Doctrine

by Recom_Val

Summary:

“The anger never goes away, does it?” Thira murmured.

The sympathy on his face transmuted into an expression of pain, deeply felt and rarely understood. But, she realized that he DID understand. Perhaps that was why he chose not to speak; he knew that it was easier to suffer and act in total silence than to endure platitudes and infantilizing from those around him.

'Time heals all, scars fade, they wouldn’t want you to suffer.' All of it was insulting. All of it served to drive the knife deeper, to rip the stitches out. And, like a beast in a cage, with every barb it grew more and more difficult not to bite. The hatred never faded, the fire never dimmed. With every person she tried to share it with, the edges of her love for them wore away as the cinders threatened to ignite and reduce them to ash.

Thira was glad to have left the lights off. No one deserved to witness what she shared with the Slayer. Even the daylight would have defiled the emotion, no–the doctrine–that they held in the space between their hands–

Supreme, all-consuming rage.

Notes:

Enjoy! The smut is in Chapter 9, 13 btw

Chapter 1: Preface

“You have spent much time with the Slayer, as of late.” King Novik’s eyes slid in her direction, a single noble brow arching slightly.

Commander Thira looked up from where she stood, watching the moonlight play on the waterfall far below. The estuary beyond the fortress walls was always beautiful at night, its rivers and pools shining like spun ivory beneath the daytime sky’s quieter sibling. But, under the slowly returning gaze of dawn, the alpine paradise surrounding the fortress couldn’t have been more lovely.

Thira’s hair was loose, allowing the cool wind to catch it and make sport with the ends. She wore a lovely white gown, its corset chased with gold and its ghostly white train spread behind her like wings. Her eyes had been painted, but the liner had faded throughout the night; jewelry sparkled from her ears and shimmered from her collarbones, wrists, and ankles. Her lips had been stained deepest crimson, but even the subtle creases of her mouth had been completely scrubbed of pigment.

Thira had never felt more beautiful.

She wasn’t given to finery, not unless it was the practical ostentation of military, with all its steel and studwork and stringency. But, tonight had been a night of surrender, a night without bastion walls and fortresses to defend.

“The Slayer has done as he pleased for five years now,” she said, the corner of her full, handsome mouth quirking.

Novik’s boots clattered gently against the marble balcony as he approached.

“And, my daughter, there is no more reason to keep secrets from me,” he said. Like her, he didn’t care for pomp and circumstance. He wore his battle armor, so that his people could see every scar when they stood before him. Novik led by example, not by birthright, and he wanted all to know.

“I have no secrets, Father,” Thira said. She didn’t look at her father’s face; she knew that his expression of supreme, doting concern would disrupt the quiet that pervaded her thoughts like a warm blanket. She wished the sun would stay below the horizon forever, so that she could pretend that this night was one of those eternal few granted to mortals in fairy tales.

“None at all?” Novik pressed.

“You need only ask the right questions,” she said, amusing herself with her own snark.

Novik sighed grievously.

“There are things that fathers should not ask their daughters,” he said through his teeth, as if the concept caused him great pain.

“Then why trouble yourself?”

“Did he hurt you, Thira?”

She met her father’s eyes and smiled so sincerely that her cheeks hurt and her eyes welled with delight.

“No, father. Quite the opposite.”

Chapter 2: In Memoriam

 

5 Years Earlier

 

The Slayer’s features would never cease to surprise her.

Thira had come to equate the visor of his helmet with his face, a brutal steel grille taking the place of a mouth and the bottle-glass suggestion of his eyes reducing the real thing to a cruel, shadowed threat. Hell saw that visage in its nightmares and named it “the Beast.” Foes all across existence caught a glimpse of his fury and simply called him “Doom.”

From reputation alone, one would see beneath the helm and expect shrewd, cruel eyes burning with the light of bloodlust above rows and rows of predator’s teeth, all stuck into a skull misshapen by eons of abuse. His life locked in perpetual slaughter ought to have twisted his flesh into gnarled, ugly hide as tough as stone.

But, it hadn't. 

Thira was not alone in her utmost shock when, through the blue static trance of her own soul manifesting, she had caught a hazy glimpse of his face. It was a memory, no, a memory of a memory, but the image had followed her through the months that came after Ahzrak’s fall.

She remembered high cheekbones, a firm jaw and a strong brow where she had expected hollow eye sockets, a tattered scalp, and a face that had endured so much physical trauma that a nose or chin were nothing but knots of keloid ruin. Short, black hair like pinfeathers on a raven had been plastered to his forehead with sweat and gore. He did have scars, but they traced his face in thin tracks, like illuminated calligraphy in the margins of a manuscript. A soft mouth had been drawn back in–not a toothy animal snarl–but a cold and calculated sneer. Thira remembered being almost disappointed at the fact that even the Slayer’s incisors were no sharper than average. In fact, she remembered straight, white teeth in startling detail, each one accounted for and outlined by a sticky film of his own blood.

That face beneath the helmet, while furious and lined with suffering, was handsome enough to dispel any and all concept of the fact that this man had brought billions to the slaughter. If his soul was as black and vicious as she had been led to expect, then shouldn’t its traces be marked on his face?

He was helmed, now, but he setting sun behind him made a single sculpted cheekbone and the sharp pen stroke of his eyelashes visible through his visor, and she privately strained to catch more of his features.

The Slayer had come through the window of her private arming chamber as silently as a man of his height and armored weight could manage. That window overlooked the fortress’ outer walls, and the drop was nearly one hundred feet from the parapet to the upper walkways of that wall. The wall itself was likely two hundred feet, but Thira had seen the Slayer accomplish greater feats of strength than a three hundred foot climb. The impressive part was that he had done it silently enough to startle her.

“Slayer,” Thira acknowledged, rising from a stone bench to pay respect to his presence. The weight of his gaze pressed on her like a chain mail cloak. He was huge, the top of her head only rising to the hollow of his collarbones and the span of his shoulders nearly doubling hers. Fully armored, the air he displaced made Thira think of undersea predators with all of its concentrated, dangerous tension.

He continued to stare at her.

“Do you require my aid?” she asked. “Is there some new battle against the….’

She trailed off as, unexpectedly, he removed his helmet. It was careful, deliberate, as if he were trying not to frighten her by moving too quickly. Thira was almost annoyed. Did he think she was some child frightened by the flinch of someone's hand? 

But then, she remembered that these hands would shatter her, if their owner wished it, and she swallowed her pride. Old habits, formed over years of being undermined and belittled, nothing more.

She met his eyes, and pride fell away in favor of something infinitely more disturbing and much harder to name.

The Slayer's eyes were large, gentle-looking things the color of unsweetened coffee. The lashes were long, and as dark as his inky black hair. Hell called this man “the Unchained Predator” in their infernal scriptures, but the eyes looking down into hers reminded her of deer, if anything. But, that would imply that the Slayer was, in reality, prey under the mask, and he couldn't be further from that. Not an unfeeling aquatic predator, not prey waiting to take flight, his eyes were neither pools of black rage nor hollow earthen pits in his face. They were simply…soft. Soft and dark and magnetic.

And they looked to be on the verge of weeping. 

Thira stared at him, utterly at a loss. She didn't know whether to lay a comforting hand against his arm or to pretend she didn't see the impending tears at all.

He didn't speak to her, but he didn't need to.

The Slayer blinked, eyes flickering to a spot just above her shoulder. He visibly swallowed and his lips thinned slightly. He shifted his weight, and for a warrior with a habit of standing absolutely still, it gave the impression of a youth anxiously shuffling his feet as he prepared to make a request.

“No, you aren't interrupting,” Thira told him, still dumbfounded. “I’m finishing my duties for the night. It’s tedious, but I don’t mind company.”

Slowly, he flexed his fingers and looked at the door, the window, the far corners of the room.

“This room is private,” Thira affirmed. “There is no one here and none will enter without my command. Well, except for you, Slayer.” She laughed nervously. “I doubt I could stop you even if I wanted to.”

At wanted to , the Slayer cocked his head a few degrees and he regarded her with an almost quizzical expression, then seemed to draw some sort of pleasant conclusion in his mind. He inhaled deeply, then let out an audible sigh. 

“Please, sit,” Thira suggested, gesturing to a small stone table and offering him a smile that seemed to smooth away one of the creases between his brows.

Then, she went to an armoire in a far corner of the room. There was wine and a few small things to eat there, meant for royalty to indulge in when their elite prepared to test themselves in the arena. Thira often entertained guests before combat, so the cabinet was always well stocked.

She took two lovely crystal glasses and filled them with easy, expert practice, as if she were serving a fellow Commander or General and nothing more.

The Slayer hadn't moved, watching her with an odd, but unreadable expression.

“This vintage is special,” Thira said, crossing the room to the table and setting the glasses down in their respective places before turning to fetch a small silver plate. “It's said that the vineyard where that wine was made was blessed by the Maykrs, so that all who partake in it find themselves faster and stronger after drinking. I know that it's a bullshit rumor meant to sell more wine, I've been to that vineyard and I saw the stimulants they use to spike each bottle. It does help me focus, though.”

She wondered if she was rambling as she assembled a tasteful assortment of cured meats and smoked cheeses, small things meant to settle the stomach without bogging down the body with excess carbohydrates before a battle.

When she returned to the table, she saw the Slayer listening intently, but his posture was tense.

“You don’t have to indulge,” Thira told him, setting the plate between the two glasses and seating herself. “It’s a formality, nothing more. I believe that it’s rude to let a guest go hungry if you have the means to feed them. But, it’s also rude to force hospitality when there is no need.”

As she spoke, the Slayer quietly sat down, taking his infamous shield from its place on his back and carefully propping it against the leg of the chair.

Outside, the sun began to truly set, bathing the room in wildfire scarlet. A pleasant breeze drifted through the open window. The Slayer turned his head and absorbed the scenery, watching the burning horizon slowly change color from gold to red to deepest indigo.

Thira let silence enfold them. She sipped her wine, the stimulant prickling across her tongue and staining a decent vintage with a saline, chemical note.

As she drained her glass, she found that couldn't tear her eyes away from the Slayer's face. The dying light brought out the earthy undertones in his hair and turned those eyes of his the color of amber stained glass. He was handsome, and she found the unexpected skittishness of his demeanor endearing. She wondered what it would feel like to touch his skin or run her fingers through his hair. His skin and hair were clean, and found herself idly pondering what he smelled like.

She ended the train of thought when the sun finally vanished.

“Was there something I could do for you, Slayer?” Thira asked as the room drowned in dark blue. She didn't turn the lights on, as if by leaving them off, a measure of extra privacy was given to the encounter.

The moment that she finished speaking, the Slayer's jaw clenched as his head snapped around to look at her. She flinched, wondering if she had angered him somehow, but felt awe and compassion wrap its fingers around her neck and squeeze as she realized that he was crying.

A single drop of water had slipped from where it trembled on the rim of the Slayer's eyelid and splattered on the hard shell of his breastplate with a tiny, little tap . Immediately, he raised a hand to scrub away any that followed.

“What…what's wrong?” Thira whispered, almost without thinking. 

His lips parted briefly, and as he placed an object on the table, she realized that he had been holding something in a closed fist this whole time.

A single dragon tooth. 

He stared at it for a long moment, his fingers hovering over it like a cage protecting some artwork in a museum.

“You…you miss Serrat,” she said.

Again, without thinking, she slowly reached out and laid her hand over his, threading her fingers between the studs welded to his knuckles. The metal was cool, and she wondered if the haptics in his suit registered her bare skin.

He scowled down at the contact, but allowed it. He seemed uncertain, as if the gesture were alien and unfamiliar.

“I understand. When my mother passed, I spent a lot of time with Valen,” Thira said, gently brushing her thumb across his knuckles. She wondered at his hand, at the chips in his armor and the cracks in the paint. “I found it was better to be near someone than to carry that ache by myself. Even if he never understood.”

She dared to slip her fingers beneath his, clasping them fully. He continued to permit the contact, so she continued.

“Even now I wish that my own battle plate carried the damage that yours does. I wish that I could have taken all the rage and hatred I have in my heart and inflicted it on whatever was unfortunate enough to be weaker than me. I wish I could have ripped and torn everything in my path to bloody shreds, until it was done. Until the grief was done. I wish that my armor carried the same scars as my heart.”

He was staring at her intently, uncertainty shifting into a subtle look of…sympathy? His hand twitched, and she felt his thumb gently graze the backs of her fingers.

“The anger never goes away, does it?” Thira murmured.

The sympathy on his face transmuted into an expression of pain, deeply felt and rarely understood. But, she realized that he did understand. Perhaps that was why he chose not to speak; he knew that it was easier to suffer and act in total silence than to endure platitudes and infantilizing from those around him.

Time heals all, scars fade, they wouldn’t want you to suffer. All of it was insulting. All of it served to drive the knife deeper, to rip the stitches out. And, like a beast in a cage, with every barb it grew more and more difficult not to bite. The hatred never faded, the fire never dimmed. With every person she tried to share it with, the edges of her love for them wore away as the cinders threatened to ignite and reduce them to ash.

Thira was glad to have left the lights off. No one deserved to witness what she shared with the Slayer. Even the daylight would have defiled the emotion, no–the doctrine –that they held in the space between their hands–

Supreme, all-consuming rage.

She saw it in his eyes, dark like earth charred black after a wildfire, waiting for a breeze to start the inferno once more. She wondered if he could see the neon lightning behind her own, or if he pitied the glass bottle that had become its prison. What sort of ruin would occur if the glass shattered, and the wildfire were suddenly stirred by the howling fury of an electrical storm? The smoke would weigh down the clouds before it, pouring new life into a storm that would never allow the fire to die out completely.

In her heart, she urged him to see it and set them both free, to spur each other on and on until at last they both spent themselves utterly. Let whatever remained suffocate in the ashes they left behind.

The moment abruptly ended.

Suddenly, the Wraith-trails around her fingers began to flicker, flashing the color of liquid plasma. In a fraction of a second, the energy built too quickly to coax back, and it sought release. An incandescent bolt of power jumped from the back of her knuckles and straight into the Slayer’s thumb, like a static shock.

The Slayer inhaled sharply and he flinched hard, shaking the pain out of his hand.

“ Shit !” Thira yelped, snatching her hand away and squeezing her fingers to stifle the electric burning still stinging her skin. “Hell, I’m sorry! I’m still learning to control it. Forgive me, please.”

He laughed first, a breathy snicker that dragged a giggle out of her. The Slayer offered her a subtle, sincere smile that utterly dispelled the intensity of the moment.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she said again, emphatically. He exhaled and rolled his eyes, amused.

Then, Thira stood, surprisingly content.

“I have some things to finish before the night is over, but I will be here. If you need anything, help yourself.”

He opened his mouth and sat forward slightly, barely perceptible. Then, he made a fist and performed a slashing movement across his opposite palm. It was the first deliberately expressive gesture he had made, and Thira suddenly wondered if his muteness was entirely a choice.

“What sort of knife?” Thira asked seamlessly.

He looked down at Sarrat’s tooth and tenderly brushed the pad of his thumb over it, a more thoughtful expression teasing at his brows and lips. She was good at reading people, but now she felt that she was truly beginning to speak his bizarre language.

“For carving?” Thira asked, the image of warriors’ totems springing to mind. 

He blinked at her, as if surprised to have been understood, then nodded.

“I have some from my time dabbling in jewelry,” Thira began, smiling as the Slayer's interest zeroed in on her once more.

She turned and crossed the room to a study, one of a few rooms separating her personal quarters from the arming chamber. Tucked away in a box on the bottom of a heavy bookshelf was a small, lacquered leather case. 

She brought it to her unexpected guest and presented its contents; a selection of small knives, chisels, pliers, awls and punches, meant to be applied to leather, wood or delicate metal. 

The Slayer carefully regarded them, then looked up at her without accepting the case. He seemed almost apologetic, but absolutely certain of something.

“You're right, Serrat never stopped to admire detail,” she teased. 

And neither do you . She left that thought unsaid; something about it didn't feel entirely true.

She departed once more, offering the Slayer her own combat knife instead.

This he accepted, and nodded in thanks.

Then, she turned to finish her nightly duties. She saw to her weapons and her armor, cleaning and sharpening blades, polishing plates, re-laquering gemstones and oiling leather. 

The Slayer removed his gauntlets, laying them beside his shield, then began the art of memorial scrimshaw. His hands were deft, though nimble was not a word that could be used to describe them; they were so battered that a thick layer of muscle and callus had worked them into a near-perpetual fist. His fingers were blunt and square, his palms similarly dulled by thousands upon thousands of impacts. His nails were short and sunk into the beds, as if they had been torn off and cracked so often that the flesh of his fingers was forced to compensate.

But they did remember gentleness. Tonight was proof.

The silence between them once more became comfortable. At some point, the Slayer moved closer to the window, seating himself on a stone bench to watch the stars and listen to the wind. He rested his head against the wall as his face took on an expression of such silent misery that Thira had to ignore him for a moment, lest her heart break a little in her chest. 

She moved to the study and attended to paperwork, filing accounts and sorting miscellany by the light of a single candle. She again, avoided the lights, unwilling to dispel the dimness that insulated their moment of empathy.

At some point, the Slayer appeared to have dozed off. He lay leaning against the wall, Serrat’s tooth cradled in a slack palm, eyes closed and face unmoving. His wineglass was empty and there was no food remaining on the table. She knew better than to check, but she swore that she saw his cheeks damp with drying tears. It could have been a trick of the candle light.

But, what was she to think if it hadn't been?

Was the wildfire, in reality, about to snuff itself out at last?

She finished a daily report, then rose to her feet to see her guest out. 

Damn it all, how is he so quiet ? Thira thought. 

The Slayer was nowhere in sight, and both his gauntlets and his shield were nowhere to be seen.

Not just that, but the bone shavings left from his scrimshaw had been disposed of, and the dishes from her presentation had been cleaned and returned to their places. All of it had been done without her noticing, and she suspected that it was both an act of gratitude and a refusal to impose more than he already had.

Only her knife hadn't been touched, left on the table out of respect. It was insulting to assume one knew how another warrior chose to maintain their weapons.

The night had been strange. He was strange.

Thira looked at her hand and the phantom Wraith-trails running across her skin like lightning. 

Who was she to judge? She was strange, too. Perhaps the Slayer saw a kindred spirit in her and came to her for a small flicker of comfort in his violent, bloody existence.

Perhaps, in that instant that they realized that they understood one another, he had.

Chapter 3: Even for You

Summary:

A quick chapter, but still a new one! I took some creative liberties with the "power of an eldritch god" stuff, but I think it stays well within canon. Thank you for the comments and kudos! They really make my day!

Nine months. It took nine months of relentless siege to break the lines of Hell, commanded this time by a creature known as Beltynia the Walker.

Ahzrak’s demise had left a power vacuum in Hell, and every aspiring champion thusfar had decided to blood themselves on the blades of the Night Sentinels. 

Beltynia had proved to be a worthy aspirant indeed, with one primary tactic serving as her signature:

Keep everything important as far away from the Slayer as possible, and try to drown him beneath the weight of hordes.

After nine months of fighting, cut off from the rest of the Sentinels without support, locator dead and vital signs untraceable, some among the Sentinels feared the worst. Thira knew better, for if the Slayer had truly fallen then Hell would be sure to let the Sentinels know.

At some point, Thira had gone personally to dispose of the Walker, and once destroyed, the line had broken and reinforcements trickled to a halt over the next few days.

It was on a security sweep that she found the Slayer’s killing ground. A trail of death ran for miles, hundreds of thousands of demons cast into the grinder to be pulped against the blade of the Sentinel’s finest weapon.

“Should we go after him?” Valen asked. He served as head of her honor guard for the mission. Thira looked at the trail of corpses from the door of the shuttle, down below at the flies buzzing around bloated, mangled bodies.

“He hasn’t been here for some time,” Thira said. She had a strange feeling in her stomach, something intuitive and indescribable. “Get me closer. Then, allow me to speak to him alone. I will signal you when we need to be picked up.”

“Of course,” Valen nodded.

When the corpses were fresh enough to bleed, Thira disembarked the shuttle and dismissed her company with a gesture.

The air was hot and dry, abrasive with disturbed dust particles. Red shimmered everywhere. As a strange infernal phenomenon, human blood tended to collect on the ground like puddles after a rainstorm. There didn’t appear to be a rhyme or reason behind their appearance, only that they could be found nearly everywhere in Hell.

To her, it seemed as if she stood in the tracks of something colossal, like an engine of war heedless of the army it ground underneath its treads.

That machine of eternal death was finishing his butchery.

He was surrounded by corpses, adding more to the pile as the stragglers made their last stand. But, something was wrong. He was stumbling, his form sloppy and graceless. Parts of his armor were shattered, including the right half of his helmet lens. He was caked in filth and gore, as if he hadn't had a resting moment in weeks. A few inches of liquid blood covered the ground in crimson.

“I found the Slayer,” Thira said into her comms. “Stand ready to extract us, but don't move until my command.”

“ Aye, Commander .”

Thira watched the singular remaining imp in the area pounce on him, scoring fresh red into his filthy skin. The Slayer let out an animal snarl, snatched the creature by the skull and yanked the monster forward to face him.

The Slayer took its head in both hands, shoved his thumbs into the beast’s eye sockets, and began to pull the creature in half. It shrieked as it split vertically, a garbled wail fading as the Slayer cast each half aside. 

Thira began to approach the Slayer, and felt every hair on her body stand on end as he turned on his heels…then lurched into a juddering sprint. Every step the Slayer took was worth three of a normal man’s. His eyes were locked on her, wild and unseeing. Nothing that remained could be considered human; there was only kill-fury and lust for blood.

Thira set her jaw and planted her feet, a growl rising in her throat. 

The Wraith-tracks on her arm lit up and the chilly whisper of ancient power coursed through her.

She raised a hand and clenched her fist. Ethereal energy pooled in the ground beneath her, then exploded upwards in the form of a cephalopod’s grasping limbs.

They shot towards him and snagged hold of his wrists winding around his arms like the tails of serpents.

Thira held out her hands, willing each phantom limb to draw tight like the cables of a bridge and stop him in his tracks.

It was like holding back the weight of an armored transport.

His boots gouged tracks in the earth as he wheeled and began hacking at the tentacles with his shield, dragging a path inevitably forward.

Thira gasped and reached within herself for more power. Shimmering limbs wound around his ankles and he fell to one knee, shouting in fury as other tendrils gained purchase.

Still he resisted. Sweat sheened Thira's skin and her breath began to mist in front of her. She clenched her jaw, both muscle and will straining at the sheer force of restraining the Slayer. She held him by the arms, legs, even casting restraints about his throat to rein him in like a warhorse gone mad.

He thrashed, the same raw, shapeless battle cry ripping out of his throat as before. This wasn't the silent, focused rage that he usually brought to war. This was delirium, an exhausted and belligerent fury thrown on anything within range. How long had he been fighting?

“Slayer,” Thira called, stepping closer and grimacing as her control threatened to crumble.

He bucked, dragging his foot up underneath him to resume the onslaught.

She cried out as she almost lost her hold, and he gained another foot of ground. Sweat was rolling down her face, filling her mouth with bitter saline and stinging her eyes.

“ Slayer ,” she shouted again, but she may as well have been trying to stop a meteor upon re-entry.

He was going to kill her. She felt it in her bones, bones that he would rip from their sockets as easily as splinters from leather.

Nine months ago, she had gazed into the eyes of an unlikely equal before he had all but disappeared. Now, she only saw the burning black pits of a mindless animal. These were the eyes she had originally anticipated to see beneath his helmet. She wasn't prey to him, far less than that, but meat waiting to be shredded apart. 

As it had in the Ancient Realm, terror opened up a floodgate in her.

“Enough!” Thira screamed. Frost exploded across her skin and each translucent shackle wound around the Slayer’s body constricted like a host of pythons, earning an agonized jolt from their prisoner. More appendages rose up and joined their sisters. Veins of energy spiderwebbed across his body and the howls of fury choked off. His eyes widened in pain; his nose began to bleed into his broken helm. 

The effort of holding him stole the breath from her body and tunneled her vision. The ancient soul trapped in her body shrieked in her ears, consumed only by the thought of protecting her; that spirit wanted blood.

Caught between the two murderous entities, Thira felt as if she were being ripped in half at the molecules. White overtook her sight, and she lost consciousness for a moment.

When she came to her senses, it was to the Slayer's final, guttering motions as he at last found the end of his strength. 

A tiny breath of terrified relief escaped her, set free as his fingers unclenched from around her throat and fell away.

His eyes dimmed and grew unfocused. His jaw worked up and down as he fought for oxygen. Then his head lolled on his shoulders before he crashed to his knees hard enough to crack the stone beneath him. The lake of gore rippled in a small imitation of the ocean during a hurricane.

The Slayer’s armor buckled within the crushing force of her grip. Another limb whipped forward like the tail of a scorpion, clawed end aimed for the Slayer’s forehead. The ancient Wraith within her surged forward like a descending banshee, ready to execute the man before her.

“No!” she shouted, and the nearly overwhelming surge of energy wavered. Thira caught the edges of that ancestral power and hauled back as hard as she could manage. It was enough to stifle the kill urge, but only just. The murderous stinger froze mid-strike and dissolved, only a hairsbreadth away from punching straight through the Slayer’s skull.

Metal groaned as some measure of pressure was lifted. The lines of power skittering across the Slayer’s body died, and he convulsed as he drew a shuddering breath and choked on his own blood.

Thira’s feet hit solid ground; for some reason, the spirit of the Wraith kept her feet firmly on the surface of the lake of gore. He was on his knees and his arms were wrenched to either side of him, pinned to the earth with coils of glowing blue. He was reeling, trying to regain his senses.

Thira reached out, then gently lifted his helmet from his head.

Blood leaked from ruptured capillaries in his eyes and his ears, and dribbled from his nose in steady streams. His chest heaved, and each ragged gasp sent tremors through his massive body. 

“Slayer?” Thira asked, softly. “Slayer, can you hear me?”

Slowly, shuddering, he tilted his head to briefly meet her eyes. Thankfully, the berserker fury was ebbing away, losing to exhaustion. 

Thira knelt, taking his face in her hands. His skin was soaked in sweat and he flinched at the touch, baring his teeth as if he were struggling to swallow a ball of molten lead.

“No more of this. It's done,” she said to him, searching his eyes.

He swallowed thickly, tried to slow his labored breathing, then gave a weary nod. Suddenly, an errant restraint twitched near his ear, startling him and upsetting the tenebrous control he had on his own rage. His jaw clenched like a vise. Blood bubbled from between his teeth and a vein pulsed in his forehead. His pupils dilated and he let out a strangled roar of defiance, one that was once again choked off by the spectral limb constricting around his throat.

The anger never goes away, does it?

He locked eyes with her and began to struggle once more, a pale second wind fueling his resistance.

Thira threw her arms around his neck and clutched his head tight against the hollow of her shoulder.

He bucked, flinching in his restraints, but she pushed her fingers into his filthy, matted hair and held him tighter.

“Hush,” she whispered. “Shh…that's enough. It's over. Come back.”

With a sound that sent sympathetic agony coursing through Thira’s chest, the Slayer announced his hard-won victory with a furious scream that trailed off into wet gasping. The echoes of that cry rang off the rocks, carried down the arid wind, then faded like a symphony’s final note to an empty concert hall. Only when silence reigned did the delirium fall away.

A moment passed. Then two.

She released him, blue light yielding to the dusty crimson of Hell’s unholy sky, and he fell limp against her. She put an arm around his waist, a thick layer of old gore smearing her skin like engine grease.

“Forgive me,” she pled, carding her fingers through his hair. She wondered if, during the nine months that had passed since she had seen him, he had stopped fighting for even a moment. 

A moment passed before she felt him slowly, agonizingly, lay a hand against the small of her back, softly nosing her jaw as he did so. Warmth seeped into her skin, both from the unshod palm of his hand and the steadily growing puddle of blood dribbling from his nose as it soaked into her clothing. 

“Valen,” Thira said into her comms. “I'm sending you our coordinates. I have the Slayer. Pick us up.”

“Copy that, Commander. Does the Slayer live?”

“Yes, but he's…injured.” 

She retreated, leaning back to inspect the damage.

His chest was still heaving, eyes half-lidded and shoulders slumped forward. His face was filthy and gouged with old, inflamed lacerations. The flow of blood from his nose had stilled, pooling at the edge of his mouth and falling to the ground in slow, lazy strings. His lips were chapped and split. Pale tracks formed in the grime caking his face as sweat rolled down his forehead. 

Thira cast her eyes to the lake of gore. The slayer was submerged to his knees in crimson, but Thira knelt on top of it as if it were a solid surface. Excess energy still skittered through the air in her lungs, and an intention formed in the back of her mind. She touched the surface of the pool, exhaling that power as an iridescent mist.

The entire pool flashed, becoming a mirror of blue light. Ozone spiked the air for a moment, then took on a clean scent that reminded her of snow.

When the light died, every drop of blood in the pool had transmuted into cold, pure water.

“Here,” she whispered, shifting to kneel beside the Slayer and dipping her cupped hand into the lake. The water was crystal clear, like a glacier spring. She raised her hand and held it to the Slayer’s mouth. He swallowed thickly, eyes focusing after a long, disconcerting moment. Then, his hand flew up to snatch hers and shove it against his lips in an act of desperation that Thira had never expected to see from him. Only some of the water made it into his mouth, and he coughed quietly as his parched throat refused to accept it.

“Slowly,” Thira demanded gently, reaching down to try the gesture once more. As she did so, she removed the cloak from her shoulders and let the water soak its fibers.

As the sound of thrusters reached her ears, Thira gently began to wipe away the grease from the Slayer's face. She didn't accomplish much, but the Slayer seemed grateful by the way he leaned into her touch.

The shuttle came into view a minute later, and Thira took hold of his arm, casting it around her shoulders. 

“Can you stand?” she asked.

The Slayer only offered a nod.

Chapter 4: I Gave it Hell

Notes:

This one is a weird one. The last thing I want to do is "Doomguy Mute until Cute MC", but I never really expected to end up with THIS angle? Let me know what you guys think because I love it but I'm also not entirely sure about it. Fuck it, its a fanfic, these things are for experimenting. Thanks for the comments and the kudos!

The Slayer had almost forgotten how it felt to be well and truly exhausted. 

He'd been tired before. His life was littered with moments when he found himself so beat up and worn out that he had to take a minute and lay down somewhere to feel sorry for himself. But, since that Maykr machine, those moments had been completely non-existent. 

His bones felt as heavy as lead, and every ounce of meat on his body down to the micromuscles in his cheeks felt wrung out like old rags. He was shaking, and he had to fight to keep most of his weight off of the Commander even as she appointed herself to be his crutch.

She was only human, and ill-equipped to carry the bulk of him. Some bitter, sardonic side of him amused itself with the idea of crushing her, toying with the irony of killing her by accident after everything he had endured thusfar.

He had become something great and terrible, a one man army, an angel of death. But the Commander? Hot as fuck and tougher than any G.I. Jane he’d ever met, but still just a chick.

Sure, it would be a crying shame to reduce a woman like that to paste, but it would be kinda funny. Funny in the way that those old cartoons were, the ones where that stupid little coyote creature found himself underneath an oversized ACME anvil and got all fucked up when it fell on his head.

The Slayer preferred the real thing, of course. Boneless cartoon animals didn’t bleed when they were pulled in half or stomped into the dirt or cut up with chainsaws. Snarky, rubber-band rabbits and so-called “martians” in gay little bowling shoes weren’t nearly as satisfying to watch when their oversized heads got punched into their ribcages, and they definitely didn’t seem to understand things like hate. The real thing was better. The real thing met his eyes and hated him back. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, there wasn’t anything better than–

He stumbled.

An errant spar of stone caught his boot, and when he tried to put his foot out and stop himself from collapsing, his muscles didn’t respond. Lactic acid burn shot up his hip like lightning and he prepared to hit the dirt, no doubt dragging the Commander with him and popping her head clean off her shoulders because even flinching was destructive now. 

A cartoon accident beneath a cartoon anvil shaped suspiciously like him. 

But he didn’t hit the ground. 

The Commander’s left eye was glowing neon blue, and spectral chitin had appeared above her skin like a semi-solid pauldron. 

He was aware of one arm around his waist and the other against his bicep, but other limbs had joined her. Quick as lightning, the Wraith living in her body had slipped behind his back, snaked down around his leg and fixed itself in the shank of his boot like a stirrup. Another circled his chest, following the dent in his breastplate left by its previous ventures. Unlike before, the pressure wasn’t crushing, but supportive. Strong. More like guardrails than constrictors.

Broken ribs twinged in the Slayer's chest and he spat blood, then ventured to look down at her. She was gazing up at him, and the look on her face had him reeling.

She’s beautiful .

He forgot what he was thinking about a moment before.

He took a deep breath. Noticed her palm on his bicep. Tried to count each individual eyelash framing her cobalt blue eyes.

The Slayer fought to collect his thoughts, watching the shuttle circle above them and descend for landing. What had he been thinking about before? It must have been important, it had to be important. 

“Forgive me,” the Commander said again. Her thumb gently traced a circle across his arm and he stared at her for a moment. He nodded, and some of the remorse on her firm, angular face dissolved. That pleased him. The Commander was so gentle towards him, so unafraid and….

The thought trailed off.

He had almost killed her.

In the last dregs of his stamina, the Slayer had only seen another being, and had made no distinction between friend and foe. After Christ knows how long facing nothing but horde after horde, he hadn’t registered her identity. He had almost grabbed her by the sternum and cracked open her chest cavity as if she were some shitty plastic Barbie doll and he were one of those fucked up teenagers that grew up to be serial killers. If she hadn’t stopped him, then he may not have realized until he received notice of her closed-casket funeral. He almost ripped her to pieces, torn her limb from limb.

Rip. Tear. Rip and tear. Until it was done. It was never done, not for him. Never for him. He didn’t deserve a finish line anyway. Fuck it, he didn’t need one, wouldn’t even know what to do with the damn thing if he were offered a lifetime getaway to a tropical island planet only populated by underwear models and that one dyke-looking bartender from Salt Lake motherfucking City. She had been ugly as hell but she had also been the only one to listen to him complain about his life while he was stationed there. Of course, she was on the clock and no woman in their right mind would risk pissing off a 6’8”, 350 pound jarhead with too much Jim Beam in his system, but she had listened to him. But he would probably end up killing her too, so it was probably better that she had died out with baseball and prom night and the Louvre and hound dogs and roses and the 4th of July and color-by-numbers and Metallica and humpback whales and German chocolate and fresh peaches and the redwood forest and everything else good on Earth. 

He didn't realize that he was aboard the shuttle until Valen’s scarred face filled his vision.

“--alright?” Valen was speaking. 

Valen. Who named their kid Valen anyway? A bunch of Viking wizard knights from space, that's who. 

“Slayer?” Valen asked, snapping his fingers in front of his face.

He scowled at Valen, trying to recall…something. Maybe whatever the Slayer had forgotten just then hadn't been important. 

“You doing alright?” Valen asked him. 

The Slayer nodded and licked his lips, suddenly missing the water given to him by the Commander. Perhaps he missed her soft, dear hand pressed against his mouth. 

He was a little alarmed at what that had done to him. He often felt like a beast, cast off and feared by all those around them. Novik was the alpha of his pack, and had made it clear to the Slayer that he would never walk among Novik's wolves as an equal.

But the Commander? The Commander didn't see him as a beast to begin with. She met his eyes and called his name and didn't flinch when he moved. When he had, at his wits end, come to her quarters just for something besides the empty, Serrat-shaped hole in his heart, the Commander had given him so much more than a distraction.

She was so gentle towards him, so unafraid and….

He had almost killed her. 

That was what he had been thinking about.

He looked around for her, moving to stand but freezing when he realized that she was still tucked beneath his arm. Her head rested against his chest, one hand draped across his thigh while the other clung to his bicep. Her eyes were closed and her breath was slow and even.

“Novik is on the comms…he's requesting a report from the Commander,” Valen said, barely concealing a smile.

The Slayer blinked slowly, eyes flinty, and did not move so much as a finger. 

The corner of Valen’s eyebrow quirked, as if he were straining to keep a straight face.

“I'll let him know,” said Valen, turning and walking away, grinning as he did so. 

The Slayer let his head fall back against the steel wall of the shuttle.

Never again. Never again would he put her in danger as he had today. 

His hand rested near her elbow, and he ventured to gently squeeze her arm, cradling her closer to him. 

He swore an oath then, with Heaven and Hell and the Maykrs and all the Demon Council as his witness; he would protect her with everything he possessed. 

Especially from himself.

He laid his cheek against the top of her head. Her hair smelled like sweat and brimstone, but a little of her perfume reached through. He liked it. It suited her. 

The air on the shuttle was cold. He liked that too. It reminded him of…of…somewhere hot. And. A transport? Air conditioning. California?

He frowned and softly nuzzled the Commander's head. Lazily wondered about kissing her hair.

He remembered California. Deserts, beaches, mountains, people. Big trees. Like…really big fuckin trees. Redwoods. Right.

He sighed heavily. The Commander might have liked the Redwoods.

(O)

The Doom Slayer talked in his sleep.

Something within Thira knew a hospital ward would spell disaster, so she requested that he stay in her personal suites at Sentinel Command. The last thing anyone wanted was an irritable human super weapon with a deadly temper stalking around command, but his equipment needed to be reforged and his sanity ascertained.

There seemed to be two men in the Slayer's body. She recognized one. He was silent, attentive and dangerous in that cinders-on-dry-prairie way, more of an impending cataclysm than an outright threat.

The other reminded her of a dragon, but one with a terrible case of cholic. He was anxious and aggressive, baring his teeth, flexing his fists, staring into space and sneering at nothing. Occasionally, Thira would return from her duties to find him pacing around the room like a caged wolf. He would promptly meet her eyes, then melt into the quiet version of himself as if it had never happened.

She squashed the idea that her presence provided some sort of calm. The concept was distracting, more distracting than his own presence in her chambers already was.

A cot had been brought into her arming chamber along with a small team of healers, but the Slayer had adamantly refused any of their service, preferring to treat his own wounds and mind his own peace.

The nurse, a man no older than twenty, lasted an hour before Thira personally relieved them all of duty. A brave young man, he had gone so far as to complete a scan of the Slayer before his instincts got the better of him and urged him to flee.

Only one healer lingered, and Thira cared most about what she had to say.

“Commander?" The head psychologist was an aging woman of about seventy, and she did not seem amused.

“Could you find out anything?” Thira asked her, taking her by the elbow and pulling her aside. Thira could see beyond the partially closed door and watched as the Slayer seated himself at the window, drawing one knee to his chest as he watched the scenery below.

“From what I have gathered and compared to previous reports of the Slayer's…um…mental stability…I can only make an educated guess.” The woman took a pair of spectacles from her nose and began to clean them on her smock. “I suspect that he is experiencing post-traumatic disassociation. You said that he exhibits symptoms of short term memory loss?”

“In a way,” Thira mused. “He has moments where he becomes aggressive.”

The psychologist raised an eyebrow.

“The Doom Slayer? Aggressive?” she said slowly.

“It is different,” Thira pressed. “He's very gentle around me. He isn't dangerous when he doesn't mean any harm.” 

“I mean no disrespect, Commander, but have you considered that he is kind because he happens to be a man, and you are a beautiful young woman?” The psychologist grunted incredulously. 

Thira’s face burned. 

“Or, maybe I'm the only one that doesn't treat him like a runaway Atlan?”

“Atlans tend to be less destructive,” the woman sniffed. “And what of his memory loss?” She continued.

Thira sighed deeply.

“It's…like an episode. When it passes, he acts as if he doesn't remember.”

The psychologist took a few notes on a data pad, then paused to read something.

“Does he speak?”

“When he is sleeping, he does quite often. As for awake, I've heard him mumble under his breath.”

“What language?”

“English,” Thira said. “I've studied some.”

“And what does he say?” 

“It's…jumbled. The clearest I have heard was something about a ‘High School’ and a few names. ‘Daisy, Elaine, Caleb, Taggart.’ Usually he simply rambles. I don't understand most of it,” Thira lied.

She left out the sheer amount of apologizing and bitter cursing that fell out of the Slayer's mouth like broken teeth. There were few who understood him well enough to know what to do with the information anyway.

“Daisy? How… odd . Is that a person?” the old woman smacked her lips, displeased. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Thira told her.

“If you want my professional opinion, Commander, I would say that he is simply suffering from overexertion. I suspect that it began with the Maykr’s tether device and concluded with the stress of the past nine months.”

“That…makes some measure of sense,” Thira said lamely.

“Beltynia the Walker was intelligent, and the Slayer has been known to make complete recoveries in twenty minutes or less, so perhaps the demons knew better than to allow him even a moment to breathe? Commander, his body may be divinely empowered, but his mind is still human. He came to us as a broken vessel, and I suspect that we are watching the cracks beginning to re-appear.”

“Is it temporary?” Thira anxiously gnawed on her lip.

“Maybe,” said the psychologist. “You don’t know how much water that vessel already contains. Let the water remain and it will eventually break under the pressure. But, remove the water, it is likely to shatter anyway.”

“I thought he was a man , not a teacup,” Thira snorted, not in the mood to entertain metaphors.

“Nonetheless,” the psychologist rolled her eyes and replaced her spectacles. “Good day, Commander.”

“Please keep me informed,” Thira sighed.

“If I somehow manage to put together a diagnosis concerning a patient that refuses to speak and skulks around the room waiting for a chance to rip me to pieces, all from my office twenty floors away, you will be the first to hear about it.” The old woman shuffled away, muttering. “Fifty years and they still expect sorcery of me….”

Thira kneaded the bridge of her nose, then returned to her quarters and shut the door. She locked it and stood there for a moment, worry swirling through her thoughts like silt upturned from a lakebed.

When she turned around, the Slayer was watching her, his face etched with concern.

Without armor, he was a significantly less imposing figure, though Thira’s more personal angle stripped him of the grim mystique that tended to keep others away.

Stubble shadowed his jaw and his hair, once cropped short, was a tousled mess across his forehead. Bruises mottled his skin and self-administered stitches made tracks across his arms and neck.

He wore only loose white fatigues and a few self-applied bandages. Amusingly, he had rolled the pants up around his calves and neatly deprived the shirt of its sleeves.

Thira sat across the sill from him, looking down at the mountains from the window. It was raining down below, and the clouds insulating the sky cast a quiet repose over command.

He continued to watch her, as if he knew that she had something to say and was patiently waiting for her to string the words together.

But, one didn't have to bring nuance. The Slayer preferred otherwise.

“Who are Elaine and Caleb Taggart?”

The question hung in the quiet like a bullet in a suspensor field for a long while. The Slayer went completely still, his face blank and not even his chest rising and falling to breathe.

Then, the Slayer's posture adjusted. The tension left his shoulders and he rested his arm on his knee in the same way one would place a weapon on a table. His eyes went languid and his lip drew back in a sneer.

Suddenly his presence no longer felt like a heavy cloud of impending destruction, but some arrogant young warrior interjecting at a council meeting. It was domineering, hostile and almost hard to stand.

“Elaine was some broad I married out of High School. Caleb is what she named our kid,” he said in English, then his mouth snapped shut. His voice was deep, but raspy and broken from disuse, and the sound of it seemed to embarrass him back into silence. 

“Is…that all?” Thira asked, unable to mask her shock.

He scowled and lost focus, as if he had walked into the room only to forget what he came there for. Thira put a hand against his arm.

“If there's something in you that wants to speak, let him,” she continued.

The Slayer looked confused, perhaps a little disgusted, then sardonic once again.

“Th–” he stopped, cleared his throat. “Thanks, babe.”

“Babe?” 

“Don't take it the wrong way,” he groused. “Just calling it like I see it.”

“Um…right. Slayer, are you…are you alright?” Thira removed her hand from his arm.

“Slayer?” The Slayer blinked, then chuckled. “That's fuckin’ sick . Yeah. I–” he coughed once again. “I like that.”

The Unchained Predator, the Hell Walker, the Beast, the Outlander from Beyond, the Doom Slayer…was a jackass?

“What are you usually called?” 

“Corporal Flynn Taggart. I also answer to dumbass, maggot, jarhead, ‘hey you’. Oh, yeah, and Fly.” He adjusted himself, putting his arms behind his head and kicking one leg as it dangled off the sill. 

“Your name is Flynn?” Thira asked, thankfully unable to translate most of what he had said. Oddly enough, she still spoke to him in Argenta, but he replied exclusively in his own native tongue.

“Fruity, huh? I shoulda been called William Joseph after my grandpa. That guy was such a goddamn  stud, he could clear rooms full of Nazis with only a fuckin table knife. Makes sense for a William, but Flynn? That guy has elbow patches on his fag jacket and you'd catch me dead before I wear stupid shit like that. They called my grandpa B.J. for short. Could have called me Billy, like Billy the Kid. Man, I could go for an old Western right about now. You like westerns? How about Budweiser? Might be nice, just us, a few beers and an old cowboy movie–by the way, are your parents home?” 

Thira stared at him as he rambled, a strange sadness curling in her stomach. She didn't understand most of what he was talking about. It was all alien jargon from a dead, alien world. What was incomprehensible to her had meaning to this man, and by the way the cruelty on his face dissolved into snide amusement, it seemed to have a lot of meaning.

“No,” she said, unsure of what he meant but leaning into the delusion. “My father isn't here. My mother died before I earned my wings.”

“Pilot? That's badass. Makes sense, a woman like you would be a pilot. Someone's gotta remind those little Chair Force fairy boys who's boss,” he snickered. He swung forward, rolling his weight until he sat beside her, scarred hands gripping the edge of the sill.

“Sorry about your mom,” he added, scowling as his voice began to scrape in his mouth. “How did it ha-appen?”

“She was killed protecting me from a demon invasion,” Thira told him. “I don’t–”

“--hold on a sec. Have you got anything to drink? This seems like a drinking story.” Flynn raised his eyebrows.

“In the cabinet in the next room,” she told him, too stunned to get to her own feet and procure it herself.

“Sit tight, sugar-tits,” he told her with that funny, lopsided grin of his. Then, he got to his feet, grimaced as one of his many wounds smarted, then went into the next room before she could gather her wits.

It didn’t take long for him to return.

“Is your daddy rich? Everything in there looked expensive,” he said, holding out a black glass bottle. He had a good sense for alcohol; that vintage was notoriously strong. Flynn sat down beside her, closer this time, then pinched the cork between two fingernails and removed the entire thing in one effortless motion.

“Flynn, do you know where you are?” Thira suddenly asked, caught between compassion and genuine irritation.

“Baby, if I stop and think about that for too long–” his face abruptly paled and his dark eyes widened. He shuddered, then took a long pull straight from the bottle. “--I think I’ll lose it for real. Come to think of it, I forgot that I’m not doing so hot. Like. Jesus Christ on a cracker, I haven’t been this amped since Mars first shit the bed. Anyway, you’ve got mommy issues. Let’s hear about it.”

He offered her the bottle, and, abandoning all sense of decorum, she took it from him and tipped far too much into her mouth to be proper. It burned all the way down like grain alcohol did, only it was far too sweet to enjoy in small doses.

“Mommy issues?” she snorted. “You think I have mommy issues?”

“Duh. You’ve listened to me go on for more than twenty minutes and you haven’t slapped me yet, which means that you probably want to fix me.”

Thira took another drink.

“You aren’t broken,” she huffed, then passed the bottle.

“Honey, I’m a fucking monster and you know it. Nobody comes out of what I did without a few cracks. Now, are you gonna talk or what?”

“ Fine ,” Thira groaned. “Maykrs above, you’re pushy.”

“Tit for tat, babygirl,” Flynn smirked. “I bitch about my own bad decisions, and then you fall into my arms and cry on my shoulder. It’s only fair." Restless, he lowered himself to the floor and rested his back against the wall.

 

She scoffed, but laughed at the rude humor. Flynn was abrasive and aggressive, but as the alcohol made its rounds through her system, she was beginning to enjoy his demeanor. He didn’t need to know how often she thought about his shoulders. She almost declined the bottle when he gave it back to her.

“Unfortunately for you, I haven’t cried about this story in years. It’s good. I promise. I don’t remember much, but I remember my mother’s last stand. She had a combat shotgun in one hand and a sword in the other, and she cut down so many demons that I ended up trapped under the bodies. All I could hear were gunshots and carnage. Thankfully, the corpses hid me from the demon Lord searching for me, and when my father finally found me–”

Thira scooted down to the floor to sit with him, planting herself perhaps a little too close. Flynn rested his arm on the windowsill behind her head in an effort to seem nonchalant. He smelled good, like soap and something completely unique to him.

“--I found out that my mother had killed every single one of them, then died standing up with one last shell in her gun.”

“Mother of God ,” Flynn laughed. “That. That has got to be the single most badass thing I have ever fucking heard of.”

“Isn’t it?” she grinned stupidly.

“Fuck yeah it is,” Flynn told her. “Now, let me guess, your daddy is a helicopter parent.”

“What the hell is a helicopter?” Thira snickered.

“A deathtrap, don’t worry about it,” Flynn chuckled. “Nah, I meant that you’re your daddy’s little princess, right?”

“Very funny.”

“I ain’t laughing, babe.” He was smiling, and Thira marveled again at the fact that he still possessed all of his teeth.

The bottle returned to his custody and Thira leaned her shoulder into his chest. Flynn smirked, and she couldn’t stifle a small giggle as his arm circled her back until his hand rested firmly on her hip. He tugged her close, earning a girlish exclamation of surprise from her.

“Why do you keep calling me things like that?” Thira said. Already she was beginning to feel giddy. “Baby, honey. sweetheart…all of that.”

“Maybe I’m trying to piss you off,” he snickered. 

“What if I like it?”

“Ooh. You’re freaky, sweetheart.”

“Am not ,” she frowned.

“Horseshit.”

“I love horses,” she said, then realized it and slapped a palm to her forehead. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“You’re drunk, honey, and horses are cool as fuck. My grandpa used to keep ‘em. My favorite was this big ol’ palomino named Hitler. Grandpa called him that because Hitler hated all the other horses so bad that he got his own pasture. Grandpa said that the horse was a tyrant and that he was going to get somebody’s fingers one day.”

Thira laughed, listening to his heart through the soft cotton of his shirt. Between the alcohol and the heat of Flynn’s body, she was beginning to feel sleepy.

“You seem to like mean animals,” she murmured.

“Animals ain’t mean, they all got good hearts. You just gotta prove that you’re badder than they are and suddenly you’re best friends with a horse named Hitler.”

“What about you? Have you got a good heart?” Thira looked up at him, and was surprised to find that he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I’ve…I’ve made mistakes.”

“We all have,” she insisted.

“Yeah. I guess. Hey, before I forget; Elaine wasn’t just some broad. She was student body president, valedictorian, liked to work on her uncle’s beat up Jeep when she wasn’t busy being the captain of the softball team. Kind of the perfect woman.”

Thira fell silent, reaching up to sketch her fingers across his collarbone as he started into another stream of consciousness.

“I was a little punk with a Kawasaki Ninja, so I guess that made me the bad boy, and you pretty much know the rest. Asked her to prom. Got her pregnant. I joined the Marines when she had Caleb to try and take care of them both. I only saw them five times after that. I tried to be a good dad–at least better than my dad was–but it’s kind of hard when your family is a thousand miles away from you or more at any given moment. I gave it hell, I really did. The last time I saw them, it was around Easter. Caleb found a little bunny rabbit abandoned in a box and begged his mom to let him keep it; I guess she was left behind by some asshole who thought that living beings are cute holiday toys for ungrateful kids. Call me a pussy or whatever, but it was the sweetest damn rabbit God ever had a hand in making, and before Elaine had made up her mind, I’d already gone out and bought all the stuff to take care of it. Named her Daisy ‘cause she had these white spots on her face that looked like a little flower. Best month of my entire life.”

Thira was drunkenly trying to bite back tears as he spoke.

“You ever wake up one day and feel like you’ve changed?” Flynn continued, eyes fixed on some point in the distance that only he could see. “I don’t. Never have. I didn’t tell Elaine that I was being shipped to Mars on account of ‘disorderly conduct.’ Don’t worry, the CO I decked deserved it. I’d do it again, even if I knew that I would find out that Hell is real and that it’s hungry. If I had one wish, it would be to know when I woke up, wiped the blood out of my eyes and turned into a skinwalker wearing my own goddamn face.” 

“Flynn,” Thira whispered. “You are human, I promise.”

“Oh?” he looked down at her. “How do you reckon?”

“Your heart. You said it yourself–animals aren’t mean, they all have good hearts. And…I know I said that you weren’t broken before, but what I really meant was that I like the cracks. I can see you through them.”

“That’s…sweet. You’re sweet. At least, you are when you get past all the high-and-mighty-Sentinel-ice-princess bullshit.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” Thira closed her eyes, and an errant teardrop soaked into his shirt from where her cheek was crushed against his chest. “I admit, I’ve always been curious about your voice. I didn’t expect this.”

“Speaking of that,” Flynn sighed. “I’m about sick of hearing myself. It was quiet up here for a while, and I miss the silence.”

“Me too,” Thira snickered.

“Wow,” Flynn rolled his eyes. “Thanks for that.”

“Do you want me to lie to you and tell you that you aren’t obnoxious when you open your mouth?” she teased, reaching up to trace the hollow of his throat with the tip of her finger. His heavy, scarred hand covered hers and squeezed.

“I know I am,” he huffed, planting a kiss against her hairline so quickly that she almost missed it. “I have to listen to me twenty-four-seven, three sixty-five. It’s a fucking nightmare.”

“I don’t mind,” she told him honestly.

He gazed at her for a moment that seemed to stretch into hours.

“Thira,” Flynn said, and she smiled a little at the way her name sounded in his mouth. He leaned a little closer to her; her heart jumped so hard in her chest that she wondered if he could feel it. He released her hand and gently laid his against her cheek. She nuzzled his palm as he continued.

“Thanks,” he said, then began to close the gap between them.

Chapter 5: Cross the Threshold

Notes:

Hello!!! So, I took a risk with a more Rough-Around-the-Edges Doomguy, but the more I work with it, the more I actually like it. It was meant to feel jarring and strange, and I really like the idea of him "reverting to old habits" when he's under a lot of stress. If this were a full blown project I would spend more time with it and really flesh things out, but the classic "Semper Fi Ooh Rah Marine" flavor feels really true to OG Doom Marine to me. I'm going to keep it, but he's going to retain a little of the coarseness in his own thoughts and narrative voice. He's an actions over words guy anyways, and the contrast is where I want the intrigue to stay.

Thank you all for reading, please enjoy some more headcanon Thira Powers!

The door alert chimed, and in that moment, Thira swore that she possessed enough furious wrath to tear a man’s head clean off his shoulders in one motion if they got too close to her.

The closest man to her grimaced, an exasperated sigh escaping his nose and warming the planes of Thira’s angular face. The Slayer–Flynn Taggart, opened his eyes and gazed at her softly. His nose brushed the curve of her cheek and her forehead bumped against his. The distance between their lips was so spare that she could feel the warmth of his skin radiating into hers like an electrical current. 

She was close enough to see the tawny streaks in his irises and smell the wine on his breath. He was holding completely still, waiting for her command. She could close the distance, and in doing so, throw open a completely new door, leading to paths unknown. Part of her wanted to run headlong across the threshold, but the sober corner of her brain made its stand and held the line–not yet.

Reluctantly, she sighed and withdrew from him. 

“I should get that,” Thira told him, a little sad. She was still drunk, far too drunk to be speaking to colleagues.

For a hairsbreadth of a second, he looked just as mournful. But, the look passed as quickly as it had come. He audibly snorted in reply, then offered a hand to help push her to her feet.

She wobbled to the door, performing in her best impression of a straight line as she did. Nearly punching the lock console, she grabbed the handle of the door and yanked the thing open with such little ceremony it was a wonder that the entire door didn’t come off its tracks.

“What?” she snapped. 

“Commander–” Valen stopped short as he laid eyes on Commander Thira. She wore her nightclothes and her face was flushed scarlet by the heady kiss of alcohol.

Valen’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline. Never in his life had he seen Commander Thira, Sovereign Princess to the Sentinel Throne, look anything less than perfect. Much less drunk.

“King Novik wishes to speak to you,” he said carefully.

“I'll be there in a minute,” the Commander said coldly. 

“Are you…alright?” Valen asked her, but genuine concern mutated into unfiltered shock when a massive figure shadowed the doorway behind her.

“H-ey, Ace,” the Doom Slayer rasped in his heavy, shale-chip voice, delivering the first full sentence Valen had heard since the first few weeks of his arrival on Argent D’Nur. “She’s kinda… ahem …she's kinda in the middle of something.” 

The Slayer, that silent, relentless terror of a man, known by many and feared by more to be an unstoppable shotgun-toting nightmare with no regard for reason or limits on a good day, was unkempt and thoroughly intoxicated himself. Valen wondered if anything else had followed beyond drinking alone in the Commander's chambers.

“By the gods ,” Valen wheezed, unable to stop himself from letting out a single bark of stupefied laughter.

Thira groaned and wheeled around, staggering. She misstepped and lost her balance, but the Slayer reached out and effortlessly caught her by the shoulders to steady her.

“Im fine,” she slurred, pushing his hands away. “Now go away, you're embarrassing me!”

The Slayer smiled at her and Valen swore that the look he gave her was one of total, all-consuming adoration, even as she swatted at him. Her face turning crimson, she ducked beneath the Slayer's arm and disappeared into the room beyond. 

“‘In the middle of something?’” Valen repeated, meeting the Slayer's eyes. “Right. Got it.”

The warrior grinned at Valen, then stepped out into the hall and shut the door.

“I knew it. You two have had something going on since the day you met,” Valen chuckled. “The way you two look at each other, you can practically taste it!”

The Slayer shrugged and rolled his eyes in a noncommittal smirk.

“How was it? Did you actually….”

The Slayer shook his head, but a funny expression crossed his face, somewhere right between intrigue and…longing?

“You doing alright?” Valen asked as soon as the door closed. 

The Slayer sighed and nodded slowly, his gigantic shoulders sagging as if he had just put down some enormous burden.

“You sure? I haven't heard you speak since the last time things got…intense.”

He nodded again, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. He opened his mouth, cleared his throat, and spoke once more.

“Flynn Taggart,” the Slayer said.

“Who?” Valen frowned 

The Slayer pointed at himself with his thumb.

“You…you finally remembered?” Valen asked in awe. The name seemed odd to Valen; the name Flynn Taggart ought to belong to someone softer and happier than a man like the Slayer. “That's wonderful, my friend. I'm happy for you.”

The Slayer bobbed his head, smiling faintly as he absently rubbed at his chest, as if some overtaxed patch of muscle ached just above his heart.

Sadness softened his features then, glazing his eyes and canting the corners of his mouth.

“You…” Valen hazarded. “You remembered a lot of things.”

The Slayer wet his lips. 

“It w-as never really…about the rabbit, Ace.” 

Valen clapped a hand over Flynn's shoulder.

“I know,” said Valen. “But you obviously cared.”

Flynn side-eyed him, a single brow arching like a question mark on the end of a sentence.

“I discovered something when I was researching with the translators,” Valen continued. “And there's a species of flower on Argent D'Nur that looks a lot like a daisy. In our tongue, we call it ‘Serrat.’”

Flynn smiled ever so slowly, a knowing glint in his eyes. Then, he let out another grievous sigh and scratched at the spot beneath his chin.

“Restless?” Valen asked.

The Slayer nodded again, pursing his lips and looking around the hallway for exits.

Then, the door flew open once more and Thira stalked into the hallway. She had almost perfectly reset her makeup and hair, returning herself to the flawless vision of beauty she had been before her debauch had been discovered. She looked perfect, but if one scrutinized her face one could see the fury etched between her brows and the intoxicated lilt in her steps.

“Right,” she huffed. “Stay here.”

The Slayer nodded before he watched her leave, then immediately turned around and darted into the room, making for the window.

“Be safe,” Valen said, dutifully facing the opposite direction.

(O)

Three weeks passed, and Thira noticed that she felt progressively lonelier as time dragged on. 

Of course she had been disappointed to find him gone. The last time she had seen him had been almost a year ago, shortly after Serrat’s death. Now after two days, the Slayer had vanished, and Thira’s opinion of him had radically changed once again.

He was a walking paradox; brutal enough to slice a man in half without a second thought, but as gentle as could be to the soft, lovely things life had to offer. Reckless and relentless as the sea in a storm, and just as impossible to chain down. Uncouth, but somehow polite enough to return dishes to the cabinet and wait on the edge of a knife for a kiss.

The man called Flynn Taggart was a fine blade shattered by some forgotten battle, and each moment spent with him revealed another splinter of the whole. Thira wanted to root out every individual fragment and, perhaps, reforge the blade into something new. Something stronger. 

What a thought.

“--your thoughts, my dear?” 

Thira frowned at the interloper, blinked once, then recomposed herself.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said evenly. “I’ve been…distracted…as of late.” She pretended not to see the sidelong glance King Novik threw in her direction.

“Obviously,” replied Lord Mikael Ennias, raising his glass to his nose and scenting the crystal rim. “Is it the wine, your Majesties? I admit, I am not entirely satisfied with this vintage. You will have to forgive me for the offense.”

“There is no offense,” Novik replied. “The war has affected us all in different ways.”

“I look forward to the benefits of our agreement,” Thira added. “Your warriors will be a welcome sight, and your farmlands will feed many souls that have gone hungry for far too long.”

“Please, I am the one who gains the most from this arrangement, Princess Thira,” said Ennias. “As a gesture of goodwill, my second brother has offered his quarries and mines, while my youngest sister is more than glad to bolster your armies with steel from her own foundries.”

“That is gracious,” said Novik. His chilly blue eyes warmed with some comfort, a little of the age fading from his face.

“A trifle, compared to the hand of the Princess. When shall I prepare for the wedding?”

Thira stifled a sigh, devoutly refusing to be annoyed. Ennias was a competent warrior and well liked by his people. He had land and supply lines, and he was fairly handsome, with blonde hair and sea-green eyes. However, there was a softness to his face and an arrogance to his demeanor that Thira found…uninspiring. He wasn’t quite irritating, but far from interesting, as if he were born without the type of intensity required to hold her attention.

Perhaps she felt lonely, not for the absence of the Slayer, but for the presence of the man she was meant to raise children with.

“We can discuss a date at a later time,” she said heavily. “There are duties that I must attend to. With your permission, Father, I would take my leave.”

Novik raised a hand in polite dismissal, and Thira departed in a worse mood than she had been in a long time. 

She needed a break.

(O)

Her mother’s tomb was high in the mountains, constructed beside a pristine glacial pond and sheltered by huge, ancient trees. 

A marble pier aproned the mausoleum, reaching partially into the pond like the prow of a ship. On the edge of the pier, a stone rendition of the late Queen of the Sentinels dipped her fingers into the water, face forever frozen in joyful bliss. Perfect sapphires had been set into her stone irises, a flawless mirror of Thira’s own Wraithlit eyes. The statue had once been inlaid with gold, but nature had tarnished the precious metal so badly that it looked like plain stone.

Her mother had loved nature, and Thira saw the wear as a last fulfilling of her mother’s final desires.

Thira removed her boots and rolled the legs of her pants up around her calves. Then, sitting beside the statue, she submerged her legs in the cold, crystalline water. 

She could see straight to the bottom, where filtered sunlight glinted from the backs of slender, sparkling fish. Pebbles made pinholes in verdant green moss that waved like the brush strokes of an oil painting, and the ripples that drifted from her legs reminded her of shockwaves from some devastating orbital strike.

You didn't always think of war in this place, she cursed herself.

Once, she would have thought the ripples looked like the rings of gas giants or the silver bands young girls wore before they were made into warriors.

But Thira hadn't been a girl in a long time, and her own silver band had vanished almost entirely out of memory. She didn't miss her youth or its fairy tale delusions.

But the warrior she had become was such a hard creature. She wondered if the little girl would even recognize her, and if that child would be afraid of what she saw.

Thira sighed and looked down at her arm. The Wraith lines looked like scars, as if the first layer of her skin had been neatly flayed away and had healed completely. Corroded tracks traced the statue’s stony collarbones in perfect imitation of Thira’s own markings.

Something cold within her stirred. It wasn't unpleasant, but the familiar, almost nostalgic chill of her slumbering heritage.

She has the soul of an ancient Sentinel god within her, Prince Ahzrak had said. Her nose crinkled in a sneer at the thought of him and the expression reflected back up at her from the surface of the pond.

There were many reasons to loathe Ahzrak, but the one that irked Thira the most was the fact that Ahzrak seemed to understand more of her power than she did, including how to use it. Where she needed holy mantras and ironclad focus to manifest merely an extension of her sword arm, Ahzrak had bid the very gods of the Cosmic Realm to fight by his side.

Thira rose to her feet and began to whisper words of meditation, recalling the moments where her power had been most accessible: during the Ritual of her Awakening, and the moment of terror where she had subdued the Slayer long enough for his fit of madness to relent.

Things like deadly stingers or constricting limbs were simple to understand. Chaining the Slayer down had been nothing more than a contest of wills–her terrified mind against his delirious one–but acts like transforming blood to water or forcing the Slayer’s own body to betray him were much less…physical.

Drown his strength. Make blood as water. Lightning trapped beneath the skin. Ships suspended in eternal silence. The images in her head were beginning to gain momentum, half-remembered scenes that begged to take her hand and run away with her.

She let them.

Shining carapace frosted over Thira’s right shoulder, a shimmering tentacle winding around her arm and reaching forward. Her breath began to mist, and she didn’t realize that she had lost track of the mantra. Holy scripture had been replaced by semisolid memories, all connecting and fractalizing and growing .

Drown the ships. Lightning trapped within blood. Silent strength.

The clawed tip of the ethereal appendage touched the glassy water, and the edges of the pond shifted. Perfect ripples began to skate across the water in reverse of their natural order.

Drown him. Silence before the storm. Spill his blood as water.

Halfway within the throes of a trance, Thira stepped off the edge of the pier. As the ripples came together, they met in the place where her bare foot was set to land. For a moment, she swore that she could see a sickly green glint, flashing on the eyes of every silvery fish in the pond. They were watching her. Or, something beyond things like fish and ponds had turned its eager attention to her.

Drown.

Silence engulfed her. The lightning beneath her skin burned with cold, intoxicating power, so much that her very blood felt like every drop had been replaced with raw, unfiltered power.

And, she saw ships.

She was underwater, but not beneath the surface of the memorial pond. Ephemeral green light filtered down from far above, and the depths beneath her had no plumbable bottom. The edges of her perception were a neverending, horizonless graveyard of broken ships. Voidships and seafaring vessels from every possible era lay torn in forgotten repose; detritus left by peoples that were less than playthings to beings that saw the very Maykrs as insects.

She was one of them. One of the Great Ones, children of the cosmos’ Old. Her roots drew life from great and terrible soil, the cyclopean loam of something eternal, sleepless, and beyond power itself. Life and death were jokes, not even significant enough to imply insult. Time and space were the arbitrary rules to a game played by children. Everything was small to her and had always been so.

She sensed something. A nagging, insistent itch, like the bite of a mosquito. 

By will, she turned to spot the annoyance, and laid eyes on a…what was it again…a human? Yes, that was what they were called. But, other humans weren’t like this one. She only remembered the little beasts existed at all because this obnoxious speck of dirt looked like them, and this one was interesting enough to be worth recalling.

The thing drew close to her, its form clumsy and ill-suited to the eternal depths. She laughed aloud at the sight of it, watching the way it paddled through the abyss while its body fought a losing war with suffocation. It grimaced in pain when her amusement played its music in the water. Poor thing, unequipped to appreciate the sound and sensation of proper joy.

It had only two bright, black eyes, both of them fixed on her, and possessed four, primitive limbs with joints and bones and only a small spectrum of light reflecting from its outer pigmentation. This one was dun and dark on the outside, but inside was a spark of bloody crimson. Funny little thing. 

She drifted towards it, closing the distance in a motion as easy as a magnetic breeze in a stellar nursery. 

It was smaller than she was; she reached out and gently prodded at it with one limb. When it swatted her away with a strength that surprised her, she caught it with all eight of her lovely, elegant limbs, holding its clumsy little arms and legs tight to its sides. It went still, but its funny little eyes were still locked on her face.

“What do you want?” she asked it. When its face twitched in obvious pain and trails of red appeared in the water around its nose and ears, she decided that speaking to it was useless.

She released the thing, suddenly bored, and turned to depart. She hadn’t meant to hurt it, but it was going to die anyway, with no helmet to recycle its oxygen. Poor thing, most terrestrial creatures died afraid, and for good cause. Suffering awaited them when they shed their flesh. It was unfortunate, but a reality nonetheless. As annoying and simultaneously amusing as that human creature was, it was only a….

When did she recall what a helmet was? More importantly, when had she forgotten?

She felt a hand on her uppermost limb, and the memory of hard, brutal fingers softly cradling her wrist assaulted her. She had forgotten that she had once owned a wrist, and the flesh that came with it. She remembered relief and fear and fingers and skin and taste and a dozen other things, all of them deeply connected and utterly her .

She turned, following the gentle pull of the man behind her. That was what it–what he was. She remembered that she knew him. She remembered home. Her name was Thira and she wanted to go home .

That hand seemed to sense it, and he drew her close to him in an embrace whose strength would have been frightening if not for the owner. 

When Thira’s head broke the surface of the water, the arm of none other than the Slayer wrapped around her midsection like a lifeline, she finally remembered how it felt to breathe.

Chapter 6: Telomeres (ART)

Notes:

Illustration also on my Tumblr!

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/valhallasoutlaw

Notes:

We go beyond the farthest reaches
Where the light bends and wraps beneath us
And I know as you collapse into me
This is the start of something new

Telomeres - Sleep Token

Chapter 7: Arcadia

Notes:

I found out that Doomguy is most likely from Texas! I had a headcanon that he was from the midwest somewhere, and apparently B.J. Blazkowicz is from Mesquite!

Thanks again for all the comments and kudos, you guys mean the most! Also, I want to apologize for the occasional typos/redundancies, I almost never proofread beyond second pass tweaks

Something was wrong with Thira, and it had nothing to do with the fact that she had suddenly metamorphosed into an ethereal fish creature. One moment, she had been drifting in an aqueous void, face turned upwards and palms held out. The next moment, she had become something that almost defied reason. 

It was taller than him by several feet, tiny compared to the leviathans stirring the depths in his periphery (he refused to acknowledge those), but its arms were triple his length or more, and the creature was practically shimmering with undirected energy.

Corporal Taggart had arrived at the shrine in the mountains and had been shocked to see the Commander sitting on the pier. Over the three weeks, he and Misery had stumbled across that shrine and claimed it as a stronghold, a little safe haven to defend from roving warbands of disenfranchised demons. The place was remote, and when he had first seen the young woman through the trees, Taggart had almost believed it to be an illusion. But, witch fire was a difficult sight to forget, and when he had seen Thira’s powers ignite even as she fell face-first into the pond, Taggart hadn't hesitated to go after her.

As always, his instincts were a finely honed instrument, and he had battled back the unpleasant nausea that came with arriving in the Cosmic Realm through the newly opened portal.

What had taken the place of the Commander, drifting in front of him like a submerged angel, was, without question, a Wraith. 

The name didn't feel quite right when applied to the creature before him. “Wraith” wasn't beautiful enough to describe the pearlescent scales marching down its form like the Fibonacci spiral of a seashell, nor elegant enough to capture the way its limbs flowed like the fronds of some huge and beautiful anemone. “Wraith” wasn't terrifying enough to capture the horror of the many stiletto fangs gleaming like icicles from its lipless mouth, or the osseous halo formed by its horns about its head.

He didn't have a better name than Wraith, but Taggart imagined that he would experience a similar blend of awe and adoration when he finally met the Virgin Mary; the Sentinels called these things gods, and goddamn, did they have the right fucking idea. He wanted to swear an oath to the thing, to bind his soul to it and pull the heart out of his chest for an offering.

Actually, he did have a name for the thing. Thira. “Thira” was musical enough to suit her silky black hair and her fathomless cobalt eyes, but hard enough to describe the razor sharp angles of her mind and body. “Thira” was a name that smelled like ozone and delicate florals, and tasted like the white-hot wine of ethereal rage.

The creature had let out a terrible roar, then attempted to grab him. He pushed it away, but she tried once more and there was no escaping her then.

Thira screamed at him, popping one eardrum and readjusting his sinuses so forcefully that he felt blood well in his nose.

Taggart experimentally writhed in her grip; he felt like one of those oysters dropped into an octopus tank for the little bastard to crack open. The tentacle gimmick was beginning to piss him off, and he confirmed that he could probably rip his way free if he felt like it.

But, he refused to leave so much as a bruise upon Thira, if he could help it. He made a promise to himself, and he didn't care for people that went back on their word.

The trick was finding out how to persuade her to transport them both back before he ran out of oxygen. His last jaunt through the Cosmic Realm had been much easier within the confines of his battle armor. 

Thira regarded him with her eyeless, abalone face, and a pattern of lights rippled down her body like a deep sea fish. One of her sinewy arms slipped around his throat and squeezed, twisting his head uncomfortably shy of snapping his neck. 

Something was wrong with her. He felt bruises piling on top of bruises–his formerly cracked ribs threatened to re-break. But she wasn’t trying to hurt him, instinct told him that. She wasn’t angry or terrified, just blindly curious and suddenly unaware of her own strength. It was as if something in her had snapped, like the slipped gear that seized up an engine.

He understood something of that. Though, she fell to pieces much more elegantly than he did.

Then, some switch had flipped. She released him all at once, limbs swaying to propel her away from him and into depths unknown, not unlike that same octopus fleeing its handler as soon as it finished with the oyster.

Hell no , he thought. I'm not losing you now.

Fast as anything, he reached out and caught one of her shining, serpentine limbs in his hand. The contact sent jitters up his spine and set his teeth on edge, as if he had touched a live Tesla coil.

She froze for a moment. He blinked. The electric charge evaporated. Suddenly, his fingers were gently wound around Thira's beautiful, delicately scored forearm.

Her eyes–one burning with neon fire, the other the color of ancient icecaps–focused on him. Her beautiful lips parted, and she looked confused. Bubbles skittered from her mouth and she choked. The image of her was tunnelling, the edges of Taggart’s sight fading to black as his body harried him for air. It was time to go.

He insistently pulled Thira close, and it took little persuasion. She folded into him, fingers grasping at his collarbones and head bowing to bury her face in his chest. She screwed her eyes shut and clung to him like he was her only salvation. That feeling was dangerous. Could get addictive.

He kicked his feet, frantically reaching for the surface that his mind knew wasn’t there, but his instincts screamed that he would find. Blessedly, he felt his fingers break water.

Thira convulsed, spluttering and choking. 

Taggart gasped, devoutly paddling towards the shore, maintaining a sidestroke to keep her head above water. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before he could touch the bottom, and he hauled her onto the bank beneath him to shield her from any malicious onlookers with incoming fire–old habits, he realized, when chirruping cicadas reached his ears instead of hellish weaponry. Well. One ear. The other rang obnoxiously, and blood still dribbled from his nose. 

He knelt over her for some time, bent double, watching the fireworks in his vision, listening to her retch and thanking God that she had survived.

“S-Slayer?” Thira piped around a lungful of water. She had blood on her face, the fingerprints left by his persistent nosebleed. 

He nodded wearily, unable to still his own labored panting. He collapsed into his side, pushing an arm beneath Thira's head to spare her the discomfort of laying her head on hard gravel.

“What are you–” she gagged once, a full-body heave that wracked her elegant frame.

He shook his head and squeezed her shoulder.

“Why–?” She pushed herself to her elbows, shaking as water spilled from her lips and splattered the stones beneath her. She finished vomiting up everything she had swallowed, then miserably let her head fall against his arm once more. 

His eyes were closed, but Corporal Taggart felt her go still. A moment passed. He liked this. A little adrenaline rush, then a lakeside cuddle? 

Yeah. He could get addicted to this. 

He heard a tiny noise from her: a soft, miniscule mewl, forced between the gaps in a throat that had been holding the line for far too long.

He opened his eyes in time to watch Thira snatch a sudden fistful of his shirt and throw her free arm around his waist. Her nose was crushed against his breastbone, and she let out a raw, unrefined wail. His waterlogged shirt warmed as tears mingled between the fibers of the fabric. 

The action stole his breath away and sent his heart racing at the same time as it twisted something deep in his guts.

He wrapped her in his arms. With one hand, he cradled her head over his heart. With the other, he softly pressed his fingers into the muscle of her back and gently kneaded at the tension. This turned semi-strangled sobbing into outright weeping. 

God, he hated to see a woman cry. Especially a woman like Thira. She was so composed and regal, and after their little “encounter” three weeks ago, Taggart had wanted nothing more than to see her smile like that again. To hear tears after laughter, to watch her cry her perfect little heart out all over him after she had laughed with him? It hurt to watch. It hurt bad.

He lay there beside her for a long while, wishing that he could pull her close enough to shield her from whatever pain had piled up to the breaking point, before he–

Easy there, pal, he scolded himself. He had almost kissed her hair. And her cheek. And anywhere he could reach.

She's not ready for that. Give her time.

He gently nosed her temple, trying not to lose himself in the scent of her. Then, he began to muster the energy to speak.

He had nearly forgotten that Thira didn't need him to. He didn’t know how she did it, but Thira seemed to have mastered the art of reading his goddamn mind.

“I'm fine,” she hiccupped. “It's nothing. Really.”

Bona fide, Grade-A, all-Argenta-made bullshit. But women were like that, no matter what planet they were from. They always set the table before serving what was truly on their mind; especially when it was something really hard to chew.

“I was…frightened. That's all. That place…reminds me of…difficult things.”

He thought of Ahzrak and that Witch, and of the ritual that tore Thira's being from her body. He wondered if that whole ordeal had hurt. Pain was nothing to him, but it would be cruel to demand the same stoicism from others. She did a good job of acting unafraid, but she was far too sensible to walk out of something like that unscathed. Like him, she had probably just buried it.

Taggart stroked her hair sympathetically. 

“I’ll be fine. I promise.”

He sighed heavily, then sat up. She weighed almost nothing as he pulled her with him, setting her in his lap and crossing his legs, supporting her with one arm beneath her knees and another around her back.

He waited for her to meet his eyes, then waited some more.

“What?” she sniffled, scrubbing at her eyes with the heels of her palms.

(O)

The Slayer continued to stare at her expectantly.

What was there to say? That she had lost control of her powers in a lapse of self discipline? That she felt like a piece of flotsam in a flash flood, caught between the war with Hell and her duty to her people? She had been raised from birth to lead, to be an unbreakable warrior for the crown until the day she was to wear it.

Why, then, was she so angry?

She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Everything she wanted to say stuck somewhere behind her teeth and ran back down her throat like acid reflux.

“Why are you here? How did you find this place?” she demanded lamely.

A peculiar expression crossed the Slayer’s handsome, scarred face before he made some sort of conclusion. He blinked slowly, then shifted, offering to let her stand.

She thought that he would insist on hearing her divulge her thoughts, but the Slayer had seemed to drop the subject entirely. That feeling of mutual understanding overcame her once more, chilling her fingertips.

She moved to stand, but the Slayer suddenly went rigid.

“What's wrong?” She asked, alarmed. She instinctually flinched closer to him, grabbing his shirt in both hands. 

He chuckled softly and shook his head, then carefully set her down on the rocky shoreline. He stood up, then began to walk around the pond to the pier, towards where her boots lay discarded.

It was then that she finally noticed the state of his kit.

He still wore the fatigues given to him while his armor was being repaired, and some effort had been put forth to keep them clean. However, blood wasn't an easy stain to remove, and whatever wasn't tattered or singed had been thoroughly dyed brown.

His feet were bare and covered in dirt. His hair was messy, and a short beard concealed his jaw, struck through by the old scars on his face. New scars glared from his skin, all in varying states of healing.

Deprived of his weapon harnesses, his shield was left on the beach beside the wicked, double-barrelled shotgun that had become his trademark. The shotgun was tarnished, old gore packed into the creases and staining then black. Only his shield was unblemished, blessed as it was by Thira's own abilities. 

The Slayer retrieved her shoes, but he paused the instant he turned around. His eyes rested on something behind Thira, and it was then that she heard the heavy tread of something . The Slayer's eyes went wide and he broke into a sudden sprint.

Thira whirled around and saw something massive and dark prowling from the treeline.

Her skin crawled as she laid eyes on a horse. It was the biggest one she had ever seen, black as night and its teeth as long as her hand. Its scaly front talons flexed intermittently, flashing the huge, scythe-like claws at its thumbs. 

It was growling at her, lips pulled back and head held low as it edged closer to her. 

She remembered begging her mother for horses as a little girl, like the ones the Wildmen supposedly tamed and rode into war, only to have similar experience to the one she was having now. She still had the scar left by the creature's murderous talons, and she never grew tired of watching packs of them run.

The Slayer reached it before the thing decided to charge. 

He put himself between it and Thira, then marched up to it as if the bane of herdsman everywhere were no more than a house dog.

The beast tossed its head and snorted tempestuously, but the Slayer reached out and, deftly avoiding its monstrous teeth, he snatched the beast by the rim of its jaw, close to the soft web of skin linking the two halves of its mouth.

It whined as he dug his thumb into the soft place beneath its mouth, scissoring its jaw in protest as if it were trying to dislodge some piece of bone.

The Slayer clucked low in his throat, dragging its enormous head close to his so he could stare it in the eye. He hissed between his teeth, and Thira watched the thing’s ears pin back and forth while it pawed the ground.

She breathed a sigh of relief and a little awe. Of course the beast belonged to the Slayer, and of course it was as massive and brutal as he was.

Then, the Slayer looked at Thira, his eyes flickering to where he had dropped her shoes beside her. She put them on and got to her feet when he gestured for her to join him.

“So this is what you have been up to?” Thira asked. 

The Slayer nodded and bumped his forehead against the horse’s midnight black cheek.

Then, he held out his hand. She took it, and he gently brought the back of her knuckles towards the horse's carnivorous maw.

He kept a firm grip on its face as the beast scented her. He squeezed once more, hissing as the creature winced in discomfort.

It let out a shrill whine, then lowered its head and rumbled obediently. The Slayer then placed Thira's hand on its scaly nose with an affirmative nod.

“I’ve never been this close to one that wasn't trying to eat me,” Thira smiled, the youthful corner of her soul suddenly becoming giddy. “What did you name her?” 

The Slayer’s brows furrowed and he thought for a moment. Then, his lips canted in an apologetic grimace.

Thira laughed. 

“Tell me if I’m close, alright?” she said. He looked at her, amused, and she continued,

“Tulip?” 

The Slayer snorted and rolled his eyes, smiling as he went to pick up his weapons. The horse stared intently at her as he left, but politely left Thira’s arms attached to her body. She rubbed the animal’s muzzle, unable to stop herself from grinning at the contact. The patches of smooth scales gave way to coarse, velvety hair. On males, those scales were closer to bony growths and often grew into a set of antlers, or horns to use against other males during rutting seasons. Thira used to search for sheds to make into jewelry, and still owned a few beautiful specimens. The males were smaller, with dainty cloven hooves and colorful coats. The females were huge–this one being the largest Thira had ever seen–and owned wicked front talons for hunting.

“May I have a hint?” Thira asked as the Slayer returned to her side.

He thought for a while, then stuck out his lip and traced an imaginary teardrop down the side of his face. 

“Sadness?” Thira asked. He held up his hand in a mock pinching motion. “I'm close? Let's see…” Thira thought, considering his tastes and particular sense of theatrics. “Misery?”

The Slayer’s eyebrows jumped in surprise, and his face split in a smile. He placed his hands across the horse's bare back and hoisted himself onto it, then offered a hand to Thira.

“You named her Misery? It suits her.” Thira grinned back, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her up in front of him. The creature had no saddle; she felt her heart skip a beat when the Slayer put his arm around her to steady her. His palm rested just below her navel, each finger firmly sealed against soft flesh. 

He only had to reach a little lower to… oh .

Thira felt the bulk of his chest against her back and the walls of his thighs against her hips, warm and strong as solid iron. His breath danced in her hair and brushed against her ear.

She wondered if he had placed his palm there on purpose, or if her thoughts were simply polluted beyond all rationality.

The Slayer clicked his teeth twice, and Misery began to move. 

She was fast, fast enough to outpace many transports, and surprisingly nimble as she weaved in between banks of ancient root and ferns. It felt like flying, low and fast and hard through towering green trees. The dying sunlight flickered like a bonfire between castle-tower trunks, and cicadas began to shriek as they struck up their nightly symphony.

Mist collected on the ground as the air cooled, and Thira's thoughts began to fall away into the steady drumming of claws and hooves on the undergrowth. 

(O)

Taggart felt her lean into him and quietly grinned. 

You're a smooth bastard when you want to be. Chicks dig horses. 

He liked the country here. Lots of mountains and old growth forest, humid and close enough to the sea to smell it when a storm rolled in. He was running out of demons to kill, but the roaming warbands drifting around the shrine– mausoleum , he had discovered–had served their purpose, and it was nearly time to go home.

He was overdue to retrieve his equipment. It had been almost a month of fooling around in the forest like Argent D'Nur’s own Davy Crockett, hunting for his food and roaming the countryside with no destination in mind, and it was about time to return to the war.

But, he had the Commander with him now, and something was eating at her. Since he knew he couldn't survive a day in her shoes without shooting someone, he figured he ought to show her a good time.

He took her to a high outcrop of granite that overlooked the valley. Sentinel Command could be seen in the distance, hovering above a misty carpet of ancient mossy forest.

Corporal Taggart dismounted, holding out his arms to help Thira down. He watched her cheeks flush pink as she allowed him to lower her softly to the forest floor, and couldn't help but glow a little when her hands seemed to linger against his chest for a moment longer than proper.

How long had it been since someone made him feel like that?

Forever and a day. Maybe never.

Taggart sat down on the edge of the cliff face, letting one leg dangle in the open air.

Again, something in him leaped when she sat beside him. Misery, too, joined in, folding her powerful legs beneath her and laying her massive head on the ground beside him. 

Softie , he thought with a smirk, reaching around to scratch her muzzle.

Thira let out a sigh, her eyes the color of an ocean storm. Almost a year ago, a sunset like this one had first illuminated his quiet feelings for her, and now those feelings had never been so all-pervading and bright.

Jesus Christ Almighty, she was beautiful. Beautiful like firefly summers down south and cool water in hell. Even when monstrous and alien, he had been drawn to her, to the music of her, as if he had spent so long in silence that he would stop on the side of the highway just to catch a hint of whatever angel in disguise was picking a steel-string for a couple of bucks.

“That felt good, thank you,” Thira laughed. “But if you don't mind me asking…are you alright?”

Me ? Shoot… he thought, startled. What about you ? He pointed at her heart, aware that the question was rarely wise to redirect, but unsure about how to respond.

“I'm fine,” she insisted, and he almost believed her this time. She put her hand on his arm and a little thrill shot through him.

Are you alright? 

Damn.

He folded his hands in his lap, twiddling his thumbs together, suddenly feeling very timid and small. He didn't like that question very much. Downright loathed the answer six ways to Sunday. 

He mouthed a little “ Why ?” in an attempt to throw her off, but the problem with finding someone that didn't require you to speak to them was the simple fact that you didn't have to say a damn word for them to know what you really meant.

“Because you owe me an apology.”

Not to mention that, the fact was, when women asked you what–

Oh . 

He had misinterpreted the question.

An uneasy feeling crept up his throat and a leaden ball began to roll around in his stomach. 

“You said some…interesting… things to me before you left without so much as a goodbye. I expected some audacity from you, but that borders on disrespect.”

He would have felt sheepish if the emotion weren't overshadowed by full-blown, bare faced shame .

He had been told that he suffered “episodes,” but didn't recall enough of them to worry much. The last one, however, seemed to have cracked him open like a jar of peaches and left him on the floor, scratching his head and wondering where all the glass had come from.

No, he hadn't done anything untoward. But Taggart had said plenty of things that would have had his Grandma Anya heading for the willow switch nonetheless.

Old habits die hard, and he'd defaulted to the version of himself that the UAC had sent to Mars all those years ago. That Flynn Taggart was bitter, lonely and wouldn't hesitate to bite anything brave enough to bark first. He hadn't been given enough time to pick the glass out of his skin before Thira had accidentally stepped in the mess.

Privately, he hoped that she had been too drunk to remember.

He took a deep breath to steady himself. As a rule, he had very little to say to anyone concerning any subject at any time, but when he got all amped up and on a rail? It was easier to stop a train than to pull him off the track and prevent all sorts of shit from falling out of his mouth.

And Thira was looking at him, just the way she had on the night he had his little breakdown, eyes all soul and intoxicating safety. She had gotten her hooks in him without him noticing and now she was hauling out his demons like catfish from the creek.

“My bad,” he blurted, then ground his teeth.

God dammit.

(O)

She hadn't expected the Slayer to speak, and the words of the court psychologist echoed in her mind.

Dissociative episodes, water and cracked teacups.

“Do you…?”

“Know w-here I am?” he rasped. The Slayer looked down at where his hands continued to fidget in his lap. This time, he spoke in fluent Argenta instead of English, and the gentleness had returned to him in full. He murmured each word as if by raising his voice, the mere act of doing so would shatter some ephemeral glass. “Yeah. About thirty miles Northwest of Sentinel Command.”

“I wanted to be sure,” Thira said, scooting closer to him and laying her cheek against his huge, warm shoulder, seeking the comfort. Something in her was beginning to list hard, like a building on the verge of toppling.

“It…ain't like before,” he murmured. “I…had remembered some unpleasant things. Sorry for the way I spoke to you. It was no way to treat a lady and I don't have an excuse.”

“You were having a breakdown, Flynn,” Thira told him. “I was teasing you, just then.”

“Still. Ain't right.”

She left out the fact that part of her liked the pet names and utter disregard for decorum. If another man had tried it, she might have cut him down on the spot. But from Flynn? She liked the possessiveness from him, no matter how startling it had been at first.

“You saved my life today,” she reminded him. “That makes us even.”

“It ain't square if it's something I'd do anyway,” he said back, and she melted a little.

“You don't have to,” Thira hugged his arm close, letting her lips hover over one of the many scars hatching his biceps like fault lines.

“I won't let anything happen to you, Thira. I'll die first,” he whispered, and his eyes took on an intensity that held her locked in place as firmly as gravity itself.

Thira placed the ghost of a kiss against that scar and fought back the growing urge to burst into tears. 

“I'm more upset that you left without telling me,” she said, honestly.

“Had to.”

Thira sighed as the backs of her eyes stung.

“I understand,” she said, but her hands had begun to shake.

“Hey….”

Flynn reached out and tucked her hair behind her ears. Then, gently, he took her chin in his fingers and tilted her head to meet his gaze. He searched her face, and she wondered if he could see right through her.

His skin seemed to burn where it touched hers. She couldn't breathe.

“What are you hiding from out here?” He sought in a barely-audible half whisper.

Her face screwed up and her eyes welled in such an expression of bottled-up fury that even Flynn looked surprised.

She got to her knees, hands balled into fists and lips pressed into a thin line.

Then, she threw her arms around him and kissed him.

(O)

During his active duty years, Taggart would have planned on something like this. But, it was easy to predict a kiss when you were hot-blooded and young, and your life was a long parade of army bars and clubs with cheap cocktails. You got lonely, you went out, and you pretended that the hole in your heart wasn't about to drive you nuts.

Maybe he'd gotten old without noticing. Maybe he'd lost the edge.

Or maybe he'd never fallen for anyone like this.

As surely as if he'd thrown a timing belt, every cylinder in his head stopped firing. His whole body went deer-in-the-headlights, and the sudden pang in his chest made him wonder if he was about to keel over and die of a heart attack.

He didn't know what to do.

Kiss her back, dumbass !

But he was locked up, tagged out and full blown petrified. If he wasn't sitting against Misery's massive shoulder, he might have fallen flat on his back with the shock.

Thira noticed him freeze up and pulled away from him, face still all twisted up in rage. Tears wobbled on her eyelashes, and she held his gaze with something just as intense as hate, but nothing like it all the same.

Say something. Do something. Spin the wheel, Taggart, and pick something!

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he whispered, coughing softly as something in his throat protested. He was burning up so bad that he felt it in his ears.

Thira's lovely hands rose to her lips, the tears in her eyes spilled over the lids, and suddenly she was bawling again. 

That bad ? He wondered stupidly, before he gathered what few wits he had about him. It ain't about you.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her voice strained into a wet, reedy whisper. “I'm so sorry.”

She shifted, as if to get to her feet and run, but Taggart shut that down so fast that Superman would have blinked and missed it.

He snatched her in his arms and bundled her close to him, refusing to give her the chance to panic and fall out of the dimension or something more painful than that. He grimaced at the thought, almost expecting the Wraith living in her body to rear its head and try to throttle him again.

She pawed at his chest, one tiny fist tapping like a hammer against a solid wall of scar and muscle. Compared to her, he felt like an ugly, brutal thing, like a cinder block next to the slender stem of a day lily.

“I can't do this anymore,” Thira sobbed. “So many people are dying every day and we're running out of food a-a-and we need more recruits and the Maykrs still haven't chosen a new Kreed so I've been overseeing energy supply lines and you've been out of the picture and if I lose you then it causes all sorts of problems and I…and I… I can't do this anymore. ”

And there it was. Some sort of breaking point had finally split the earth beneath her wide open and she couldn't hold it back anymore. Earlier, she had let a few tears slip out of fear and relief. Taggart had seen plenty of tears like that on the front lines–had even let a few out himself. But the raw, ugly sobbing that shook her to the bone in that moment was something else entirely. It was the half-choked wailing of a survivor lost in the desert, wasting his last water as he realized that the oasis had been a trick of the light all along: desperate, humiliated and utterly hopeless.

“ Shh ,” Taggart breathed, hugging her tighter. 

He caressed her back, tangled his fingers in her hair, nuzzled her forehead, losing himself entirely to the act of comforting her.

That, he could do, and do it gladly.

The sun slipped behind the horizon and the cool blue of night settled over the mountains like a blanket before Thira finally cried herself out.

She hid her face in her hands, desperately trying to scrub away the evidence of tears with the heels of her palms.

“Sorry,” she whimpered. “I'm sorry. This is humiliating.”

Taggart sighed. Enough time had passed for him to take a roll call of the few wits he possessed. He took her face in his hand, smudging away tears with his thumb. Her lip still trembled rebelliously; her eyes were puffy and red, but clearer now. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers as softly and sweetly as he could manage.

She made a small noise in her throat and smiled faintly, fingers over his heart. He drew her closer, desperately trying to memorize the taste and scent of her, and wishing that he could lay down at her feet and offer her everything, a hound before a worthy mistress.

He did like to compare Thira to the ocean. Now, he wanted to drown in her, let her throw him wherever she saw fit, even if it was to smash his body against the rocks of some undiscovered shore. 

Then, Thira softly pushed against his chest and he painfully, unwillingly withdrew from her.

“Flynn,” she told him. She was out of tears, but some unknown grief made her gaze flinty. “I need to tell you something.”

He brushed the tip of her nose with his, wordlessly asking for another kiss, but holding her eyes in a show of solidarity.

“I'm getting married.”

 

Chapter 8: Borrowed Time

Summary:

I uploaded this earlier this week but I absolutely hated it, so I took it down and gave it a face lift! Thanks for your patience, and please enjoy!

The Walker had returned. 

Over the last three years, rumor had spread about Beltynia’s infamous reappearance, and month after month had been wasted in a long game of cat and mouse.

However, the line was holding, and much of it was owed to House Ennias.

Their military elite filled in the gaps left in royal leadership, and strong fighters swelled the ranks of Sentinel foot soldiers. Food and medicine kept the survivors fit for war, and the influx of raw resources allowed their army to steadily gain a foothold.

It seemed, for a time, that Hell was on the verge of losing at last. But, like a graveyard revenant, Beltynia the Walker had swept in from the great beyond and retaken control of the demon hordes. 

Those hordes seemed infinite. As with before, the Slayer was suddenly faced with an endless, unceasing flood. To keep from drowning, he was forced closer and closer to Sentinel lines, leaving him less effective a weapon with every expedition into hell. Without him to spearhead a path for their armies, the Sentinels struggled to break enemy lines at all.

“It's as if they are being resurrected en masse,” said Thira to the King's Council of War. All of Novik's most trusted warriors and advisors and their staff were gathered there, a meeting that had happened many times over the years.

Surprisingly, the Slayer himself had attended many of these meetings. Being the restless and high-strung creature that he was, he was not the sort of man to endure meetings and councils with grace. 

The Slayer had earned a seat at Thira’s left, meant for a trusted advisor, while the right was saved for her closest comrade-in-arms–a position belonging to a warrior’s spouse by default. Before her betrothal to Ennias, Valen had served as both over the years, but had been promptly shunted out by Ennias.

The advisor's chair–given to the Slayer so that Thira had an excuse to be near him–was never occupied. Even now, its owner preferred to pace the back of the room, stalking murderously between columns like a captive animal as he loaded and unloaded his weapons. It was unsettling to the table, especially at first, but those who knew him were aware that it was more of an anxious tic than a show of intimidation.

The fact that he came to these councils at all was shocking and endearing, and Thira privately knew that he was using the same tactful excuse as her to be close to her without intruding on the social order. Evidently, a few precious hours in the same room as her was worth suffering for him, particularly with nowhere to go on the battlefield.

She adored him for that, and was grateful for his company. Ever since their encounter near the mausoleum, the Slayer often placed himself near her. He was never overbearing or disruptive–at least never more than usual. He simply chose to be close to her, whether that meant guarding the space in her periphery when she was in public, or escorting her to her next destination when the setting was more private.

When Ennias wasn't hovering over her, Thira and the Slayer would often find themselves walking for hours just to prolong each other's company. He spoke to her occasionally, but never more than a few whispered words of conversation. 

There had been affection in between the lines. There were gentle moments on the battlefield, inconspicuous gifts given in secret, stolen kisses in between objectives, once a nap in his arms beneath a tree, and a dozen other chaste, gentle things that delighted and pained her in equal measure. It had all the sweet saccharinity of a fairy tale. Perhaps they both knew that it would never become a reality, so they played out the fiction for what small comfort it had.

Unfortunately, Thira had grown to truly, deeply love him. 

Thus, she had procrastinated the day she was to marry Ennias for as long as possible. All things consiered, her fiance had been very patient and gracious with her “cold feet”, but she was running out of excuses.

“That cannot be possible. I was under the impression that demons ceased to exist once they were killed,” said the Ensign to murmurs of agreement.

“We have slaughtered millions of Hell's forces, and yet they don't seem to suffer any losses,” said Commander Valen. “Either the Walker has opened up some new birthing pit we know nothing about, or the demons are being recycled somehow. We are running out of leads.” His son, Marok, nodded beside him. 

“We suspect that it’s the second. Our reconnaissance team picked up an energy signature during our last push,” Thira continued. “It was large enough to detect from a massive distance. We think that it may lead us closer to discovering the Walker's secret.”

“What do you propose?” Novik asked from his throne, offering a stately nod.

Ennias stood before Thira could reply.

“I propose,” Lord Ennias said from Thira’s right. “That Princess Thira face the Walker once more.”

A hush fell over the room, and Thira met her fiance’s eyes before she slowly nodded her permission.

“You would have the Commander risk her life when the Slayer is better suited to the task?” Novik asked, refusing to hide his irritation. 

“Ah, but he isn't,” Ennias held up a finger, and Thira glared hard across the table at the Slayer, hoping that Ennias hadn't noticed the way the Slayer bristled at the insult.

“The Walker knows him and his methods, we saw this at the battle of Castle Torran,” Ennias continued. “She knows to deflect or avoid the Slayer at all costs, even at the expense of her own hordes.”

Heads nodded as the Council remembered. That battle had been a slaughter. 10,000 demons had fallen, where the Sentinels had lost a meager 50, all in the span of three days. The Walker, surprised and backed into a corner, had thrown her entire horde between her and the Slayer in order to force a bottleneck tight enough for her escape. The Slayer, bogged down once more by sheer numbers, had not been able to make up the lost time.

“I propose,” said Ennias. “That Thira goes by stealth to face the Walker with Commander Valen, but only to serve as an anvil. When the Walker takes the bait, myself, young Marok and the Slayer will have revealed ourselves to be the hammer. The Walker will have to choose between Thira–who killed her once before–and the Doom Slayer. She will have nowhere to run.”

“Noble of you to offer yourself for the advance party,” Novik acknowledged. “But I am not certain that placing two commanding officers, a House Lord and an aspiring champion directly on the front lines is worth the risk. Working beside the Slayer is not a task for the…unprepared. He works alone for a reason.”

“With respect, my king, what have we to fear from the Slayer? Are we all so afraid of the Beast that we forget the noble soul underneath? He has given us no reason to think that our lives are not safe in his hands.”

“The Slayer is a weapon whose power should not be underestimated,” Novik added, stone in his voice. “Least of all, by his allies. Placing him anywhere besides the fore of the vanguard will slow him down and put lives in danger.”

Thira glanced at the Slayer as murmurs filled the room. He was standing perfectly still, flinty black eyes locked on Ennias beneath his helmet. She could see the temptation to protest aloud in the way the bridge of his nose creased. He agreed with Novik.

“It's true,” Ennias said, puffing out his chest and raising a hand in the Slayer's direction. “We speak of him as if he were some temperamental spirit of destruction to be conjured at a moment's need and dismissed as a bad omen, and I say that we ought to be ashamed. I am a stranger in your noble nation; our only common ground is loyalty to our King. But, during these three years, I have seen nothing but honor and unmatched courage from your Slayer. He has demanded no payment or glory. He has asked for no lordship or land. He has not even been allowed into the ranks of the Sentinels! All he requires from you are the tools to fight, and he has repaid you in the blood of Hell's greatest warriors. Why, he brought you the head of Prince Ahzrak himself, and has asked for nothing in return! Speaking for myself, I will not ask this warrior to endure my distrust on top of my ingratitude.”

People were looking at the Slayer, who continued to stand stock-still as Ennias turned to Novik.

“Your Majesty, the Walker has shown us that previous tactics are useless. If the Slayer is given support until the final strike, I think there is a chance to cut him an opening. We offer him support, and in turn he guarantees our safety. On my life, my King, there are no lives at this table more important to me than that of Princess Thira. But, if I may be so bold, I insist that we can depend on the Slayer. He will not let our lives go to waste.”

Novik, Thira, Valen and the Slayer simultaneously glanced at each other. If Ennias noticed the unease slithering through the Council, he gave no sign. He wasn’t incorrect in his judgement of the Slayer’s character, but Ennias seemed to be deliberately softening the Slayer’s brutal, merciless and often destructive rules of engagement.

They all wanted to fight, but Ennias had never fought Hell up close. He was a capable warrior, but all of this seemed like a grab for the glory of ending a powerful demon at the right hand of the legendary Doom Slayer.

Ennias didn't seem like front line strike team material. 

Ennias was also completely unaware of the fact that the Slayer didn’t like him.

(O)

Jackass, Taggart thought with a sneer.

The little blonde fuckwit already left a bad taste in his mouth, but after a long-winded, corny spiel about how the esteemed Mr. Flynn “Unchained Predator” Taggart was, actually, He-man on a white stallion, he decided that Mikael Ennias was the type of dipshit they warned you about in the Corps; a rich boy that bought into his own propaganda so deeply that he thought his optimistic delusions were the truth about reality.

Or, maybe Taggart was jealous. He did get jealous, and Thira was no exception.

God in Heaven, he loved that woman. Her hair, her smile, her magnetic and stern charisma on the field, the way she fidgeted with her fingers when she was uncertain, the fact that she could do anything from jewelrymaking to stunt piloting. And her eyes, bluer than blue was ever meant to be; he let himself get lost in those eyes whenever he had the chance.

Why she wanted to deal with a violent lone wolf all juiced up on Argent Energy and adrenaline was beyond him, but Taggart had the sense to assume that she saw something in him that he had lost the ability to perceive.

That was the poetry that women wrote. If you let them, they spread out all your ugly parts on the table and made you realize that you weren't as broken as you thought you were, as if they saw you as a jigsaw puzzle and had the box art the whole time. Taggart couldn't see the picture yet, but he wanted to do right by Thira’s vision, and maybe that picture was why she wanted him.

Or maybe it was the fact that Flynn Taggart–if nothing else–knew when to keep his damn mouth shut.

He stared at Ennias and tried not to think about how working with the little weasel would feel. He would talk a lot, try to claim his kill when he could. The others knew that Taggart didn't like to share those kills, and had the sense to stay out of Taggart's way. He could see it now, Ennias raising his blade and crying “have at thee, evildoer,” at a cybernetically augmented Mancubus as if the thing gave a shit, where Taggart could have rushed it, stunned it, then sawed the demon clean in half by the time Ennias got the words out.

 At least Ennias had volunteered Valen's boy as well, which was some relief.

Taggart liked Valen, and he liked Marok. They made him wonder what Caleb would have grown up to be like, had Hell never invaded. Caleb would likely have been around Marok’s age by now. Maybe. He didn't remember.

Christ .

Taggart snarled to himself as all that hatred and grief oozed to the surface caught fire. He began to pace again, trying to cool down and pay attention to what was being said.

Ennias was debating with the Ensign and a few other noble stooges that he, frankly, didn't care about.

Valen was watching him. Good ole Valen. Tough as nails, sharp as tacks and reliable to a tee. His boy was a spitting image, and Valen loved that kid more than life. A perfect father to a perfect son.

Taggart could make a better son than Ennias ever could. Sure, Ennias was rich and not entirely repulsive to look at, but could he pull the head off a cyberdemon with his bare hands? Pigs hit Mach 3 with the Blue Angels first. Did anyone really think that Ennias could raise anything but a goofy, Kroger-brand Novik with no backbone and the silver spoon still sticking out of his mouth? The boy's mother wouldn't stand for it.

Taggart stopped himself there. The idea of Thira in bed with Ennias was infuriating enough to make him come unglued, and nobody in a thousand klicks wanted that. He ground his jaw until his teeth ached, racking and unracking his shotgun to channel the fury into something that wasn't the nearest stone wall.

He tried to pay attention once more, but the Council was still debating some boring detail. Why didn't they get off their asses, grab the bronco by the reins and break the damn thing themselves? Wars weren't won by talking about it, they were won by killing the other guy first . He couldn't focus on bureaucracy without pissing himself off, and he couldn't clear the thoughts of fathers and sons from his head.

Maybe he wanted a son. There was a thought. Teach him what's right, how to work, how to protect his own. Hell, a little baby girl would be perfect, too. Raise her strong and smart and meaner than all sin in a scrap. Taggart wouldn't complain if he ended up with two little munchkins running around with his eyes and his temper. He could teach them about destiny and what was worth fighting for, and be reminded of those things in return.

Maybe he wanted to start over again.

Was he ready for that? 

The dream was tempting. Part of him wanted to make amends with God or karma or whatever it was that gnawed at his soul for being a lackluster father to Caleb. Another part of him warned that those kinds of cycles weren't broken easily. The quiet part of him wanted nothing more than to lie down under a tree somewhere warm with the woman he loved under his arm and a gap-toothed toddler playing with the dog in the field, and doze off before dinner.

Mostly, he wanted this goddamn meeting to end.

Thira was talking. That got his attention; every word out of her mouth sounded like gospel music.

God in Heaven, he loved that woman.

(O)

“My strength has only grown since I last faced the Walker. With the Slayer and the Sentinel’s best at my side, there is no way we can lose. I am in favor,” Thira concluded, rising and drawing her sword. She set it on the table, its crimson blade pointed towards the center.

“As am I,” Valen called from across the way, adding his weapon. Other members of the council joined in, until a ring of swords and axes had formed on the table.

Thira looked to the Slayer, and found that he had taken a few steps closer to the table, but his eyes were firmly fixed on Novik. Indifferent to the Council, he was waiting for the King’s call.

Novik slowly regarded each member. Concern etched his forehead when he met Thira's eyes, and she implored for him to rule in Ennias’ favor.

Novik looked at the Slayer last, an unreadable expression on his face.

Through the blur of his visor, Thira watched the Slayer's brow furrow and the rise of his cheek soften in an expression of solemn determination.

Your call. You can trust me either way.

She could read the Slayer almost as clearly as if he spoke aloud, and something twisted in her chest at the sudden pang of longing.

“Very well,” Novik declared, dragging Thira’s thoughts back to the present. “Ready our armies. We depart for Hell in three days.”

The Council announced a war cry, but the Slayer was still looking at Novik. Some unseen resignation passed between them, and Thira watched the Slayer blink slowly, a barely perceptible nod distorting the light reflecting from his visor.

(O)

She found him in the stables.

Misery shook her head when Thira entered the room, and the horse’s lip inverted in a warning display, flashing her huge white fangs with a low growl. Wicked gunmetal plate covered the beast’s neck, breast and haunches, and a modified ballista had been mounted to her saddle, so that one could mistake her for a runaway tank if they weren’t paying attention.

“Afternoon,” Thira said, hefting a parchment package that she had brought with her. Misery lowered her head and licked her chops, tracking the object in Thira’s hands with predatory intent.

The Slayer was fully armored, checking the heavy weapons harness that made up Misery’s tack. He turned and his eyes softened beneath his helm. They flickered to the parcel in Thira’s hand. He blinked and returned to the task at hand.

With his permission secured, Thira unwrapped the package and held out a fine cut of raw steak.

“Go easy,” Thira told her firmly. Misery’s ears pinned, her bloody crimson eyes glanced sideways at the Slayer, and the beast slowly craned her neck, reaching for the offering with her odd, prehensile lip. Thira couldn’t help but laugh at the way the two watched each other, as if waiting for the other to suddenly burst into flame. The creature fumbled for its prize, lip flapping like a thumbless, fingerless hand, until Misery caught the edge of the gift with a fang and yanked the whole thing into her carnivorous maw, chewing twice before swallowing it whole. Thira didn’t think she would ever stop wondering at horses; they were such bizarre creatures.

Unafraid, Thira placed a hand on Misery’s scaly forehead and began to scratch between her ears. When Thira looked up, she saw the Slayer watching her, affection written on his face by the crease of his eyelids and the smoothing of his forehead.

Thira clung to the moment for a precious while, trying to pretend that this moment was the truth of her reality. She had gotten good at convincing herself, and fingered the chain of the elegant engagement medallion beneath her breastplate as she imagined a matching one peeking from the Slayer’s fur collar.

Thira sighed as she remembered why she was there.

“Flynn, I can’t put the wedding off any longer,” she murmured. “Ennias means to announce a date to the public as soon as we return from the fight.” The Slayer cast her a sidelong glance, his brow re-furrowing before returning to his inspections. He had been wondering when time would run out for a long while, and the news was far from surprising.

“The summer solstice is next month. He wants to do it then,” said Thira, miserable.

The Slayer didn’t respond.

“Flynn?”

He readjusted the pintle mount supporting the saddle ballista.

“Flynn, please.”

He paused. Closed his eyes for a moment. Then, turned to face her. Even if she could meet his eyes, she wouldn’t have been able to read his expression.

(O)

She put a hand against Taggart’s arm, warm and soft and everything he could have wanted in that moment.

When she called his name like that, there was nothing that she could ask him for and not receive. If she wanted the moon, he would go and get it for her. If she wanted to rule the world, he would see it done. If she wanted anything he would give her everything .

“If something happens to Ennias,” she said in a tone that reminded him of razor blades, bad news and empty magazines in a firefight. “Then…something happens. That’s all.”

Except for that.

Taggart hated the guy’s guts, but not enough to really consider killing him or leaving him to die in some charnel pit. No one deserved that. Sure, Ennias was a dumbass, but being an obnoxious pill was hardly a crime worthy of backstabbing.

Taggart stared at Thira, watching the ice behind her eyes turn steely. He turned away from her, rolling his shoulder to break the contact where her hand touched him. The fact that she would ask something like that of him…that pissed him off.

“Think about it,” she continued. From the frantic tone in her voice, he knew she was stuck on a track, heading for panic. “There’s no honor lost. It’s a dangerous mission, no one would bat an eye.”

Taggart wet his lips and took a breath.

“That’s fucked .”

The venom in his voice was enough to make her flinch back a few steps. But, ever the warrior, she regained her composure and clenched her fists.

“Then I’ll kill him myself,” she hissed, and the hair on the back of Taggart’s neck stood on end as he felt the snakeskin whisper of Eldritch power creep through the air.

He wheeled on her, and she didn’t so much as blink out of fear or alarm as he did. He stared her down, silently furious.

“All that strength and you won’t use it when I need it the most?” Thira demanded. The air got chilly, and Misery tossed her head anxiously, growling and pawing the ground as she did. Taggart slowly put a reassuring hand against her huge, midnight black neck. There were too many things he could have said in that moment, so he opted for nothing at all. He simply held his ground, staring Thira dead in the eyes.

“If he dies in combat, then we lose nothing between our nations and…and my father is beginning to accept you. Maybe I can convince him–”

He couldn't stay angry with her. He had to de-escalate.

Taggart sighed and took his helmet off and tucked it beneath his arm before he turned once more and met Thira’s eyes.

“No.”

“Why not?” The air tasted dangerously of ozone, and Taggart braced himself for the pain of broken ribs and punctured lungs as he remembered when Thira had lost control of her power in the past.

“Flynn,” she growled, continuing. He didn’t answer her beyond a subtle baring of his throat–the closest thing to a sign of deference that he would give to anyone.

Her shoulders began to shake and her eyes welled. Taggart held his breath as he prepared to have the life nearly strangled out of him. But, she didn’t cry this time, and her control had increased a thousandfold. All at once, the static in the air evaporated, and the excess energy escaped her beautiful lips as a puff of frozen mist.

“Forgive me,” she whispered.

Flynn reached out and took her hand, gently bringing it to his lips and pressing her palm against his mouth. 

He understood, and if they were two normal people, things would be different. But Thira had a kingdom to nurture and tradition to uphold. And, no matter what anyone thought of either one, he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his soul to change the way things were. To do so would be to betray the trust of King Novik, and to snuff out one of the last flickers of good left within him.

Taggart walked her back to her quarters that night. She didn’t have anything to say to him, but he didn’t mind the quiet. There was tension, but he ignored it, content to exist in her company for what little time they had left.

As he brought her to her door, she took his hand and gently squeezed. The motion sent little tingles up his spine, even three years later.

“Flynn,” she said. “Will you stay with me tonight? Please?”

Notes:

Might get a little spicy in the next chapter? Who knows? >:3c

Chapter 9: Do Right by Your Soul

Notes:

THIS IS THE SMUT

Thira didn't waste a moment. The instant that the door closed, she locked it fast behind her and pushed Flynn towards her bed. She shoved him onto the mattress before she began to unfasten Flynn's armor. Each piece was heavier than she expected, and she marveled once more at the sheer strength of him. He helped her, periodically leaning in to snatch a kiss from her as he did. His armor must have amounted to 200 pounds or more unarmed, and there were few who had the ability to carry his weapons alone.

She got him down to his chainmail before he stopped her, unfastened her hair with surprising care and carded his fingers through the dark strands. Unlike much of the past three years, all the sweetness and fairy tale innocence was gone, replaced by a barely containable, burning desire that threatened to consume her whole.

She was unable to stifle a yelp when he caught her by the hips and sealed his mouth over hers, long and deep and slow. His hands were deliciously unyielding, and she let out a soft gasp when they began to undress her.

“How long has it been?” Thira whispered as, with expert care, he unbuckled her belt and dragged it away, letting its fittings skate across her thighs like steel fingers.

He blinked in lazy indifference, nuzzling her cheek before he returned his attention to her neck. However long it had been, he hadn’t forgotten the art of adoration in the slightest. His breath against her throat and his fingers in her hair would have been enough to send her reeling, and he toyed with the skin just above her jugular, ghosting a hairsbreadth away from her throat before pressing his teeth into her flesh as if he could smell blood underneath. He moved down her neck, pausing once and awhile to tease her into jostling for an opportunity to bite him back with the affectionate frustration of it all.

Thira could feel the marks he left on her neck, little brands of ownership that felt sweeter than the wine they shared those years ago. She grabbed hold of his short, soft hair and dragged him to her, nibbling the tattered shell of his scarred ear as he continued to mark her, parting her bodysuit from her skin as he did so. A soft exclamation escaped him when she pulled on his hair.

His fingers slipped between fabric and skin, the pads of his hands as warm and rough as stones left in the sun. Lightning shot down her back and warmth seeped all the way down to her heart like scarlet ink staining fine white silk as he felt his hand against her breast.

“Flynn,” she whispered, and felt him smile into her collarbones before the nip of his teeth placed another precious mark on her body.

She clawed at his shirt, fingernails playing a musical staccato against chainmail and leather before she found the fasteners and tore them open. He willingly allowed her to strip him, a soft sigh of contentment warming her face as she did. He leaned back and his eyes idly roamed across her upper body, diligently cataloguing skin and scar as if he were appraising a fine weapon. She was surprised at the emotion written on his face; it was closer to awe than it was to lust, but somehow infinitely more intense. It was the way the sun set fire to the horizon at dawn, the way the ocean rises up before it throws itself against the cliffside. 

Tossing his shirt aside, she was amazed at the sheer amount of scar tissue scored across his flesh in keloid stripes. Marks from fangs and claws and burns and punctures stained his skin calico, clinging to sheets of hard hunger-cut muscle. The black metal interface surgically implanted in his chest glinted in the low light, a technological scar of its own.

She leaned back to look at him, her eyes roving down the angles of his massive chest, corded arms and firm, flat stomach until they fell on the ugly scar left by Prince Ahzrak. There was pang in her chest. That scar still seemed inflamed and sore, even years later, and like many of his other scars, it had the telltale railroad tracks of self-administered stitches. How long had he been alone, left to nurse his own wounds in bitter isolation?

Flynn watched her, gaze hooded and languid with intention. She realized that it was nearly sunset by the way the light through the windows made his eyes seem fathomless and black.

“Thank you,” she told him, tracing the gouges left in his body as if her own fingernails had been the one to score the clay of his flesh.

Flynn tilted his head as if she had told him something strange.

“Thank you,” she said again, pausing to touch that scar beneath his ribs. “For protecting us.”

He smiled then, a soft thing that could only be described as loving, and rolled his eyes dismissively. Thira smiled back, but with the ravenous intent of a shark. She slipped her fingers below his waistband and watched his eyebrows jump when she dragged the rest of his mail down across his massive thighs. He leaned back on his elbows, curious, if a little startled.

He was big. But did anyone have the right to be surprised?

His face was flushed, eyes round and his lips parted, as if he were embarrassed.

“Are you shy?” Thira asked, wrapping her fingers around the shaft and beginning to stroke him harder. “I didn't think you had it in you to be bashful.”

He looked away for a second, then shook his head. 

“Good,” said Thira, kneeling between his legs and nosing a scar that ran from his hip to the hollow of his thigh. She kept her free hand near that scar, squeezing the soft place above the joint and reveling in the way it made him squirm a little. “Because neither do I.” 

She liked the noise he made when she slowly dragged her tongue from base to tip. She liked the next sound more.

She made it halfway before he hit the back of her throat, and Flynn let out something breathy and low, a guttural whine like that of a massive wolf pleading for table scraps. His hand flew to his face and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Thira worked him like that for a while, slow and deliberate as she prepared to take the rest of him. He didn't expect her to try; she could tell in the way that he let his head roll back, baring his throat skyward as he let his guard down.

She took a deep breath, did her best to relax, and tried not to break her focus out of amusement when he yelped aloud as she swallowed him to the hilt. Her eyes instinctually watered and she gagged out of reflex, but she held him by the hips and did her best to make him squirm.

(O)

Grandpa Blaz was right about most things, and had old Texas cowboy wisdom for all of it. “An oil leak is just a free oil change if you stay diligent, just don't forget the filter”, "don't be all hat and no cattle”, “the only good Nazi is a dead Nazi,” and “never miss a chance to shut up,”, were things Flynn thought of often. 

But the most profound piece of wisdom followed him every day, like a prayer.

If you do something expecting a reward, don't bother your ass with doing it. Do something because you want to; because it does right by your soul. These are the sorts of things that distinguish grown up boys from real men, Flynnie. So. You gonna stay a boy forever or are you gonna swallow your pride and do what's right? 

Grandpa Blaz had given that lecture a million times over a million things. It was usually about chores or spats with family, but it had been the last thing William Joseph Blazkowicz had said to his impetuous young grandson, they were the words that carried Flynn through the darkest moments of his life. Even during the early days spent lying in some chasm in Hell with strained muscles and broken bones, picking shattered imp teeth out of his arms while the venom had him heaving up blood and whatever disgusting shit he had eaten in an attempt to wring the spare calories out of it, he never lost sight of the reason for all of the heartache in the first place:

If there was a whole realm devoted to preying upon the innocent, where mothers were cut down with their sons and little brown bunny rabbits found their heads on a spike just for the hell of it, someone had to pull down the pylons and make them pay. 

If not you, then who else is gonna get it done?

Ennias had been right about that at least, even if the heroic elements were a bit overdramatic. Flynn didn't keep up his eternal war against Hell for glory or honor. He didn't do it to be the hero or get the girl. No one owed him anything and he had no debts to pay.

He did what was right because it was right, and he wasn't about to sit and wait for the next guy to come along and gather rosebuds for him.

But Flynn had to admit, the girl was pretty alright too.

She finished him off the first time with her mouth, and stood up to straddle him, covered in hickeys and shining with a thin film of sweat. Even though his brain was turning into soup, he had the sense to grab her by the hips, pick her up and guide her to where they both wanted her to be. 

She slipped her arms around his neck, wound her fingers in his hair and smiled at him like a…a…something or other. He couldn't think of the word. 

Her lipstick had smudged off and her eyeliner seemed to have lost a little of its structural integrity. She sketched her fingers across his jaw, craning his head back by his hair to kiss him hard. He tasted a little of himself on her tongue, and something about that sent all coherent thought that may have been lingering between his ears flying out of his head like a flock of starlings.

“I need you,” she whispered.

Sure.

“I want you.”

Hell yeah. Forever and always. To the end of time.

“I love you.” 

She paused, and Flynn suddenly realized that he had been the one to say it.

Yeah. He loved her. Probably had for a while now. 

“I love you, too,” she whispered, nuzzling his face and smiling against his mouth.

That was sobering.

Flynn went in to kiss her neck again, adding another bruise to the collection, just high enough that it would show above her clothes. He wanted that little royal dweeb to know that Thira was his girl. He wanted to go out and buy a suit just so that he could show up to the next meeting with her lipstick on his collar and her perfume on his jacket. Anything to show off his loyalty, loud and proud where everyone could see.

His thoughts began to collect, surrounding the ferocious urge to let her own him and only him.

He changed tactics.

(O)

Thira gasped a little when Flynn rolled her over, caressing up the length of her arms as a sardonic, feline quality returned to him. 

Only a moment ago, he had utterly dissolved under her touch, as if he were a little cube of ice and being near her had reduced him to a puddle in her hands. Now, his eyes were sharp and his expression was tinged with something hard to describe. If there was a version of sadism designed to please its intended victim instead of hurt them, then whatever that emotion was called would be the right word to describe it.

He caught her wrists and pinned them over her head in one hand as securely as if she had been shackled there. Her stomach flipped and she couldn't stop the little whimper that left her. Thira had been so wrapped up in his display of submission that she had almost forgotten the real power of the man above her and the intensity by which he lived.

He meant to utterly undo her, to pick her apart at the seams and scatter what remained. It was sadism meant for adulation and worship that could only be described as violent, but adulation and worship nonetheless. 

The ocean storm had stoked the wildfire, and that fire would feed the storm. She wondered what it would take to wear them both out.

She sunk her teeth into her lip to keep from whining out loud as he slowly, methodically, looked down the length of her body and smiled.

“Come on,” she insisted, her voice husky and damp.

A single dark brow arched as he met her eyes again. His free hand rested against her stomach, then slowly crept lower.

She writhed underneath him, wordlessly begging with her eyes and her hips and anything else she could contort to tell him how badly she wanted him. He held her eyes, amused.

Suddenly adjusting, he laid his wrist over hers to keep her arms held fast, then leaned down to kiss her once more. It was slow, loving, sweet.

For all his intensity, he was–

His palm pushed up between her legs, a single finger circling and poised.

She gasped into his mouth as she realized that she had let him distract her. She felt him smirk. She wanted to lash out at him for the ruse, but he kept her firmly stifled with his own mouth.

He effortlessly slipped a finger inside of her and she gasped without meaning to. Sensing her wanton eagerness, he adjusted by adding a second finger and softly circling forward with his thumb. That dragged a whorish mewl from her throat, and he broke the kiss for a moment to allow them both to breathe.

“Flynn!” She hissed, her spine drawing tight like a bow pulled back to be strung.

He turned his attention to her breasts, and as she felt the kiss of his breath and teeth and tongue, something snapped deep within her. Every muscle in her legs seized, the oxygen left her body, and her mind went completely blank as she suddenly fell from a precipice that she didn't realize she was so close to.

“Good,” Flynn whispered, and she felt him smile against her bare skin.

He didn't stop there, and she didn't want him to. He worked three more agonizing collapses from her, testing her stamina, and watched for the starving glint in her eyes to change. 

He released her arms and withdrew his slick, sticky hand from her, making certain that she was watching when he reapplied the mess to himself with a slow, contented stroke.

Then, he effortlessly parted her legs with his own.

Thira let out a desperate little sob, as he held her by the hip, aligning himself with one hand. He stopped to tease her once more, but she wanted him and wanted him now .

Winding her legs around his waist, Thira hauled herself forward and shoved him inside of her in one smooth motion. Even though she had been expecting it, nothing could have truly prepared her for the molten ecstasy that overwhelmed her awareness. It stole her breath, otherwise she might have screamed. He gasped in shock and pleasure, a whispered “ fuck ” escaping his lips. His head was low and he shuddered, squeezing her hips once more to steady them both. That soft, melty expression returned to his face in some measure, and Thira felt the power shift back into her favor.

Locking her ankles around the small of his back, she rolled forward to sit up. He followed her momentum, once again drawing her to him as if she weighed nothing. She wrapped her arms around his neck and met his eyes.

“I love you,” she gasped emphatically. He stared at her as if she were the center of all creation and he couldn’t believe where he was for a moment. She giggled despite herself, then bit her lip and squirmed encouragingly in his arms. She could physically see the moment that clarity returned to his senses, and she laughed once more as she laid her head beside his neck and prepared to completely lose herself to him.

His hips bucked and she squeaked as lightning shot up her spine. He pistoned experimentally, growling low in his throat before he found a rhythm that they both liked. At one point, she bit him hard, iron muscle beneath her teeth and the taste of sweat on her tongue. She briefly wondered if she had hurt him, but felt him sigh in delight and place a hand against the back of her head to encourage her, going so far as to push her teeth further into his flesh.

He returned her to the mattress, bent double as he reached a fever pitch, and Thira tasted blood as her teeth split a thin, straight scar clean in half. She dug her fingers into his back, squeezed her eyes shut and felt him fall headlong off an edge of his own. His embrace cinched down to just shy of crushing. A heavy shudder ran through him. He grit his teeth, growling once more as the breath left him, and as molten heat and pressure saturated the core of her, Thira wondered if she had died and gone to some other state of being where the only emotion was ecstatic bliss. 

She lay there for a while, her breath syncing with his as they both fought to recover. Their eyes met simultaneously, and a conspiratorial smile passed between them.

“That was good,” she told him, taking his heavy head in both hands and running her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair.

He nodded, planting a kiss against her wrist. 

“Love you,” he breathed. 

“Can you go again?” 

The kiss turned into a bite, and he nodded once more. 

(O)

Flynn wasn’t a “roll over and fall asleep” sort of man, but Thira still wondered where in all creation he found the energy to see to aftercare. 

After what must have been hours, Thira felt wrung out and boneless. Flynn seemed content to the point of placidity, but as far from tired as a man with his unearthly stamina could be. She supposed that a man that could go nine months locked in mortal combat without so much as a moment to catch his breath was unlikely to be worn out by a long night of spectacular sex, but it was almost annoying to see him stand up, stretch, kiss her face, then wander off to do gods-knew-what.

“What” happened to be drawing a bath, so it was impossible to be annoyed for long. When he returned, she was half asleep already. She groaned in half-hearted irritation as he untangled her from the bedsheets and peeled her from the mattress, effortlessly picking her up and carrying her to the washroom before she could even consider protesting.

“You. You are perfect. I’m dreaming,” she sighed up at him. He rolled his eyes and planted a kiss against her temple.

Her washroom was a beautiful space, decorated with plants that preferred humidity and artful stonework. One wall was devoted to tastefully modest stained glass and misty translucent panels that allowed the moonlight in. The actual bath was set into the stone floor, and large enough to lay two men-end-to-end and still have room to sprawl out.

Flynn gently set her on the tiled edge of the bath and departed while she grew accustomed to the water. He was only gone long enough to miss him, and returned with a plate of food and a bottle in his hand, having plundered her wine cabinet once again.

She laughed softly, but she was hungry after having burned three days worth of calories with him, and the last thing she wanted was for the night to end. Tomorrow would be preparations for their excursion into Hell, and she wouldn’t have time to see him.

In fact, tonight may be their last night together. 

To Hell with that , she thought, almost laughing aloud at the absurdity of it all. There were no men alive in the cosmos that could compete with Flynn Taggart, and as he joined her in the bath, she realized that she had never truly felt like a princess until then. 

Was he wealthy? No. Was he nobility? Only in the way that mattered. What he was , was diligent and well-mannered in his own way, considerate to a select few and odd in more ways than one. Thira had a hard time thinking of his more interesting traits as foibles to be tolerated instead of quirks to be adored. The way he loved animals as if they were people, the way he spoke like a soldier when he spoke at all, the way he didn’t like to sit still for even a moment and the way he seemed almost childlike when expressing things like joy or curiosity were all things that Thira wanted to bundle close to her heart and squeeze until she couldn’t anymore. He wasn’t even very intimidating, when one learned who to be truly afraid of. The scars were art to her, and the peculiarities were part of the poetry.

And who could complain about a man who was all of that and more, all in near-total silence?

She wouldn’t be caught dead in such an act of ingratitude.

To add excellence to competence, he immediately offered to wash the sweat from her hair and massage the lingering soreness from her shoulders and hips. She did the same for him, sparing them both the insult of one-sided labor. He was a different man under the loving lens of physical affection, and the sublime adoration she felt for him only grew.

Clean, drunk on wine and something much less earthly, and wrapped in a soft towel, she allowed him once more to carry her back to the bedroom. Something about the scene dissatisfied him, and he put her down in a chair and instructed her to stay put with another kiss. He found the linen closet, switched the bedsheets with tidy military efficiency, then crossed the room to the veranda to prop the door open. The night air was deliciously cool and as crisp as ocean mist, scented with the same salt and the faint petrichor of impending rain.

“You mean to stay, right?” she asked him, more out of underlying fear than anything else. If he left now, she suddenly felt that she would die of the resulting loneliness.

He turned around slowly, the moonlight haloing his skin in neon white. He was smiling at her softly, an oath on his lips that didn’t need to be said aloud. He went to his discarded armor and rifled through his belt until he withdrew something in a closed fist.

She laboriously got to her feet and met him at the bedside, wrapping her hands around that fist as she stood before him. He opened his palm to reveal a dragon tooth, lovingly scrimshawed into a crude likeness of its previous owner. Serrat’s tooth, the totem of affection that had marked their first moment of closeness.

Flynn tenderly placed the object in her hands and folded her fingers over it.

“I’ll keep it safe,” she said to him. His cheek tensed with vague distaste, and she corrected herself. Serrat and his master were not people who found comfort in the safe or the tame. “I’ll keep it close in battle. Come heaven or Hell,” she corrected with a grin.

Flynn nodded his approval and offered a slow, languid blink, then glanced at the bed.

She couldn’t have agreed with the sentiment more. The chilly night air balanced the ambient heat of his body when she snuggled down beside him, his arm as a pillow and his embrace surrounding her as completely as any blanket. She dozed off to the sound of his breath and his heart, unable to imagine a more perfect dream. And, in that space between dreaming and waking, their token of deepest devotion clutched in her fingers, Thira made a single decision.

It wasn’t a decision she made lightly, but she was as certain of her next action as she was that the sun would rise in a few hours. She knew the potential consequences if she was discovered, but even the guilt of it was pale in comparison to the absolute faith in the truth she had accepted that night.

Flynn Taggart had her heart, soul and body, gifted willingly and cherished beside his own, a union forged in passion without propriety. If she had been asked to sacrifice only one of those things, she may have been able to give part of it to both her duty and to the one she loved, but Thira was not a person to love something half-way.

She knew what she wanted. Finally faced with it, she didn’t have a choice.

Mikael Ennias was not going to return from their upcoming mission. And with that pleasant thought in her mind, she drifted into the best sleep of her entire life.

Notes:

I listened to a LOT of Sleep Token when I wrote this lmaoooooo

Chapter 10: Test Their Spines

Ennias knew the legends of the Hellwalker, the Unchained Predator, the Outlander from Beyond, but only because everyone knew those legends. Tales of Ahzrak’s head on a spike, of Barons of Hell cut down with nothing but a shotgun and a firm right hook were often enough to strike awe in any Argenta with sense.

But, even after three years, Ennias realized that he hadn't actually seen those feats up close, and as he watched the Slayer charge headlong at a furious Knight of Hell, Ennias felt a cold sweat pool in his gauntlets.

The Knight raised its fists to smash the Slayer's head in, and instead of dodging or sidestepping the blow, the Slayer's arm shot forward to deal an uppercut that sent the demon staggering, its jaw a ruptured mass of mangled gore.

A second blow shattered the thing's ribs, fast as liquid thought, and the Slayer followed up with a kick so powerful that the Knight–a creature of unfiltered, nightmarish rage and brutality–flew apart at the joints like a meaty children's toy.

One of the shambling undead lurched at the Slayer from the sidelines, but a backhand practically evaporated the thing. His wicked, double barrel shotgun came up and reduced an entire squad of imps to vapor with three successive shots, each reloaded with an effortless trickshot flip around his trigger finger.

The chief of the demons’ party squealed with the horror of the damned, rose up on a set of infernal rocket boosters, and prepared to flee for its un-life.

Out came the Slayer's dreadful shield, and with an expert yank of its rip cord, the machine roared to life. Massive steel teeth sparked with glowing arcane fury, and the Slayer hurled his shield like an enormous discus. It slammed into his target, teeth biting fast even as they shredded the demon's flesh to ribbons.

The revenant creature shrieked, pawing at the instrument of death with a sound like weeping, but the Slayer was already upon it.

He took a flying leap, grabbed the corpse creature by its bony throat, and shoved his fist into its chest with the force of a jackhammer. The revenant wailed once more when the Slayer's hand wrenched free of its ribcage, the revenant’s beating heart trapped in his studded fingers. He crushed the heart in a fist, and a rush of spectral power rippled through the air as the Slayer seemed to drink in the demons vital essence. His wounds closed, blood flaked away from his skin, and he rolled his shoulders with newfound strength.

The revenant dissolved and the Slayer reclaimed his shield, shaking the gore from its teeth.

“By the Maykrs… shit, ” Ennias whispered, unable to express the terror of the Slayer's skill any other way than with common vulgarity.

“It's best to stay out of his way,” Commander Valen said, amused.

“I see that, now,” Ennias muttered.

The Slayer's head suddenly swiveled to the side as he caught sight of something previously unobserved.

A lone imp had made a break for it, skittering from its hiding place beneath a ruined stone wall. 

The Slayer broke into a headlong sprint, slow to start as he heaved his massive bulk, but gaining momentum like a freight train as he barreled after the thing and disappeared around a corner to run it down.

“It's a good thing he's on our side,” Ennias joked. “Do you ever wonder how he got like that?”

Valen snorted, a grim smirk twisting the scars on his face.

“We have called him the Slayer for as long as we knew him.”

“I didn't realize that it was so literal. That seems like the social equivalent of calling him ‘the Baker,’ don't you think?” Ennias said lightly.

“I hadn't thought of it like that,” Valen chuckled despite himself.

“I suppose that I would be hard pressed to find someone better at slaying,” Ennias mused.

“Still think he's everything you said he was?” Valen asked, genuinely curious.

“Yes, actually. I have underestimated him, but I don't think I have misjudged his character,” said the nobleman, wiping some of the sweat from his forehead.

Hell was much, much hotter than he expected, stifling to the point of dizziness. He was beginning to get used to the smell–a vile blend of rotting meat, sulfur and char–but it was difficult to keep a grip on his willpower. He wondered what sort of horrors had befallen the Slayer to make such a man. No Maykr device could bestow such a relentless thirst for carnage in a person, that kind of wrath only erupted from the fissures of the utterly broken as they decided that they were unwilling to die.

Or so Ennias had read.

The entire realm of Hell seemed geared towards breaking down a man's will to drive him mad, as if it were…well… Hell . From the volcanic reek to the biting flies to the mangled scraps of human beings strung across the landscape like unholy totems, everywhere Ennias looked he saw some slight against all things good and pure. 

Poor Thira. She was so brave in offering to come. Ennias realized that he was likely underestimating her abilities as well, but no woman deserved to suffer these conditions, it simply wasn't decent. And poor Marok as well, eager to make his father proud. He was only a boy; Ennias wondered if the youth would have nightmares of the damned for the rest of his life.

Ennias certainly would.

(O)

“We ought to try and keep up with the Slayer,” said Marok.

Thira glanced at the youth, surprised and delighted as she scratched at the collar of her armor. To conceal the teethmarks branded into her skin, she wore a chainmail coif beneath her cape and prayed that no one would notice.

The youth beside her definitely didn't.

A handsome young man, Marok had his father's dark skin and tall stature, though his face bore significantly less scarring and his eyes were still bright with youth and life. 

“And leave the other two behind?” Thira asked him.

Marok seemed surprised that she hadn't met him with stern admonishments of impossibility, but with a challenge of priority. He was being asked to choose orders over risk.

Ennias had pitched a good battle formation, given that its participants included a restless avatar for Eldritch power with murder on her mind, a young prodigy eager for glory, and the closest thing to a natural disaster that humanity could achieve. It was sensible (and, frankly, far from optional) to place the Slayer on the vanguard, while Marok and Ennias himself served as scouts on either side–the two were nimble and farsighted, and fairly quiet when they felt like it. The intention had been to direct the Slayer’s might to carefully planned and well-informed checkpoints. However, with the hectic frenzy of infernal combat and the vast gap between abilities, their marching order had filtered down into orders of aggression.

“You think we can keep up with him?” Marok asked.

Thira laughed, the acrid wind playing with the ends of her hair.

“We can try ,” she said, reaching for her earpiece. “Valen?”

“ I read you, Commander ,” came Valen’s reply.

“Scans show a spike in demonic activity. Marok and I are going to push a forward advance and take the initiative.”

“ Copy– ”

“ Princess, ” blurted Ennias, and Thira looked to Marok with a grievous roll of her eyes. The boy held back a snicker. “ We should exercise caution from– ”

“I’m getting interference, Ennias,” Thira deflected. “I can’t hear you.”

“ I can hear you just– ”

“Sorry! Keep a lock on our positions,” she called, craning her head to try and catch a glimpse of the other two. Between crumbling castle ruins and gnolls of ugly brown earth, she couldn’t see precisely how far away they were beyond a pair of small green markers on a retinal HUD.

She faced forward, tracking another marker far ahead of her. Then, she looked at Marok and nodded. 

The two were kneeling on a stony ridge overlooking the tortured foothills of a massive volcano fortress. The fortress’ Lord had long since vacated the space, leaving half of the gnarled, ugly structure to sink into the suffering, boiling rock. Ahead of them lay the maze of canyons and floating plateaus that marked the beginning of the Walker’s territory. Bands of demons roamed between the ruins like rats beneath the bookshelves of some forgotten library, all converging to an unseen epicenter. Howling and gunshots could be heard from that area.

Thira leapt forward and slid down the face of the ridge, gritty beige gravel scraping beneath her boots like a miniature rockslide. When she reached the ground, she took off running, Marok right beside her.

(O)

High, wide and handsome–

Taggart didn’t like Komodos. They moved too fast to justify hitting so hard, and the fact that they had the devil’s own range was enough to get him worked up.

– down from the great, wide north–

And they were never alone. Fodder demons followed the ugly bastards in swarms, like crows over a battleground.

– more than enough, and then some –

A set of claws raked over his arm as he sidestepped a ball of flaming iron, and the scent of blood drove the shambling, dried-out husks of the other dead around him into a frenzy. There were six of them, and all of them lurched at him in perfect sync.

A shield-charge dispatched them, but the precious lost second allowed the bigger demon a gap. 

Chainsaw teeth revved in Taggart’s ear, and he completely forgot the words to the tune he was humming in his head when the Komodo’s polearm slapped into his shoulder like a ton of razor-toothed bricks.

He spun and bent the momentum into his shield arm, sinking his own weapon into the creature’s cybernetic arm. At the same time, he popped two shells into the creature's leathery hide, blowing a chunk of meat out of its neck. Metal shattered and blood sprayed, but it wasn’t quite enough to stun the monster as it smacked him upside the ribs with its polearm like somebody’s uncle up to bat at a 4th of July teeball game.

He skidded backwards in the dirt, crouching low to keep his balance as he used his whole body as a set of brakes.

Keep her steady, cowgirl –

Right. Those were the words. Angry now, Taggart tossed his shield, charged forward, and gave the abomination a haymaker that would have sent a heavyweight champion boxer flying out of his socks as his shield splintered the demon’s ugly muzzle down the middle.

–don't let go of the reins–

Its head snapped back hard enough to split its throat open, and Taggart stuffed both barrels of his shotgun into the wound and blew out the Komodo’s brainpan through where its head flopped against the back of its neck.

– you are ready now, girl–

He spun on his heels in time to soak up the full-auto onslaught of a shield soldier. His own shield raised, he broke into a sprint and crashed into the soldier like a loose meteor.

The dreadiron shield flashed white hot when Taggart emptied his magazine into its surface, then promptly shattered when he smashed his fist through it. 

The mutated infernal footsoldier didn't even have time to grunt in shock before Taggart punched it clean in half.

– nevermind the growin’ pains .

He saw Thira's life signature closing in, marked in gold across the screen of his HUD, and smiled a little. Marok was beside her, and no doubt, the two of them were eager to join the fray. Misery would be around here somewhere, grazing in the only way carnivores did.

Taggart's thoughts returned to the little tune in the back of his mind.

Tumbleweeds were meant to,

get stuck up on the fence–

He didn't remember who wrote the song. The memory reminded him of pickup trucks and drives to the hardware store, but the sensations were–like most of his memories–warped by water damage and covered in dust. The artist had a simple name; Jim or James or something of the like, and Taggart recalled the name of a city taking the place of a surname.

Memphis? No. Tallahassee? Definitely not. New York? “Jim New York” sounded like a local dive bar punk band, not a famous country musician.

Cities reminded him of Salt Lake City. He liked Salt Lake. He liked the Rocky Mountains, when he had seen them, and had a friend there that knew what he took at the bar.

Rocky Mountains. “Rocky Mountain High" was another song by James or Jim. Rocky Mountain high–

–Colorado!

Denver. John Denver.

His mom had loved John Denver.

–heaven must have sent you,

You've got no wire to roll against.

He reached for his pocket to rewind the cassette and listen to the song from the beginning, but found a heavy leather belt, artfully tooled and stuffed with shotgun shells. They weren't the usual Remington birdshot, but something that a skilled gunsmith would create given a detailed description of a shotgun shell. 

The shell was etched with something that looked like Arabic. He could read it, and that was odd.

There was chainmail and plate armor under the belt, sticky against his skin, as if he were dressed up like some kind of knight or–

Taggart blinked.

Right.

He watched the two little markers drawing nearer. Marok and Thira.

Sometime after he had departed into Hell once and for all, the gentle, emotional and significantly more human part of his mind had heroically decided that he had never left Earth to begin with, instead remaining somewhere in the summer haze of his nostalgic youth. Without the Marine Corps to whip that part of him back into line, and knowing that he would likely die in Hell, he had let that part come out and console him during the times when the rage ran him against a wall. The dark moments, the low places, the valley of the shadow of death; busted up, beaten down and on the verge of bleeding out, where all he could do was lie down and think of the redwoods and bartenders and bunny rabbits and mountains and his mom and heavy metal and fresh August peaches. He would imagine that he could feel clean air and taste something besides blood, sweat and sulfur, and get back up with the knowledge of what he was fighting for. Not for the dream that he would feel those things again, but on the hope that others would .

Do right by your soul.  

He got stronger, meaner, faster, and with every breakdown, more and more hate was distilled into pure grain rage. The human in him took to it just as sure as any whiskey, and it wasn't long before, drunk on fury, the lines between memory and the present had dissolved.

For a while, he could have bitten into a peach without telling the difference between fruit and rotten flesh. A killing spree in Hell felt the same as a hunting trip or a day helping his father bale hay. Granted, his mind never lost sight of the difference between farm chores and a pit piled so high with dead bodies that you had to breaststroke through liquefied meat and shit just to remind the cyber demon in front of you that it deserved to have its head bashed in–he wasn't stupid. The two simply seemed like the same sort of chore, and he drifted between the two so easily that he lost track of what was real.

His life had become a relentless press of slaughter, red on top of red where killing felt the same as honest work, an endless flat sea of distilled wrath and all the time in the cosmos to drink himself to death.

Then, he met the Sentinels, and suddenly there was blue, too. The human part of him was forced to put down the bottle and have a come-to-Jesus meeting with the reason it started drinking to begin with, and he had to start paying attention to what was real and what wasn't. And, most importantly, which one he wanted to partake in.

Thira had become a benchmark for him, an unchanging metric that he could use to anchor himself. No, that wasn't right.

She had become the ocean he tossed his anchor into, the wind to push him forward and the sky he used to navigate. 

He had loved Elaine–still did. But the solemn duty to protect and provide for someone wasn't what he felt for Thira.

Pharaoh’s queen had plucked him out of the river. Tzipporah had given him water in the desert. Calypso had dragged him from the tide, stitched his wounds, kissed him and laid with him and bade him keep up the good fight as if he could ever return to Ithaca as the same man.

Taggart's hand had found the wall, and he was gradually fighting his way out of the labyrinth, and–forgive him, Lord–he had more faith in her than he ever had in Jesus.

Thira. Beautiful, terrifying, perfect Thira. Waiting up for him with the porch light on, and running down the hill to make sure he made it home okay, Valen's boy right behind.

Most of him felt sick at the idea of the pair of them in harm’s way. But, he knew better than to come between her and whatever she had her sights set on, and Marok was strong enough to hold his own. Besides that, boys needed a chance to be men or they’d spoil and lose their spines. Then they'd end up like Ennias: a walking mediocrity.

Taggart was beginning to sound like his father. 

Something twitched in his vision, and Taggart wheeled around in time to divorce a Nightmare Stalker from its limbs with a fist. Its bizarre, refractory camouflage evaporated as it did. Another rippled against the khaki dust, but collapsed flat on its face when a rifle round flash boiled the back of its head into pulp.

As silence settled over the space, Taggart watched Thira and Marok emerge from the maze of ruins, weapons raised and Marok's rifle barrel smoking.

(O)

The Slayer regarded them from his place amidst the carnage of his brutal trade, watching the both of them as they approached.

Thira heard Marok suck in a breath and steel himself. She smiled, remembering that the Slayer's bestial silhouette was something that struck fear and awe into most that saw it.

Dark eyes and a permanent scowl met them both, but Thira saw the subtle affection behind his face, and battled back the urge to hug him close and kiss whatever she could reach.

“Well met, Slayer,” Thira beamed at him, and saw the merest traces of a smile tense his cheeks. 

The Slayer inclined his head, inquiring.

“Well,” Thira looked to Marok and gestured to encourage the boy.

“Um…well…we can't let you have all the fun, can we?” Marok puffed out his chest and did his best to hold the Slayer's gaze.

The edge of the Slayer's eyebrow raised and he shifted where he stood, scanning the scene for something. He remained silent.

Marok looked to Thira for assistance.

“ Go on. He's listening ,”  Thira mouthed.

“Well…sir…um…” Marok lost momentum when the Slayer took a small, intricately wrought pistol made of brass and dark wood from his belt and pointed it skyward. It fired a small, crimson flare that sent off an ear splitting scream as it took off.

Marok grimaced and the Slayer began to pace anxiously, glancing over Marok's shoulder as he turned.

“Valen and Ennias are close behind,” Thira supplemented. “And Marok decided that he's up for a challenge.”

A subtle tilt of the head.

“I was thinking that we should race,” Thira grinned.

The Slayer's fingers relaxed a fraction of an inch. Hoodbeats began to echo from the ruins.

The Slayer looked at the ruined fortress sagging against the face of the volcano. 

“Nothing remains abandoned for long,” she said. “I wonder who its new Lord is?”

The Slayer turned his head, the merest glimpse of his brow all that could be seen of his face. He was interested.

“Bet I could take it first,” Marok piped, feeling brave.

Misery thundered over a rocky escarpment, tossing her head like the crest of a stormy black wave.

Marok flinched, gripping his rifle, but when he saw the lovingly crafted armor sheeting the warhorse’s enormous body, he relaxed a little.

Misery had been outfitted with tack that matched the Slayer's vicious sense of style, with wickedly spiked, wrought-iron plate, studded leather fittings, and a ballista mounted to her shoulders. Blades of Argent energy were fixed to her talons, hooves and forehead, mimicking the delicate horns and ridges of the males of her species.

She growled as she cantered over to her master's side, blood foaming in her carnivorous maw. The Slayer lovingly patted her enormous neck, then looked sternly at Marok. He beckoned the youth forward with a small jerk of his jaw.

Marok looked to Thira once more, but his eyes were bright with anticipation.

She nodded encouragement, and Marok approached with no small amount of trepidation.

He stopped in his tracks when Misery’s lip inverted to bare her fangs. Calmly, the Slayer put his hand in her mouth to guide her monstrous head and stepped aside.

“You…will let me ride her?” Marok asked. The Slayer regarded Marok steadily, black eyes leveled in an expectant challenge.

Marok had grown up with a pervasive, fearful curiosity surrounding horses. Nobles in some nations bred the males for show mounts, admiring their colorful coats, nimble hooves and beautiful osseous antlers and horns. But females were solely kept for breeding, as their sadistic temperaments tended to be too much to handle for all but devoted handlers or Wildmen in the wastes.

And, Misery was a huge, alphine matriarch of a beast, a reminder that everyone was prey to something.

This didn't stop Marok from climbing into the saddle. Misery snarled as he did so, shuffling irritably. 

The Slayer glared at the beast, and her ears pinned in reluctant resignation.

He silently showed Marok the basics of riding, as well as how to operate the ballista. It was quick, simple and silent, and by the time the lesson was over, Ennias and Valen had caught up.

“What in–” Ennias started, and Thira rolled her eyes.

“We’ve decided on a little challenge,” she said.

“Oh?” Valen offered, frowning at where his son sat in the saddle, grinning wildly. 

“First one to take the castle wins,” Thira told him, planting her hands on her hips.

“You can't be serious,” Ennias asked in genuine disbelief. “It's likely packed to the fittings with loose demons. Not to mention, it's falling apart and half drowned in lava! Someone could get hurt.” 

“Are you afraid?” Thira challenged, picking at her fingernails.

“I didn't say that,” Ennias retorted. “It simply seems like a waste of time.”

“When has the Slayer ever wasted our time?” Thira mused.

“You are putting words in my mouth.”

“Good. Maybe then you will actually have something to say.”

Ennias blinked at the sudden vitriol. Thira had been cold to him ever since their engagement, yes, but always polite.

He wondered when Thira had suddenly taken to insulting him.

“Fine,” he declared. “First one to singlehandedly conquer a burnt-out crumbling ruin wins the right to call themselves Lord of cobwebs, gravel and dried bones.”

Valen chuckled and Thira had to bite back the urge to retort.

Instead, she looked behind her to the Slayer. His stony resolve was tinged with amusement and something hard to read. Thira thought about her request from the other night, and his harsh refusal to kill Ennias for her.

She found it odd that a man whose craft was butchery would have qualms about murder. 

Better to be a murderer than an incubator left in the shadow of a simpleton.

“Are you coming, Slayer?” Marok suddenly said, glancing behind him at the saddle. Ammunition took the place of where another person could have sat.

In response, the Slayer rolled his shoulder and armed his shield, then tossed it in the direction of the castle. It sunk into a thick, gnarled tree on a hill above the ruins and held fast. Then, his gauntlet sparked blue, and the magnetic pull of the shield snatched hold of him and shot him towards the tree as if he were tethered to a rappelling line. He grabbed the shield, braced himself, and landed on his feet at the edge of the escarpment with a spray of gravel.

Then, he took off in a sprint out of sight.

“Shit,” Marok hissed, and clumsily spurred Misery forward after him.

“He's going on foot ?” Ennias said flatly, as if he were speaking out of rote.

“You two better hurry,” Thira said.

“What, Princess, is your plan?” Ennias demanded.

“My method is…less precise,” Thira told him. 

“See you there,” said Valen with a smile.

Thira smirked back at him, then turned to one of the puddles of gore left by the Slayer's rampage.

Summoning her power, she transmuted the puddle into water, but didn't stop there.

The air chilled, Wraith bone appeared around her shoulder before spreading across her back and torso. The clear pool turned dark and strangely fathomless, and she dove headlong into it like a glowing blue osprey diving for prey, and vanished from sight.

Ennias sputtered despite himself, planting his hands on his hips and glowering as the puddle turned clear once more.

“Valen? What are we doing?” Ennias asked, exhausted and annoyed.

He looked up from his gauntlet display.

“Scanning the surrounding area,” he said easily. “Hell is full of tunnels and passages. There may be one that…ha! Right there. It goes straight to the fortress.” 

“You…you are alright with this?”

“I'm worried for my son,” Valen shrugged, jogging over to what looked like a destroyed church. “But I trust the Slayer's judgement.”

“That isn't what I mean, Commander,” said the nobleman.

“I usually trust his judgement,” Valen replied with a half-smile.

“Even when he decides to take a detour that could cost us time and our lives?” Ennias followed close behind Valen.

Valen shrugged. In the distance, there was an electrical bang and a blue flash–

Marok had already found something to obliterate the with Slayer's ballista. Valen frowned and prayed that it wasn't Marok himself.

“The Slayer usually wanders on missions,” Valen said. They arrived at the front of the church. Valen kicked the door down to reveal a wide chapel decorated with Hell's usual grisly accoutrements. Between rubble, destroyed wrought iron and broken glass, a haphazard staircase could be seen in front of the remains of a stone altar.

“You mean that he will just…leave?” Ennias blinked. 

“Leave? No. Meander? You can always count on him wandering off to look for things. Usually treasure or tech. It's entertaining to watch him on navigation displays. He's like a honeybee scouting for honey.”

“And…this is tolerated?” 

“If you haven't noticed, he's very fast. Though, once I did watch him struggle with some sort of puzzle room involving stone blocks for about an hour.”

Valen grabbed his hammer, activating its energy field to use as a light before he loped down the stairs. 

“Strange,” sighed Ennias.

“He always has been.”

(O)

The hardest part of jumping through the Cosmic Sea was finding the will to return.

Selecting an exit point was a simple matter of imagination and desire, but everything felt so natural within the ocean of time and space, as if she had, at last returned home.

As they became real, Thira's shining, chitinous limbs turned from ephemeral blue to a spectrum of shining colors that blended into gold, each tendril free to stretch out and sample the currents. Her human vessel was such a burden, restricted by things like flesh, gravity and time.

Here, she was free from duty and heartache for a while, and it was difficult to pick up the mantle of responsibility and chain herself to the plough once again. 

But, another set of shoulders had taken up the share as well, and Thira wouldn't be parted from their owner for longer than she could stand.

Her whole being began to sing with newfound exultation. Something wonderful had been declared and consummated, and the simple action of thinking about him began to tug on her consciousness.

She didn't recall his name, not in the vast ocean connecting all existence, but nothing had a name in the Cosmic Sea. Nothing needed a name in the Sea, it simply was.

She knew he sounded like strength and felt like turned earth between the fingers she had trained herself to remember. He was red and black and tawny brown, and he smelled of blood and leather and summer sun.

She loved him more than duty, and wanted him more than freedom. The desire turned to gravity, and she felt her consciousness begin to race towards the source of her intrigue.

And, just like that, she fell out of the ocean and into hell as easily as if she had rolled out of bed.

A smear of viscera transformed into water, then seawater, then changed back again as Thira emerged from its depths as if she had climbed out of a well. She had been thinking of the Slayer, so the cosmic realm had connected to Hell in a place close to him. That place happened to be a lazily bleeding wall, and the sudden reorientation startled her.

Thira staggered and teetered sideways, but a firm hand caught her shoulder and steadied her. He was fighting something, and effortlessly swept her behind him as he deflected a massive surge of hell energy. The witchfire imbued in his shield sparked, the air tensed, and lightning split the air somewhere beyond her view.

“Hello, Flynn,” she grinned, stepping close to him and sending a phantom limb stabbing into the ground. She sensed two hateful presences ahead of her and impaled them, snuffing out their horrible un-lives in an instant.

The Slayer turned to face her, shrugging his shield to its place on his back.

He had made it to the fortress first, no doubt to Marok's chagrin. The structure was quiet, muffled by dense molten rock at its perimeter and stifled by dust. 

The edge of the Slayer's eyebrow quirked, as if to imply something.

“It's not cheating if we didn't establish any terms,” she said with mock indignation. 

He looked amused before his eyes rested somewhere near her throat. He reached out and fingered the chainmail she wore around her neck, rolling it down around her shoulders to reveal the bruises. Amusement turned into something that made her knees weak.

She grabbed his hand and laid his gauntlet against her neck, unable to stop herself from smiling. He traced a thumb against her cheek, and she nuzzled his palm.

“Love you,” she told him softly, and she saw him blink slowly and mouth a reply.

“We ought to make sure Marok is alright,” she said. But, the Slayer didn't move. He held her gaze intently, as if expecting something.

So, Thira snatched him by the collar of his breastplate, pushing his helmet up over his nose and sealing her mouth over his.

His hands caught her hips and he sharply inhaled out of surprise, but leaned into her nonetheless and kissed her just as deeply.

Waking up beside him that morning had been a wild blur of emotions. First came terror and regret as she first considered the gravity of a mistake. Then came sadness, a pining that ran as deep as her marrow and did not subside when she ran her fingers across the warm, firm angles of his body. His face had been calm and smoother than she had ever seen before, creases and scars changing into the ghosts of precious ore left in a marble statue.

She had buried her nose in his chest and ran her fingers across his back, had felt him stir and snuggle her closer, had smiled as his lips brushed the crown of her forehead. 

Even now the phantom warmth of morning sun played across Thira's senses, as if part of her still laid beside him and listened to the steady rhythm of his heart.

The Slayer's armor clacked when his back hit the wall; Thira hadn't realized that she had been pushing against him. His helmet smacked the brick and toppled from his head, and he broke the kiss to glower at the thing as it rolled to the dusty floor.

“Oh! I'm sorry. Are you alright?” Thira giggled, grabbing his head as if to make certain that the back of his skull was still intact.

He smiled then, a thin sliver of his pearly white teeth peeking from between his scarred lips. The smile was a little crooked and his cheeks were dusted pink. His hair was tousled and sweaty and ash was beginning to stain his skin dark where it was exposed.

“Hey, honey,” he suddenly whispered, and the pink on his face turned red. 

“Hey, Flynn. You're cute when you get flustered, you know that, right?” She walked her fingers across his collarbones before tapping the tip of his nose. 

He rolled his eyes and scowled a little, but affection was staining the tips of his ears bright pink. She nuzzled his face, grinning like a child, and pulled him in for another slow, methodical kiss.

“By the Maykrs ,” a voice hissed, and the moment shattered. She went cold.

They'd been caught. This would mean war if Ennias was allowed to return to Sentinel Prime. She had to kill him now and hope that she was faster than–

The Slayer's head snapped to the left, but as he laid eyes on the speaker, his expression softened.

Thira gathered the courage to look, and found not a furious Ennias, but Marok standing at the mouth of the hallway with his mouth agape, eyes wide and brows resting as close to the crown of his skull as physically possible.

Thira leaped away from the Slayer, burying her face in her hands. 

Marok didn't say anything. He couldn't. What did one say when they found the Commander making eyes at the infamous and terrifying stranger fighting at the fringes of their ranks? And what was one to think when he–a foreigner without a drop of royal blood–was kissing her as if they were long-departed lovers?

It made sense, and the longer Marok thought about it, the more subtle pieces fell into line: the Slayer's sudden Council attendance as Thira's left hand consultant, the way they never seemed to be far from one another, the silent communication, the conspiratorial glances. 

It all suddenly made sense, like a hologram snapping into clarity.

“Oh… shit ,” Marok blurted, flabbergasted beyond all intelligent speech. Commander Thira looked up, and the flash of her chilly blue eyes was enough to startle Marok so badly that he ran out of pure as instinct.

The temperature plummeted and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

The Slayer's fearsome horse–grazing nearby on a swath of fleshy growth–spooked and cantered off towards the ruined castle’s courtyard.

“Dammit, get back here!” Marok shouted, genuine despair rising up in his throat.

Suddenly, something snagged his ankle like a snare, stopping him fast. Before he could respond, he yelped as he found himself yanked upside down and suspended in the air.

He cursed and tried to free himself, but found a spectral tentacle wrapped around his leg like the end of a snake.

Then, as if she had appeared instantly, he was looking right into the eyes of Princess Thira.

Notes:

Marok wasn't going to be in this at all, but he looked so earnest and sweet that I wanted to try writing him

Song is High Wide and Handsome by John Denver

Chapter 11: Precious Things

Notes:

https://open.spotify.com/track/4iPu4L2Xz371HTYnZ3pqIl?si=6e91e1f06f894e65

Lungs - Fabrizio

“Woah, woah, woah, I won't tell,” Marok cried. “I swear on my ancestors! I'll take this to the grave!”

Thira stared at him. She couldn't tell if he was terrified or about to break down laughing.

“What did you see?” She demanded.

“Nothing!” he grinned, his face flushing as blood rushed to his head. “Just two– heh –mighty warriors paying their respects .” 

Thira put her face in her palm and snickered despite herself. She was blushing hard enough to put Hell's bloody sky to shame.

“If you tell anyone –” she said.

“I won't! I swear! I actually think that everyone should kiss their friends. As far as I'm concerned, using tongue is just battle honors!”

Thira dropped him and groaned into her hands, beyond furious.

“I wasn't…doing that,” she said lamely.

Marok rolled and pushed himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his knees.

“You had me fooled! I thought you meant to eat him,” the youth added indignantly. 

“Maybe I did ,” Thira snorted back, trying to keep her resolve at the thought. 

“I wouldn't blame you,” said Marok. “He has a lot of steaks and chops on him. I bet he's meaty everywhere .” 

Marok squinted petulantly as he said it, still trying to needle her.

“Wouldn't you like to know, boy ?” Thira sneered. Marok's jaw dropped, and she suddenly realized the ammunition she had just supplied.

“You mean–”

“No. No I don't.”

“You've actually–”

“Never mind !’

“Commander, are you serious?”

“No!”

“Relax! I just want to know how on earth you got close enough to him to…uh–”

“--I swear on all things holy, if you finish that sentence I will hang you by your ankles over the volcano.”

“I'm curious!” 

“That will get you in trouble one day.”

“Yeah. Right . I’m sorry, but it isn’t curiosity alone–” Marok suddenly turned in on himself, suddenly becoming aware of his place in the chain of command. “--with respect, Commander, I think I have a right to be worried.”

“About?” Thira demanded, softening at the endearing display of concern.

“He's not…hurting you. Is he?” Marok's bright brown eyes fixed on her, the light of humor dimmed to almost nothing.

“No, Marok,” she told him, anger evaporating like mist in the morning. She put a hand on his shoulder. “He's very sweet with me.” 

“Strange,” said Marok, scowling.

“It is,” she continued. “When you understand him, he's really very kind. Certainly odd and rough around the edges, at times, but always kind. He's a good man, with a good heart.”

“Huh,” Marok grunted. Then, mischief returned to his face. “And here I thought it was his huge, sweaty, veiny–”

“I swear –”

“Biceps! I was going to say biceps,” he snickered, covering his head when Thira raised a hand to smack him.

She sighed, annoyed, and looked around the space. They had found themselves at a ruined entryway just past the gate–still smoking where Marok had blasted it open with the ballista. A courtyard rippled in the heat shimmer produced by the lava flows bubbling through its foundation. Fleshy growths rotted out metal like gory rust and pulsed on pillars and formerly decorative walls. Above was the citadel with its charred iron keep and–

“I'm sure his dick is huge too.”

“You little!” Thira snarled, and Marok started to run.

(O)

Ennias didn't expect the Slayer to fall from the ceiling. 

The tunnel had ended in the bottom of a dried-up well, and the bricks were corroded enough to climb without much trouble. 

The castle had been quiet when they had emerged, almost uncannily so.

“Did we beat them?” Ennias wondered incredulously, turning to offer a hand to Valen as he scaled the wall behind him.

“Unlikely,” said Valen. “They’re probably around here somewhere.” 

“Either that, or they've moved on without us,” Ennias snorted, but the irritation was beginning to gall.

The basement levels of the castle were decrepit, dark and had the same climate as a pressure cooker. Sweat rolled down Ennias' face, and he gagged despite himself as he fought to adjust to the new scent of musty stone on top of carrion rot.

Before him lay a wide hall, one end sealed by black piles of hardened obsidian, and the other blockaded by an ugly iron gate. Mechanisms protruded from the walls, connecting to unseen ancient gearboxes and chainfalls.

Ennias approached a huge vertical shaft, not unlike the well-passage, but seeming to plunge far deeper. A bright light glimmered at the bottom, and volcanic reek drifted up the shaft in sulfurous waves of sickening heat. Gear tracks of a defunct elevator studded the walls.

“Commander,” Ennias inquired. “Have a look at this.”

Valen hefted his hammer, but didn't make it two steps forward before a section of ceiling caved in above his right.

Dust sheeted down in curtains as brick, mortar and bone crashed to the floor with a sound like applause, though its source didn't seem to need a standing ovation.

The Doom Slayer lay flat on his back as if he had been hurled bodily through the floor. Ennias felt a little jolt of terror run through him. 

It didn't take more than a moment before a massive jolt of terror sent Ennias staggering back as a bellowing mass of cybernetics and blubber fell through the opening like a flabby meteor. Before it hit the ground, the Slayer reached over his head and placed his palms on the floor, then jackknifed his entire bulk straight up into the incoming demon. His feet plowed into the beast, and against all odds, the enormous demon yawed backwards and rolled to the ground, whatever bones it possessed cracking as they buckled under the changing velocity.

The Slayer was athletic, but not agile, and fell back to the ground on his side. He rolled, got to his feet and charged, whipping out his shotgun and emptying its payload into the creature's armor. So much heat had been poured into it that then greasy black metal was glowing bright orange.

It fought to right itself, but the Slayer shattered the brittle iron with the edge of his shield saw. He didn't stop there, shoving the saw earthward, and after a moment, he was buried to the knee in a fleshy caldera of gore. 

The Slayer's head was completely bare, save for a sticky gloss of crimson.

Ennias fought back the instinct to avert his eyes, terror losing the war with curiosity, but only just.

Cruel black eyes blazed above a terrible red snarl, and blood dripped down the angles of a scarred, brutal face. His expression seemed half-frozen in a silent war cry, every muscle in his jaw and neck taut and about to snap under the force of his barely contained fury. The sheer bulk of his shoulders reminded Ennias of something dreadful and animal, and the wolf pelt around his shoulders only served to drive the image home.

His eyes were what unsettled Ennias. They were the eyes of hatred made manifest, an oil seep set ablaze, the blackness before the fire starts and the charcoal ruin of what it consumed. Relentless, blazing death, the Beast himself.

Ennias folded when those eyes slowly, inexorably slid sideways and rested on him. Ennias instinctually flinched away, his body heaving in terror as if the Slayer had already struck him. The Slayer stepped down from the mountainous carcass, his heavy, savage head tracking the nobleman in a slow, lupine modus.

Predator , Ennias' animal hindbrain screeched. The Alpha of the pack . I'm dead. Gods of my ancestors, I'm already dead !

He might have fainted if Valen hadn’t stepped forward and drawn the Beast’s attention.

“Where is Marok,” the Commander asked, and the inferno behind the Slayer's eyes reduced to an ominous smolder.

He mouthed something and pointed above him, then turned and began to case the room. He saw the vertical passage and intrigue sparked across his face.

Ennias knew the Slayer was quiet, but he hadn't expected total silence. Ennias wondered when the Slayer had lost the ability to speak; perhaps the demons had ripped out his tongue or sliced through his vocal cords trying to slit his throat? Maybe they had crucified him and he had spent so long screaming that his voice had dried out completely, or poured molten lead down his throat. Why else would he opt for total silence? No one chose to go their whole life without speaking, and rumor had it that the Slayer arrived on Argent D'Nur rambling and raving. It was a far cry from the gestures and microexpressions he used now.

“With Thira?” Valen confirmed, and sighed with relief. 

“Um…where is Thira?” Ennias choked out, trying to sound bigger than he was.

He tried the comms, but she was still unreachable.

The Slayer ignored the question and made for the elevator shaft. He inspected it for no longer than a second, then put one heavy foot out–

–and fell down the passage.

Ennias jumped to his feet and scrambled to the edge, just in time to watch the furred ends of his cape vanish down a previously unseen side passage. He must have caught hold of some small ledge on the way down and hauled himself to safety. 

“Valen, he's mad !” Ennias' voice wavered as he slapped his forehead in distress. “This…he…I–”

“Relax,” Valen commanded, and Ennias froze when he felt the Commander's hand clasp his shoulder.

Valen was staring at him intently, eyes locked on his and holding them there. Ennias had never noticed that Valen's eyes were hazel all along, brown shot with green and grey, like mossy stone.

“Let him work. Let's make for the keep,” said the Commander. “Maybe whatever is down there will keep him occupied long enough for us to take the castle.”

Ennias was speechless for a moment, so much so that he nearly forgot about the Slayer completely. 

“Alright then.”

(O)

Wiping demon blood from her eyes, Thira returned to the hallway and began to search through the ruins of the ambush. It had been short lived, nothing more than a band of rogue monsters scuffling for territory against invaders. 

She found what she was looking for where she left it.

Thira picked the Slayer's helmet from the ground and brushed the dust from the visor. Of all his equipment, his helmet was in the best condition. The glass in the visor was newer and the paint had been refinished, all traces of the Slayer's fight with Ahzrak in the Cosmic realm removed. That ordeal seemed like both yesterday and many decades ago.

“Where did he go?” Marok asked. “Did something…happen to him?”

Thira waited until the youth turned around, then planted a kiss against where the Slayer's helmet had previously shattered above the eye.

“He’s probably hunting,” she told Marok, clutching the helmet close. “I thought I saw a Mancubus. Marok, I've heard you're a good study. Shall we review?”

“Heavy class demon, artillery,” Marok supplied. “High priority target, particularly if they are outfitted with cybernetics.”

“Good,” Thira told him with a smile. Marok was staring at her, as if on the verge of erupting into laughter. “What?”

“When did this start?” he asked, gesturing to her and the helmet in her arms.

“Do you swear you won't tell a soul?” Thira sighed.

“Yes, yes, don’t worry about that. Does my father know?”

“No. No one knows, and if we were discovered….” She scowled at the thought of alliances collapsing and the rousing of her father's wrath. “Don't promise to keep a secret that you wouldn't die for.”

“It’s that serious?” Marok nodded across the courtyard, towards the castle keep. He and Thira began to jog towards the entryway.

“Yes. I am my father's only child, and he couldn't bring himself to remarry after my mother died. So, when I am Queen, it's my duty to produce an heir. Without that, our entire family dies the moment that I do.” Thira's voice turned as grey and heavy as lead as she spoke. Marok looked at her quizzically.

“Can’t the Slayer have children?” he asked. Thira snorted and her cheeks reddened again.

“ That isn't the problem,” she sputtered. “At least…I'm not sure if the Maykrs left him with the ability or not. The problem is that my father wants to preserve the royal bloodline.”

“So, the Slayer would have to be a House Lord or a prince to do any good. Since a farmer in the reserves technically outranks him, he would have to be promoted to Commander overnight to even be considered for a betrothal.”

“Correct.”

“What would happen if you made him the new Kreed?”

“Clergy can't be married,” Thira laughed. 

“If someone could manage to baptize him,” Marok snickered at the image.

“I think the paperwork alone would drive him mad,” Thira mused.

“You still haven't told me when this all started.”

Thira considered for a moment.

“It’s hard to say; I've never been all that frightened of him,” she said. “And I've always admired his skill. He's reliable and loyal, and easy to command…once you learn to play by his rules.”

“Point and shoot?” Marok inquired. A skittering sounded near the door, and Marok raised his rifle to eliminate the culprit. An imp hit the floor with a squeal, then fell still.

“Yes, and ask questions before there’s nothing left to answer," Thira said, amused. Her smile lingered for far too long as she summoned up a memory. “I didn't really fall for him until the Siege of Teroth. The Kreed had ignored our hails when we needed him most, but the Slayer wouldn’t have it. He came to us at the last possible second, and it was as if I was looking at a different man. He was more alive than I had ever seen before, free of the Kreed’s tether, and beyond furious.”

Marok chuckled and picked off another imp with his weapon. Thira continued.

"I noticed his eyes first. Hatred for Hell had been replaced with a different kind of fury, one that was so much more…human…than whatever the Maykrs put into his mind. He looked at the people in the hangar around him, and I haven't been able to remove his eyes from my memory. I wish I could tell you what it was, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he wasn't our enemy. Suddenly, I found myself looking for excuses to see that face again, if only for a fleeting moment. Then, when he rescued me from the Cosmic Realm, I saw so much compassion and care in him that he suddenly began to make sense to me. He wasn't a stranger after that, Marok. He was just like me. He had power and that power made him different from everyone else. I confess, I’ve always felt a little bit lonely, but I don't feel nearly so alone when he's near me.”

She fidgeted with her palm, an old anxious habit that formed when her powers began to truly come to fruition. “It helps that I’ve always thought he was handsome.”

“Handsome? To each their own.” Marok looked genuinely incredulous.

“You don’t think so?”

“Bricks can be handsome, I suppose, but I don’t think about kissing them,” Marok snickered. Thira groaned and rolled her eyes. “I can see why you like him. I think you’re crazy, but it would be strange if you didn’t end up with someone at least as strange as you.”

“My father…my father fears him,” Thira said regretfully.

“Commander, I think you're the only one that doesn't. ” 

“Ennias isn’t afraid of him,” Thira piped.

“Ennias is…” the youth trailed off, a little sheepish.

“An idiot?”

“Permission to speak freely?”

“Of course, Marok,” she said, watching the youth turn serious.

“Ennias isn't one of us either,” Marok said, though he smirked a little at the insult. “Yes, his House pays tithes to the Crown, but he comes from a wealthy nation of farmers, workers and scholars, not proper warriors. Sure, he can fight, he's a socialite at heart. I don't think he can quite understand what the Slayer is , because he doesn't understand what war is . At least, not the way our people do.”

“In short, you agree with me.”

“No, frankly I don't, Commander,” Marok said, and Thira nearly stopped out of surprise. Marok continued.

“You're biased. I don't think he's stupid, I think he's naive. Again, Ennias isn't afraid of the Slayer because Ennias has never had to be afraid of the Slayer. To Ennias, the Slayer is an underdog rising up to fight against Hell, not a stranger with divine gifts and unknown motives.”

“I've considered that,” Thira replied truthfully. “But never so…compassionately.”

“ Objectively ,” Marok corrected. “I trust your judgement, Commander, I truly do, but, may I ask you something?”

“Go ahead,” Thira replied, tensely curious.

“What do you see in the Slayer that no one else does? It must be something, otherwise you–of all people–wouldn't risk your kingdom, family, and honor for it.”

(O)

“Is that…?” 

Ennias had never seen Valen look so flummoxed. All stoicism had departed from the warrior, leaving him standing there, scratching his head at the little treasure that the Slayer had recovered. The pair of them hadn’t even had time to leave the basement floor before the Slayer returned, and Ennias found himself reeling at the sheer efficiency of it all.

The Slayer had recovered, not gold nor jewels, but a toy. It was a tiny model replica of a warrior, dark-skinned and scarred. Its head was oversized and its round, mitten-shaped hands were wrapped around a miniature warhammer, hefted to strike.

There was no mistaking the subject of the figurine’s portrayal.

“Valen,” Ennias said, delighted. “It's you !”

The Slayer looked uncomfortable, but attentive. He nodded.

“Slayer, did you make this?” Ennias asked.

The Slayer shook his head. One of the creases between his brows smoothed and he turned a few degrees towards Ennias.

“Then what on earth was it doing down there?” 

The ferocious warrior shrugged his bestial shoulders and blinked slowly.

“May I see it?” Ennias inquired. 

For a long moment, the Slayer looked at the nobleman with an unreadable expression, then slowly offered the figurine. He was surprisingly gentle as Ennias plucked the object from his studded palm and turned it over. The figure was heavy, and expertly crafted despite its simplified proportions.

“What an odd little thing to find down here! How delightful,” Ennias mused aloud. “Are there more? How many do you have?”

The Slayer nodded at the trinket, then raised his hands and signed the numbers with his fingers. His gaze was locked on the figure, as if he were afraid that it would vanish.

“Twenty-five of them? Incredible…I didn’t realize that you were a collector, Slayer,” Ennias smiled for the first time since setting foot in Hell. Carefully, he passed the figure to its owner. He managed not to flinch when the Slayer took it and pocketed it.

“Where…did it come from?” Valen interjected, still bewildered.

The Slayer shrugged again, and his expression continued to soften. His face was never kind or gentle to look at, but the angry cast transmuted into something fierce, but noble in its own way.

“I collect insects, when I can,” Ennias added. He didn’t expect the Slayer to tilt his head and blink, once more bringing to mind a wolf suddenly intrigued by its prey. Strangely encouraged, Ennias stood a little taller. “Lately, I’ve been fascinated with insects that specialize in mimicry. Before I arrived here, I acquired a dozen specimens of a moth that exclusively inhabits graveyards. Their wings, when closed, are typically stone-colored, but when open–”

Ennias paused for drama.

“--their scales look like script! I have yet to find one that forms an actual word, but when they lay across a memorial, you wonder if the mason made an error when he carved it!”

The Slayer blinked again, and Ennias realized that he was under the full weight of the Slayer’s undiluted attention. Excited enough to continue, Ennias fought past the terrifying notion.

“I’ve also found beetles that look like coins at first glance. The males are territorial, and the females lay their eggs in piles of gold, so whichever male defends the largest trove becomes first pick. He will mate himself to death, then the females promptly devour him!”

The Slayer exhaled sharply, so soft that Ennias wondered if he had heard the sound at all. Laughter. The Slayer had actually laughed .

“I mean to collect a few of the flies found in Hell,” Ennias grinned. “Horrible things, but they do have lovely carapaces. I think they look like little drops of blood.”

Something in the Slayer’s expression changed, though Ennias had no idea what it was. The rim of his eyelids flattened, the corners of his mouth shifted slightly, a scarred cheek tensed. It might have been contemplation.

Abruptly, his focus shifted and he looked back to the elevator shaft. Craning his head to look up, he inspected the structure. Drawing some unknown conclusion, the Slayer turned on his heel, then took a few steps backwards. Glancing at Valen and Ennias, he jerked his head in invitation to follow. Then, he lurched forward and took a flying leap across the width of the shaft. Stone cracked as the Slayer jammed his fingers into the mortar of the brick and held himself fast against the wall like a gigantic steel cockroach. Then, without further hesitation, the massive warrior began to scramble straight up the wall with alarming speed and vanished from sight once more.

Stunned, Ennias looked back to Valen, who shook his head.

“We’ll find another way to the ground level,” said the Commander.

“That was…” Ennias wet his lips. “Odd.”

“ Highly .” Valen rubbed his head, scowling at the last place he had seen the Slayer.

“Call me insane, but I'm beginning to like him, I think.”

“Is a conversation about bugs all it takes?” Valen snorted.

“I'd hardly call that a conversation, but, yes! I'm really quite passionate about insects, if you haven't noticed.” 

“I didn't take you for an intellectual,” Valen smirked.

“Most people don't care,” Ennias sighed. “So I don't often get to talk about them.”

“I was interested.”

“Spare me your pity, Commander,” Ennias waved flippantly over his shoulder.

“It will help pass the time,” said Valen smoothly. “You have my curiosity, so you may as well humor me.”

Ennias couldn’t stop himself from beaming.

“Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

(O)

Thira wasn't surprised that the Slayer had beat them to the castle citadel.

She was surprised to find him rummaging through the crumbled ruins of the throne like a stray hound searching for scraps. He was on his knees, pulling aside chunks of brick and wrought iron, casting huge blocks of it aside as easily as if he were winnowing chaff.

Marok elbowed her hard when they stepped into the room. He wiggled his eyebrows at her and she scoffed, slapping his arm.

“Well met,” she called to the Slayer. He heard her, but gave absolutely no sign of acknowledgement. Whatever he was looking for, he was focused.

“So much for the new Lord of the castle,” Marok snickered, wincing at the swath of unidentifiable meat smeared across the room.

Thira snorted, but whenever the Slayer deigned to search for something, it was always worth it.

“What is it? Gold?” She asked, curiosity beginning to gnaw at her. She couldn't see what he was looking for.

He suddenly lurched like a cat pouncing on a mouse, lying flat on his belly behind the crumbled throne. After a moment, he squirmed backwards on his elbows, then looked up at her, a focused scowl on his angular face. 

He had something cupped in his hands.

He glanced at the helmet clipped to her belt, and she handed it to him without hesitation, eager to see what he had found.

He tossed it into the helmet, then quickly took it and covered the opening with his palm. He looked pleased.

“What is it?” she implored. The Slayer gestured with his head, presenting the helmet before tentatively lifting his hand to offer a peek.

She leaped backwards with a cry, revolted.

“What?” Marok cried, shouldering his rifle and dashing into position to cover her back.

The Slayer laughed, a quiet breath and a quirk of the mouth, nothing more. When Marok realized that there was no emergency, the Slayer presented his prize to the youth as well.

“That is…that thing is huge! Ew….” Marok praised, if a little disgusted himself.

It was then that Ennias and Valen caught up to them, chatting pleasantly. Ennias seemed to be in the best mood that Thira had ever seen, smiling widely as if he were enjoying a courtyard promenade.

To her surprise, the Slayer immediately strode up to them, only acknowledging Thira at all with a playful quirk of the mouth.

“Hello, Slayer,” Ennias smiled, any trace of terror removed from his demeanor. “You ought to spare us a zombie or two, you’re making us look lazy.”

The Slayer proffered his helmet. Ennias peered into its confines, then gasped and clapped his hands to his mouth in a display of unbridled delight.

“Gods of my ancestors, it's beautiful! May I?”

The Slayer shook his head, then sat back on his heels, setting his helmet on the ground to remove an enormous black spider from its confines.

It was almost as big as his caged fingers, with eight elegant legs striped with crimson and gold. Its abdomen was a few inches across, its carapace pebbled into the shape of a skull. It was scrabbling wildly in the Slayer's grip, attempting to bite through his mail with fangs as long as Thira's fingernails.

“Is it venomous?" Ennias asked, thrilled.

The Slayer winced and nodded vehemently.

“How venomous?" Ennias inquired, as if the answer were some coveted prize.

The Slayer hissed through his teeth, shuffling one ankle as he appeared to recall a painful memory.

“By the gods,” Ennias grinned, leaning close to get a better look.

Valen, Marok and Thira glanced at each other. Thira had never been so confused, and Valen seemed entertained by something utterly beyond her. She stared at him quizzically; he only offered a noncommittal shrug.

“What effects did you experience? I’m sure they were awful," Ennias and the Slayer carried on their bizarre exchange.

The Slayer stared at him with a vaguely displeased expression. The nobleman corrected himself. 

“Apologies, Slayer, let me rephrase. Did it cause necrosis or hallucinations? Paralysis perhaps?”

A long, slow nod.

“All three? It's a miracle you didn't lose a limb!”

Another grimace, and Thira suddenly recalled catching sight of an ugly, patchy divot of scar tissue near his ankle. 

“You found out the hard way?” Thira implied, refusing to get any closer to the thing.

The Slayer sighed and quietly sneered at the spider. She thought he would crush it, but he carefully plopped it back into his helmet and sealed its escape with a hand.

“Creepy,” Marok said, also choosing to keep his distance.

The Slayer wordlessly got to his feet and crossed the room. He found a scrap of tapestry that seemed to be in decent shape, tore the edge, and tied it around his helmet as tight as the fabric would allow. After ensuring that the spider wouldn’t wiggle free, he unceremoniously passed his helmet to Ennias, then turned and strode out of the room.

(O) 

“Flynn,” Thira asked. She wanted to place a hand against his arm to touch him for another precious, stolen second, but something cold was coiled up between her ribs.

He glanced at her over his shoulder and the glare on his face dissolved. It wasn’t an overly joyful expression; he knew something was wrong. She joined him at the edge of their chosen campsite, back turned to where the others fought for a few spare hours of sleep. He looked back to the ruined skyline, and the hatred returned to his expression.

Hell sloped away into the smoky distance, a vista of broken stone and suffering soil. Screaming could be heard drifting on the wind. Thira often caught Flynn staring at the scenery, taking in the horrid spectacle of it all with such heartbreak and rage in his eyes that she wanted to abandon it all and join him in his mad crusade to tear it all down.

“This sounds petty,” Thira prefaced. “But I need to know if you are doing this to spite me.”

A confused, sidelong glance.

“Ennias was terrified of you this morning. Now you two are…starting a bug collection?”

A slow blink and an exhausted sigh.

“You were angry with me when I asked you for your ‘help.’ So, I need to know if you’re getting close to him because you think it will upset me.”

He fixated on her fully. Flynn looked truly, deeply disappointed, and the look smarted. He swallowed thickly and wet his lips to speak.

“I ain’t angry,” he whispered over the wind. “I just don’t get it.”

“I thought it made perfect sense,” Thira said tightly.

“He’s human .”

“He’s in the way. He would die a hero and no one would have to bear the crime of murder,” Thira replied, frustrated.

“Still murder, darlin’,” Flynn told her stubbornly, but the look on his face gave the impression of pleading.

“For you, I would.”

“I know, baby,” he murmured. “I won’t stop you, either. But I’d have a hard time looking you in the eyes knowing you sent a good man to Hell.”

“He’s baptized by the Maykrs. He would go to Urdak to be with his family,” she sighed, but her hands had gone cold.

“If he dies, he might end up stuck here anyhow,” Flynn said grimly. “Hell ain’t an easy place to escape.”

“How do you know that?” Thira reached for his arm despite herself. He let her lean against him, his hand seeking hers and his armored fingers softly entwining with hers.

“I bullshitted my way out of the Cosmic Realm,” he said with a faint snicker. “That tether in my chest? I took a gamble and pulled the trigger.”

“You…you killed yourself?” she gasped.

“Yeah. Died, went to Hell, fought my way back to the land of the living. Didn’t have a choice. The Sentinels needed me. You needed me. So, I did what I had to do.”

“I didn’t realize,” Thira smiled at him, laying her cheek against his breastplate.

“Wasn’t easy,” Flynn murmured. She sighed, feeling nauseous. Surprisingly, Flynn continued unprompted.

“He ain’t done nothing worth the kind of suffering that Hell deals out,” he said softly, gazing down at her. “Condemning him to a fate like that? I can’t be a part of something so hateful, especially not in the name of love. Never in the name of love. If you want him dead, honey, won’t stop you, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try to change your mind.”

Thira felt a lump rise in her throat. A long moment passed; one of the mountains burst in the distance, throwing up a massive cloud of ash, lightning and pyroclastic hail. She felt the tremors in the ground a minute later and instinctually clung tighter to Flynn’s arm.

“I like when you call me that. Honey. Baby. Sweetheart. All of those things,” she whispered, watching a syrupy torrent of lava begin to creep down the distant cliffs. She felt him squeeze her hand, felt his nose ghost against her hairline.

He didn’t say anything back.

Notes:

And the saga continues! Do you think Thira changed her mind?

Chapter 12: Ennias and Misc (ART)

Notes:

Just in case you wondered what Ennias looked like! He's long overdue for some art, but I wasn't sure what was going to happen with his character until recently. This whole story kinda got away from me honestly, so thanks to everybody who has stuck it out this long! I hope you're having fun, I know I sure am! Special thanks to @AzTheDragon , @MissX_001 , and @Rogal Dorn (a guest), you guys have been here the longest so thank you!

BTW if you are on mobile, the images didn't embed correctly, so go check out @valhallasoutlaw on Tumblr

Notes:

All credit goes to @valhallasoutlaw on Tumblr

Chapter 13: And the Gods Grow Tired

Notes:

A little smut in this one as a treat

Days turned into a week as they continued their slow trek through Hell. They slaughtered any miscellaneous demons they found, but never made enough noise to alert the rest of Beltynia's domain. Like a water snake, their strange band slipped through the river with only a few small ripples to mark their passage. Fewer and fewer demons accosted them as time went on–no doubt that Novik had launched his assault on the far side of the Walker's borders and every loyal demon was on its way to the front.

The volcanic foothills slowly gave way to arid, gritty canyons and wind-scoured rock formations. It would rain there, the sky unleashing a greasy, caustic monsoon now and again that smelled like oil and acid reflux.

The Slayer knew where to hide from the downpours, but he was growing bored. He began to range, wandering away on hunting trips for hours, once an entire day. He didn’t sleep once, and while it seemed to have no visible effect on him, Thira could feel his restlessness and looked for ways to reassure him.

Finding excuses to distract him or enjoy his company alone worked for a while. As they made their final approach, Thira found an excuse to accompany him on a “scouting mission,” something that Marok usually volunteered for.

“We’re getting closer,” she told him. She sat in front of him on Misery's massive back, and his arm draped around her waist sent butterflies skittering madly around her stomach.

The slot canyon they rode through was wide enough to fly an airship through. Strange, fleshy growths hung like garlands from the rocks, some ending in clusters of glowing nodules. The wind whistled with a sound like weeping as it twisted puffs of sand into small vortices.

After a full week since their affair, Thira felt starved, as if the warmth of his hands and the beat of his heart were just as vital as food or air.

When the two were long out of earshot, Thira felt his fingers gently stroking her stomach. Thira reached to either side of the Slayer to caress his legs. Her gauntlets clicked against the chainmail guarding the hollow of his hips and she felt him shudder a little at the contact. She wondered if he was ticklish. The thought made her giddy, and she found herself needling him for a reaction, wiggling her hips and prodding the gaps in his armor. For a while, he pretended not to notice. But, as she refused to relent, his hand suddenly snatched her breast, his arm drawing her close enough to his chest to squeeze the air from her lungs. She gasped and her spine went taut; he leaned in close and growled softly in her ear. 

“You need something?” he whispered. 

“Do you want something?” Thira pressed, smiling. 

“Quit it,” he husked. She felt his teeth against her ear and the stubble on his jaw rasping against her cheek. She wiggled a little. He sighed in exasperation, hunger filing his breath into a knife's edge.

She squashed the urge to whine.

“Quit what?” she said around her lip.

He let out a low, tectonic rumble from deep in his throat, then bit down on the soft skin beneath her jaw. 

She cried out in a mix of desperation and unbridled glee. His embrace tightened and he nuzzled into her, murmuring softly as he gnawed at her throat. She wrapped an arm around his heavy head and pushed her fingers into his hair.

“Be good,” he whispered, relenting before he could leave a bruise.

“Maybe I don't want to,” she groaned. She expected him to pull away, but he nosed into the hollow of her neck and playfully nipped at her skin, pausing to gnaw at her jugular in mock imitation of a hound. She laughed aloud and craned her head to bite his ear. 

“You're good to me, Flynn,” she sighed when he straightened in the saddle. 

He grunted softly, the faintest whisper of regret in his breath. Silence settled, save for the tortured wind crying through the rocks.

Impishly, she reached for his hips once again.

(O)

“Perhaps it's crazy, but I'm beginning to find a strange beauty to this place,” Ennias said, tapping against the glass of the Slayer's helmet and watching the spider try to bite his fingers. It was losing strength as its insect lifespan rapidly drew to a close.

“That is crazy,” said Valen, lazily reclining against a gnoll of rock and watching the burning horizon.

“Hear me out,” Ennias laughed. He had gotten leaner, as much of the water weight beneath his skin had evaporated in the face of exertion. His sea-green eyes had sharpened and a short beard now outlined his jaw; he was a spitting image of the northern warrior poets that studded his noble heritage.

“The sky looks like a sunset that never ends,” Ennias said. “And the way the wind blows the sand from the rocks remind me of the little smudges on a canvas left by painter's fingers.”

“Once you get over the stench of brimstone and rotten meat,” Valen grunted. He sounded indifferent, but his eyes were firmly locked on the nobleman.

“Yes,” Ennias agreed, sincere. “But, I don't smell it so much anymore, and I don't really notice the heat. I can watch the volcanoes erupt and the lightning strike and see some of the art in them, I suppose.”

“That's nice,” Valen told him, also sincere. “I admire your ability to see the beauty in things, my Lord.”

“It's easy, if you practice,” Ennias said, scooting closer and presenting his venomous prize. “Imagine you want to paint this spider. See the stripes on her legs? What in nature choose those colors? Or her mandibles; a man would have to hone his craft for decades to make hooks as perfect as her teeth. There is wonder everywhere, Valen, if you simply give it some thought.”

“Lovely,” Valen replied, a smile crossing his tattered mouth. “But how do you know it's female?”

“Lately I've come to think that women are very dangerous,” Ennias snorted contemptuously. “An unfortunate bias.”

Valen chuckled quietly.

“Sentinel women are the finest warriors this side of the World Spear,” he told the nobleman before adding, “Thira is a brilliant example.”

“I want to know what I'm doing wrong,” Ennias sighed.

“She…knows what she wants,” Valen said, tactfully, and he suddenly saw Marok glance at him from where he stood watch across their camp.

Marok looked away just as quickly, but even strangers had a hard time keeping secrets from Valen, let alone his own beloved son.

“I've been courteous over the past three years,” Ennias continued, still fixated on his spider. “But I still know nothing about her. All we talk about is politics–if we talk at all–and I'm at a loss. If she knows what she wants, then I doubt that it's a husband. Half the time, I wonder if she's thinking of killing me!”

“She does value our alliance,” Valen offered.

“Yes, but my nation was promised certain boons,” Ennias’s slender shoulders sagged, as if beneath some enormous weight. 

“ I value our alliance.” Valen gently bumped Ennias' arm, and the nobleman looked up at him. 

“It really is too bad that I'm not betrothed to you , Commander,” Ennias said flippantly. “But, you see, Commander, I belong to the Unitarian school of thought. I would see Argent D'Nur united under a single crown, rather than dozens of nations split between their own families and loyalty to Sentinel blood. If I marry into King Novik's line, then our two nations suddenly outnumber most of the planet.”

“Has the war changed your plans?” Valen asked. Something about betrothal had stuck in his mind and had begun to itch at him.

“It's changed everything, ” said Ennias. “Much of Argent D'Nur is completely ignorant of what Hell is and the true scope of its strength. They're unprepared– I was unprepared when I traveled here. If Thira would marry me, then we would have that much more sway over the rest of the planet, and it would be that much easier to bring other peoples to our cause.”

Valen considered the thought for a long moment.

“Would marrying a Commander have the same effect?” He asked, snickering at the thought. 

“It would be less effective, but by virtue of your battle honors, you hold only a little less power than a House Lord,” Ennias said. “But, that isn’t a bad idea. Maybe I should quit wasting time and marry you instead.”

Marok was staring again, but the expression on his face was closer to disturbed than under duress. Valen smirked at him.

Ennias rested his back against a stone and set the Slayer’s helmet in his lap. He sighed and let his head fall back, closing his eyes.

“I have a backup plan now,” he declared with a soft chuckle. “Thank you, Valen. You are a good person to talk to.”

”Get some rest,” Valen told him, reaching over to clap his shoulder. “We will wait for Thira to return with the Slayer, but this may be the last time any of us get to rest for a while.”

Ennias cracked an eyelid.

“Where are they? It’s been a while.”

(O)

Thira let out a triumphant sob when Flynn came hot and hard, a final climax that left him panting in her ear as if he had run a marathon. He held her off the ground, one arm circled about her thigh while the other held both arms pinned to her back by the wrists.

Her cheek was crushed against the canyon wall, her body trapped between the stone and the unyielding bulwark of Flynn's chest. Sweat drenched her skin; every muscle in her body was shaking as if it were about to slide off her bones. Her eyes were welling and her breath was ragged.

Flynn growled and slowly released her wrists. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose and ran down her collarbones. She let out a wrung-out, pathetic whine when he pulled out, then softly set her on her feet. He took a step back to admire his handiwork, and she nearly collapsed without him to hold her up. She leaned against the wall, watching little droplets of white patter to the floor.

“Good girl,” he said in an affectionate sneer. 

“Mm-hmm,” she whimpered. Unable to stop her knees from wobbling beneath her, she made a mental note to annoy him more often.

Flynn had tolerated her poking and wiggling for longer than she had expected, but when she was a moment from giving up the endeavor, he had suddenly reined Misery to a halt. He had abruptly dismounted, dragged Thira out of the saddle, then pinned her up against the canyon wall, field stripped them both, and had his way with her. It had been rough, relentless and sublime in how it verged on feral. She hadn't had an opportunity to reciprocate; the Slayer was a one man army, and all she could do was helplessly hold the line beneath a siege.

Her legs finally gave out. But, before she could fall, he was behind her once again, bundling her into his arms and nuzzling her face, planting soft kisses across her cheeks and lips as he did.

She giggled stupidly.

“I love you,” she oozed. He rolled his eyes, nipped her nose, and hugged her close.

He still seemed vaguely annoyed, but the emotion was colored pink.

“You gonna be alright?” he asked in a whisper. “I…don’t wanna hurt you.”

When she looked up at him and managed to focus her eyes, she saw genuine concern etched across his face. She took his chin in her hand and squashed the corners of his mouth into a deformed smile.

“I'm fine ,” she grinned.

He smiled then, a real smile that she felt in her soul. She cupped his cheeks in her hands and pressed her lips to his. She tasted iron and realized that he must have bitten his own lip hard enough to bleed. When she lazily came up for air, she rested her head against his.

“Would you find me somewhere to clean up,” she said, then added sweetly, “Please.”

He found Misery and carried Thira in his arms some way down the canyon.

The spontaneous lakes of blood were sparser here, but Thira promptly discovered that her ability to transmute water from the ether was something she could recreate in the pools of dirty rainwater that collected in the depths of the slot canyon. Her breath fogged in front of her mouth, and filth and oily detritus burned away in a rush of cool air. Misery immediately cantered up to the pool and began to drink, snuffling greedily as she did.

“It's deep,” she told Flynn, marking the exertion it had taken to clear the pool. She began to fully undress.

A little of the leather on her bodysuit had torn, and one of the fasteners on her belt had burst. She scoffed softly, thrilled and annoyed in equal measure. 

He was looking at the pool with that peculiar intensity that overcame him when he was curious. A glint appeared in his eyes, and before Thira could say anything, he leaped, fully armored, into the pool and vanished into its depths.

Thira laughed and slowly lowered herself into the water. She hadn't had a proper bath since their excursion began, and the cold water felt incredible after so long in Hell's stifling climate.

Flynn didn't resurface for a long while. In the quiet, she thought she could hear a soft, gentle ringing, like a crystal wine glass tapped by a silver table knife.

It was faint, so faint that she almost didn't think she could hear it. 

When he finally hauled his massive bulk up to air, however, he looked beyond thrilled.

He met her eyes and beamed, then presented yet another figurine. Lovingly detailed, it was a playful recreation of a black, armored warhorse.

(O)

Hell yeah, Flynn thought as he held himself on his elbows at the edge of the pool and pretended to gallop the little toy horse across the stone shore. 

He'd always liked action figures. His garage had been full of them on Earth, from the He-man and Star Wars toys of his youth to the odd Warhammer figurine when he got old enough to paint, something about a tiny, goofy-looking plastic guy made him feel like he did Christmas morning when he was 6.

And, whatever kept conjuring up things for him to collect had come through once again, with a little Misery to add to his collection. He would put that one beside Serrat. No, close by, but separated. Serrat and Misery wouldn't get along.

Thira giggled and slid through the water to sit beside him before he could get lost thinking about his late companion.

Thira was a vision of perfection. Her hair was stuck to her face and neck, black as night and soft as silk. Beads of water rolled off her lean, alabaster body like liquid diamonds. The pattern on her left side seemed to shimmer with cold, subtle power and the teeth marks on her shoulders, breast and throat reminded him of bruises on the skin of a snow-white peach. 

All peaches and cold water, a diamond in her own right.

Something younger and more sentimental in him melted, and he instinctually moved closer to her, lowering his head as he did.

He felt her nimble fingers on the sides of his face and in his hair, and he couldn't stop the sigh from leaving his lips.

“You're precious,” Thira told him sweetly.

Flynn grunted in reply. He wondered again what he looked and acted like through her lens of perception. Until she had put her arms around his neck and stared at him like he was God's own gift to woman, he had been worried about whether or not he had lost his cool and been too rough with her. He had sworn to himself to keep her safe and he meant to be good to her as long as she could stand him.

Or, as long as she remained alive. As long as any of them lived, for that matter.

Oh Jesus.

Suddenly, Flynn wanted to throw up.

You gonna let this happen again , Corporal ?

Corporal Taggart hauled himself out of the water, inhaled through his nose, and put the toy horse in his pocket. He needed a distraction.

The real thing snorted at him, ears pinning and tail swishing. He went to her, noticed the meat around her ribs and the fact that her hide seemed smoother.

“Christ on a bike, you're getting fat,” he blurted.

Shit.

“Excuse me?” Thira cried in a startled half-snicker and he winced.

“Not you,” he growled back.

Shut your pie hole, Corporal .

Taggart grabbed Misery's jaw. She opened her mouth obediently and allowed him to inspect her teeth.

Thira sighed heavily.

“What's wrong, Flynn?” She asked. Dammit, she knew fucking everything, didn't she?

“Nothing. Go back to camp,” he said. “Please.”

Thira stood, water cascading from every beautiful, muscular curve like the misty fabric of a bridal train.

He didn't look at her. He didn't want to hear what his own thoughts would sound like if he did, or if he would say them out loud.

“Did I upset you?” She asked plaintively.

“Hell no,” he sniped. “I just… I gotta go kill something. I'm fine.”

Good. Keep it together. Breathe, Taggart, breathe. Don't get distracted.

“Alright,” said Thira, cautiously. She carefully went to put her clothes back on.

Make sure she's got everything. You're on a roll, dumbass, just keep it cool for a little longer.

“Have you got the keys?” he asked.

“Keys? Keys to–” she trailed off and realization colored her tone.

Remember, dumbass? We rode here. You left your truck back at…at…fucking hell….

Taggart stroked Misery's felted nose with shaking hands He forgot where he parked the truck, but that was alright. Thira was good with directions; she would know.

“I'll be back in a while. Make sure Caleb does his homework and tends to Daisy, if you don't mind. I'll take care of the dishes, just leave them out to soak for me.”

At least you aren't totally useless.

“Flynn,” she called gently. She was walking up to him, clothes still on the ground.

She knows. She knows that you forgot where the truck was and that you asked Marty to pick Caleb up from Sunday School and that you're going to Mars and everything else you ever lied about, and she knows that you can't keep secrets when she asks you just right. 

“Don't do that to me,” he pled. She was close to him now, close enough to see the water sparkling on her shoulders and the kindness in her eyes. 

He felt her hand on his arm and he suddenly realized how ungrateful he had been. He could have gone into reserves by now, been there for them, done it right. The mother of his son shouldn't have to carry their family on her own. God, he was such a fucking wreck. A woman like her ought to have more than a heartless, quiet lunatic with restless bones and a mouth that he couldn't control. 

“Get going, woman,” he said, trying to tease. “Before I say something we both regret.”

“Enough,” she sighed heavily, and pulled hard on his arm. He resisted, but a flash of blue lit the canyon behind him, and suddenly his arms were stuck to his sides.

Thira, with one phantom limb looped around his chest, picked him up bodily and spun him around to face her. With three more, she elegantly lifted herself off the ground to his eye level. The shimmering blue arm retreated from around him and he wished she would have left it there if only to tie him down.

Had she always been able to do that? 

“Look at me when I'm speaking to you, Flynn Taggart. Do you know where you are?” She asked. She didn't touch him, but there was only an inch of air between smooth, pale skin and olive green plate.

“Dallas County–” the words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them. He glanced at the canyon walls around him. Home didn't have canyons that he could remember. Utah did, but he wasn't in Utah, all of that was gone. Wiped out. Eradicated and consumed by–

“Hell. Thira, I'm in Hell and so are you. ”

His vision blurred. He clenched his teeth so hard they ached. Thira was staring at him intently, eyes cutting straight into his soul.

“If you have something in you that needs to speak,” she murmured gently. “Let him speak.”

That was all the permission he needed.

He fell to his knees before her and put his head in his hands.

“It's happening again,” he said in a worn-out, reedy voice that sounded far too much like begging. “I'm in Hell and you're here with me and it's too late. They're gonna to win, they'll rip your soul to shreds for all eternity and no matter what I do I'm not strong enough to stop it ! I can't lose it all again. I can't lose them. I can't lose you . Daisy didn't deserve what happened to her nor Caleb nor Elaine–” he drew a ragged, ugly breath.

“It's not your fault,” Thira told him, and his fists clenched so hard that they left tracks in the rocks.

“I shouldn't have let you all come with me,” he snarled, more to himself than to her. “Too risky. Too dangerous.”

“We had to try something.” 

“All of you are dead men walking.” 

“We are warriors, Flynn, and we aren't dead yet.”

He growled through his teeth, muttering a long string of bitter curses.

Thira sighed, but her voice was patient.

“I never thanked you,” she said, sitting back on her heels to once again meet his eyes.

“For what ,” he asked acidly.

“I know you,” she said. “And I know why you fight alone. I know you're afraid you will lose your people and your family all over again, and it was very brave of you to allow this mission to happen. Thank you for taking a chance on us. Can you trust us for a little longer?”

“I ain't got a family or a people,” he protested lamely.

“You will,” Thira said intently. “The instant we return, I'm going to see to it that you're baptized into the Sentinels.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded.

“I'm Catholic,” he mumbled stupidly.

That don't matter. Your granddaddy was a Jew.

She giggled. He had explained the idea behind Jesus to her once, but she had just about as much faith in it as he did. 

He considered the idea of baptism. Without any Marine Corps or Taggarts or Blazkowiczes left to call him brother, it might be nice to bear the mark of kith and kin once again. To truly hunt with Novik's wolves, answer to a worthy king, run wild and free with Thira right next to him, howling at the moon like kids.

The meaner side of him jumped to berate him, but that cruel little voice was just as lost in Thira's eyes as he was. Those eyes were blue as lightning over the sea. The fire in him was stirring, looking for fuel now that the embers had been reignited by the coming storm.

He almost mustered up a smile; the tears wobbling on his eyelashes rebelliously dripped onto his cheeks, and Thira swiped them away before he could.

Her hands lingered. He once again felt terrible, ugly and utterly worthless in her palms.

“It won't be the same as Earth,” she told him tenderly. “You aren't the same man, and you have me next to you. You have Valen. I've always been on your side, Flynn Taggart, from the moment the priests gave you to the Maykrs to right here and now. What's more, I know Valen is honored to call you brother. If we do die, it won't be the same as what happened on Earth. The Argenta are prepared, and so are you. I love you.” 

“Love you, too,” he whispered, swallowing back the grief one jagged gasp at a time.

Pussy , he thought to himself, but when Thira was staring at him like that, that part of himself seemed to lose the rest of its backbone. The walls simply came down around her, and something about her kept his fortresses from rebuilding.

He leaned into her, the edge of his brow against her sternum. She wrapped her arms around his head, stroked his hair, let him listen to the soft beat of her heart.

His head was still quietly snarling at him, but it felt distant, like listening to a tornado rattling the shutters from the safety of the cellar.

But he couldn't stay there forever. Taggart had to face the storm eventually.

(O)

“Feel better?” Thira asked, tilting his face up to meet hers.

Flynn shifted against her, raising his head to nuzzle her face. 

“We have a chance,” she told him, thumbing away what remained of his moment of despair. “We will win this war. And I will be right beside you when we do.”

Flynn set his jaw and nodded, then stood, offering a hand to help her get to her feet. 

“We will wait for you to return. If you aren't back in a few hours, I will come find you,” she said. He let out a quiet, worn-out sigh, and Thira decided that he was pretty when he cried. 

She had seen him openly weep a few times now, a number of brief, tiny windows into the burden he chose to carry.

Thira turned and finally dressed herself, and when she turned around, all she saw was a heavy black blur as Misery galloped around a corner with her rider on her back. There was only the quiet of the wind and the faint whisper of sand as it slithered across the stone.

Thira suddenly became aware of how exhausted she was. Her legs were sore and still shook at the knee. The thought was exhilarating, but something in her chest grew heavy with longing. She already missed him, and wished that she would next meet him beneath the clean linen sheets of her own bed, chilly air filling the room while any memory of Hell was neatly swept away to the realm of half-forgotten nightmares. Everything would be cool and calm, save for the steady heat of the body beside her.

In time, perhaps , Thira thought grimly. She looked back to the pool of water before her.

Calling upon the Wraith spirit, she stepped forward and plunged into the depths of the Cosmic Realm.

Limits fell away, names lost their meaning, and–

Something was singing.

Thira turned her head to listen, the crown of bone and light that circled her head shifting and rippling as she did.

It was beautiful, unlike anything she had ever heard and yet familiar all the same.

She called out to it with many greetings, and suddenly discovered that it was protected.

A leviathan shifted in the deep, her coils encircling the source of the music like a cage. A billion eyes began to shine in the dark, each one fixated on Thira.

“Not yet, little one,” the leviathan spoke. Its voice was dark, entropic, like the solar wind ghosting through the graveyards of stars.

Thira hadn't met many entities in the Cosmic Ocean. She had sensed them, but none had ever deigned to speak to her. This one felt familiar, like a bad dream.

“What is it?” She asked, annoyed by the disruption.

“I would not deny you the Experience of discovering its nature,” the voice hissed. “But you will learn in time. You have much to learn, and less time than is proper.”

“I know you,” Thira said experimentally. She tried to remember where she had heard that voice, sensed its unfathomable expanse.

“You know my vessel. You do not know me , little one. But, you may know the mark of my ultimate humiliation.”

It shifted once again, and Thira saw a burning scarlet mark upon its hide, a scar that surpassed space and time. The monogram of limitless hate and a vengeance so pure that the heat of it left a brand upon the souls of all who felt its bite.

“You are the Herald of the Old One, Consort to Prince Ahzrak. You were killed by the Doom Slayer,” she said, thrilled at the discovery. Like a tessaract, the name continued to unfold before Thira, and with every new facet, the creature's form became more clear.

“The Great Leviathan, Mother of Many, Keeper of Forgotten Lore, the Watcher in the Deep, the Witch. You are called Ulsamir.” 

Ulsamir smiled, revealing millions of teeth behind a maw of writhing tentacles.

“Many greetings, Little Sister, She Who Sings from the World Spear, Mother of the Chosen Few and–” Ulsamir grimaced as if the brand upon her hide smarted. “--Beloved of the Slayer.”

The faintest flicker of red lightning crackled through the water around Thira, like hairline cracks in a pane of glass, as the title was announced.

Names had no meaning in that place, and the exchange she had with Ulsamir was not one that was spoken. The rapport was more like many musical notes coming together to form a harmony that resonated in the soul. To call each title a ‘name’ would be a crass, reductive thing to describe the unfolding of identities like table greetings, like calling the rainbow “blue” merely for the presence of blue.

The Slayer's music was pyroclastic wrath incarnate, where unending fire met unyielding earth. The burn left by his vengeance had marked Ulsamir for death, and nothing would spare her from that fate should she dare to cross the Slayer again.

Thira had also been branded, but not for the slaughter. Seared into her soul was a warning, an omen etched in blood yet unspilled.

“You fear him,” Thira said, curious at how something as cyclopean as the Great Leviathan herself could be burned and brought low by one man. As transcendent as his hate was, he was still an earthly being.

“The last time we met, he bludgeoned the corporeal manifestation of the Old One into pulp with nothing but a mortal siege machine, and scoured That Most Ancient Soul beyond recovery with the force of hatred alone. So, yes. I fear what should happen if I cross him again,” Ulsamir corrected with a rumble like a dying star. “And the only reason I have not snuffed you out where you stand, Little Sister, is because you are under his protection.”

“I would not fall easily,” she warned.

“Your kind never do,” said Ulsamir, cryptically. 

“Why are we enemies?” Thira wondered aloud, and the watery depths shifted to reflect her curiosity.

Ulsamir seemed surprised.

“Covenants with some. Pacts with others,” she mused slowly.

“Not revenge?”

“My hatred is saved for the Slayer alone. I am not so petty as to take ancient law as a personal affront.”

Something about that stung. 

“Don’t the oaths you take reflect your heart?” Thira asked defensively.

“Only my priorities,” said the Leviathan. Her uncountable eyes fixated on Thira, searching for something.

“Aren't they the same?” Thira ventured.

“That depends,” Ulsamir’s tone turned from derision into amusement as she found what she was looking for. “ My priorities are outside my own happiness. Where are yours?”

Notes:

Thanks for reading!