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imagine-darksiders · 5 years

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Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 6 - Vulgrim.

Chapters 1-5 on Ao3.

Summary: It’s the beginning of your journey to the Cauldron. Along the way, both you and Death find yourselves learning something new about the other and it isn’t long before you run into your first obstacle.

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Navigating the long, crumbling bridge cavern was easy.

Navigating it with a human tagalong however was....interesting.

Death – who had no idea there were so many fascinating distractions to be discovered – stalks several feet behind the young human; now his little travelling companion, it would seem.

The absence of any immediate danger has clearly lulled her into a false sense of security and as such, she's become bolder. Glowering at the back of her head, Death wonders how long that will last. She's even begun to stray from his side, venturing further and further every passing minute as soon as something new catches her eye. The basis for her intrigue in these discoveries are, as far as he can tell, based on absolutely nothing at all, and with not much else to do, he starts languidly trying to predict which mundane, uninspiring object she'll scurry over to next.

'A rock,' he notes, rolling his eyes as she bends down and selects a smooth, grey stone from the weathered path at her feet. Then, turning it over in her hands, she looks around, searching. 'Ah. Not the rock itself.'

He watches her trot ahead a few more metres to the edge of the grassy walkway that spans one side of the cavern to peer cautiously over the edge. Extending an arm out, she holds the rock above a pool of water gathered at the bottom of a deep, wide chasm cut out of the floor and promptly tips her hand, letting it plummet several feet into the natural pond with an negligible 'sploosh'.

The horseman blinks. What that accomplished, he'll never know but she seems to be satisfied with her findings, judging by her decisive nod. At least until Dust swoops overhead and lets out a conversational squawk, startling the human and sending her back-peddling to sheepishly fall in line with his long strides.

Despite her jittery disposition, he has to give credit where it's due; She came with him. Namely, she left the promise of safety to follow him out into a world she'd never experienced before....and yet, she jumps at shadows.

'How can one person be afraid of everything yet fear nothing?' Boundless as the universe is, there are very few mysteries in it that the horseman gives much thought to. Nothing perplexes him anymore, but he puzzles over this particular paradox for some time until your voice rudely snaps him from his thoughts.

“What...The Hell....Is that?”

-----

With his brow still creased in a pensive glower, Death follows you beneath a structural archway built around the tunnel's exit and steps into the sunlight. A verdant, boundless valley stretched out before him, surrounded to the south, east and west by craggy, sandstone cliffs. Beyond them, far on the distant horizon, a ring of snowy mountain peaks climb up into the sky - cold, foreboding and just as unforgiving as the land itself. Through his mask, Death's nostrils catch a strong whiff of wood smoke and beneath that, the acrid stench of brimstone, carried on an autumnal breeze from the east. The horseman scrunches his face up distastefully. Regardless of Alya's directions, it would not have been difficult to determine the location of The Cauldron. He need only use his sense of smell.

Meanwhile, you have a hand held over your squinted eyes to shield them from the occasional sunbeam that breaks through the thin, fast-moving layer of clouds rolling by overhead and you're staring avidly across the vale, a haunted expression darkening your features. He watches as the wind lifts your hair, buffeting it around your face and when a wayward beam of sunlight shimmers brilliantly off the glossy strands, he huffs and looks away.

The horseman's own hair – weighed down by grime and dirt – hangs stubbornly around his shoulders, as if the wind alone weren't a strong enough force to affect it in any way.

He follows your line of sight to the north, landing upon an archway formed by two, adjacent statues depicting a pair of stone makers that tower hundreds of metres up into the air, their arms raised to hold aloft a spherical boulder, engraved in the centre of which is the unmistakable outline of a tree. It's a gateway, if ever he saw one. Enormous and far too gaudy, in typical maker fashion. His eyes rove above it and in the distance, he can just make out the faint outline of an impossibly tall tree trunk with branches twisting and spiralling upwards for miles before they disappear beyond a layer thick, grey clouds.

It's a landmark that can be found in every corner of all the galaxies, its roots connect each realm and serve as a portal network, or a bridge to those seeking worlds beyond their own. Every world has its own Tree, all unique in appearance and placement, but it is still the same. There is only one Tree of Life even though technically, there are thousands. It's a phenomenon Death has never bothered to try and understand. It's just part of the furniture now.

But the object of your abhorrence isn't the Tree of Life, nor is it the ostentatious gateway. Although with your seemingly endless supply of doe-eyed wonder, he doubts you'd share his sentiment. In fact you'd probably think the statues were impressive.

No. The thing that captured your attention, stretching between the statues like a highly inconvenient roadblock is a gigantic, writhing black land mass, a hideous, undulating bubo of squirming tendrils and glistening, oily flesh, marring the otherwise bucolic landscape.

And as if he hadn't seen it, as if he hadn't clocked such a disturbing shape the moment he stepped out into the valley, Death casually asks, “What the Hell is what?”

He anticipates the scoff you aim at him, but he's wholly unprepared for you to suddenly let out a yelp and latch onto his bracer a second later, mouth agape whilst you point fervently at the black growth. “Oh, ew! It moved!”

Indeed it had. As you watch, trying to gauge just what in the world you're looking at, a crack of light appears in the centre of the glistening mess, splitting open horizontally like a fissure and widening into a sphere of putrid yellow with something long and dark curving down the centre, not unlike a slitted pupil. At that point, it's with no small amount of horror that you realise you're gaping at an enormous, bulging eye! Then, to make matters worse, it promptly snaps in your direction, the tendrils that form grotesque eyelids pulling apart to zero in on you and Death from all the way across the grassy vale.

The horseman makes a noise in the back of his throat, whereas you – still hanging from his arm like some kind of human shaped limpet – mutter a creative compilation of “Ew!” and “Gross!” with the odd, “Oh that's grim!” thrown into the mix.

After a moment or two spent gawking, you manage to croak, “That is probably the foulest thing I think I've ever seen.”

You'd also like very much to look away from it, but find you're unable to do so.

Casting his mind back to a time before humanity came on the scene, Death recalls a similar occurrence, of a realm whose entire landscape consisted solely of pulsating, pink flesh. The hills, the trees, even the rocks and residences. One of those hills had opened up, much like this one, to reveal a gigantic, swollen eye that stared at him as he passed by, following his movements, seemingly keen to catch his gaze.

Suppressing an involuntary shudder, the horseman tilts his head towards you and offers, “Not even in my top ten.”

Morbidly curious, you glance up at the underside of his chin and open your mouth to ask if he'll tell you what could possibly beat this thing to the number one spot, when the writhing mass suddenly lets loose a blood curdling screech. The sound rolls across the vale, rattling the ground as it goes and shaking pebbles free of the cliff behind you. Gasping hard, you take an automatic step behind Death.

“Wonderful,” he remarks snidely with an elaborate eye roll and raises his free hand, the other now bent behind his back, still clasped by your trembling fingers. Several feet away, there's a spectral whinny preceded by Despair suddenly bursting out of the ground in a flurry of green mist. “Isn't this a surprise. We've found yet another thing for you to be afraid of.”

Although his words are completely accurate, they still strike a delicate place in your heart. The look of hurt that flashes across your face is there and gone faster than he can blink.

Unfortunate then, that the horseman seldom tends to blink at all.

He catches that almost imperceptible twitch of your eyebrows, the flash of your throat as you swallow thickly and the minutest tug of your lips and he's bewildered to find that your expression unsettles him. Not much, admittedly. But enough that he notices.

It's...odd.

For as long as he can remember, he's been like this.

Teasing at best and downright disparaging at worst. And never once has he wished he could take a snide remark back. Which is probably why the curl of his gut agitates him now, because for the first time in his immeasurably long life, he's struck with the temptation to snatch his words out of the air and stuff them back down his throat.

It occurs to him, after a quick moment of reflection, that usually, his remarks are met with anger, cold indifference, or they're simply ignored altogether.

Oh, he's upset people, certainly. But they'd always be too proud or too irritable to show that his comment had any kind of negative effect. The fact that you had allowed hurt – however briefly – to creep onto your face leaves Death....not ashamed, per se, but undoubtedly disconcerted, aware that this is a human in his company. One who'd just lost everything she's ever known in the span of a day. If anyone deserves to be spared his insensitivity, at least for a little while, it's you.

Death sighs, turning an apology over and over on his tongue. Yet before he can stumble out an awkward 'Sorry,' you whirl about and stalk purposefully over to Despair, stomping your new boots on the ground to emphasise that you're upset, as if he needed another clue.

“I think, given the circumstances, my fear is completely rational!” you call back to him over a shoulder.

“Mmmm...”

With the swollen, yellow eye still trained on his every movement, Death finds he's inclined to agree. The horseman trails along behind you, watching closely as you reach up to give his steed's hairless nose bone a friendly scratch and mutter, “What is that thing anyway?”

At least the wounded note has disappeared from your voice.

Death hums as he approaches Despair's side and pats the saddle, moving back to allow you up first, a move that surprised all parties – the horse, Dust, who'd since taken up his usual perch on the saddle-horn, you and Death himself.

Lips pulling up into a tiny grin, you huff out a quick laugh. “And they say chivalry is dead.” Then you're suddenly stifling a girlish titter at your own joke.

Huh. Another new feeling, the complete antithesis to the previous. This time, when Death's stomach gives a meagre lurch, it isn't followed by a sour taste in his mouth. First, you'd been upset by something he said, and now you're laughing because of something he did.

The horseman's eyes roll up to the sky and he grumbles, “Humans,” under his breath, then realises that, before your little jab at his expense, you'd asked him a relevant question.

“That,” he nods to the giant, perversely twisted version of what he can only assume was a Shadow Lurker, “is Corruption, it's also where we need to....” He trails off with an amused chuckle, watching you try to mount his horse. “Would you like a hand?”

As he'd been talking, you made several sad attempts to get your leg high enough to reach Despair's stirrup, failing every time. Embarrassed beyond comprehension, you nod, hoping that he won't notice your burning cheeks. “Yes please..”

Death's cold hands slide under your bent shin and, with surprising gentleness, he gives you a helpful leg-up, his fingers hovering just above the back of your thighs until you're properly seated, both of your feet dangling several inches above the stirrups.

Suddenly, he understands why the makers were so hung up on your size.

Perched upon his comparatively massive horse, it's difficult to ignore just how small you really are.

Mumbling out a word of thanks, you scoot forwards to make room for him at the back. When Death pulls himself up behind you, it's effortless, seamless and sure.

Taking hold of the reins, the horseman barely squeezes his heels and Despair stops trying to bend his head around to nibble your booted toe, instead facing forwards again and ambling lazily over the dry grass, heading for the eastern cliffs and a narrow gap carved right through the centre of the rock face. The impermeable arms of the horseman circled to your left and right provide you with a fleeting sense of security, though you still glance warily at the eye as it trails after you, unblinking. “So...that's Corruption, huh?” Your voice is as tiny as you are, he notes.

“Well, part of it,” he elaborates, “More the effects of Corruption. I'd wager that used to be a Shadow Lurker, or something of that ilk. Eye's a dead giveaway....”

Swallowing, you tear your gaze off the slithering, expansive tendrils that seem to beckon you closer enticingly, waving back and forth like airborne leviathans.

“Is that what happened to the other makers?” you croak, “Eideard said it...changed them. Got iside their bodies and minds and made them...bad.”

“I suppose if one were to boil it down, that's essentially what happens, yes.”

Silence again and Death watches you distractedly run a finger over Dust's wing. Then, softly, you murmur, ”Do you think it can corrupt humans?”

The horseman scoffs. “I imagine if it can corrupt the makers, then it should have no problem infecting one, little human. I'm fairly certain Corruption doesn't discriminate, so long as the prey is alive..”

A shudder ripples from the tips of your fingers to your shoulders, travelling through so violently, he feels it against his leather faulds. Letting out a soft 'ah,' Death leans down, his height advantage granting him the leverage to peer around at the side of your face. “You're afraid it'll corrupt you.”

Bowing away from his intrusive gaze, you keep your eyes fixed on the ground passing by and lapse into a deep quiet, at least until Despair finally reaches the valley's end and steps into the craggy notch. There's an unspoken, unanimous agreement that everyone is glad to have shaken the glare of that corrupted eyeball.

High overhead, vines of mottled green tangle together, forming a canopy that stretches between the two cliff faces, effectively blocking out the sun and casting all three of you in a pretty, dappled light. Behind you, Death waits patiently to see if you'll respond. It takes several more moments before you draw in a slow breath, exhale it, and utter quietly, “I don't want to be made bad.”

Despair's hoofbeats echo and bounce around the notch until he sound of running water hits your ears, cutting above his soft clops. The narrow passage opens out a little and you find yourself in an enclosed basin with a waterfall tumbling from the cliff to your right, disappearing beneath a wooden portcullis that bridges a gap in the path over a crystal-clear, sunken lake. To the left, there's a dilapidated, half flooded dungeon carved out of the cliff wall, every stone glistening wet with precipitation.

Wary of an ambush, Death scans the ramparts and extended balconies, his eyes narrowed and focused.

Half of his attention on the human in front of him, half on a suspicious shadow that turns out to be nothing more than a huge, ceramic pot, he casually remarks, “So long as you don't let any corrupted creatures get a hold of you, you'll be fine.”

A skeptical snort jumps out of your nose. “Uh...I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly the fastest thing on two legs.”

Still perched on the saddle horn, Dust bobs his head - whether in agreement or just because he's a bird – either way, you shoot him a half-hearted glare.

“Well then, I suppose it's a good thing I am, isn't it?” Death hums coolly, eyeing a ripple that had disturbed the lake's surface, “I won't let anything touch you.”

He had meant it to be ignorable, a throwaway statement. He hadn't even realised there was an underlying significance behind it until you purse your lips, eyes wet and conflicted, and promptly blurt out, “God, I don't get you.”

Caught off guard by the shift in your tone, Death blinks and drags his attention from the water to peer down at you curiously. “I beg your pardon?”

He abruptly draws back when your hands are suddenly flung into the air, a clear sign of exasperation. “Well, you're just so...so contrary! Everything I say, you've got some smart aleck remark to hit back with, but every now and again, you turn around and say something that could almost be construed as...as nice!”

Leaning over Despair's neck, you run your fingers along the horse's protruding vertebrae and chew on your lower lip, and in a small voice, you murmur, “Like...like, I get that you don't like me because I'm a coward or whatever. But then you'll say and – and do stuff that makes me think, maybe you don't not like me. Why can't you just-”

“You're not a coward.”

Several rapid blinks convey your surprise and you almost dislodge yourself from the saddle with the speed at which you swivel around to ogle him. After a few moments of staring at each other, you scrunch your nose up and with a definite crack in your voice, swiftly declare, “Yes I am! I'm afraid of everything! You literally just said so yourself back there with the - with the Corrupted thing!”

“I-” He falters, casting his mind back.

“And back on the mountain,” you continue accusingly, “The first time I met your horse, you called me a coward.”

The death mask - blank and impassive as ever – provides you with no indication of his thoughts. Even his burning eyes betray nothing, staring down at you unflinchingly as opposed to yours that widen, resolve faltering until at last, you can no longer meet the horseman's gaze any more than you can stare at the sun for too long. Biting the inside of your cheek, you twist around and face Despair's neck once more.

The moment your back is to him, Death blinks. He had called you a coward, hadn't he?...

'I was wrong,' a tiny, irritating voice breathes into his ear.

The horseman opens his mouth - 'Say it!' - and slowly lets it fall shut again.

'Now who's the coward?'

From the corner of your eye, you see his finger tap idly on Despair's metal reins.

Wracking his brain, Death draws in a frigid breath, his chest expanding and pressing firmly against your back as he gently puts, “I did.”

Apparently, you don't pick up on his deliberate use of the past tense because your shoulders slump, head sagging down closer to your chest.

“Let me ask you something,” the horseman declares abruptly, “When you first saw me, you marked me a monster, yes?”

Confused, you raise your head again and squint. “Well, I-”

He clears his throat pointedly and you realise that perhaps being polite isn't necessary in this instance. Still, uncertain where he's going with this, you tentatively reply, “Okay, yeah. Yes, I did.”

“And when I first spoke to you on that mountain, I had you pegged as a coward.”

Although you certainly can't dispute that, you still grumble, “Yeah, I think we established that..”

At your back, you feel a rumbling laugh reverberate through his chest. “You are perhaps not what I'd call 'lionhearted,' certainly. But-” He pauses to note the white-knuckle grip you have on the hem of your jumper. “- You left Tri Stone.”

Failing to see his point, you cock your head back to look at him. “Yeah. So?”

Death patiently appraises you down his nose ridge, his eyes hooded and sage. “A coward would have stayed in the safety of the village, with the makers.”

“I was....tempted, believe me,” you murmur after a moment of quiet thought and, shame-faced, you face the path again.

“But you didn't give in to temptation. And that makes all the difference.” He falls silent, allowing his meaning to sink in as he thoughtfully regards the top of your head. After several seconds pass again in total silence, he bites down hard on his pride and sniffs, voice as nonchalant and level as he can make it, “I don't think you're a coward anymore.”

Just like that, the fingers trying to catch Despair's wispy mane fall still and rigid in mid air. All the air leaves your lungs.

Death is....definitely not what – or who - you'd expected. When you first learnt his name, you never expected he would be capable of anything other than cold indifference, apathy in spades and a complete disregard for any and all life. But as you talk with him, communicate with the Grim Reaper himself and hear the fluctuations of his voice and think back on all the things he's done that – if done by a human – wouldn't have been all that odd, you realise that he may not have been the only one to judge someone based on what they are.

You a human; He'd taken you for a coward, and you can't fault him for that.

But you in turn, took him – Death – for a monster.

Even after he saved your life, slung you over his broad shoulder and carried you off your dying world. Even when he rescued you from that skeletal beast on the mountain, you'd still been afraid of him. Hell, you still are, on some level. He just has an air about him that promises danger, trouble and ill-fortune.

But aside from making a few, careless comments along the way, the fact that he hasn't actually done anything even remotely monstrous to you, hits you like a tonne of bricks. He even told you he wouldn't let Corruption touch you, and you're mouthing off? He probably didn't ask for this situation any more than you did and on top of that, he's having to deal with you treating him like the bad guy. All too suddenly, you realise that if you're going to be travelling with Death for the foreseeable future, sooner or later you'll have to cut him some slack.

Starting with....

“I-I don't think you're a monster by the way....” you whisper shyly, “Not anymore, I mean. I-If that matters..”

And to the unflappable horseman's own astonishment, it does. If only because the statement is one he's seldom – if ever – heard.

Without even discussing it with each other first, all of Creation seemed to have come to a collective consensus regarding Death.

He is hated.

For as long as he can remember, he's been the antagonist in horror stories told by angels to their children of a monstrous spectre who'll steal their souls if they misbehave, who's stolen the life from even the bravest of Heaven's warriors for no reason other than contempt. Even demons find him abhorrent, the hypocrites. Then there were the humans, who feared the concept of Death more than they despised the horseman himself. Although the lines between fear and hatred are so often blurred, sometimes even he can feel the sting of their dread and he can't help but take it personally.

The truth of the matter is that Death is accustomed to being the Bogeyman of Creation. And the firmer truth - he wouldn't even argue it, because they're right. The truth is as indisputable as the fact that angels have wings or demons have horns.

He is hated because he is monstrous.

The temptation to call you an ignoramus arises out of nowhere, to chide you for being so naïve as to think the creature sitting at your back is anything less than a monster. But what would the point be in making you afraid of him again? Any fear you harboured before had been natural, not to mention understandable. Good instincts, that one.

Yet, you'd gotten over that fear blindingly fast, faster than he would have thought possible. In the end, he chalked it up to the humans having such a short lifespan. After all, yours is a species whose brains process everything – emotion, pain, change - at astronomical speeds. In the span of a single day, your opinion of him had apparently undergone a complete about face and he, in turn, is forced to revisit his own opinion of you, and by extent, mankind as a whole. This is the longest, uninterrupted amount of time Death has spent in the company of a human and already, he's beginning to realise that he might not be as well-versed on the species as he originally thought.

A sudden whicker from Despair snaps Death from the moment of quiet intrigue and he glances up, immediately spotting what the horse wanted him to see. Up ahead, the path forks, and hanging from a thick vine on the left trail are several, hanging sigils, swaying gently back and forth in the breeze and clinking together like metallic wind-chimes. He just about holds back a groan. They're a familiar, if unwelcome sight, heralding the presence of one of the most suspect characters he's ever had the displeasure of interacting with. The horseman briefly wonders if you'll even notice them.

Clearing his throat, Death tugs the reins and the horse tosses its head, hooves thudding dully on the soft grass as he starts to slow. “Perhaps we are both more complicated than either of us realised,” he admits distractedly.

“I just thought you deserved to know.”

“Well....I appreciate the sentiment,” he murmurs, adding softly a moment later, “You.... continue to surprise me, you know.”

It's more than that though, and perhaps he's being unfair by not telling you. You're proving him wrong.

Craning your neck around to squint up into the horseman's red-flecked irises, you ask, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Well,” he grunts, shrugging a pale shoulder, “considering not much surprises me these days....”

Ever so slightly, you perk up, encouraged, even though his way of giving praise is so frustratingly abstruse. “...You know what? I think I'll take that as a compliment....Hey, what's that?”

'Ah, not so unobservant either. Interesting.'

You've raised your hand to point up between Despair's ears at the ominous sigils Death had spotted, staring to the left, up a small grassy trail set apart from the main path. At the very end of it, overlooking the nook you'd just passed, is an intricate, square dais, surrounded by the same symbols that hang and sway from the cliff above it.

Drawing the horse to a complete stop, Death casts a wary glance over them, grumbling under his breath. “What is he doing here?”

“Who?” you start to ask, but he's already sliding onto the ground and trailing his fingers over Despair's neck as he passes, murmuring for the horse to stay put.

“H-hey!” you call, scrabbling to swing your legs over the back of the saddle, “Wait up!” Your descent is far more clumsy and takes twice as long as Death's, all the while you can feel Dust and Despair's eyes on you, both of their heads cocked to one side. Suddenly, just as you drop from the saddle onto the ground, your left boot snags on a jagged scrap of metal sticking out of the stirrup and you're forced to hop around on tiptoes for a moment, trying feverishly to pull yourself free. A loud snort blasts from Despair's nostrils and the crow gives an answering squawk, bobbing his neck up and down several times before you snap, “It's not funny!” to which you receive an obstinate hiss from Dust.

With a sharp tug, your foot finally rips loose and you stumble, tottering for a moment, arms flailing. Just as you begin to teeter backwards though, you feel cold, solid knuckles press into the small of your back and suddenly, you find yourself being nudged safely upright again.

In a flash, you spin around to sheepishly peer up at Death from beneath your lashes, mortified that he'd witnessed your floundering. “Y-you're still here? I thought you went on ahead.”

Shrugging one, massive shoulder, he states, matter-of-factly, “You asked me to wait.”

“I...yeah..But I didn't think you'd actually -” Death blinks at you, long and slow and you stammer to a halt. “- You know what, never mind. Thanks.”

He harrumphs and sweeps a hand out to his side. “Shall we?”

With that, the horseman turns and starts to stalk up the grassy pathway, one hand resting on the hilt of his scythe.

Crossing your arms over yourself, you scuff your boot against the ground and trundle after him in silence. The closer you get to the raised dais, the less your cheeks burn, replaced slowly by a creeping sense of trepidation. Death still hasn't removed his hands from the weapon, a fact that doesn't go unnoticed by you.

“Hey..What's-”

The words die on your tongue because as you get within a few feet of the square plinth, something begins to stir.

A pulse of electricity sucks past your ears and raises the hair on your neck as if someone had stuck a static balloon there and then dragged it up through your hair. Seconds afterwards, you jump as pallid, blue smoke erupts from the centre of the dais, billowing up and spilling outwards along the ground to chill your toes. Inside the column of thick mist, half-obscured, is the vague silhouette of a person.

Cowering back a few steps, you're about to duck behind the safety of Death's bulk when you stop and think. 'Not a coward,' you remind yourself as you set your jaw and puff out your chest, moving to stand beside the horseman instead. All of a sudden, a rasping chuckle slithers out of the smoke and sends a shiver racing down your spine.

Almost as though it's blown by an ethereal wind, the wispy smog finally begins to thin and disperse.

As the outline of the mysterious figure becomes clearer, you're abruptly caught in the stomach by Death's large hand and without warning, he shoves you – none too gently – behind himself. Such a move is disturbing because it dawns on you that whoever this stranger is, Death obviously perceives them as a threat. And seconds later, you understand why.....

The last traces of smoke and mist fall away to reveal a creature that immediately drains the blood from your face.

Enormous, charcoal horns with blunt, tattered ends curve up about a ghastly, barely humanoid face, framed by a hooded headdress of darkest violet and trimmed in golden silk. Gleaming teeth taper into wicked-sharp fangs that jut from its angular jaw, a jaw that stretches into a lecherous smile when a pair of cunning green eyes land on the horseman, growing wider still as its gaze draws down to where you're poking your head out from behind a guarding arm.

It locks you in its sights, holds your attention and you press a hand over your mouth, panic rising like a slow tide from the pit of your stomach, realising – horror stricken – what this thing is.

There's no mistaking those horns, the monstrous claws, the vestigial, fleshy winds sprouting from its shoulder blades and the most depraved grin you've ever seen.

It's a demon. Here, right in front of you. Just like the ones who destroyed your home.

Yet to your surprise, where rage should probably coil and churn in your stomach, there is only the cold, empty ache of fear. Gritting your teeth, you try with all your might to be angry, to let fury override the terror.

But it doesn't.

Shaking limbs and clenched fists betray you and the only thing that comes close to matching the dread is shame. Shame at what you are.

In a throaty, slimy voice that curls your toes, it drawls, “Greetings horseman! And welcome.” Leaning back, it spreads its long, gangling arms as though greeting an old friend and your eyes snap down to see that it has no legs, only a tattered skirt adorned with all manner of scrolls, round, glowing lanterns and a thick harness hanging from its skinny waist. “I've been expecting you.”

Judging from Death's tone, you can hazard a guess that this demon does not fall within his purview of 'friends.'

“Vulgrim. What brings you crawling out of the shadows?” the horseman grumbles, oblivious to the rapid intakes of breath coming from behind him, nor the little fingers that slide around one of the loops in his belt and grip tight.

The demon chuckles, slowly drifting closer, his greedy eyes flickering from you to Death and back again. “I wouldn't want to lose my most valued customer. Not to what lurks at the edge of shadows. So here I am, to offer my wares.”

Quivering muscles tense and bristle as the horseman barks, “What do you know that I don't? I'm not here by choice, demon.”

“I merely followed the trail of carnage. And when I detected the scent of this....” He pauses to waft a hand beneath his nose, doing an eerie impression of someone who's just smelled an especially good meal. “...delectable little morsel-”

Your stomach does a somersault.

“- I simply couldn't stay away!”

Before you have time to react, Vulgrim takes his opportunity to glide closer and leans down, peering at your petrified expression, sunken lips pulling taut over too many teeth. “This one is so....new, so fresh! Only the second time around, I'd wager....Mmm. Maybe third.” He sounds too excited, whatever he's talking about and suddenly, at the demon's threatening proximity, your pulse races into overdrive and you find that your legs are no longer adhered to the ground.

Just as Death opens his mouth to warn the merchant away, you move.

He catches the little blur of motion from the corner of his eye, yet instead of going backwards, as he expected, you lunge forwards clumsily, almost tripping over your own feet whilst you fumble with the sword at your waist.

If the action hadn't been so unexpected, he reckons Vulgrim would never have shot back quite so fast or hold his hands up in surprise when a small, unintimidating blade is promptly shoved under his nose.

“Rargh!” Your shout of anguish comes out garbled and nonsensical, made only more indecipherable by the wobble in your tone. Spine rigid and teeth bared, you manage to grind out, “H-how could you!?”

Shocked at the unexpected display of ferocity, Death softly calls your name and reaches out to touch your elbow but you rip it away from him, trying to steady your shaking arms to keep the sword trained on the equally bewildered demon's head. Again, quieter this time, you croak, “How could you?”

Vulgrim's eyes dart from side to side until they settle on Death, silently asking for clarification.

Meanwhile, the horseman has his hand still held out towards you, fingers suspended as he scrutinises the bungling grip you have on your sword and the unsteadiness in your stance. It doesn't take a genius to discover the reason for this outburst. “Y/n,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his mask's nose-bone, “Put that sword down, before you embarrass yourself further. You're no threat to anyone holding it like that.”

Feeling betrayed, you glance at him over your shoulder and blink the moisture from your eyes. “But! But he's a – a demon!”

“He is,” the horseman agrees, nodding sagely, “A demon merchant, to be precise.”

Perplexed, you gape at him. ‘How can he be so calm!’

“His kind, they – they killed humanity! They destroyed Earth!”

Again, Death nods. “They did.” Then, pointing a rawboned finger at Vulgrim, he adds, “He, however, did not.”

You look back at the demon and blink, noting how his hands are still raised into the air placatingly, a lump moving down his throat as he swallows. He hasn't attacked you when he could. He very easily could with how badly you're poised. Licking your lips, you plant your feet more firmly and give him a wary once-over. “He....he didn't?”

Vulgrim, realising that he's in absolutely no danger whatsoever, releases a sharp cackle and swipes a claw across his forehead, the very picture of melodrama. “My, my! Such spirit! How....unusual...” Tapping his fingertips together, he drags his eyes off the tip of your sword and addresses Death, his tone low and business-like. “Let's make a deal...What do you want for her?”

Your head whips around to look at the horseman so quickly, you almost lose your already questionable balance and the sword swings several inches to the left, now pointing at a spot just above Vulgrim's shoulder. Exasperated, Death heaves out an overworked sigh. He'll have to teach you why turning one's back on a prospective enemy isn't the best idea in the world some other time though, because the demon merchant's hungry gaze has fixed itself on you again while your wide eyes remain locked with Death's, as though you're fully expecting him to just name his price, fork you over and ride off into the sunset with a satchel full of gilt and hands wiped thoroughly clean of responsibility.

In an attempt to hide how tense his shoulders are, he rolls them and regards Vulgrim coolly from beneath heavy-lids. “I don't want anything for her. This particular soul is not for sale.”

“He wants my soul?” you balk, face paling.

Ignoring you, the demon visibly deflates and whines, “Are you sure? I could reward you handsomely.”

“I'm sure.” Death's arms fold across his chest and he tips his chin towards you. “Besides, I highly doubt you can offer me anything of her equivalence.” He must have imagined the tiny, grateful smile on your face because when he looks properly, it vanishes, as if it were never there at all.

In an effort to coax you into lowering your sword, he risks another soft touch to your elbow, this time holding it securely between his thumb and forefinger when you don’t pull away and giving it a gentle tug. “I promise you can put your sword down, Y/n. As malicious and duplicitous as Vulgrim is, he's a scavenger, not a warrior. I don't believe for a second that he was among the demon hordes who marched on Earth.”

“Right you are, horseman!” the demon in question praises, turning to you, “Would you believe I've never actually killed a human?”

Deadpan, both you and Death reply with a firm, “No.”

Undeterred, he places his hands on his chest imploringly. “It's true! Oh, I've collected a soul or two from the dead ones, certainly.” He brings his hands together, forming a cage with his fingers. “After all, one must be dead before a soul can be captured. But killing a human? Bah! Do you know how hazardous an occupation that is?”

“Hazardous?” you scoff, but allow Death’s guiding hand to lower your arms as you realise that, although he shares many of the same features as the demons that destroyed your home, this Vulgrim doesn't seem nearly as murderous as the others. Creepy, yes. But not murderous. “Your kind seemed to have no problem killing mine from where I was standing?”

“Ah. But as your horseman friend rightly put; I am no warrior. And a human can be as deadly an adversary as any creature with its back to a wall.” He glances down at you and your trembling arms. “Present company notwithstanding.”

Squinting up at him suspiciously, you tilt your head to one side and slowly ask, “So...you're not going to steal my soul?”

He seems laughingly appalled by the idea. “And risk losing my best client and my head!? Hell's bells human, I haven't survived this long on brawn alone.”

Suddenly, you feel very sheepish. At last dropping the point of your sword away from Vulgrim's chest and letting it stick into the ground, you let out a shaky exhale. “Right. Sorry. I-...I'm sorry.”

The demon's eyes promptly bulge open, his eyelids fluttering madly as though he's never heard the word 'sorry' before in his life, and certainly not when it's directed at him. “Why...is she apologising?” he asks, addressing Death.

“Because I assumed you were like every other demon and I stuck a sword in your face,” you answer before Death can, “That was kind of high-hat of me. I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.”

Incredulous, Vulgrim merely gawks at you until, to your right, the horseman snorts, bemused. “Oh, don't apologise. If you were to drop dead right now, he'd snap up your soul before you hit the ground.”

“Alas, once again, his words ring true,” the merchant sighs wistfully, “I have quite the voracious appetite.” Seconds later, he perks up, clapping his oversized hands together and bending down to give you that hungry, predatory stare, his long fingers slowly creeping towards you but stopping short as soon as Death's hand falls pointedly on his scythe. “But, worry not my little morsel– Er, I- I mean, little human.” He finally backs off and floats over to his dais again. “If Death says you're off the menu, then you're off the menu. I'm more interested in building bridges than burning them, after all.”

“Yeah,” you agree, giving him a hard, meaningful stare, “Me too.”

You jump when Death's forearm bumps into you, physically turning your body back in the direction of his horse. “We should be getting on,” he tells you quietly. With a quick nod, you let him push you in front, keeping himself between you and the demon as you retrace your steps back down the path.

“Oh and by the way!” Vulgrim shouts suddenly, his voice lacking any kind of sincerity when he continues, “My condolences for what happened to Earth!” Stopping abruptly, you blink and turn to look back at him over your shoulder. ‘Well..It’s the thought that counts.’

“Yeah!” you call back around Death, “And I’m sorry again about the whole, sword in your face thing!”

It might just have been a trick of the light, or your over-active imagination, but in that moment, the merchant's grin seems less sinister and more bemused than anything.

Cackling, he lifts a hand to wave you off. “My dear, I simply wouldn't call a day successful unless I'd had some manner of sharp object thrust into my peripheral.”

Hesitantly returning his wave, you allow yourself to be guided forwards again by the horseman's impatient grunt. Behind you, Vulgrim begins to sink back into his plinth, calling out before his head disappears, “Oh and horseman, if you or your new friend ever have need of my wares, seek me out.” He watches as your larger companion hoists you into the saddle, pulling himself up afterwards. As the bizarre duo disappear around the corner, Vulgrim’s teeth part into a wide, insidious grin.

“I do so look forward to seeing you both again.”

------

For some time after leaving Vulgrim’s hideaway, Death rides in silence, mulling over your first interaction with a demon since you left Earth. All things considered, it could have gone a lot worse.

“I'm surprised you didn't run him through,” he pipes up conversationally, ignoring the tiny flinch that shakes you from your own musings at the sound of his voice. “In fact, I'm almost sad you didn't.”

Furrowing your brow, you reply, “Then why'd you stop me?”

“Ha! Besides the fact I didn’t think you’d ever be able to with the way you held that sword?... Because he hasn't really done anything to warrant us killing him. Not yet, at least. And his wares are – to an extent – somewhat useful.”

Finally, after winding your way through what seemed like the ceaseless, high-walled passage, the cliffs finally come to an abrupt end and you’re suddenly greeted by soft sunlight filtering through a luscious canopy of green and golden tree leaves.

Up ahead stretches a vast, spacious wood. Several ruined structures are dotted between the trees, vestiges of the maker civilisation lost to the corruption that ploughed through their land like a dark tidal wave, leaving a sort of kenopsia in its wake. Casting a sad smile at the twisting roots and leaves fluttering gently to the ground, you pump out a longing sigh. “This place is so beautiful...”

Behind you, the horseman has already spotted several threats, all skulking about between the shadows of the trees. “Hm. Don’t be fooled. There are far worse things out here than demon merchants.” As if on cue, something big roars loudly, making its presence known and from behind a thick trunk, something huge and bulky steps into view.

Just like that, your wanderlust dies and you shrink back involuntarily underneath Death’s bristling chest. He spares you a cursory glance as he unsheathes his scythes, feeling Despair quiver in anticipation, ears pricked sharply forwards. Flapping off the saddle horn, Dust shoots into the sky with a resounding caw. “Hold on tightly,” Death murmurs, “Keep your head low and don’t let go of that saddle.” He reaches around with one hand hand grabs yours, moving them down until your fingers latch reflexively around the metal pommel. “It seems getting to the Cauldron won’t be a simple ride after all. Are you ready?”

“Not in the least.”

“Good,” he smirks, urging Despair into a hard canter, “No warrior worth their salt is ever ready for their first few tastes of real battle.”

Thundering along through the leaf-strewn woods, Despair releases a squeal of excitement and charges into a breakneck gallop, the equally fearsome rider poised and ready to swing his deadly scythes as they fly towards their first destination; The Cauldron.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #cold hands warm heart #death #death x reader #vulgrim #death is weird

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yumekuimono · 7 years

Text

[Lokiskind] Hela

A/N: aha, well it’s been a while for this ‘verse hasn’t it? I got sucked into writing “Everyone But Yourself” for three months. but I still have ideas for “Lokiskind” and I’ll get around to writing them all eventually!

warnings for child abduction with the intention of murder, although it is ultimately unsuccessful, and Odin’s A+ parenting in general

Loki crooned an elvish lullaby as he put together a bottle, carrying his daughter in one arm. Sigyn wanted nothing to do with her, but Loki was a prince and so when he told the healers that he was keeping his daughter, they convinced her to save her breastmilk. She’d grudgingly sent her maid to deliver it for the past three days after she’d stormed back to her own chambers claiming she didn’t know how she’d ever been foolish enough to present a suit to Frigga. She was more than likely already speaking to his parents about dissolving their union. Loki wasn’t particularly concerned about the collapse of his marriage. He’d had little choice in the matter, and resented the attempt to tie him to Asgard while he was still grieving for his sons. He hadn’t known Sigyn well anyway, and he would not tolerate his wife calling their daughter a monster. He was perfectly capable of taking care of her on his own.

Settling himself in a comfortable armchair, he cradled his daughter against his bare chest and held the bottle for her to nurse from, continuing to hum. Loki gazed down at her in adoration. Her appearance was unusual certainly, but she was beautiful nonetheless. She was divided exactly in half, the creamy skin on her right in stark contrast to the rippled black and blue on her left. That side almost seemed to be entirely black now, save for upon closer inspection, but as she grew the patterns in her markings would be revealed. Loki hoped that her right eye would darken to green from its present gray as she got older as well. She would not have an easy time in Asgard, but Loki loved her with everything he had given to his other children.

“What should your name be, hmm?” he murmured as he shifted her up to his shoulder to burp. Sigyn had chosen a name of course, but it didn’t seem right to keep it when she had so easily rejected both of them. Loki rocked his daughter to sleep thinking about it.

When a servant announced that the King and Queen had come to see him, Loki pulled on a tunic and allowed them entry.

“Loki,” Frigga said gently, “Sigyn came to us today to request that your marriage be annulled.”

“I have no objection.”

“She made some claims about your child.” The Allfather’s voice was dark.

Loki’s expression sharpened, broken edges pointing outward. “There is nothing wrong with my child.”

“May we see her?” Frigga asked, but Odin was already moving forward. Loki hurried to stand in front of the cradle, trying to block their view even though he knew it was useless. He wouldn’t be able to hide his daughter’s appearance, and sooner or later it must come out.

“You cannot take her from me,” he insisted.

Odin’s expression became thunderous when he saw the infant lying in the cradle. “Sigyn was right,” he growled. “This cannot be tolerated.” Pushing past Loki, he snatched up the child. Frigga gave a little gasp when he turned, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

Loki threw himself at his father, tearing at his arms. “No! Give her back!”

Odin shoved him away, into Frigga’s hands as she tried to restrain him. “Loki, please…” she pleaded.

He fought her blindly, his gaze fixed on his daughter. “Give her back to me! Give her back! You can’t— Father, please—”

“Enough,” Odin growled. “I will not have this halfling thing in the halls of my court!” He stalked away, teleporting out of the room.

“No!” Loki shouted, twisting out of his mother’s grasp. Grabbing on to the end of the spell, he followed after Odin.

When he arrived on the Rainbow Bridge some distance from the Observatory, he ran. Inside, he could see Odin speaking to Heimdall. His heart thudded in his throat. The Bifrost began to open, showing a glimpse of night and snow. A scream tore from him. “No! NO!” Odin did not seem to hear as he cast his granddaughter into space.

Loki became stone. His body fell to the ground, staring uncomprehendingly at the closing Bifrost.

Odin did not look at him as he walked past, returning to the city down the Rainbow Bridge. Time passed and Loki did not move. He did not look away from the last glimpse of his daughter. Eventually Heimdall approached, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Go back to your rooms, young prince,” the Watcher suggested, not unkindly.

Loki refused food and he did not speak. He barely moved, staring sightlessly at his wall where the image of his daughter being thrown into the Bifrost was imprinted on his mind. His daughter, his daughter was gone. His beautiful baby. All of his children. He’d lost all of them. He was empty. He did not think, he did not want. He felt nothing save for the aching void, his body numb and so, so cold underneath his furs. Time had no meaning for him.

“Loki…” A cool hand smoothed over his forehead. Frigga wept at his bedside. “I promise you, I promise you all is not lost. Go and search out your daughter.”

Loki’s eyes focused on his mother.

“She lives yet. Search her out.”

Loki left his bed clinging to a desperate hope to keep himself upright. He bared his teeth at Heimdall, wild-eyed and wild-haired, and the Watcher opened the Bifrost for him. He landed on Nifleheim, staggering through the thigh-deep snow as the wind howled around him. A figure was seated on an outcrop of rock ahead of him. Her cloak was a deep black and underneath its hood her face was gaunt, a grey pallor to her brown skin. She held a tiny bundle that was far too still. Loki fell to his knees.

Mistress Death raised her head to look at him, her flesh melting away to reveal bare bone.

“Please,” Loki whispered, the broken sound lost in the wind.

With a tilt of her head, Lady Death indicated for him to follow her, skin clothing her features once more. Loki got up and started walking, not caring where she might lead him. He did not stop even when the winds began to blow in only one direction and he caught glimpses in the corner of his eye of shades being borne along upon it, enticing him dangerously forward, and he knew they had left Nifleheim behind.

Mistress Death led him to a castle hunched beneath the snowy sky and into the great hall. The tall, craggy being sat on the throne there knelt when he saw them. He was made out of stone, one of the Sons of Muspelheim, despite the fact that he was the same bleak grey as the castle around them and the only fire he had was a dull red glow deep in the cracks of his skin. Two jagged horns rose from the top of his head. When Mistress Death placed the baby in his hands, he bowed further and thanked her. Then the Lady faded from existence. As soon as she was gone, the infant stirred and began to fuss. The giant rocked her and finally looked at Loki.

“You are her father?” His voice was the grating of boulders. “Come with me.”

He led Loki into a sitting room, where a fire burned brightly in the hearth. There he gently handed him back his daughter. She blinked at him and babbled, waving her hands happily. Loki burst into tears, sinking down on the edge of a couch. He held his daughter against his chest and cried, rocking them both back and forth.

When he had calmed enough to sit back and begin to worry about quieting the baby too, the stone giant waved a servant forward. They placed a low table to Loki’s side and set out his daughter’s nursing things. “These are yours, yes?” the giant confirmed. “She will be hungry.”

“My thanks,” Loki replied hoarsely. He made up a bottle automatically, heating it with his magic, and his daughter latched on greedily.

“Do you understand what has happened?” the giant asked.

Loki tore himself away from watching her suckle. “Not entirely.”

“I am Hel. This, my realm, is where souls come on their journey to Mistress Death. It is my duty to guide them. Your daughter has been chosen to replace me, and when she has grown her horns my soul too will depart and Hela will become the new Queen of the Dead.”

Loki nodded, pressing his lips together as he looked back down at his daughter. She would live. She would be allowed to grow and mature and be happy as she deserved, but she would be bound always to this realm. His voice trembled. “May I visit her?”

“It is not wise for the living who do not serve Mistress Death to stay very long in this realm, nor visit too frequently. But as you were guided by My Lady herself, you will be welcome to visit here in Elvidner.”

Tears dropped onto his daughter’s swaddling and her skin, and she whined in protest. Loki set down the bottle and wiped them gently away. “I owe you more than I can possibly repay.”

“You have no need to. I will leave you alone now. The servants can bring you food or show you to a room to rest.”

When they were alone, Loki lifted his daughter so he could kiss her face. “Hela,” he whispered. “Your name is Hela, and you will be magnificent and beautiful. My daughter.”

He remained in Helheim, watching Hel choose souls from out of the neverending flow to serve as nursemaids and playmates and tutors. Servants were sent into the Nine Realms to procure all of the items that a baby would require. Loki spent nearly all of his time with Hela, caring for her and playing with her, trying to fit everything in before he would have to leave. When three months had passed, Hel approached him.

“You have been here long. It is time you returned to the living. You should be safe here again when four times this span of days has passed.”

Loki nodded, hugging Hela one last time. “Care for her well.” To his daughter, he said, “I love you. I swear that I will return.”

#fanfic #loki x sigyn #loki laufeyson #hela #odin #frigga #heimdall #helheim worldbuilding #lady death #child abduction #odin's a+ parenting #lokiskind

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