Six Feet Under Chapter 21: The Shadow Fight, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 21, everybody! And great and grand news—I finished writing this fic last night. NEXT WEEK is the last chapter finally. ;v;/

Now, let's see what everyone got up to….

Maxwell kicked Wilson off him, rolled to his feet, pointing a claw accusingly. "This is YOUR fault!"

"MY fault?!" Wilson demanded, backing up—protecting Willow and Wendy was the priority here—"How is this MY fault? How is ANY OF THIS MY FAULT!?"

Maxwell, at least, had to think about that. "Erm…delaying getting tossed out on your ear, buying my house…I don't know, possibly littering."

"Murder him later," Willow ordered. "What, exactly, are we dealing with?"

Maxwell opened his mouth to answer—

Blackness of the sticky spiky tar variety splashed down the chimney, putting the dark flames there out, scattering the assorted fire tools. Wilson and Maxwell's attention snapped to it—

Wilfing—that was a term from that owl book series Willow had gotten into a while back, used to describe when the birds' feathers plastered thin against them in fear. Wilfing was precisely what he was doing now.

Because that inky blackness was assuming a shape that smacked much too close to what he saw in the mirror, dripping blackness that still writhed and oozed on its own—

"Thanks, pal," ground out of the thing, a wicked jagged smile slashing its face. "I was feeling a little peckish."

Wilson and Maxwell looked at each other—

There wasn't time to nod or yell truce—this was a real visceral threat they were looking at—a real visceral threat that wouldn't cease to be a problem after it killed them—

Maxwell lashed his tail. "Sorry pal, but I don't recall inviting you."

The moment the Shadow Man turned to face Maxwell Wilson charged—it spun to meet him—got hit by Maxwell—

The moment those claws sank in his mind screamed in agony.

Later he wouldn't be able to recall the things that had assaulted his mind—all he knew in that moment was pain and terror and things that would make Lovecraft recoil in fear and it was EATING HIM—

He screamed, striking out—managed to rip it from him, falling back—

As nice, normal Wilson.

He couldn't beat this thing like that.

"Willow," Wilson started, scrambling backwards—the Shadow Man flung Maxwell into the Deetzes, sending the art shattering on the ground and causing the couple to roll away shrieking—

Something else shrieked overhead, a ball of fire slamming into the Shadow Man—it shrieked in response, batted the ball of fire away—

It hit the ground, extinguished, rolled to a halt—Willow.

Willow!

"Willow!" Wilson croaked, crawling over to her. "Willow…."

"Ow," she muttered. "That went much better in my head."

Wilson grabbed her hand—looked up at the thing—

It wasn't advancing on them.

No—no—everyone could see what it was focusing on—

Except its target—Wendy, kneeling next to her comatose father, crying—

Until even she felt its miasmatic glare—gasped as she looked up—

Too late—it was already lunging—

Claws slicing deep—

Wendy knew she was dead the moment she saw that dark thing lunge—flinched back, eyes closed—

Shunk.

…

…Funny, she would have thought being impaled would have hurt more. Squint her eyes open….

Blink in surprise at the sight of a shadowy shape that had been impaled instead.

The Shadow Man looked stunned as well—sliced its claws out, shredding the image, spun to face the one who had made it—

Maxwell, back in human form, book in one hand, dark sword in the other, breathing heavily, edges and broad strokes looking ragged, as though whatever held him together was fraying.

"Now what are you doing messing around with a little girl, huh?" he growled. "Why not deal with the guy who almost let you out the first time, huh? Fight me."

"I don't think so," it said, voice sounding all sorts of wrong, scratchy black texture obscuring detail, face shifting amongst the people she knew as it turned to her. "After all, live people are much more useful."

Maxwell snarled, threw his book away, lunged—it spun to meet him—

Wilson stabbed it in the back with the fireplace poker.

It screamed, spun to smack him away—got sliced in the back by Maxwell—

Something flaming hit it in the chest.

"There's more where that came from, creep!" Willow yelled, lighting another model house with her lighter and throwing it at the Shadow Man.

Wilson was ready to swing the ash shovel at the monster—took a moment to look at her, aghast. "Not my town!"

"Priorities, Wilson!"

The Shadow Man smacked the next house away—got smacked in the head by Wilson, hit him hard, sending him sprawling—snatched him up, flung him at Willow—

A whiplike tail smacked it hard across its injured back, sending it tumbling over the couch—jump back up, yowling—

Something crashed through the window—another black monster, like Wilson and Maxwell had been, claws raking—

A flash of red—a flower.

A very familiar flower.

"Charlie," Maxwell gasped.

Charlie—maybe—maybe Abigail was—

The new shadowy monster was beginning to be bested by the Shadow Man, despite its clawing and tearing.

Something slid over to her—the book, Maxwell's book—he had slid it over with his dragon tail.

"You know how to seal it," he said, voice sounding…odd. Blank. Like his fate had just been laid out flat and he had to accept it. "You know how to seal the portal."

She hesitated…put her hand on the book—the codex. The Codex Umbra.

She knew this book.

"Yes," she said finally, tentatively.

"Then do it. Don't worry about us." Glance back at her, pale disc of an eye flicking up and down. "Be seeing you, pal."

She didn't even have time to inhale—Maxwell charged, slammed into the Shadow Man when it reared, sending three shadowy monsters crashing back out the window—she could still hear them—shadows were starting to seep into the house—Abigail—Abigail—

Forgive me, Abby.

She yanked the book open—this was the one, the one she had heard about, the one she thought she had gotten that one time in that pawn shop, had turned out to be a fake—this one was the real deal, this one would eat her alive if it could—

But she didn't need much—she just needed—there!

She couldn't describe it later, the pulling the magic out and telling it what to do—she couldn't describe it then beyond knowing it was trying to suck her in, into that strange shadowy world beyond the windows, devour her, her mind—take her as bargain for the deed—

Hands slammed down on top of hers in the middle of that storm—Wilson and Willow, gritting as some of their essence was taken as well, balancing it out, lessening the pull on her—the shadows writhed, were sucked out of the house, angles going back to normal, window repairing itself—

And then it was over.

Wendy sagged against the first available person—Willow—breathing ragged, trying to process—

The book slammed shut—

Melted into shadows and vanished.

Wilson stared at the spot, consternated.

"Really," Willow cut in, before Wilson could say anything. "Everything that just happened and that's what you can't handle?"

"I stopped handling a lot of things after leaving the attic today," Wilson muttered, sagging.

"Wendy!"

"Dad!" she gasped, crawling out of Willow's grasp and to her father—hugged him tight—"I'm sorry."

"It's—it's okay, it's not—"

Her dad stiffened, Delia staring along with him.

Ah.

Wendy coughed, tugged herself free to point. "Dad…Mom…these are my friends, Wilson and Willow."

"Uh…hi," Wilson tried.

"Your art stinks," Willow said, ignoring the tap from Wilson.

Okay, so maybe they had more than a few things to work out—but she was pretty sure they could handle it.

At least, once they got over the awkward introductions.