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A heavy rain pounds dismally onto the warehouse roof where a lone figure sits cross-legged near the edge, hunched over against the downpour.
In a flurry of sodden, dishevelled feathers, Dust flies down from the dark sky and lands haphazardly beside his master. The abnormally large crow cocks his head to the side, regarding Death for a moment before promptly hopping up onto his knee and then down into the space between his thighs, huddling underneath the broad expanse of the horseman’s chest. For once, Death doesn’t comment on the bird’s cowardly aversion to being caught in the rain, his mind too distracted by the deed he’d committed mere moments ago.
Hunter’s last request - “I can’t live with what I’ve done. Death…as long as you’re here…” - shouldn’t bother the horseman as much as it apparently does.
The pitter-patter of rain hits his back and drips steadily down his bone-white mask, where a fat droplet rolls off its chin and plops right on top of Dust’s beak.
With a vehement hiss, the crow shakes his head from side to side and shuffles closer to Death’s stomach, his feathers sticking out at odd angles. Absentmindedly, the horseman shifts to rub his knuckles up and down the birds feathery chest, eyebrows pulled low into a pensive frown.
’It just seems like such a waste.’ Yes, the human did a bad thing. But he wasn’t a bad person. Death has met truly bad humans before and Hunter was definitely not to be counted among them.
No, he was not bad human. Just a scared one.
And he’d left Death with something of a conundrum. According to Hunter, there’s very little – if any – chance that his group somehow escaped the demon lord, Belial. But one nagging thought taps at the back of Death’s mind, one that drew him up onto this roof in the first place to ponder his next move. ’What if Hunter was wrong?’
If there is a human surviving here who didn’t sell their people out to a demonic entity and thus doesn’t subsequently feel that Death is their only repentance, then he’s duty-bound to find them.
“But to what end?” he murmurs, his bright, orange eyes providing an eerie contrast to the grey cityscape they sweep over. What to do if he does find another one? Hunter was tricky enough to catch up with, who’s to say the next human won’t prove even more elusive?
Could he really afford to spend an inordinate amount of time searching for something that may not even exist when his brother’s innocence is on the line?
As he mulls over his options, his gaze passes lazily over the side of the building on the opposite end of the street. All at once, he snaps his focus back to a window on the fifth floor.
Unless the rain is impairing his immaculate vision, he’d say that it’s the only window that isn’t shrouded in inky blackness. There’s a dull – almost imperceptible – glow flickering from behind it. Death shields his eyes from the rain, ignoring Dust’s objectionable squawk at having lost the gentle scratches of his long fingers, and squints hard at the fluttering, golden light.
He’s almost certain he can make out a shadow-
As luck would have it, mother nature chose that precise moment to flaunt her brilliance across the earthen sky, as if she’d been waiting for Death to be looking at that exact spot at this exact time. A flash of lightening illuminates the entire street and the building that he’s been staring at. In that split second of near-blinding light, the horseman clearly makes out the reclining, vaguely human-shaped figure in the window.
He couldn’t tell much, but for now, it looks human enough and it’s the only lead he’s got.
With a quick grunt, Death leaps to his feet without a spare thought for Dust, who flaps angrily out of his lap and back into the air, screeching out an awful cacophony in protest.
“Hush,” the Horseman scolds, rolling his shoulders and slinking up to the roof’s edge, eyes never leaving that window. “Keep an eye out for any threats. I’m going in.”
Dust shoots him an unimpressed glare, but soon, he’s flitting out over the street and climbing above the crumbling buildings, his sharp eyes trained keenly on the ground below.
“Right then.” One of Death’s legs sticks out over the edge. “Let’s try this again.”
As it turns out, the building is a lot harder to navigate from the inside. There are plenty of demons on the lower floors - though as he ascends, he finds fewer of them, but far more Wicked.
These twisted, half-rotten corpses of former humans are so filled with hatred, so woebegone and furious with their lot in the afterlife that they hurl themselves at Death with reckless abandon, meeting their final end on Harvester’s curved blade.
“Depraved fools,” Death spits, yanking his weapon out of the last wicked’s skull and throwing his scythe back on its straps, continuing up an unstable staircase until he emerges out into a long, dark corridor. As soon as the sound of fighting stops ringing in his ears, he picks up a new noise, this one far less familiar than the clashing of metal and flesh.
Senses on high alert, he creeps down the corridor, past dozens of doorways, each marked by a small, brass number. Death’s face twists as he tries to recall the name of the building he’s in, realises that he doesn’t actually care, and shrugs it off. At the end of the hallway, he spies a light shining out from beneath one of the flimsy, wooden doors, behind which he can hear the muffled grunts and strained hums of a human in distress.
In the silence, they’re so glaringly loud.
By contrast, quieter than a ghost, Death leans to press his ear against the door, listening carefully.
Almost immediately, his eyes widen again, astonished to hear a woman’s voice, groaning and muttering to herself until, all of a sudden, she lets out a jarring cry.
Fearing the worst, Death wastes no time ramming his shoulder into the door and subsequently knocking the entire thing off its hinges. It crashes to the floor with a clamour and he all but barges into the room, scythe already free and whirling.
‘CLACK, CLACK.’
The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked stops him in his tracks.
“G– get…the… f-ffuck… out…” comes a dangerous, wobbly hiss from across the room.
Over the course of his long, arduous and often very strange life, Death thought he could say with absolute confidence that he’s seen everything there is to see.
Apparently, that’s no longer the case.
Behind his bone-mask, the horseman’s jaw falls open before he can catch it.
For there, on the other side of the room, laying on the skeleton of a metal bed with trembling hands clutched clumsily around the stock of a shotgun, is a human woman who appears to be caught in the very final stages of giving birth.
‘Oh no,’ he inwardly gulps. Death hadn’t been sure what to expect when he burst into the room, but this has to be the furthest thing from what he could have hoped for. Ever.
Thin, damp hair clings to her face, stuck fast by the sweat dripping out of every pore. Her white, cotton sundress – also drenched with a mixture of tears, sweat and blood – is bunched up around her waist in an effort to give her legs more room to stretch out over the ratty, green blanket that’s been spread haphazardly under her hips.
She doesn’t seem to care about being so exposed, and to be quite frank, neither does Death. After all, he’s seen far more gruesome sights than a woman in labor.
Teeth bared so fiercely, he’d swear she had demon heritage, the woman suddenly seizes, crying out as a contraction sweeps through her pelvis. Incredibly though, despite the obvious agony she must be going through, she manages to shakily raise the shotgun and aim it at his chest, breathing out several puffs of air in rapid succession.
“I– s-said, get. OUT!”
Death has seen the most fearsome aspects that humanity has to offer.
He’s seen bloodthirsty tyrants pummel innocent men into unrecognisable pulps on the fields of battle. Witnessed barbarians tear the limbs from their enemies and leave the torsos twitching in their own blood. He’s seen rage and brutality and savagery in their rawest, most primal forms.
But there’s nothing – in Death’s opinion –absolutely nothing that comes close to the sheer ferocity with which a mother will protect her child.
And this particular very-soon-to-be mother is not only protecting her unborn child, she’s doing it whilst backed into a corner, hackles raised and at her most vulnerable.
He needs to be cautious. A chest full of buckshot won’t even slow him, but it certainly isn’t comfortable…
When he meets her eyes and looks – really looks at her – he starts to register just how young she is. Her fatigued, grime-coated features disguise her real age and only upon closer inspection does her youth become painfully evident. She can’t have even reached a quarter of a century, surely! He expects to find hopelessness, but instead, there’s a burning determination, a fortitude that he can only accredit to this woman’s desire to survive.
A little humbled by the tiny creature’s unyielding spirit, Death steps further into the room.
“STO-!”she tries to bellow, only to be overtaken by another contraction. Her teeth bite down around a choked scream and she squeezes her eyes shut, simultaneously fighting to keep them open lest he take the initiative to attack.
“Easy, easy,” he murmurs, an oddly gentle lilt to his once gruff voice, “I’m not a threat.”
The look on her face screams ’yeah right.’ Not that he can blame her. Then, her expression shifts again and she tilts her head at him, like she’s only just registered the fact that he spoke to her, in plain English, no less.
He starts to move further into the room again, humming at the concerning amount of blood soaking into the blanket under her. In a flash, she thrusts the gun towards him and shouts, “BACK OFF~! I..I’m warning you! I’ll – I’ll shoot!”
Snorting, Death turns his palms to the ceiling and gestures to himself, up and down. “You’re welcome to,” he tells her breezily, “though I might take umbrage to that…”
Another step.
Her finger flies to the trigger and twitches against it, barely holding back. “I mean it! I’ll kill you!” she wails.
“No. You won’t.”
The woman’s trigger finger shakes so uncontrollably that, for a moment, Death wonders if she might pull it by accident. “You think I don’t have it in me!?”
“It’s not a question of whether you’re prepared to,” he explains patiently, “But whether it’ll do any good. I'm not a threat to you. And besides, one shot from that thing will have every demon within five miles bearing down on our heads. You look like a smart human, think it through..”
Shivering fit to burst, she has to take a moment to swallow down a yelp, jolted by the agony of yet another contraction. It wouldn’t be long now. The horseman waits for her breathing to even out again. When it does and she can hold the gun steady once more, she rasps, “Who the hell…are you?”
“I am Death.”
No sooner have the words left his mouth than the woman suddenly turns several shades paler and her white-knuckled grip on the shotgun increases enough to nearly dent the metal. “NO!” she cries, struggling to sit up further on the bed, “NO! No you can’t have him!!”
'Him' the Horseman deduces, 'Being the unborn child.'
“Trust me, I’m not here for your baby," he murmurs aloud.
Ever so slightly, the shotgun lowers and a fleeting glimpse of relief flashes across the woman’s features before – not a second later –she inhales sharply and her lower lip begins to quiver rigorously. In a hushed whisper, she quavers, “Oh God…You’re here for me!”
“Ah,” Death holds up a finger. “Well no. I’m not-”
“Is this it?!” Hysterical, she darts her wide eyes around the dingy room. “Am I gonna die in here!? A hotel room, giving birth! That’s so!…. So!-”
“Anticlimactic?” Death suggests unhelpfully.
“I was about to say shit, but yeah.”
A tiny smile quirks at the corner of his mouth. “I imagine it would be. However, you’ll be pleased to hear that your demise is not on my agenda.”
“I..huh?”
“I’m not here to kill you.”
“Oh…”she mutters between sharp gasps, “Right.” Then, with a perplexed frown, she licks her dry lips and squints up at him through teary eyes. “But then…why are you here?”
Justas he opens his mouth to try and supply an answer he isn’t even sure of himself, a distant, nearly undetectable sound twitches his ear. Death’s head whips back to the door and he reaches to grab his scythes, scowling when the woman snaps her gun up as well, barrel pointed at him.
“Something’s coming,” he growls, turning fully to face the door and squaring his stance.
“Huh?– What’s comiiiIIII-AAARRGH!!!”
The reaper nearly jumps a mile as the woman suddenly throws her arms out to grab the sides of her bed, unwittingly dropping the shotgun and sending it clattering noisily to the ground in the process. From somewhere beyond the room, down in the darkness of the long hallway, something lets out a triumphant screech.
The Horseman glances over his shoulder.. “What’s wrong!?” he barks urgently, shifting his gaze back and forth between her and the doorway.
“The..Hell do you…think is – ah! - wro-wrong!?” she spits and throws her head back against the wall, nostrils flaring with each, rapid breath.
Dozens of footsteps echo up the hallway, crawling closer and closer every passing second whilst Death, with an unexpected degree of alarm interwoven in his tone, blurts, “It’s coming? Now?!”
“Yes!” she cries hoarsely, “seeing as how!…it feels like…I’m about to shit a watermelon!-”
“Oh, Creator.. That’s-”
“-I’m pretty fucking sure, this baby is coming. Right. Now!”
At the height of her final word, a Wicked all bound up in bandages and with spittle stretching between its roaring, gnashing teeth, skids into the room. The snarling beast lunges at Death with it’s clammy hands curled into vicious talons meant for slashing, only to find itself promptly relieved of both appendages.
Confused, it grunts and stops to look down at the severed stumps where hands once were, leaving Death the time to sweep harvester through the air and separate its head from its shoulders, watching it bounce down onto the floor and roll under the bed.
No sooner does it bumble to a stop than three more of the foul ex-humans come barrelling out of the darkness towards him.
From her place on the bed, the woman watches, bleary eyed, as this stranger – this ’Death’ – cuts each of them down as soon as they’re within reach. Through her pain, she realises that he’s parked himself right in the doorway, stance wide so as not to let any of the assailants get by. His movements are fluid, beautiful - in a macabre way - and precise. He doesn’t utter a single sound for all the effort he’s putting into each strike.
Halfway through crushing a Wicked’s skull under his boot, Death takes a moment to call over his shoulder, “Still breathing!?”
In reply, she sucks in a couple of fast breaths, exhaling them again and tensing her abdomen, pushing hard and groaning loudly through clenched teeth. “God! This is the worst day of my life!”
“Really?”The horseman has the audacity to sound sarcastically cheerful.“I’d’ve thought the worst day of your life was the day the world ended.” He drives Harvester into the chest of a stray Goreclaw that had followed the pack.
“G-go to -AH! Go to Hell!” she manages to snap.
“Funny you should mention – that’s the next stop on my list!”
Bodies are beginning to pile up worryingly high in the doorway when the horde finally trickles to a stop. Death pulls his scythe from a demon’s gut, lip curling at the resulting squelch and turns his ear to the door, listening with rapt attention. In the distance, something approaches. Something much bigger than the previous assailants.
Grumbling, he rolls his shoulders, cricks his neck with a loud ‘pop’ and steps out into the hallway.
“W-wait!”
Surprised, Death pokes his head back into the room, catching the exhausted panic on her face.
For a fleeting moment, the reaper’s seldom seen tender nature claws and fights its way to the surface and his red-hot eyes soften somewhat.
“I’ll be right back,” he reassures the frightened young woman.
Her reply is lost as whatever he’d sensed approaching suddenly explodes out of the stairwell and the horseman’s features harden once more. Shooting her one last look, he pulls out of the room again and breaks into a light jog, ready to meet the beast before it can come any closer to her and the baby.
“Where are you going!?” she calls, desperate. Regardless of her unease, the idea of being alone at this crucial point fills her with more dread than he does. “DEATH?”
The tell tale, guttural roar of a stalker urges forth a new wave of terror. During the end of days, she’d witnessed those things tear tanks apart with their clawed hands and although Death had dealt with the Wicked well enough, she doesn’t fancy his chances against the more relentless demons.
Growls, grunts and the occasional squeal filter through to the room where she clenches and pushes, incapable of putting nature on hold even for a moment. Her broken screams are drowned out by a heavy bellow that rattles the bed-frame and adds to the agony of yet another contraction.
All of a sudden, there’s an almighty screech, followed by the ’shing’ of sharp metal and then…
…silence.
It unsettles her. The quiet that had once been such a comfort suddenly feels threatening and sinister and sends her already hammering heart into a frenzy. Tears run tracks through the dirt on her face while she can do nothing but sit and wait to see which creature emerges as the victor.
She nearly jumps out of her skin when Death abruptly looms out of the dark corridor and strides into the room, speckled with blood from head to toe.
“Jeezus!”she hisses, “I didn’t hear you coming!”
“Light on my feet,” he shrugs, pulling a colossal fang out of his arm with nary a wince, turning it over once and then tossing it over his shoulder, forgotten. Approaching the bed, he slows down upon noting that the woman’s eyes dart down to the shotgun on the floor.
Humming thoughtfully, Death crouches to pick it up, all too aware of the taut grip she has on the bed. After a tense few seconds, he taps the barrel in his palm, then places it gently next to her hand.
She stares – first at the gun and then at him, opening her mouth to say something.
Whatever she’d wanted to say however, is cut off by a torturous spasm that rips through her womb. Paying no mind to her actions, she shoots out a hand and wraps it like a vice around the closest point of comfort; the hand of the grim, pale Nephilim standing next to her.
Death goes rigid when her tiny hand grasps three of his much larger fingers and clamps down with a grip so strong, even he has to marvel at the strength behind it.
He almost – almost – snatches it away on impulse, but decides that maybe just this once, he can allow her some, small comfort.
“I’m scared!” she whimpers, and suddenly, the stoic horseman feels exceptionally out of his depth. This is a young, human woman, mere moments away from bringing a baby into the world and in her deliriousness, she’s seeking assuagement from a horseman of the apocalypse.
This is not the way he’d envisioned his day going.
The fingers on his free hand twitch and tap on his thigh until hesitantly, he coughs and wracks his brain for something to say, privately wishing that he’d been blessed with even a modicum of Azrael’s genial nature.
In the end, he heaves out a great sigh and lowers himself to a knee beside her bed. “It’s…alright,” he tries lamely, “You’ll be fine. The worst is over.” The horseman’s mouth pulls down into a grimace at his meagre powers of consolation.
Shouting out the human word for fornication – again – she knocks her head against the wall and turns a ferocious glare on him, eyes blazing hotter than a maker’s forge. “And what do-! You know about - nnng - childbirth?”
‘At least I don’t have to tell her to push. She seems to have that covered,’ he muses.
“Not a lot,” he admits truthfully, “But I was already very old when your species had just discovered fire. I was there when you had your offspring in caves, in the dark and the cold, surrounded by deadly beasts not so unlike these ones. You humans have always been remarkably resilient.” He studies her hand for a moment before tentatively curling his fingers over it, returning the grip and engulfing most of her wrist as well. “If your ancestors could do it, then so can you.”
“Yeah. But a lot of them died in childbirth,” she whines, concentrating on the coldness of his palm.
“Hmm. Quite so. But I thought it best to focus on the positives. You should give it a try. It’s a useful skill, especially in such laborious times.”
“Laborious?” she echoes, gasping for air, “Are you trying to be funny?”
A smirk tugs at Death’s mouth. “Well, that depends. Do you feel like laughing?”
And in spite of her situation, the surrealism of the whole encounter proves to be just a tad too ridiculous for her to keep a straight face. Her laugh is fractured and brief, but it’s still a laugh. Death would call that a small victory.
Suddenly, her jaw snaps shut, the hand under his flinches and she digs her blunt nails into his pallid skin, a strangled noise emanating from the back of her throat as she gives one, last tremendous heave.
And then, there’s crying.
Death slowly tears his eyes off her face when she flops her head back, panting furiously and finally releasing her grasp on his hand. Getting to his feet, the horseman cautiously rounds the side of the bed and peers down at the green blanket, upon which writhes a very tiny, very noisy human baby.
Even the Reaper’s sharp mind sputters to a grinding halt.
Compelled by some primal force as ancient as life itself, he barely notices that he’s reached down for the child until the mother lets out a soft gasp and tries to lean forwards. She’s eyeing him warily and her body goes rigid whilst he – as an afterthought – pulls the indigo shroud from around his neck and leans down, sliding the relatively clean fabric under the baby and wrapping it up into a sloppy bundle. Frowning, he pauses to scrutinise his work. It’s shoddy - he definitely could have done a better job at swaddling, but it’ll have to do.
He can feel the eyes of the woman burning holes into the side of his head as he picks the baby up, perplexed to find that it’s small enough to lay across the length of one, enormous palm.
A humbling serenity falls over the room as Death stares down at the new life in his hand, watching it wriggle and squirm and clasp at the air with fingers no longer than his thumbnail.
Heart pounding in her ears, the woman daredn’t say a word, not while the Horseman still has a hold of her child. She waits with baited breath, her eyes never once leaving the tiny lump wrapped in a deep, purple scarf.
Then, to Death’s fascination, the baby’s eyes slowly begin to pry themselves open. And, in a moment that could only be described as ‘poetic,’ the eyes of one of the oldest beings in Creation meet those of the very youngest.
He isn’t quite fast enough to stop the soft inhale, nor the stab of wonder that prompts him to lean closer and peer down into the pair of bright, baby blues. The infant continues to cry, but it’s quieter now, apparently equally as enraptured by the blazing, twin suns that loom overhead - like a tiny pool of water staring into the face of a raging forest fire.
Evidently, in allowing himself to lean too close, the Horseman has opened himself up to an attack because without warning, the baby’s miniature fingers thrust upwards and find purchase around the ridge of his mask’s hollow nose, pulling a surprised grunt from his lips.
Watching the display, the woman has to stifle a snicker at the Horseman’s expression and when he doesn’t make an aggressive move on her baby for the ‘offence,’ she quietly clears her throat, dragging Death’s attention back onto her. “Well? Was I right?” she asks.
“About what?” he grumbles, attempting to pry the baby off his mask using the index finger and thumb of his free hand.
“Do I have a son?” she whispers.
“Ah, it would appear mothers do know best.” Finally, the child releases his mask, though Death’s triumphant grin is short-lived as it immediately transfers its grasp to the tip of his thumb. Defeated, he sighs. “Yes, its a boy – with a grip to rival his mother’s, I might add.”
“Oh!” she gasps, a fresh bout of tears trickling down her face and she holds out her arms to them. “Please, give him to me?”
If nothing else, the horseman appreciates that she kept most of the mistrust out of her tone. He looks down at the baby boy for another few seconds before he decides he’s tortured her enough and slides her son into her waiting hands, astounded that the child doesn’t relinquish its hold of him.
“Huh, guess he likes you,” she teases softly.
Frozen in place, the Horseman stares at the baby’s hand for a while before he shakes himself out of the trance and tugs his thumb out of its grip, stepping back to allow them a moment to themselves.
Leaning on the window sill next to a flickering candle, he quietly observes mother and son sharing their first moments of life together. It’s a bittersweet instance, given that one of the most difficult challenges of her life lies ahead...
'What possessed her to bring a child into this hell-scape?’ he wonders. Rather than voice that thought aloud though, he asks, “Have you been by yourself all this time?”
“No,” she murmurs distractedly, cooing at her child. “There were others..”
His response comes a little too eagerly. “Where?”
Her eyes snap up to squint at him in suspicion. “They’re gone,” she says carefully, “There were others but they’re gone now. Demons overran the camp.” Sighing sadly, she strokes her hand through the infant’s wispy strands of hair. “I managed to escape but I didn’t even have time to grab the things you’ll need. I’m sorry little guy…”
“Things?” Death repeats.
The woman nods, remorseful. “Yup. Bottles and milk powder, you know..” Hesitating, she frowns up at the Horseman and murmurs, “I know what you’re thinking. Why did I get pregnant in an apocalypse?”
“The thought had….crossed my mind,” he admits.
“Well, I was already a few months pregnant by the time everything went up shit’s creek. Didn't exactly expect the end of the world to happen just because some man and I did the nasty two months prior."
“I... I see?”
Letting out a quick huff, she tucks her baby close against her chest and runs her fingers over Death’s shroud, turning a questioning gaze onto him.
Grunting, he angles his head over his shoulder to peer out the window, sniffing non-committally.
“What? I have plenty of them.”
“Oh, no! I – I wasn’t complaining!” she quickly shakes her head, tired smile and shining eyes smoothing her haggard face, “It’s actually very kind…Thank you, Death.”
Blinking, he stiffens and raises an arm to scratch at the back of his neck and gestures to the green blanket below her. “I– Yes, well. Ahem. It was…softer than that ratty old thing.”
Her grin widens and she exhales roughly, thunking her head back against the wall again and clinging tightly to her child.
Out of the corner of his eye, Death catches movement on the streets below. Turning to face the window, he squints out of it into the rain, cursing in Nephilim when he sees another horde – drawn by the sound of the baby’s cries – scrabbling through the rubble towards the building. Amongst them are several more formidable demons, some more agile than others – those are the ones that raise their heads to sniff the air, howling raggedly as they catch the woman’s scent. It’s not like she’s hard to miss. Even by Death’s standards, she reeks of sweat and blood – a tantalising main course for many creatures in this city – and her baby; the appetiser.
He has a decision to make, and fast.
On the one hand, killing the oncoming assailants?
Easy. Even at their vast numbers. But fighting while protecting a human woman and a human infant? Not so simple.
'You don’t have to stay and protect them,’ the vicious voice of reason slithers into his mind, ’You’ve done enough. You’re not a hero. What about your brother?’
He looks back at her. She has no idea what’s scaling the walls right now…
Below the insistence of his common sense, another voice pipes up, fighting to be heard. It’s small and faint, whispering to him urgently, ’They’ll die.’
Death hums to himself. ’A lot of humans have died. Why are these two any different?’
His keen ears tell him the horde has reached the stairwell. ’You’re not a hero,’ the first voice repeats. Then, twice as softly, ’But just this once, you could be.’
The woman takes a hold of her son’s hand and gently waves it at Death.
“Say hi! Hi Death!” she beams, sniffling as the baby continues to rove its curious gaze around the room, oblivious to every bad thing in the world, just as it should be.
Biting down on the inside of his lip, he feels his fingers twitch in response to the wave and admonishes himself for nearly waving back. Barely catching himself, he heaves out an embittered sigh and bows his head to look at the floor, eyes pinched shut. “….Dammit.”
At last, with a decisive nod, the Horseman pushes himself away from the window and begins to pace, earning an inquisitive glance from the woman. She asks him something, but he’s too busy speculating to respond.
He could take her somewhere safe.
The maker’s realm comes to mind… at least until he finishes his quest.
It’s a shame Eideard had to go and get himself killed. The Old One would be insufferably smug if he ever found out that Death’s surly nature was sent crumbling down in the face of a human and her infant.
“We need to go,” he says abruptly and stops at the foot of her bed, “Now.”
“What? God, give me a minute, would you?” she gripes, “I just -”
“You don’t have a minute. Neither of you…Look-” He points to the window. “-Another horde is coming – bigger this time. And they will keep coming unless we move!”
Instinctively, she pulls her baby closer and gazes up at him, eyes wide and frightened. “I – I don’t think I can walk! My legs-!” She weakly shifts them to the side of the bed, but he can see they’ll be near to useless for at least a few hours.
He mulls it over. “I’ll just have to carry you, then.”
Scoffing, she replies, “How are you going to carry me, and a baby and fight!?”
Thundering footsteps hurtle up the stairwell and the screeches of a veritable army of undead moan hungrily, fighting past one another to get the first bite of fresh, human meat.
“….I have an idea,” Death mutters, brows knitted together and he taps a finger against the bedpost, “But you aren’t going to like it.” Even as he speaks, a familiar pulse of dark magic thuds deep in his chest and ripples outwards, extinguishing the candle and casting the room in an eerie darkness.
The woman doesn’t seem to notice, she’s too fixated on curling her body around the baby, who’s wails are starting up again. “You know what I’m gonna like even less? Getting ripped apart by those…those things!!” she hisses urgently.
“Then do me a favour.”
Just as she was starting to believe that things couldn’t possibly get anymore petrifying, the temperature in the room dips noticeably and every exhale from her lungs expels a white cloud of air. Lightening flashes in the sky outside and illuminates the Horseman, who – as improbable as it seems – looks to be growing even bigger. The bones in his hands crack and snap as they elongate, inky black hair billowing all around his head. Struck by the supernatural tingle of what can only be described as ‘magic’, it’s all she can do to stammer out a feeble, “Whu -what?”
Underneath his mask, Death’s grim visage twists into a ghastly smile before his face disappears completely into the shadow of a tattered, indigo hood. “Trust me.”
The baby’s cries rise to a painful crescendo in response to his mother’s distress, somehow sensing the imminent danger on an instinctive level. Had he been a few years older, he might have recognised a monster for what it was.
And she would teach him what they were - what they look and sound like. How monsters can lurk in the people you think you know and burst forth so abruptly, it can leave you reeling and wondering whether you simply imaged it after all. Her haunted eyes would glaze over and she’d stare into the distance as a memory overtakes her; of giant, skeletal hands and a rippling cloak. Of a white skull in the place where a flesh-and-blood head ought to be that stared down at her, and a low, melancholy hiss flowing out of the blackness to ghost over her face. Then she would tell him, with a gentle frown creasing her world-weary eyes, that she used to think death the most monstrous thing of all. Until it - until he - proved her wrong…
Jaw hanging open impossibly wide, the woman can’t quite find the strength to scream, too spent from her labour, so she simply gapes at the creature that used to be Death. Funnily enough, this giant, hooded form bears a far more striking resemblance to the Grim Reaper that she’d grown up seeing in the media.
The beast is hunched over uncomfortably, too large to fit in the comparatively small room, and its hood tilts to regard the shivering woman and the baby when, without warning, it begins stretching one of its gargantuan hands towards them, hissing softly.
All of a sudden, a roar sounds from just outside, and Death’s hood whirls over his shoulder to look.
A phantom guard is clawing it’s way through the tight doorframe, staggering over the bodies of fallen Wicked and brandishing a pointed, bloody axe, spittle flying from it’s maw.
Deciding that they’ve officially run out of time for a more gentle approach, Death’s Reaper form hurriedly reaches for the woman again, his skeletal wings flaring out wide enough to hold the demon back. She shrieks when she sees that hand coming for her again, but selflessly throws her aching body around the baby in her arms all the same.
Not a second later, she feels long, cold fingers slide under her hips with surprising care and scoop both her and her baby up off the bed. Clinging desperately to her child, she’s tucked against a bony chest and the Reaper’s other hand moves to cover her head as he whirls to face the window and hurls himself at it. In an explosion of rubble, concrete and demons, he crashes through the wall, shielding his passengers’ heads from falling debris.
With a mighty beat of his wings, the Reaper propels himself up, straight through the air in a graceful arc and lands on the roof of another building further down the street. Sparing the hotel one last glance, he glides over to another roof, and another and another, gradually making his way across the city, head swivelling this way and that in search of the woman’s camp.
Nestled safely between those skeletal fingers - each as long as her arm - she watches the broken city zip by. The howling wind blows rain through the gaps, pelting her face with fat little droplets of cold water, a surprisingly welcome respite after the burning heat she’d suffered during labour. As the rain drops off her chin, it washes her free of a week’s worth of sweat and dust. Momentarily casting her fear aside, she transfers her new born to one arm and reaches up with the other, slipping it out through the space above the Reaper’s thumb, stretching her fingers to the sky and closing her bruised eyelids, reinvigorated by the torrent of fresh water rolling down underneath the cuffs of her cardigan.
Above the din of rain and wind, there comes a low moan, like that of some enormous, ancient tree swaying precariously in a gale. She jumps, emitting a startled yelp as she finds her hand carefully pushed back through the hole by a gentle finger.
Once he’s sure she’s no longer exposed to the rain, the Reaper presses his palms together more firmly, closing the gaps and pressing down on the woman’s back until she’s nearly bent double over the baby in her arms, drier but more uncomfortable. Frowning, she huffs, having rather enjoyed the refreshing shower. It felt like a godsend after childbirth.
There’s no time to be upset however, because the hooded beast suddenly drifts to a smooth halt on top of a ransacked supermarket.
Scattered all over the roof are the remnants of green, military grade tents and other inflatable shelters. Barbed wire stretches around the perimeter and several campfires put up thin clouds of smoke, as though they’d only recently been doused by the rain. Death’s head swivels over the area, surveying it for any signs of life even though he can be sure he won’t find any. There are claw marks in the concrete, shells and bullet casings litter the floor and the stench of blood hangs heavily in the air.
This must have been Hunter’s camp. Death just wonders if it’s her camp too.
Only when the woman begins to wriggle impatiently in his grasp and he’s sure that there’s no immediate danger does he bend down to unfurl his hands, giving off a series of eerie clicks as he huddles over in such a way that shelters them from the elements. Mindful of her fragility, Death slides the woman off his palm.
No sooner had her feet touched the ground than she staggers backwards away from the Reaper, clutching her crying son to her chest and raking her eyes all over his shroud, no doubt seeking the skull that lies hidden beneath it.
Unfortunately, she must have overestimated her mobility because her legs begin to wobble dangerously, and when the enormous hands move to steady her, she tries to dash back, only for her knees to give out from under her, sending her tumbling to the floor, gasping at the jarring impact.
Thanks to his mother’s stumble, the baby starts to cry with renewed vigour. Quivering with fright, she hushes him, never once tearing her round eyes off the Horseman’s monstrous reaper form. To her horror, it ventures closer and its skull dips until it’s looming a mere foot from her face, so close that if she reached out, she could brush her fingers over the frayed edge of its hood.
In what he hopes is a soothing manner, the Reaper hisses softly. Though judging by the way the human twists her torso around to put some distance between him and the baby, his efforts didn’t work.
'They’re afraid,’ his rational counterpart breaks through the Reaper’s primal thoughts and prods at the edge of his mind, reminding him that he’d need to turn back soon. Wrath is not an infinite source of power. But to his surprise, the Reaper’s primitive aspect beats back against the intrusion, placing up a thick wall to stop the transformation sequence from kicking in. He can hold out a little longer. All he is is Death, just… amplified. His strength, his size and speed, even his instincts are stronger in this form than they are in the other. And for whatever, ridiculously sentimental reason, the two humans below him are sending those instincts into protective overdrive.
Perhaps it stems from being an older brother. Being forced to take on the mantle of guardian to three, rambunctious siblings was bound to alter his frosty nature, to a degree.
Before she can slip away across the ground any further, the Reaper reaches out and plucks her up by the back of her cardigan, setting her on her feet again and holding on until he’s sure she has her footing. She gazes at him, confusion evident in the squint of her eyes and the way she mouths a few, silent words he can’t make out. Eventually, the Reaper releases her and drifts back a few feet, head tipped to the side once more as he brings his hands up to his chest, scratching at the back of a wrist with one, clawed nail. The woman could honestly blanch at the unnerving ‘humanness’ behind the gesture. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he looked…..anxious.
The thought puts her mind at ease somewhat, rationalising that if he was going to hurt them, he would have already done so by now.
“Well... I suppose I should thank you,” she says, hoisting the baby higher in her arms, “You saved my life back there.. Both of our lives.” She waits with bated breath for a response. When she doesn’t receive one right away, she coughs, adding timidly, “Thank you, Death.”
Remaining perfectly silent, the hooded giant considers her for a moment before dipping his head in a slow, careful nod.
The woman beams, feeling as though their meeting had come to as good a conclusion as is possible, given the circumstances, so she turns her back to him and starts scanning the rooftop for supplies. Most pressingly, dry clothes…
On a whim, she glances over her shoulder and has to stifle a yelp. He’s still floating there, bobbing gently up and down in place like a big, terrifying ghost, his head cocked to the side as though curious as to what she’s doing. “Uh…” Nervous, she licks her lips and gulps audibly, wincing when he seems to perk up at her voice. “I’m gonna grab some supplies and… we’ll be on our way. Seriously, thanks for everything.” She means it as well, without Death… She dreads to think what might’ve happened. For his part, the Reaper swings his head around to gaze out over the city and a resonant hum slips from his hood. It looks like he’s about to make a move.
Honestly, she was so sure that Death would be gone by the time she turned around again, so she imagined it was safe enough to place her baby down in an empty cardboard box, folding the lid over to protect him from the rain and then moving away to shuffle her torso beneath a fallen tent in an attempt at retrieving something from under the fabric. “Aha!” she exclaims, grabbing up some discarded tubs of baby powder she was sure she’d dropped when the demons attacked. In a much lighter mood, she backs out from under the tent and gets to her unsteady feet, grunting with the effort. “Alright little man,” she calls, turning around, “Time for-”
The tub slips from her grasp in the wake of a sharp inhale.
Looming over the cardboard box, the enormous Reaper peers down at her baby, one of his colossal, skeletal fingers nudging the lid up. Her breath catches in her throat and her body goes stiff, eyes wide as saucers while Death slides a hand into the box and scoops up the baby he helped deliver. He holds her son - still wrapped in the shroud - close to his face. A cold gust of air washes out over the baby and his blue eyes squint up into the horseman’s hood, kicking out with this legs.
And then, to the astonishment of both his mother and the Reaper, his tiny little mouth twists and struggles into a lopsided smile. It’s clumsy but it’s there. The Reaper's skull draws back before he turns to look at the woman, finding her standing slack-jawed and staring, incapable of speech.
Death simple stares right back, his mind busy. Finally, releasing another gentle hiss, he carefully places the baby back in the box, even lifting the lid to cover him once more and the mother almost collapses to her knees, weak with relief.
Suddenly, in a flash of blinding, purple light, the giant reaper disappears and the air around them begins to feel a lot less chilly all of a sudden. Blinking hard to readjust her vision, the woman’s shoulders slump to find Death - the original Death - standing in the place of his monstrous form.
Voice shaking, she unglues her tongue from the roof of her mouth and mutters, “Neat trick.”
“Did I scare you?” It’s strange, scaring humans shouldn’t bother him. Never had. So then, why is his voice so soft?
“Uh. Yeah, to be honest. You kind of did.”
Death looks up at her, his burning eyes subdued and tinged with melancholy. “Mm. It wasn't my intention.”
“It’s fine.” She’s edging closer to the box on the ground. He notices and steps away from it, prompting her to dash forward and pick her baby up, cooing softly when he begins to cry.
For the first time in a long time, Death finds himself…hesitant. Distractedly, he looks around for Dust, spotting the crow in the distance, circling the city hall that houses the portal to Lost Light. Heaving out a rumbling sigh, the Horseman’s jaw sets beneath his mask and he looks down at the mother and child, eyebrows furrowing deeply in perplexed acquiescence.
He's made up his mind.
She and the boy are fighters. If he leaves them here on Earth, after what he’d just saved them from, he’d be the biggest hypocrite this side of Heaven. Not to mention, Creator only knows Azrael would have a coronary if he ever learned that Death left them here to die when he could have done something.
‘Fine,’ he relents quietly to himself, like he needed the convincing, ‘I’ll take them.’
The trickiest part? Getting her to go willingly.