself from danger until he could regain some strength.

Taking a quick glance back, the demons remain none the wiser.

That is until he slams into an unseen pothole, upsetting his balance and he tumbled into an overturned barricade lined with barbed wire. Ruin crumples into a heap, groaning as the wire wraps around his body, catching onto his saddle.

The sound of wood snapping reverberated through the broken street, damning as a bell at the gallows. In an act of self preservation Ruin all but throws himself to his feet, further tangling himself up, but otherwise undeterred to flee. However, his plans are dashed when he spots the squad charging his way, weapons drawn and battle cries performed.

Heaving a sigh, Ruin flexes his legs to rest the pull of the wire, readying for a fight.

———

You pull your beanie closer to your head, readjusting the fabric to hug your scalp and keep your unruly hair down in the humid night air. A sigh passes your lips as you traipse through a dilapidated neighborhood with the reward of your efforts in a wagon and currently on your back.

A hoodie you managed to snag from a half caved-in clothing shop proved more useful than the raggedy old sweater you had kept from the beginning of the end of the world. In fact, it would probably prove most useful back in Haven.

Haven.

It had been not a few months ago when the giant- a Maker named Ulthane had came and whisked you and the rest of the ragtag group of survivors from a shabby makeshift camp in a parking lot behind some rundown hospital to his own sanctuary aptly named Haven. Haven was an improvement from the old camp. Solid walls over your heads instead of flimsy chain link fences and a leaky tarp roof, a bubbling river of lava to keep warm at night instead of weak fires and most importantly, the company of not one, but three protective Makers who could fight off what the camp never could together.

But, just like any place, there was bound to be trouble in paradise. If a safe bunk could be called paradise.

In the coming months, weather got worse as the winter seasons bled into an approaching summer, unsuitable clothing was a problem and food reserves lasted so long. Old camp routines were thrown out the window as the Makers were wholly determined to keep everyone inside for our own protection. However they were unprepared to care for almost thirty humans. Needs weren’t being met as they were back in camp, there were hunters and gatherers to collect food, but with Ulthane’s intervention, he’d unintentionally cut off the only supply of resources.

It wasn’t until the hunters wisely offered a proposal. Until Haven was properly situated, pens built for livestock and gardens made to support the community, scavenging would be allowed. Obviously Ulthane wasn’t on board, arguing the risks of dying were too great once outside the tree, but a grim counter argument was made.

“We’re at risk now, we’ll starve to death. There’s no provisions, no gardens and no meat.”

It was a hard reality for Ulthane to accept, but eventually he caved in.

Although there were conditions when leaving Haven.

Each team sent out was to go in at least twos, everyone was to be armed at all times and to come back before dark. Essentially, the same rules as before but with a stricter curfew lest they be chased down and dragged back by a Maker.

You had decided to join in on the scavenging cause, as you felt your contributions to the camp by arranging furniture and setting up a more livable space wasn’t enough. There was far more you could offer. So much more. The hunters could always have more hands on deck, although you weren’t exactly the most proficient at tracking you had a knack for sniffing out good caches.

A plastic pull wagon chock full of clothes and blankets proved your skill.

But there were a few more hours until sunset, and you wouldn’t return just yet, not when the streets were blissfully empty for the first time in weeks. Not a Prowler nor soaring Angel in sight. Just you and your wagon.

And your assigned Hellhound.

The hound was courtesy Grace, a teenage girl with an extraordinary gift for animals, especially demons. She had managed to domesticate a few wayward hounds into loyal companions that were repurposed to fit the needs of the settlement: namely impromptu therapy animals.

It wasn’t until the proposal was made with Ulthane did she suggest having her pets be repurposed as guards for the hunters. Obviously the Maker didn’t take too well with the idea, even after she proved herself a wonderful trainer considering she’s made an especially fearsome airborne demon her own personal mount.

Through her stubborn efforts, and endless training, Ulthane finally gave in with reluctance.

So far, the hounds have proven themselves an invaluable asset. You’ve heard the stories of their hunting prowess, taking down any prey they came across. Now you’re not sure but you’re pretty sure you heard a tale of one hound assisting in taking down a Trauma.

Upon your volunteering, you’d been directed to Grace to be provided a guard. Although the meeting was quite awkward as she wasn’t exactly the best at socializing, quite shy actually. Regardless she gave you a hound.

You laughed when you heard his name was Pongo, such a silly name for a fearsome beast. She flushed furiously, but made no other comment. You meant no offense but she otherwise seemed unbothered.

Pongo was by all means, a perfect companion.

He was huge, his head nearly level with your shoulders which was a comfort to know his size could provide a modicum of protection. In his company alone you felt safer than with a dagger. He was always alert, sniffing out every dark corner and going in each room before you to check if the coast was clear. Never once has he ever left your side in the journeys you’ve made.

Pongo even made an effort to assist in bringing in any interesting items to help in packing. He managed to drag a quilt to your side, albeit covered in his slobber, dirt and containing a few bite marks, his efforts were appreciated.

Back to the present, you took your time to wander through the derelict neighborhood, shabby houses behind chain link fences. Dead grasses grow doggedly through the crushed concrete, the scent of rotted wood lies low in the air. Your eyes rove over the half destroyed homes, taking quick peeks through the destruction to observe the forgotten life in the homes. Broken furniture, dusty family portraits, upended garden supplies and rundown cars.

Actually, the garden supplies might be useful.

Turning on your heel, you jog to the house, pushing the gate open as you go. Pongo keeps a brisk pace behind you, panting as he goes. You drop to your knees, investigating the array of gardening tools and what not: ceramic pots, windowsill planters, chicken wire, ripped bags of fertilizer, wire cutters, and your heart stops, unbelieving in your luck. Soggy, but unopened bags of seeds.

Vegetable seeds.

Lettuce, corn, carrots and potatoes.

You’re almost sobbing with relief as you pick up the paper bags, fingers holding them with great delicacy as if they’d turn to dust. This could be the break Haven needs. Staple foods was what the settlement needed.

Turning to the wagon, you put the seeds down and dump all the clothes to the ground, uncaring about the dirt staining it. All you can think about is the promise of food, familiar food. The mere memory of carrots and potatoes nearly has you in tears. Pongo harrumphs from his spot, keeping watch while you rolled your sleeves and began to work.

Time in the apocalypse has made you strong, survival dictating hard labor as a way to live. Luxuries are a myth now. Once upon a time you would’ve struggled to lift a bag of near fifty pound dirt. Now, you could lift two with only a hiccup of trouble. Packing away the tools, you do a once over of the pots, most of them broken or too big to fit without having to leave the clothes behind. You made the hard decision to leave the pots behind, returning the clothes to the wagon stop the newly acquired supplies. Before you could forget, you stuff the seeds in the foraging canvas bag hanging from your belt loop, not wanting to take risks of the seeds being dislodged in your own pockets.

The apocalypse made a cautious creature out of you.

Snapping the buttons together, you pat the bag to ensure it was secure, then after completing the ritual, you trudged forward with your newly acquired treasures. Pulling the wagon required more effort than before, and you noted now might be a good time to head back to Haven as the sun was hanging low to the west. Maybe two hours max until dark.

Whistling for Pongo, the Hellhound obediently returns to your side curiously sniffing the wagon as you trudged out of the yard and into the street.

A good note to end the night on.

Until you heard a thunderous crack resonate through the still air, breaking the peace. Your heart lurches into your throat as muscles tense on instinct, ready to bolt at the nearest sign of danger. Pongo too picks up on your apprehension, falling into a readied stance as he growls so deep it rumbles in your chest.

Unconsciously your eyes search for the source, desperate to put a face to the sound either friend or foe. A reason to turn tail or investigate.

There-!

In the distance by the old demolished gas station there was a flurry of commotion. You have to squint to catch the movement in the considerable distance and you’re not sure you like what you see.

A horse, an absolute monster, is currently going head to head with a group of demons. For just a second you believed it was holding their own considering how fierce it was fighting. It wasn’t until it turned around to kick with huge hind legs did your heart drop with horror. The left leg, the back one was devoid of any flesh, exposing the muscles. Thoughts immediately began to race through your head at breakneck speed.

‘Why were they attacking it? Why was the leg torn up the way it is? Should I even intervene?’

Pongo’s teeth firmly tugging on your hoodie sleeve suggests you should. ‘Just run from the danger,’ your logical brain supplies, ‘we have a chance of escape without being seen!’ Pongo pulls again, more urgent than before as if he knew what your brain was thinking and he was agreeing.

But you couldn’t find yourself to move, as if you’d been frozen in place as your feet were willful in keeping stationary. It felt as if all of your fear, instinctual self preservation from thousands of years had just vanished. In that moment, you were just… conflicted.

An unbearable feeling worms its way into your chest and settles like a weight between your lungs. The heaviness almost makes your stomach churn the more you watch the battle unfold. For a second, the world bled away into a blurred combination of dull color, leaving only you and the horse to stand against the haze.

As he fought, you could see the desperation for survival in each kick, hear the rage within his bellowing cries, to win a losing battle. High odds stacked against him in such a sorry state, unsympathetic to his plight. The winning hands three surviving demons encircling like lions on a fresh kill.

Within those few precious seconds, you swore you saw fear warping his face.

Heat rose from your body like an oppressive wave, skin prickling uncomfortably the more you watched.

You didn’t even hear Pongo’s yelp as you surged forward, reaching for your machete as you ran with newfound power.

Now, you consider yourself a fairly moderate planner at best. If you had asked your family or friends to describe you to a stranger, the first thing they’d probably say was that you weren’t the one to jump headfirst into any situation without at least weighing out your options. Taking the safe route was always how you functioned, deciding that your welfare was better than some impromptu journey with unknown twists and turns. Risks weren’t your strong suit.

You could live for a century and never discover the truth as to what possessed you to abandon your common senses and run.

Perhaps still on the high of anger or some stupid self-indulgence caged within your ribs, but you don’t hold back the primal scream that erupts from your throat.

“GET AWAY!”

It wasn’t until the demon’s head swerved right onto you did you realize you had no plan whatsoever. Shit.

Unfortunately, there was no going back. You knew this best, as did Pongo. The hound took up his spot as your side as the demons watched you scamper away to a more protected spot, the well decorated one barking an order and pointing at you. One broke away from the group whilst the other two remained.

But it seemed that in their distraction the horse took advantage, smartly pommeling the leader in the head, bringing him down to his back.

He seems to be doing just fine.

Back to yourself, you could only readjust the grip in the machete handle as you try to put some space between you and the purplish demon. “Shit, shit shit shit!” Is all you manage to say while eyeing an imposing axe nearly big as your own torso. He thumbs the blade with a devilish grin, enjoying the easy pickings.

Briefly you look behind him to see the stalking shape of Pongo, hackles raised as his tongue laps at his chops, ready for the kill. You keep backing up, not once looking behind you to give him the advantage, not even to notice a pile of bottles lying not so innocently.

It isn’t until your foot nudges the glass did you make your fatal mistake of following instinct. Your heart beats wildly when you put yourself in mortal danger as your head turns to find the tiny culprit, realizing you’ve given him the opening.

Whipping your head to face him, the demon is lunging straight at you full speed, eyes glinting with sick satisfaction. It wasn’t until looking at those otherworldly, glowing eyes did you snap back into reality, fear grounding you.

Just as he was about to probably trample you, a plan emerges in the span of a second. In a split-second decision, you throw yourself to the side just barely brushing by him before crashing to the ground. Immediately pushing yourself into wobbly legs, you skitter away from the demon who has just eaten shit by slipping on the glass bottles that break under his weight. A tittering laugh bubbles from your lips, unbelieving of the scene before your own eyes especially as Pongo pounces on him, tearing into him with ferocious protective vigor.

You watch in fascinated horror as you’ve never seen Pongo at work before. In fact, you’ve never seen an animal attack a person in your old life, so what can you do but balk?

Pongo’s huge paws the size of dinner plates lean all his weight on the demon’s shoulder and back, pinning him down as he could do nothing but flail his arms in hopes of bucking him off. A savage snarl emits from him as the demon fought, giving him a retaliatory bite to the head, earning himself a shout.

Your head turns to the duo left behind after he screams, hoping that it wasn’t audible from where they stood as it was quite piercing. So far, their attention wasn’t towards you so it was safe to assume they didn’t notice. But it didn’t stop you from gripping your machete nervously, adrenaline fueling your veins. Turning back, you can’t believe the sight unfolding.

The overgrown canines long as your forearm protruding from Pongo’s lipless mouth stab into the struggling demon's neck with an audible squelch. The monster below Pongo falls still with death, gurgling on his blood as the hound sinks his teeth in further, holding still to ensure the kill is complete. A strange sound pulls from your throat, sympathetically, your own hand shoots up to protect your own neck.

“Good boy.” You say, hand still on your throat as Pongo turns to glow under the praise.

You don’t forget the still very real danger at your back, instead taking the opportunity to face the demons and observe them. Pick apart the team and exploit the weak link through Pongo. So far, you don’t appreciate what you’re seeing.

Now closer to the horse you can now see barbed wire tangling up his legs, cutting his skin and digging into the muscle. With each rear, every powerful strike he delivers the wire only cuts in deeper, tearing him more and worsening his already terrible posture. It wouldn’t be long before he cuts off blood supply to his limbs, or pulls the wire tight enough to where he can’t move judging by the lack of the wires give.

Although he seemed to be doing fine fighting alone, this irksome feeling of leaving him to his unknown fate didn’t sit well with you. You have the ability and the extra muscle to help, so what’s stopping you? Some self preservation that ultimately decided to return now instead of at the first sign of demons?

A despondent feeling pulls at your heartstrings at the thought of leaving. It seems that even if there’s conflict in your mind, your spirit can’t bear the thought of running away.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever done? Something hisses in your ear, dragging you back to half forgotten times with your social circle.

Calculated risks or cowards' way out? The voice taunts, ‘You’ve done nothing but take the easy route. Will you take it now?’

No. Your teeth grit into a tight vice, shoving away the condescending voice. I’m not going anywhere.

Opening the canvas bag you shove your hand into the pack, sifting through the seeds and other miscellaneous junk you’d stowed away for safe keeping. Fingers then curl around a blissfully familiar shape of round plastic, and a hideously bright pink color when you fish it out.

Pepper spray.

It was one of the many other items you’d come across on your scavenging, although you’ve never tested it on a person, you knew it was blessedly full during a test run. Briefly, whilst uncapping the nozzle, your mind flies back to the machete, weighing the options. A machete was close range, and you’d rather not become a human kebab. You’ve read that pepper sprays can have a range of almost 20 feet.

No better time than the present to test that theory.

‘This has got to be the worst plan I’ve ever thought of’ you think, eyeballing the exposed legs of the demons, internally cringing when you realize these creatures don’t wear shoes. Gross. But this would work to your advantage.

Finger on the trigger, you look to the closest demon with his back to you, closing in on the horse. Pongo plods to your side, mimicking your poised stance he raises his hackles, growling vehemently.

“When he goes down,” you order, Pongo’s ears flitting to pick the command, listening intently, “sic’ ‘em.”

Like a bullet, you take off on powerful legs, Pongo close to your side as you release a scream shrill as a bell. The sound is near deafening as both demons and horse stop to find the source, which was you hurtling their way. Good, you’ve garnered their attention.

The closest, the blue one, decidedly broke away from his partner to snarl down at you with crooked fangs. You too pull your lips back to expose your far less impressive teeth, which he bristled at the sight of. Unintentionally or not, he left his guard down in taking offense to your display.

Which makes all the more sweeter when the yellowish mist douses his unsuspecting face, and settles right into his big beady eyes. The scream he releases was nothing you’ve ever heard before in your years. Good, at least you knew that even demons aren’t immune to chemical repellents.

While he was still temporarily blinded, you duck low to the ground to slip under his arms that are flying up to wipe away the residue. Now to his back, you bring the machete level with his ankle and brace yourself for what came next as you slice through his Achilles heel. The reaction is instantaneous, as he crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Once, you would’ve fainted at the mere thought of inflicting a modicum of harm to another, not even in the instance of self defense. Especially serrated steel. Although it still makes you queasy, making your gut tie in knots, you’ve learned to cope.

Although demons are tough to kill, they are not without weakness, especially as bipedal creatures. You can’t fight back if your own body can’t support itself.

Pongo doesn’t give him a moment of respite, instantly throwing all his weight into a tackle, instantly reaching for his exposed neck when his head collided on hard concrete.

You waste no time in watching the show, you refocus on the last target dead ahead. Gulping down air to soothe your aching lungs, the dawning realization of the ludicrous plan sent an unconscious laugh through your system. Almost crazed, you look up to the last standing monster but don’t like what you find. He’s red in the face, and staring you down hatefully as he towers over you.

Panicked, you scramble to your feet, readying to spray him now and repeat the whole process- but he’s steps ahead of you when he slams his gauntleted arm into your shoulder, shoving you several feet away into a gas pump. The air is expelled from your lungs upon the impact and the split-second your vision blurs is when you make the biggest mistake possible when the grip on the pink can is lost, hurtling out of reach.

Between gasps, you clutch the no doubt now bruised shoulder while fighting away the creeping exhaustion. Adrenaline was weaning away and working against you in a now high hazard scenario. The scene only exacerbated with the general now stalking towards you in a confident swagger, sneering at his luck.

Weaponless, hurt and cornered isn’t exactly what you had in mind, cursing softly when you attempt to push yourself to your knees, effectively stopped by your dizziness. Between hazy thoughts and unfocused vision you stare ahead, losing yourself to the pain blooming across your skin. You’re certain it’ll leave one hell of a bruise. Ulthane’ll pitch a fit when he sees-if he sees, considering you might not make it out alive tonight.

Oh, such happy thoughts.

You suck in a breath through your teeth, hissing when you spot your machete just out of the realm of your feeble reach. Instantly your mind scrabbles for a backup plan, reminding you of the option to simply running, but doubt creeps in as your brain oh so wonderfully conjures an image of you being cleaved by an axe as soon as your back is exposed.

Yes, thank you brain, that’s so helpful!

Suddenly like a slug to the face, a wave of sobriety hits your brain, supplying you with the valuable info you needed. Pongo. He’d know what to do. Your heart is thrumming like a jackrabbit caged within your ribs, beating its feet against the confines of a bony prison. You’re almost elated through the dulled panic.

Pulling yourself to lean on the gas pump, your lips purse together to release a shrill whistle, cutting through the thick air like a knife. You hoped for an answer in the shape of a huge demonic hound-

W H A M !

An unimaginable force slams itself right on your belly, expelling whatever air remains leaving you to gape breathlessly. A cold and unmistakably sharp object wedges itself just at your neck, barely grazing the soft flesh. Although dazed you recognize the sensation of the axe to your neck and his foot resting on your lap, pinning you down completely.

A face comes to fill your sight, rather ugly at that with his lipless face and sharp teeth akin to a shark's grin. You might’ve gagged at the scent of his rancid breath, which he only growls at, clearly offended.

“You lowly ape,” he growls, spittle flying from his crooked maw, “think you can get the best o’ me?! Just fo’ killing my boys I’ll see you as hound bait in the arena!” The threat makes you swallow, but the mere flex of muscles in your throat gently nicks the soft flesh. Your nose curls in distaste at his smell the closer he leans in to glare you down with those glowing, pupil-less eyes.

It never occurred to you how frightening staring at a creature who had no discernible pupil or whites. Just one endless color. What made these creatures so much more unearthly was how there was no reflection in their eyes, so you couldn’t even see the terror written across your features. But unlike him, human eyes did mirror what they saw.

In this case, he could barely make out a livid Hellhound charging straight his way.

Turning his head, the general saw Pongo soaring right at him with open arms and an even wider jaw, roaring the whole way. Frantic, you shove away at the axe, but barely manage to move it a few inches before you duck under the tiny opening but not without scraping your chin on the blade’s edge.

Just as you slide away from the beast, Pongo slams his full weight right into his target. A scuffle immediately follows afterwards between the demonic beings. Throwing a cursory glance back to see Pongo with the poll in his mouth, attempting to rip the weapon away in a deadly game of tug o’ war.

Distracted, you don’t notice the sole of your boot step on the blade of the machete, upsetting your balance making you slip onto the concrete, rolling painfully the whole way. A groan makes its way out your mouth whilst trying to reorient yourself in the world that spins around you. These dizzy spells were certainly getting old real quick.

As the scuffle continues in the background you crack an eyelid open, the dying light gently piercing your retinas. Blinking you spot the pink spray bottle just inches from your nose, scuffed but otherwise intact. Grabbing the can, you peel yourself from the street, groaning as you feel the debris embedded to your flesh loosen up.

“Fuck.” You swear there’s some scrape or cut hidden under the fabric of the jacket sleeve considering the quite linear sting running up your forearm.

Quickly you return to the main conflict at hand rerouting your gaze to Pongo currently caught in a wrestling match, his opponent disarmed. It was a losing fight as the demon had the advantage of thumbs and kept his upper body aloft, just out of reach of his imposing teeth. He snaps at him, teeth clacking dangerously but he merely snarls.

Once more your veins are pounding furiously, blood roaring in your ears as you take off in a max dash. You’ve had enough of this rather drawn out game and you’re putting an end to it now. In one fell swoop your arm swings down to scoop up the discarded machete in one clean motion, and if you weren’t focused on survival you’d actually be impressed with yourself.

Primed to attack, your finger is itching to spray his ass, completely past the realm of caring.

Just as you get close, your arm reaching up to level with the demons face-

A huge muzzle not belonging to Pongo strikes at his head, teeth sinking into flesh as his balance is lost. Immediately you try to backpedal, staggering at the display before you.

It indeed wasn’t Pongo, but the horse who was currently tearing the leathery flesh off the demon's face. What irks you isn’t the gore that is currently unfolding before your own eyes with a front row view, but rather the savage, unmerciful way he attacks, fueled with rage. And are those pointed canines you spot on what is supposed to be an herbivore?

Now ever since the Apocalypse you’ve seen your own fair share of things no living thing was ever supposed to witness. Especially in the twenty-first century. You’ve watched strangers in the streets disemboweled, seen the hunters field strip their kills and witnessed an Angel be removed of his wings. All in all, you could say you’ve been desensitized.

But you cannot doubt the wave of nausea that hits you as bile rises from your esophagus, appalled by the sight of a deformed face being crushed under hooves. The closest sound you could associate to was a melon being stabbed by a knife. Some things just weren’t meant to be witnessed by human eyes and ears.

But in the end, whether you like it or not, it was all over. He was dead.

There was however one new problem before you in the form of the horse currently staring you down over the corpse. It’s then you realize that this was no ordinary beast.

Briefly you wonder.

‘What have I gotten myself into?’

#darksiders #Empty Saddle #ES #reader #war #ruin #gender neutral yn #14.7K fic #wow this really is happening huh #will post to my AO3

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