#empty saddle

He’s huge, your mind still can’t comprehend an animal so enormous as he, yet here he was before you. He bears a solid coat black as soot, yet it doesn’t hide the flex of every single muscle nor the scarring both old and new from times of unknown battles. What gets your eyes to widen in a world full of impossible creatures such as real demons and angels was the endless plume of flames radiating from each hoof, glowing a blazing orange under the molten slabs of rock protecting the foot walls.

Perhaps you were too quick to assume that was the most bizarre factor of all once you incidentally make contact with his glowing reddish eyes, framed behind a wispy lock of flowing dark gray bangs despite the lack of wind. It’s eerie how intelligently they gaze back at you, no doubt gauging your threat level given how his ears are pinned back to his skull.

The silence is interrupted when a shoulder bullies you backwards, pushing you by the hip to make a safe distance away. A familiar black spine protruding from a muscular back was hint enough to tell of your loyal savior who’s quite well aware and conscious of the still lying danger. Yes, the main threat was eliminated, but that didn’t mean that the horse wasn’t as dangerous.

Pongo pushes you back again, but this time you make a sound from the back of the throat in protest. The hound however doesn’t listen to your half attempt of resistance, instead making it his mission to act as your shield, even as you try to walk past.

“Pongo,” you try to command him, “cease, it’s okay!” He doesn’t let up, instead turning his head to growl warningly at you as if to say ‘I hear your commands and that won’t stop me because I’m suddenly deaf!’

“I know you can hear me! C’mon!” You uselessly beg, keeping an eye on the horse who seems to be warily gauging Pongo. The hound however, yaps at the order as he tries to again shove you away.

“Pongo! Sit! Heel! Something!”

The hound chuffs. The stallion snorts softly and for a second you’d assume it was a laugh.

“Pongo look at him!” You say, not thinking about the fact you’re literally talking to an overgrown dog as if it were a person. ‘They’re more intelligent then they let on,’ Grace’s voice rings distantly, ‘speaking as if they are people gives them respect and they return it in kind.’ Blessedly, either from the thought of the teen herself that pacified his frantic attitude or maybe the urgency in your tone that Pongo is ever so responsive to, he actually stops.

You place a hand in his shoulder, stroking the leathery skin as you gesture gently to the stallion again, looking far more exhausted than before. “Just look at him, he’s tired, he’s bleeding out, he’s weak. He needs our help.”

Briefly you wonder when such a beast seemed so… feeble.

“Pongo please…” please let this work, “what would Grace say if we left him behind?”

That makes the hound stop. His taut muscles that quiver with the urgency to run cease their movements, his own fire tipped tail had lessened its protective glow. Although a spark of guilt had begun to rise in you for having to use such a tactic against him. Guilt tripping an animal-demon wasn’t exactly the best thing to do.

Despite the beast being your companion, he still held an attachment for the one who saved him from an untimely death in the streets. The girl who’d patched up their wounds and fed their empty bellies comparable to the company of demons who’d kick or starve in the name of cruel self satisfaction.

A kind hand was alien to them and upon first contact of affection, the rescues had been unwaveringly smitten since.

In a sense, they’d seek her approval in return for genuinely caring for them.

Like a child to their mother.

Presently, your companion chuffs as he stares at you, but behind those bright eyes, you can see the thoughts running about his brain. The meticulous picking of the choice words you’d used to coerce him. At least, attempt.

Pleading, you stroke the fin that juts from his back, just between the shoulders, scratching the good spot that he could not reach. Pongo gently grumbles under the ministrations, leaning into your fingers to encourage you to keep going. You do oblige his request, watching the way his tail swishes as his tongue peeks out his maw.

Now to try your luck again. “Please? Just let me help him,” cautiously you glance to the stallion whose ears are pointed at you, listening intently, do you lower your voice to a whisper. “If he does try to hurt me, you’ll know what to do.”

Pongo huffs, sending an almost nod your way. Then he lifts his nose to the air, sniffing cautiously, huge ears flicking to the horse, then swiveling about for any faraway sounds. You know what he’s doing. He’s searching for any nearby threats.

Your heart picks up, a smile slowly stretching on your chapped lips. He’s done this ritual before giving the okay to pass a dilapidated threshold.

A few moments of deliberate slowness pass by at a snail’s pace with your thrumming heart. Each second feels like an eon moving at a glacial speed. One flick of the ear, a twitch of the nose.

The snort of a weakening horse.

Huff!

The okay was given. And you waste absolutely no time. Running to the untouched wagon, you push the clothes away until you could get a glimpse of the gardening supplies below. Wedged between the wagon wall and fertilizer lay the object of your needs. Wire cutters.

Snatching the tool, you keep pointed downward as you then make your steady, careful approach to the stallion, determined not to spook him. Having just been attacked you’d guess he’d appreciate not having more metal weapons pointed at his face. Pray he just isn’t wild enough to try and kick you with those monstrous hooves that can knock your head clean off.

Pongo keeps a vigilant eye as you approach, hackles raising when you reach within arms length. He offers a terse growl to the horse who hasn’t even made a move. But the threat is clear as day.

Touch them, and I’ll kill you.

As you start to enter the steed’s personal bubble, you keep your movements slow and deliberate as to not upset him. And in the time you spend nearing him, you can really take in the sheer size of this beast.

True to your assumptions, he’s impossibly tall, with your head just barely reaching the elbow. His head hangs low and you can see it’s the size of your torso, and nearly just as wide. Those eyes, intelligent and eerily aware of you, never once break away from you as you finally come to his legs where the problem lay.

The damage is far more intense than you’d expected before, barbs digging into muscle and wire choking the limbs to a painful degree. The left hind leg hung like a dead weight, blood pooling down the gaping wound that brings you to gag. The acrid taste of your meager lunch stinging the esophagus as you try to swallow down both the food and your nausea.

He must be in unimaginable pain. The pitiful thought comes to mind, and your brows furrowed as tears sting the back of your eyeballs. You blink back the tears as your jaw locks up, lip quivering dangerously. No, don’t cry, not now. He needs your help.

Though you attempt to push away the onslaught of tears that threaten to fall out of your eyes, it’s inevitable as you lift the cutter to assess the situation. The wires are messily tangled across his chest, caught in the metal of a protective chest piece that you hadn’t noticed before. They coil around his legs and trail down the chain link straps connecting to his oversized saddle and entwine into the soft- er, well, softer skin of his belly. Just a few stray cables manage to snake around to his bad leg tight enough the limb is unable to even meet the ground. All in all, a terrible position.

Before your brain catches up, your mouth opens up for you, “Oh, you poor baby,” his head picks up at the words, ears pointed to you. Impulsively a hand raises up to stroke the tiniest bit of unmarred skin just under the stirrup nearly as big as your face. Whoever rode him must’ve been enormous.

His side quivers under the touch, with a snort he leans just centimeters from your hand. A deep grumble you’d come to realize as a warning growl from the beast. ‘Don’t’ is all but he conveys. Pongo from behind snarls, sending his own threat to the two of you. You send out a placating hand to the hound, attempting to ease his mood so he won’t feel so inclined to do anything you’d regret.

“Easy boy, it was my fault okay? Just stay there.” Pongo scoffs, but obeys, the tension in his hackles lessen just a millimeter. Returning to the task at hand you take the handle of the tool in each hand, then place the metal mouth to a wire on the leg and begin to cut.

At the first, glorious sound of the cable snapping the steed grumbles, whether discomfort or elation you’ll never figure out. He does shift ever so slightly when the cutter presses flat against his hot skin to pry off the especially stubborn strands, but he makes no further fuss.

Peeling the cut cords free, you toss behind you, far away from the three of you. Thankfully it seems your efforts are beginning to shine through, although the work is far from done, your acquaintance seems to be satisfied with the slow, but steady progress. His huge head is held higher, tilted just the slightest of a fraction to watch you currently work on untangling an especially confusing knot on his chest piece.

“Piece of shit, Ugh- wire!” You mutter to yourself, using the clipper to snip away the stubborn knot. “How exactly can something get so tangled, makes no damn sense.”

Snip snip snip.

“You know, I have to say something,” the silence is unnerving and the pairs of eyes focusing on your work doesn’t make you feel the slightest comfortable. You just had to fill the silence for some peace of mind. And maybe, just maybe, the big lug might under the microscopic chance, appreciate some small talk. It could help you win him over if you’re to bring him back to Haven.

Am I actually doing this?

You stopped for a moment, thinking about what would happen if you just came in with a hellish horse trotting along into the settlement.

You wouldn’t be the first one to bring in an otherworldly creature to the tree, that title being given to several predecessors. It wasn’t the size or type of animal, but rather the type he was, most likely demonic.

Now even though there are plentiful demonic companions, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park when they’d first step foot in. You vividly remember the absolute shitshow between Grace and Ulthane when she was commanded that her two ‘friends’ were to be separated and most undoubtedly… dispatched by the other Makers after being relocated to the Maker Tree. You’ve never seen the mild mannered girl lose her temper like that, or scream as loud as she did between the onslaught of tears.

You know the Maker would pitch a fit. He’d definitely tell you to take the beast out to the streets in the prospect of his rider coming back if he still lived, or cull him as an act of mercy. Maybe even for meat. He’d be final in his decision.

But just as stubborn as the Maker was, he was just as ironically, a pushover in the face of human begging. You witnessed the great giant turn to an absolute mush at the sight of survivors pulling puppy dog eyes or a well placed lip quiver. Perhaps, with a bit of luck and some acting if worse comes to worse, you’d be able to keep him.

“I don’t quite understand how a big old thing like you,” his ears pin back when you refer to him as a thing, but you digress, “could get all tangled up in wires like this. How did you even manage that in the middle of a city?” You clip him free of an especially irritating wire. You don’t expect an answer, but you’ve heard how some animals are just injury magnets, especially with horses. So you don’t put it above that possibility. Oh to be as lucky as he.

You wipe away the sweat that has begun to trickle down your brow, the sweltering heat from his hooves the culprit. But strangely despite the flames damn near licking your own arms, you don’t feel the sting. It then occurs that in your manic need to help him you plum forgot those fire spitting legs of his.

You decide not to question the legitimacy of fire physics and logic coming from an elephant sized horse. Lest there be a headache from picking apart the science of it. Just chalk it up to magic. Magic, as if that answer doesn’t send your head into a tizzy.

Shaking your head loose from the tizzy, you refocus on the task at hand, clipping away mindfully. You were making progress as you’d managed to clear him of most of the cable, freeing his legs and chest. The only bothersome pieces were those too far entwined into the metal saddle to properly dislodge in the dying sunlight.

It was starting to get late, far too late. Enough time had already passed that the sun was nearly behind a cover of clouds. Soon enough it’ll hide behind the horizon and leave you in the dark. The only guide would be half functional street lamps and the sight of your own eyes. Pongo would help, but you'd rather not leave it up to him to guide you in a rubble ridden city with a questionable stallion with an unknown temperament.

With time running out, and a job not finished, you looked between the horse and the hound who picks his head up under your gaze. You had to think of a plan.

‘It took me about forty five minutes, I think? to get all the way over here.’ You set your hand to the sky, palm facing you as you stick your fingers out. Lining up your fingers to the sun, you squint under the light as you adjust your pinkie just below the horizon. If memory would serve you right from time lessons with the hunters, you’d have about an hour of light at best.

Now you have two options: finish the job thoroughly, but likely risk a run-in with a hungry demon or livid Maker, or botch the job for the sake of time and get back to Haven before a search party gets to you first.

And most likely not let you get this beast to Grace so you can get her more expert opinion on what to do. Yes, you know she isn’t exactly a surgeon, but has done her work or two patching up the beasts.

Normally you’d turn to one of the people who knew how to fix up human injuries. The Makers were out of the question as they were the last person you’d turn to at the moment. You wouldn’t call them medics as no one was properly trained, but only a handful had some basic knowledge with first aid. This one is on a much more colossal scale and the “patient” might object to the prospect of surgery. He’d need a person who has more experience with handling as you have next to none, current demonic company notwithstanding.

“Pongo,” the beast lifts his head, tail thumping on the concrete as you tilt your head, “go get the wagon.” Obediently Pongo trots over to the plastic wagon to retrieve it. Leaving you to turn over to the horse and look back at the half finished job. You’ve noticed that his big head is turned more to face you, those fire red eyes flitting over you, a question hidden beneath.

“The sun’s going down, and I have to get back before dark.” Rolling your aching shoulders to soothe the strained muscles, you return to the job, eyeballing at the largest barbs, mainly the ones holding his bad leg. The salty stench of the wound is enough to make you pause, trying not to gag when you get an unfortunate closer view of his muscles. Suppressing a shudder, you swallow the urge to make a strangled sound of the grisly sight, instead taking one deep breath despite the odor.

Biting your cheek you begin to angle the cutters to his gaskin where the culprit cable coils painfully into his limb, lifting it several inches above ground. Just one last cut and this would be the end of the job for now, as you’d made the final decision that an angry Maker isn’t how you want to end this day.

Technically, this wasn’t the end to the day you’d imagined. You’d imagined returning back with your haul in tow and maybe a few moments of congratulations that would lift your spirits. Hunters and gatherers alike were given praise that they’d mostly sheepishly accept as it’s nothing more than a job to feed hungry mouths.

Maybe show off the seeds to the others so they’d get the greenhouse started, then end it with tonight’s dinner- undoubtedly a stew of sorts mixed in with savory spices and the hunks of meat from the latest kill. Definitely give Pongo a few scraps of the stew for his good work, before curling up in some undistinguished corner with a salvaged book the others had scrounged from the old stores. Then drift off to sleep.

And in the bouts of moments you wake from the dreamless sleep, drowsily wondering what tomorrow will bring. If not the same pointless, meaningless day that drones by one after the other. Isn’t that what this life had been reduced to after the apocalypse? Since you’d been shuttled into the tree? The same, wash, rinse and repeat of the day, going nowhere in a hurry.

At least in the old camp there’s been a sense of urgency, and that made the days go far quicker…

A whinny from your left interrupts whatever train of thought is running through your head, making your heart leap to your throat. Frightened that the horse sees a threat that you can’t, your head whips around in all sorts of directions, searching for a hidden predator in the creeping darkness. Pongo would’ve caught it, or chased it off, but there he was, the rope tied to the wagon’s handle in his mouth. Hauling it with little difficulty and little care to the threat the horse sees.

“What is it?” You try, turning back to the large herbivorous (at least you hope) animal, following the direction of his ears pulled back to his neck. Those big eyes pointed not at you, but the space between him and you. A sound that you can only describe as a growl rumbles deep in his throat that you can feel in your chest.

Hurriedly you follow his gaze and understand immediately why. In your daze your hands had lost their place and moved the clippers away from the cable and rested on the piece of flayed skin that hung limply. He’d thought you were going to cut him.

“Oh shit!” Pulling the cutters away as if it were to set him on fire, your brows shoot to the air as you look at the beast. His huge ears point back to you, the hard stare lessening as his tail flicks, swatting your shoulder. “Okay, I deserved that. Sorry big guy,” he tilts his head upon the word ‘sorry’. “I was just… distracted.”

Distracted isn’t even half the truth. A distracted mind at least would return from the deep recesses of the subconscious and carry in with the day, the last thoughts lingering in the cerebellum. What you’d be able to describe, at least to the best ability, was a constant never ending cycle of brain numbing thoughts that piled one after the other.

It was endless, this constant battle of the weak attempts to stave off the endless images and wonders that could be described as killing the human spirit. Like putting a resplendent bird most beautiful and free into a rusty barred cage in a corner. Slowly killing the beast with each slow, excruciating day.

It was simply best to try and cope. Emphasis on try.

Placing the mouth of the cutters to the wire, the horse from beneath it began to shift his weight, pulling himself away.

“Hey, no, no, no, you’re fine, it’s okay,” you attempt to soothe him, stubbornly following him as to not lose your position on the last piece. “Look, it’s no problem just stay-” he doesn’t simmer down as you’d hoped, but you’d take this chance as you’d expect to not be given another one.

Clip!

The result is immediate, as his leg is finally freed from the strangling hold, “-still, there see? All better!” You pry the pieces away and toss them aside, admiring the fruits of your work. At least he didn’t look so gnarled up as before. The damage however still stands, evident by the big wounds that need immediate medical attention, but for now you’d take this little victory.

Pongo huffs from behind you, his hot breath fanning on your wrist as his mouth comes to tug on your sleeve again. The wetness of his nose is cold to the touch, but grounding. He’s giving you the message, ‘it’s time to leave.’ One glance to the retreating sun and you take one moment to take in the orange painted clouds, the hue glowing so brightly against the inky evening sky.

You don’t remember seeing the sky so alive before. Not in a long time. The small tug of your lips pulls into something bigger, you don’t let it die even as you tuck the tool away in the wagon.

“Alright boy, let’s go home.” You hand off the rope to Pongo for him to bite on, giving him responsibility to pull it. The hound wags his tail as he gives the rope a playful shake of his head, accepting his duty with no complaints. Your smile doesn’t fade away when you watch Pongo gnaw at the rope, not hard enough to sever the fibers but just enough to sate his need to bite.

Upon the sight, there’s a pull in your chest almost nostalgic as you think back to the times before… everything. Images recalled by a hazy brain reminisce of scenic parks lush with spring flowers filled with the yapping of playful dogs big and small. Seated on a bench, you’d watch a German Shepherd wrestle a knotted rope toy from an especially competitive Golden Retriever.

Although Pongo was far from a fluffy Goldie, he was so alike to those dogs in the park all those years ago. Playful and lively. In this instance alone you’d thought he would’ve fit right in with those canines. You could practically hear his bark mix in with the ambience, chasing playmates and huffing greetings to the rare trustworthy stranger. Perhaps snooze in a patch of sunlight next to the older dogs after the play wears him down.

Briefly, you chuckle at the thought of a park for Hellhounds. What would it look like? And would the other demonic “companions” you’d seen be allowed to enter. Maybe giant bird perches and toys ten times the normal size would be a hilarious sight to behold.

Speaking of things ten times their size…

You make your way to the horse’s shoulder, hand brushing gently on his side as you go so as to not spook him, muscles quivering under the touch. Although he is heads taller than you at just the withers, you can get a clear view of the chain link reins resting on his thick neck. You briefly think about the weight, pondering if you’d be able to lift them as each link was almost as large as your fist. No time like the present.

Rising to the top of your toes you barely make any difference in the height that the horse holds in spades, however you’re determined to get the reins unhooked from the saddle horn. You lean an arm against him as the other strains to reach far above your head, the distance isn’t going to be closed and you know this but it won’t hurt to try. Bending at the knee, legs spring upward with a jump to offer a momentary boost, and your heart rate jumps when you actually feel the pads of your fingers just brush against the cold metal.

Thankfully the beast doesn’t spook as you noisily collide with the pavement. He does however cock his head to watch you with curiosity, ears pointing at you whilst you prepare for another jump. Tongue sticking out in your concentration, legs push off with as much strength that could be mustered, sending you several inches higher than before, yet still out of reach.

“Oh come on!” You send a glare at those towering legs that oh so easily outsize your torso. He blinks lazily with those big, glowing red eyes. It almost feels insulting to be stared at with such disinterest, as if he’s enjoying the show.

Eyeing the stirrup that’s just above your head, you begin to think of a plan. Gears whir as you try to calculate the best approach to this next idea. There’s a chance this could work and the end result of getting the reins is reached, but if it fails? Probably kicked to the face.

‘Would it hurt him with the additional weight?’ One voice whispers, wincing at the fresh wounds.

‘It won’t, it’s only for a minute at most.’ Another voice protests, more urgent than the previous. Abandoning logic in an effort to find a quick solution.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Taking a moment to take in a shuddery breath, you look up to the stirrup that’s well within reach. Just in perfect range of the reins. Yes, this’ll do you good, now all you have to do is jump one more time.

Your hand shoots up to powerfully grip the blood flecked metal, there is very little give as it barely buckled under your probably feather light weight compared to the beast who rode this animal. Gathering strength for hopefully one last go, you push off the ground whilst simultaneously lifting yourself onto the beast. Your leg struggles to find a foothold on the saddle, but you don’t let that stop as your free arm scrambles for the saddle horn where the precious reins lay.

Unfortunately as you’re distracted, you don’t hear the panicked yelp coming from behind, nor the horse’s ears pinning back as a pair of heavy paws run in your direction.

Though you’re not completely without upper body strength, you’re not an Olympic athlete either. Which makes everything even harder when the black stallion starts to agitate beneath you, jostling you so roughly you nearly lose hold. He grumbles a warning, warning you to get down.

In an effort of strength you hadn’t performed before in your life, you pull yourself up with one arm that would’ve put gym bros to shame. Then in one fell swoop, you unhook the unbelievably heavy reins from the horn and toss them aside, sliding down the steeds neck to hang loosely. Success!

But before you can celebrate, something clamps down on your leg and yanks you down. You scream when your grip rips free from the stirrup. You don’t know if the fall won’t break anything too vital, but you know it will hurt.

If Ulthane finds out you broke a bone he’ll kill you. If he finds out at all.

That old Maker would eventually sniff out any injuries sooner or later, so hiding wouldn’t be an option. You’re so fucked.

Bracing for a hard fall,you come to a surprise when your descent falls short as you land on something cushy. The wind is knocked out of you. Although it was better than concrete, you don’t appreciate the jutting surface that digs painfully into your back. It’s just then when hands come to push you into an upward position so you feel a familiar leathery creature under you. Pongo.

He broke your fall.

If you weren’t still reeling from the breathlessness you’d be singing praise. However any thoughts you’re able to formulate are cut short as Pongo backpedals, roughly jostling you while he growls. Dizzily, you push yourself upright, but cling to Pongo’s fin so as to not suffer falling off him as well.

But was it an accident? The giant slobber mark on your pants tells otherwise.

“Pongo, are you serious?” You swing one leg over his head and soundlessly slide off his back. The hound huffs, offended at the tone. His huge ears are pulled back as he tilts his head to send a half hearted glare your way. ‘Are you serious’ is what his gaze practically screams.

Here we go again, you think mildly annoyed. “Listen, I was fine,” you gesture to your whole uninsured self, but his hard glare doesn’t break, not even as you slowly inch back to the horse. “I didn’t die right? And you’re here to save me anyway. My hero.” The Hellhound gruffs at your sardonic tone.

It isn’t until you feel the rolling heat on your back do you turn to the horse whose eyes don’t leave you. The reins dangle from his mouth. You smile, now that this whole debacle is almost over with. Taking the heavy chains in hand, your thumb runs over the tiny nicks and scratches that litter the chains. The untold stories behind every mark like a scar, you wonder what tales would be told if the beast or his equipment could speak.

What of his rider? Would he return to tell one more epic in the form of a daring rescue? You pray not, having dealt with enough drama for a lifetime.

“Come on boy,” you click your tongue, amazed when he obediently follows after a few moments of resistance, “I know someone who’d love to see you.” You then begin leading him back down the route you took, Pongo in tow.

You just hope this big beast will be able to handle the trek back to Haven. You have to get to Grace, she'll know what to do.

———

The human is odd. Ruin has come to finalize in his mind. An anomaly indeed. Though the age widened beast had no personal contact with humans in his long lifespan, he has heard about humans from his rider and all other company he’d been with.

All talk of the species had been boiled down to a few defining features: young, vulnerable and most notably, flighty in the face of danger, like prey.

But it was this young foal of a human that had the Red Horse tilt his head in questioning. In his scrap with the demons, Ruin had been taken in for a huge surprise when he’d seen the tiny creature, barely reaching his shoulder, so courageously charging headfirst into battle. It briefly reminds him of War in the visage of similar snarling teeth, but far more reckless.

You’re certainly something to keep an eye upon. That battle prowess is not exactly impressive in the company of immortal warriors, but the quick thinking left much room for desire. Under a guiding hand, who knows how well the human could turn out to be.

Typically, Ruin wouldn’t have come so willingly for anyone, but within his exhausted riddled mind, rest and recovery was a priority. In such poor shape he’d certainty perish in worse battle conditions. Though proud and stubborn to a fault, Ruin knew where his limits had been strained thin and when it was best for a tactical retreat.

Under these dire circumstances he should’ve been just as on guard with the human as he was with demons, yet he couldn’t find himself to. Since he’d first laid eyes on the tiny creature, he’d felt no ill will, not a single whiff of malice in their actions. Even the pats on his neck were delicate and soft, as if he’d break, which was rather foreign but… oddly nice. The human even deliberately kept a slower pace to accommodate his heavy limp, although it was a wound to his pride.

What he found most intriguing was the loyalty the Hellhound held for them. The beasts had only loyalty for their keepers, which were all demons. Yet this hound seemed to have known this fact and kept it to heart, not in savagery against them, but a fierce protectiveness like a mother to her pup. This strange relationship reminds him of his own companion.

War…

Ruin could not feel his connection any more, and what frightened him most was how similar this was back when he’d carried the Abomination with him. Was it possible his rider was dead-?

Yet, who could be excited to see him if he wasn’t? No one else would be except War. Maybe, in the greatest impossibilities against him, War was indeed alive and with humans? Ruin had heard one tale through the mouth of an angel of humans taking care of sick creatures outside their own species for the sake of their compassion.

Although Ruin was as practical as a horse can get, he didn’t stop the gentle rise of his head. Something ignited within his chest that left him just a slightest bit lighter.

———

It isn’t until you see the familiar winding roots of Haven do you finally feel the weight on your shoulders lift. It’s nearly sundown and you’ve managed to shave enough time before a certain Maker will begin his obligatory ‘class attendance’ as everyone liked to jokingly call it. There’s enough dying light to illuminate the winding root roads back to the impressively massive trunk.

Almost there.

Pongo can sense it too, with his tail haphazardly thumping against your leg. It hurts a bit actually. The horse too peers through heavy eyelids, attentively taking in every detail. Gently you pat him on the neck as you steadily hop onto a carved root, the beast slow to follow.

When molten hooves meet solid wood, blackened scorch marks form beneath. You grimace at the fresh blemishes, as if the giant ass horse wasn’t a screaming giveaway. You can’t even think of the nightmare of trying to sneak him in.

Oh shit.

Oh shit…

You hadn’t thought about that until just now.

There’s plenty of eyes from overprotective Makers who’re more than likely keeping an eye out of the doorway for stragglers scrambling back to safety. Not to mention the other humans who’d incidentally rat you out when you’d drag him in, clamoring to get a close look or shrieking in fright. You shudder at the thought of one of the refugee Angels finding out.

And there’s the matter of Grace’s own companions. Her winged companion, a territorial GrimHorn as they're known as, would try to chase the horse off. That is if the GrimHorn, known as Tarya, wasn't in the tree canopy tonight and out for a late night hunt.

Peering up at the expansive canopy above, you squint to get a better look through the branches to spot a silhouette, maybe even a tail poking through the greenery. So far you don’t spot the red tipped tail, or the patterned striping of the demon’s wings. Then, just as quick as you are to start your search, you end it, finding no point in trying to spot the creature that’s well over 400 feet in the air and striped in a manner that’s meant to blend in. You’d rather waste your time continuing this crazy task than play Where’s Tarya?

Your eyes do follow the flow of the monumental trunk down to where root meets concrete, lazily trailing the twisting paths they create across the city and-

Wait a minute…

There’s something that catches your attention just barely hidden behind the trunk's natural curve, it’s so subtle you’d almost assume it was a trick of the eye.

Moving along with the natural growth of the twisting wood is a flat surface of a shoddy carved out path from a rogue root that snaked up from its original spot to coil around the tree. It almost seemed too coincidental to be a chance happening, the mathematical possibilities were probably in the trillions in the chance of this stroke of luck.

But with the fact that the winding path is partly carved hints it’s been in use. So that means that it leads inside, it could be the advantage that you need. Now, all you had to do was find a way down.

Eyes trailing over the haphazardly grown roots, trying to trace a path to lead you in the direction you need. Though you had to admit it was a hell of a security measure to have a fuck ton of roots made into a maze to keep unwanted intruders out. At least those who can’t fly or just climb up.

Before you can finish your searching, Pongo pads ahead with a huff, as if scoffing for you taking so damn long to get a move on. “Hey, where are you going?” You don’t get an answer as Pongo takes his haul down a root that merges with the one you’re currently on. You actually hadn’t seen it, now that you notice it, it’s so cleverly blended in to appear as a knot or growth too thick to cut through, on top of the moss that stubbornly clings to the top, a perfect camouflage.

You’d come down this route this morning and didn’t even notice the growth. You feel like a fool for missing it, but you supposed it’s good that it’s hard to spot if you’re not paying attention.

As you watch the hound slowly slip from view as the pathway dips and follows the curve of the road before breaking off to hang in the air almost dangerously if it weren’t for its strong frame. Even though you’d spent a good while in Haven almost a hundred feet up still doesn’t make your heart lurch when you see the view below. Seemingly since Pongo knew a shortcut away from the main entrance, it was best to follow him.

With a click of the tongue, you carefully guide the stallion onto the new path, taking extra special care to ensure you wouldn’t fall as you turned around to helpfully encourage him with a gentle pull of his reins. You wouldn’t blame him since the root was without any railings or protection from a lethal fall. The hesitance was natural, so you’d allow him to take some time to adjust before resuming to be his guide. Though you have to admit, the beast, if he really shared the mentality of a real Earthen horse, was rather well mannered in the face of new and frightening things. He hadn’t spooked once, nor fought you when normal animals would.

If only you could be half as level headed as he is.

After finally getting back to a sensible pace, you finally let your shoulders relax as the comfortable silence between the three- well two of you, fills the oncoming night. Pongo was far ahead by now, tail wagging with eagerness to finally be home. “Mood.” You say to no one in particular.

It wasn’t long until the road mended with the tree and thankfully was far more safer, or rather felt safer, than dangling in the air and praying nothing goes astray. Your new companion, although new to him and his behavior, you’d recognized his own relief with his head more lax than before. A small smile worms its way on your face, gently you pat him on the shoulder, his skin hot to the touch.

That’s slightly concerning. He wasn’t this hot earlier.

It’s enough motivation to make you pick the pace, your company not too far behind with his huge strides.

“Pongo, you better know what you’re doing.” You say to him, hoping that this won’t be a disaster. You won’t waste anymore time getting this animal the help he needs.

Ahead, Pongo chuffs, and you take it as a yes. But you’d doubt putting your trust into a mysterious road from a Hellhound is the best idea. And it’s about to be tested. Wonderful.

Dead ahead hidden behind a curtain of dangling vines laden with moss is a gaping mouth of an entrance. Mushrooms and small flowers doggedly grow around the lip of the doorway. Its width is almost double your arm-span and nearly as tall as the horse.

You can only gape as Pongo’s head pokes out from the curtain and roughly barks at you insistently, it’s far from a pleasant sound, but you know there’s no malice. ‘Come on!’ He’s all but conveying.

Questioningly, you share your new companion an unsure glance that he reflects back at you with those almost inhuman glowing eyes. He tosses his huge head forward with a snort before stamping a hoof on the grassy road. You’d almost take it as a ‘get a move on’, especially when he takes a few steps forward without your lead. Clearly more confident in entering a never-once-set-foot-here door.

Jogging to get ahead of him, your hand goes out to pull at the curtain, surprised by its light weight. Peering inside, the last of the evening's dying light filtered into the dark tunnel. From what little light is provided, you can see the tunnel overall remains the same width and height. Plenty to sneak your cargo in.

Clicking your tongue, you take a tentative step forward, free arm forward to act as a guide in case of any unexpected turns. That plan however is thrown out altogether when the horse’s fire laden legs illuminate the dark hole with his warm glow.

The sound of his clopping hooves was amplified with each step, each echo felt as loud as gunshots. It’s as if the beast wanted you to get caught, but he can’t help it being as large and weak as he was. But the grimace and white knuckled grip on the reins doesn’t fade away as you traverse deeper into the tunnel.

“We’re almost there bud.” You gently say as the first signs of light stretch out from the other side. He heaves a huge sigh so powerful fire spurts from his nostrils, eliciting a barely contained shriek you have to bite down. “You’re just full of surprises.” You humorlessly joke past your racing heart. His ears pull back, sending you a half hearted glare.

As you continue deeper into the passage, you come across a most curious sight. The walls themselves shift upwards above your head, your legs bowing down to accommodate a gradually steepening floor. Just dead ahead, the source of the light, the exit, is not parallel to you, but just above your current position. It seems for a good portion of the walk, you’ve been climbing uphill, or rather, up-tree.

Thankfully after being stuffed in a cramped spot with an on fire horse for a handful of minutes, the choking heat was gone as you poke your head out of the tunnel and into a new room. The cool, fresh air kisses your skin as you take in a lungful of crisp oxygen. Momentarily you take a moment to spy the surroundings about you.

There is a plethora of junk ahead of you. Boxes and crates filled to bursting with all sorts of items. They’re stacked almost haphazardly, reaching several feet above you. You peer above the mess to further investigate the new room.

The room rises high above your heads, probably almost twenty or thirty feet at the top at most. Through the stacked boxes and other miscellaneous items that lay strewn haphazardly around the tunnel entrance there’s a multitude of stalls you spot. They’re all in different stages of being built, with at least four in the stages of completion, but they’re all empty.

‘The livestock pens.’ Your brain recognizes, this is what the Makers and survivors were planning on in their meetings. You knew about it, as did almost everyone, but you’d never seen it in further detail such as this. You’d never really concerned yourself with this project, at least, until now that is.

Behind you, a hot breath fans across your back, an aggressive snort coming from behind, impatient. Jolting from your spot, you utter an apology as you walk out the opening, carefully you help bring the big beast up, mindful of the boxes and junk that would otherwise hinder his space. You resort to pushing them aside with a foot when you’d deemed it too hazardous to keep close to open flames from his legs.

Your heart thrummed ferociously beneath your ribs, sending blood to roar in your ears as if you’d run a mile despite standing. Now that this was over, now came the hardest part of all: getting help. You decided against running around Haven looking for the girl, since anyone could stumble on the beast, or he would go wandering where he shouldn’t, but you couldn’t just sit and wait while he bled out. You in no way had the proper equipment or even basic first aid to do a DIY surgery. It was a total stalemate.

‘Maybe if I store him in a pen, it’ll be enough for me to get help.’ Yeah, as if he couldn’t tear the walls down like wet cardboard if he felt like it. But it’s worth the risk if it means it can give you the break you need.

“Stay here.” Letting the reins go for just a moment, you carefully tiptoe across the minefield of a storage area, mindful not to knock anything over lest you make a ruckus. You wonder briefly how Pongo was able to navigate this mess, wherever he is now. Once you’re at the edge, you take a moment to peer at the area with a better view, and find it to be totally empty. Excellent.

Now all you have to do is-

THUD!

Your heart absolutely lurches to your throat as you can hear what’s almost like an avalanche to your ears. In the periphery of your vision you can spot a stacked pile of plastic tubs tumbling across the floor. You don’t have to guess the culprit, as his huge head bends over the tubs to glare at them, grumbling angrily. You shush the beast, scrambling to grab his reins and stop his huge head from knocking down anything else.

Someone definitely heard that.

“Leave it alone!” You whisper-yell, not wanting to tempt fate right now as you freeze in place as you can hear distant footsteps. The muscle beneath your breastbone pommels under the bony cage, fierce as a war drum as the footfalls only got louder.

Shit, shit, shit!

In a mad scramble that your own brain failed to comprehend, you start to push the horse’s huge head, attempting to get him to move back. “Move! Come on, come on!” He doesn’t budge under your hands, but offers a glare as your hands remain firmly on his muzzle. If you weren’t so worried about trying to keep him from being kicked out or killed, you’d be very uneasy about the unnaturally sharp canines he’s currently baring under his pulled back lips.

The heavy thuds are practically just around the corner. You’re out of time, and your body feels as if it’s never been more than ready to fall apart at the atomic level.

In one last spur of the moment desperation, you snatch a heavy quilt from a woven basket of rolled up blankets and toss it over his head, hoping it was enough to obscure him. He snorts from underneath questioningly, but otherwise remains in place. Maybe if whoever is coming is going to make a quick glance, they’d assume he was a bit of storage. You’d take a lecture of not being in here or why blankets shouldn’t be so lazily strewn about to prevent damage or attracting pests to nest in the fabric.

“Who’s in there?” The voice growls, it’s deep, rough and familiar.

You turn around just in time to see the very rugged, but memorable face of Jones, a fellow survivor like yourself. He’s got his serrated combat knife in hand, unsheathed and poised at the ready to strike. His teeth are bared, gleaming dangerously against the coarse beard that frames his half shadowed face.

Before Jones is able to take another step, you beat him to it by breaking the silence, “It’s me, Y/N!” Waving a hand, you catch his eyes and watch as the tension steadily seeps out of his body, his eyes lose their protective ferocity as he realizes it’s nothing more than a friendly face.

“Kid, what’re you doing in here?” He questions, lowering the blade to fall to his side, though he doesn’t sheathe it. You don’t blame him considering, well, the Apocalypse.

“Oh, nothing really…” you draw out, shrugging too casually as if you didn’t have the crimes of the day standing behind you. You can feel the horse’s muzzle bump your back, but you play it off as merely rocking on the balls of your feet. “I’m just…” you hesitate to come up with a lie, “looking through the storage, I was just wondering if there was something in here one of the others might’ve moved.”

‘Oh fuck please don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask. Just go away!’

You swear if your shit acting skills don’t expose you, the beads of sweat that are collecting on your brow will.

Jones raises an eyebrow, but whether from skepticism or amusement you’ll never know. He merely cocks his head, “Well that’s strange considering no one’s really been in here, you know how this is more of an active construction zone.”

‘Good, good, he’s not completely onto me. Maybe if I can just redirect him out of here.’

“Yeah well,” you nervously wring your hands, and nearly freeze as a snort sounds from behind you, the best you can do is roughly clear your throat to drown him out.

“Since when does anybody ever really listen? You know how we all are, yeah? Giving Ulthane heart attacks and such…” Please just turn around and go away is the only thing your mind chants over the roaring of your racing heartbeat.

The silence is deafening as Jones remains silent. It’s almost as if a pin dropping would be a tactical nuke in this choking emptiness. A single breath felt like it could alter the outcome of this conversation. It explains why you’re holding it.

That is until Jones chuckles, the sensation like shattering glass, sudden, loud and scattering as you nervously join in despite the fearful jump of your shoulders. “Yeah,” he drawls, storing the knife away to its holster, “well I wouldn’t put it past you knuckleheads.”

“So uh, yeah…” you begin awkwardly, the back of your neck rippling with waves of hot embarrassment, or maybe it was the animal’s fire hooves. “I’ll just be, a few more minutes. Still gotta search. So don’t mind me.” It’s the best you can manage without outright dismissing him.

Blessedly, Jones seems to get the message as he starts to backpedal. There’s an invisible weight that lifts off your shoulders, and the stale air in your lungs scrabbles free in a sigh. Just a few more milliseconds and he’s gone.

Just as Jones is teetering between the carved entrance between the stable room and the main room, he pauses to give you a lazy glance back. There’s an easygoing smirk on his rugged features, “Anyways, don’t take too long in here, or…” his eyes widened considerably as he trails off. Those dark eyes are pointed just above the apex of your head, and hot breath fanning on your hair makes your blood turn to frozen slush.

Jones’ mouth does a wonderful impression of a goldfish, completely dumbfounded. Thankfully he doesn’t run away or pass out as you’d expect, but his frozen in place gaping isn’t exactly any better. Especially at the mouth of the door where any wandering eyes can see.

Without even thinking, you bolt forward to grab Jones by the wrist and drag him back until you two are hidden within the room. Stopping just before one of the finished pens next to the storage space, you slap a hand over his mouth before he could scream. That is, if he’s capable of doing so as he claims nothing really bothers him. But it doesn’t mean he can’t.

Jones’s hands come up to clamp onto yours, brows furrowing as his wide eyes dart between you and the horse behind the pen wall. You grimace in panic as you hear his muffled voice throwing a million questions at you. Still riding the waves of the anticipation of being caught, you shush him until he calms down enough.

“Listen, I know this looks bad at the moment,” an absolute understatement, “but I need you to calm down. I found him while I was out and he’s friendly.” Distrust glints in his dark brown eyes. You continue. “You’ve got a million questions I know, but I need some help. That’s all. Can you do that?”

Jones doesn’t respond. You gently shake his head to bring his attention back, pleading. “Please Jones?”

His lips purse under your palm, considering the question. In your opinion, he’s taking too long to come to a conclusion. Until, finally Jones nods his head, though his willingness doesn’t match his eyes. Satisfied, you peel your hand off his face, and he takes a deep breath.

“Alright fine I’ll help. But this does not mean I’m fine with it. I expect answers from you. Now.” You shake your head and he frowns.

“Not yet,” Jones shoots you an incredulous look, “this big guy needs help now. Where’s Grace? She knows how to patch up demons and such.”

He raises a bushy brow at the mention of her name. It’s no secret Jones knows where she is at all times as he’s always checking on her as she is rather reclusive. You’d say he has something of a soft spot for her.

“The kid? She’s up in her nest as usual. She’s probably out watching the world below with Tarya as usual.” The ‘nest’ as it is commonly called, is a makeshift room in the tree canopy naturally formed by a pocket of space between the branches and the trunk. Apparently, it was accessed by the winding staircases that climb the tree’s trunk, the lift and some climbing by the teenager purely by accident when she was exploring. You don’t know every intimate detail, but Grace soon turned it into a living space for when she needs some time to get away from everything as she is rather asocial. Others have been up there before for peace of mind, but not many frequent that place like her. In fact, you’re sure she snuck a mattress up there when Ulthane wasn’t looking. Either way, total hermit behavior.

It makes Ulthane worry about her with how often she won’t show her face for hours on end.

Before you can think, your feet carry you forward, but Jones grabs your shoulder and you wince. His eyes widen as you can’t stop the hiss that comes from your throat, a curse whispered beneath his breath.

“Stay here, I’ll go get her. If Ulthane sees you like this… he’ll lose his shit.” You snort humorlessly, hand protectively wrapping around the bruise whilst the other wipes at your bloodied chin. Flakes of already coagulating blood coat your fingertips, but you spot redness of fresher blood from the still open wound. Ouch. He does have a point.

“I won’t be long. Just stay here.” Jones breaks away from you, and there’s a weight that lifts off your shoulders. One burden lifted. As he whisks away into the darkness, you begin to slouch as the events from earlier this day finally hit you like a freight train. With the adrenaline finally wearing off for good and the safety of solid walls steadily putting you at peace, your whole body aches fiercely.

You’re finally aware of the full pain running through your arm that you’re suspicious of having been sliced open to a degree. If not just heavily scraped. Keeping a moment to stay in the pen, you take a small breath before peeling back the torn sleeve as far as you can to inspect your forearm. Hissing gently, you can feel the fibers separate from skin, welded together with the sticky substance that is blood.

Suspicions are confirmed. There’s a gash that runs along the outside of your forearm, starting at the wrist and fading to your elbow in a litter of smaller, less severe scrapes. Must’ve been from the litter with that scrap with those demons.

Demons. You fought actual demons.

That thought is disconcerting as it is badass. If you were a video game character and not a real, breathing person with real problems in the post apocalyptic world. But it still sounds cool.

A snort emanates from the side, drawing you to side-eye the huge culprit who peers at you most curiously, ears pointed to you. Distracted, you give the horse a weak, toothy grin as you keep inspecting the wound that is beginning coagulation. You’d have to get it cleaned soon. Surprisingly, he seems to be staring at the wound intelligently, taking in the fact that this is somewhat similar to what he is sporting.

“Heh, look boy. We match!” You give him a once over and see the further extent of his own before deflating. “Sorta…”

You can’t fathom why, either from his own pure empathy for a wound on another creature, curiosity or boredom, the beast with precision gentleness, bumps his muzzle against your arm. Though a bolt of pain shoots through the tender spot, you hold back a wince. The soft whiskers tickle your flesh as his lip carefully feels the cuts.

“Ah don’t worry about that,” you say as he continues to inspect the gash, ears flitting slowly as his hot breath fans over your skin, “it’s just a cut, nothing more. I’ll be right as rain after I get it patched up.”

Not thinking, you raise your free hand to pat him on his muzzle, feeling acquainted enough to warrant a little pet. What you didn’t expect was for him to pull his nose away from your arm and stare down at you. A bout of newfound fear shoots through you as you fear the beast isn’t taking well to the ministrations and he’s about to take a bite. You fear those fangs of his may be coming to use soon.

In those brief seconds that you are betwixt bolting and being bit, time never seems more suspended.

Until he simply huffs a hot plume of flame from his nostrils, blowing harmlessly on your face. You smile at him again, glad to have not been bitten.

——

There were many things Ruin had seen within his very long life. But yet it seemed there were still many surprises left in store for the old warhorse.

More intelligent than he puts on, Ruin had listened to the whole conversation between the human who brought him here and this Jones. Something about this Jones man sent alarm bells off in his head, even for the brief minute he was in his vicinity. He seemed… familiar. Strange considering he’s never met a human before.

Ruin would have to keep a close eye in the meantime.

After you’d peeled your flimsy sleeve back, he had been greeted with a well known sight. Torn flesh, although in this case very mild in the eyes of a great war beast like him, it was concerning on a creature like you. A young foal like yourself would’ve, no- should’ve squealed or panicked at such an injury considering how delicate you are. Instead when you inspected the laceration, you barely flinched and even smiled and showed it proudly with a grin.

Although you weren’t his own companion, he felt a twinge of pride. A small foal such as yourself showing off your marks of battle! Truly the making of a warrior!

In a moment of encouragement he’d felt your cut as to, in his own way, commend you on the new upcoming scar from your victory. When you did an unexpected move even he couldn’t predict.

You’d placed a hand on his nose and gave him the softest pats he’s ever felt. Sure, War gave him affection on the rare case of his own accord, but none had been so featherlight and foreign. It felt rather wonderful, not that he’d admit it.

But it had shocked him how openly you gave it to him. Briefly Ruin wondered if you’d continue to do so.

However, he brushed the thought aside, refocusing on the person who’d you promise would like to see him. War must be here then? Yet he doesn’t feel or sense him anywhere within this spot. Perhaps somewhere else recovering from his fight?

But Ruin can’t find himself to imagine tiny humans such as yourselves dragging his hulking form out of rubble and into this place. Not with those huge winding roads and twisting root pathways, you’d all be winded carrying him!

Just before the Red Horse could continue to rationalize his thoughts, his supernatural ears pick up the footfalls of two approaching people. One heavy and the other much lighter. His head swivels to the doorway as he awaits the approaching culprits. He doesn’t recognize them as War’s, and his mind is put in the familiar practice of going on the defensive.

“Whoa easy boy,” the human intervenes as he tries to position himself to face head on, giving his huge hooves a perfect direction for clobbering. A tiny hand shoots up to grab the reins, keeping him from fully facing the assailants. Not that he couldn’t just swing the tiny creature across the room with a sneeze of effort. Though, he doesn’t think they’d appreciate that.

“Nobody’s coming to hurt you. They’re here to help.”

———

You’ve never felt more anxious until now. Not when you fought those demons, dragged Ruin here or left Haven this morning without a word. Without warning, the horse started to fuss, ready to bolt or strike. Either way, he’d make noise and draw unwanted attention. The organ between your lungs never pounded so hard and fast as he stared you down when you’d snatched his reins in a mindless effort to stop him.

As hard as he might try to melt you with his eyes, at least he stopped.

Good thing too, for help had just arrived in the nick of time. The girl of the hour was finally here and you let your shoulders sag ever so slightly. Thank fuck, you don’t know how long you can take this.

Just as she steps into the premises, Pongo jumps to his feet, giving the girl a quick lick on the cheek as she greets him back. Wait a minute, was Pongo in the room this whole time? ‘How’d I miss him?’’ you think as Grace gives his neck a few good solid pats. Jones is right behind her as he pushes her in your direction, reminding her of the job at hand.

As her eyes land on you two, Grace’s brows nearly shoot up into her hairline as her lips pull back into a huge open mouthed grin. Her unoccupied hand shot up to cover her mouth to catch the awed gasp that leaps out of her throat.

“Oh my…! Is that fire from his legs?! Holy shit, you weren’t kiddin’!” Grace exclaims, her southern accent slipping in her awe as Jones nods, not as enthusiastic as the younger.

“Oh he’s beautiful!” The teenager says, stepping forward she begins to give him a once over, her bright expression slowly falling as she assesses the damage. You notice Jones’ grimace, a contradiction from the girl. Just before the teen could do anything else, you elect to speak up.

“I- uh, found him in the streets, he was fighting some demons when I came in to help. He was caught in some barbed wire, and I got him out. But the real problem is his back leg.” You point to the limb in question, and she hisses through her teeth as she skims past you to inspect the wound. Grace readjusts her glasses as she starts to get a closer look at the injury, standing on her toes just to get a closer look due to his incredible height. And you’re not the only one to notice.

“Maybe you need a stool.” Jones says from behind, his smile is damn near heard as he pokes fun at the girl. She sends him a sideways glance, lips curling in a smile. “Har de har,” she deadpans, Jones snorts into his hand. You can’t stop a small chuckle.

“Maybe I’ll steal your kneecaps old man, then see who’s laughing!” She retorts, inspecting the wound a bit further as Jones chortles. “That’s if you can even reach them!”

You nearly choke on air as Jones pokes at her height once again. He was strangely playful despite his earlier attitude. Jones wasn’t exactly a stoic man, but you’d never seen him do anything too crazy up close. But then again, fun wasn’t on the top of the list of important things to have in the post apocalyptic world.

“Oh, I’ll reach them alright.” Grace says, dropping back to her feet, she turns to you. “So uh…” she snaps her fingers, muttering several names to herself before Jones chimes in, “Y/N.”

“Yes! Y/N! Sorry about that, I’m horrible with names. Thank you J,” she brushes her hand through her red-dyed hair, sighing heavily. You perk up as you can finally get an opinion. “Yes?”

“There’s a lot of work to be done here. He needs a lot of stitchin’ to close the big cut. But the good thing is, he doesn’t seem to have any severely broken bones. It all appears to be skin and muscle that got nicked.” You release a huge sigh, completely floored by this good news. He wouldn’t need any amputation, or have to be put down as your worst fears had assumed.

“He’ll need a lot of time to heal, and it will be difficult. Without proper medication, I’m afraid he’s likely to have a limp. It’s a miracle there seems to be no infection.” Lucky indeed. Especially with those odds working in his favor.

“What about the smaller cuts? I cut him free from some barbed wire that he got tangled in” You press on, feeling that he’s not out of the woods yet. Grace can merely offer a heavy sigh, clearly overwhelmed with the mountain of problems. “Given that they’re shallow cuts, it’s not impossible for him to heal just fine, but I’ll go over them to ensure there’s no leftover metal that will cause infections or delay healing.”

Nodding, you hold on to each word. Hopeful that things might turn around for him.

“First thing we need to do is get this saddle off him, then get him tranq’d so he’ll be calm during surgery.” Jones tilts his head as you do as well.

“Tranq’d? But I thought you said you didn’t have any medicine?” You said, and Jones gives the girl a suspicious glare, lips curving into a scowl. You don’t wish to know the implications of that stare.

But the girl doesn’t falter much, bringing up the rusted box kit in hand, “I had some… help greeting my hands on some meds. I would’ve given it to y’all, but they’re veterinarian use.” The hesitation in her assistance sends Jones into an overdrive as his loops pull over his teeth.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve been dealing with that demon!” He spits the word like it’s rotten on his tongue, “He’s nothin’ but trouble!” Grace’s shoulders sag as her face falls considerably, “Vulgrim ain’t that bad if you’re nice to him! ‘Sides, he owed me a favor.”

Jones’ head nearly snaps off his neck at the speed he looks up, “He what?!?” The man nearly shouts, but the girl shushes him. “You can yell at me later, but I need to get to work.”

“Oh, we will have that conversation.” he says, and the girl ducks here head down under his hard stare. As the two stared the other down, you never felt so out of place. It was rather awkward.

However, she clears her throat, cutting the silence with a call of your name, “Y/n?” Your head snaps to attention, and she gives a brief smile. “Can you please help me? I need you to keep him steady as I patch him up and he might get fussy.” Although you doubt you can keep this big guy calm, more likely to be trampled under him, you nod. Grace will need all you can give her.

“Jones,” the man’s lips pull to a scowl, “I need you to help me as well,” he scoffs, crossing his arms on his chest as he cocks a hip, Grace shoots him a tiny frown. “What?! Me? I’m not going near that thing,” the horse whips his huge head around, nearly smacking you in the process as he sends an impossibly scornful glare, he snorts a plume of flames and his ears are pinned back impossibly flat to his skull.

Jones points at the beast just as he starts to pull his lips back to bare his teeth, making his point, “Hey- see?! He’s going to kick the shit out of me as soon as I get close!”

“I’d say more likely to bite you with his leg,” Grace says plainly. Even though she said it with little humor, you can’t stop from snickering. Jones’ head whips to you, offended. Your lips seal themselves shut to prevent any more of Jones’ ire.

“He won’t.” She reassures, though you doubt that genuinely despite her confidence, “Y/n will hold him. You’ll see when he’s coming for you.” ‘Likely after he throws y/n’ is the implication she gives. She’s rather… straightforward with her point.

You don’t know if that trait is reassuring or disconcerting.

Jones still only sends her a scathing look, his nose curling distastefully as the girl gives him a pleading glance. The tension between them is thick until finally, Jones cracks.

“Fine!” He throws his hands in the air in finality, tossing his head back to release a groan as Grace merely grins. “I knew you’d come around.”

Just as if a switch is pulled, Grace’s light banter is traded in for professionalism. She carried herself with a more serious air as she started to get to work, giving orders to Jones to help get the saddle off as she promised.

Together, Jones and Grace work effortlessly to unlatch the cinches, all the while you kept the stallion busy with pets so he wouldn’t freak or bite. Even if it was best to keep close to a horse so the kick wouldn’t hurt as bad, does the same rule apply to this one? You’re sure he’d lob your heads off at point blank…

The jingling of metal meeting solid ground fills the air as Jones unlatches the flank cinch, the metal compartment clattering gently on the floor. Jones then, in a complete show of impressive strength, pulls the impossibly huge saddle of the horses back with little effort. The does place it down with a gentle toss aside with a grunt, the horses flanks quiver at the sudden loss of weight.

How many pounds was it? It was nearly larger than Jones!

Grace starts to give the horse another once over, your eyes follow her as she walks all around him as her gaze rove over him. Noting each and every injury that might need her attendance

Then, after making her round she nods to herself before coming to you. “I’ll give him the medicine now, but after that can you please guide him to the stall so we can get him started. He’ll be nice and drowsy after I stick him.” She produces said medicine in hand, a small, but full vial of tranquilizer, the label is barely legible aside from the printed words “equine usage only”.

You nod, allowing her to duck under your hand holding the reins as she picks a clean needle from her kit. She sticks the needle in the vial top, and siphon the medicine into the plastic barrel.

Then, after inspecting the bottle for any bubbles to rid, Grace turns to the animal who seems apprehensive at best. You’d guess between his exhaustion and weariness from giving Jones a hard time he doesn’t have it in him to fight much. But you’re still on guard.

Quick as blinking, Grace jabs the needle in the horse's huge neck and administers the medicine. The animal startles, nearly yanking the reins out of your grip with how quickly he jolts his head up in surprise. You place a hand on his nose placatingly, distracting him from the sting. “Easy boy, it’s all over, see?”

He sends Grace a hard glare behind drooping eyes, snorting a plume of flames in your face and you sputter. You pat him on the neck, even as you try to spit out a bit of ash between your teeth.

Briefly you wonder if the ash counts as mucus, but that’s quickly brushed away as Grace gives you a direction. Obeying her task, you click your tongue and guide the big beast to follow, and he does at a very sluggish pace. Almost lackadaisical in his huge strides, the animal gives little fuss as you take him inside his stall, taking a few seconds to even eye the location with lazy interest.

But whatever curiosity within him is sniffed out as he begins to lower himself to the ground, finally on his last leg of consciousness. You keep watch over him as he slumps to the ground with a deep groan, thankfully on the proper side so you wouldn’t have to bully him into the desired position for Grace. Poor thing just seems so exhausted…

Just as you feel the weight of that huge head of his pull on the reins in your hands, you slowly slacken your grip until his head is lying flat on the ground. He stares up at you with those intelligent eyes, and now instead of a raging fire of a wild stallion, you see something gentler. Something tired and dare you say… nervous? You almost feel sorry for the poor thing.

You don’t stop yourself from lowering down to his level and plopping down next to him, gently stroking his neck as he fights the effects of the working drugs. He releases a hefty sigh as you keep close, not even giving a notice to the teenager who’s now at work fixing your little stowaway companion.

You give him a small smile just as his eyelids finally seal shut, losing the battle of staying awake. However despite that fact, you don’t stop the ministrations, feeling every scar and muscle under your fingers.

To your side, Grace is deep in her work, hands already stained with his blood and covered in a small sheen of sweat, but you don’t pay her any mind as you remain glued to your spot. Unwilling to leave him, not that you’re sure you’d even want to. There’s a conversation between the two of them, but you don’t take the time to listen as you’re only focused on the horse in front of you. Taking in the fascinating creature, you’re able to notice the tinier details about him.

You’d never noticed the markings before. So sharp and precise you’d almost confuse them for brands or tattoos. On his neck, the color of burning coals and even holds the same dull glow are unknown sigils. There’s a total of six, with the largest ones easily twice the size of your open hand. Strangely enough when you peer at the sigils closer, you swear four of the strange symbols spell out ‘CAGE’ in harsh, scrawled writing.

“Y/n?” Jones brings you out of your reverie, looking up to him with tired eyes, he stands but a few feet away, a bottle and gauze in hand. “Come on kid,” he gestures to follow, “let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

Turning back to the animal, you give him one final pat before slowly rising to your feet. You cast a hesitant glance to Jones who patiently waits at the stall door. He moves his head to gesture for you to come, and finally, you go, but not before giving some parting words, “Please take good care of him.”

Then, the ground erupts in a grand burst of swirling fire as from the heat came a horse and his armored rider. Both bared their teeth as the red horse charged into the fray, powerful hooves digging into the ground. The rider with his greatsword swung the bade, catching both flesh and metal, blood red as his hood staining the carven wailing faces.

The scent of blood hung high in the air, the kiss of the sword’s edge sent the rider into a frenzy, encouraging his bloodlust. The riders lust so powerful even the panic stricken humans too raised their own fists and turned a heel to battle. Humans began to turn their rage to others, scrapping amongst themselves even as their own deaths eclipsed over them like shrouds. 

Soon enough, even the angels high above felt the effects of the raging rider. In their disciplined minds the mist of red wafted into their noses, altering noble senses to betray. Long time friends turned their blades on those they trusted, raging bellows as the swords clashed.  

When their friends had fallen, their gazes kept turning to the nearest target, hungry for destruction. No matter who it was, be it a superior commander, a stranger, or even a loved one, all craved to slate their bloodlust. 

Together in a scrambling free-for-all, the massacre swelled, at the apex of the swords swing-

All the warring parties stopped, confusedly shaking their heads free of the carnage as the fog lifted. 

In the blink of an eye, when the rider passed by the damage had been dealt. Before them lay a scene so dastardly, so vile it brought them to their knees. Angel and human alike wailed for their fallen, grief stricken by their unspeakable actions.

TheThe vicious cycle however, was not broken as the Horseman rode on. Instead, the rider continued to leave chaos in his waking steps, leaving behind ruin and destruction in the rubble. 

The Red Horse, Ruin, charged further into the crowd, his legs digging so deep into the ground it left behind molten imprints of his strides. War upon his back bellows a battle cry before swinging the greatsword in a wide arc, catching the approaching wave down to the bone. Pained shouts and yelps his reward. 

As the steed carried on, War tore himself from his carnage eyeing the scene before him. In the legion before him, between the opposing parties did War find a familiar face. 

Among the beastly visages of Hell, there was one of the best of their commanders in the ranks. An unmistakable creature of uncountable eyes deep as an empty night sky and wings so vast and shadowing, it could be mistaken for an approaching thunderstorm. Her fated enemy was destined to battle her to the death, an antithesis to herself. 

A noble Cherub whose skin shone brightly as the suns of Heaven to combat her darkness and numerous swift small wings deeming him a quick warrior. Although he was vastly outsized, he was to be the one to kill her. Or, she’d be the one to kill him. 

Although he spotted one of the chosen generals, those few who were decreed to be summoned to Earth upon the End Days. 

There they were…

But yet, where are his brothers?

It wasn’t just for concern of not being within his sight, for War knew that the little blue planet was far larger than the borders of the city. What made him, the Rider of the Red Horse, incarnation of warfare and chaos cause his calm demeanor crack was the absolute absence of their presence. War, like his brothers and sister, had the preternatural sense to feel their souls, giving them a distinct advantage of knowing when they were near. 

But he couldn’t sense even a whiff of their unmissable company. 

Not the heavy cold weight of Death, the hot and irritable spirit of Fury flickering like embers, nor the metallic conflict within Strife like an unpredictable storm. 

It wasn’t until a huge winged silhouette that drew the Horseman away from his thoughts. 

The shadow belonged to an Angel, but so unlike the soldiers his wingspan was far larger and feathered, compared to their armored plating. An Archangel. But it wasn’t the ranking that piqued War’s interest, but rather who he was. 

Through the visage of his hood, War spotted the aged face of one of Heaven’s finest generals to date. The golden patch above his right eye was hint enough. 

Abaddon. 

But, it couldn’t be? 

What was he doing here?

He wasn’t one of the generals to be called upon Earth. No, something was amiss. 

Ruin, sensing his rider’s befuddled mood, throws his head back with an unearthly neigh like a deep roar. The steed's smoky mane tickling War’s nose coerced him to refocus his attention, his fist tightening on the reins.

“Go, don’t lose him.” Ruin looks up to Abaddon, immense legs pushing against the ground determined to keep the speed. Despite the order, Ruin snorts as he follows, clearly in an attempt to interrogate his rider. War could practically hear the question coming from Ruin, at least if the horse could talk, but he simply shakes his head. 

“This isn’t right…” War looks to the frenzy about them, keeping his sword idle in his hand far too caught off guard to fight. Ruin’s pace kept steady but not ceased his own fighting, pommeling underfoot demons and roughly shouldering angels. 

War remained motionless, not even reacting as an Angel took a swing at him, barely earning a scratch before the horsemen finally snapped back to reality. Broken from his reverie, War bares his fang-like teeth as his sword swings at his returning assailant, catching him in the shoulder and embedding deep into his collarbone. 

The Angel fell limp as War flung him off the blade. Prowlers crowd the corpse, guttural chuffs escaping their maws as they sink their fangs into metal, doggedly fighting the armor off for the meat beneath. 

“Something is amiss,” the Nephilim admits as his eyes rove to the scene of abundant angels laying waste to a pack of Hellhounds, their master dueling with an angelic centaur, devastatingly overpowered. “The Six, the ones destined to come to earth, from Heaven and Hell, they’re here…”  A singular ear perks up, listening intently. 

“The others however, Death, Fury and Strife…” War pauses to catch his barely restrained uneasy disorientation, he’d never expose himself in such a weak moment. As practical as War was, the inability to make sense of the situation put him on edge. More than just a tactical disadvantage, War couldn’t even begin on where to start with this mayhem. 

Abaddon, he must know something. 

Although their last alliance, if it could be called that, lasted no more than a few days when humans were early in their infancy, War knew the general must be here with reason. He didn’t care if he’d resort to other methods, War wanted answers. 

Gradually, the streets began to open up to a battle strewn plaza. Heavily populated and far more hazardous for Ruin to navigate between huge road collapses and broiling lava pits, add on the growing number of corpses. Ruin however, made haste with the obstacles, performing great leaps and stampeding over all those too slow to dodge. 

War’s air of combat wasn’t overbearing as before, bloodlust overridden by his need to pursue the Archangel. Albeit there was an occasional bystander who’d fall prey to the lingering mist like a pheromone.

As Ruin cleared an especially wide lava pool, War kept his sights focused straight on Abaddon who was otherwise occupied cleaving a Prowler in two. A gargantuan lake of lava separated him from Abaddon, stretching so far the perimeter that the buildings nearby began to sink into the bubbling fire. 

Ruin nears the pit's edge, bellowing a mighty neigh like a roar as he rears, ever so dramatic. Definitely adopting that streak from his rider, and mayhaps, the rider's eldest brother. 

“Abbadon!” War shouts, voice powering above the sounds of battle startling the angels, feathers ruffling defensively. As if they could intimidate the embodiment of warfare into submission with such measly intimidation displays. Swords pointed towards the Nephilim accompanied with sneering calls of his name, demanding the reason for his presence. The Archangel lifts himself into the air with a powerful push of his impressive wings, his feathers gleam golden from the glow of the bubbling lava. 

His singular eye, milky white widens as his brows before furrowed rise to his hairline, jaw slackening. The lavish feathers upon his immense wings flared in alarm, similar to his subordinates, however Abaddon carried far less grace as he had lacked the discipline to keep his mouth shut. A most unbecoming appearance of a most esteemed Hellguard general. At least his soldiers could hide behind a helm to mask their surprise. 

But it was his astonishment that had begun to make War far from reasonably suspicious. Alarms were ringing within his head screaming that his theories were coming into the light. 

There’s foul play afoot. 

“War…?” The Horseman’s sensitive ears picking the voice over the frothing of liquid fire and faraway screams, lips curling distastefully as the general gaped. 

“Abbadon! What is this?” War’s grip on Chaoseater tightens, pulsating with need, thirsting for blood, exacerbating the tension within the Nephilim. War with all his discipline curbs the incessant cries for carnage, refocusing upon the pressing matter at bay. 

“It cannot be…” Abbadon is able to choke out his grip upon his sword slackening. His singular eye remained upon the Horseman, blinking endlessly as if he were willing him away from his sight. Were such a thing possible. 

Ruin neighs, dragging a hoof through the tarmac as if to say ‘you best believe it!’ But War doesn’t share his steed's attitude. His nose scrunches, his prosthetic arm keeping an ironclad grip upon the steel reins

“Explain yourself!” War bellows, Ruin shifts the weight on his hooves, filling up with irritable energy akin to his rider, “What is your purpose here, and where are my brothers?” The Archangel doesn’t answer. In fact, it seems that all the capabilities of complex speech have flown from his throat, minus a few key phrases. It’s all he manages to choke out of his low hanging jaw. 

“I- The- no, the Final Seal-!” 

Before another word, or rather round of babbling could be said, the angel is pulled from his nonsensical ramblings. The gargantuan form of a Fallen slams her full weight into Abbadon’s unsuspecting side, the collision so powerful all Abaddon could manage was a weak wheeze. War can merely watch the one sided scuffle, unable to reach the airborne duo. 

The Fallen wraps her clawed foot around Abaddon’s comparably small thigh, gaining a hold upon him, she raises a clawed fist to ready a blow. Her huge wings beating madly to gain lift, gracelessly is the heavenly general towed behind, scrabbling to upright himself. 

Beneath the ground a great rumble like an earthquake surges, the tarmac cracking and overhead buildings groan, frames rattling dangerously. Ruin rears with a squeal, backing away from the rising tide of lava overflowing from the lake. 

A deep grumbling far underneath shook the air, vibrating deep even within War’s bones. For just a moment, all around them were forced to pause, as if the force would snatch them up if one dared to draw breath. 

Apparently, all included the demons as the Fallen remained stationary, head whipping about searching for the mysterious source. The angel used her distraction to his advantage. Wildly, Abaddon shouts indignantly whilst he swings his upper body with enough momentum to crash his head straight into the Fallen’s. 

The blow strikes true as the demon’s grip loosens, head flying back from the impact. Taking the initiative, the angel wrestles himself free, powerful legs pushing off the Fallen’s torso to put space between them. All the demoness could do was cry out for her lost kill, reorienting herself from Abaddon’s rather strong push. 

A huge horned head refocuses upon her prey, tail flicking maliciously. Her target stares her down, wings beating hard to find the proper upright position. She licks her chops, drool dribbling down her gaping maw. 

“Argh!” A feminine cry erupts from above, a small but quick frame of an angelic soldier cuts through the air, piercing the demon's skull. 

“My lord, are you alright?” The dark-skinned angel asks her superior, but he doesn’t meet her eyes. War’s lips curve down, eyes beginning to wander around the surrounding architecture. 

Something must be climbable, if he has to jump and drag him down- 

“No… nothing’s right Uriel,” The mentioned Angel rips the sword free, tossing the now corpse into the lake with a sneer, “the Seals… he’s not meant to be here!” Snowy brows knit together, sharp canines digging into soft flesh as War digested Abbadon’s words, or rather, those he could spit out. 

The Seals? 

What is he blathering about?

“Explain yourself Abaddon, I will not ask you again!” War demands, patience dwindling like sand through his metallic fingers. 

Another rattling shift of the earth below cut off what words War had lying in his tongue, the lava cascading over the edge. Ruin neighed dangerously, the fiery steed grumbling deep as the wave neared far too close to his fiery hooves. War watched the flecks of lava land on his hood, eating away at the cloth til it left behind small holes, entirely unaffected. 

“How could this happen?!” The winged male growls. A blast erupts from the air, the horn of the Horsemen wailing above the noise. Absolutely deafening. 

A shot of pain racked through War’s entire being, setting each cell on fire as a barely restrained shout passed the riders lips. Ruin too felt the magical effect, nickering incredulously as he too felt his strength wane. For just a heart pounding moment, did the Red Horse feel his tethered connection to his rider, his supernatural ties to War’s very soul, fade. Just as quick as the fade came, the connection resurfaced. 

War upon his back however didn’t escape the strange attack so swiftly. His prosthetic hand with reins still in hand, shot up to his side whilst harshly tugging on Ruin’s head in the process. His grip upon Chaoseater near splintering as he leaned in on himself, forehead bumping against Ruin’s neck. The smoky mane engulfing his face and hood. 

“The Seventh Seal was not broken!!” Abbadon finally bellows, lifting himself into the air. War’s eyes shift over to watch the angel, only to witness a horrific sight. 

Rising from the pool below came a singular arm so large the Archangel was barely as long as a singular knuckle. The gauntleted hand flexed its fingers, outstretching enormous digits to surround the Angel, each hooked claw entrapping the general. 

The hand lay in wait, poised to strike like a readied serpent, and Abaddon noticed. 

But he was too late in his escape. 

Just on a great downstroke of his wings lifting him high above the claw, the fist sprung up into action. With speed greater than the general could ever hope to achieve the claws snap shut around its prey, Abbadon. 

A single scream tore through his throat before fingers snapped shut around him, entrapping him followed by a symphony of cracking bones loud as thunderclaps. Feathers fluttered as great wings twitched with the last signs of life bleeding away, soon falling still. 

War could merely watch in pained anger, his one chance of making sense of this madness… gone. 

“What in Heaven’s name have you done?!?” Uriel accuses, tone raw with seething outrage.

The Nephilim raises his head as he stares down the visage of the demonic culprit emerging from the pool. An unsightly creature as imposing as a tower and donning impenetrable armor with glaring saffron eyes and a cragged maw. The new opponent sizes the Horseman, eyes flickering over his comparably minuscule size, lips curving wickedly with a bellowing cackle. 

War feels his own lips pull back to bare sharp teeth at the demon. 

“I answer the call.”   

The imposing demon upheaves his body from the lake, rising high above even the airborne angels, gigantic shoulders scraping the metal walls of the towers. He discards Abaddon’s lifeless corpse to the side, the armored body landing gracelessly into the lake. The last remnants of his existence merely feathers on the wind as he sank below. 

Uriel bellows a scream as the corpse disappears from sight, a requiem for her fallen leader. Upon hearing this, Straga, the newcomer guffaws whilst swatting away a duo of angels as if they were mere gnats. 

“Rider! Come to die?!” He boasts, pulling an impressively crafted club from his hip hidden beneath the bubbling surface. War adjusts himself within the saddle, grip upon Chaoseater’s hilt ironclad. Ruin’s muscular flanks quiver, hooves dragging through the tarmac as he teeth gnash the bit. 

A semblance of a snarl paints the Nephilim’s features, his skin shuddering underneath his armor. The bloodlust he’d slaked began to resurface, boiling his blood into a pounding powerful as a war drum. 

“I’ve come for your head!” War retorts. 

“Straga will enjoy killing a rider! Straga hears horse meat’s delicious!” The demon’s lips curve into a cruel gaping smirk, tongue lapping at his chops with a chuff. War’s jaw clenched shut at the statement, Ruin’s ears simultaneously pin flat on his skull. 

Reaching from behind, Straga swings his arm out in a wide arc, spraying the lava towards the Horseman, obscuring his view. The steed sprung into action carrying himself across the street with impossible speed, but not beyond reach of the attack as the lava singed his flank, War too felt the heat land upon his shoulder. The horse unleashes a piercing squeal, lamenting his pain. 

Before War could shake away the lava dripping off his armor, a car whizzes by, clipping Ruin’s hindquarters as he bellows. War’s prosthetic fingers come to pat Ruin’s neck, offering a nonverbal comfort through his undoubtedly painful hit. “Steady.” He mutters, blue eyes glaring Straga down.  Outsized, clearly overpowered and currently with an injured party, War put his gaze to the environment around him, gauging for an advantage. There were far worse odds he’d faced in the far past. 

For just a moment, War is reminded of a great foe so vast in comparison, a mere tooth outsized the demon before him. An unconscious tug pulled upon his lips reminded of the glorious, bloody battle. 

The only downside to killing such a beast were the complaints from Fury of his stench. She still claims to get a whiff of the foul odor when she nears the Red Rider. After that, Fury avoided being in the same room with him for a few hundred years. 

Always complaining. 

In that battle, War had taken the tactic of exploiting the weaknesses of unprotected spots. Any spots of soft flesh: eyes, ears, mouth or even disgustingly enough, the nose. 

Straga’s armed hand holds high above his head, poised for a powered swing. War’s eyes locked onto the club, gauging the timing of the downswing, then darted down to estimate the distance to reach a desired position. Something to give War some equal level to Straga. Albeit large and undoubtedly carrying strength in spades, speed was a sacrifice. He’d have to time this perfectly to gain an advantage. 

A mighty bellow erupts from the demon's throat, swinging at a downward arc intending to crush him flat from above. Ruin’s flank quivers again as he stances for a full on sprint, anticipating War’s pending command to run. It was a comfort for the rider to his steed to be just as unwavering in the face of adversities grave as the current present. 

As the club’s shadow eclipsed over the two, War finally springs into action, kicking Ruin’s sides with an encouraging shout. The beast’s head swung to the right, his body following the direction at break-neck speed out from the fast approaching shadow and to the light. Not even a few seconds later the weapon made contact with the concrete, shattering the road and shaking the ground. The barbs were barely in reach of Ruin’s rear in the little time he remained close, that is. 

Ruin stumbles under the shockwaves, but otherwise his stride remains true as he obediently follows under War’s guiding hand. Heart pounding in his chest, War eyes the giant mace warily, observing Straga’s attempt to dislodge his weapon.

One hard yank. Another. 

An idea came into mind. A completely deranged scheme to make even Strife recoil if he were to fumble, despite his love for when his siblings' plots went awry. 

‘Stop it,’ he scolds himself, shaking his head free of the memory of his older brother, ‘you’re becoming distracted. Focus.’

“On my mark Ruin,” War sheathes Chaoseater, retiring his hold upon the reins, boots lifting his weight in the stirrups. Testing the give, but was otherwise well versed in performing high jumps from millennia of practice. 

The old nag neighs questioningly, head turning to eye the Nephilim no doubt to the now untouched reins, the heavy weight cool against his hot neck. The momentary loss of War’s immense weight from the saddle.

Ruin nickers, to untrained ears it would be interpreted as an aggressive warning, but to War, he felt the undertone of his judgement. However, he sighs to himself, resigning to his role, understanding of the riders plot. Tail flicking, Ruin readies for another sprint, chomping the bit whilst keeping an eye upon Straga who just about pulled his mace free. 

“Easy now.” War utters, muscles growing taut, ready to pounce. 

A mighty shout, a low sweep of a club. 

“Now!” 

Thunderous hooves pound, echoing above War’s battle cry and Ruin’s whinny. The distance between War and Straga closed in impeccable time, nearly at break-neck speed. 

The club's barbs jut out at an outward angle, low enough to nearly cleave the rider and horse both if they kept running. There wasn’t nearly enough space below for Ruin to duck, and certainly no way to escape if the horse had decided to ditch at the last minute. However, Ruin wasn’t a coward by any means. Neither was War. 

The Nephilim eyes the barb, longer than Ruin and twice as thick but ending with wicked sharp points. The crook is sizable enough to serve as a wedging spot, a Horseman sized pigeonhole. 

Just as Ruin was close enough to kiss the blade, the Nephilim put all his weight to the stirrups and with all the supernatural strength he could summon, leapt into the air, hand reaching out for the blade. 

Simultaneously, Ruin began to sink into the ground in a trail of fire, narrowly evading the hit, a spectral whinny haunting the air as he disappeared into safety, gone completely. It was as if he were a ghost, an apparition lost to the winds and only remembered by the minds of the living. The only telltale sign of his existence were the huge imprints of his molten hooves in the tarmac and the scent of lingering smoke. 

War’s hand gripped the metal, maneuvering himself to settle within the notch, awaiting for the proper moment. His hold ironclad as to not fall as the mace continued on its swing. 

Straga’s cackles from above lessened, not hearing the telltale signs of crushing bones or even a shout. A whinny, deafening hoof beats and simply… nothing. No, trickery was afoot. But War wasn’t the tricky one, it was the others. Or was he?

Lifting the tons heavy weapon easily over his head, Straga’s eyes raked over the decimated street searching between the crater like cracks for a bloody stain of what once was the Horseman. Perhaps the slightest hint of gore to satisfy Straga’s resolve, just a tiny speck. 

Ears pin back against an unshapely skull, jaw locking together the more Straga surveyed. The lake that surrounds him began to froth and broil even hotter, mirroring the demons arising bewilderment. The only mark of their existence and proof of their presence were the molten hoof prints still fresh. 

Where was the accursed rider?!

Suddenly without warning, a weight akin to that of a mere pebble scaled down the length of his bicep. Instinctively Straga turns to face the unknown nuisance, eyes dragging along the outline of his arm following the culpriting creature. 

A tiny, hooded man in red. 

Just as his eyebrows are able to shoot up, the tiny Horseman leaps off the edge of his armored shoulder, flying alarmingly fast right to his face. A flash of glinting grey the last thing Straga witnesses before War slams right into his face, blade skewering his right eye. 

War presses the blade deeper until the hilt is buried within the eye, intent on making the blow painful. Chaoseater wails in lustful ecstasy at the taste of the torrent of blood fed to it, War flexes his muscles, feeling a rise in power. Thick lips pull back revealing sharpened canines, summoning strength to pull the sword out. 

Huge fingers abruptly interrupt War’s concentration, yanking him free from his planted position upon Straga’s eyelid. The sword pulls free with a squelching pop. A strangled shout erupts past War’s lips as another blast of the Horn tears through the sky, a ring of magic bursting from his skin. Startled, Straga throws the Horseman, unsure of what the magic would ensure, most likely his own suffering. 

War’s body soars through the air uncalibrated, a reflection of his unguarded slip. The pain he felt within himself was near indescribable, his strength waning away as if it were siphoned. There was no plan he could summon in his befuddled, agony riddled mind. Even between the throes of pain, the only thing War could do was to throw a mental call for Ruin as the ground came even closer. 

But no answer. 

‘No,’ the Nephilim thinks, momentarily the creeping chill of dread seizes his chest, ‘this cannot be true!’

Within mere feet of kissing the pavement, War slams into a solid and familiar back, awkwardly his legs dangle over Ruin’s shoulder and his head snugly pressed to his neck. The horse stumbles over his own hooves, trying to find his stride, disoriented. 

Dazed, all War could manage was the feeble grip on the reins, world spinning around him. Ruin, still clumsily staggering, hoarsely neighs garnering him to weakly raise his head. He simply watched the buildings pass by, turning his head to watch his abandoned sword shrink in the growing distance. 

Swiftly following after, the demon’s mace slams into the ground where they just were. The earth shakes under the tremors, buildings twist and moan. Too close to comfort. 

“Ruin…” War coughs, overwhelmed by the ring of draining magic, “do you feel it…?”  The steed near trips, caught up in the question and the implications from his master. Of course he can, he felt in every microfiber within him that his tether was weakening, fraying apart like an aged rope far beyond its use. Never in the millennia together had Ruin experienced their bond waver, not once even in War’s own death after protecting the Abomination, for even within the Dead Kingdom Ruin still felt his soul. 

But now? 

Ruin could barely answer the summons to catch War, the most basic of his commands. More and more did he feel War’s ties shrivel away, and with it, the last of his powers gifted along with being the Horseman’s steed. 

“Ruin!” War shouts, pulling himself from his prone position, a squeal pulls from his throat as the road ahead splits in two, lava spewing overhead in a great geyser, splashing on the two. Ruin’s feet scrabble for purchase, rearing as to save his front hooves from an unwanted dip in the newly formed crack. Lava flecks landed painfully on his body, but he made no further noise to hold at least a bit of dignity, having been caught off guard enough. 

Ruin eyes the crack, gaging the distance to make the jump, but deems it too wide to clear. The severed road ahead began to rise higher than them, or perhaps they were beginning to sink, either way, there was no immediate escape. 

No way out, other than back to Straga. 

‘Yes, to the demon.’ Ruin rationalizes, feeling foolish enough as it was for running away from battle, his very purpose of living. 

‘The sword,’ he thinks, ‘the sword will rejuvenate War, and he can kill the demon.’ 

Turning on his heel, Ruin gathers the waning strength within him, throwing War a cautionary whinny to hold on. The rider groans gently, but otherwise fixes his posture and properly seats himself in the saddle, but heavily leans his weight upon his neck, reinforcing the need to run. Then, he breaks into the fastest gallop he’s ever managed. 

War keeps his hold steady as the distance is closed in record time, barreling through stray demons and flimsy earthen debris. The Nephilim’s weight shifts to the side of the fast approaching sword, prosthetic arm keeping an iron grip upon the saddle horn. 

‘Just a bit further’, Ruin’s nostrils flaring as his breaths become more erratic, accompanying his heavy gaited run. The blade was so close he could almost smell it. 

War’s hand stretches out past Ruin’s shoulder, leaning far off the saddle he was nearly falling off were his one leg and hand keeping him anchored. Just a bit further. Just a few more steps to the sword. 

Until War took one glance up did time seem to slow to a crawl. 

Overhead, Straga’s weapon was sweeping in their direction, low to the ground and fast approaching. Too fast. There wouldn’t be enough spare time to change course. War’s eyes widened as he stared on in growing disbelief. The main source of his distress is a perfectly placed barb long enough to sever him and Ruin in half. 

War, in a split second decision, threw the entirety of his weight into a powerful pull downwards, yanking the horse’s head to the floor, forcing his body to follow suit into a roll. Ruin squeals as his balance is lost, and an unimaginable agony rips through his left hind leg whilst he rolls over his rider. War is crushed beneath the weight, earning a shout, but otherwise remains seemingly unharmed as the shadow eclipses over them both. 

The colossal horse feels his world continue to spin about, exposed skin scraping away at the concrete and debris. It only stops when he slams into an overturned car that collapses under him with a crunch. The breath is knocked loose from his lungs, the steed fighting for air and the dizziness in his pounding head. 

Above the mace slams into the building just meters away from Ruin’s back, glass raining down in sharp shards. He closes his eyes to spare himself from going blind from a shard to the face. Then opens them once he felt it all had passed to behold a horrific sight. 

War, bleeding profusely out his arm and chest from a great cutting deep within the muscle, as well as his face, blood pouring out his nostrils and an impressive scrape on his cheek revealing muscle beneath. His arm, his only arm lay bent at an unimaginable angle along with his left foot which twisted the wrong way. Not far away lay Chaoseater, the blade suspiciously covered in a fresh lining of blood. 

Slowly, the sun began to return and a new sense of urgency from Ruin when War made no moves save for his shallow breathing. 

Finally, Ruin had put two and two together and neighs incredulously, realizing War’s intent. 

You fool! He conveys with a whinny, but War makes no retort, only making the nags heart race faster. 

Determined to get to War, Ruin rolls his weight only to feel the worst agonies assault his nerves. He elicits a pained bellow, head raising skyward he catches a glimpse. The skin upon his left quarter is flayed, a deep cut ripping into the muscles of his hip and traveling down his leg to stop at the hock. With a mere twitch of his leg, Ruin could see each tendon flex and muscle shudder under the gleaming blood. 

Even with the wound, determination only filled his gut, urging to move, to run and fight. 

Especially with a new pack of Prowlers stalking close, encircling him and War. Tongues lapping at their chops, bug-like eyes glimmering with their insatiable hunger. 

Ruin sucks in a breath, his teeth clenching together under a powerful jaw, preparing for the inevitable pain. Ears pin back against a thick neck as fiery red eyes glare down the encroaching Prowlers venturing dangerously close to War, still downed. 

Throwing his head to the ground Ruin then whips his head into the air, acting as a pendulum to swing his uncooperative body as his working legs search for purchase. When it wasn’t enough the steed forced his head to swing once more, shoulders working in tandem to command his enormous body to follow. 

Finally, his hooves found enough ground to pull himself up albeit with more difficulty than he’d ever expect with only three working legs. The left could barely support any of his mass, rather deciding to hang uselessly like dead weight. ‘No,’ Ruin shakes his head, ignoring the incessant screaming of his injuries, even past the adrenaline, ‘there’s worse than a lame leg.’

A dead War is, in his opinion, far more dire. 

His heartbeat roars within his ears, nostrils flaring upon each labored breath, plumes of fire spouting from his nose. The flames flowing from his hooves accumulate in great bursts, matching his flaring aggression. With the swagger of an amped fighter, Ruin stomps his way to his incapacitated rider, stopping short of standing above him. 

His ears flit towards the intruding Prowlers, huge head thrown their way with snapping teeth, warning those who get close. But with each successful drive away, two more take its place, driving the horse to chase them in an endless, losing cycle. 

In a final ditch effort to keep the scavengers at bay, the war horse assessed the situation far too risky to continue. Instead, he settled to keep his head close to his rider, utilizing his hind legs as a means of defense despite his current lameness. His weak leg, optimized as the kicking, proved to be ineffective in bearing any of his mass. 

So far, the plan was proving effective enough when a swift kick to the head sent a Prowler into a limp, convulsing heap on the ground. However, it proved only counterproductive in the end as a death in the pack only began to rile them up further, amplifying the pack’s need to kill. 

Head now on a swivel, the Red Horse kept a hawk's eye upon each intruder, whilst keeping close to War, giving encouraging nudges to get up. A bump from his nose, a light jab from his hoof, anything to get him to rouse, far too still for his liking. 

In a moment of vulnerability Ruin lost his focus when he took a second to nudge War’s shoulder, a Prowler took the opportunity to pounce, latching onto his back and digging its teeth into his flesh. Roaring in rage, he did what he could to buck the demon off, but the hold was just too tight. 

With each ticking second, the reserves of his strength were beginning to wean away. The combined loss of blood and perpetual exhaustion from the waning adrenaline were finally taking its toll, evident by his lack of vitality and sluggish movements. The additional weight of the enormous demon only increased his growing fatigue. 

In a last ditch attempt of freeing himself Ruin decidedly slams his weight to the ground, a sense of smug satisfaction runs through him when he feels bones of the arm crunch, followed by wounded screams. Immediately the grip slackens enough for the horse to scramble back to his feet without an unwanted parasite atop his back. 

Just before he could cave in its bulbous head, a shine of metal cleaves into the chest of the demon, stealing his kill. Under another circumstance Ruin’d be fuming that his prey fell to another, his ego bruised, but for now he welcomed the theft. 

War, dazed and just as worse for wear as him kept himself on an uneasy footing, taking the liberty of leaning on the sword as a crutch. His broken arm hanging limply, akin to his marred leg. Ruin still shoots War an unimpressed glare. 

“Don’t give me that look,” Ruin snorts, disdainful, “would you rather let it rip your back open some more?”

The flattening of his ears and a huff is all the response Ruin provides. 

Despite the gnarled foot greatly hindering his stance and a broken arm, War spares no time in leaping into action. Dispatching the stalking demons when they ventured within the swords reach, slowly lessening their numbers to a more manageable group. Deep within his chest, Ruin felt another tug at the invisible tether, the connection remaining strong. War’s strength gradually returns from the carnage consuming sword, his wounds beginning to knit themselves closed. 

It was all he needed to keep him fighting. 

A Prowler, the biggest one of the group, had been keeping its distance, unlike its smaller and more eager brethren, gauging. Those beady, bug-like eyes never once blinking even as Ruin sent a warning kick his way, tossing dust in the air. Undeterred, the monster stubbornly remains, suspiciously lingering near the corpse of one of its dead brood. 

Turning to face his opponent head on, Ruin drags a hoof through the ground, like a bull readying a charge. He tosses his head back, the jangle of his metal bridle gently rattling. The demon merely licks its chops, cragged teeth glinting in the light. 

Together, they stared each other down awaiting the first attack, their flicking tails the only movement between them. Not even with War leaning all his weight on his weakening hind leg did the Red Horse flinch. 

Ears flick forward. A scaly tail twitches. 

Then…

The earth trembles. 

Caught off guard by the quake, Ruin’s focus turns to the ground, ears flitting between the sensation below his feet and back to the equally startled demon. It too was looking about in its confusion, searching for a viable culprit. 

This wasn’t an earthquake, this was different. 

Another rumble traversed through the concrete, this time moving like an undulating wave, moving in from ahead where the demon Straga remained.  

Wait- 

Straga-!

It was as if an invisible rug were placed beneath their feet only to be violently swept, upsetting the feeble balance the injured horse and rider could manage. The two collapsed instantaneously like dead weights, unable to even manage a dignified fall as the air was stolen from their lungs. 

A dreadful feeling shot through Ruin to ignite his veins, urging him with newfound desire, no, a need to get back up. Even as his body protested and his knees were shaking under the strain, he pushed on. 

C      R      A      C      K    !

Just as his very two legs were firmly planted, an impossible feat of might ripped the road free off the ground, the powerful sensation of being catapulted upwards slams Ruin flat on his back, roughly knocking his head in the process. 

It was as if time were slowing into a crawl as all witnessed the unthinkable. At least, in the eyes of humans, but not even Ruin could imagine such a scenario possible. 

At the end of their sight Straga held the street in his arms, fingers leaving behind impressive grooves whilst he slowly raised War and Ruin into the air. A most vicious upcurl of his lips accompanied by a most devious glint in his remaining eye. War’s eyes widen immediately upon the scene. 

A deep, bellowing howl bursts from Straga’s throat, resonant and damning as a church bell upon the gallows. 

“Ruin,” War gasps, helplessly he can only spectate as the upheaved ground begins to tilt, debris and corpses following gravity’s pull to the awaiting demon and drown into the choking lake. The aptly named companion promptly raises his head, then rocks himself upright, never once breaking eye contact with Straga. 

Ruin keeps his hard gaze as if he could will the demon to drop dead, not even as his body slowly begins to slide down, hooves digging in stubbornly. A metallic shriek of scraping steel pricked War’s ears enough to take notice of the unbearable sound. A truck nearly Ruin’s size was beginning to hurtle towards them. 

“Move!” 

The truck careens on its side, knocking them off balance and together, rolled down the slanted road. Ruin couldn’t find any footing, wildly scrabbling for any foothold to slow him down. His rider, just as equally hopeless in the situation turned to his horse and with an act of desperation sent a mental call to banish him. 

Fire engulfed him the further he fell, but when fully encased Ruin didn’t vanish as he had before. Instead, the flames died out like a candle in the wind, leaving the horse behind, just as physical as he. In a moment of vulnerability, icy terror grips War’s chest, turning his roaring blood to chilled sludge. 

The sensation of being upheaved shoots the rider into the air, sending him hurtling down at an alarming rate, Ruin not far behind. In fact, due to his colossal weight alone Ruin eventually gained a few yards gap, descending at an even faster rate than his master. He’s far out of his element here, and in the bad state Ruin was in only exacerbated the situation. Everything was working against him, and the distance between him and Straga was shrinking exponentially. 

War, forgoing his own agony of a broken foot, scrambles down the road chasing the downed horse to snatch the chest piece, then stabbing Chaoseater into the concrete, acting as an anchor to catch them. A bellowed cry flies from War’s lips as his broken arm is pulled beyond its limit. The chest piece strained under the hold, iron chains reaching their absolute limit as they hung suspended in the air. War screams upon the demanding strain. 

Caught in an awkward position as this isn’t exactly what War would’ve wanted, finding his current lack of a tactical mind irksome far more hazardous than he’d care to admit. Between the overtaxing burden of keeping Ruin in his grip and not falling, War could spare only a second glance at the environment around him. The world was currently tilted, that much was evident. The only viable escape route was impossible to climb and the way down was barred by Straga and a lava pool.  

‘But,’ his brain supplies helpfully, ‘the buildings still remain.’ Yes, War peers through the glass and his own reflection, finding an otherwise unoccupied floor. Already at lightning speeds, a plan formulated within his brain. War’d run across the road with Ruin in tow, smash through the glass and use the floor to create an actual battle plan and not the impromptu, reckless “winging it” sessions as Strife had once said after a mission gone sour. As much as the youngest Nephilim hated to admit it, he was beginning to believe that the “making shit up as he goes' ' tactic in Strife’s arsenal might be beneficial. But he’d never let Strife hear this from his own mouth. 

It might be extremely helpful now, considering his broken arm was beginning to weaken, the added steed’s frantic scrambling only worsened his slackening grip. This only reinforced his urge to move. But War would have to be absolutely perfect. 

Sucking in a massive breath to ease his racing heart, War’s eyes lock onto the target ahead as his eyebrows furrow with concentration. For just a moment he allows his eyes to close as he gathers the last reserves of his power, channeling it into his body, pulling his muscles taut like a coiled spring, ready to spring into action. Ruin from below took notice of War’s telltale signs of his latest ploy, in this case readying to charge forward. Upon his recognition Ruin curbed his wild flailing, trusting in the process, as idiotic it appeared in the horse’s eyes. 

Within War, the last drop of his power filled his muscles, each fiber of his being poised for motion, awaiting the great leap. Then, his eyes snapped open and with great confidence within his body, surged forward. Ripping the sword free, gravity began to pull the rider down, but he planted his feet on the wall using the uneven surface to run. He was covering great distance in impossible time, even Ruin, who’s seen his fair share of unfavorable odds against War, was impressed. 

It seemed that this beyond insane plan was going to work.

Until an eerie familiar horn that once announced the Horseman’s arrival, the ultimatum of the Apocalypse, booms through the air like a thunderclap. A blue ring of magic engulfs the Rider, ripping a scream loose from his throat as his energy is siphoned from him. As the last of his powers are stripped away, War’s body surrenders to the physical demands that can no longer be met, forcing his body to collapse in on itself and his balance to be upset by an unsupported foot and a war horse in his hand. The Nephilim falls. 

An unearthly neigh echoes through the city as Ruin soars helplessly through the air alongside his Rider who remains eerily lifeless. There was nothing he could do to save War or himself but bellow for him to wake up. He didn’t even twitch. 

In an absolute moment of vulnerability, unbridled dread reared its ugly head from within Ruin’s chest, clenching his heart like an iron vice. His heart felt as if it were about to burst, in all of his years of battle and in times of the most intense running sessions never once did the organ between his lungs burn as it did now. There was not enough air to satisfy the ache in his lungs or a poultice potent enough to soothe his nerves. 

He would’ve been filled with confidence within his rider that all would be fine, that the odds would shift to their favor, as there was no such thing as luck. War held no beliefs of such a childish thought and thus, so did he. Luck did not win battles or save the weak and scared, it was meticulous planning and years of refined skill. 

But now?

Falling from the sky, littered with countless wounds deadly enough to make him lame, and weak from magic being stripped away until he felt as feeble as he did upon the open fields before meeting War? 

Ruin would never admit to it, not even if he had the miraculous power of speech. 

But he had hoped for some sort of miracle. Some other worldly intervention to swoop in and give an upper hand. 

But the ever imminent threat of the fast approaching lava pit was the only thing he saw coming. The only thought that came to mind was how long it would take until he would see War again. 

Pain be damned. It was part of his occupation with his rider, thus he didn’t fear it but welcomed it instead. A final reminder of the life he’d endured, and relished. 

With one last glance at War, Ruin feels the unseen tether connected to him begin to tighten. 

Wait-

Tighten?

War’s eyes were open, his palm outstretched to him as his blue eyes were locked straight on him. He was awake, but what in Oblivion was he doing?

Ruin got his answer when the well accustomed flames engulfed his body, this time, growing stronger. His eyes widen upon the revelation. 

A defiant whinny his cry of protest as the rider soon became veiled from his vision, disappearing into the inferno. No, he couldn’t do this, he’d perish!

“Goodbye Ruin.” War whispers above the roaring wind, just barely caught by the horse as his body disintegrates into nothing more than a trail of blazing flames. One last bellow escapes his throat before he is lost. Leaving War to his fate of the demon who catches him within his fingers. 

Then, all that effort to catch the Rider is rewarded when the hooded Nephilim is crushed with a mere flex of muscles. 

———

When cast from the rider's side, the Four’s steed remain in a state of a suspended limbo. Neither in life or death, but a paused existence that keeps them in the condition they were summoned or banished to. There is no dying. 

Yet likewise, there is no recovery. 

Ruin, just as battered as the moment he was on Earth, retained his injuries, yet no pain was received. A somewhat blessing in disguise had it not been for the fact this was a most undesirable position War had thrust him into. 

Upon his exile, Ruin tried to fight the limbo itself to return to Earth, find War and drag him by his hair for making such a stupid, self-sacrificing decision. He swore by all things he’d pommel him if- when, he found the Nephilim. But of course by all logic, Ruin couldn’t fight a plane of non-existence out of sheer spite of his companion. It simply didn’t work that way. He’d have to be summoned. 

But how long would that be?

———

Days did not matter. For all Ruin knew, years could pass and he’d be none the wiser. No infection spread to poison his blood and weaken his body. No healing to stitch his muscles together again until only a scar remained. 

Without the passage of time from his body through rot or recovery, not even the rare sting of hunger to rack his stomach, Ruin remained without answers. Even the invisible connection was beginning to become unreliable in telling War’s condition. 

In the unknown, War’s heart remained strong, keeping his half of the tether tied. But at moments, Ruin felt his life force lie still, as if he were at rest or even dying. Those moments were the most anxiety inducing. 

But it was the only thing anchoring Ruin from going mad in the empty realm. 

———

After an uncountable amount of nonexistent days, maybe even weeks, Ruin’s greatest fear had been realized when he took the moment to rest to fight the boredom. The dream realm at least offered a modicum of amusement with distant dreams of glorious battles. Only when he opened his eyes did the reality sink in that there was no field before him to run in, nor a blood-soaked Nephilim upon his back. 

It left only a deeper ache in his chest. 

During a fantasy of an open field accompanied by his own brethren did the pull of his supernatural link start to slacken, ripping him from the images of a grassy plain. The faces bleeding away like bloodstains in the rain. 

Awoken by the pain, did Ruin feel War’s end shrivel away like dying plants under a scorching sun. His side was engulfed in an agony all its own, and worse yet Ruin could do nothing but sense War’s life slowly drain away. 

Panicked and confused, Ruin throws his tucked in legs out, wildly kicking as if he’d find a patch of ground in the endless void, roaring frantically the entire time. War was dying. And he wasn’t there to stop it. 

Despite the inescapable void that contained him Ruin only fought even harder as War’s end weakened and frayed. Ever closer to death’s doorstep, and not the one of his brother's home. 

Releasing a great roar, Ruin thrashed and flailed with great abandon, uncaring of the flexing wounds for he felt no pain. 

Then, a single pulse akin to a heartbeat came from the other side. He recognized it as War’s in his final moments like all those centuries ago. No, he can’t perish like this!

Throwing his head back, Ruin lets out a most frustrated scream, not noticing flames engulfing his form, sending him back to Earth. 

Back to the world he didn’t know, back to a place where his death was assured. 

———

Earth wasn’t as Ruin had left it. 

A hubbub of activity filled the city streets with the presence of all of the Kingdoms at once, mingled together in a mismatched crowd. But now the crowds of fleeing people and raging warriors were as real as ghosts to the wind. 

Although everyone was gone, the city remains. 

Buildings like dead skeletons bore the test of war, broken and scarred just like the land he had burst through. The time in the void had gifted Ruin the luxury of a painless existence, the actions of the physical world left behind, unable to chase him until now. 

As soon as his head emerged from the tarmac he’d felt as if he’d been hit by a lightning bolt, setting each nerve alight with the old reminder of his wounds. But that wasn’t the greatest ailment for him, no, the great war horse having faced far worse in combat in his millennia long life. It was the bleary exhaustion deep within his bones that had the greatest effect. 

Once powerful legs capable of pommeling heads off with a mere flex were barely able to support his own weight, often buckling when he found the motivation to walk. Each step felt as if he were carrying tons upon his back, muscles screamed for respite and the gaping hole in his hind leg only oozed more blood, spilling what precious energy he had to spare. His eyes drooped lazily, feeling heavier than lead. 

The promise of sleep was far too alluring to ignore, tempting even as his barely manageable stride slowed to a standstill. Maybe… just a few minutes wouldn’t be too bad to catch a breather. 

A humongous head drops low to the ground, whiskers barely brushing the dust littered concrete as heavy eyelids slid closed. Ruin’s shallow breathing became just the slightest bit more manageable, lost in the bliss of sweet darkness. 

Just a few minutes. 

Until the sound of faded footsteps echoed through the air, making Ruin’s ear prick up to the intruding noise. Too heavy for Prowlers, but lighter than a Trauma. Eyes snap open as they search for the culprit. Then, he spots it: Phantom Generals stalking through the scattered debris. 

A squad of four, the most decorated of the group confidently strode through the street, his lower ranking troops marching behind to bring up the rear. Otherwise, they seemed to be patrolling at a leisurely pace, almost caught up in their own personal bubble given the idle conversations passed betwixt them. 

“I’m tellin’ ya,” pipes up the blue skinned demon to the left, “the Arena is far more entertainin’ with nags against them brute hounds. Watchin’ them break open their skulls with their feet is more fun than watchin’ riders galavant against Traumas.” The purplish one with a broken horn huffs, swinging his axe in the air, smacking his comrade with the flat of his blade. 

“O’ course you enjoy the lesser entertainment you brainless brute!” The former hisses, “you wouldn’t know fine entertainment if it came and socked you in the jaw!” 

“You’re sayin’ that cause you lost that bet against the nag! Dogs never win!” He retorts with a snap, and the other snarls. 

“That big Hellhound was a good fighter! She had held her own against bigger threats than a rotten horse! That fight was rigged and you know it!” He defends himself, bristling indignantly.

Ruin’s ears strain at the conversation. Arena? Hounds? Bets? They were setting up fights for their simple entertainment?

“How was it rigged when the fight didn’t even finish when the beast escaped?” The blue barks. 

At this moment Ruin eyes the now closing in demons, not wanting to be caught up in their sights. If he knew anything, a demon capturing one of the Four’s steeds could do whatever he so wished. Slowly, he began to do his best to sneak past them, putting his energy into the lightest steps he’d ever managed before. 

“I still lost everything-!”

“QUIET!”

Ruin freezes, fearing his steps were heard. 

“I tire of your bellyaching,” the leader snaps, turning to face his troops who stare back, a perfect moment to run. 

“It matters not what coin you’ve lost, what matters is…”

Using the cover of his booming voice, Ruin bursts into a gallop, ignoring the roaring pain, the only importance was to keep himself from danger until he could regain some strength. 

Taking a quick glance back, the demons remain none the wiser. 

That is until he slams into an unseen pothole, upsetting his balance and he tumbled into an overturned barricade lined with barbed wire. Ruin crumples into a heap, groaning as the wire wraps around his body, catching onto his saddle. 

The sound of wood snapping reverberated through the broken street, damning as a bell at the gallows. In an act of self preservation Ruin all but throws himself to his feet, further tangling himself up, but otherwise undeterred to flee. However, his plans are dashed when he spots the squad charging his way, weapons drawn and battle cries performed. 

Heaving a sigh, Ruin flexes his legs to rest the pull of the wire, readying for a fight. 

———

You pull your beanie closer to your head, readjusting the fabric to hug your scalp and keep your unruly hair down in the humid night air. A sigh passes your lips as you traipse through a dilapidated neighborhood with the reward of your efforts in a wagon and currently on your back. 

A hoodie you managed to snag from a half caved-in clothing shop proved more useful than the raggedy old sweater you had kept from the beginning of the end of the world. In fact, it would probably prove most useful back in Haven. 

Haven. 

It had been not a few months ago when the giant- a Maker named Ulthane had came and whisked you and the rest of the ragtag group of survivors from a shabby makeshift camp in a parking lot behind some rundown hospital to his own sanctuary aptly named Haven. Haven was an improvement from the old camp. Solid walls over your heads instead of flimsy chain link fences and a leaky tarp roof, a bubbling river of lava to keep warm at night instead of weak fires and most importantly, the company of not one, but three protective Makers who could fight off what the camp never could together. 

But, just like any place, there was bound to be trouble in paradise. If a safe bunk could be called paradise.

In the coming months, weather got worse as the winter seasons bled into an approaching summer, unsuitable clothing was a problem and food reserves lasted so long. Old camp routines were thrown out the window as the Makers were wholly determined to keep everyone inside for our own protection. However they were unprepared to care for almost thirty humans. Needs weren’t being met as they were back in camp, there were hunters and gatherers to collect food, but with Ulthane’s intervention, he’d unintentionally cut off the only supply of resources. 

It wasn’t until the hunters wisely offered a proposal. Until Haven was properly situated, pens built for livestock and gardens made to support the community, scavenging would be allowed. Obviously Ulthane wasn’t on board, arguing the risks of dying were too great once outside the tree, but a grim counter argument was made. 

“We’re at risk now, we’ll starve to death. There’s no provisions, no gardens and no meat.”

It was a hard reality for Ulthane to accept, but eventually he caved in. 

Although there were conditions when leaving Haven. 

Each team sent out was to go in at least twos, everyone was to be armed at all times and to come back before dark. Essentially, the same rules as before but with a stricter curfew lest they be chased down and dragged back by a Maker. 

You had decided to join in on the scavenging cause, as you felt your contributions to the camp by arranging furniture and setting up a more livable space wasn’t enough. There was far more you could offer. So much more. The hunters could always have more hands on deck, although you weren’t exactly the most proficient at tracking you had a knack for sniffing out good caches. 

A plastic pull wagon chock full of clothes and blankets proved your skill. 

But there were a few more hours until sunset, and you wouldn’t return just yet, not when the streets were blissfully empty for the first time in weeks. Not a Prowler nor soaring Angel in sight. Just you and your wagon. 

And your assigned Hellhound. 

The hound was courtesy Grace, a teenage girl with an extraordinary gift for animals, especially demons. She had managed to domesticate a few wayward hounds into loyal companions that were repurposed to fit the needs of the settlement: namely impromptu therapy animals. 

It wasn’t until the proposal was made with Ulthane did she suggest having her pets be repurposed as guards for the hunters. Obviously the Maker didn’t take too well with the idea, even after she proved herself a wonderful trainer considering she’s made an especially fearsome airborne demon her own personal mount. 

Through her stubborn efforts, and endless training, Ulthane finally gave in with reluctance. 

So far, the hounds have proven themselves an invaluable asset. You’ve heard the stories of their hunting prowess, taking down any prey they came across. Now you’re not sure but you’re pretty sure you heard a tale of one hound assisting in taking down a Trauma. 

Upon your volunteering, you’d been directed to Grace to be provided a guard. Although the meeting was quite awkward as she wasn’t exactly the best at socializing, quite shy actually. Regardless she gave you a hound. 

You laughed when you heard his name was Pongo, such a silly name for a fearsome beast. She flushed furiously, but made no other comment. You meant no offense but she otherwise seemed unbothered. 

Pongo was by all means, a perfect companion. 

He was huge, his head nearly level with your shoulders which was a comfort to know his size could provide a modicum of protection. In his company alone you felt safer than with a dagger. He was always alert, sniffing out every dark corner and going in each room before you to check if the coast was clear. Never once has he ever left your side in the journeys you’ve made. 

Pongo even made an effort to assist in bringing in any interesting items to help in packing. He managed to drag a quilt to your side, albeit covered in his slobber, dirt and containing a few bite marks, his efforts were appreciated. 

Back to the present, you took your time to wander through the derelict neighborhood, shabby houses behind chain link fences. Dead grasses grow doggedly through the crushed concrete, the scent of rotted wood lies low in the air. Your eyes rove over the half destroyed homes, taking quick peeks through the destruction to observe the forgotten life in the homes. Broken furniture, dusty family portraits, upended garden supplies and rundown cars. 

Actually, the garden supplies might be useful. 

Turning on your heel, you jog to the house,  pushing the gate open as you go. Pongo keeps a brisk pace behind you, panting as he goes. You drop to your knees, investigating the array of gardening tools and what not: ceramic pots, windowsill planters, chicken wire, ripped bags of fertilizer, wire cutters, and your heart stops, unbelieving in your luck. Soggy, but unopened bags of seeds. 

Vegetable seeds. 

Lettuce, corn, carrots and potatoes. 

You’re almost sobbing with relief as you pick up the paper bags, fingers holding them with great delicacy as if they’d turn to dust. This could be the break Haven needs. Staple foods was what the settlement needed. 

Turning to the wagon, you put the seeds down and dump all the clothes to the ground, uncaring about the dirt staining it. All you can think about is the promise of food, familiar food. The mere memory of carrots and potatoes nearly has you in tears. Pongo harrumphs from his spot, keeping watch while you rolled your sleeves and began to work. 

Time in the apocalypse has made you strong, survival dictating hard labor as a way to live. Luxuries are a myth now. Once upon a time you would’ve struggled to lift a bag of near fifty pound dirt. Now, you could lift two with only a hiccup of trouble. Packing away the tools, you do a once over of the pots, most of them broken or too big to fit without having to leave the clothes behind. You made the hard decision to leave the pots behind, returning the clothes to the wagon stop the newly acquired supplies. Before you could forget, you stuff the seeds in the foraging canvas bag hanging from your belt loop, not wanting to take risks of the seeds being dislodged in your own pockets. 

The apocalypse made a cautious creature out of you. 

Snapping the buttons together, you pat the bag to ensure it was secure, then after completing the ritual, you trudged forward with your newly acquired treasures. Pulling the wagon required more effort than before, and you noted now might be a good time to head back to Haven as the sun was hanging low to the west. Maybe two hours max until dark. 

Whistling for Pongo, the Hellhound obediently returns to your side curiously sniffing the wagon as you trudged out of the yard and into the street. 

A good note to end the night on. 

Until you heard a thunderous crack resonate through the still air, breaking the peace. Your heart lurches into your throat as muscles tense on instinct, ready to bolt at the nearest sign of danger. Pongo too picks up on your apprehension, falling into a readied stance as he growls so deep it rumbles in your chest. 

Unconsciously your eyes search for the source, desperate to put a face to the sound either friend or foe. A reason to turn tail or investigate. 

There-!

In the distance by the old demolished gas station there was a flurry of commotion. You have to squint to catch the movement in the considerable distance and you’re not sure you like what you see. 

A horse, an absolute monster, is currently going head to head with a group of demons. For just a second you believed it was holding their own considering how fierce it was fighting. It wasn’t until it turned around to kick with huge hind legs did your heart drop with horror. The left leg, the back one was devoid of any flesh, exposing the muscles. Thoughts immediately began to race through your head at breakneck speed. 

‘Why were they attacking it? Why was the leg torn up the way it is? Should I even intervene?’

Pongo’s teeth firmly tugging on your hoodie sleeve suggests you should. ‘Just run from the danger,’ your logical brain supplies, ‘we have a chance of escape without being seen!’ Pongo pulls again, more urgent than before as if he knew what your brain was thinking and he was agreeing. 

But you couldn’t find yourself to move, as if you’d been frozen in place as your feet were willful in keeping stationary. It felt as if all of your fear, instinctual self preservation from thousands of years had just vanished. In that moment, you were just… conflicted. 

An unbearable feeling worms its way into your chest and settles like a weight between your lungs. The heaviness almost makes your stomach churn the more you watch the battle unfold. For a second, the world bled away into a blurred combination of dull color, leaving only you and the horse to stand against the haze. 

As he fought, you could see the desperation for survival in each kick, hear the rage within his bellowing cries, to win a losing battle. High odds stacked against him in such a sorry state, unsympathetic to his plight. The winning hands three surviving demons encircling like lions on a fresh kill. 

Within those few precious seconds, you swore you saw fear warping his face. 

Heat rose from your body like an oppressive wave, skin prickling uncomfortably the more you watched. 

You didn’t even hear Pongo’s yelp as you surged forward, reaching for your machete as you ran with newfound power. 

Now, you consider yourself a fairly moderate planner at best. If you had asked your family or friends to describe you to a stranger, the first thing they’d probably say was that you weren’t the one to jump headfirst into any situation without at least weighing out your options. Taking the safe route was always how you functioned, deciding that your welfare was better than some impromptu journey with unknown twists and turns. Risks weren’t your strong suit. 

You could live for a century and never discover the truth as to what possessed you to abandon your common senses and run. 

Perhaps still on the high of anger or some stupid self-indulgence caged within your ribs, but you don’t hold back the primal scream that erupts from your throat. 

“GET AWAY!” 

It wasn’t until the demon’s head swerved right onto you did you realize you had no plan whatsoever. Shit. 

Unfortunately, there was no going back. You knew this best, as did Pongo. The hound took up his spot as your side as the demons watched you scamper away to a more protected spot, the well decorated one barking an order and pointing at you. One broke away from the group whilst the other two remained. 

But it seemed that in their distraction the horse took advantage, smartly pommeling the leader in the head, bringing him down to his back. 

He seems to be doing just fine.

Back to yourself, you could only readjust the grip in the machete handle as you try to put some space between you and the purplish demon. “Shit, shit shit shit!” Is all you manage to say while eyeing an imposing axe nearly big as your own torso. He thumbs the blade with a devilish grin, enjoying the easy pickings. 

Briefly you look behind him to see the stalking shape of Pongo, hackles raised as his tongue laps at his chops, ready for the kill. You keep backing up, not once looking behind you to give him the advantage, not even to notice a pile of bottles lying not so innocently. 

It isn’t until your foot nudges the glass did you make your fatal mistake of following instinct. Your heart beats wildly when you put yourself in mortal danger as your head turns to find the tiny culprit, realizing you’ve given him the opening. 

Whipping your head to face him, the demon is lunging straight at you full speed, eyes glinting with sick satisfaction. It wasn’t until looking at those otherworldly, glowing eyes did you snap back into reality, fear grounding you. 

Just as he was about to probably trample you, a plan emerges in the span of a second. In a split-second decision, you throw yourself to the side just barely brushing by him before crashing to the ground. Immediately pushing yourself into wobbly legs, you skitter away from the demon who has just eaten shit by slipping on the glass bottles that break under his weight. A tittering laugh bubbles from your lips, unbelieving of the scene before your own eyes especially as Pongo pounces on him, tearing into him with ferocious protective vigor. 

You watch in fascinated horror as you’ve never seen Pongo at work before. In fact, you’ve never seen an animal attack a person in your old life, so what can you do but balk?

Pongo’s huge paws the size of dinner plates lean all his weight on the demon’s shoulder and back, pinning him down as he could do nothing but flail his arms in hopes of bucking him off. A savage snarl emits from him as the demon fought, giving him a retaliatory bite to the head, earning himself a shout. 

Your head turns to the duo left behind after he screams, hoping that it wasn’t audible from where they stood as it was quite piercing. So far, their attention wasn’t towards you so it was safe to assume they didn’t notice. But it didn’t stop you from gripping your machete nervously, adrenaline fueling your veins. Turning back, you can’t believe the sight unfolding. 

The overgrown canines long as your forearm protruding from Pongo’s lipless mouth stab into the struggling demon's neck with an audible squelch. The monster below Pongo falls still with death, gurgling on his blood as the hound sinks his teeth in further, holding still to ensure the kill is complete. A strange sound pulls from your throat, sympathetically, your own hand shoots up to protect your own neck.

“Good boy.” You say, hand still on your throat as Pongo turns to glow under the praise.

You don’t forget the still very real danger at your back, instead taking the opportunity to face the demons and observe them. Pick apart the team and exploit the weak link through Pongo. So far, you don’t appreciate what you’re seeing.

Now closer to the horse you can now see barbed wire tangling up his legs, cutting his skin and digging into the muscle. With each rear, every powerful strike he delivers the wire only cuts in deeper, tearing him more and worsening his already terrible posture. It wouldn’t be long before he cuts off blood supply to his limbs, or pulls the wire tight enough to where he can’t move judging by the lack of the wires give.

Although he seemed to be doing fine fighting alone, this irksome feeling of leaving him to his unknown fate didn’t sit well with you. You have the ability and the extra muscle to help, so what’s stopping you? Some self preservation that ultimately decided to return now instead of at the first sign of demons?

A despondent feeling pulls at your heartstrings at the thought of leaving. It seems that even if there’s conflict in your mind, your spirit can’t bear the thought of running away.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever done? Something hisses in your ear, dragging you back to half forgotten times with your social circle.

Calculated risks or cowards' way out? The voice taunts, ‘You’ve done nothing but take the easy route. Will you take it now?’

No. Your teeth grit into a tight vice, shoving away the condescending voice. I’m not going anywhere.

Opening the canvas bag you shove your hand into the pack, sifting through the seeds and other miscellaneous junk you’d stowed away for safe keeping. Fingers then curl around a blissfully familiar shape of round plastic, and a hideously bright pink color when you fish it out.

Pepper spray.

It was one of the many other items you’d come across on your scavenging, although you’ve never tested it on a person, you knew it was blessedly full during a test run. Briefly, whilst uncapping the nozzle, your mind flies back to the machete, weighing the options. A machete was close range, and you’d rather not become a human kebab. You’ve read that pepper sprays can have a range of almost 20 feet.

No better time than the present to test that theory.

‘This has got to be the worst plan I’ve ever thought of’ you think, eyeballing the exposed legs of the demons, internally cringing when you realize these creatures don’t wear shoes. Gross. But this would work to your advantage.

Finger on the trigger, you look to the closest demon with his back to you, closing in on the horse. Pongo plods to your side, mimicking your poised stance he raises his hackles, growling vehemently.

“When he goes down,” you order, Pongo’s ears flitting to pick the command, listening intently, “sic’ ‘em.”

Like a bullet, you take off on powerful legs, Pongo close to your side as you release a scream shrill as a bell. The sound is near deafening as both demons and horse stop to find the source, which was you hurtling their way. Good, you’ve garnered their attention.

The closest, the blue one, decidedly broke away from his partner to snarl down at you with crooked fangs. You too pull your lips back to expose your far less impressive teeth, which he bristled at the sight of. Unintentionally or not, he left his guard down in taking offense to your display.

Which makes all the more sweeter when the yellowish mist douses his unsuspecting face, and settles right into his big beady eyes. The scream he releases was nothing you’ve ever heard before in your years. Good, at least you knew that even demons aren’t immune to chemical repellents.

While he was still temporarily blinded, you duck low to the ground to slip under his arms that are flying up to wipe away the residue. Now to his back, you bring the machete level with his ankle and brace yourself for what came next as you slice through his Achilles heel. The reaction is instantaneous, as he crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Once, you would’ve fainted at the mere thought of inflicting a modicum of harm to another, not even in the instance of self defense. Especially serrated steel. Although it still makes you queasy, making your gut tie in knots, you’ve learned to cope.

Although demons are tough to kill, they are not without weakness, especially as bipedal creatures. You can’t fight back if your own body can’t support itself.

Pongo doesn’t give him a moment of respite, instantly throwing all his weight into a tackle, instantly reaching for his exposed neck when his head collided on hard concrete.

You waste no time in watching the show, you refocus on the last target dead ahead. Gulping down air to soothe your aching lungs, the dawning realization of the ludicrous plan sent an unconscious laugh through your system. Almost crazed, you look up to the last standing monster but don’t like what you find. He’s red in the face, and staring you down hatefully as he towers over you.

Panicked, you scramble to your feet, readying to spray him now and repeat the whole process- but he’s steps ahead of you when he slams his gauntleted arm into your shoulder, shoving you several feet away into a gas pump. The air is expelled from your lungs upon the impact and the split-second your vision blurs is when you make the biggest mistake possible when the grip on the pink can is lost, hurtling out of reach.

Between gasps, you clutch the no doubt now bruised shoulder while fighting away the creeping exhaustion. Adrenaline was weaning away and working against you in a now high hazard scenario. The scene only exacerbated with the general now stalking towards you in a confident swagger, sneering at his luck.

Weaponless, hurt and cornered isn’t exactly what you had in mind, cursing softly when you attempt to push yourself to your knees, effectively stopped by your dizziness. Between hazy thoughts and unfocused vision you stare ahead, losing yourself to the pain blooming across your skin. You’re certain it’ll leave one hell of a bruise. Ulthane’ll pitch a fit when he sees-if he sees, considering you might not make it out alive tonight.

Oh, such happy thoughts.

You suck in a breath through your teeth, hissing when you spot your machete just out of the realm of your feeble reach. Instantly your mind scrabbles for a backup plan, reminding you of the option to simply running, but doubt creeps in as your brain oh so wonderfully conjures an image of you being cleaved by an axe as soon as your back is exposed.

Yes, thank you brain, that’s so helpful!

Suddenly like a slug to the face, a wave of sobriety hits your brain, supplying you with the valuable info you needed. Pongo. He’d know what to do. Your heart is thrumming like a jackrabbit caged within your ribs, beating its feet against the confines of a bony prison. You’re almost elated through the dulled panic.

Pulling yourself to lean on the gas pump, your lips purse together to release a shrill whistle, cutting through the thick air like a knife. You hoped for an answer in the shape of a huge demonic hound-

W H A M !

An unimaginable force slams itself right on your belly, expelling whatever air remains leaving you to gape breathlessly. A cold and unmistakably sharp object wedges itself just at your neck, barely grazing the soft flesh. Although dazed you recognize the sensation of the axe to your neck and his foot resting on your lap, pinning you down completely.

A face comes to fill your sight, rather ugly at that with his lipless face and sharp teeth akin to a shark's grin. You might’ve gagged at the scent of his rancid breath, which he only growls at, clearly offended.

“You lowly ape,” he growls, spittle flying from his crooked maw, “think you can get the best o’ me?! Just fo’ killing my boys I’ll see you as hound bait in the arena!” The threat makes you swallow, but the mere flex of muscles in your throat gently nicks the soft flesh. Your nose curls in distaste at his smell the closer he leans in to glare you down with those glowing, pupil-less eyes.

It never occurred to you how frightening staring at a creature who had no discernible pupil or whites. Just one endless color. What made these creatures so much more unearthly was how there was no reflection in their eyes, so you couldn’t even see the terror written across your features. But unlike him, human eyes did mirror what they saw.

In this case, he could barely make out a livid Hellhound charging straight his way.

Turning his head, the general saw Pongo soaring right at him with open arms and an even wider jaw, roaring the whole way. Frantic, you shove away at the axe, but barely manage to move it a few inches before you duck under the tiny opening but not without scraping your chin on the blade’s edge.

Just as you slide away from the beast, Pongo slams his full weight right into his target. A scuffle immediately follows afterwards between the demonic beings. Throwing a cursory glance back to see Pongo with the poll in his mouth, attempting to rip the weapon away in a deadly game of tug o’ war.

Distracted, you don’t notice the sole of your boot step on the blade of the machete, upsetting your balance making you slip onto the concrete, rolling painfully the whole way. A groan makes its way out your mouth whilst trying to reorient yourself in the world that spins around you. These dizzy spells were certainly getting old real quick.

As the scuffle continues in the background you crack an eyelid open, the dying light gently piercing your retinas. Blinking you spot the pink spray bottle just inches from your nose, scuffed but otherwise intact. Grabbing the can, you peel yourself from the street, groaning as you feel the debris embedded to your flesh loosen up.

“Fuck.” You swear there’s some scrape or cut hidden under the fabric of the jacket sleeve considering the quite linear sting running up your forearm.

Quickly you return to the main conflict at hand rerouting your gaze to Pongo currently caught in a wrestling match, his opponent disarmed. It was a losing fight as the demon had the advantage of thumbs and kept his upper body aloft, just out of reach of his imposing teeth. He snaps at him, teeth clacking dangerously but he merely snarls.

Once more your veins are pounding furiously, blood roaring in your ears as you take off in a max dash. You’ve had enough of this rather drawn out game and you’re putting an end to it now. In one fell swoop your arm swings down to scoop up the discarded machete in one clean motion, and if you weren’t focused on survival you’d actually be impressed with yourself.

Primed to attack, your finger is itching to spray his ass, completely past the realm of caring.

Just as you get close, your arm reaching up to level with the demons face-

A huge muzzle not belonging to Pongo strikes at his head, teeth sinking into flesh as his balance is lost. Immediately you try to backpedal, staggering at the display before you.

It indeed wasn’t Pongo, but the horse who was currently tearing the leathery flesh off the demon's face. What irks you isn’t the gore that is currently unfolding before your own eyes with a front row view, but rather the savage, unmerciful way he attacks, fueled with rage. And are those pointed canines you spot on what is supposed to be an herbivore?

Now ever since the Apocalypse you’ve seen your own fair share of things no living thing was ever supposed to witness. Especially in the twenty-first century. You’ve watched strangers in the streets disemboweled, seen the hunters field strip their kills and witnessed an Angel be removed of his wings. All in all, you could say you’ve been desensitized.

But you cannot doubt the wave of nausea that hits you as bile rises from your esophagus, appalled by the sight of a deformed face being crushed under hooves. The closest sound you could associate to was a melon being stabbed by a knife. Some things just weren’t meant to be witnessed by human eyes and ears.

But in the end, whether you like it or not, it was all over. He was dead.

There was however one new problem before you in the form of the horse currently staring you down over the corpse. It’s then you realize that this was no ordinary beast.

Briefly you wonder.