Work Text:
The time just after they shed their heritage and become the horsemen is brutal, all of them too raw from the sudden new powers and the loss of their brothers and sisters that, despite their flaws, were still dear to them. Where Strife and Death have bickered before, they are now outright fighting, mostly without drawing their weapons, sometimes it is unavoidable though. Fury is left to pick up Strife’s pieces after each and every time, while Death disappears for days on end.
Their unity is frayed and trust is lost with every word that goes unsaid. War knows that, from the sidelines, it would be easy to resolve their issues; get them all together, talk – hell – brawl things out if must be. Despite his youth, he was known in the Nephilim ranks to sort through the issues of those serving under him like no other. That side still sees all their problems, zeroes in on ways to untangle them, to get to the root and weed it out. But he feels powerless. It is ironic; he is given the power to rise above even the firstborn of his race, yet he is utterly helpless when it comes to this.
All of them were changed by the events, not only outwardly, but also their very essence. War feels it himself; where there was a burning drive for combat and the thrill of a good hunt, there is now this all-consuming rage and bloodlust that he has a hard time ruling in sometimes. It helps to blow off some steam in the more secluded places of creation, Chaoseater shivering in his hand, hungry, so hungry, always. The Charred Council does not like it very much, possibly terrified that he will someday turn on what he is supposed to protect, like he is some unpredictable, unruly child that needs constant surveillance.
War suspects it’s similar for all of them. For Fury, the changes are subtle; she could be a bossy, moody asshole before all this. She still cares about them, but she smiles less of her little, private smiles that were only reserved for their small, chosen family. What War thought was only a hard mask that she displayed in front of the other Nephilim before is now firmly in place even around them and it gets harder each day to make her drop it. They still talk though, sometimes for nights and days; privilege, now that they do not need to rest as much as before. She talks of the same things War himself feels regularly now; of the guilt that comes with being responsible for the Nephilim’s eradication, with being one of the last ones of a powerful and proud race, of questioning whether they chose the right path, of deep rooted fear that they will drift from one another, buried under their responsibilities and duties and the Balance. It is those times that the mask falls and she is just the same woman that he started calling his sister when he was but a youngling. Then, her smiles return and her head is held higher.
When Death is around, Strife now only has sarcastic and vicious bite to offer. There is scarcely a conversation between them that does not involve taunts and his vile tongue. Strife has always been observant and perceptive; a gift among the Nephilim to tell friend from foe and a friendly quip from malicious intent. It is why his words cut as harshly as they do. He knows where to hit to make it hurt, but, knowing him, it is only to cover up his own dripping wounds by inflicting them on others. He blames Death. It does not seem to matter for what anymore. For the guilt that weighs on all their shoulders, for their powers that come with the price of losing their freedom and pride to serve the Council, for using them for his own ends, for the chasm that grows ever larger amidst their family. While War is the youngest, Strife has not been with them for long. He has never established the same unshakable trust in Death as Fury or War and what little trust was budding between them was crushed mercilessly, when they all turned on Absalom and their kin. War knows Strife would never betray them, too deeply runs his friendship with Fury and him and that this binds him to their group irrevocably. Privately, that badly wounded, young Nephilim that Fury and War rescued from an ambush during one of their numerous battles and brought into their family still exists. As has always been, he is more open with Fury because some things, like Strife’s not so secret infatuation with their sister, will probably never change.
Given time, War is sure the three of them will come around again, learn to handle their new selves and their past sins because they have each other to rely on. They chose this path for a reason, to end the senseless slaughter, to preserve the Balance.
It is Death, who War really worries about. They have known each other longer than any of the others; it was Death, who found his chosen brother, when War was too small to remember the circumstances. But he remembers a battlefield and Death, glorious and victorious, covered in blood and gore, his eyes wide as they fall upon him and his deep gravelly voice asking him, “Are you hurt, young one?”. It is his earliest and most vivid memory. He can still feel the cold of the icy deserts seeping into his bones and the clutch of hopelessness that gripped his heart then. War owes Death more than he can repay in his lifetime, not only but also for saving his life so many times the younger had stopped counting long ago.
After slaying Absalom, by then last of his kin except for them, Death chose to cover his face with the now ever-present skull mask that soon became his trademark. While he was never talkative before, Death is now downright silent, withdrawn and distant. Most of the time even War does not know what he is thinking or implying if he chooses to speak. He travels a lot; be it for the Council on some mission or without any explanation at all. The youngest suspects his brother is desperately searching for something he dares not to share with any of them. It hurts, but he understands. Among all of them, Death is the only one that will not talk about it and it is that which worries War immeasurably. They are all warriors, stronger than any among creation, but they are also proud and pride was the downfall of their entire race.
His heavy boots clink loudly and the sound echoes through the roomy stone hallway of their home. When they were given this realm by the Council to retreat and spend the days when there was nothing that needed active balancing, it was little more than a huge water planet with oddly floating rocks drifting through the air. The irony is bitter and heavy on them; that for which Absalom and their brothers and sisters fought and died, given freely to them now. A realm of their own, no matter how shattered and broken it may seem, that was what the Nephilim had always wanted. This realm had clearly been populated at one point, remnants of ancient buildings, tools and scrolls scattered about the many drifting rocks, more of them lost to the roaring oceans beneath. One of these ancient buildings now harbours them, the rocky formation it is nestled upon as large as a small island. The original structures, stones upon stones, damaged but not irreparably so. It hums with magic long forgotten and with times long past; something powerful must have lived here and left its trace on this realm far beyond its own lifespan.
The rain is crashing down heavily on the high ceilings, the sound reflected by the still blank and bleak stone walls and War is acutely reminded to thank Strife for finally fixing the leaky roofs. Here in this realm, they do not possess their otherworldly powers, it is a place to return to, not to wreck with underestimating their punches or temper. It is a good thing, he muses as he follows the wet footprints on the floor; like this, they will not accidentally destroy this place. And if somebody drops by to take it from then… well, they are still Nephilim, even without the Charred Council.
The castle is large enough that they can evade each other if need be and still War sees Fury and Strife every day, milling about, fixing little things, training or getting ready for a mission for the Council. Death, though, seems adamant to slip in and out in between his journeys, always occupying a different room in a different part of the castle. Sometimes, like today, he leaves trails. Deliberately because War knows that the older Nephilim will only be found if he wants to. The puddles lead him past the staircase that coils up to the spire that was almost completely destroyed when they got here to the southern end of the castle. He stops in front of a door that is slightly ajar. A faint, sickly greenish glow pours onto the stone floor from within and War enters without knocking; knowing Death, he already felt War was coming before the younger even decided he wanted to see his brother.
Death is by the window, staring off into the distance. He has shed his armour in favour of some more casual wear. The room is illuminated only by the light of the amulet that his brother now never lets out of his sight. Where and when he acquired it, War cannot say. He certainly did not have it when they were still with their fellow Nephilim, but whether the Council gave it to him or he found the artefact elsewhere, this only Death himself knows.
“Brother,” he says, where they rarely needed words before. His chest aches with the realisation. “You are back.” War cringes inwardly at his futile attempts of small talk. Normally, he is above all this, down to business, but this situation, he does not know how to handle. At first, Death does not answer, his body rigid and still as stone, when he does though, his voice is deep and raspy from disuse.
“Do you… sometimes regret it?” he asks and turns. His face is bare for once, the mask forgotten next to the amulet on the wooden table, which is the only furniture in the room beside the old bed. His expression betrays nothing though, as if the skull mask is still firmly in place; his eyes trace over War’s face, searching for something.
“Never.” War answers with such conviction and force that a flicker of emotion passes over Death’s face and stays there: surprise. But also gratitude and grief, so much grief. “It was the right decision, brother.” a pause, then softly, “This is not your burden, it’s ours.”
Something inside the older Nephilim seems to loosen at that and his shoulders sag and relax. He does not avert his fiery eyes that still roam over his brother like he sees him for the first time in years. Then he glances over to the table and War follows his gaze. His unspoken question regarding the amulet hangs between them and Death sighs, deeply and heavily; the same sigh that reminds War acutely of the time when he asked what their sisters and brothers were doing after a particularly good fight, engaging in activities of a different physical kind. The sigh that says it is something his brother does not want to talk about, but will anyway.
“This amulet, it…” Death starts after a moment of silence and contemplation, “It contains the souls of the dead.” A flicker of pain passes over his face and before War can ask about it, the other holds up his bony hand to silence him. “Not just some souls. Their souls, brother. I couldn’t…” he stops there, his eyes leaving the green amulet and focus solely on his youngest and closest brother again. His black fringe hides most of his face, but his eyes beseech War.
He stares for a moment and then some more. He remembers the Council’s words from that day like he is still reliving it. Eradicate the wretched Nephilim race for they are a threat to the Balance. It echoed through his head during the battle, when he felled the ones he would have given his life for before; occasionally, it still does. He suspected their souls had passed on, to where all souls in Creation return to. His eyes drift towards the amulet, pulsing its ever-green light into the otherwise rapidly darkening room. Outside, the rain is still falling and the wind is still blowing and their small island is still floating, yet War feels bereft for several moments.
It takes a lot of work to open his dry mouth and answer finally. “You mean, they…” he looks at Death imploringly. “You kept their souls.” he states haltingly and watches the older Nephilim as he watches him in return. What he finds in those burning eyes has War’s features soften gradually. “You would not see them gone entirely. It is why you kept them.”
Death huffs disdainfully, “When you put it like that, it sounds like pure sentiment.”
“Is it not?”
The older Nephilim is quiet for a spell, scrutinising the amulet as if it holds all the answers to all his questions. “I suppose it is.” he allows, a ghost of a smile stealing over his thin, pale lips. “Absalom would have my head for all this emotional bullshit.” he grinds out, equal parts upset and not. War suspects it also still hurts him, like it does for all of them.
“Good thing you had his first.” The younger shrugs his shoulders at the almost scandalised look his brother gives him. Quiet settles over them, only disturbed by the rainfall and storms raging about outside. It is War, who breaks it.
“When you asked us to follow you that day, brother, it was the right decision.” he says, watching Death’s shoulders hitch and his breath falter for a moment. Leave it to War to always hit home, when Strife is not around. But his words do not cut but soothe his aching soul. “We followed you because it was the right thing to do, not because you persuaded or forced us. We trusted you and you did not betray that trust, no matter what you think and what Strife tells himself.” He lets the words settle in before he continues, “It hurts all of us because it was no easy decision, but the right one nevertheless. It is good to grieve, but remember we all carry this weight with you.”
“When did you become so wise, young one?” A smile flickers over Death’s face and stays there, wavering, as he uses the nickname he gave War all those eons ago when they first met each other.
“I had a good teacher.” the younger offers and Death just laughs, that deep, raspy sound like rusty chains dragging over a dungeon’s floor, but in that moment, it lightens War’s heart to hear it again.
The moment stays between them, both aware of how fragile this peace is. Soon, Death will leave for Creator knows where, or he will stay and Strife will needle his way into the hurt until he leaves anyway. Afterwards, Strife will feel sorry about it, but too proud and broken to acknowledge or apologise and Fury will scream and rage at both of them. All while War will be preoccupied with venting and suppressing the all-consuming rage boiling within him and powerless to help them. But right now, they are fine and it’s worth savouring.
∞
It is when he lies in his bed, in pain and hurting and the room so dark and the storm outside rattling the windows and the very foundation of their castle, that he is reminded of that moment. His arm is alight with pain that cannot be felt because that arm is no longer there. War’s mind vividly replays the moment he raised Chaoseater against Fury, over and over and over again. Looping until he feels caught and trapped with no chance to escape. His anger is not even an excuse for doing that to his sister, for almost killing her, when she, when all of them, tried to bring him back, return him to reason as he was blindly slaughtering an army, whose allegiance he cannot for the life of him remember. Angels? Demons? Hell, mankind? He just does not know, did not know when Chaoseater cut through their flesh and bathed in their blood alongside his wielder. It was exhilarating and lying there, watching and listening to the rain fall, he cannot help but shudder at the monstrosity that reared its head inside of him then. Death had stopped him before he could harm Fury, but the second his sword had cut through his chosen brother’s flesh he had awoken from his murderous trance. The horror sits deeply rooted inside his chest, seeing his brother impaled on Chaoseater like in so many of his nightmares. He deserved Death’s punishment and deserves so much more.
His left shoulder is throbbing insistently under the heavy bandage Strife put on him under Fury’s critical eye. Nobody spoke a word after they returned home and nobody stopped him when he retreated to his room. He does not know how long it has been since then, but the sun has risen and the storm has passed, so he suspects it has been quite some time.
The door creaks, announcing a visitor and waking him from his musings. It’s Fury. She hesitates for the blink of an eye, but it is enough to make him flinch and stay absolutely still as not to startle her. She softens then and walks towards his sleeping place in quick but measured strides. The invitation to sit passes wordlessly between them and she does, her magenta hair flowing with a non-existent breeze. There’s a smile donning her full lips that tells him they are fine. She takes his good hand, just holds it loosely and talks. Talks, like they are back right after they had slain their kin and were broken and lost in the aftermath. Talks about Strife finally repairing the stables after Conquest destroyed half of them last week, about Death helping him and showing off with his climbing, about the horses idly standing by and watching their riders with fond resignation and she swears they do because they are all highly intelligent beasts, probably more so than their riders. Fury jumps from topic to topic and it is the most they have talked in some time, everybody equally busy with fulfilling tasks for the Council. War answers, haltingly at first, unsure of how to handle her like this, when he expected anger and mistrust. But she is patient with him and they end up spending all daylight with talking or sitting in comfortable silence.
“Do not despair over this, brother.” Fury says finally, when she redresses his wound and leaves it at that. She silences him when he wants to apologise and ushers him out of the room and along the numerous, maze-like hallways into the garden, where Strife lazes about in the setting sun, while Death is over at the little open workshop he set up some years back. She makes him sit next to Strife, who nods curtly at him and then lazes some more without saying much. The evening passes and it all feels so normal between them that, for a moment, he is not sure, whether anything even happened, if it wasn’t for his missing left arm.
Before they return inside, Death calls him over and presents him with a prototype arm to replace the one he lost. The apology for what happened goes unspoken but still understood between them.
“We carry this weight with you, young one.” the older says, repeating War’s words from all those years back, when he despaired over their past and future, and it is all War needs to hear. He nods and glances over as Strife and Fury approach.
They are the four horsemen, they serve the Charred Council and keep the Balance of Creation. They carry this burden, this blessing and this curse. And they are in this together.