Exhausted, in the dead of night, the demon lord had stumbled through a rift to his home. He slipped off his mud-caked boots and hung his similarly dirtied jacket in the coat room, then made his way to the master bathroom.
Fang noted that his wife was not in their bed, but he had a decent idea of where she’d have dozed off and wouldn’t have wanted her to see him with blood-spattered hair and clothes anyway.
Shedding his ichor-soiled garments, the man took a long, hot shower.
As the ache faded from his bones, a smile crept across his face.
He was free.
His people had triumphed, there was peace.
...and for the first time in decades, there wasn’t someone else in his head.
Fenrir stayed behind, to oversee assimilation and reconstruction of the Lord of Plague’s lands and its people and, Pale Mother willing, that peace would last some years from now. There was a fair sort of respect with the other lords on the Shadow Plains, so border disputes should take a long while to crop up.
Clean of blood, sweat, and stench of rot, he toweled off and slipped into pajamas, a simple, long-sleeved gray undershirt and flannel pants.
Fang would’ve flopped onto the bed and drifted off immediately, but he made his way downstairs.
As he suspected, Natalie was curled up under a blanket on the couch, having passed out after a gaming session. Probably Sekiro, if he had to guess.
Picking up his bundled goddess with utmost care, Fang carried his wife to bed. He knew his heart was full when she smiled as he wiped away a bit of drool with his thumb. Just that barest bit awake, aware that her man was home and she was loved, as Fang cuddled up with his darling under the warm, soft fur pelts of great beasts.
