It is almost dark when I return. Ruin has wandered away after Mayhem, but I see that Strife had taken the lizard skin and leftover meat off his back and laid them on the stack of wood at the north side of the yurt. The flap is open, the faint glow of fire spilling out, a thin column of smoke rising from the top of the dome. Inside, it smells like home. Smoke and incense, leather, freshly brewed coffee. A small loaf rests on top of one of the flat stones encircling the firepit. I lift my eyes to find Strife pouring out a bucketful of water into the large barrel we use for bathing. The herbal aroma must be from his soap. I smile.
The sunset paints the steppe with fire. We watch the wind-blown waves in the sea of grass for a long time before either of us moves or speaks.
“I should have told you,” I utter at last. “I dreaded your reaction. A part of me knew you would not approve. But I did not think you would be… shocked. Is it so hard to believe?”
Death’s jaw moves, like he’s opening his mouth and closing it again, unsure if he should reply. I wish he would take his mask off for me once more… but I know he may never do it again.
We set out again late in the afternoon, though still some hours ahead of dark, and ride at a leisurely pace. Dust circles high in the cloudless sky, occasionally pursuing the flocks of winged lizards, no larger than my cape, but they know the air of this world better than he and scurry out of his reach. Death asks about the distant landmarks—a snow-capped mountain range gleaming in the east, the columns of smoke rising from the volcanic grounds in the south—and I answer as best as I can, though I sense it is politeness rather than curiosity. There is precious little to point out along our way, apart from the impressive footprints of a species of a giant lizard, each as large as a horse. Someday, I shall track one down, slay it, and mount its head on the wall of Strife’s crystalline abode. It wouldn’t fit in my yurt.
“Is that your home?” Death asks when its distant dome rises above the mild hills and valleys of the steppe, outlined sharply against the horizon.
“Yes.”
He clicks his tongue, prodding Despair to pick up the pace, and Ruin follows, eager as ever. A few minutes of canter bring us close enough to see the pole, the banner, the strings of colorful scraps tied to the ropes.
The smell of food awakens me from a familiar dream, where the demon skull at the base of Chaoseater becomes animated and speaks to me of its torture. Of eternal, all-consuming hunger. “Let me partake in your victory,” it said this time. “Let me taste Ravaiim blood!” Then it was no longer a demon skull, but Strife’s mask, and it too spoke of dark cravings, but they were of a different kind.
Hearing me stir, Death beckons me to join him by the fire. The meat is lean and bland, but delightfully juicy and I eat in focused silence until there is no more.
“Shall I put on the other half?” he asks.
In place of an answer, I unbuckle my belt so I can breathe.
Death looks at my belly, bulging like that of a pregnant woman, and laughs. If he has eaten at all, he must have done it while I slept. “You look like yourself again.”
“What, fat?”
He laughs some more, then hops on his feet and offers a hand. “Come on. Let us rest till the heat lets up.”
Ruin charges after the long-tailed, bird-like lizard twice his size, setting the ground under us on fire, and I laugh, savoring the thrill of the hunt. Scattered trees fly past us, blurred by the speed, as the open plains reluctantly give in to the woods. The treeline rushes closer. Our prey knows the horses won’t be able to pursue it under the canopy. Its survival instincts are honed by predators both agile and stalwart that stalk the steppes, relying on quickness. But few creatures, on this world or others, can outrun a spectral steed.
With the corner of my eye, I see Death on approach from the right, intent on flanking the beast before it reaches the trees. I spur Ruin on, though he needs no encouragement. It’s always a competition, with Despair and Rampage. Only Mayhem he is content to follow.
The lizard jumps over some obstacle hidden in the grasses, makes a poor landing, and in seconds, it’s within my reach. I lean out of the saddle to clip its hind leg with Chaoseater—
After the events of The Abomination Vault, painful revelations drive a wedge between War and Death just as their fledgling bond was starting to deepen.
Made this cover myself!
Notes:
This story takes place immediately after the ending of The Abomination Vault (the official Darksiders novel by A. Marmell). If you have not read it and don’t want to be exposed to spoilers, best stop reading now. For those who intend to read on, here’s a summary of the book, with an emphasis on the events that figure the most prominently in this story.
Death’s Blessing belongs to the same verse as my previous works. Not Alone, which establishes War and Strife as a couple, happens at the time of Genesis, and Gone Fishing, which establishes Strife as the temporary leader of the Horsemen in Death’s absence, soon after – so about 500 years prior to this. Obviously, I recommend reading these, but it’s not necessary for understanding this story.
