Ghost's Princess

The way Ruin eyes you after War speaks and your attempt to shimmy more to one side further reinforces that you are now quite literally stuck, unless you wanted to roll the dice on hurting yourself.

With that War proceeds to wander off, and you're stuck kicking your feet in boredom. Ruin doesn't prove to be the most entertaining babysitter in the slightest, and it feels more like you're stuck on a countertop too high for you than anything else. The only thing that breaks the illusion is the occasional indignant snort you get whenever you mumble to yourself.

You're not sure how much time passes in actuality, the sun never really seems to fully set around here which takes away your only real way of telling the passage of time. Perhaps it's by design, the angels love their light, are you are currently in one of their realms. For you however it really only gives you a bit of a headache. At least Ruin is firmly parked in the shade— not as if you could move him if he wasn't— so you didn't slowly heat up as the sun beat down on you.

When War returns, he makes a straight path towards you and Ruin and moves to grasp the saddle horn. When you don't show excitement at his return like usual— his hood is now down which gives you a full view of his long white hair and young face— he looks at you with a hint of suspicion and gives you an inquisitive 'hmm?'.

"No, I'm mad at you now. You made a horse babysit me."

War sighs. His jaw shifts unconsciously as he thinks on his words. For being usually so aloof, he can have a bit of a heavy tongue, at times. Usually to you; It's easy for him to speak to the other horsemen, it's harder for him to be so gruff and intimidating to someone he likes that height-wise, can barely reach his shoulders.

"Do not get yourself into trouble so often, and I would not need to." You quickly attempt to defend yourself and your voice raises in pitch.

"I do not get into that much trouble! You are," You're momentarily stopped when War grasps the saddle horn tighter and moves to heft himself onto Ruin behind you with a loud grunt, jostling you around enough that it cuts you off for a moment. "You are blowing one incident way out of proportion."

War, in a rare moment of letting his guard down, chuckles ever so slightly, and very knowingly. His chest solidly rests against your back.

"Am I?"

Your silence speaks for itself enough, and the argument ends. Perhaps you've learned a few lessons about touching things that looked very old. And wandering off too far.

"You are going to stay on the horse."

Defeated, you sigh and purse your lips.

You’ve kicked Joseph out of your pub enough times to know he’s got a bad habit of riling up the wrong people. Brazen, bold, and downright foolish at the worst moments... But he’s also twenty-four. Frightened by the new world you’ve all woken up in. And prone to doing stupid things if his so-called ‘friends’ put him up to it.

As war had started lurching across the room towards the babbling young man, he’d sent tables, chairs, and people scattering like papers knocked from a desk.

Wood splintered, everyone was shouting or gasping, and with murder written plain as day across War’s snarling face, you’d thought nothing of scooting out from behind the bar and jogging directly into his path, head tipped back to look him right in those weird, glowing eyes.

“Can I help you, Horseman?” you’d asked disarmingly through gritted teeth, less surprised at your own gumption, and more that he’d come to an abrupt halt just before crashing into you.

War stops for nobody. You and everyone in that room had heard the mantra repeated a thousand times before by various sources.

The glare you were subjected to at that moment was almost hot enough to melt through solid steel. But even beyond the rage, there was the flicker of a blink and a fleeting glance from left to right that betrayed one thing; He was just as shocked as you were to find you standing there.

You thought he’d knock you aside. You thought he’d simply bulldoze right on through you like he had the rest of your pub.

Hell, you thought he’d just straight up kill you for the crime of getting in his way.

Which is why it came as such a shock that the hulking, stoic brute didn’t immediately resort to violence, and instead chose to speak.

“Stand aside, human,” he boomed authoritatively, raising his eyes over your head to stare down the kid behind you, “This is none of your concern.”  

You must have had a death-wish that evening because you’d drawn yourself up to your full height – still woefully small compared to the Nephilim – and snorted at him, the over-friendly smile on your face wavering like a mirage.

“Actually,” you bristled, “This is my bar. That was my furniture…“ Here, you throw an arm out in gesture at the destruction he’d left in his wake, and War actually turned his head to look, blinking as if he was taken aback by the ruination behind him.

“And these-“ you added sharply, jabbing a thumb over your shoulder at the young man sinking lower and lower in his seat, “Are my patrons… So, I’m afraid it is my concern when a Horseman comes stomping in here looking like he wants to tear this place up from the foundations.”

Later, your patrons would ask if you were looking to die. Not really, you assured them, but the thing about dying is, after you’ve done it once, the next time doesn’t seem quite so daunting. And when it became public knowledge that a soul will go on forever even if the present host won’t, suddenly death stops seeming like the End.  

But perhaps, more to the point, you’d been sampling the whiskey that evening, and a dose of the old liquid courage was enough to drown your inhibitions. What more could you say?

“Perhaps I should,” War had posited, leaning forwards to smother you in his shadow, a promised threat, “Perhaps I should raze this hovel to the ground for sheltering a coward and a thief.”

… The ‘hovel’ comment aside, what he said set off alarm bells at once.

You craned your neck over a shoulder immediately to send Joseph a withering glare of your own. “Joe? Why is one of the Horsemen accusing you of theft?” you asked, strained voice dripping saccharin.

To his credit, Joseph didn’t really try to deny anything, though he had gone exceptionally pale, eyes darting everywhere except for your face.

“I-… It was just a joke!” he insisted indignantly, sending a ripple of exasperated groans cresting through the pub.

And there came the dread, that awful realisation that this idiot might have just doomed your entire clientele on the back of a joke.

“I was gonna give it back!” he continued, floundering, “But then he chased me and threatened to kill me!”

“Fucking Hell, Joe,” you seethed through your teeth, turning around to face him, “Now I’m thinking of killing you. What the Hell did you do!?”

You can still recall the heat rolling off War and across your back as the Horseman swept his gaze to and fro between you and his quarry.

With all the reluctant concession of a dog giving up the bone is stole from next door’s yard, Joseph heaved a contemptuous sigh, peeling his rucksack off and flipping open the canvas lid, where he proceeded to pull out something long and –

“What the-… Is that some kind of drinking horn?” you’d gawped.

Behind you, War’s guttural timbre reaches your ear. “Earthcaller,” he groused, shifting his weight from side to side as if to move around you.

It was a long arm of bone, carved with strange, demonic faces. An instrument that definitely looked like it would belong to a Nephilim, not a human.

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” you’d groaned, commiserated by most of the other patrons, “Do you want to die? Because pulling stupid shit like this is how you die.”

“It was just a joke,” he mumbled again as you snatched the horn out of his limp grasp, resisting the urge to rip out your hair.

“Jokes are meant to be funny,” you snipped, “If this is your idea of one, you might be comically challenged.”

That had earned a few uncomfortable titters from people who still had most of their attention fixed on War.

The Horseman in question was still livid, even as you turned back to him and held the horn out for him to take.

“I’m really sorry he did that,” you said with utmost sincerity. Because you were sorry, though even War seemed belligerent on your behalf.

“You were not the one who stole from me,” he pointed out in a deep, thrumming growl.

“Like I said; my pub, my patrons , my problem,” you offered pleasantly, shrugging a shoulder as the Nephilim reached out a gauntlet and all but tore the thing out of your hand.

You swallowed down the urge to ask how a young human had managed to pickpocket something so large from one of the Four.

“But, if he does something stupid like this again,” you added, “He’s on his own. Whether he tries to hide in here or not.”

The warning was aimed at a very contrite Joseph cowering behind you, who appeared to be quite literally shrinking under the burden of everyone’s attention.

War had regarded you for several, terse seconds during which you counted no less that seven, hard blinks – the only sign of uncertainty he’d ever offer - until eventually, his lips started to curl.

“I do not need your permission to exact justice,” he warned you, even as he turned his back on you and began to storm right out the way he came in, massive fists clenched into bludgeons at his sides.

He didn’t even attempt to pick his way around the debris, apparently riled enough to tread the splinters into your carpet and make the whole mess even worse.

But… against the odds, he left.

You survived. You stepped in the way of War and lived.

And most miraculously of all, nobody got hurt!

Well, Joseph might have disagreed with that one… He was forced to flee behind your bar with his arms slung protectively around his head, trying to escape the clips and blows landed upon him by several, righteously furious patrons.

But so long as they didn’t kill the daft bastard, you couldn’t care to intervene…

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

The second time you saw the Horseman was the very next morning.

Once again, War’s recognisable frame had come striding into your pub, though in this instance, rather than kick the door off its hinges, he ducked beneath the frame you still hadn’t found a moment to repair, bowing his shoulders inwards so as not to scrape the wood with his massive pauldrons.

You just counted your lucky stars that you’d had the wherewithal to put up a sign outside declaring that the pub was unofficially ‘closed’ for the day, leaving it devoid of unsuspecting humans, save for yourself.

He looked so different from the rampaging beast you saw prior that you might have believed him to be a demon in disguise.

He spotted you at once, zeroing in on your stricken face where you hovered behind the bar with a dishrag in one hand and a smudged glass in the other, caught like a deer in headlights whilst the blood-red hood of a pickup truck comes bearing down on you.

When he started making his way over, decidedly avoiding the remnants of tables and chairs he himself had left broken, you expected some retribution for your boldness yesterday.

You didn’t expect a fist-sized sack of gilt to be unceremoniously dumped on the bartop, spilling golden coins all across the polished, black surface when the twine holding it closed came undone.

“To replace what was destroyed,” he rumbled, and when you peered up into his hood, you were staggered to find that he wasn't meeting your eye. The shadows cast by the scarlet fabric did much to conceal his complexion, though you suspected he must have been exerting himself just before he arrived because there was a ruddiness to his cheeks that hadn't been there the day prior.

Blinking stupidly, you glanced down at the pile of gilt, then lifted your gaze back up to the towering Horseman, gobsmacked.

Of all the impossibilities the Universe has ever thrown at you and proven possible, this was never even in the cards. You've seen angels, demons, the dead walking around like they still have a pulse. You've seen beyond the realm of what you thought you knew, but this?

A Horseman of the Apocalypse... War, no less. Trying to make amends for the damage he'd done....

You actually had to steal a peek at the glass in your hand just to check it wasn't suddenly full of liquor.

“I… This is… enough to buy a whole new pub,” you’d huffed out in an incredulous laugh.

War’s expression didn’t shift in the slightest. All he did was roll his shoulders once and turn his head to the side, glowering hard at a spot on the wall opposite as he declares, “It is of no concern to me what you do with it.”

“Oh, well then, you won’t mind if I give some of it back,” you replied crisply, pressing your knuckles to the bar top and watching his snowy brows creep together as he pivots his focus back to you.

“Seriously. This is…” Pausing to shake your head in disbelief at the gold glittering against the ebony surface, you finally scoffed, “Way too much.”

Once again, the Horseman got that look about him, like he was trying to follow a script and you just weren't sticking to your lines. He must have decided you were talking nonsense because after shooting a few glances between your face and the pile of gilt, he simply turned his back on both, likely deciding it wasn't worth his time to try and argue with you.

Bemused, you just watched him cross your bar, not missing how he - again - weaved around your overturned furniture... Not that it would have mattered if he'd bulldozed through it again. You could only chuck it out anyway.

You'd merely shrugged to yourself and resumed your task of cleaning the glass, the cloth squeaking against it as you wiped lipstick smudges from the rim.

“Well look, feel free to stop in for a drink some time. This-" Again, you nodded at the gilt. "- more than covers a pretty hefty tab!”

Your offer brought to a standstill, twisting his hood around to frown at you from the corner of a single, scrupulous eye.

"I am not in the habit of consuming human beverages," he scoffed.

"Then just stop in to say hi," you offered easily, "Everyone's welcome to walk through those doors... Even if it's just to escape the rain."

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

The third time you met a Horseman, it wasn't War.

You very nearly swallowed your tongue to see the dreaded Fury strolling in through your doors, her hair aflame and her eyes roving the pub as if in search of something, much like her brother had before her.

When she spotted you behind the bar, through the throng of people who were just beginning to notice her presence and subsequently threw themselves towards the exits, her pale gaze lit up and she strode towards you,

"You," she barked, towering over the bar, "Are you the keeper of this shambles?"

Once again, you didn't much care for the assessment, but faced with a famously more volatile Horseman, you managed to swallowed your pride and gave her a tight-lipped smile. "That'd be me... What can I do for you?"

Scrunching up her nose, she gave you a slow, disdainful once-over....

... And then she promptly burst out laughing.

It was such a jarring sound that you stumbled backwards, crashing into an array of bottles behind you and sending one of them toppling off the side to smash on the ground.

This only served to make her laugh even harder. It was low, grating, a barbarous sort of sound that raised your hackles and left you wondering how many she's slain who have heard that same, mocking roar.

"This?!" she exclaimed to nobody in particular - almost all of your clientele had fled by that point - "This is the human who has my brother so ensorcelled!?"

By the time she'd cackled herself out of breath and draped her armoured forearms over your bar, the last of your regulars had slipped out the back door.

You let the silence seep back in from the corners as she heaved a satisfied sigh.

Only then did you pipe up. "Wow... Don't think I've made someone laugh that hard since I asked Dan Symes to the school dance."

Fury blinked across at you, her face falling open as if she'd only just remembered that you were even in the room with her, let alone actively speaking to her.

"So," you added, trying to ooze the kind of nonchalance you definitely weren't feeling, "Your brother's mentioned me, has he?"

You'd heard along the grapevine that Fury was the Horseman with most experience interacting with humans. Something about assigning herself the role of Protector to a handful of survivors after the Destroyer launched an assault on their sanctuary. Perhaps that's why she slipped into conversation with you more easily than her brother had.

"Mentioned you?" she parroted, clicking her tongue, "He hasn't shut up about you. 'The human who stood in his path to protect a young thief from his righteous wrath!' Ugh. It's beginning to drive my brothers and I to drink..."

You had to consciously stop your jaw from falling open at the knowledge that War hadn't been more unflattering in his description of you, or that he'd talked about you at all. With the other Horsemen no less...

Slapping on a commiserating grin, you gestured at the bottles lining the wall behind you and said, "Well then. Seems you've come to the right place."

She eyed your selection dubiously, even went so far as to curl her lip in distaste.

"I doubt you have anything strong enough to merit me spending the gilt."

"As much as I'm loathe to correct one of the Four," you ventured cautiously, "The amount of gilt your brother gave me to repair the damage he caused has pretty much bought him the next fifty rounds, so-."

Her head snapped up like the crack of her famous whip, eyes suddenly glittering with intrigue. "He... repaid you?" she demanded, incredulously, sparing a glance over her shoulder at the last of the broken tables you've since shoved against the far wall, "War?"

There was a deafening pause, and then swivelled back to the bar, brows raised high up her forehead as she muttered to herself, "Oh this is an exciting development..."

You just pretended you hadn't heard her.

"I could extend the offer to members of his family, if you like," you shrugged, bending down and reaching for the cupboard below the bar, notably out of your regulars' line of sight.

"Hmph," she snorted, "If Strife ever bumbles his way into this place, do not tell him the same. He will drink your whole stock dry."

"Well, he'd be welcome too," you grunted, stretching your arm right to the back and grabbing the neck of a black bottle that was always strangely ice-cold to the touch, "War isn't the first who broke some furniture in my pub, and I doubt he'll be the last. But he is the first and only one who actually tried to make things right. So..."

Popping up again in front of the Horseman, you slid a shot glass across the bar top until it bumped into her arm and held up the bottle for her to see. "As for something strong enough... I got this off a demon who owed me for a favour. I've been told that this stuff can knock a Trauma on its ass."

She glowered dubiously at the impenetrable darkness swirling within the bottle, opaque from top to bottom, no label, no year, just a simple cork in its top.

"Buying spirits from a demon? " she huffed, squinting at you for a moment before she added, "... What's it called?"

Pursing your lips, you replied, "He called it Hair of the Hellhound. Said it's got one heck of a bite."

"Perhaps it does," she conceded, though not before letting out a quick barb, "For a mere human."

You could see the cogs in her head churning around as she flicked her piercing gaze between you and the bottle, no doubt wondering if the consequences of taking the mystery shot will be worse than losing face in front of a 'mere human.'

At last, as you stood there waiting for her verdict, she rolls her eyes and lets out another petulant scoff. "Fine," she agreed, waving her hand at the bottle and beckoning you forwards to pour the shot, "I suppose I can at least tell you if you've bought a dud. What was the name of the demon?"

You screwed your face up as you tried to remember the shady merchant who you sheltered last year during a demonic purge carried out by a very vengeful angel. "Vulgrim? I think he said?"

In an instant, she looked a hell of a lot less eager to go through with the challenge. But in her own mind, she'd already committed.

When you tugged the cork free, an absolute deathly aroma rose into your nostrils, hitting your gag reflex when it settled at the back of your throat.

"Shit, that's rancid!" you gasped, pivoting your head away and watching the pour from the corner of an eye, "Are you sure you want to drink this?"

"If it's Vulgrim's, it'll be better than the rest of this swill you peddle," she admitted begrudgingly as she picked up the glass - comically small in her hands - and regarded it with a cautious glare of trepidation. "You're not joining me?"

Puffing out your cheeks, you blew a long, low whistle through your lips and shook your head rapidly from side to side. "Ah, I don't have a successor lined up in the event of my death," you pointed out with a lopsided grin, "And I'm pretty sure one sip of that stuff will bury me six feet under this place."

"Humans," she huffed, raising the glass to her lips, "Is there anything about you that isn't pathetic?"

You hadn't thought of a witty response in time.

She knocked back the entire glass, slammed it down on the counter so hard you nearly leapt forward in anticipation of shielding her from a wayward spray of shattered fragments, then proceeded to lean there with a focused look on her face, shoulders hunched, arms tense.

You just watched her, the breath in your lungs going still.

“It is good to find somewhere that serves real drinks for a change….” she rasped through a tight throat, turning on her heel and marching stiffly towards the door.

Before she reached it, she slowed to a stop, tilting her head around just enough that you caught a glimpse of her painted lips pulled up into a loose smile.

“Perhaps you should tell Strife that concoction is ‘on the house,” she smirked, “But make sure he doesn’t drink all of it. I might find myself coming in for a glass, if I’m in the area.”

And then she, like her brother, was gone, ducking through the doorframe and disappearing back into the overcast city beyond.

—— ————

The downpour started this morning.

People have been dipping into your pub all day just to escape the lashings of rain, shaking their umbrellas out in the foyer and squelching on sodden shoes all the way up to the bar.

Each person, you greet with an affable smile and a warm "What can I get you?"

"Quiet in here today," the woman you're currently serving chirps as you set about getting a round of beers for her and her friends.

Humming in response, you fall into the conversation easily. "Yeah but it's no surprise. People aren't keen to venture out in this god-awful weather. And it's not like any of us can drive yet."

"Ugh, I can't wait for someone to get cars working again," she commiserates, slouching her shoulders.

"Never realised what we had until we don't have it right?" you chuckle, placing the last tankard on a round, black tray. "Total's fifteen."

Smiling at you, she digs her hand into a pocket and rummages for a moment before extracting a handful of gilt. "Right... That's... Which coin means what again?"

You can't help but grin ruefully. Yet another thing humans had to get used to in the aftermath of the Great Awakening - using an entirely new and universal currency.

A palm slaps hard onto the bar top in front of you just as you're leaning forwards to point out the different glyphs on each coin.

"I'll be with you in a minute," you drone out on autopilot, barely sparing a glance at the trio of men who've clustered against the bar.

With the payment away and the till closing noisily shut, you help the woman pick up her tray and give her a parting nod.

"Cheers," the woman says before sauntering away towards the table where her friends sit waiting.

"Now then." You swivel about to address the newcomers. "What can I get for you?"

The one in front, flanked on either side by two other men sporting similar jackets with the hoods pulled low over their eyes, rests a palm on the counter, putting his weight on in and flashing you an unsettlingly wide, toothy grin.

"Nothing too difficult, love," he drawls, "Just after some information, that's all."

"You know, despite my profession, I'm not one for gossip," you tell him evasively, already on edge.

"Oh I'm sure that's not true. See me and my friends here-" He nods his head at the man on his left, then swings it lazily around to the man on his right, "Well, a little birdie told us that you're the reason we're short one rare artifact..."

Recognition snaps straight into place at the very forefront of your mind. You have the sneaking suspicion that these men are after the horn Joseph pilfered from War. Damnit, you knew Jo has been getting into some shady business lately, but this is the icing on a shit-cake.

Outwardly, of course, you just purse your lips and quirk a brow, moving forwards to brace your hands on the bar, mirroring the ringleader's posture.

"Artifact?" you repeat, "Can't say I've come across one of those. As you can see, my inventory is made up of liquid stock."

One of the man's eyelids twitches, and his friend's fists begin to clench and unclench in the corner of your vision.

You acknowledge neither.

"Listen," he purrs, "It's obvious you're the owner of this... fine establishment... And my sources don't get things wrong unless they want to answer to me. So cut the bullshit, and give me what you owe."

Ah. Takes a bullshitter to spot a bullshitter, you suppose. Still, it seems you won't be lying your way out of this one.

"Owe?" Scoffing, you narrow your eyes and add, "Not sure how you figure I owe you, all I did was stop a Horseman from tearing your man to pieces before he took his artefact back. Or perhaps you think I should have let the Horseman torture the poor kid into telling him who ordered the swipe."

The men on either side of the stranger shift their weight uncomfortably, and even their leader clenches his jaw, the smile falling off his face for just a second before he slaps it back on.

"Be that as it may," he says, fingers drumming obnoxiously on the bar, "Fact remains, your interference cost me a tidy sum. So, I'm not an unreasonable man-"

Something in the way he gestures to himself as he says that makes you doubt his claim very much.

"I'm willing to overlook your transgression if you're willing to ease my monetary troubles..."

God, he talks like a sleazy salesman, slow and casual yet somehow with far too much pomp and magniloquence.

"Maybe some of that liquid stock ends up coming home with me and my boys here," he chuckles, "Or maybe that till there opens up so we can see just how much we think losing that artifact set us back..."

Shit...

Nobody is coming up to buy another round yet, and most of the patrons have already been served, slowly nursing their drinks in the comfortable - strong - seats you'd purchased with War's gilt.

Nobody has even noticed anything is amiss. For all they know, you could be giving these people directions to the nearest safe house for how nonchalant he's being.

He must have seen your resolve wavering right in front of him, because his smile becomes a slimy thing, and he stares at you, his eyes unblinking.

"I think it would be in your best interest to comply," he murmurs under his breath, and as he moves an arm back, his hand just so happens to brush back the hem of his coat, and there within the shadows is the tell-tale glint of a short, silver barrel, "It would be such a shame if bad things started happening to your pub..."

Son of a bitch.

You're so busy keeping a close eye on where his hand is moving that you don't even register the shape moving under the doorway beyond your foyer, scarlet and gunmetal grey that would have alerted you to danger were it not for the clearer and more present danger taking up your allotted senses.

Ever since you built this pub up from its ruined foundations, you've tried to project a rather unflappable front for your customers. As it is now, that façade is starting to crumble. Heart in your throat, your breath hitches violently when the man's fingers slide around the grip of his gun, and when you dart a glance up at the face grinning out at you from under his dark hood, you realise he doesn't look like the kind of man who bluffs.

"... Would be such a shame," he repeats purposefully, "If bad things started happening to y- GHK!?"

For a man so immense, you're staggered that War could move in with such unparalleled stealth.

One second, you're watching a man pull a gun halfway out of the waistband of his jeans, and the next, that same man's head comes crashing down onto the bar, pinned there by the base of his neck by a metal gauntlet that spans the width of his shoulders as well.

"Christ!" you exclaim, leaping backwards and colliding painfully with the shelf behind you.

The remaining two men are already scrabbling sideways and away from the colossus heaving between then, blue eyes on fire, scarlet hood dripping dark with the rainwater from outside.

War's teeth are on display as he snarls savagely at the man trapped by his hand, whose limbs are flailing uselessly in an attempt to free himself, muffled shouts cried through a mouth pressed flush against the counter. Frantic palms slap against metal, grabbing at the Horseman's fingers to try - and fail - to shove them away.

"War!?" you blurt, drawing his eyes up to meet yours.

It's fast, blink and you'd miss it, but you could almost be convinced that for just a moment, the steely glare on his face softens by a fraction when he sees you.

It's gone as soon as it appeared however. A deafening 'BANG' rings out across the pub, people shriek, and those who hadn't already dived for cover the second War strolled in throw themselves to the floor, hands flying up to cover their heads.

Something pings off War's shoulder pauldron, tinkling to the bar and rolling to a stop just in front of you. You can see it plain as day, standing out against the black surface.

A bullet.

War's chest suddenly begins to vibrate with a thunderous growl you can feel deep inside your chest. Slowly, his head twists around, the tendons in his neck flexing with the grinding of his teeth.

Clutching your chest, you follow his gaze to the front of the pub near the entrance, where one of the men has paused, breathing hard, eyes bulging like they're about to fall out of their sockets.

In his trembling hand is another gun, a trail of smoke rising gently from the tip of its barrel.

The words come out before you can think to stop them.

"Did you just shoot War?" It's said as a scoff, a mote of incredulous hysteria. What kind of idiot would think shooting a gun at a Horseman of the Apocalypse was in any way a good idea?

The man's rolling eyes snap towards you at the sound of your voice, but by the time you realise you probably should have ducked behind the bar several seconds ago, your vision is blocked by an enormous bulwark of red and grey armour.

War, to your astonishment, has stepped in front of you, a very deliberate move that has him dragging the first man off the counter and letting him dangle by the scruff of his jacket from a clenched gauntlet, sputtering all manner of curses and threats to an impervious Horseman.

The third man, you note, is nowhere to be seen, having apparently decided that loyalty isn't worth as much as he thought it was. And his fellow lackey isn't far behind. The one who took a shot at War promptly turns on his heel and scrambles for the door.

You can't see the Horseman's face anymore, just the up and down heave of shoulders as wide as you are tall. To your surprise, he doesn't make a move to follow the runners, not at first.

Instead, his hood shifts slightly as he turns his head beneath it, angling it sideways in your direction.

"They will not evade me for long," he tells you resolutely, hoisting the first offender off his knees and onto his feet, "What would you have me do with this one?"

"You're... asking me?"

There's a pregnant pause, broken by the sound of wet, miserable blubbers of the man in question.

When War speaks again, you're caught off guard by the hesitation in his thrumming voice.

"This is... your patron?" he murmurs, "This is your bar."

Oh. You blink, recoiling slightly. He remembered what you told him when you first met...?

And he's trying to adhere to it? Granted, in a slightly misguided way.

... War?

"I... I mean, if he didn't have a gun, I would have told him to get out of here anyway, so... once he's out of that door, he's all yours."

You think you hear a subdued grunt of approval from somewhere within that hood, followed by an even quieter, "They will not trouble you again."

And without another word, War drags the man towards the exit, showing no signs of slowing as his quarry begins screaming in earnest and trying to yank his jacket free.

When the door swings shut behind the Horseman, you strain your ears to catch any sounds of violence. Part of you harshly tells yourself that you should be ashamed for letting that man be subjected to whatever punishment War sees fit to inflict.

But the other part of you, the older, sadder part, thinks, 'Well, he shouldn't have come in here to find trouble if he didn't like it when trouble turned up.'

It remains eerily quiet for several minutes whilst you watch the doorway, eyes fixed to the little window, through which you can only see a glimpse of the grey, rainy street outside.

The pub sits empty. Again. Nothing left behind but full glasses and spilled bottles that were knocked over on the tables as people fled, trickling alcohol all over the carpets.

What a mess... But you much prefer this kind of mess to the blood and carnage you'd been expecting...

You wonder if anyone will return to ask for a refund. 'Acts of Horsemen related hijinks' probably isn't covered by your policy....

Just as your rigid limbs start to unwind, the door is shoved open once again, and you snap back to attention in a split second, fingers digging nervously around the edge of the bar.

War steps back inside, rivulets of rainwater pouring off his armour and dripping to the floor.

You find your gaze immediately trying to seek out any sign of blood, but the vast blade he keeps perpetually strapped across his back doesn't trickle anything other than water onto your carpets as the Horseman strides towards you, his gaze as locked onto you as yours is to him.

"Are you hurt?" is the first thing he asks before he's even come to a stop in front of you on the other side of the bar.

"No," you tell him honestly, chewing on your lip as he gives you a none-too subtle once-over before you add, "Thank you, by the way."

The snow-white brows that had been screwed together into a scowl promptly spring apart, and he stares at you incredulously, as if you'd said something far more racy than a simple 'thanks.'

Breezing past his surprise, you let out a long, gushing sigh and spare a glance out the front-facing window, think aloud, "I wonder why they'd want your Earthcaller thing...?"

War just cocks his head to the side, confusion etched clearly into his expression. "Earthcaller?" he asks.

"Yeah?" Giving him a cautious smile, you add, "I mean I assume that's why you followed them here? Cos you found out they were the ones who wanted it stolen from you in the first place."

A muscle in his jaw twitches violently, nostrils flaring with barely contained irritation as he flings a filthy look behind himself at the door. "I was not aware that they were the culprits..." he spits.

Slowly, it dawns on you that a Horseman of the Apocalypse hadn't intervened to serve his own interests.

Had he really just stepped in to help you?

Bewildered, you shake your head and scrunch your nose up, asking, "Wait. If you weren't here for them... why'd you come back?"

Turning back to you, the Horseman's expression is once again marginally gentler than it had been a mere second ago. "It was raining," he tells you simply.

His response takes you a few moments to parse, but when you finally recall the context, your face brightens with a sincere, if baffled, grin.

But even now, nearly an hour after your induction, everything about her exudes a pot threatening to boil over as she prowls ahead of you up the sandy stretch of beach running adjacent to a north-facing precipice.

She's angry, whether at you or the situation, you're too worried about keeping this job to ask why.

The Four Corners Research and Conservation Institute is the first place that actually responded to your application without including a template rejection in the bulk of their email, though you're under no illusions that it's only thanks to your cousin being a high-ranking member on the Board that your CV was given a second glance at all.

When the bills are due and the fridge is bare, nepotism stops looking so much like an unprincipled decision.

Besides, it eases your conscience to know that you haven't been handed a high-skill position over someone more qualified.

When you applied, you thought you'd be given the role of a cleaner at their public-facing aquarium.

Instead...

‘Litter-picker.’ Not immediately a glamourous title, but it's vital work, a fact impressed upon you by your new Boss, Mr Stevensmith when he told you you'd be clearing the beach and habitat of one of their largest exhibits.

“No end of detritus washes up along that beach,” he’d told you with no small air of disdain, “Being caught in a bay doesn’t help. The current carries it all down from that new resort up the coast. So, it’s your job to make sure War’s habitat stays pristine… Can’t have our sponsors thinking we don’t take care of their investments, now can we?”

War… An apt name for the largest - and scariest - merfolk ever recorded. You, like most of the public, barely know a thing about him beyond what you’d heard on the News nearly ten years ago, save that he’s the last of his kind. Crab-merfolk are uncommon enough, but a king crab?

Abby has driven you deep into his habitat, where magnificent stone cliffs plunge nearly a thousand feet down into the wind-trap of a bay.

The old truck you'd arrived in is parked right up against the wall of rock a hundred yards behind you on the sand, marking the start of your new job, and your only ride in or out of this vast stretch of territory.

Just being here, hemmed in on one side by a sweeping wall of rock and on the other by a tempestuous ocean, you can’t help but feel daunted by the work laid out ahead of you.

Abby, for her part, seems more than content to let you pick up her slack, stomping past the majority of the litter and only pausing long enough to stab her picker into an empty bottle or two, leaving most of it behind her for you to collect.

The rain has been pelting you relentlessly since you hopped out of the jeep, drenching you from head to toe within mere minutes despite the waterproof parka buffeting around you in the howling wind.

You keep your head bowed, eyes squinted and your lashes dripping wet as you scan across the sand for anything manmade, keeping your footprints more or less pointed in the same direction that Abby is wandering.

You're almost relieved when you happen to raise your head for a spell and find that she's leading you directly to the colossal mouth of a cave that's sunk deep inside the cliffs.

At the back of your mind, you catch yourself wondering if you'll see any glimpses of War while you're here. He may be enormous, that much is a given, but you've also heard how reclusive he is.

As if she's sensed that your gaze has lifted, Abby twists around to peer over a shoulder and points at the cave, shouting back to you, barely audible above the wind, "Head in there and see what the damage is! I'll scope out the beach further along and find you in a minute!"

You’re surprised, if pleased, that she’s at least addressing you now.

Acknowledging her with a hearty thumbs-up, you veer away from her boot prints and stagger unevenly for shelter, blown to and fro by the gale. It's certainly a novel environment to work in, but you'll take this maelstrom a thousand times over before you ever sidle back behind that office desk and pick up the phone to deal with customer complaints.

Cold, wet, but ultimately buoyed, you pick up your feet and trot beneath the cave’s yawning overhang, letting your tight shoulders unfurl as the rain stops beating down on the back of your skull.

Almost instantly, you're hit by the nose-curling stench of salt and fish.

And it doesn't take more than a moment to figure out where it's coming from.

Just inside the entrance, you trail to a stop, blinking rivulets of rainwater from your eyes and breathing out a long, trembling exhale steeped in unabashed awe.

There, towering monolithically against the furthest wall, is the largest Mer that’s ever walked the Earth and all of its oceans.

Your heart leaps into your throat so violently that you almost choke on the damn thing, gaping like a guppy as your eyes roll up the underside of a pale carapace, over two colossal claws as red as freshly-spilled blood, and finally land on the face of what could pass for a man were he sixty-three feet shorter… and walked on two legs instead of six…

War; a merfolk with the lower half of an Alaskan king crab and the upper half of a brawny, mountainous man, sans his left arm. There’s a vast, empty space where the limb used to be, cut raggedly just below the shoulder, and long-since healed to leave a swathe of lumpy, white scar tissue in the place of muscle and meat.

He’s an absolute juggernaut of a beast, standing nearly seventy feet tall and as wide as a manor house.

His skin is almost translucent in its paleness, though what colour it does retain is mostly due to the contrast it plays against the incredible lengths of stark-white hair that cascade like twin waterfalls from the crown of his head down to a tremendous chest riddled with a myriad of scars.

‘Skin as white as leprosy…,’ you marvel.

The waves crashing furiously against the shore as the wind picks up outside seems the perfect allusion to Coleridge’s lengthiest work.

All of a sudden, it occurs to you that for the whole time you’ve been gawping up at him, he in turn has been glowering back down at you, the deep crevasse between his ice-white brows growing deeper and deeper by the second.

It’s the realisation that you’re being decidedly rude that wrenches you from your stupor.

 “I-I’m sorry!” you blurt out, raising your voice so he might actually hear you, “I didn’t realise you were in here! I thought you’d be-“ Pausing to cast a quick glance over your shoulder, you peer out at the dark, grey ocean roaring ever closer to the cave. The tide, gradual as it is, continues to eat its way up the beach.

Turning back to the Mer, you raise a thumb and knock it awkwardly at the sea behind you. “I thought you’d be in there…”

War... doesn’t react.

He barely even blinks those cold, blue eyes at you, just glares hotly in your direction, though he’s so vast and his eyes are so devoid of human features like an iris or pupil, he could very well be glaring at something else entirely.

You don’t venture any further inside, hovering restlessly at the threshold where the dull light still falls on you from above, and the shadow from the cave’s overhang stays just a few inches in front of the toes of your boots.

“I’m Y/n,” you call up to War instead, figuring it’s best to get introductions out of the way while you’re at it, “I’m new to the team. Beach clean-up, though I’m sure you could already tell!” Holding your picker out in front of you, you give the handle several squeezes, clacking the ‘claws’ together a few times demonstratively.

All at once, the colossal Mer's head tilts sideways at the display, his brows easing apart inch by inch until his face is set more by surprise than agitation.

Alhough it's difficult to tell where those pupilless eyes are peering, you think he's studying your litter-picker, and with a bemused smile, you keep it suspended in mid-air, letting a smile bloom across your face when his own claws flex open and shut several times over, producing dull, thumping clacks that resonate off the high walls of the cave.

He's copying you.

You presume that’s a good sign.

“May I come in?” you ask, gesturing loosely at the cave in front of you.

Somehow, the colossal crustacean manages to portray an even more potent expression of surprise, his snowy-white brows launch up his forehead and his lips part just enough to offer you the barest glimpse of huge, flat teeth sitting inside his maw.

You're busy parsing why he might be taken aback by such an innocuous question when there's a sharp voice in your ear.

"What are you doing?"

Your ensuing yelp blasts through the cave and bounces off its damp, glistening walls.

In response, War reacts with a growl loud as a thunderclap, stamping his front legs firmly against the sand as his scowl falls right back into place, aimed over your head.

Whirling around, you come face to face with a very disgruntled, very sodden Abby, who's glaring at you from under her sharply arched brows.

Floundering for a second, you struggle to find your tongue as you shoot a fleeting glance back at War. "I'm... asking him if I can come in?"

Pushing out a rough exhale, Abby rolls her eyes so hard you're surprised they don't end up behind her skull. Tutting loudly, she brushes past you, striding right into the cavern and missing the way your jaw falls open to gape after her, alarmed.

You haven't known a great many merfolk, but those you have met operate no differently than humans for the most part, in that they'd prefer strangers not invite themselves into their homes.

Then, of course, you remember that unlike you, she's been doing this job for some time now, and it would stand to reason that she and War have a rapport, of sorts, though a quick glance up at the Mer's face contradicts your reasoning almost immediately.

For as unnerving as his glare was when it was aimed at you, now that Abby is in the firing line, the mer looks downright ferocious.

His lips have been peeled back to expose teeth and gums alike, and a pair of canines flash menacingly as he snaps them at her, a throaty rumble slowly bubbling to life from somewhere deep inside his chest and spilling out into the cave.

At once, you heed the unspoken warning and stumble backwards a few, respectful steps, sending your co-worker a nervous shout.

"Um, Abby?"

However, you're struck dumb when she not only ignores you, but is apparently content to disregard the titanic mer who's taking very clear umbrage to her presence.

Before you can call out to her again though, you catch her exasperated sigh from all the way back at the entrance.

"You're gonna find out pretty quickly that this guy isn't like other mers you've met," she tells you waspishly as she spins on a heel to face you, kicking up the sand under her boots.

Her expression darkens when she realises you haven't followed her. "Oh my god, will you get over here?!"

The demand sends a jolt right through you and notches War's grumbling up another few decibels. "You're never gonna last at this job if you don't have a backbone!"

... Honestly you think your trepidation has less to do with a lack of spine and more to do with acknowledging that War clearly doesn't want either of you in here.

Biting your lip, you wonder if the earful you're bound to get for questioning her authority will be worth it to voice your concerns.

"I-it just seems like he really doesn't want us here," you dare to gamble, inadvertently drawing War's attention. You have no idea if it's a good or bad sign that his growl falls silent the moment you finish speaking.

"I mean," you falter as Abby crosses her arms over her chest, "This is his territory. Shouldn't we leave if he tells us to? Maybe we could come back after we've cleaned the beach?"

Letting out a sharp, derisive scoff, she mocks, "Tells us?' War can't tell us anything. He doesn't speak."

Taken aback, you blink at her, eventually asking, "What, like he can't talk?"

"Uh. He never has?" she mimics your baffled tone right back at you, condescending.

You suppose it isn't altogether unsurprising that War can't speak. Plenty of humans can't either.

"Besides," she adds impatiently, "Ironically, he's all bark, no bite. He'll growl at you, sure, but he won't do anything."

Your brows furrow in a flash. You're not worried that he'll do something, he's a mer, not a monster. You'd just rather not upset The Four Corner's most lauded person any further than you already have.

"Honestly," Abby says whilst you reluctantly traipse towards her, keeping your head low in deference to the titan staring you down, "He's dumb as a rock. All brawn, no brain. Doesn't understand a word we say. Even Mister Stevensmith says he's more like an animal than a mer anyway. So it's not like it matters what we do."

"Jeez, Abby," you chuckle uncomfortably, hoping you're doing a good enough job of hiding the objection in your tone, "He's right here."

Which is, evidently, the wrong thing to say. Abby's demeanour shifts on a dime, her chin thrusting forwards and her eyes growing hard and cold.

"I'm sorry," she bristles, "Who's been working here the longest?"

Your mouth snaps shut at once, and you're too busy staring at her to notice the snarl twitching back onto War's face as he glowers at her.

Clearing your throat, you tentatively reply, "You, but-"

"-That's right," she cuts you off smoothly, her mouth twisting into a disdainful grin, "And, um, who's the nepo-hire who just started today?"

Alright, you swallow thickly, score one for Abby... Just like the good old days, you suppose.

While you don't appreciate being patronised, the nerve she's just flicked is still relatively raw, and you know all too well that throwing your weight around and bickering with your co-workers won't do you any favours in the long run.

You would quite like to be happy working here...

The hit to your pride might sting, but you're old enough to let it roll off your back, giving her a patient response. "That'd be me."

"Cool. So, are you gonna stop questioning me and actually learn what your job here is, or...?"

This time, you force a smile, letting it stretch awkwardly wide to suit a begrudging compliance. "If you'd be so kind...."

"Right, now that you're done slacking off..."

Somewhere overhead, War pushes a rough exhale through his nostrils, though he once again goes ignored by his keeper.

"Clean up any trash the tide's brought in here, don't forget that corner-" Here, she jerks a thumb at the very corner that's currently occupied by a prickling mer.

Gulping, you nod, dragging your gaze off War and quirking a brow at your co-worker. "Got it... Anything else?"

Fishing her mobile from one of her pockets, she busies herself with peering blankly at the screen for a moment, making a good show of disregarding your question before she heaves a put-upon sigh and thrusts the phone back into her jacket.

Then, with a hiss of footsteps over sand, you abruptly find yourself staring at the back of her head as she makes her way towards the entrance.

"I'm gonna go clean up the rest of the beach," she tells you dismissively, "You stay and finish up in here... Oh, and just ignore War. He'll definitely be ignoring you."

It isn't as if you'd been expecting something more encouraging... or informative... but Abby simply takes her leave without any further prompt, disappearing through the cave's mouth and venturing out to brave the howling wind.

You might have been slightly more put out if it hadn't just occurred to you that she's out there, battling through the rain and cold, while you're in here where the wind can't reach you, and icy water won't encroach upon your work.

You can't help but wonder if she did that on purpose...

Suddenly, your opinion of her shifts on its axis, and a small, grateful smile worms its way across your face.

Seems there's a chance she isn't the same girl you knew all those years ago after all, despite the frosty reception.

Shaking off the guilt of assuming the worst of your new co-worker, you draw in a deep, steadying breath and pivot around to your audience of one, offering the Mer a sheepish grin and a wave, both of which go unreturned.

Abby's instruction to ignore him flies out the proverbial window. The barest common courtesy you can afford is to acknowledge him in his own house.

"Right then, War," you begin pleasantly, bending to hoist your half-full trash bag off the ground, "I guess I’ll make a start. If you need anything... Well, I mean I'm pretty sure you can figure out how to get my attention."

With an amenable chuckle, you nod deliberately at the claws hanging from his carapace.

War follows your gaze, blinking down at his own appendages while you amble over to the wall nearest the entrance, deigning to work anti-clockwise as you go and clean the cave section by section.

It's menial work. Satisfying. The space grows cleaner with every piece of litter you grab and stash in the bag.

You find yourself paying no mind to War, trusting that the mer will let you know if he wants or doesn't want you to do something. Next time, you muse, you'll have to bring some headphones.

You manage to clear all of five metres from your starting point when the ground beneath you gives a sudden lurch, as if something heavy just crashed to the earth behind you, staggering you slightly on your boots.

"What the-?!" Startled, you wheel about to see what happened, only to find one of War's pointed legs buried in the sand just a foot away from you.

Staring at in in astonishment, you eventually tear your gaze off it and peer up the vast length of a crab's body until you get to War's face, half obscured by his silvery, cascading hair. His eyes are just as wide as yours must be, watching you with his lips downturned.

"Er," you swallow uncertainly, "You okay...? Need something?"

But the titan just keeps his eyes locked on you for several beats of your thumping heart, his entire body stiff and unmoving.

... Alright then...

Bemused, you let out a soft snort and turn back to the task at hand, zeroing in on another piece of litter laying a few metres ahead.

Just as you reach it, you feel the ground quake behind you once more, though this time, the vibration is followed quickly by five moresolid thuds.

You're being followed, it seems... By something with six legs that are as tall as houses...

Frankly, you don't know whether to be amused or intimidated. He must be exceptionally cautious about letting a stranger have free rein in his territory.

Shoulders jumping with a well-meaning huff, you shake your head and carry on, smiling softly to yourself.

Time and again though, as soon as you venture past a certain, unseen threshold, War becomes intent on closing the distance, sticking to you like a limpet yet never once making a sound or trying to get your attention.

You could have sworn Abby said he'd ignore you...

"Making sure I'm doing a thorough job, huh?" you joke breezily after a few minutes of being shadowed, straining your neck back to flash him a sidelong wink, "Well, not to worry. I'm sure you'll let me know if I miss a spot...Then I’ll be out of your shell in a jiffy."

You're swivelling away from him too quickly to catch the curious tip of his head.

"Although come to think of it," you murmur aloud to yourself, frowning at the vast scatterings of rubbish coating the cave and piling up against the walls, "For a place that's cleaned bi-weekly, this cave has a lot of stuff built-up..."

The brows on your forehead scurry together as you ponder, "Maybe someone ought to have a word with that resort if they're letting this much crap come off their beaches..."

Whilst you're busy contemplating, War lifts his massive head and starts to move again.

The moment he does, you immediately fall still, eyeing him warily as he ambles past you like a massive glacier rolling over the landscape. Each step he takes is slow and measured, sidling around you to bustle further into his cave.

Cocking a brow, you regard him questioningly as he stops by a pile of trash and uses his claws to scoop sand, an empty bottle, an old shoe, and several scraps of plastic into an awkward hold, lifting them with far more dexterity than you thought he'd possess.

The expression on his face is determined, and once he deems his claw-ful secure, he scuttles right back over to you, bringing himself to a neat halt once he gets close enough, casting his gaze to the side.

Then, gradual as a big, red frigate lazing over the ocean, he extends his claws towards you, letting them hover at your height for a moment before he starts to slide them apart, letting sand hiss through the pincers until it's followed by solid 'plaps' and 'patters' of trash following suit.

The pile builds steadily just in front of you as you watch on, gobsmacked.

"Wh- Uh...!" Clearing your throat, you dart a quick look between War's face and the mini-heap, and ask, "What're you up to?"

As if in reply, he slips off again, returning moments later with another load of scrap, and this too, he drops to the ground at your feet.

You're almost too stunned to speak, working your tongue into a molar at the back of your mouth as you puzzle over his bizarre behaviour, wondering why he'd bring the trash closer to you if you're going to be cleaning it up anyw-...

And then it hits you.

"Wait." A charmed smile burrows into your cheeks as you thrust out a hip and shoot him a knowing look. "Are you...? Do you want to help?"

And then War - the Mer who is supposedly 'dumb as a rock, and doesn't understand a word you say' - tips his huge, square chin down before bringing it back up.

He repeats the motion once, then twice, and on the third, a lightbulb finally clicks on in your head.

"You do?" you press, eager to see if he'll do it again.

And he does.

He nods.

Oh, you knew it. You knew Abby was messing with you! A little hazing for the Newbie's first day... Well, you can't say you weren't somewhat expecting that.

Must have been why War was scowling at her so viciously when she called him dumb. He wasn't in on the joke.

The sudden about-face in his behaviour is staggering, though not at all unwelcome.

Something in the way you’ve been holding your shoulders loosens as you rest a hand at your side and sigh out a note of relief, letting one corner of your mouth crook up. "You know you don't have to, right?" you tell him, "I mean, I'm basically being paid to be your housekeeper right now."

In response, War just angles his head to one side, regarding you with a funny look before he raises the shoulder of his remaining arm in a recognisable shrug.

As he does, he plants a claw in the ground just behind the pile of trash, nudging it forwards so the heap is pushed soundly closer to your feet.

Well then.

"If you insist," you concede easily, shaking open your rubbish bag.

The Mer's permanant scowl eases a fraction as you begin picking things out of the pile and dropping them into the bag, and with a clack of his pincers, he's off again, casting his appendages out wide to scoop an even larger heap of detritus onto the flat edge of his claws.

You'll admit, having a giant Mer to ferry all the litter straight into one spot makes for much faster cleaning, and in just under an hour, you've already filled two binbags to the brim, and you're well on your way to stuffing a third all the way to the top.

Naturally, you're inclined to thank him after every delivery, and the way his chest puffs out each time bolsters your mood to even greater heights, leaving you delighted by the unexpected turn of events.

"Guess you must have wanted this place clean more than anyone, huh?" you ask him jovially, watching him from the corner of an eye as you pull the string tie on the last bag until it’s cinched tight.

For the last few minutes, War has been stomping to every nook and cranny in search of rubbish, grunting huffily under his breath when his search turns up empty. After a while, he wanders back to stand over you, staying in place as he twists his head this way and that, his eyes darting all over the cave in a futile search for something else to bring you.

"Uh, I think you got it all," you snort, giving the overflowing bags a pointed look, "Least, you got a Hell of a lot more done than I would have if I were on my own."

Craning your neck back, you let your expression soften as you dip a nod at the Mer, flicking a two-fingered salute off your forehead. "Much obliged, War. Maybe we should see about getting you on the payroll.”

The Mer’s nostrils widen around a brusque snort at that.

“Well, I’d better get out of your hair and get these to the truck,” you nod at the bags. Whilst they look heavy at a glance, you’re betting they’ll be easy enough to drag across the sand without too much trouble.

From between War’s parted lips comes a strange, resonant sound; a churlish grunt that could have been agreement, though the way his lips twist back into another frown and his brows follow suit as you heft the first bag over your shoulder leaves you to wonder…

Wrapping a fist around the handles of the other two bags, you pause to test the weight of them, satisfied when they seem to hold well enough.

High above you, War casts his eye out through the cave’s opening and fixes it on the lashing rain beyond, his chest thrumming softly as the line between his eyebrows etches even deeper into his forehead.

The storm that's been steadily sweeping in from the ocean has finally arrived to batter his bay, and as he lours at it, apparently lost in thought, you make your way outside, tossing a chipper "It was nice to meet you!" over your shoulder at the Mer.

A torrent of rain batters against your head as you pass beneath the threshold, and you duck further into the collar of your jacket, suddenly deaf to the heavy thumps that follow you all the way to the cave's exit, trundling slowly to a stop when it becomes clear you aren't turning back.

It's difficult to raise your head against the maelstrom, more difficult still because you don't have any hands free to shield your eyes from the prevailing wind and ocean spray.

One foot drags slowly after the other as you make your way up the beach towards the truck... On and on you trudge, hauling the spoils of your labour across the sand and leaving a pair of shallow trenches alongside your boot prints.

The mere five minutes it took for you to get from the truck to the cave passes you by, and it's only when those five minutes stretch into ten, and the tide has made noticeable progress swallowing up the beach that you're given pause, coming to a stop with a curl of apprehension in your stomach.

Squinting sharply through the rain, you scan the landscape ahead of you, blowing droplets of water off your lashes from the corner of your mouth.

The truck is nowhere to be seen. But you could have sworn it wasn't this far from the cave...

Baffled, you twist around to peer over your shoulder, eyes searching back up the bay, wondering if perhaps you'd just passed it without noticing.

And yet...

There's nothing.

No square, solid shape standing out amongst the towering cliffs and the brown sand.

An awful realisation sinks into your bones and drags your nerves down to the ground as it dawns on you...

You've been left behind.

An old discomfort starts to tighten around your throat. Had you turned the wrong way when you left the cave…? No. No, you remember admiring the headlands as you drove in from this angle, you can’t have been turned around.

Briefly, the very alarming thought occurs to you that the truck might have been swallowed by the sea. But you’re quick and vicious in dismissing it. Abby had parked it almost flush against the cliffs. You recall how you’d nearly asked her if she was worried about rocks falling onto it from above before thinking better of it and trusting her judgement.

With your breaths coming heavier and thicker as your pulse kicks into gear, you drop the bags of litter and take a few, stumbling strides towards the cliffface, raising a hand and shielding your eyes as you rake them up and down the sand.

It doesn’t take long for you to find what you’re searching for.

They’re already half obscured, pitted into near-oblivion by the hammering rain, but you can still make them out. A pair of tyre tracks, running alongside the cliff walls until they converge in the distance and your eyes can’t follow them any further…

Reason begins vying for control of a spiralling narrative, and you tell yourself she might have been called back to the centre for an emergency, or to gather more supplies, with every intention of returning any minute now…

But with the ocean looking to start gnawing your ankles, you can’t say with any confidence exactly how many minutes you might have left.

Dumbstruck, you suddenly come alive, slapping your palms over the pockets of your jacket, your trousers, everywhere until your frantic movements slow to a halt and you let your arms hang defeatedly at your sides.

You'd left your phone on the dashboard.... You can picture it now, sitting just above the air-con on the jeep's dash amongst a clutter of old receipts and wrappers. You didn't think you'd actually need it on the job...

What the Hell are you supposed to do now?

Fight the urge to let any tears mingle with the raindrops slipping down your cheeks, that's what. You're not about to cry for something so trivial. It was an honest mistake... probably. More to the point, getting panicked won't do you any favours.

Clenching your hands into fists, you press your lips together and inhale sharply through your nose.

You'll just have to hoof it, that's all. Hug the cliff walls and pray you can move quick enough to cover the same ground on foot that took the Jeep a good fifteen minutes... What is that... Three hours, max? That's if Abby doesn't come back for you.

One thing is for certain though. The longer you take to decide, the more time slips through your fingers, narrowing your window of opportunity. If you get caught against the cliffs when the ocean finally reaches you...?

"Shit," you mutter, more to expel a mote of tension than to say anything productive.

From the corner of an eye, you wince at the bags of rubbish laying where you'd dropped them...

... You can't just leave them here.

When the tide picks them up, they'll come undone and spill their contents straight back into the ocean, which means your work - and more importantly War's - will have been for nothing.

The cacophonous surge of the tide is unassailable in your ears, and the rain using your head like a percussion instrument leaves you deaf to the mountain rising up behind you, but you're not oblivious to the quaking thuds that rumble through the soles of your boots and resonate inside your chest.

The rain stops.

Just like that, as if someone had flipped a switch and turned off the sky, yet it's only your immediate vicinity that's spared from the watery onslaught. Hissing curtains of rain still mist the world beyond you, and for a moment, you're perturbed and mesmerised by the phenomenon, but a familiar sound from high over your head doesn't leave you wondering for long.

Tipping your neck back so fast that you feel something give a soft crunch, you blurt out a startled shout at the underside of a massive carapace.

"War!?" A spray of rain flies from your lips and you lift your hands to swipe furiously at your eyes, rubbing your lashes until they're no longer heavy with water. "What are you doing out here?!"

A rather inane question, you'll concede, given that he can go wherever he damn well wants to. Hell, he could probably fall asleep in this storm's eye and rest peacefully as a babe.

The Mer has parked the bulk of his body directly over you, as rudimentary yet effective a shelter as he can make.

You can't see his face above the lip of his shell, and when you try to venture forwards to peer up at him, he moves in tandem with you, keeping you underneath his sheltering mass with the barest shift of his legs.

War's gaze, hidden from you, blazes its own trail along the sand, following the lines of comparatively tiny tyre tracks narrowing to a point in the distance.

Bewildered by his sudden appearance, though no less glad to have the rain off you for a moment, however coincidental that may be, you lower your head once more and press your knuckles to the curve of a hip.

"Guess I missed my ride," you chuckle humourlessly below him, eyeing his claws with a despondent sigh as they clench shut in response to your voice.

You can’t fathom a guess as to what the old Mer must be thinking. Even less so when the titanic mass above you suddenly shifts down, and without warning, a vast, thickset hand comes reaching into the space beneath his carapace.

Instinctively, you kick your boots up and start to backpeddle in clumsy steps across the sand, away from fingers longer than you are tall as they nudge after you, swiftly and easily overtaking your retreat.

“Woah! What are you-? Oh! My God!?”

You jump out of your skin, spine colliding the curve of his fingertips first when they spring shut like a trap behind you, and then his thumb, broad and rough and chiseled with grooves, bunts into your stomach and scoops your straight into the cup of his palm.

The shock of it all turns your body rigid as you’re promptly extracted from the shelter of his body and raised several dozen feet off the ground, set upon by the lashing rainfall once again.

Sputtering through your daze, you crane your head back to squint up at the Mer whose own gaze has already landed upon you, his enormous face hanging ominously against the backdrop of an iron-grey sky.

Jesus, you must look no more dignified than a drowned, somewhat indignant rat in his palm. “I was gonna take the trash bags with me!” you bark, taking a stab as to why you’re being glowered at so severely.

But if War cares about the bags at all, he doesn’t let a single hint slip through his stony façade.

Instead, in a move that catches you wildly off guard, he brings his hand in close to the base of his throat, tucking you just above his collar bone as he bows his chin over you, and it’s only when the torrent of icy water stops running down the back of your neck and pounding at your skull that you realise what he’s doing. What he’d been doing when he followed you out here to loom over you.

He’s using himself to shield you from the rain.

You’ll have to remember to be touched by the gesture once you can speak past your chattering teeth.

The heat from his palm seeps right through the back of your jacket, as does the warmth radiating off his neck where you’re pressed flush against it.

For a second, you wonder if he’s just so keen to be rid of you that he’s picked you up with every intention of taking you back to the perimeter of his territory to drop you off himself. And you’d be lying if you said a ride wouldn’t be appreciated, given the circumstances.

But then, with slow, deliberate movements, the Mer pivots his body sideways and begins moving down the beach… back in the direction of his cave.

There’s no threat behind his actions, nothing discernible anyway, just a strangeness that glues your tongue to the roof of your mouth and leaves you draped stiffly in his remaining palm whilst he ferries you into his home.