Chapter Text
“Bloody, bastardin’ Destroyer n’ his bloody, bastard Hellspawn!”
The rare taste of his own blood swills around in Ulthane’s mouth like a rancid wine before he vehemently spits a thick globule of it out onto the tarmac below his boots.
It’s a flavour he could have done without ever having to taste again, frankly.
A veritable torrent of the life-giving liquid gushes from the maker’s nose and dribbles down into his beard, though not before some of it manages to slip between his bared teeth and settles once more upon the tip of his tongue, replacing that which he'd just spat out.
Poised in a battle-ready stance, Ulthane BlackHammer stands at the base of the Maker Tree with his namesake clutched firmly between two, meaty fists, snarling like a wild beast at his assailants.
Traumas. With a capital ‘T.’
It would be bad enough luck to run into one of the hulking demons.
And it’d be exceptionally bad luck to run into a pair of them.
Ulthane, however, supposes he must have done something pretty heinous to piss off the almighty Stonefather, because it isn’t just one Trauma that’s ventured far too close to the Tree for comfort… It isn’t even a pair of them.
Nope.
He gets triplets.
Three of the largest demons that Hell has at its disposal have been drawn to the base of Ulthane’s sanctuary like fat, fleshy ants to a human-scented buffet.
It’s a transgression the surly, old maker couldn’t rightly ignore.
Demons sniffing about so close to his territory, threatening the safety and peace of mind of the humans he’s ushered into the Maker Tree… It’s enough to make his blood boil.
There was only one when he stepped out on the overhang yesterday and looked down at the city square that sits hundreds of feet below the Tree’s hollow.
He’d sincerely hoped that it would move on and leave over the course of the day.
It hadn’t.
Instead, the damn thing had been joined by a second Trauma, which, in turn, prompted the two to have a scuffle for authority.
It was only a matter of time before the humans heard their roars.
After that…
Well. Ulthane had heard stories about how many humans are empathetic little creatures, but he was still stunned at how quickly they’d cottoned on to the maker’s unease.
Try as he might to remain unaffected by the very big, very dangerous demons sniffing about near the tree’s hidden elevator, somehow, the humans were able to sense something was amiss within minutes.
It was one human in particular who first approached him to voice the group’s suspicion.
Of course, it would be you.
Ulthane would never admit to playing favourites, but of the five humans that he, Elanya and Yarin have rescued thus far, you’re the one he’s taken a rather notable shine to.
There’s no real rhyme nor reason to it. Perhaps he just finds you to be good company, especially on those quiet, lonely evenings when his fellow makers are conversing with the other humans in their alcove, and Ulthane is left to stew in his own guilt, agonising over mistakes he can never take back, but would, if given half a chance. At the time, he never would have fathomed that he’d grow so eager to hear the dainty taps of your shoes as you trotted down from the alcove to sit with him while he hammers away at his lump of shapeless stone.
Sometimes, you would ask about his home. Sometimes, he would ask about yours. You would be more than happy to fill the silence between the creaking tree branches and leaves rustling outside the Tree's hollow, something Ulthane appreciates more than you could possibly know. More than you'll ever have to know. Perhaps you only ramble on to distract yourself from thinking about the state of your world, but in doing so, you inadvertently give the maker a reprieve from his own thoughts as well. Then, as the evening would inevitably draw to a close, you’d ask him if there was anything you could do to help.
His response would always be the same.
A gentle ‘no,’ spoken fondly - a softness he reserves for the scarce few.
Still, you offer every night, just in case he’d changed his mind.
Ulthane likes you.
Perhaps even more than he should...
So when you came to him, wringing your hands and sending nervous glances towards the tree’s entrance, asking him if those giant demons would be able to get in… he decided it was high time he went on the offensive.
If the Traumas wouldn’t leave of their own accord, he’d have to go out and do a little pest control.
He left to kill two Traumas.
He never expected to get blind-sided by a third.
“Crafty bastard,” the maker snarls, swiping a burly forearm underneath his nose as he glares hatefully between the three demons, all of whom have him backed against the tree’s vast trunk.
Ulthane gnashes his tusks at the largest – a massive brute, larger than most traumas, with a scarred, bulging chest and tawny skin that stretches awkwardly across round, rippling muscles. Only moments ago, it had been the one that came at him from his flank as he focused on swinging his hammer at the initial pair.
A lucky shot for the Trauma.
Not so lucky for the maker though, whose broad nose cracked under the massive paw that struck his face with the force of a cannon ball.
Maker bones don’t break easily. They’re the sturdiest in creation. And yet he knows, he knows damn well that something had cracked when it hit him.
The Trauma hasn’t just wounded his face, but his pride has taken a beating as well.
Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have worried. Three traumas versus the Black Hammer?
Child’s play.
He’s faced dicier odds than this in his extensive life.
There is, however, a problem he hadn't foreseen.
A broken nose wouldn’t usually be enough to take a maker like him out of commission. The challenge here, is that the initial break had been enough to leave his vision swimming.
There’s an agony in the bone behind his eyes that forces him to squint through tears, blinking fiercely to try and abate the build-up of moisture squeezing past his lashes and turning his field of view blurry and distorted.
The demons have near enough blinded him.
He blinks again, giving his head a rough shake that only serves to send his vision skew-whiff again.
“Argh! C’mon, you over-grown bastards!” he growls at the closest blob, “I’ve scrapped with pigeons fiercer n’ you!”
The goading works a little too well.
All three of the traumas hurtle into motion as one, bellowing mass, lumbering for the maker with their colossal arms raised, ready to come crashing down on top of him.
But Ulthane, though at a disadvantage, is far from an easy target.
Squaring his shoulders, the giant gives a hard blink, briefly bringing the world around him back into focus.
The first beast hurls its fists down hard, and Ulthane only just escapes having his skull crushed by ducking hastily to the side and letting his shoulder take the brunt of the blow instead, wincing in pain, while at the same time, he sweeps his hammer into a tremendously powerful uppercut.
Just as the second Trauma bears down on him the front, his weapon’s solid edge slams into the underside of its chin, snapping its head up with an ugly, gruesome ‘crack!’ that stops it in its tracks.
The force of Ulthane’s blow knocks the demon backwards and sends it crashing to the ground, causing the city square to tremble under the force of the heavy landing. Hateful, poison-yellow eyes stare blindly up at the sunny sky overhead, its neck bent too far South, dead in an instant.
One down…
With the first dead and another regathering itself from a failed attempt at caving in his skull, Ulthane whips his head towards the final demon, the one he hasn’t yet moved to intercept, but what he sees catches him momentarily off guard.
Rather peculiarly, the third Trauma is reeling backwards with a grunt of shock, throwing up an enormous paw to cover its piggy, little eyes as what looks to be a ball of light flashes across its face.
But Ulthane hardly has a second to wonder what in Stone’s name has happened to the beast.
His struck shoulder aches something fierce, but he’s quick to swing his hammer around to the left as the second demon draws its fists back, readying itself for another blow.
Sadly for the maker, it had a fraction more time to recover.
Throwing up one, gargantuan forearm, it blocks the path of his weapon, though there’s still a satisfying ‘thwack’ of the hammer’s head striking against flesh.
Locking its jaw open around an outraged bellow, it throws its other arm out and fists its meaty hand into Ulthane’s scarf. For just a second, it meets his eye, and he’s almost certain it relishes the brief glimpse of alarm it catches flitting across his blue gaze.
Then, giving an almighty heave, it tosses the maker aside, sending him crashing to the ground. A fresh waterfall of blood rushes down the back of his throat when he lands and his frustrated growl comes out as a wet, frothy gurgle instead.
Dazed, but incensed, Ulthane slams a fist into the tarmac so hard that its surface splinters and dips beneath his knuckles as he raises his aching head.
And that’s when he sees it.
Standing just a few metres ahead of him is a wobbly blob of colour.
Bright, vivid purple, like veins of charoite mined deep from within the Earth’s core.
He recognises it at once, and immediately feels his heart take a nose-dive down into his boots.
It’s your colour – the one that belongs to the jumper you insist upon wearing, despite the tattered and frayed hems, despite the dried blood encrusted in the sleeves…
‘Colour’s too easy to spot,’ he’d warned you during one of your nightly conversations, ‘You’ll be seen a mile off.’
Of course, you’d only had to look up at him with those expressive, bewitching eyes of yours and clutched the hem of your jumper as if you expected him to just rip it off you then and there. “Ulthane... I have nothing left except for the clothes on my back,” you had uttered tearfully - and Stone's breath did he hate that he'd been the one to put those tears in your eyes - “Please don’t make me take it off.”
And like the bloody-great pushover he is, Ulthane had promptly conceded without further fuss.
Now he’s starting to wish he wasn’t such a damn sap every time a human so much as quivers their bottom lip in his direction.
A hard blink stings his nose, but it brings you into focus.
No... No, no, no. No! You can't be here! What are you doing here!?
His ancient soul gives out a wail of anguish.
Torn between being absolutely livid and downright horrified, Ulthane first gives you an instinctive once-over to reassure himself that you’re in one piece.
There you stand, shaking from head to toe on the roof of a burnt out automobile, your face drawn taut, those pretty eyes of yours blown wide with fear. In your hands, you’re clutching a small, hand-held vanity mirror, pointing its reflective surface at something over Ulthane’s head.
“Y/n?!” he hollers, hauling his heavy body off the ground, “What’re you doin’ out here!?”
A timid little smile is flashed his way before you return your focus to adjusting the mirror. “You okay, big guy!?”
Is he okay?
Is HE okay?
Oh, aside from his heart threatening to break out through his ribcage, he’s just peachy!
On his feet once more, he takes a thundering step in your direction, seriously considering the idea of shoving you into one of the pouches dangling from his belt for safekeeping.
All of a sudden, his attention is snared by a ferocious roar.
For such a heavy maker, he can be surprisingly nimble on his feet when the situation calls for haste.
Spinning around on his heel, he’s stunned to find not one, but both of the traumas stumbling backwards on their cumbersome legs, swiping at their faces and shaking their heads as if to dislodge a particularly bothersome insect.
Against all odds, you’re the one holding them both at bay with nothing more than a flickering little circle of light.
Ulthane’s jaw drops open in unabashed astonishment.
The light bounces back and forth between each of the traumas’ eyes, and when at last the maker’s brain chugs into gear, the realisation draws a gurgling, incredulous bark of laughter from his blood-slicked throat.
Of course. The sun. The mirror.
“Oh-ho! Y/n, you little beauty!” he exclaims, twisting his head over one shoulder to flash you a tusky grin, fiercely proud of your ingenuity in spite of the distress you've caused him by being here in the first place.
You start to return the smile, though it falters almost immediately when Ulthane’s expression darkens like a storm cloud and he adds, “You’re still in for a rollickin’ when I get you to safety!”
Grimacing at the implications of what will surely be a long and unpleasant lecture, you raise your voice to call out, “Any time now, guys!”
And Ulthane didn’t think his stress levels could soar to greater heights...
A squeaking, broken sound suddenly rings out across the square, startling the maker, who snaps his head towards the Traumas again only to turn rigid as stone when he catches a glimpse of movement darting up behind one behemoth’s pudgy legs.
“Angus!?” Ulthane barks in horror.
A young human - barely out of his teens - is gunning for the trauma’s leg, his mouth hanging open to let out a fractured, pitiful war-cry that’s about as intimidating as a bleating lamb. Yet clutched in his vice-like grip - reeled back and ready to strike – sits a weapon far more imposing than its wielder needs to be.
Vaguely, the maker recognises it as a ‘baseball bat.’ A rather unassuming name for a weapon with six-inch nails hammered through the wood at uneven angles.
Scrubbing a hand furiously across his bleary eyes, Ulthane attempts to stagger forwards in the vain hopes that he might reach the Trauma before Angus, but the human skids to a stop just behind the demon’s left leg and uses what’s left of his forward momentum to drive the bat straight into the back of one colossal, unarmoured knee.
Despite scrawny limbs that could put a scarecrow to shame, something Ulthane doesn’t recognise must lend Angus the strength he needs because the resulting ‘thwack’ is loud enough to cause the maker’s stomach to twist with an instinctive wince.
Metal spikes sink hungrily into the Trauma’s thick hide, tearing through fat and tendon and muscle.
Predictably, the demon tosses its head back and points its tusks to the sky, roaring like a wounded tiger before collapsing forwards onto its intact knee and slamming a fist to the tarmac.
With an almighty wrench and a choking gag, Angus frees the bat from its leg and springs back, hauling his skinny backside away from the demon and sprinting at a hell of a lick towards the car you’re standing on top of. Ulthane only remembers to breathe when the lad vaults clean over the bonnet of the car and disappears on the other side.
Good. That demon hadn’t killed him, so Ulthane can do it himself later.
With one of the remaining two Traumas on its knees, he doesn’t waste the opportunity Angus has – albeit foolishly – presented him.
Heaving his hammer into both palms, the maker grits his teeth, reaching the demon just as it raises its bulbous head and fixes him with a glare that burns red like the fires of the pit it crawled out of.
There are old instincts welling up from the deepest depths of the maker’s biology, long-buried impulses shoot across his brain, lighting up synapses and sparking a fire in his belly that rages far hotter than any fire Hell could ever spit out.
He has two of the most dangerous demonic species in close proximity to two of the humans – his humans.
His charges…
You weren’t supposed to leave the damnable Tree – why did you leave the Tree!?
He’s already failed Humanity once. Those that remain deserve a better protector than him, but right now, he’s all they have.
And he feels that responsibility. He feels the weight of it bearing down like a mountain upon his shoulders, yet he wouldn’t shrug it off, not for anything. He’ll carry the weight of what he’s done to them and what he has to do for them until his soul has been returned to the Stone.
They’re worth it.
You’re all worth it.
Tusks bared, eyes wide and wild, hammer raised, Ulthane starts to swing, so close to bringing the head of his weapon down on its skull with the force and rage of a siege machine.
Something flashes below him, a small, frail blur of grey.
He only just sees her in time – just barely in time.
Jerking his arms to the side, he lets his hammer strike the tarmac just beside the stirring demon, avoiding its head entirely and, subsequently, the small woman standing just below it.
“Agnes!?” he bellows resonantly.
Hunched over on a crooked spine, she stands with her back to him, her grey hair pulled into a bun that's been fixed tight by numerous bobby pins, and not a single strand flutters out of place as she swings her arms up over her head. In the flash of a second, Ulthane's eyes catch a glint of silver shining in the sunlight.
Her little sewing scissors, old and delicate like their owner… He recognises them from when she helped him cut the twine they needed for the rope bridge…
The Trauma’s meaty hand curls into a fist on the ground and it starts to push itself upright.
Ulthane’s heart seizes.
Agnes' doesn't even pause its steadfast beat.
Wrinkled hands promptly thrust the tips of her scissors deep into the demon’s thick jugular and she heaves her arms sideways, cutting off the demon’s guttural howl of pain.
Its blood runs rivers down her thin wrists as she withdraws the makeshift weapon and steps back, ignoring the maker’s hand that curls gingerly around her frail body and lifts her into the air whilst the Trauma rears back onto its haunches, clutching futilely at its throat as if it could hold the torn flesh together.
“That should teach you!” Agnes snaps at the gagging brute, her eyes hard as stone behind her thick-rimmed glasses, “I’ll not suffer bullies! I wouldn’t stand for it in my school, and I certainly won’t stand for it now!”
Ulthane’s chest lurches in and out with heaving breaths as he briefly ruminates on the sanity of the average human. He backs up towards the car, keeping his gaze on a constant swivel between the dying Trauma and its remaining companion, who has so far been kept at bay by your valiant efforts with the mirror.
Stupid beast isn’t bright enough to turn away from the light.
“Sorry to steal your thunder!” you call up to him when he stops beside the car, “But you looked like you could use some help down here.”
Reaching over the car to deposit Agnes beside Angus, he promptly rounds on you with a haggard desperation and thunders, "Get goin! The lot of you! Get back to that Tree, or so help me, I'll-"
And that’s when it happens.
It seems so anticlimactic that something so mundane as the weather might spell your doom.
A cloud moves across the sky, large and white and unhelpfully thick.
Thick enough to blot out the sun.
"Oh no," you breathe, slowly lowering the mirror.
Just as gradually, the demon across the square stops flailing and begins to lower its arm.
Spitting a curse that draws an offended gasp from the eldest human, Ulthane smacks the heavier end of his hammer into his palm, puffing up his shoulders.
The patter of tiny feet lets him know that you’ve slid off the car and dashed up to his side, as do the delicate fingers that come to rest against the back of his knee. The touch of them there sends an urgent pulse rocketing up the maker’s spine.
Having finally figured out that it's no longer under assault from an intangible glare of light, the Trauma explodes forwards into a lumbering charge, furiously crashing through rusted cars and flinging them out of its path with swipes of its formidable claws.
As it barrels towards you, the maker hastily lowers an arm and presses the back of his forefinger to your stomach, pushing you away from him.
“Get to the lift!” he urges you, coaxing you further with another nudge, “NOW!”
He begins to pull away, twisting his lips into a vicious growl that he aims directly at the oncoming demon.
But the touch of a soft hand upon his forefinger is nearly enough to freeze him solid again.
Gentle touches are seldom felt among makers, except in moments of rare and profound intimacy. He’s still getting used to the frequency and nonchalance of yours.
“Ulthane, you’re hurt-!” you try to protest, digging your blunt nails into his calloused skin.
He ignores the uneven murmur of his heart. Without turning to look down at you, he raises his voice and snaps, “And you’ll be dead if you don’t get back to that Tree!”
He feels more than sees you flinch away from his finger, leaving him free to return both hands to the grip of his weapon whilst sternly reminding himself that it’s for your own good that he raises his voice at you. If it’s the only way you’ll listen to him, then so be it.
Doesn’t make him feel any less monstrous though…
Deafening himself to your cry of his name, Ulthane kicks off on his back leg and breaks into a charge of his own, his auburn braid whipping about behind him as he stampedes towards a head-on collision with the demon.
He can only pray to the Stonefather that you get to that lift. Traumas aren’t the only danger lurking in the shadows of surrounding buildings, and he can’t imagine it’ll be long before something else comes sniffing about to investigate the stench of his blood and the death throes of their fellow Hell-spawn.
If that happens and you and the others aren’t in the clear… Well, he’ll cross that bridge if he gets to it.
The Trauma is already upon him.
A sickening ‘crunch!’ rings out across the city square as the unchecked force of two titans crash into one another, sending a shockwave down from the point of impact and out across the tarmac, shuddering the nearby cars on their rubber tyres.
Unstoppable force, meet Immovable object.
The long pommel of Ulthane’s hammer is brought up and thrust across the Trauma’s chest where, with an iron-clad grip on the weapon, he begins to wrestle the demon back.
Step by harrowing step, the gigantic pair stagger away from the humans until, with a furious growl, the maker shoves his adversary against the solid bark of the Tree.
The claws attached to the ends of its stubby fingers clamp down on each of Ulthane’s swollen biceps, puncturing his skin and drawing forth yet more of his blood as it attempts to muscle him away.
Teeth grit against the sting, Ulthane's only reaction is to double down and presses the length of his hammer firmly into the demon’s tawny sternum, fully intent on crushing its lungs. Already, he can feel a sturdy ribcage creak and splinter, eliciting a guttural squeal from his adversary.
But he doesn’t just want a squeal of discomfort.
For the crime of threatening the very people he’s promised to protect, he wants this murderous bastard to scream.
A slow hiss begins to seep out between his clenched teeth and he meets the Trauma's yellow glare, burning through it with a blue so bright it can hardly bear to hold his gaze.
"They're mine," he seethes.
With nowhere to retreat and a wall of a man blocking its escape forwards, the demon tries to grab at his hammer, slotting its fists next to the maker's and making a last, desperate attempt to fend him off. Ulthane doesn't give it the chance to retake the inches he's claimed. At the back of his head, a single thought spirals around and around, repeating itself like a mantra.
'Kill it, or it'll kill them.'
That's all the incentive it takes.
That, and a swift, brutal kick to the Trauma's shin that causes its grip to go slack on his hammer. Summoning all of his strength to the muscles of his arms, Ulthane gives a final, devastating shove -
- Birds roosting in the overhead foliage of the Maker Tree take flight as the air is split by a loud snap that sounds like a dry branch being broken over a knee.
Bulging eyes roll up into the back of the demon's skull and it slumps down onto its haunches, tongue lolling out of its mouth.
Dead, at last, its wretched heart pierced by one of its own ribs.
Ulthane's enormous shoulders hitch up and down as he looms over the dead Trauma, resisting the urge to crush its skull beneath his boot out of spite.
Anxious to see the extent of his injuries, you take a hesitant step towards the maker, your gaze darting back and forth between his heaving shoulders and the demon’s now concave chest.
Agnes and Angus hang back, the latter's arm curled around her shoulder as they watch you tentatively pick your way over rubble and scattered car parts to approach your rugged guardian.
Another step…
“Ultha-“
A shard of broken glass cracks under your shoe, loud as a gunshot in the otherwise silent square.
In a flash of blazing eyes and creaking leather, Ulthane whirls towards the sound like a man possessed, his hammer clamped in a white-knuckle grip.
Heart leaping, you stumble backwards a few paces with a gasp, and at once, the throaty growl that had been building behind the maker’s teeth dies on the tip of his tongue.
That icy-blue gaze latches onto you, there on the ground, your arms held up in a pacifying gesture.
“Easy, big guy,” you croak, eyeing the tusks he hasn’t quite managed to cover with his lips, “I-it’s just me.”
Staring down at you unblinkingly, Ulthane’s ragged breaths gradually begin to slow and the hike and fall of his shoulders turns sluggish.
He blinks you into focus. Once, then twice…
And finally, the white pupils at the centre of his eyes soften and expand, no longer piercing through you like sharp, little pinpricks of light.
Your relief at his apparent composure is short-lived, however, when the maker suddenly lowers his brows into a hard line and begins stomping towards you, his thunderous footsteps shaking the ground you’re standing on.
Gulping, you instinctively take another step back, but Ulthane is upon you before you can retreat any further.
An enormous hand launches down to scoop your feet out from under you.
The maker’s hammer is dropped to the ground, freeing up his other hand to cup behind the first, a thumb pressing gently against your stomach to keep you secured in his protective, inescapable palms.
Rather disconcertingly, his colossal head is promptly shoved into your personal space, giving you a good look at his bruised, bloody nose. You manage to ignore the stare that rakes over you from head to toe with an urgency that stops any words on your tongue.
“Are you hurt?” he demands thickly, his warm breath washing over your limbs.
You hardly register the question – far too preoccupied with the unnatural angle of his nasal bone.
“Oh, Ulthane,” you breathe, knitting your brows into a troubled frown and reaching towards his nose, “We should have come down sooner. I’m so s-“
You’re swiftly cut off as the giant gives his head a brusque shake and once more insists, “Are you hurt!?”
You jump slightly, blinking in bewilderment at the volume of his voice before you manage to sputter out a meagre response, “Uh, no, no - I’m fine, but… Ulthane, you-“
Once again, you’re interrupted, this time by a reverberating howl that travels over the roofs separating the square from Main Street, chilling the blood in your veins and drawing the maker’s head up abruptly.
Rigid as stone, he stares off in the direction of the noise, his nostrils flaring and his ears flicking forwards in response.
A few beats of silence pass by as the howl peters out, fading into silence once again.
Then…
“Lift,” Ulthane utters sharply, “Now.”
The dangerous growl brooks no argument from your fellow humans, both of whom turn on their heels and scurry off around the trunk of the tree, shadowed closely by a bristling maker.
Not once does he make a move to set you back on your feet.