#darksiders lilith

She visited often in the early days. The mother of monsters, Mistress of all Masters -a title she was much more earning of at that time- would find the time between her paramours and plots to grace her greatest creations with her presence, and it would always cause quite the stir. But such was her influence, and she made no effort to hide how much she played into it, even when around her proclaimed “children.”

On occasion she’d take her time, linger and mingle with whoever would pay her the attention she felt she deserved. But on days she had a schedule to stick to, she’d make a beeline for the worktent without so much as a look towards the others. Worst were the days she wouldn’t even cross the ground of the settlement, simply apparate herself inside as if she owned the place; at least the commotion of pining outside forewarned her imminent entrance. She took such special interest in Death’s visceral endeavours even if her aura of want would completely derail the flow of work, always so eager to see the state of his current projects. Sometimes she’d whisk them away, something about wanting to personally oversee their development… not a single one ever came back. As much as he hated to admit it -both back then and especially now- the Hound would also fall victim to Lilith’s toxic charm whenever she graced the world with her presence. Want and desire exuded from her like heat from fire, her provocative attire leaving rather little to the imagination. But it wasn’t about wanting her carnally, though the thought certainly crossed the minds of those who witnessed her majesty; rather, above all it was a desire for her to want you, to acknowledge you. The Hound -just like the other projects- would find his hands shaking from the desire that she would even look at him, that a woman so far above would grace him -some lowly worm so far below her- with the most fleeting downward glance. It was a wretched feeling, to have her power so easily twist and warp his own thoughts, how it would make him lose ownership over his own mind. He fought a fearsome battle to keep control of his body when Lilith was around, as if she were a hunger for whom he’d been starved his entire existence. The sheer amount of effort it took to not throw himself at her feet, groveling, proclaiming her his dark and magnificent goddess; it was both agonizing and exhausting. Hell, had she so much as hinted that to be her desire, the Hound couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t slit his own throat that she may drink of his blood. A wretched and sickening feeling.

Despite everything that still held a pulse wishing, pleading, begging to be subject of her attention -from the Nephilim outside to the dying faceless viscera strewn on the discard table- Lilith only consistently afforded her priceless attention to one. And from what the Hound could recall, even in the earliest days, Death certainly did not seem to want it.

For all the unnatural charm she oozed and precious attention she doted to him, Death always seemed tenser with her around. The man hardly talked to those below him to begin with -hardly ever showed his assistants much regard even when he had his fingers deep in their innards, mere materials to test his theories- but the Hound felt the wall around him expand nearly tenfold the second her sickeningly putrid-sweet scent of sulfur hinted in the air. It’s not something he really thought to notice, perhaps the extensive amount of time he spent on Death’s table under his silent yet undivided focus -a cell under a microscope, being perceived bare, exposed, vulnerable- gave the Hound the impression he could glimpse back.

Once, Death was in the middle of replacing the Hound’s original left eye when the smell of Lilith tainted the air, and whatever organ the Nephilim initially planned to rehome in the man’s empty socket burst like a grape under a hydraulic press, so suddenly did Death’s entire body tense. The Hound was made to lay there, half blind and with an optic nerve stinging as it stayed exposed to air, until Death returned the next morning. Usually he wouldn’t be back to his affairs for at least a day; even on visits where he wouldn’t leave with her, Death would dismiss everyone and cease any work for a full day’s time. Doubtful he had come back for the man still strapped to his table, simply that he happened to be in the one room Death could trust Lilith not to enter. He said nothing, hardly even acknowledging he left the man strapped down with an open wound and missing an eye, but the way he sat there was… haunting.

The Hound half wondered then if he should have spoken up, asked what was wrong or if he needed to talk, but how could he have possibly helped when the Nephilim sat beside him with hollow eyes, their light burning an absent fire as if robbed of his own ghost.

Eventually Death broke out of his statuesque trance and finished what he’d started, returning the Hound’s full vision before wordlessly dismissing him. The Hound did not ask why the smell of sulfur clung to his pallid skin, nor did he speak when Death flinched away from his awkwardly offered touch.

At a much later time, as the number of Nephilim grew and there started to be distinction between Firstborn and later generations, Death had once again called for the Hound to take to the table, something he’d been doing more and more often. The Hound had actually managed to steal a chuckle from the Firstborn at a glib remark he let slip, the routine of it all beginning to feel comically mundane. The speed at which his demeanour then changed was entirely inhuman.

“Did I miss anything fun?” Her sultry hum pierced the air like a gunshot, the waft of Hell’s sulfur mixed with her indiscernible perfume filling the space like an encircling pack of wolves, cornering them both at the room’s centre. Death preferred to be alone when doing his more invasive operations, and so the space he’d do them in had always been off to the side from the rest of the worktent. No matter how the setup changed as they relocated, Death always had his private theatre, and she never entered it. There was no formal agreement in place, it would have been a strange stipulation to impose, but it had just been a fact that Lilith never came to this room.

“Why are you here?” Death’s voice was hoarse, barely audible, almost as if he feared being heard. But… this was Death, usually so cold and unbothered. What in Creation could he have to fear?

“Well I looked for you in the rest of your little workshop, dear.” The Hound felt it as did the Reaper, the way her influence crept forward and washed over them like a tidal wave as she approached with each step, heeled boots somehow still sounding an ominous click against the soft dirt ground. The Hound didn’t even have her in his sights yet when the aura of control enshrouded like water up to his neck, he could barely keep his head above the choking thickness of it. Death merely refused to turn around.

“You were nowhere around, so I figured you’d be hiding from me in your little, aha… personal space~”

Her mocking lilt rolled from her poisonous lips, coating those last words as if a child overfrosting a cupcake; far, far too sweet to be anything but unhealthy. Death whipped around as her fingers raised to brush his arm, shoulders drawing back to make himself look bigger, more intimidating. The Hound’s head was swimming as he caught her face, unable to look away yet almost repulsed from staring at her for too long; as if he knew himself unworthy to look upon the Mother of Monsters but far too entranced to care. She had eyes only for the Reaper, who wanted to recoil every second he was held in her gaze.

“That’s not what I meant.” Death forced the words out too harshly, the Hound’s own voice in his head criticized; it was hardly the tone to take with such a woman worthy of worship.

“Why are you visiting now?”

Her laugh could melt stone and freeze over the Hells. Light and airy, but thick and choked like something caught in her throat. She places a hand to her bosom in innocent reproach… how soft would it feel to have your head lie there rather than her hand? While the Hound found it harder to focus the longer she stood in the room, she seemed to have less draw than usual. Perhaps it had to do with Death also standing in the picture; where she held herself at ease and comfort as if walking through air made of silk, the Nephilim was rigid, turned to bedrock, more real than the ground below him.

“I missed you. And I was just so busy last time I dropped by, you didn’t get to show me all you’ve been working on~”

She raised a hand to her crown of horns as if fixing her hair, eyes dancing oh so slowly down Death’s body, hungry. The Firstborn held too much self control to shudder, and thankfully she quit her pervasive trailing to look behind him… to the Hound. The moment her emerald eyes locked with his he felt petrified. If her influence was powerful before, now he was drowning in it. She was upon him before he knew it, bathing him in her shadow, close enough he could make out the pores in her lavender skin.

“And would you just look at this,” her purr throbbed in his head, a migraine mixed with the feeling of being hammered, teetering on blackout drunk.

“So much farther along than past projects. You’ve been honing your skills, my child. And oh, such an interesting specimen! I haven’t toyed with one of these yet~”

He felt so alone in the reflection of her eyes, the only thing in existence held in her gaze. Yes, he was a thing; a new and shiny toy for her to break. He came close to wanting her to, when Death’s voice somehow shone enough of a light through the fog to keep him from becoming completely lost.

“I’m not done with him.” His growl rumbled the air, a soothing drumming against her deafening thunder. Somehow the Hound was able to tear his eyes off the Demoness to look to the Nephilim, catching a birthing ire in his eyes. He should’ve felt afraid, Death’s anger was not something to deal with lightly. But in this moment it was his life raft, somehow bringing him back above water. For some inexplicable reason, Death stood as a lighthouse in a tempest, despite usually being the monsoon. Lilith clearly had no mind to pay to him that moment, dragging the Hound’s face back towards her with a clutch of his jawline. She turned it over in her hand, claws pinching against his skin, looking him all over for the smallest flaws and marks. Back in her eyes he felt the siren’s magic call for him again, luring him back to dark depths by a gentle pull of the leash she wove around his soul. He couldn’t move but at least now he could think. Maybe he could look away, or at least try. His eyes kept coming back to her smiling face.

“Your methods are still slow, primitive. You’re too soft, Death.” The way she pondered to herself how she would rip him apart and remake him were legible in her eyes, dancing horrible imagery of what she might’ve done to the other “projects” she took home. Her lightning smile widened, cold, serrated teeth peeking from her lips. There was that hunger again.

“If you’re good I might return it when I’m done… if it survives of course—”

“No.”

The Hound caught the very moment her softness turned cruel, and it terrified him. Her smile deformed to a snarl, the purr of her breathing now a hissing steam that perched untold curses at the very edge of her dark wine lips. If before she appeared a divine sin, in that fraction of a second before she turned away he saw the worst that Hell could offer, tenfold. The way her hand gripped his face threatened to pull out his skull, her claws nearly so sunk into his skin he couldn’t be sure they hadn’t punctured. Whatever dream haze fogged his mind turned to frost, and he felt fear freeze him still. Lilith glared to Death, not one to be denied. Her small shoulders heaved as she took a breath as if a towering dragon about to breathe fire, but to the Hound’s bewilderment it somehow turned into a moaning sigh as if nothing had happened; so quickly, so suddenly.

“Oh sweetheart.” Her fingers slid from the Hound’s face like calloused eels, the fluidity with which she slinked away a cross between a hunting cat and languid serpent. Her tail twisted and flicked, twitching, a viper striking at the air in seductive patterns. His blood felt turned to ice at her tone; it was back to being honeyed.

“Don’t worry, my child. Do not be jealous, I have not forgotten about you~”

Death froze under her touch, every muscle in his body so tensed he threatened to burst out of his own skin. Perhaps that’s what he hoped to do, but under the full force of Lilith’s bewitchment he could barely force himself to breathe. Her talons teased from his cheek to his chest, leaving a slight mark as she scratched though nothing that wouldn’t heal away. The Hound watched in horror as his face twitched between rage, disgust, and submission. Death was about the only one he’d seen not immediately fawn at Lilith’s coyest smile, but clearly it wasn’t without great effort. The Hound feared to move, lest the Firstborn be distracted and immediately ensnared. He felt helpless, what hope did he have against a demon even the Nephilim couldn’t resist? But he saw how her hand continued to trail down, lower, going somewhere it had no business nor permission going.

“Don’t you want to please your mother?”

The world blurred as his sight turned red, he didn’t even feel his feet push off the ground as he lunged. Something akin to a feral roar rattled his throat before his teeth found purchase, and when they did he bit down hard. Her shriek was shrill, piercing; she tasted like soot and bile. Her blood burned against his tongue but the Hound would not release his hold. Wrath possessed him to crane back his neck and put a hand to her shoulder, that he could hold her still as he wrenched himself downward. He didn’t know the strength he possessed, but flesh tore around his teeth and gave further away to blood, the sickening wet snap of bone and shredding tendons ringing in his ears. He hadn’t the presence of mind to know what knocked him away, only that the sheer force dislocated his jaw as it struck, his shoulder then dislocated as he hit against the ground.

“You insolent WRETCH!” Her wail was like a banshee, the facade fully dropped as she clutched the gored stub of her left bicep. The Hound had the momentary thought to wonder where her arm went, or what tasted like charred, rotted meat in his mouth. She looked about to incinerate him in the white hot fury of her stare. Whatever possessed him to act previously now evaporated from his spirit, abandoning him to a fate of slaughter. He’d have to be picked clean from under her claws, if even that much was left of him… at least he made the bitch bleed first.

But to both their surprise -earning a snarl that threatened to bite off his hand from her and eyes wide like saucers from him- Death raised his arm and stopped Lilith from lurching forward to her prey.

He spoke too low for the Hound to make out, that or the ringing in his ears drowned out Death’s bass tone. When her glare tore from his crumpled body to turn to the Reaper, the Hound felt like he could breathe again, as if her palpable anguish was so heavy it pinned him down. Death looked… calmed. Lilith spat venom and violent curses at his face, her slit pupils like daggers poised to plunge, and yet Death’s body had relaxed. Through a blurring gloss that crept over his eyes -alluding that the ground might’ve found his head a little harder than he first thought- the Hound watched the Reaper seem to coo over her injury, placating her, distracting her. His body still held hesitation to make contact with her skin, but luckily for him the Demoness wanted nothing to do with his touch. The Hound couldn’t tell what was being said, adrenaline fading fast and bringing in a feeling of light-headedness. But he was present enough to follow her movements as she strutted over, her remaining hand reaching down to shove blood-coated fingers into his slack mouth. He felt her claws grip painfully behind his bottom row of teeth; if only he had the moment to think and the presence of mind to try mauling her again. He would have laughed, even if it coated his tongue in that disgusting acrid taste again. Then the pain hit, seconds after the sickening pop of his jawbone completely detaching from the rest of his skull. Her movement was too fast, too fluid, cleanly unnatural; she should not have been able to, given her slimmer frame and only one arm. The agony swallowed his mind whole, he couldn’t even register his own gargled scream. The Hound fell to the dirt blind in his pain, the roof of his mouth biting into the slowly forming mud watered by his blood. He could taste the ghost of copper, the last of his senses to ring clear before he fully lost consciousness.

…

And when he woke up, he was on the table again. No smell of sulfur stuck to the room, so there was no telling how long he’d been out. His memory was so foggy on what even happened, ears still ringing though now from the blood rushed by his heartbeat. He blinked slowly half a dozen times before the haze in his vision cleared. Through the confusion and scattered blank puzzle pieces of his mind, he knew that his cheeks ached something terrible.

“About time.”

The Hound startled at Death’s gravelly rasp, nearly leaping to his feet at the hulking sight of the Nephilim standing beside him, wiping fresh blood from some tool in his hands. Likely the Hound would’ve stood if it weren’t for a throbbing soreness in his back, and the jerk of his head sent a shooting pain at either side of his face. Death’s eyes flicked from his cleaning to the Hound, shooting a stern warning that he kept still, and then back to his hands. Given that he gave no sense of urgency or danger, the Hound complied.

“You took longer to wake than I expected,” Death noted aloud as casual as nothing, returning the tool to a spread of many before him in the exact spot he picked it up from. The Firstborn had a certain order he stuck to in everything he did, a peculiar spotlessness despite the inherent gore and mess of his projects. The Hound for one found it easy to stick to that regiment, all his tools had been kept in the same order to the point they wore an outline in the leather padding.

“We’ll have to address that at a later time.”

Perhaps it was a sound in his breath, perhaps he was simply predictable, but Death held up a silencing finger as the Hound had the thought to speak.

“Don’t. There was no visible damage to your vocal cords, but until I’ve secured this side I’d advise silence.” Death picked up a curved bone needle, threading it with practiced expertise. Even though his candlefire eyes cast down to the Hound’s face it somehow felt as if he wasn’t seeing him, fixated on something under his right cheekbone. He leaned in, hunched over the smaller being with such presence it was hard to not find him imposing, but the Hound only paid mind to the needle being brought close to his reddened skin. It was strange how his cheek was so flushed, it was hardly his first time awake under Death’s knife. But when did he get on the table?

He flinched slightly -despite trying to stifle it- when the needle punctured.

“I had other plans for this thread when we started today.” Death was not one to hold one sided conversations; he would certainly muse to himself out loud, breathing short words or observations when something particularly noteworthy came up in his work, but he could tell the Hound had a plethora of questions pervading his mind. He knew he held a captive audience, yet spoke as if he were alone.

“Though I’d imagine I won’t be hearing any complaints for letting this take precedence.”

In a smooth motion, as if it were all routine, the Nephilim brought his large hand to rest over the entirety of the Hound’s narrow throat, not in efforts to crush his trachea -though he most certainly possessed the strength necessary to do so with ease- but to hold something in place as he began stitching. The Hound quickly realized it was his jaw, a stabbing ache biting at the reattached nerves surrounding the hinge at either side. He hardly felt Death’s cold touch under his chin -as if he’d been numbed or his senses still slept- but the pain was all too real. His breath hissed, catching in his throat which felt raw. The hand tensed its hold, a wordless command for him not to move.

“Attacking her was an entirely foolish decision, be grateful I could convince her to be merciful.”

The Hound pushed down the impulse to either scoff or swallow hard. This was her being merciful? Death sounded a curt hum, as if he could hear the Hound’s thoughts. He threaded another stitch, careful not to sew the Hound’s cheek to his gums.

“You should never have been able to get that close, let alone draw blood. That you did speaks volumes of the progress we are making. You continue to surprise me…”

Strangely, the Hound felt the Firstborn was trying to compliment him. Something about how his harsh tone lessened, or the warmth in his gaze as he finally met the Hound’s eyes; how it feels to take a hot bath at the end of a cold night, or a bonfire in a damp and frigid cave. It wasn’t soft by any means, no part of him was made to be, but the silent appreciation communicated in that moment was louder than any words he could’ve voiced. The Hound bit down the pulse of discomfort radiating from his shoulder as he brought his hand to rest on Death’s wrist, the best way he thought to reply. Death stilled as his touch, needle poised to tie off the last stitch.

“Hhrg-had… to…” The words gargled like phlegm in his throat, tongue sitting in his mouth as a fat slug; heavy and numb to his instructions. Death sounded a dry chuckle, unsurprised the Hound chose the very last stitch to not follow his instruction to keep quiet. All to say something so simple, so unnecessary. Death tied off the end of the thread with a deft hand and released the Hound’s face carefully, that he might catch it if the bonds mysteriously let go. Purely a cautionary measure, the Hound always found the Firstborn’s work flawless. Who else could find a way to reattach a jaw that was quite literally torn off the hinges, expertly reconnecting every connecting nerve and blood vessels? he didn’t look to push it, but the Hound knew he could’ve wiggled his chin and he'd only have to deal with the stinging afterwards. Knowing his cue to leave, he followed in Death’s shadow as they made for the rest of the worktent just past the partition.

“I expect you back here before first light, we have a lot of work to do. There was a price to be paid for showing such promise.”

Before the Hound could think to ask what that meant, Death flung open the curtain to reveal a room strewn with bodies, mangled and dismembered. He staggered at the horrendous sight of all the other experiments and assistants torn apart before him, Death merely stood stoic. There was that elusive last lingering of sulfur he’d been looking for before…

“I’ve been informed I am to focus my efforts solely on your transformation for a time,” Death casually delivered as if he was looking out to an empty storage room, unblinking in the face of such sudden and violent loss. The Hound’s heart nearly leapt as the Firstborn’s cold hand found his back.

“I trust you’ll prove more than an adequate return on investment, hm?”