#blackroot

--- 

To say that Alya was excited about having the fires restored would be a vast understatement. She was absolutely ecstatic. As soon as the first spots of lava began to dribble out of the enormous pipe above Tri Stone, she grabbed her reluctant brother and swung him around their little forge, whooping and hollering like a demon. All through the night, she continued to buzz excitedly and come morning, a broad grin is still plastered across her face as she works a whetstone over a dull, old blade, humming merrily.

She clocks Death right away as he appears on the steps of her stone gazebo. “Haha! Horseman!” she laughs, jumping up from the crate she'd been sitting on and carelessly dropping her handful to one side, “The Fires of the Mountain flow again!”

Raising a brow at the discarded blade and whetstone, the horseman stops just in front of her and lifts his head back, leaning his weight nonchalantly onto one leg. “Yes. Funny that in sending a horseman, the job tends to actually get done.” He pauses to see if his retort has dampened her ridiculous grin.

It hasn’t.

Sighing, he admits, “Although, it wasn’t all my doing. Karn helped as well.”

That, at least, gets the maker’s expression to shift. Alya’s eyebrows fly up her head and she sputters, mouth agape. “Karn? That Pup!? But he hasn’t a clue!”

Behind her, Valus grunts and stops his work at the anvil to give her a pointed stare.

“I suppose you’re right…” she sighs after a few seconds of silent conversation that Death can’t hope to decipher, “The forge does burn once more.” Then, chewing on her lips, she mutters to herself, “Not that it'll go to his head or anything…”

Nodding his acquiesce, the horseman grumbles, “Oh, I imagine it probably will.”

“And Y/n?” Alya’s ears perk forwards, at last seeming to notice the absence of one human. “Is she alright?”

“She’s still in one piece, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, thank the Stone. How’d she get on in the Cauldron?”

“Well, she nearly -“ Death hesitates, squinting an eye shut and pulling a face beneath his mask. Perhaps it would be prudent not to mention the incident with the Shadow Bomb almost detonating in your hand, even if you did end up inadvertently revealing the path forward as a result. “...We... ran into a spot of bother with a construct, and Y/n had the foresight to distract it long enough th`t I could take it out.”

“Saved by a human, eh?” The maker's eyes sparkle with unconcealed amusement. “How far the mighty have fallen.”

If he didn't think it would only serve to delight her further, Death would take the bait and fall into an argument that he'd have been absolutely fine without your interference, that he doesn't need help from anyone, much less a timid, clumsy little human who's bark and bite are as about as formidable as a gnat's. 

But then...in spite of all that, you did help, which should count for something. At the very least, you don't deserve to be derided by a cynical, old nephilim, not when you defied your own instincts and chose to fight instead of flee. You’d surprised him when you defended the young maker, even more so when you had the foresight to distract Gharn rather than attack him. Death had already seen evidence of the courage you have hidden away under the surface of your skin, but yesterday, you’d shown an ability to strategise, to play to your strengths without surrendering to panic. 

He doesn’t say any of this aloud, of course. In the end, he settles for remaining silent and tossing Alya his iciest glare. 

It's a good thing he kept his mouth shut too, for just then, Alya flicks her eyes up to look at something behind him. “Ah, speak of the wee devil….”

Lo and behold, when Death cocks his head back over a shoulder, he spies a tired, scraggly human trudging up the steps towards them and very nearly falling over her own feet on the way.

Even at a half glance, he can tell just how badly you must have slept.

Eyes bloodshot and half obscured by thick, drooping lids that barely seem capable of keeping themselves open, your jaw stretches into a wide yawn which you groggily try to cover with a hand, mumbling out a soft, 'G'morning' before sidling up next to Death only to catch him off guard by leaning up against him and knocking your shoulder with his. The horseman stiffens, momentarily stunned as you nuzzle your cheek into his pale skin and let out a contented sigh through your nose, evidently still half asleep.

Fully aware that a grin has begun to stretch its way across Alya’s face, he clears his throat and gently nudges you upright with the elbow you're pressed into.

Eyes snapping open, you give a start and blurt out, “M' up! I'm up!” 

“Aye,” Alya chuckles, tossing her brother a knowing glance, “And lookin' like you oughtn't to be. Tired?”

“M'fine.” Embarrassed, you scrub at your sore eyes and give your warm cheeks a few pats. Satisfied that you won't topple over where you stand, you plaster on a smile and aim it at Death. “So, when are we heading out?”

“Heh, eager to get to those Tears, ain’tchya?” Alya chuckles.

‘Eager,’ the horseman muses privately, ‘Or anxious.’
 Either way, your question raises one of his own and he turns back to the forge sister. “That reminds me, where might we find the tears of the mountain?”

“To the west,” she replies, “past the fjord and into the Drenchfort.”

Whilst Alya and Death fall into a discussion about the ins and outs of actually reaching the Tears, you grow restless and amble towards the large, silent maker standing over the anvil, afraid that if you stay still for too long, you’ll fall asleep on your feet. With his mask securely in place, Valus tirelessly brings a welding hammer down onto a piece of metal, although being on the ground makes it impossible to see what it is, prompting you to ask, “Hey, what’re you making?”

He jumps slightly, tipping his head down to seek out the source of your tiny voice. Once he finds you, he lets out a grunt and happily lifts his unshaped weapon from the anvil, tilting it for you to see. 
As far as you can tell, the square, irregular lump of metal looks to be the beginnings of an axe head.

“An…axe?” you guess, smiling when he nods before returning it to the anvil.  But just as Valus raises his hammer again, something gives him pause and he glances back down at you, doing a double-take and cocking his head to one side with a curious hum.

You’re forced to stumble backwards as he suddenly lowers himself onto one knee and begins reaching out. “W-what is it?” you stammer, eyeing the silent maker’s encroaching hand.

Wordlessly, he extends a finger, causing you to stiffen when it nudges carefully against the sword hanging from your belt.

All at once, realisation dawns and you relax. “Oh, you’re wondering where I got this sword?” Tugging it out of its sheathe, you present it to him, glancing between the blade and his mask, wishing you could see his expression. “It’s Karn’s. Well, I found it in one of Thane’s barrels, but Karn’s letting me keep it.”

Valus makes an amused sound at the back of his throat and turns his hand over, quietly asking to have a closer look. For a few seconds, you hesitate, but eventually place the sword into his palm and step back whilst his fist closes around the hilt and he lifts it up, scrutinising it carefully and then balancing the ends between his fingertips to check the weight.

Just then, Thane’s words come back to you - ‘I thought Valus had melted that down for scrap?’ - and a rush of anxiousness washes over you, suddenly concerned for the wellbeing of your weapon.

“Is there something wrong with it?” you blurt out, stepping closer.

Valus must have heard the mild worry in your tone, for he lowers his hands and roves his gaze down towards you. Another moment passes, and then, to your relief, he shakes his head from side to side and slowly returns the sword, which you take gratefully and slip back into the scabbard, unable to keep a hold of your happy sigh.

“Oh, that’s good, thanks!”

“Y/n!”

Jumping at the sound of Death’s call, you swivel about and find that he and Alya have finished their discussion and are staring at you expectantly, the horseman lifting his arm to beckon you over. “Time to go.”

Casting a last, lingering smile at Valus, you offer him a wave before making your way to the horseman’s side.

“Did you two have a nice chat?” he asks casually, jutting his chin at the larger maker who lets out his signature grunt and moves back over to the anvil. The horseman heads towards the stairs whilst you stride along next to him and reply, “As a matter of fact, we did... How about you?”

“Oh, it was about as interesting as most conversations I've ever had with a maker. That is to say, not interesting at all, and focused predominantly on directions....”

Just as you reach the top step, Alya suddenly calls out behind you. “Oh, horseman, one more thing before you go….”

You and Death share a glance and swivel around, watching curiously as she digs through her apron pocket in search of something. “Now, where did I…Ah! Here it is!” Triumphantly, she retrieves her hand and shows you what she’s holding.

It’s a pistol. The largest pistol you’ve ever seen – with a single barrel that gleams like polished silver in the morning light. You can’t help but to stare, transfixed as Alya spins the cylinder and checks the sight before handing it down to the waiting horseman.

“I know this pistol,” he mutters, reaching up and taking the proffered weapon, “It belonged to my brother, Strife. How came it here?”

But in reply, Alya merely shrugs her massive shoulders, lips pursed. “I cannot say. But it’ll help you on your journey, of that I’m sure. Oh, and you’ll probably be needin’ this as well.” She turns to whistle at Valus and he huffs, trundling over to the workbench and grabbing a small, leather holster before turning to throw it at his sister. Expertly, she catches it and hands it down to the horseman.

For a while, Death simply holds the two new items, staring at them suspiciously until he swivels his eyes up towards Alya again. “And am I right in assuming you expect compensation for the holster?” 

The maker's nostril's flare with a rough exhalation and she fixes her thumbs through a couple of belt loops, declaring, “S’like I said before; Help us, and we’ll help you. Consider it a thank you present, for fixin’ the Cauldron. There’s more where that came from if you can get the DrenchFort up and runnin’ too.” 

You couldn't be too certain whether the horseman had needed the extra motivation or not, but he nonetheless dips his head in a shallow nod and turns to catch your eye. “Well, in that case...Shall we get a move on?” 

 ---

There’s an unacknowledged tension laying thick in the air as you wander through the village at Death's side, every now and again making quick, sidelong glances at him until he softly and unexpectedly exhales.

“Did you get any sleep?”

It's so out of the blue and yet so banal that for a few moments, you have no idea  how to respond.

Eventually, you resolve to tell him a little, white lie. “Y-yeah, I slept fine, thanks..”

Even as the words leave your mouth, you just know he's picked up on your hesitation by the dubious look he aims at the side of your head. Terrified that he’ll call you out on the fib and you'll be forced to admit that you blubbed like a baby all night, you stubbornly avoid his gaze, focusing instead on the trio of makers up ahead until you eventually feel the horseman’s eyes move away and you can breath properly again.

Eideard is standing at the edge of the arena, quietly observing a sparring match between Karn and Thane. The younger of the two has a white-knuckle grip on the handle of his hammer as he attempts to block each increasingly vicious swing from the warrior’s axe. 

“Hey, Eideard,” you chirrup, coming to a stop beside the elder's boot and breathing a mental sigh of relief, glad for the distraction.

Blinking, the enormous maker swings his head down to offer you a warm smile. “Ah, good morning, Y/n.”

“Y/n!?” In the arena, Karn balks at the sound of your name, taking his eyes off Thane to glance over a shoulder, eyes darting left and right until they settle on you and a look of horror dawns across his face, ears pinned back to the sides of his head. He hadn't anticipated that you might appear to watch him train. Unfortunately, the distraction leaves him completely open to a swing from Thane’s axe. Drawing back a couple of steps, the experienced warrior expertly sweeps his weapon towards Karn's side, then drops it at the last second and twists it in his grip so that the blunt edge hits the youngling's legs instead, knocking them out from underneath him.

Giving off a startled yelp, Karn comes crashing down and the resulting impact of several tonnes of maker hitting the ground threatens to send you off your feet as well. You clap a hand over your mouth and bite down on a burst of laughter as the young maker flounders on his back for a while like an upturned tortoise before scrambling to sit up, his cheeks swiftly turning a dark shade of pink.

“I-I meant to do that!” he stammers, avoiding your eye and wishing profusely for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Gotta give the old ones a chance every now’n then, eh?”

Scowling, Thane lumbers over and raps his knuckle sharply on top of Karn’s head, huffing, “Oi. Watch who you’re callin’ old, Pup.”

“Ha - Ahem - Are you okay, Karn?” you laugh, while Thane snags the young maker’s shoulder pauldron and hoists him up onto his feet again.

Still reeling from utter embarrassment, he shrugs off the warrior’s hand and casts you a shy glance, mumbling, “Aye, m’alright…”

Death brushes past you and Eideard, moving into the arena with his hands splayed accusingly on his bony hips. “Is that all it takes to distract you, Karn? The presence of a human?”

“Wha- I- No!” the youngling protests, his bottom lip pursed stubbornly.

“Ah,” Death continues, “Just the presence of Y/n, then.”

Throwing his head back, a bark of laughter bursts out of Thane and he elbows Karn roughly in his side, eyebrows raised suggestively. 

Apparently, the youngling’s face can flush even darker. 

Meanwhile, still lingering back at the arena’s edge, you’re content and slightly amused to watch Karn try to awkwardly defend himself for a time, sputtering out various excuses for his unintentional slip-up until a shadow falls over you and upon glancing up, you find that Eideard has shifted closer, leaning on his staff for support. “Y/n,” he says, keeping his voice low enough so that only you can hear it over the others' bickering, “I wonder if I might have a word?”

In spite of his decidedly secretive tone, you’re happy to oblige the old maker in a little conversation, replying “Sure,” before following him over to a low wall that faces the western mountain range.

Once out of earshot of the other three, he stops beside it, setting his hands down on the ageing stone and casting his eyes towards the far off mountains whose peaks have only just been touched by the morning sun. You've barely approached the wall yourself when he shifts slightly, inhaling through his nose and exhaling again – as resigned a sigh as you've ever heard. “You look tired, Y/n,” he murmurs. 

And perhaps, because he hadn't asked it as a question - because he seems too wise to be fooled, you don't feel the need to deny it. Before you can think to stop yourself, you close your eyes and lean sideways into the maker's leg, softly admitting, “Yeah, I didn't get a lot of sleep.”

If Eideard minds your proximity, he doesn't comment on it.

“And do you plan on accompanying Death?”

“Mm hmm.”

A long pause, then - “Are you certain that's wise?”

Suppressing a moan, you drag your head away from the soft fur lining of his boot and stand up straight again, gazing sadly over the wall. “Probably not.”

The maker's head twists around, his pale eyes regarding you with renewed curiosity. “And yet, still you wish to go?”

“Look. The only place I wish to go is home,” you grumble bitterly, though when one of the elder's eyebrows lifts in mild surprise, you regret letting the moment of irritability slip out. “Sorry. Didn't mean to sound rude. I'm just-”

“- tired?” he guesses.

“...Yeah. Something like that.” 

“I don’t mean to pry,” Eideard continues slowly, “I only ask because I worry.”  

Biting your lip, you card a hand roughly through your hair. On top of everything else he has to be concerned with such as Corruption taking the last of his people and destroying his home, he’s worried about you. And here you are getting snippy with him. It isn’t the Old one’s fault you’re stuck here, and after all he’s done for you, the very least you can offer him is an answer to his questions. “Okay, the truth is, I want to go with Death because it’s better than the alternative.”

“Staying here?” To your dismay, Eideard’s tone holds the barest modicum of hurt.

“No,” you hurriedly assure him, “Staying still. I just don't want to be...alone with my thoughts, you know? Last night was awful! I kept going back to that church and those people and my family and I-I don't want to give myself time to think about...” A potent shudder cuts you off, but you're fairly certain he gets the gist since his chest deflates under the weight of a silent exhale and he bows his head, offering you a sign that he not only understands but that you don't need to say any more. 

Giving yourself a quick shake, you clear your throat and blink some moisture from your eyes, desperate to alleviate the sullen atmosphere that’s grown between you. “I uh, I did at least manage to get a couple hours of sleep in though, thanks to you.”

Hearing him shift his weight, you spare a quick glance up at the maker and realise he's giving you a puzzled look, head tilted to one side. “Thanks...to me?” he asks, a moment later admitting, “I must confess, I'm not sure as to what you're referring.”

You turn to face him properly, brows furrowing in a similar fashion to his. “Last night. I-In the forge?” His face remains relatively blank, and you suddenly question whether you'd been mistaken in assuming it had been Eideard. “You...You moved me from the door to the anvil? I would have a really cricked neck this morning if I'd've stayed where I was.”

“I'm afraid you're mistaken, little one. Whilst I am glad you slept more comfortably, it was not I who moved you.”

“Oh....Well, maybe it was one of the other makers?”

Just then, something changes in the old one's expression, like he'd just come to a realisation you have yet to reach. The crease between his eyebrows suddenly disappears and he blinks, lips parting slightly. “Or perhaps-” he muses, tapping a gnarled fingertip against his staff, “-it was not a maker at all.”

Confusion sweeps across your face, chasing away the meek tilt of your eyebrows. “Not a maker? Well, who else could it have been?”

“What are you two talking about over there?”

Giving a start, you spin around to find Death is no longer engaged in conversation with Thane and Karn, and is instead glaring from across the arena, eyes hard and unblinking.

You fall prey to a knee-jerk response, standing stiff as a board and blurting out, “Nothing!” as though you'd just been caught with your hand in the proverbial cookie jar although you don't know what exactly it is you've done wrong..

A soft harrumph comes from the horseman and he squints suspiciously up at the Elder, but after a second, he returns his attention to you and jerks his head towards the stairs. “Well, if you're finished, it's high time we were off.”

“Right-o!” Without arguing, you scurry back towards his side but pause as Eideard promptly calls your name.

“Y/n?” 

Hesitant, you turn to blink up at him over your shoulder. “Y-yeah?” 

The maker holds you under a somber, weighty frown and you swallow, wondering for a fleeting moment if he’s about to insist that you stay in the village. However, another second passes and his expression melts, losing its austerity. “You will be alright,” he tells you with so much conviction, a tiny piece of doubt breaks away from your soul and falls into nonexistence. 

Conveying gratefulness in a decisive nod, you turn and trot up to Death, taking a second to shoot a sympathetic smile at Karn, who looks appropriately shellshocked for having received a thorough teasing from both the warrior and the horseman.

“You’re headin’ out again?” Thane’s steely eyes flick over to meet Eideard’s, a silent message conveyed in that briefest of glances, before they return to you and he continues, “Don’t suppose you'd fancy stayin’ here to help me train this young’un?”

Although Karn perks up in an instant, apparently delighted at the suggestion, you politely shake your head. “Tempting, but I’m gonna have to take a rain check. Death might need my help in the Drenchfort.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” the horseman agrees, nodding sagely, “Her innate ability to trigger shadow bombs is bound to come in handy at some stage.”

A contemptuous smirk tugs at his lips when you stick your tongue out at him.

Meanwhile, Karn’s shoulders slump dejectedly but he remains silent, hiding his disappointment as Death leads you towards the curved staircase, the two older makers immediately taking notice of your unsteady gait. Thane lets out a troubled hum and shoots another pointed look at the elder, who sports his own frown but raises a hand, quietly telling his fellow maker to leave the matter alone. They're just going to have to trust your judgement....

And the horseman’s.

“Take care,” Eideard calls. He waits until you call a hasty farewell and disappear from view before he softly adds, “Both of you.”

---

“Oh Jesus, I forgot about that thing…”

Below you, Despair blows out a congruent snort, head turning to keep the gigantic swell of corruption in his sights as he trots briskly across the valley, his hooves kicking up a light sprinkling of dew as he goes. There's a thin mist covering the ground that swirls around the horse's legs and lends itself to the realm's mysterious vibe.

“Fear not,” Death pipes up at your back, “There are far worse things you need to worry about in the nearer future.”

At his words, your expression darkens. “…I love how you preceded that with ‘fear not.’ Like it’s supposed to make me feel better.”

You don't hear him laugh but the horseman's chest shudders behind you, rumbling against your back and your odd trio presses on.

Soon enough, an enormous cliff rises up before you. A gorge – much like the one on the eastern side of the vale – has been blocked off by a towering wall of thick, oozing corruption. Upon reaching the black mass, Death tugs lightly on Despair’s reins and the horse slows to a halt, the three of you peering up at it with the same expression you might give a particularly difficult crossword clue.

“Well…. Now what?” you ask.

The horseman remains silent for a moment, frowning up at Dust who lets out a smug caw and merely soars over the wall. “Short of sprouting wings,” he muses, “It looks impassable.”

Craning your neck back to look up at him, you find Death’s eyes narrowed and focused, puzzling over the obstacle with a brain that moves at a million miles an hour. Turning back to the corruption, you follow his lead, scanning its surface.

All of a sudden, you spot something.

Scattered here and there, almost lost among the sticky strands, are dozens of shadow bombs, though these are lacking the same, putrid glow that belonged those in the Cauldron.

“Hey.” You point up at the wall, getting Death's attention. “Are those the same bomb things we saw back in the Cauldron?”

“Shadow bombs?” he clarifies, following the line of your finger and blinking in surprise as he spots them, incredulous that a human had managed to find them before him amid the tendrils.

Incredulous - and mildly impressed.

“Hmm. Well spotted.”

You blink, scratching the back of your hand. “Oh, I-…Thank you.”

“They don’t look primed…” he continues thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against Despair’s shoulder.

Tipping your head back, you echo, “Primed?”

“Active. Ready to detonate. They won’t explode without an ignition.”

“Oh..” Pursing your lips, you face the bombs again and frown at them. “So…We need a match?”

“Or a bullet.”

Behind you, the horseman shifts, reaching into his holster and retrieving his brother’s pistol. Before you know it, he’s stretched his arm around to hold it in front of your face. “Here,” he says, promptly dropping it so that you fumble awkwardly to catch it.

“Hey, what? Why’re you giving me this!?” you squeak, arms buckling under the pistol’s unexpected weight.

“Target practice.”

“T-target practice!?”

Death rumbles amusedly, sliding his hands underneath your wrists and lifting them up to be level with your shoulders. “This valley must have an echo.”

“Just wanted to make sure I wasn't going deaf!”

“What's the problem? You shot well on Earth.”

“Uh, yeah! With a gun that’s like….eight times smaller than this one!” Your fingers tremble slightly as he moves his hands to cover your own and gently slides them down the gun until they’re wrapped firmly around its grip.

“The kickback will be a shock,” he murmurs into your ear, lining up the sights with the nearest bomb and missing the goosebumps that trail up and down your skin, “But if we’re in a pinch and I'm preoccupied….Well, I don’t think a little shooting practice will hurt.”

“It’ll hurt my arms,” you grumble.

The horseman’s hands leave yours and draw away, instead coming to rest on your shoulders, steadying you. “A little pain won’t kill you. Now…When you’re ready, take a breath-“

Feeling oddly secure under the weight of his fingers, you suck down a lungful of air and release it, blowing it past your lips.

“-And squeeze the trigger.”

‘BANG!’

The shot rings out across the valley as the bullet explodes from its chamber, thwacking against a spot just to the left of the shadow bomb. If it weren’t for Death holding your arms still, you’re fairly certain you’d have smacked yourself in the face.

“Ow! Shit!”

“Good,” he rumbles, giving your shoulder a solid pat. “That was good.”

Bewildered, you swivel your head around to squint up at him. “Uh, I'm sorry. How was that good? I missed!”

“This is not an easy weapon to handle.” Patiently turning you back towards your target, he adds, “For a first shot, that wasn’t bad. Try again, same as before.”

A compliment. A genuine compliment from the grim reaper. You have to resist the urge to pinch yourself, instead taking up a firing position and pulling in another deep breath.

‘BANG!’

Another shot splits the air and again, the bullet embeds itself into the corrupted mess, this time just above the shadow bomb.

“And again.”

Frustrated, you drop your arms, knocking the gun against Despair’s saddle horn. “Can’t you just do it?” you whine, “I’m…. I’m wasting ammo!”

“Supernatural rounds,” the horseman responds simply, “A gun that never runs out of bullets.”

Mouth dropping open, you twist the gun around in your grip and stare at it. “What, seriously?”

“Seriously. Now-“ Letting go of your shoulders, Death sits back in the saddle. “-Again, without me holding you this time.”

The absence of his chilly hands is unsettling. “But what if I miss again?”

“Then you miss, and you continue to try. But think of it this way instead…” Bending down, he brings his head next to yours, his ebony hair tickling against your ear. “What if you hit it?”

You get the distinct impression that he’s not going to let you get away with backing out this one, so, breathing in through your nose, you hold your breath, squinting up at the shadow bomb and try to force yourself to stop doubting that you can hit it. You’d shot a charging demon right between the eyes. Could it have really just been nothing more than a stroke of luck?

Forgetting the kickback, forgetting that the bang is going to make you jump, forgetting the horseman behind you and his steed beneath, you slide your finger around the trigger, expel the air from your lungs and squeeze.

Any sound of a fired gun is drowned out mere seconds later when the entire wall of corruption suddenly erupts outwards with a clamour loud enough to be heard all the way back in Tri Stone.

Despair throws his head back, whinnying triumphantly as the obstacle dissolves away to nothing, burned up by the head of the explosion until there’s nothing left, and you find yourselves looking down a dark, craggy passageway.

All of a sudden, Death’s hand claps down on your shoulder, jostling you out of a state of awed shock. “Fancy that,” he exclaims, clicking his tongue and moving Despair into a steady walk, “You didn’t miss.”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. If at first you don't succeed blah blah,” you mumble, pressing your lips into a line to hide your smile and passing the horseman’s gun back to him.

The ride through the gorge is a long and arduous one, filled with giant, flying insects that zoom around your head and try to get their stingers into your delicate skin, although the horseman never let them get close enough to accomplish that.

He’d obviously been telling the truth about the unlimited ammunition because he fires round after endless round into the bugs until they start dropping from the air like gigantic, murderous flies.

All in all, the journey seems to be going fairly well, at least until Despair gallops out of the gorge and you come upon a wide, open plain that's positively crawling with demons.

Death is aware of the change in you immediately, feeling your back press into his chest as you give a violent shudder.

“Scared?” he asks.

Gulping down a ball of terror, you admit, “I-I thought there’d just be more constructs.”

“I’m sorry to say there’ll be a lot more demons than this on our journey,” he replies, “That is, considering you continue to accompany me.”

Behind the fear, you notice something in his tone, something that leads you to believe this is another one of his tests.  Go forward or turn back.

Unfortunately, the sight of demons throws you violently to the day your world ended. Flashes of snapping jaws and rending claws burst sporadically in your mind’s eye and you have to admit, the temptation to flee is unignorably tantalising. Suddenly, the air feels thick and heavy and every breath is more difficult to get down into your lungs. These are the things that destroyed your world.

Pulse racing, you close your eyes and try to stop yourself from remembering.

People, fire, demons. Screaming, burning, roaring.

A distant voice calls your name, but a pit has opened up in your stomach, threatening to swallow you whole. Still, you feel compelled to answer the voice. It sounds worried. “Y-yeah, I’m alright,” you choke, struggling to get the words out passed a closed-up throat. Slowly, the world tilts inexplicably to the left and you hear a shrill whinny that fades into silence as your world turns dark.

---

Light bleeds back into your vision like watercolour dropped onto mottled parchment and you gasp, eyes flying open. Your hands find soft grass and you push yourself upright with a groan, staring down at your boots.

“What…what happened?” you whisper, recognising the cold presence of Death lingering close to your side.

“You fainted.”

Dragging your head up, you’re finally able to look at the horseman.  Even with the mask, you can tell he isn’t happy. “How long was I out?”

“Not long,” he murmurs, propping a hand behind your back, “A minute or so? Long enough for me to ride over here and put you down.”

Indeed, upon taking in your surroundings, you find you’re now laying on a grassy outcrop set against the cliff face and overlooking the rest of the gorge. Across the way, you can see the large portcullis you’d come through.

“Oh man.” Grimacing, you scrub tiredly at your face before glancing back over to the horseman. “I’m sorry, Death. I didn’t mean to.”

A twinge of concern dribbles into his voice, so discreet, you’re sure you’re just imagining things. “I know you didn’t.”

Shyly, you try for a laugh. “I’d, uh…I’d say this never usually happens, but I think that’s the third time I’ve passed out on you since we met?”

“The second time you collapsed out of exhaustion, that doesn’t count,” he snorts, “Technically, you’ve only fainted twice.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make you feel any less pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” you apologise again, waving him off when he takes you under the arm and tries to lift you back onto your feet, “It won’t happen again, I promi-“

A loud rustle suddenly comes from your left, followed by a thud and in a flurry of motion that almost leaves you sprawled on the ground once more, Death shoves past you, drawing his scythes and placing himself between you and the sound.

Peering around the horseman’s twitching shoulder, you gasp.

Something big has extracted itself from what had once looked to be nothing more than an unassuming pile of rocks and tangle of tree roots, and only in moving has it revealed itself.  To begin with, you’re convinced it’s another corrupted construct, but then, a large, round stone in the place of a head splits across the middle, showing off a wide mouth, out of which hums a long yawn. As you watch, transfixed, a pair of small, yellow eyes blink open in the surface of the rock and swivel over to Death, blinking again when they land on him.

The horseman’s fists clench tightly around his scythes, prepared to attack.

However, to the surprise of you both, the living construct lifts the lower half of its face into a bizarre rendition of a smile. “Hello fleshlings,” it rumbles.

Briefly, Death turns to share a bewildered look with you, both of you looking for some kind of answer in the other or at least a prompt of how best to respond. Eventually, you can only shrug half-heartedly, so the horseman faces the construct once again, eyes squinted suspiciously as he demands, “Who – or rather - what are you?a?”

It seems…. different from the other constructs you’ve come across, not least because this is the first one that’s spoken to you. More curious than wary now, you take a tentative step around Death, your eyes roving up and down the strange being.

“I am Blackroot,” it says, flicking its eyes over to you, “And I…am hungry.”

The horseman starts to usher you back again, asking warily, “For what, exactly?” 
He’s fairly certain constructs don’t eat, and they definitely don’t eat humans. None that he’s heard of, anyway. That isn’t to say he’ll take his chances with this one.

Meanwhile, you're busy having a similar thought process, horrified that it might have a taste for flesh.

But the construct – Blackroot – eagerly turns its attention back onto Death, blurting out, “Why, only the finest stones!” You and the horseman deflate at the same time. “Once, I would have gone to find them for myself, but as you can see, I am not quite as free as I once was.”

“Wait, you can’t move?” Inquisitive now that it's confirmed it won't be dining on human today, you venture forwards, only halted when Death’s fingers snag on your sleeve. It’s apparent he doesn’t’ fully know what to make of Blackroot just yet, and isn’t quite as willing as you are to trust it.

But whether or not it notices the horseman’s action, Blackroot doesn’t remark on it. Sadly, it shakes its head and taps the ends of its stony fingers together, somehow managing to give off the air of an anxious child. “No, I am afraid I cannot, tiny fleshling” it laments, “I must wait here for my master.

“You have a master?”

“Ah… Of him, I do not speak. Nor do I remember. He left eons ago, and now I am trapped here.” The construct indicates its feet and for the first time, you notice that, much like the roots of a tree, they’re woven into the soil, extending down through the earth. You glance back up and meet his imploring stare whilst he adds, “I will starve if someone doesn’t help me.”

“That’s…so sad,” you frown softly, stepping out of the horseman’s grasp and turning to face him, “Isn’t there something we can do to free him?”

Neither of them miss how you referred to Blackroot as 'him,' and not 'it.'  Sympathy plays fleetingly across Death's eyes but before he can admit that, no, there isn’t anything you can do, the construct replies for him. “It is alright. My roots are too deep, and if they are severed, I will shrivel up, and perish.”

“But that’s not fair,” you protest.

However, it simply shrugs, the grassy tufts sticking out of its shoulder rustling softly in the breeze. “It is neither fair, nor unfair. It simply is. In choosing to wait for my master’s return, I accepted that my roots would grow deep into the ground and I would be stuck, until he came to find me.”

“So…Your master…Could he free you?”

Blackroot’s head tilts to one side, pondering. “I…am not sure. I do not even remember who he was.” He lifts an arm to rub the top of his head, humming in thought and in doing so, suddenly reveals something that catches your eye, a little flash of red and white that stands out against his tattered rags.

“Wait, hold still.”

The construct freezes, eyes flashing in surprise as you duck under his elbow and reach out to touch the object hanging from his belt. Two small, black buttons stare up at you, stitched onto the face of a little doll – a doll wearing a golden headdress, a blue robe and most distinctive of all, a patch of felt has been lovingly sewn onto its chin to depict a long, white beard.

Delicately brushing your fingers over the doll, you whisper, “Eideard?”

“Eideard?” Death repeats, striding over, “What of him?”

Carefully, you pull the tiny Eideard-esque maker off the construct’s belt and hold it up so the two of them can see. “Blackroot, is this your master? Eideard? Do you remember Eideard?”

When he doesn’t respond, you grasp one of his fingers and lift it from his side, dropping the doll into his open palm. For a moment, he only blinks at the doll, rocky brows knitting together into a frown. Then, gently, he raises his free hand and strokes a bulky forefinger down the miniature body. “My….master?” he croaks, curling his fingers over the doll before looking up at you, wide-eyed and confused. “I-I do not recall. Perhaps.”

“You’ll have to ask the man himself,” Death mutters, “In the meantime, you and I shall have to keep an eye out for these…’stone bites.’”

“Right.” Nodding, you reach out to pat Blackroot’s mossy forearm. “Don’t want you starving to death.”

The construct balks, tearing his eyes off the doll in his hand to stare down at you, suddenly registering what you’d said. “Ah, then…you will do me this kindness?”

“Yeah, of course! We’re not monsters,” you laugh, following Death over towards his steed, who’s been waiting patiently at the edge of the outcrop all this time, ears flicking back and forth as he follows the sound of voices.

The horseman jumps on first, pulling you into the saddle shortly afterwards, only this time, he sits you behind him and instructs you to hold on. Once situated, you twist about to throw a quick wave over your shoulder at the construct, shouting, “We’ll see you soon, okay?”

As Death spurs his horse into a trot and sets off in the direction of the Drenchfort, Blackroot lifts a hand, waving it enthusiastically through the air and calling out a gravelly farewell before he redirects his gaze onto the doll in his hand.

----

“So, you never did tell me,” Death remarks a minute later as he pulls Despair to a stop facing the portcullis you'd passed through.

Curious, you peer around the horseman's side to get a better look at his face, cocking an eyebrow and asking, “Tell you what?”

One of those brilliant, yellow eyes swivels around to regard you from its corner. “If you still plan on accompanying me.”

It's at that moment you understand the reason why he's pointed his horse back the way you came.

Without actually saying it, Death is offering you a way out.

Ahead is Tri Stone - probably the safest place in the realm for a lone human, surrounded by six, watchful giants and high, stone walls. You wouldn't have to charge through hordes of demons and see the whites of their beady, little eyes as they bore down on you. You could be safe and warm and comfortable, wrapped up in furs and listening to Karn as he tries too hard to make you laugh. 

Or...

You could go with Death, ride into another temple of unknown dangers and face the same monsters you'd seen tearing through the streets of your home. All this whilst fighting back the rising tide of anxiety that even now threatens to overwhelm and pull you under.

“I don't know,” you whisper truthfully, kneading your fingers into the threadbare ends of his cowl, “I-I don't know what to do. Ugh! I thought I'd be brave enough to handle this!”  

To your surprise, a large, cold hand suddenly rests itself over your knee. Stunned into momentary silence, you snap your gaze down to see that Death has twisted slightly in his saddle to offer you what small comfort he can give. It isn't much in the grand scheme of things, he doesn't even say a word, yet somehow that small gesture is just enough to bring your heart rate back down to a less thunderous beat. Eventually, your breathing slows to match it.

The funny thing is though; you hadn't even noticed when either had gotten so fast.

Only once he sees that you’ve calmed down considerably, Death bends his head around a little further. “Don’t tell me you’re more afraid of demons than you are of constructs?” 

Your only response is to turn your face away from him and stare at the ground with a sense of shame you really don't think you ought to possess. After all, what human in their right mind wouldn’t be afraid in a valley chock-full of demons? 

“If it makes you feel any better,” the horseman continues, “demons are far easier to kill.” He moves a hand to his belt and before you can stop him, he’s pushed his brother’s pistol between your vastly smaller fingers, explaining, “And you’ll find this is a Hell of a lot more effective on flesh than stone.”  You try to protest, shaking your head and attempting to shove the gun back towards him but he’s already twisting forwards so you’re once again staring up at his broad, sinewy back - The same back you’d stared up at when he threw himself between you and Blackroot.... And again during the altercation with Gharn.

In fact, it abruptly occurs to you that there’ve been quite a few instances where Death has placed himself directly in the way of a threat, or a blow meant for you. As soon as this realisation hits, a strange thought drapes itself over your mind, subtle yet insistent. 

You trust Death. 

“So, what will it be, human?”

The weight of his pistol feels so much heavier in your palms than the handgun stuffed into the back of your tights and it's metal is strangely warm, despite having been handed to you by a bloodless being.

“I can take you back to Tri-Stone-”

Slowly, your fingers close around the grip.

“-Or you can come with me and we'll enact a bit of good, old-fashioned payback on some demons in the name of Earth. How does that sound?”

At this point, he doesn't even need to play the revenge angle, your mind having already been made up.

“Okay,” you whisper, and as you do, the tiniest glimmer of excitement ignites in your belly, “I’ll go with you. I trust you.” 

The silence that follows your statement betrays no indication that he's either surprised nor that he'd been expecting such an answer. Several beats pass in which you continue to peek apprehensively at his protruding spine, unable to see the startled, marginally overwhelmed eyes staring straight ahead from beneath the horseman's mask. And then, in a single blink, his expression falls back to its regular glower. “Very well,” he responds airily, and you're glad that he doesn't sound displeased by your decision.

With a click of his tongue, he whirls Despair about and suddenly, you’re facing down the grassy path of the fjord and the demons that prowl along it.

Gulping, you shakily chuckle, “I – um...I feel like should probably make a joke about facing my demons or something.”

“You could,” the horseman in front of you snorts softly, “But that would be a little obvious, don't you think?”

An impatient squeal draws your attention to the huffing steed under you, and Death leans forward to pat his rotting neck. “Are you ready?” he asks, and it takes you a moment to realise he’s expecting an answer from you, not the horse. 

“Nope.”

“Excellent. Now, you’re going to want to hold on tight if you’re planning to shoot anything. Wouldn’t want the recoil to knock you out of the saddle.” Metal stirrups creaks as Death leans forward, taking up the rusted, chainlink reins in one hand and moving the other towards a scythe hanging from his hip. Just as his fingers brush the leather-bound handle, he pauses, head twitching sideways to offer a brief afterthought. “Oh, and if you feel as though you’re about to faint on me again, I’d appreciate at least a few seconds of warning. If that’s not too much trouble.” 

“Hmph!” Giving his hip a hard but playful shove, you nonetheless follow his initial instruction and slide an arm hesitantly around his sturdy waist as your dominant hand grasps ever more tightly to the gun which seems to tremble expectantly against your skin; a tremble that you can’t accredit to mere nerves. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say the odd weapon is excited for the bloodshed to come. 

Despair paws at the ground and Death draws his scythe, giving it a twirl you suspect is more for show than anything else and then, bellowing out a shrill scream, the spectral steed kicks off his hind legs and lurches from a quivering standstill to a breakneck gallop, all in the space of a second flat. Instantly, the arm you have wrapped around Death’s torso tenses and your hand frantically scrabbles for purchase, managing to snag his large, silver belt buckle which you latch onto for dear life.  

Cheek squashed against his back, you can feel the horseman’s chuckle vibrate through his body but the sound of it is lost to the wind screaming past your ears and the pounding of hooves beneath you as Despair flies like a ghostly bullet train along the fjord.