#bride reader

You’re perched in front of the vanity while someone dabs shimmer onto your eyelids. Another friend is adjusting the delicate straps of your dress. The lace is beautiful. The room is beautiful. Everyone keeps telling you that you’re glowing.

Your chest feels like it’s shrinking.

“Breathe,” you whisper to yourself, but the air won’t go all the way in.

You love Bucky. You want to marry him. There’s no doubt, no cold feet, nothing like that. But the room is loud and warm and bright and full of expectations. Cameras flash. Questions get thrown at you.

Are you excited? Are you nervous? Can you believe this is finally happening?

Your pulse spikes.

Someone sprays perfume too close to your face and suddenly it’s like the walls tilt. The music is too sharp. The laughter too loud. Your dress feels heavy.

“I just need a second,” you murmur, but no one really hears.

Your maid of honor notices the way your fingers tremble. “Hey,” she says gently, stepping closer. “You okay?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just… a lot.”

It’s a lot.

You swallow hard and try to focus on the mirror. You’re supposed to feel like a princess. Instead, your throat tightens and your eyes sting.

You know what would fix this.

Not a breathing exercise. Not a glass of water.

Him.

Before you can overthink it, you stand.

“Wait—where are you going?” someone asks.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, already lifting your skirt to move faster. “I just… I need Bucky.”

There’s a chorus of scandalized gasps.

“You can’t see him!” “It’s bad luck!” “Tradition—!”

“Tradition can wait,” you say, voice wobbling but firm. “I need my fiancé.”

And then you’re out the door.

--

Bucky is in another room down the hall with Steve and Sam when you barge in.

He’s mid-sentence, jacket half-buttoned, when the door swings open.

His eyes snap to you.

Everything else disappears.

You look breathtaking. Your dress flows around you like something out of a dream. Your hair falls perfectly around your shoulders. But your eyes—

Your eyes are wide. Shiny.

“Hey,” he says immediately, already crossing the room.

Sam and Steve exchange a look and quietly excuse themselves without a word.

The door clicks shut behind them.

“Doll?” Bucky reaches you in three strides, hands hovering at your waist like he’s afraid to wrinkle the fabric. “What’s wrong?”

The second you see his face up close, something inside you cracks.

“It’s too much,” you whisper. “It’s just—everyone’s talking and the music and the cameras and I know it’s supposed to be perfect but I can’t breathe and I—”

He doesn’t let you spiral.

His hands settle gently at your waist, grounding, warm.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

His thumb brushes softly along your cheek.

“You’re okay,” he says, voice low and steady. “You’re safe. It’s just us right now.”

You inhale, shaky.

He nods encouragingly. “That’s it. Just me and you. No music. No people. Just us.”

You focus on the way his thumb moves slowly over your skin. The familiar weight of his hands. The faint scent of his cologne.

Your pulse starts to slow.

“I didn’t mean to ruin the whole ‘don’t see each other before the ceremony’ thing,” you mumble, embarrassed.

He huffs a quiet laugh, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “I don’t care about bad luck. I care about you.”

Your breath evens out.

He leans back just enough to look at you fully. His expression softens in awe.

“You look…” He swallows. “You look like the rest of my life.”

Your throat tightens—but in a good way this time.

“I was fine until it got loud,” you admit. “And then I just needed you.”

“You always got me,” he says instantly.

The room feels calm now. Quiet. Like the world has shrunk down to the two of you.

You rest your forehead against his chest, careful of the suit. His arms come around you carefully, protective but mindful of your dress.

He sways you slightly.

“Want to stay?” he asks gently. “We can just hide out in here until it’s time.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “We’re really just throwing tradition in the trash today, huh?”

He shrugs. “Tradition didn’t go through HYDRA brainwashing. Tradition doesn’t know what it’s like to need the person you love to breathe.”

You smile at that.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s hide.”

---

You sit together on the edge of the couch. Your skirt spills over his knee. He holds your hand like it’s something sacred.

He tells you dumb jokes. You fix his tie because it’s slightly crooked. He kisses your knuckles softly, careful not to smudge anything.

At one point he leans in close and whispers, “If you wanted, we could just run. Vegas. Elvis impersonator. I’d marry you in jeans.”

You grin. “We already paid for the venue, Barnes.”

“Right. Fine. Guess we’ll do it the fancy way.”

But you stay together.

And by the time someone knocks on the door to say it’s time, your nerves have melted into something warm and steady.

---

When the music starts and the doors open, you’re not shaking anymore.

You’re not overwhelmed.

You’re just walking toward him.

Bucky’s standing at the end of the aisle, eyes already glassy. The moment he sees you, his breath leaves him completely.

He knows.

He knows you came to him earlier. He knows you chose him over superstition, over tradition, over everything.

You reach him calm. Smiling. Certain.

When he takes your hands, he squeezes them once.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Perfect,” you whisper back.

And you are.

Because it was never about the flowers. Or the music. Or the traditions.

It was always about him.

And he’s right there.

    Mortals were not unlike a nagging, flea-ridden cat. Always attempting to rub against the gods’ legs and bringing them unwanted and simply disgusting tributes that only serve to cloud their views with rot and frivolous- if not childish- gifts that an immature creature would thrust upon an unwilling and unnerved custodian. 

    Hades drowned out the never ending drone of his so-called worshipers with his ever growing work. 

    Denied.

    Denied.

    Hmph- Granted.

    Don’t test me. Denied.

Something kept pulling his attention. Hades promptly ignored it. Too much work was to be done in the Underworld. Cerberus wrecked the lounge again, the Furies infighting, too much in House tension- 

    A particularly persistent cult had been constantly vying for his attention. Try as he might, the Lord of the Underworld wasn’t able to block out their insistent wailing and begging and their infuriating conclusion that he, god of the Underworld and Lord of the dead, would want more work due to their continuous sacrifices in his name!

    Hades massaged his temples with the flat of his palms. The noise of the House was too much. Chattering spirits throughout the House, Hypnos snoring in the hallway ahead, panicked apologies from servants in the lounge, Cerberus panting and licking his chops to his right-

    Sheer fabrics shift against the other. Golden bands clink as wrists are moved. Up, to the side, back down. Lips painted red, cheeks dusted lightly, eyes framed in charcoal black. The figure isn’t remarkable, not even familiar, yet-

    It angered him that something like this could happen to him, of all gods, once again. Hades couldn’t deny the calling he felt. It was as though he was damned to forever be intertwined with the affairs of mortals, not only in their deaths and their afterlife, but in his own, waking, living and longing moments, too. For the first time in an eternity, the Lord of Hell ignored his work and watched a mortal be dressed to be his next bride. 

    You… 

    Nervous, just like all mortals that were to be sacrificed ‘for the greater good’, your head hangs low and you fight back tears. You weren’t unwilling, no, you accepted this fate that had been laid before you, even if it left you trembling and feeling despondent and faint. 

Too many hands were placed upon you, pulling you in far too many directions. Arms up, arms down, back up, lift your leg- no, the other, now- raise your head. Your make up had to be reapplied many times throughout the process. You couldn’t stop the tears… 

The jewelry that was thrusted upon you was heavy and cumbersome. Garish gold encrusted with rubies and onyx that clashed and caused your head to stoop lower from the weight of your earrings, your neck to feel as though a noose made of gold and your wrists bound with chains that laid on top of one another until they nearly reached your elbows. 

You never felt so over encumbered yet so bare before. Eyes were on you- not the eyes of those that dressed you for your destined end. No matter where you looked, you felt unnerved. Vulnerable, as though some great, unknown force was staring into your very soul. Every time you brought your arms to your chest, they were swatted away and shoved down. A pair of fingers raised your chin. You raised your eyes.

The attendants were gone, along with the touch. 

Yes, you would be the first and only one he would ever take. 

It had never happened before- not with Lord Hades, that is. He not only disliked, but despised mortals that worshiped him. They wasted his time, stole his attention away from his true, ever growing work that would never have an end. This time, however, was different. This sacrifice, you, was special. He would accept you, though to no benefit of the ones that gifted you to him. They will die and be processed as any other mortal would be at the end of their pathetically short lives. 

Not you, though. 

You were not unwilling… yet you were not compliant, either. You refused to raise your head, stand up straight, allow your new Lord to bask in your mortal beauty. Hades steadily became frustrated with your meek stature. 

“Raise your head, mortal. Your Lord commands it.”

You didn’t want to anger a god, not this god. Still… you hesitated.

Rough fingers hold your jaw between thumb and forefinger. He tilts your chin upwards, until you're left with no other choice than to look directly at him, no matter how your eyes attempt to dart away from his hard glare.

No, not a glare. This man- no, this god- could kill you in any way he sees fit. Whether it be from his bare hands or by stealing your soul away, he did neither. He did command you and you refused. Still, you live. The Lord of the Underworld didn’t look down at you with searing rage, but with something that left you feeling flushed and naked under his gaze. 

Hades couldn’t deny that you fanned a flame that had long since died inside of him. Dressing you in his House colours must have been an accident, though it was one the Lord couldn’t deny he enjoyed greatly. 

The feeling was a familiar one. Warm, all encompassing, like a weighted shroud that binded him in place and one that he did not wish to shake free from. Your face, though… your face was unfamiliar. Hades had likely seen a hundred thousand just like it yet… he feels as though he’s looking upon it for the first time. 

You didn’t know what to expect from the Lord of the Underworld. He was unreadable; his facial expression, his tone of voice, the way he carried himself… You felt small and vulnerable under his gaze. Try as you might, no matter where you look or how you hold yourself, it wasn’t what he expected of you. You knew what he wanted though you tried to stave it off with innocence and ignorance. It greatly frustrated him and, as much as you expected violence, you didn’t expect him to simply command-

“Shed your clothing.”

His face betrayed nothing. Warmth rises to your cheeks and pools somewhere in your gut. You hesitated, then braced for the worst. Would he strike you? Would he kill you? …could something worse be underfoot…? Hades raised his hand and you instinctively flinched, screwing your eyes shut as you prepared for pain.

Nothing happened.

Your heart throbbed behind your ears. Your hair covers your face as you hang your head, terrified. The weight of the unwanted jewelry makes it too easy for you to hide your face. Your posture is pathetic- partially hunched over and visibly trembling as you wait for whatever punishment is sure to come your way. 

You didn’t mean to disobey the Lord of the Underworld, you are so scared and you are unworthy of being in his presence! To have him want you to- t-to undress before him…? 

Cool fingers brush the hair from your face, following the frame of your face before they drag across your jawline, tilting your head up so that your Lord could see your tear-filled eyes. Your lower lip quivers as those fingers slide down your throat, coming to rest just above your breast bone. 

BA-BUMP

BA-BUMP

BA-BUMP

It could be your imagination- wishful thinking- or perhaps your tears had obstructed your vision, but you could swear Lord Hades’ eyes softened if only just a little bit. Not completely, his facial expression and posture didn’t change, but his eyes… 

Your tears fell from your eyes. It ruined your bridal makeup, leaving heavy streaks of colour down your face. Your Lord didn’t mind. No, perhaps these tears of confused emotion suited you rather well. You felt his fingers twitch ever-so-slightly against your chest. No- No, not a twitch. A tremble, as though someone saw something they longed for- they ached for- that was just within reach yet they hesitate to grasp ahold of, perhaps unsure if it was truly there and theirs for the taking. 

It was easy for Hades to undress you. The fabrics slipped from your shoulder with merely a subtle shifting of his fingers against your shoulders. The thin cloths tickled your sides as they fell into a pool at your feet. You never thought much of your appearance. Not beautiful, not exactly ugly, either. Just… unremarkable. You couldn’t understand why someone, anyone, a god would want you in any way… But carnally?

Your stomach twists itself into knots as you are placed onto the edge of a massive bed. You feel akin to a doll. Small, able to be picked up and placed wherever your Master deems appropriate. Your knees leaned against one another, though it did nothing to hide your shame. He does not ask and you do not dare move from the position Lord Hades had placed you in, nor do you resist when he parts your legs as wide as you can comfortably accommodate. 

The bangles around your ankles clang together as you dig your feet into the soft sheets underneath you. You don’t think you can look- No, you can’t. Your wrists are heavy and prove difficult to move. This damn gold… You blame the nonexistent restraints for the reason why you do not move from your compromising position. It’s humiliating… You clutch fistfuls of silk cloth and look away as a head of dark hair lowers to between your legs. 

The image of a god- the god of the Underworld- kneeling before a mortal is something that would be heard in some bizarre tale of erotic love, yet you are seeing it in the corner of your own vision. One of his hands could easily wrap around your midsection and crush you to death. Your fear was renewed as one of your legs was grabbed and lifted upwards. In a panic, you begin a mad scramble backwards.

A panicked cry dies in your throat as your other leg is snatched. Most of your body- up to just past your shoulders- is lifted off the bed, leaving you dangling precariously and helplessly. The blood in your body is divided: more than half immediately rushes to your head, leaving you feeling faint and dizzy, while the rest manages to remain in your lower half- flush inside your guts and between your now uncomfortably parted legs.

“Do not reject me.” 

The growl sends an ice cold chill down your spine. Whatever fleeting urge to resist dies as quickly as it surfaced. You are limp, breathing in deep pants through your open mouth. You can’t see Lord Hades in this position. You don’t even try to do so. You only screw your eyes shut and whimper as something soft and wet drags up the length of your sex.

Hades knew, try as you might, you would break at a moment’s notice. You expected pain, force, violence on his part. He’s no shrinking violet; Hades is rough, he is cold, but he is calculated and he wants- needs- you to need him first. Hades won’t allow you to live without him. When he is through with you, you wouldn’t be able to do so. 

Perhaps even in death, he wouldn’t allow you to stray from his side…

You gasp and squirm, attempting to move your legs and being unable to do so, with your Lord holding you by the shins as his mouth connects to your sex. Every small movement from his tongue and his lips causes you to jerk in rhythm to his ministrations. 

This position was uncomfortable. You strained to raise your head. So close… You were so close to raising your head, then you would tense, your head falling back down as Hades pays especially harsh attention to your clitoris. 

Your chest heaves with heavy breath. Your hands grip onto the sheets for any amount of support. You no longer hide your moans of pleasure. Your hips willingly buck against the god of the Underworld’s mouth. Legs and lower back cramping, you can’t stop from wriggling and writhing in time to the pulses of pleasure that have steadily been building over time. 

You didn’t think it would happen. It hasn’t happened before! You were overwhelmed by the tingling heat that exploded from deep within your core. The muscles in your body throbbed in time with the good feeling that continued without waning intensity. You were lost in the moment, whining as your climax waned into numbness. 

The air was knocked from your lungs as you were dropped onto your back. I-Is it…? You yelp in surprise as you are grabbed by your ankles and dragged to the edge of the bed. He isn’t done with you?! A plea for respite was on the tip of your tongue, fumbling and cut off as you cried out in overstimulated confusion. 

He wasn’t satisfied with the ending conclusion. You weren’t responding as he envisioned. Hades will continue, continue until you are hoarse from screaming and soaked in your own fluids, exhausted and pained from the pleasure you have been subjected to but unable to contain the lust that you have for him and him alone. 

Even as it feels so good and hurts so, so much to feel anymore, you babble incoherently. 

It hurts.

Feels so good.

Make it stop.

Don’t- Can’t-.

You will, as will he until you provide him what he has commanded of you. The command “Don’t reject me” is a distant memory and one that scares you. Not for the demand made but for the simple reality that you now know you wouldn’t be able to do so even if you had to. 

Before you’re even afforded the courtesy of catching your breath, a gruesome face lunges into view directly overhead, sporting a toothy grin that divides his jaws like a jagged crevasse.

Your eyes spring open wide at the sight of Vulgrim, all aches forgotten as you wrench your legs up under your dress and clutch the crystal protectively against your chest, choking on an aborted inhale. “Fuck!”

“You’ve done it!” the demon exclaims gleefully, his vestigial wings snapping together in evident excitement.

From the edge of your periphery, you spot both of his spindly, bejewelled hands stretching down towards you, the talons at the end of each finger glinting like obsidian daggers in the strange, green light.

Bleating out a strangled yelp, you start trying to kick your way backwards over the stone, but Vulgrim’s oversized hands shoot out and fasten like clamps around your ribcage and, to your utmost dismay, hoist you roughly into the air with astonishing ease, his glittering gaze fixated on the crystal you still have locked in a steel grip.

“Woah, hey!” you exclaim, goosebumps skittering along your arms as you instinctively attempt to recoil from his piercing claws, “Watch the SILK!”

And then, despite your many misgivings about them, you can’t help but twist your neck around and blow your veil out of the way with a puff of air to send a desperate, searching glance over your shoulder, scanning the space behind you for the pair of Horsemen whose presences are admittedly preferable to this handsy demon.

You won’t admit to the rise of visceral panic that shoots through your stomach when you spot the glowing dais, the same one that stands unnervingly devoid of any hulking, murderous Nephilim.

You’re acutely aware of your stomach sinking like a stone and falling out through the bottom of your shoes. “Wh-! Where are they!?”

“Oh, cease your fretting, human,” Vulgrim admonishes far too brightly, his talons pricking into the skin on your back, “I’m sure your dashing defenders will be here at any-“

Prophetically, before he can finish his sentence, you’re nearly blinded by a brilliant flash of light that illuminates the area around the dais, forcing you to screw your eyelids shut with a grimace.

In the next instant, something hits the ground with a heavy thud, and when you peel one eye open to look, the first thing you see is a bristling wall of scarlet and gunmetal grey that storms out of the receding glow before your ears are twitched by the ‘shing’ of a broadsword being unsheathed.

You don’t even bother to hide your shaky sigh of relief. You never thought you’d be so happy to see that thunderous scowl again.

War comes booming off the dais like a living freight train, pushing a growl through his clenched teeth that’s deep enough to rattle the tiny rocks underfoot and resonate through your chest even from several metres away. Thoroughly ruffled, his pale pupils fly from left to right at a dizzying speed, hair whipping around his face as he periscopes his surroundings, canines bared and his bloodthirsty sword held at the ready. He cuts an immense and terrifying figure that looks prepared to drive his blade through the first thing that moves.

Then, his gaze lands on Vulgrim, and you watch the Horseman’s lips curl into a sneer before he glances down the length of the demon’s arms and finds you dangling from his uncomfortable grip.

You’re a little shocked that the merchant doesn’t spontaneously combust on the spot under the heat radiating from that glare.

“Vulgrim!” War bellows, marching towards you across the islet of stone in great, loping strides, “What is the meaning of this?”

While he doesn’t look particularly reassured to find you in the claws of the merchant, his squared shoulders at least appear to lose a modicum of the Herculean tension they’re stacked with, though his expression turns ominously dark like he’s passed beneath a thundercloud, gauntlet tightening around his sword’s hilt with an audible creak of leather.

“Meaning of what?” the demon asks, projecting an air of affected innocence, as if he’s trying to get under War’s skin, “Granting the three of you passage through the void back to sanctuary?” Giving a harrumph, he peers down his narrow snout at the Horseman and haughtily says, “At no additional cost to yourselves, I might add.”

Wriggling futilely against his encompassing grip, you snap, “Very generous,” a comment that earns a flash of jagged teeth as the demon turns to grin at you.

“Aren’t I?”

In your periphery, you see War’s prodigious shadow throw itself across the ground as another flash of light bursts from the portal behind him, and just like that, Strife is here as well, coiled like a loaded spring.

He, like his brother, comes hurtling out of the fading light with his guns raised and his spine ramrod straight, sweeping across the area for all of a second before his keen glare lands on where you’re being held aloft by Vulgrim’s deceptive strength.

All at once, Strife’s eyes spring open like the gates of Hell, and the glow within them could ignite a forest fire. It doesn’t escape your notice that his guns are still raised and aimed in the demon’s direction.

Still, his voice remains steady in spite of the look beyond his mask’s sockets. “Put her down, Vulgrim!” he warns just as War pauses his approach long enough to sling Chaoseater onto his back with a belligerent grunt, “And a little warning next time you feel like whiskin’ our human off across the aether, huh?”

“Sorry, whose human?” you scoff indignantly, too busy scowling over your shoulder at Strife to register the downright murderous glare that Vulgrim is being subjected to, courtesy of War.

Raising his wings in a facsimile of a shrug, the demon petulantly heeds Strife’s warning and sweeps his hands out to the side, away from your waist.

A startled yelp bursts from your mouth as you take a short fall to the ground, landing on your backside in an undignified heap of flailing legs and billowing skirts, wincing at the pain shooting up your coccyx.

“Fucking ow!” you complain, levering yourself upright and clutching the pink crystal safely between your fingers.

Somewhere nearby, War’s chest thrums in irritation whilst Strife barks out an affronted, “Hey!” on your behalf, his metal footsteps drawing closer, but again, you aren’t permitted any time to lament your rough treatment before Vulgrim is once more bending into your personal space, filling your view with sweeping black horns and gleaming eyes.  

“Now,” he breathes a jet of hot, stale air into your face, heedless of the steadily-rising growl kicking out of War’s chest directly above your head, “Hand it over.”

“Jeezus, alright, here!” you blurt, quivering with apprehension as you all but toss the crystal at him, keen to win back some of the distance he’d shrunk between you.

Deftly, the demon’s hands snatch it out of the air, and with a malicious chuckle and a single flap of his wings, he zips backwards out of range before War can reach over you and swat at him like an aggravating gnat.

The grip of a warm, metal palm finds your bicep, and in the next moment, you’re being hefted smoothly off the ground and held until you’re steady on your aching feet.

The briefest glance sideways confirms that Strife is your uninvited assistant.

Absently, he begins subjecting your dress to a light brush-down with the back of his gauntlet – much to your spluttered indignation – and ignores the hand you’re using to try and push his wrist aside as he levels his helm at Vulgrim, who appears entirely too absorbed by his new toy to pay attention to the twin looks of resentment the Horsemen are sending his way.

“You’re pretty damn excited over a shiny rock, Vulgrim,” Strife grouses, at last dropping his arm, which in turn gives you the chance to sidle out of reach, “But to each his own, I guess.”

The merchant’s verdant gaze slinks over to the Horseman, and you can’t help but shudder when his jaw stretches apart to send the three of you a sly grin.

“A shiny rock, is it?” he drawls knowingly, raising the hand with the crystal in it, “Look closer…”

There, with a simple flick of his fingers, it begins to float up and off his overturned palm.

Pulling in a gasp, you almost forget about his rough treatment, your mind boggling at the defiance of gravity. But then you flinch as a wisp of green magic erupts from the centre of his hand and dances up the inner curve of his forefinger, leaping between the hooked talon and the crystal like a bolt of miniature lightening.

With a ‘tink,’ the ball of magic hits its glimmering, pink surface before dissipating into thin air, as if it was never there at all.

Letting your mouth hang agape, you spare a glance up at War’s profile, curious to see if he’s as impressed as you are by the display.

But overshadowing your left shoulder, the Horseman’s expression is set into that same, stony glare he seems to wear in perpetuity, blue eyes narrowed to a pair of thin, luminous lines and his mouth downturned at each corner, wrinkling the pale skin of his jowls.

Unimpressed then… You probably should have guessed as much.

Still, as the seconds drag by without a word from either the demon or the Horsemen, you have to wonder if that was all there was to the trick.

No sooner has the thought flitted across your head than the crystal, the one you’d been so careful not to drop or damage, promptly shatters in a vibrant explosion of pink and jet-black fog that’s swiftly kicked up into a twister, billowed by some, unseen wind.

Before you can even blink in shock, War steps forwards and swings his massive gauntlet out in front of you, concealing you behind a barricade of silver metal and a leather-bound palm.

As you stare agog around his elbow, the swirling vortex of fog starts to swell out and up like a living mass of darkness, billowing into a tower that rises taller than you, taller than Strife, and then even taller than War.

“What is that!?” you shriek over the howling maelstrom as flashes of fast, crimson light burst to life and die within it.

And then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, the fog dissipates, dropping like water upended from a glass and scattering fine particles of rich, grey smoke over the stone, revealing a figure that looms large in the hazy air left behind.

Coughing out an acrid lungful of breath, you flap the lingering traces of fog away from your face, spluttering the taste off your tongue and squinting up at the dark shape hovering in front of you.

“Woo~!” a feminine voice hoots, making you jump out of your skin as the figure stretches a pair of-… no… two pairs of thickset arms out to either side of itself, all four limbs about as long as you are tall, “Finally some room to stretch my legs!”

Your jaw nearly comes unhinged from its sockets.

As the air clears at last, you’re left gawking up at – you assume – yet another demon.

At least, she seems to have a lot of the same hallmarks.

And she’s as terrifying as Vulgrim was when you first saw him. But where he’s skeletal, sharp around the edges and gaunt like an emaciated corpse, this demon has real weight behind her, lending her power and presence in equal measure, not unlike the colossal demon that almost crushed you to a pulp... 

She has to be a foot shorter than Vulgrim though, but almost twice as wide, perhaps more with how far her impressive horns curl back and away from her head in the same fashion as an ibex.

And you definitely weren’t imagining things earlier – from her substantial torso spout four arms, each decked in dark armour that reaches from knuckle to elbow.

Anxiously grinding your teeth, you spare a glance down at the appendage whipping around her legs like an agitated cat’s, realising with a start that she’s sporting a slender, whiplike tail with a barb on the end that reminds you of a scorpion’s stinger.

All of a sudden, as she finishes her stretch, rolling the rust-hued scales on her shoulders, you see two eyes shoot open, blank, featureless orange inset by acid-yellow pupils.

They lock onto the Horsemen at once, and blink rapidly as if she’s surprised to see them standing here in front of her.

Nobody speaks as she flicks her gaze from War to Strife, missing you where you’re hidden behind the former’s gauntlet.

“Horsemen…? What’re you two lookin’ at?” she demands, planting one of her hands on a hip and arching the ridge of a copper-scaled brow.

At least you aren’t the only one staring, nor probably wondering how the Hell that little crystal could fit an entire demon inside it.

Before either Horseman can offer a response, her focus snaps sideways to the other demon in her vicinity, and you witness the moment something dark and hateful crosses her devilish face, curling her lips down into a snarl.

“Oh. Vulgrim. You’re alive,” she says with the enthusiasm of a concrete slab, snapping her forked tongue between vicious fangs, “Looks like our ‘arrangement’ still stands then.”

“The crystal was… a prison?” War utters, sounding slightly horrified by the prospect.

Hovering close to your opposite flank, Strife leans back and folds his arms across his chest, shooting a suspicious glare over at Vulgrim. “This how you treat all your ‘business associates?” he observes, “Noted…”

The sound of their voices draws the new demon’s attention back to them, only this time, her fearsome glare doesn’t skip over you.

Despite the breath in your lungs already having long dried up, you still manage to gasp when she catches sight of you and does an immediate double-take, tipping forwards enough that you can see the pair of fleshy wings on her shoulder-blades that seem to serve more as decoration than anything functional. And her eyes… once cold and predatory when she was sneering at Vulgrim, suddenly fall open, rounding out as she takes you in.

“Who is that?” she asks huskily, the tip of her tail flicking up and curving over her head.

With his eyes set in a mistrustful glower, Strife starts to speak, only to find himself cut off by his prickly brother.

“None of your business,” War snaps, baring his teeth as he shifts his weight sideways to further hide you from view.

But he can tell as well as Strife that she’s already seen your face when her eyes start to glimmer with catlike intrigue.

“Oh~ so someone you ain’t supposed to have,” she challenges, lowering herself closer to the ground and gliding with astonishing grace to one side, catching your eye around War’s forearm.

Regarding the proceedings with mild interest, Vulgrim gestures at his fellow demon with a lazy roll of his wrist.

“Dis here was captured while seeking an item of great importance to Lucifer,” he explains to the Horsemen as ‘Dis’ attempts to drift around War who meets her effort by stepping solidly in line with her movements, grunting out a huff of warning that she counters by peeling her lips back to show him her teeth, “She is duty bound to me.”

At that, the demoness lets out a huff of her own, plonking to the ground on three-toed feet and folding her upper limbs over her chest, grumbling, “That’s one way to put it…”

She sounds so embittered, certainly giving you the impression that she doesn’t care much for Vulgrim, and that alone is enough to draw you out from behind your rumbling blockade, first peeking your head, and then your torso into view.

At once, she catches the movement, fixating on you in the blink of an eye.

Ever so slowly, her pupils expand as she takes in your face, widening from the slits they’d been in until they’re round and bright against the orange of her eyes. “What in the Nine Circles are you?” she breathes, quirking one side of her mouth up into a half smile.

Sharply, War snaps his head down and finds you’ve moved to hover at his side, which in turn sends his expression devolving into a thunderous scowl. “Human,” he admonishes before he can swallow the words back down his neck.

Strife’s makes an aborted sound at the base of his throat, mingling with Vulgrim’s distant groan that sounds a lot like, “Here we go.”

All at once, Dis’s yellow pupils snap back to vivid, piercing slits as she shoots about a foot into the air, prompting you to almost fall onto your backside at the suddenness of the movement.

“A human!?” she squawks, darting an incredulous glance between War and Strife, “Where the Hell did you boys get a human!?” Then almost immediately, she heaves herself around to glare at Vulgrim, peeling her lips back and snapping at him, “Did you have somethin’ to do with this?”

Uncertain, you scan her up and down, feeling a steady drip of vindication flowing through your chest.

Finally, someone who actually seems as distraught by your predicament as you are.

Scoffing, the merchant balances his fingertips across his clavicle. “I trade in trinkets and favours,” he says, angling a derisive look down at you that makes you queasy, “Not livestock.”

“Hey,” Strife pipes up in a low tone from behind you, laying one of his hands heavily on your shoulder as he narrows his eyes at Vulgrim, “You watch who you’re callin’ ‘livestock.’ Okay? This little lady took out a Slag Demon.”

You really wish he hadn’t mentioned that…

Both Dis and Vulgrim’s jaws drop comically wide.

Shrugging out of Strife’s grasp brings you into the open ahead of the Horsemen, your motions tracked by the pair of demons floating in front of you. There’s a bead of sweat running down the side of your temple as you wonder if they’ll take offence to the murder of one of their own.

“Well, I mean… War did the actual killing,” you amend sheepishly, and only a tiny part of you feels guilty for throwing him under the proverbial bus, “I just distracted it.”

Dis’s eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “You can talk!?”

“… Apparently…” you admit with a grimace, already a little concerned about reeling her attention back to you.

Shaking off the astonishment of something as small as you not only going up against, but apparently besting a Slag Demon, she wonders aloud, “But… I heard humans didn’t know the Common tongue.”

“They don’t,” War grunts.

Helpfully, Strife chimes in, “Ours does.”

Choosing to ignore the last comment, you throw your arms up and heave a dramatic sigh, “Why does no one believe that we can speak plain English?”

That seems to throw them all for a loop, and they each go silent, staring down at you blankly until Strife murmurs from the corner of his mouth, “The Hell’s an ‘English?”

“Alright, back up,” Dis huffs, splaying all four of her hands out in a quiet bid for focus, turning her narrowed gaze onto the Horsemen, “You still haven’t told me what a human is doing here! The Council closed every path to Earth, least as far as I’ve heard.”

You have to admit, compared to the last few demons you’ve had the awful displeasure of meeting, Dis doesn’t seem nearly as interested in serving your head on a platter as any of her ilk. Or perhaps by now, you’re just a little more accustomed to the company you’ve found yourself in.

Maybe you’re just too tired to be paralysed by fear.

“That’s… actually a mystery I’m hoping to solve as well,” you sigh, and you must sound utterly miserable because it prompts her to look at you, her features softening by a margin, “One minute, I’m on Earth, and the next thing I know, I’m falling through some… sci-fi-wormhole-portal-bullshit, and landing in this nightmare.” You pause to jab a thumb viciously over your shoulder, gesturing at the Horsemen. “With these two.”

The demoness furrows the ridge of her brow, tilting her horns to the side as she takes a moment to study you, from the… frankly unsuitable footwear to the strange veil cascading down your back, white as angel hair. Beyond your rather amusing garb, however, Dis peers further, tracing the sporadic tremors that wrack your shoulders as you try to keep still under her scrutiny, and the bizarre and rare hue of your eyes sitting definitively within a veiny sclera. She might not know the first thing about humans, but she isn’t blind. You do look like you’ve been dragged to Oblivion and back again…

Pretty little thing like you? One thing is crystal-clear to her.

You shouldn’t be here.

“… And… you don’t know how to get home,” she guesses, her voice surprisingly gentle.

Turning your palms to the dark void overhead, you give her a tired shrug and reply, “Do you think I’d still be here if I did?”

Unnoticed by everyone else, Strife’s expression flinches into a soft frown and he casts his gaze to the floor, though he doesn’t linger on it for long, slapping a cocksure grin onto his face and straightening up again seconds later. “Aw, don’t say it like that,” he quips, “We’ve had fun!”

Woodenly, you turn and subject him to your flattest look. “You threw me over a pit of lava.”

“You ever gonna let that go? Besides! You’re still kicking,” he smugly points out, “So~…”

“So~” you sing-song back, “That doesn’t mean it was fun.”  

“None of this is intended to be fun,” War barks out sharply, putting a decisive end to your bickering as he shoots a glare so hot between you and his brother, it’s a wonder neither of you melt in your shoes, “Need I remind you that we are on a mission to stop Lucifer!”

“Lucifer?” Dis echoes, straightening up, “What do you want with that piece of work?”

But if War hears her, he doesn’t bother to respond, instead swinging his hood around towards Vulgrim, who has remained blessedly silent during the latter end of the exchange. “You said if we brought you your ‘artifact,’ you’d tell us what you know,” he growls, curling his gauntlet into a crushing fist, “Now talk.”

“All things are connected, Horseman,” the merchant drawls, unflinching in the face of War’s temper, “The item I had Dis searching for?”

“… You said it was important to Lucifer?” you offer when nobody else pipes up, earning a considering glance from the demon.

“Hm. Indeed,” he nods after a blink, “He’s been very eager to get his hands on it.”

Up, then down, War’s shoulders rise and fall as he sucks a deep, calming breath into his titanic chest, letting his eyes slip shut. “What is this item Lucifer seeks?” he asks through clenched teeth, reining in his impatience as if he’s trying to corral a wild stallion.

Vulgrim opens his mouth to respond but Dis is quicker to jump on the explanation. “It’s called the Ember Core,” she says with a waggle of her clawed fingers, “Contains the power of a thousand suns.”

Swallowing down a tight lump in your throat, you croak, “That’s a lot of suns…”

“Believe it, Kitten,” she grins at you, dropping an eyelid in a wink and fanning lazily at her neck, “Precisely the kind of thing that gets a demon all hot and bothered.”

Something hard bumps into your elbow, and you stiffen, glancing up to find Strife has put himself directly at your side, the holster on his hip brushing against your arm. He has the metal chin of his mask held in his thumb and crooked forefinger, eyes narrowed pensively. “So, I’m guessing it would throw a wrench in Lucifer’s plans if we got to it first,” he realises.

The smirk that pulls Dis’s lips over her fangs sends a visceral shiver down the length of your spine. “I’d say that’s a good bet.”

“Well, guys? What d’ya think?” Turning to War, Strife grins beneath the mask, knocking his elbow into you when you try to subtly lean away, as if he means to include you in his question.

Wait… Is he asking you? Why in the world is he asking you? As if your response would be anything other than a stark, emphatic ‘No!’

While you’re puzzling over that particular conundrum, War answers in your stead.

“Anything that gets us closer to the Deceiver is worth pursuing,” he admits with a grumble.

Without warning, Strife’s palm comes down on your shoulder, startling the living daylights out of you as he gives you a playful jostle. “That’s good enough for me.”

You’re starting to grow irked by his constant refusal to keep his damn hands to himself.

“Splendid!” Vulgrim announces cheerfully, clapping his hands together before returning to business as usual, “Now. We believe the Ember Core to be housed in a demonic forge called The Inferno Vault.”

“Inferno Vault!” you rasp in disbelief, shrugging off Strife’s hand and throwing an arm back as if to remind them all of the lava-filled pit you’d just been wrenched from, “What the Hell was that last place then? The Balmy Lockup?”

Strife laughs boisterously in your ear whilst Vulgrim clicks his tongue, turning from you to offer War a simpering grin. Bending low, the demon sweeps an arm across his chest and dips his torso in a mock rendition of a bow.

“Recovering it shouldn’t be a problem for two, mighty Horsemen…” he drawls before his cold, green gaze drops down to you, “… and their pet.”

Rolling his eyes, the larger Horseman brusquely shrugs his shoulders as if to dislodge the irritation of Vulgrim’s twisted grin. “Spare us the flattery, demon. Just open the portal.”

Peeling back to drum his claw-tips together, the merchant drags a long, obnoxious breath through his nose and hums it out again in a sigh that reeks of satisfaction, of a deal going his way.

“Ah,” he smirks, “This is proving to be a most auspicious relationship.”

The two Horsemen spare one another a sidelong glance over your head as the demon raises his hand to the dais behind you, coaxing the soft, blue light to ripple and sway like a pond disturbed by the gentle breeze.

The air is startled from your lungs when sharp knuckles suddenly prod at the base of your spine, and without any warning, one of the Horsemen – War, you presume by the force behind it – nudges you towards the warbling portal, almost bowling you over and sending you scrambling to get your legs underneath you before you can kiss the floor.

“Move out,” he barks at Strife, who falls into an easy gait at your side, grinning under his mask as his brother follows up the rear, using the back of his gauntlet to bully you forwards.

“Ready for another adventure, Doll?” Strife asks.

In sheer disbelief, you slam the heels of your shoes down and dig them in, hard, squeaking out a high-pitched, “Another?”

They can’t be serious… Already? They’re already leaping back into the fray after you all barely escaped the last place. And worse, they really seem to think they’ll be bringing you along for this suicide-mission as well.

The tiniest bubble of courage fizzes up from your stomach as you stumble to the edge of the portal, crowded there by an immoveable wall at your back and a reminder of your helplessness swaggering along at your side. You feel as if you’re swallowing past a razor blade as you peer down at the glassy surface, your breaths hitching in and out, in and out, faster and faster whilst the indecipherable glyphs begin to glow a dazzling, incandescent blue that burns your retinas.

Vision tunnelling, bleeding darkness from the edges, you try to breathe.

When the bubble reaches your tightening throat, it finally bursts, and out flies a rough, explosive shout.

“NO!” you clamour, spinning to the side in a whirl of dust and ashy skirts, putting your back to the portal and your beleaguered face to the Horsemen. Grabbing fistfuls of silk and tulle, you hoist your dress off the ground and take three, unsteady steps back, edging away from the glowing dais.

Your movements are only just quick enough that you catch sight of War’s eyes and mouth opening with unchecked bewilderment before his expression swiftly curls into a dangerous glare, fingers clenching into fists at his hips.

Intimidating to be sure, but you’ve had just about enough.

“If you think-!” you start, voice trembling so hard you have to gulp twice, feeling the eyes of four, otherworldly beings staring you down, “-for one second that I’m going back into some monster-infested pit with you two, you must be out of your minds!”

It’s as if the outburst has left them all gobsmacked, likely pondering over where something as small as you would find the audacity.

Strife, predictably, is the first to respond. Thumbs tucking under the leather of his gun belt, he lets his shoulders sag with a groan. “Come on, Doll, we’ve been over this. You have to come with us.”

“Whether you want to or not is completely irrelevant,” War throws in, his voice a solid thing that brooks no argument.

Brazen in the knowledge that they haven’t yet killed you – though not for lack of trying – you draw yourself up to your full, pitiful height, and ready a venomous retort on your tongue. “And risk getting eaten, or crushed, or boiled in lava again?” You toss your head back and bark out a sharp laugh before levelling Strife with a flat frown, “No offence, but I’d rather take my chances with Soul-Sucker over there.”

You jerk your chin towards Vulgrim, who’s hovering stiffly in place while the Horsemen turn their glares onto him. After a beat, he merely lifts his shoulders and offers a gangly shrug.

“You can leave her with me,” Dis suggests with an eagerness that puts War and Strife’s hackles up.

Gliding around the dais until she’s floating several metres to your right, she folds two of her arms behind her back, tucking the third under its twin’s elbow whilst the final hand cups her cheek as she meets your eye. “Y’know, I’ve never met a human. Never thought I’d get to, what with bein’ stuck in servitude to this bastard…” The last part, she mutters under her breath, tossing a disdainful look at Vulgrim before turning a much less hostile expression onto you. “Maybe I could-“

“-Yeah, no offence lady,” Strife interrupts, closing the distance between you with gradual steps, as if he’s trying not to spook you but wants to put himself nearer to you than Dis is, “But we know you even less than we know Vulgrim. So…”

“The human is coming with us,” War grinds through his teeth.

You don’t quite have the guts to say it out loud, so you fix the bottom of his chin with your most defiant glare and think at him, ‘Like Hell.’

Your balls of your feet are killing you. You’re fairly certain your heels are blistering already. The dress is uncomfortably heavy and already showing signs of wear around the hem. You’re sticky with sweat and you’re fairly certain you’ve ruined Delilah’s blusher from all the crying. At least the mascara is waterproof, you suppose bitterly, though you do feel the urge to rip the false lashes off and hurl them into the void.

All you want is five minutes alone, just to recuperate, to try and get your head around everything that’s happened and is still happening.

There’s menace in the Horseman’s forward-leaning stance, and the boot he stamps when he moves closer to you sends a tremor through the ground all the way to the soles of your comparatively tiny shoes. It’s a menacing enough display to glue your tongue to the roof of your mouth and keep you from retorting with something you’re likely to regret, yet not quite menacing enough to stop you from spinning sharply on your heel and falling into a purposeful stride, aiming for a set of stairs that leads down from Vulgrim’s plateau towards another island of floating rock, columns of basalt sprouting up around the steps.

Behind you, War’s face goes momentarily slack beneath his hood, then snaps tight again, one of his eyelids twitching every time your heels click on the stone underfoot.

“You-!” he starts, voice catching on incredulity, “Don’t you DARE turn your back on me!”

Realising you might have bitten off a little more than you can chew, you pull a face and jerk into a higher gear, all but scurrying down the stairs two at a time as a rush of frightened adrenaline sneaks up your spine, instinct hollering that you’ve turned your back to a predator – one of the worst things you could have done.

And War, for his part, certainly intends to chase you down, and would have done so with ease… were it not for his brother grasping him roughly by the shoulder and yanking him to a standstill.

“War! Easy, Bro!”

The younger Horseman spares the hand on his arm a murderous glare before he wrenches his shoulder free and half turns to address his brother, gesturing violently after the flash of a white veil retreating over the lip of the staircase. “She would turn her back on us?” he posits, eyes blazing hot as embers within the confines of his hood. He’s giving Strife a look that suggests he can’t fathom as to why his brother isn’t just as affronted as he is.

But all his fellow Horseman does is heave a bored sigh and say, “Yeah, yeah. Your pride and honour just took a hit. Look, she wasn’t snubbing you. Maybe– Ah. Hear me out!” he hurries as War’s mouth opens to argue. “- Maybe she was just runnin’ away from you. I mean, do you see yourself right now?”

Taken aback, War’s teeth snap together, and he actually does lower his chin to peer down at himself, brows still screwed together into a fierce, white line.

Aiming a pointed look at his brother’s clenched fists and the muscle jumping in his jaw, Strife adds, “Cause from where I’m standing, you look like you’re about to slice open her other arm.”

“Other arm?” Dis pipes up, clutching a hand to her chest and shooting the pair of them a perturbed glare, “No wonder the poor thing looked scared to death…”

Brushing the demoness’s remark aside, Strife claps his brother on the shoulder as he moves past him, stepping towards the staircase in your wake.

“Wait here, lemme go talk to her. She can’t have gotten far-“

He’s barely taken a second step when a massive blur of coppery scales zips into his path.

The Horseman pulls up short at once, teeth showing behind his helm as he cranes his neck back to look Dis in her viperous, yellow eye.

“Now, hold your horses!” she bites with a hint of amusement that only sharpens into a smirk at War’s indignant scoff at her joke, “That’s my emporium. Nothin’ down there but a dead-end.”

Narrowing his gaze, Strife immediately begins to size her up as he drawls, “And the reason you’re standin’ in my way is~…?”

Dis just glowers at him, unimpressed.

“I think you boys ought’a take a breather. And let that poor creature have one too.”

“We-” War heaves out through a gravelly snarl, “-do not have TIME to pander to her tantrums!”

“Look, Lucifer is a very busy demon. A couple of minutes isn’t gonna rob you of a headstart,” Dis argues.

As the Horseman goes to protest, she splays a hand out and begins to drift backwards down the steps, her wings beating incongruously with her graceful movement.

“You can all wait here,” she declares, flicking the tip of her tail as she sends a baleful look at Vulgrim, “I’ll go and talk to your little friend.”

“And who do you think you are to make demands of the Horsemen?” War challenges, marching to the top of the steps and glaring down at her.

It doesn’t escape Dis’s notice that his fearsome gaze travels beyond her, not just at her, no doubt searching for his missing charge.

Cute.

“Don’t get your armour in a twist, big fella,” she teases, only serving to make the vein in his neck bulge out even further, “I’m not about to try anythin’ with you all lurkin’ up here like a bunch’a Watchers. Just give me a few minutes…”

War’s steely expression doesn’t shift until Strife appears at his side, and the brothers toss each other a shrewd glance, reading the unspoken words that flit between them within the span of a second.

Swivelling his attention back to the demon – who has already reached the bottom of the stairs – War growls, “You would do well to remember, demon, that the Human is under our protection. If we find so much as a scratch on-“

“-Yes, fine. Feel free to cast me into Oblivion or run me through or… whatever it is you Horsemen do to demons for fun,” Dis sighs, only turning from him once she’s reached the final step, “Hell’s bells, you are wound up tighter than an Archon. You gotta learn to relax.”

“That’s what I keep telling him!” Strife blurts sulkily, earning a scathing sneer from his brother.

But Dis has already shifted her focus to the emporium behind her, growing curiouser and curiouser the more she turns this dazzling mystery over in her mind.

Pivoting around in the air, she waves a dismissive hand over her shoulder and leaves the Horsemen to wait on tenterhooks up above.

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

The spiral is back.

You can see it again, dark and dizzying, coiling down ahead of you just like it had when you realised you were getting married…

‘Whether you want to or not.’

War’s statement, so sure and unflinching, had plucked at a wound you’ve already picked raw.

Manicured nails carve shallow, red lines into your scalp as you blink dully across the room you’ve found yourself in.

This island isn’t as large as Vulgrim’s plateau, nor is it quite so open. Towering walls of basalt raise up around the edge in a loose circle, enclosing you into a space that could almost be cozy, at least compared to the rest of the Void. There isn’t a ceiling overhead, just endless mist and fog stretching upwards as far as the eye can see.

If you were pressed, you’d say the space reminds you of an old apothecary.

Standing in a corner furthest from the staircase is a colossal, bubbling cauldron – the kind you’d read about as a child with awe and fear, of witches and giants who use them to boil men alive. It’s filled almost to the brim with a liquid that spews out light the colour of dragon fruit… one of the sorbets the caterers were going to serve at your wedding…

… You hope they still get paid even if Cain has already called it off.

It’s behind the cauldron that you’ve stashed yourself, hidden in the shadow of rickety shelves laden with tombs and concoctions that line the walls above you.

In a latent burst of aggression borne of trying to keep a rein on your nervous energy, you’d kicked your heels off and flung them across the stone floor, staring at them where they’ve landed – at the leg of a massive stone table pushed against a wall on the other side of the rocky island, its surface cluttered with wax candles whose flames are eerily still, and very, very purple.

Just another thing to remind you of how wrong it all is. This whole godforsaken mess.

With your bare feet tucked up underneath the hem of your dress and your legs drawn up to your chest, you slouch against the cold wall behind you, chin pressed hard to your knees as you sling your arms around them, as if you’re physically trying to hold yourself together.

You can hear voices; the demon’s, and War’s furious bellows. But the echo of the Void has garbled the sounds by the time they reach you, spreading them thin until their words are indistinguishable from one another.

Perhaps if you weren’t such a fainthearted coward, you’d have stayed to argue your case to the Horsemen… But that’s a preposterous notion.

You wouldn’t stand up to Cain or his sister, nor your own mother…

Who the Hell are you kidding?

Still, in hindsight, you’d much rather be facing all three of them now if it would spare you from being trapped here in this terrible place.

You’d take being torn down by Delilah for the state you’ve left the dress in. You’d take the harsh curve of your mother’s painted lips as she expresses how disappointed she is that you couldn’t follow through with the best thing that will ever happened to you. You’d even take Cain and his loveless, grasping touches and bored indifference and the stale silences between you both if you could just get out of here.

You’re so lost in your own misery that you don’t notice how quiet it is, only that the tinnitus in your ears is singing like a claxon and there’s a pressure in your skull that tightens every second, like you’ve got your head stuck in an ever-closing vice.

Sniffling pitiably, you bury your face in your hands and let out a small, croaking sob. “I’m sorry…”

You don’t rightly know if there is a Power out there that would or could listen to your silent prayers. But after finding out that angels, demons, and apocalyptic Horsemen are real, you’re beginning to think that anything might be possible.

So, what’s the harm in trying?

“I’m sorry!” you hiccough again.

You’re sorry for being selfish when everyone around you was so, so happy for your union with Cain. You’re sorry for tempting fate by wishing that some disaster would strike before the wedding day so you could get out of it without having to confess how you really felt about the whole thing. You’re sorry for refusing to meet your father’s eye in that hospital bed and, fuck, you’re sorry he’ll never get to see his daughter walk down the aisle…

You won’t do it again… You’ll do better. You’ll be better. You swear. If someone out there can hear you, you’ll never be ungrateful again, just…

“I want to go home,” you breathe wetly to the impassive aether, fingers pressing into your eyelids and pushing out bursts of starlight, “I just want to go home.”

Someone clears their throat.

Your heart seizes in a panic and you whip your head up, instinctively shuffling further into the notch between the wall and the cauldron and hunching in on yourself in an attempt to seem as small as possible.

You ought to have known it would be a pointless effort.

A large, pudgy hand tipped with claws has clasped the lip of the cauldron, and with all the breath caught in your lungs, you’re helpless except to watch as the new demon – Dis? - gradually levers herself into view, sweeping her head and horns down until you’re locked in her sights.

The demon dwarfs you entirely, a scantily-armoured column of scales and brawn that’s lowering herself onto one knee in front of the cauldron and pressing her lips together, hiding her fangs behind them.

She hunkers down in a way that leaves several inches of space on your right, not quite caging you in, not completely, and she’s deliberate as she displays all four of her hands for you to see, like she’s showing you that there are no weapons or threats held in any of them.

“Hey, little cloud,” she murmurs softly, casting her eye down at your poufy dress, “S’only me.”

‘Only me,’ she says, as if you aren’t trying to flatten yourself to the wall behind you, no longer as confident to face her without one of the Horsemen nearby… You wonder if that makes you a hypocrite.

“Don’t!” you blurt with more bite than you really possess when her body tips forwards, closing an inch of space between you. 

To your shock, Dis falls obligingly still, even going so far as to ease her weight backwards again, out of your immediate vicinity.

“Steady there,” she smiles as though she’s attempting to calm a spooked animal. God, you can’t even find it in yourself to blame her for that. You must certainly look the part of a cornered beast, all wild in the eye and twitching at the colossal demon’s every move.

Observing you quietly for a moment, she lets out a hum, turning her neck to scrutinise you from under pensive eyelids. “I’m guessin’ Vulgrim gave you a bad impression of demons, huh?”

You give her a wary once-over before remarking bitterly, “I’ve met a few more since him…”

“Right,” she says, hissing air in through her fangs and pretending she doesn’t notice you flinch at the sight of them, “The Slag Pit.”

When you just arch your brows at her, she chuckles and explains, “The dungeon where you found me? I knew I recognised your voice.”

At that, your brows crawl into a plaintive frown. “My… voice?” you whisper.

“Oh yeah, I could hear you soon as you grabbed me from the cage that son of a bitch Jailor stuck me in,” she begins, forgetting herself for a second and snarling out the end of her sentence before she catches sight of your pallor. Blinking widely, she clears her throat and lets an easy smile soften her cragged features. “I guess I owe you for that one, huh?” she adds, lowering her voice to mutter under her breath, “Even if it did land me back here with Vulgrim…”

You swallow an audible gulp, prompting her to huff out a sigh.

“No hard feelings though. Look. Us demons? We’re not all bad.” This, she tells you with a wink, using one of her four hands to gesture up and down at herself indicatively. “I managed to convince your boys to give you a little space for a while. You looked like you needed it. Badly.”

You almost want to argue that they are absolutely, categorically not your ‘boys.’ Yet as her words sink in, it dawns on you that you’d be arguing with the first and only person in this place who has, of her own volition, given you room to breathe.

True to her word, you don’t see either of the brothers lingering nearby upon leaning forwards slightly to peek around the side of the cauldron, blowing out a shaky breath.

Tears start to gather on your lashes in earnest as you blink up at her, blurring her features so you miss the look of shock and dismay that curls her expression back into uncertainty.

“Sorry,” you croak, which would have been astonishing enough for her even if you hadn’t tacked on a soft, “Thanks,” as well.

She resists the urge to ask you what in the Nine Circles is happening to your eyes, smart enough to comprehend that it must be something to do with that famous human nature she’s heard about in vague whispers and rumours filtered through Vulgrim’s mouth from unseen sources

Besides, she’s slightly more focused on what you’d said to her with the same equanimity that you’d ask about the weather.

Sorry? Thanks? Oh, you definitely don’t belong here.

Finding yourself once again under her scrutiny, you start to fidget, scratching idly at your arm for a moment before returning your fingers to your face and flicking away a few more droplets. Dis, for her part, allows her eyes to drop to the spot you’d been fussing at, and that’s when she registers the long scar stretching across paper-thin skin.

It looks like it had gone deep, bitten by a hungry blade with a jagged edge designed to do the maximum amount of damage. There’s a slight discolouration to the skin surrounding your scar as well, a tinge of green that carries the lingering scent of seared flesh. Both tell-tale signs of a healing potion's quick fix.

‘Other arm...’ The Horseman’s words drift to the forefront of her mind.

Taking the rest of you in - the streaks of rouge drying on your cheeks, the pretty but ineffective pink claws on the ends of your fingers, and the absolute devastation stitching lines across your unassuming little face – Dis lets her amazement slip aside to make room for concern.

Concern, and a foreign curl of gratitude.

“Two words I don’t hear nearly enough,” she answers at last, studying you for a moment with her head cocked to one side, “You really are far from home, aren’t you?”

Delicate fingers sweep beneath your glimmering eyes as you clear away some of the water leaking out of them, blubbing a wet, humourless scoff. “So I’m told.”

Dis’s gaze flits to your fingers when something flashes under the sombre light, catching her keen eye. A ring, she notes with mild interest. A thin band of solid gold, encrusted at the top with a big, lovely gemstone, clear as Heaven’s skies.

Tearing her eyes away and returning them to your face – equally lovely, she decides at length – she asks, “Is that why you’re with the Horsemen? Are they helping you get back?”

Not exactly the kind of venture she’d expect two of the dreaded Four to embark upon, but stranger things have happened. Like a human turning up in the Void, for instance.

“I don’t know…” you whisper honestly, “They said… they’ll keep me alive until the end of their ‘mission,’ but… I have no idea when that is. Or if I’ll even survive to see it! If what happened in the… the Slag Pit is just a taste of what’s to come, I’ll more than likely die before I ever see Earth again!”

“But if you do survive…” she presses, trying to stay ahead of your rising panic, “What happens after the mission?”

Hiccoughing, you furrow your eyebrows, thinking back. “I… Th-they mentioned something about a council?”

“The Charred Council,” she huffs, snapping her wings together with a crack of leathery skin, displeased.

“Well,” you sniff, watching her carefully for any further signs of malcontent, “Whoever they are, they’re the only ones who might be able to help me get home.”

“Hmm… They are the authority on what happens around Earth,” she muses, leaning back to sit on her heels, “Not a bad idea. If they’re inclined to help.”

“It’s not like I have much of a choice, is it…”

… If you’re bothered by how much staring she’s doing, you’re at least polite enough not to mention it, which she takes as assent.

Because if there’s one thing about being tricked into Vulgrim’s service that she loathes more than the merchant himself, it’s the inescapable, mind-numbing boredom. One of the unspoken terms that came with their ‘deal.’

So, Dis stares at the little human huddled in her emporium, wearing a face and a manner that are so incongruous with what she’s heard about the species, she might have assumed you were something entirely new altogether if it weren’t for the Horseman’s remarks. And if it weren’t for the ravenous looks she caught Vulgrim sending your way when he thought the Riders weren’t paying attention.

It’s no secret that he’s been itching to get his hands on a fresh, human soul ever since they made their debut on the Universe’s eclectic stage.

Dis knows for a fact that if it weren’t for the Horsemen, she wouldn’t be having this conversation with you right now.

This fascinating, confusing, scintillating conversation. With someone who isn’t Vulgrim. Someone who isn’t here solely to enquire about her wares.

Belatedly, Dis realises that it isn’t just the Horsemen her ‘master’ will have to contend with if he decides he isn’t waiting for permission to nab your soul.

If he thinks he’s about to rob Dis of the most interesting thing that’s happened around here in… Shit, centuries - then he’s got another thing coming. Now the Horsemen, on the other hand… If they say you’re going with them, she’s not about to sacrifice her own neck just to stay entertained.

She’s curious, not suicidal.

She’s also still staring at you - and now, judging by the hard, wary line of fur above your eyes, she isn’t doing it as passively as she was before.

There’s movement on the stony steps leading down to her abode.

Dis blinks, sharply twisting her head to glance at something over her shoulder before pushing a sigh through pursed lips, tutting softly.

Impatient, aren’t you boys?

Well, she bought you a little time and satisfied her own curiosity for the moment. Perhaps she can find it in her charitable nature to spare a bit of reassurance for the human who is quite literally about to go through Hell.

“You know,” she starts slowly, swivelling to face you once again, “I don’t know all that much about the Horsemen, but… there is one thing everybody knows.”

Hesitantly peeling your eyes off the ground, you lose the battle with intrigue and hedge, “… What’s that?”

In response, she dips her voice into a low, sultry cadence, leaning towards you conspiratorially. “They’re the ones the Council sends to get a job done. They’ve come back from every problem they’ve been pointed at. Never failed a mission.”

Trying not to make it too obvious that you’re leaning away from her, you crinkle your eyebrows and offer her a tiny shrug. “So?”

“So,” she stresses, “If they told you they’re gonna protect you… I’d be inclined to believe ‘em.”

You don’t respond with words, but she doesn’t miss how you bring a hand up to clasp it over the scar on your forearm, biting down on your lower lip and averting your gaze to the floor by her knees.

Yeah, she supposes, that probably would make it hard for any seeds of trust to take root.

The sound of metal boots on stone begins echoing around the chamber, and in a flash, your head shoots up, alert and on edge as you register the footsteps clomping towards you.

… Two sets…

Exhaling a quiet breath, you shrink into yourself once more, head ducked as you anxiously begin gathering the hem of your dress up and hugging it to your legs, as if the Horsemen aren’t already aware of your location and might have spotted the dusty fabric poking out from behind the cauldron.

Dis ‘tsks’ at you softly as you retreat and lower your head, blinking tearfully at the stone between you.

“That’s as long as you could handle, huh?” she sighs, loudly enough that you know she isn’t talking to you.

“What can I say?” comes Strife’s voice as he saunters into view, “War was gettin’ antsy.”

Tutting under her breath, Dis nonetheless drifts all the way to the table on the opposite side of the room, allowing the Horseman ample space to put himself in between you and your unexpected, newfound ally.

You almost mourn the loss of her bulk; It would have kept you hidden from view.

As was always inevitable though, Strife’s gaze finds you without so much a sniff of effort, and something in his stance unwinds when he sees you sitting there behind the cauldron.

“You okay?” is the first thing he asks, without tacking on a nickname for once. You imagine he must be thinking you might bolt again at the mere sight of him.

‘No?’ you want to scoff in response, ‘Not in the least?’ Stomach clenching, tremors sporadically jostling your legs, you feel as if you’re holding a complete and utter mental breakdown back by the skin of your teeth. And yet, begrudgingly, you can’t deny that some of what Dis said must have punched through your terror, because your heart beats just a little more calmly when War appears next to his brother, slowing to a halt once he spots you.

The ever-present scowl is still there, and you brace yourself to withstand a surge of repugnance that he’s sure to toss your way at any moment.

But… that moment never comes. Set in the same, stony glare he’s been wearing since you first encountered him, War’s eyes are instead busy raking over your face, then down to the arms you’ve curled around your knees, like he’s proving to himself that you’re still in one piece.

At his side, Strife seems to be doing something similar, his eyes bright with a complicated emotion you couldn’t hope to parse.

You realise with a start that they’re waiting for a response.

“I’m not okay,” you huff bitterly, observing War as he clenches his fist before you hesitantly add, “But I’m better than I was five minutes ago… I think.”

And only then, almost as abruptly as it began, the scrutiny comes to a stop. As soon as he has your answer, the stern rigidity of War’s expression fractures. It’s a hairline crack, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

Your brows lift slightly as Strife ventures up to you and reaches out a metal-clad hand.

 At once, your posture stiffens, darting a wary glance between the Horseman and his encroaching appendage.

To his credit, he must have actually noticed your reaction because he stops in his tracks, blinks at you for a few seconds with a tilt of his helm, then turns his palm towards the sky and gives his fingers an encouraging twitch.

It’s… surprisingly considerate of the Horseman who’d shown no qualms about hoisting you over his shoulder not too long ago. An indignity you’d prefer to avoid a repeat of.

So, put out by the realisation that there’ll be no running from this, you swallow your disdain and bridge the gap. 

Strife does his best not to grin like a triumphant fool when your fingertips slowly close over the side of his palm, and he in turn takes his own time curling his hand around yours, swallowing it along with much of your wrist. For several moments, he doesn’t do anything with it, simply stares down at the connection between his hand and yours.

Creator, he thinks to himself, not for the first time, why’d You go and make ‘em so small?

“Brother!”

 Whoops.

Shaking himself from his musing, Strife pulls you to your feet with staggeringly little effort, eliciting a gasp of surprise at the suddenness of it. “Just makin’ sure she was ready,” he covers smoothly.

The sarcasm in your voice is as evident as the disdain on your face when you tug your hand from his and scoff, “Much obliged.”

“Are you?”

“What? Obliged?”

“No, are you ready?” he clarifies.

“Oh.” You blink, pretending to give it some serious thought. “No. No, not even remotely.”

Strife just snorts. “Ah come on. You took on a Slag Demon and survived. Don’t sell yourself short,” he says, tilting his helm at you appraisingly, “Well. Shorter… Did you shrink?”

Right. Your shoes.

“Might’ve shed about four inches,” you sigh, nodding towards Dis who has already scooped your heels off the ground to inspect them, each one utterly insignificant in her hands as she twists them this way and that with a critical squint.

The Horsemen follow your gaze, but it’s only War who stalks up to the demon and thrusts his gauntlet out towards her, a silent yet fearsome demand hovering around the edges of his expression.

Dis just rolls her eyes skyward before cocking a hip and dropping your shoes into his waiting palm, and you have to bite your tongue to refrain from telling them both to be careful with the precious things you'd tossed away from you so callously. You're already starting to regret your haste in that. 

Wordlessly, the Horseman approaches and holds the shoes out, waiting for you to take them.

Chewing on your lower lip, you take a brief moment to wonder why he hadn’t simply dropped them at your feet before you remind yourself not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and hesitantly grab them from him, keeping your eyes glued on his armoured fingers rather than risk glimpsing his face.

“Thanks,” you mumble automatically, bending over to set your heels on the ground and grabbing the side of the cauldron for support.

With one hand lifting the hem of your dress, you try to peer past all the folds and ruffles to see where you’re putting your feet, though after several seconds of knocking the shoes over and getting increasingly frustrated with yourself and your audience of onlookers, you’re about to give up and say you’ll just go barefoot when all of a sudden, War blows out a huff of irritation and steps forwards.

You glance up at him for all of a second before letting out a startled yip at the wholly unexpected feeling of massive hands grasping you by the hips and hoisting you up into the air.

Three things happen at once.

Strife seems to physically balk, shoulders collapsing as he gawps at his brother like he’s grown an extra head.

Dis’s eyes flare with unabashed intrigue and her lips curve up into a devilish smile.

And you’re lifted as though you weigh no more than a feather onto the same shelf you’d been hiding beneath prior, slotted in amongst several glass bottles that clink and rattle worryingly when your backside slips between them.

Heart pounding against the front of your sternum, you can do nothing but watch on in shock as you’re unceremoniously shelved by the Horseman, who draws his hands from your sides without a sound and wastes little time bending to snag your heels from the ground, straightening up again with the comically tiny shoes in his grasp.

It occurs to you then that the shelf brings you just a little below eye-level with the armoured titan.

You nearly jump out of your skin and off the shelf when the jagged, warm metal of War’s gauntlet burrows underneath the lacy folds of your dress, hiking them up over his wrist as he wraps his fingers around your ankle and tugs your leg up, sending your spine crashing backwards into the wall behind you.

Far beyond words at this point, you throw Strife a wide-eyed stare over War’s shoulder, yet he seems just as lost as you are.

A metal palm slides up and away from your heel to the back of your calf, cupping it firmly to keep you still as War manoeuvres your foot into the first shoe. And then he lets go, leaving you blinking gormlessly at him for several moments whilst you try to wrap your head around the downright considerate gesture.

There’s a jarring tap on your other foot, and you mindlessly lower your first leg and raise the other one, letting him repeat the process without complaint.

Should you… say something?

Nobody else has.

… You should probably say something, if for no other reason than to shatter the unbelievably awkward silence that’s descended between the four of you.

“Um…” you start, stuck for anything more poignant to say except for a bewildered, “Thank you?”

Slipping the second shoe over your toes and working it onto your heel with his palm, War’s eyes simply flick up at you for a moment to glower with an impatient flare of his nostrils.

His hands are on your sides again before you can protest, and you try very hard not to suck in a breath when he pulls you from the shelf and plops you back on your feet, stepping away to give you room to find your balance.

You blink, first at him, then at Strife around his side, then finally at Dis, who couldn’t look more outwardly amused by the entire fiasco if she tried.

“There. We have afforded you a reprieve,” War reminds you sternly, drawing your eye back to him and deliberately bulldozing past the unspoken question everyone seems to be aiming his way, “Now, if you are quite ready, the Inferno Vault awaits… I trust there will be no further setbacks?”

Startled, you work your jaw open and shut several times over, perplexed as to whether you’re supposed to be affronted by the manhandling, touched by the gesture, or grateful for the assistance.

It’s solely due to the bug-eyed look on Strife’s face that you realise you’re not the only one who was just caught wildly off guard.

But as War’s expression dips into an impossibly angrier squint, you seal your lips shut and decide that if he isn’t going to give it any attention, then neither are you.

Besides, the recollection of how brutally he’d dealt with the demonic imps is a reminder of how thin the thread of his patience is, and there’s a tentative part of you whispering that if you do something to tip him over, you’ll be in the line of fire, receiving that same, savage treatment.

So, anxiously wetting your lips, you try to lift your face into something that’s even remotely optimistic and give a nervous laugh. “I mean, the sooner we leave, the sooner it’s done, right?”

Regarding you from under the shadow of his hood, War exhales once through his nostrils. “That might be the wisest thing I’ve heard you say yet.”

Softly, you release the breath you’d been holding behind clenched teeth, exhaling it shakily as War turns and begins leading the way towards the staircase.

The moment you start to follow, you wince at the familiar pinch on the balls of your feet, but you muscle it down as best you can, traipsing unenthusiastically after the larger Horseman. “Right,” you swallow thickly, “Well don’t hold your breath for any more nuggets of wisdom. It’s taking everything I have just to stay upright.”

“I can always carry you,” Strife suggests from behind, just a little too readily.

The vivid memory of what happened last time he had you in his grasp springs to mind, and a cold chill creeps up the nape of your neck. “Uh. I’m okay,” you tell him over your shoulder, “Thanks though.”

Sticking out his chest, all too pleased with himself for having earned your gratitude, Strife lifts his shoulders in a casual shrug and says, “Suit yourself. Offer’s open if you change your mind.”

War has paused to wait for you at the foot of the steps, and as you reach him, Strife takes the opportunity to insert himself between you both, bumping deliberately into War to earn a grumble of irritation before the larger Horseman shuffles sideways, granting him the space he’d so rudely encroached upon.

Together, you start the dreaded climb back up towards the Serpent Hole, away from Dis’s relatively peaceful Emporium.

On the third step, you finally acknowledge the prickling on the back of your neck and twist around to see that the demon’s jaundiced eyes are fixed in your direction, pensive as she watches you leave.

Suddenly, you’re struck by the habitual urge to turn and offer her a timid wave. “Bye, Dis.”

She seems to brighten at the consideration, floating several inches higher into the air and cupping a hand around her mouth to call, “See you around, Funsize!” Then, in a far less chipper tone, she barks, “You bring her back in one piece, boys!”

“Why?” Strife replies, turning around and taking the stairs backwards, “Do you only pay full price for the whole human?”

Giving an affronted gasp, you jab an elbow near his side, not quite brave enough to make contact, yet on Strife’s other flank, War does exactly the same, and he isn’t as reticent about jostling his older brother as you are.

“Uff!” Strife wheezes, doubling over as the solid metal near the apex of War’s gauntlet jabs him roughly in his ribcage. “What?!” Sidling away from his brother and invading your space on the stairs instead, his helm darts back and forth as he shoots several glances between the pair of you. “I was kidding!”

Replying in War’s stead, you say, “Do I look like I’m laughing?”

Blocked from view by his brother, you nonetheless hear the larger Horseman let out a quiet snort, probably as close to showing amusement as he’s liable to get.

Strife remains stubbornly silent for the rest of the climb, peering down at you whilst you focus on not tripping over the hem of your dress.

At long last, your troop reaches the top, and Vulgrim’s Serpent Hole comes shining back into view, a patient presence that continues to swirl and murmur as if it’s been waiting for your inevitable return.

The demon himself however, to both your relief and apprehension, is nowhere to be seen.

Then…

“… You laughed at my knock-knock joke,” Strife utters.

Like a living, breathing mountain, War’s chest rises and falls with an almighty exhale. You nearly have to smile at that. It seems these two consistently prove that the universal rule of siblings bothering the Hell out of each other isn’t just constrained to humans after all.

“Your knock-knock joke was funny,” you tell Strife honestly.

Rather than argue, the Horseman falls behind a step or two, staring at you in astonishment. “Wait,” he says, and gone is the jocular lilt in his voice, “You really thought it was funny?”

Trailing to a stop with your toes almost touching the edge of the portal’s light, you tilt around to face him, and his razor-sharp eyes immediately catalogue the tiniest twitch of your lips, only in one corner, but tilting in the right direction. He zeroes in on it, memorising it like he’s being shown a work of art.

“I laughed, didn’t I?” you shrug.

For as difficult as a mask should be to read, Strife’s expression bleeds through with shocking clarity. Gilded eyes spring open wide before they start to curve up from the bottom, and through the sockets, you can just make out the dark skin wrinkling around them as his cheeks lift with the stretch of his grin.

Exasperated… but admittedly a little amused, you find yourself letting go of the restraints around your own smile and hike up one corner of your mouth.

It only seems like second nature, you suppose, to smile at someone who smiled at you first…

Watching the pair of you with his lips curled into a disapproving scowl, War exhales like an aggrieved bull, hauling his eyes to the void above as he gives his hooded head a shake.

Then, without waiting for Strife to regain his composure, he raises a gauntlet and shoves it right into the centre of his fellow Horseman’s back, thrusting the star-struck idiot forwards and on to the portal’s surface.

He’s gone in a flash long before he can turn to shout any objections, though War has no doubt he’ll be hearing them after he arrives in tow.

The tiniest sound peeps out of the human at his side, and he turns to peer down his nose at you, a snowy brow sliding up towards the line of his hood.

He catches your mirthful smile before you can cover it with a hand, though it doesn’t take long for you to realise you’re being watched. Your eyes shift to give War a sidelong glance, and the moment you find his gaze on you, your smile evaporates like water off a maker’s forge.

Averting your attention to the portal ahead, you clear your throat and utter, “That wasn’t very nice.”

Whether you’re admonishing him for what he’d done to Strife, or yourself for finding amusement in it, War is hard pressed to say, preoccupied with mulling over the fact that his actions had made you laugh. That’s decidedly Strife’s area of expertise.

Brushing the unusual interaction aside to be forgotten, War simply extends his gauntlet out and gestures for you to step on the portal ahead of him, jerking his chin at it for good measure.

Eying him cautiously, you ask, “What? Not gonna throw me over your shoulder and march me to my doom again?”

He misses the sarcasm entirely, giving you a puzzled frown. “There is no need. You are already here,” he states simply, “All you have to do is step onto the portal.”

For a few breaths, you don’t move at all, choosing instead to stare with a troubled grimace into the swirling, blue light.  

War shifts at your side. “If you continue to hesitate, however-“

“-Can I just ask,” you blurt over him, hands curling into fists at your sides and praying he won’t accuse you of stalling, “Why are you so adamant about me coming with you? Surely I’d just slow you down?”

It’s a long shot, and you know it.

And War doesn’t take the bait at all. Probably doesn’t even notice it bobbing there in front of him.

“You will undoubtedly slow us down,” he responds bluntly.

Which… okay, you asked but… ouch?

He isn’t finished though. “But there are questions that need answering. Questions pertaining to you.” Here, he trails off and studies you from the corner of his eye, chin raised in thought. “You need to be alive if we’re to find the answers we seek. And if we leave you here, you have as much chance of falling prey to a demon’s greed as you do out there-“ Gesturing towards the portal, he adds, “At least if you’re travelling with us, my brother and I can watch your back.”

Humming a note of bitterness, you cast your eye glumly to the hilt of the sword sticking out from behind his shoulder. “Watch it get stabbed, you mean.”

The Horseman positively bristles at your remark, as if he’s affronted that you’d call his word into question.

Curling his lip, he thumps a fist solidly against his chest, letting you hear the strength behind that one, meaningful gesture as it clangs loudly in the open space. “Upon my honour, no demon will touch you again,” he growls with such conviction that the mark under his hood seems to glow twice as hot, “Not without getting through me first.”

It could almost be misconstrued for a selfless sentiment if it didn’t come out of War’s mouth. You’re under no illusions that the only reason you’re still standing here is because he wants information about you; namely how you came to be here, how you can speak the same language, who – if anyone – sent you through that Serpent Hole in the first place.

All questions you yourself would like the answers to.

You know he can’t guarantee you’ll be safe, not after what you’ve already been through, and yet he sounds so damnably sure, you can’t help the part of you that wants to believe him.

That come Hell or high water, he’ll see you through this to the end.

“Well,” you sigh, raising one foot into the air and swinging it out over the waiting portal, for the first time of your own volition – a true leap of faith. “Guess I’ll believe it when I see it.”

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You can read the rest here! x

Ch6

Ch5

Ch4

Ch3

Ch2