Desperately Ereshkigal thrust her spear through the scaled monstrosity, gritting her teeth as the cruel tentacles spasmed and jerked. She yanked back her weapon before they even went limp. There was no time to spare. Not when the distant yells had died away to an ominous silence.
Ichor gurgled at her feet as she stepped over the corpse, one of many. That same vile substance had splattered all over her cloak, long streaks of vile black over the burgundy fabric. Her dress too, and her hands and legs and hair.
A sorry state for a goddess, especially since she should have been able to easily walk through the monstrous horde when it poured in from the passage ahead. But to her dismay, leering beasts and moon-eyed serpents alike refused her commands and set on her with tooth and claw.
Without the souls and mana stored in her cages, Ereshkigal had been forced to fight them off one by one. Without the great crown, her wounds bled out on the ground. Without the sunburst of her spear, she had been forced to rely on strength and determination alone to cut down her foes as they swarmed her. All the while frantic with worry, knowing Beowulf was ahead and hoping against hope that she wasn't too late.
Pushing back her sweat-soaked bangs, she stumbled down the rough tunnel on legs weak from strain. She felt exhausted right down to her bones. Doubtless a weakness of her human vessel, stretched thin without the goddess core to bolster her.
Is this how mortals feel all the time? She brushed aside a slimy strand of algae hanging across the passage. Is this how Beowulf feels, at the end of our duels?
Beowulf. The soul line shone against the dripping rock, but she didn't need it anymore. He was right up ahead, trapped by the ghosts of his past. She was here to force them loose.
Doubt crept up her spine and set her shivering. Her divine power had been clawed away, her limbs ached with fatigue and dripped blood with every step. The blood of a foolish goddess, staining the dark rocks of an underworld not her own.
Visions swam in her mind of her soul ripped from her body and chained to rot in lightless pools, flayed alive to be devoured endlessly by llahmasu, thrown in cauldrons to boil. She had seen all that and worse befall unfortunate spirits. To think she might be counted among them, and by her own arrogance…
There is no room for fear once you're locked in. A familiar voice, deep and beloved, rumbled in her mind. Swallow it whole.
Ereshkigal made her choice the moment she stepped past the archway of this realm. Now she needed to follow through. And even if she could somehow slip back through the shadows into the waking world, she knew she wouldn't. Not without Beowulf.
We found so much light together. How could I abandon him now to cold and darkness?
Drawing the tattered and stained remains of her cloak around her shoulders, Ereshkigal marched through the tunnel and emerged into a great cavern. The ceiling hung low, covered in more strands of phosphorescent flora. By the green light, she could make out more sea monsters, coiled around rocks and half-emerged from black pools. She tensed as she hurried by them, but they made no move to attack. Only stared at her with half-lidded eyes and lazily twisting tails.
"Beowulf!" she shouted. "I've come for you. Hold on a little longer."
Silence, but she wouldn't let that discourage her. Not when she'd come so far. Grip tightening on her spear, she plunged further into the gloom. Deeper in, the rock walls were broken and scored with the lines of fierce battle. Red blood, rather than ichor, stained her boots as she stepped over chunks of shattered stone. Stone, and slivers of sharp metal.
His sword.
"Beowulf!" she called again, more sharply to cover up the trill of panic. "Show yourself this instant!"
"Such a boor, refusing to answer a queen's call." The dark feminine voice echoed from around a craggy corner. Ereshkigal had never heard it before, wet and scraped raw, but it made her think of freezing wind over a dark lake. "Come and chastise him yourself."
Spear held tight, Ereshkigal whirled into the final chamber. Her heart caught violently in her throat at the sight that greeted her.
"Be—!"
Beowulf hung from the ceiling like a grotesque puppet, suspended in cords of wet red flesh. His body was clawed and battered almost beyond recognition, painted in crimson and yellowing purple. The proud head was bent low, the hair she'd delighted in stroking matted with blood. The hands that had clasped her tightly now trailed listlessly by his sides.
He isn't dead. The thought flared through the deafening pounding in her chest. I won't allow it.
Ereshkigal rushed towards him, intent on cutting him loose. A dark figure moved in from the side to block her way. Stern black eyes stared back at her from a giantess' face, carved from the same stone as mountain peaks. Her arms folded defiantly across tattered armor as she watched Ereshkigal skid to a halt.
A goddess had an excellent memory for names, even strange ones heard in passing.
"Aglæca," she said, nodding to the giantess. "I have come to your realm seeking what is mine." She pointed her spear imperiously, as if she were in full command of her authority. "Release him at once."
From the gore dripping from the woman's clawed gauntlets, Ereskigal expected her to lash out in violence. To her astonishment, the giantess instead took a step back and bowed.
"You are welcome here, Lady Death," rasped Aglæca, waving a hand to encompass the cavern, "Though I ask that you not be too hasty in judgment. This night of reckoning has been long coming."
The unexpected deference drew Ereshkigal up to her full height, as the deathly queen stirred inside her. Whispered that this was right, to sit in darkness and deliver her verdict, if only the stone would form a throne suited to her rank. The other part of her, the lonely woman that craved sunlight and warm laughter, insisted that there was nothing to hear. She was here for Beowulf, nothing more.
Torn between the competing demands of her duty and her heart, Ereshkigal compromised.
"This is a poor welcome you prepared," she said severely, with a pointed look at the slithering beasts.
The giantess offered her a smile that might have been placating if not for the sharp white teeth. "Your arrival was unexpected, my lady. I did not think someone of your stature would take an interest in such a wretch."
"Do not call him that in front of me!" snapped Ereshkigal, bristling with anger. "You dare to insult what is mine?"
She took a step forward, then caught a small movement in her peripheral vision. Looking up, she found that Beowulf's head was raised, his expression a complicated mix of relief and despair to match her own. Red eyes met hers, then he shook his head as firmly as weakness would allow.
The beasts crawled a little closer in from their vigil, but Aglæca motioned them down. A half smile split her stony lips. "Let us see if you still wish to claim him, once you know what he's done. As it falls under your domain - will you hear my grievance, Lady Death?"
No! screamed the Ereshkigal of Chaldea; the one whose hand Master had caught on that fateful day; the one that loved a Berserker despite all his flaws. What he's done is of no consequence to me. I absolutely will not leave my beloved to suffer in the dark!
"Speak then," said Ereshkigal of Kur, head high and shoulders stiff.
Grinning, the giantess stalked over to the hanging Berserker. Her steel claws ghosted in the air before him, though she was careful not to touch. "This dog committed an unforgivable crime against my kin and I. His life is forfeit to me by right."
The death of her son to avenge.
"It is in the nature of the Old Children to prey upon men," observed Ereshkigal, long practice allowing her to keep a dispassionate tone over the frantic beating of her heart, "And for men to kill them in turn. I see no injustice here."
"He didn't stop there!" hissed Aglæca, the cords of her neck rigid with hate. "It wasn't enough to take my Grendel's arm—" her hand briefly skimmed over a shoulder, "—he nailed it up to that hovel's rafters to mock me! Hanging right there in the middle, where the vermin could laugh at him! My son!"
Ereshkigal pinched her lips, imagining the jeering faces and the helpless rage of the woman pacing before her. The same rage and grief carried in the laments of countless other mothers, spinning restlessly in their cages despite Erehskigal's best efforts at comforting them.
She'd meant to look into Beowulf's legend, that day he'd first come to repay his debt in the gardens, before deciding to hear it from the man himself. But somehow, with all the stories Beowulf had shared about himself and his home, that particular detail never came up.
Not quite a lie, but the taste was close enough to send a jolt of anger through the iron queen. It crashed and bobbed against the wall of her affection for the impossible man.
"Then his head!" raged the giantess."After my Grendel crawled home to me and bled out on the step of this very cave… crying for me!"
Those pitiless eyes widened to dark pits of grief, her throat choking back a keening wail of grief and rage. Ereshkigal's heart shuddered with it, an echo of the heart-rending cries that so often accompanied prayers to her.
"Before I sought vengeance—as was my right— I buried my Grendel here, to rest in the earth's embrace," continued Aglæca thickly. Her steel claw jerked towards a mound of earth at the other end of the chamber, easily overlooked among the rock and pooling blood. "But when my battle ended in defeat, this butcher dug him up!"
The gauntlet drove into the ceiling directly in front of Beowulf's face, showering him with bits of rock. He flinched, but said nothing.
"Desecrated his grave to make a trophy of his head! Paraded it back to that hall, so they could spit on my son again."
Inhaling sharply, Ereshkigal looked up at the Berserker. "Is this true?"
The wreck of Beowulf averted its gaze before giving a sharp nod. Ereshkigal hardly needed it. The casual way he'd thrown the lamia's head at her was seared in her memory, however many card games and moonlit walks she buried it under.
Aglæca eagerly spread her hands before Ereshkigal. "See, Lady Death! Even he admits it. He spat in the face of your laws and made a mockery of the dead. Leave him to me."
A sacrilege against the dead, painful enough to haunt over centuries. An insult to all the care Ereshkigal took to preserve her people against dissolution in the abyssal winds. The Queen of Kur's eyes sparked gold.
Dark triumph radiated from the giantess' smirk. "Do you see, hero?" she leered at the battered Berserker. "Even your beloved death condemns you. Think of that while you—"
"Beowulf, you idiot!" interrupted Ereshkigal. Her eyes shaded back to an exasperated but warm crimson as she scowled up at him. "Is that why you hid away from me?"
The cords binding the man's neck tightened, then snapped as he swung around to face her.
"Mostly… hah... to keep you out of this mess. Which you ungratefully threw away," rasped Beowulf reproachfully, before sagging in his bonds. "But… yeah. I thought if you knew 'bout Grendel, after that lamia… you'd never talk to me again." He swallowed down a mouthful of blood. "I got greedy."
"See?" cut in Aglæca angrily. "He tried to deceive you, Lady Death! Don't waste your mercy on him."
Ereshkigal ignored her in favour of massaging her temples. "You great lummox," she sighed. "That was all in the past, wasn't it? Long before I taught you better."
The red of his eyes gleamed a shade brighter, despite his wounds. "Then… you're not mad?"
Ereshkigal stamped her foot. "Of course I'm angry! I'm furious!" she declared. "Not only because you did such a thing, but because you let it fester between us! Whatever happened to shadowed heroes and shadowed goddesses?"
"Right, right… then does this count as another reminder?" he asked, and his shaky smile held some of its old insolence.
"You're not escaping that easily," she scolded him, despite the warm flutter in her chest. "The depth of wergild you owe me now would make Gilgamesh tremble to the tips of his armor."
"Lady Death," growled Aglæca from her side, puffing out her chest. "The debt is mine."
"You said it yourself," countered Ereshkigal with a flourish of her cloak. "Disrespect to the dead falls under my domain. I alone shall set his repentance." She hefted her spear. "Now release him, Aglæca. I won't tell you again."
"This is your choice, then," snarled the other, her mouth twisting in fury.
"It is."
Not a solitary choice, Ereshkigal knew then, but the culmination of a series of choices. One that began in a stolen time, when Master reached out to a monstrous witch, and that witch took her hand. Again the day Beowulf presented her with an insult, and she chose to walk away from the iron queen's demands. When she'd taken him to the singularity remnant, when she'd spoken to him in the brewery…
When she'd opened her heart to him, in spite of all her doubts and fears.
She looked up at Beowulf and smiled at him. "You're mine. I won't allow you to rot here a second longer when you belong at my—"
The sudden widening of his eyes warned her, even before the shout left his mouth.
Ereshkigal threw herself to the side just in time. The clawed gauntlet whistled through the air and slammed into the ground where the goddess stood less than a second earlier.
Pivoting around, she parried the next swipe on Melasmtaea's edge. With a shriek of grinding metal, the gauntlet's heavy blades buried themselves in the dulled steel. They left behind ugly notches when Aglæca savagely pulled them loose.
"No! You have no right!" howled the giantess. "Death takes all that are brought to her, fere and men alike!"
Claws outstretched, she lunged at Ereshkigal. It was all the goddess could do to pivot up the great triangles of her spear to shield herself from the brutal onslaught. In her full power, she could have held firm, perhaps even shoved the enemy back. Now each attack sent her skidding back, teeth gritted in a pained grimace.
Aglaecea's eyes burned with anger, as merciless as her crushing blows. "That was the only justice we still had!" she screamed. "And you dare take it from me?"
On instinct, one of Ereshkigal's hands slipped under her cloak for one of her cages, and the bolstering strength of her shadows. A mistake, made before her conscious mind could weigh in.
Too late. Too bad.
The blow came down like a hammer and wrenched the parrying spear aside. A followup strike smashed Ereshkigal into the cave wall. Panting, sides heaving with shock and despair, she looked up as a shadow fell over her. Aglæca's hulking form, cutting out even the feeble glow from the algae.
"So even death betrays me in the end," she snarled, her mouth set in a rictus of rage and sorrow. "In my own dream, no less."
Frantically Ereshkigal lunged for her weapon. Aglæca kicked it aside, then brought her foot down on the goddess' wrist. Bone squealed on bone, and she gasped in pain. Any more pressure and it would break.
Aglæca leaned down until it felt like Ereshkigal's entire vision was taken up by her serpent's eyes, black and lidless. "Since you love humans so much," spat the other, "you can die like one."
Gritting her teeth against the pain, Ereshkigal tried to wrench herself loose. There was no give, absolutely none. Aglæca brought her arm back to strike the lethal blow.
"Fuck, no!"
Then fell to the ground as a massive blade smashed down on her head.
—-
Every inch of Beowulf's skin felt like it was on fire. Worst of all where desperate strength (born of love, or madness, if there was even a difference) had yanked loose the guts stringing him up and sent him tumbling to the ground.
It didn't stop him from swinging Naegling again. The sword was more like an iron club than a blade, pulling hard at his muscles with every blow. A satisfying thump sounded as he brought it crashing into Aglæca's side.
"I won't let you!" he snarled, flecks of blood flying from his lips as he raised the sword again.
The witch raised her arm just in time to catch it on her gauntlet. The crushing force still sent her reeling.
"You!" she thundered. "Why won't you ever stay down?"
"No quarter, no surrender! Not when you tried to take everything from me!"
Red light shone in his other hand, materializing into Hrunting. Both blades came crashing down, narrowly blocked on metal claws.
Sparks flew as he roared. "You hurt my woman!"
They clashed violently in the near darkness, in a lethal melee that had far more to do with raw strength than finesse. Beowulf's swords sang crimson as they parried blow after crushing blow. He would have stared down at them in wonder, if Aglæca had given him the merest inch.
Why now, when they wouldn't come before—
He blinked as realization set in, even as Aglæca's breath blew hot in his face.
Because for the first time since this nightmare began, you forgot that they couldn't.
In his rage and despair over seeing Eresh pinioned by his old foe, his mind cast aside the fate that shackled him; called to his hand the very blade he'd only earned with Aglæca's death.
Not possible. Not unless…
His instincts snapped an instant before fangs flashed in the gloom. The sea fiends, come to their mistress' aid. Pinned down by the witch's claws, he could do nothing but brace himself as a set of slavering jaws closed in on him.
There was a whirl of silver, and those jaws locked on a steel blade. A deft movement from Ereshkigal's wrist cleaved the spear through the soft flesh of the serpent's mouth. She shook the dying beast off and thrust the weapon to block the brine-wolf leaping at her shoulder.
"I will hold your flank, monsterslayer," she said with a fierce smile, crimson eyes flashing. "So make me proud."
"You always say the sweetest things," rumbled Beowulf, grinning when her cheeks flushed pink despite the dire straits. Putting his back to hers, he raised his swords. "Alright then, you heard the lady! Come on!"
The sea fiends flew at them, and the world became a blur of steel and claws. Black ichor splashed before his eyes as scaled abominations fell, only for fresh ones to scurry over the wretched corpses. Even in the carnage, Beowulf could tell something was wrong with Ereshkigal beyond her missing crown. The fiends pushed through gaps in her defenses that he'd never seen in all their spars, her spear only cut instead of bursting through them.
"You alright?" he asked, unable to spare more breath with the witch's claws ferociously seeking an opening in Hrunting's guard.
"It's endless," groaned Ereshkigal as she impaled another brine-wolf. Gasping for breath in a small gap in the assault, she pressed up against him. "We're… hah… going to be overwhelmed by sheer numbers." A long ragged breath. "How did you ever manage last time?"
"There weren't so many," growled Beowulf.
Aglæca had retreated to nurse a particularly savage cut from Hrunting. A serpent took her place in the melee while the wound knitted over.
"I don't know how she…" He trailed off, then set his jaw. "She can't. She doesn't."
Growling in defiance, he thrust his sword at the serpent's head. It slashed through easily, sending the reptile flying back in a spray of blood. Although many beasts reared up in its place, there were noticeably less than before.
"This isn't just your dream, is it?" He locked eyes with Aglæca. "It's mine, too. That's why Unferth came with me down the path. He was never yours." Spines sunk deep into his shoulder. Baring his teeth, he wrenched the beast off. "Unferth, Naegling…!"
"You're wrong, butcher," sneered the witch. "This is my realm, born of my cry for vengeance." Her claws scraped together, a harsh grinding in the darkness. "Unless you wanted to hand yourself to me? Then by all means, cur."
"No… I think you're right," said Ereshkigal, her sweet voice carrying over the frantic roars of the beasts. "She riddled you with fear so you wouldn't realize it, but… she could bring you to the nightmare, but she couldn't hold you. Not until she drew me in too, and you panicked."
"I did not—!" growled Beowulf, risking a look back in her direction. "Okay. Maybe a little."
"If this is your realm, as much as hers…" murmured Ereshkigal, then grinned in triumph. "Beowulf. Do you trust me?"
"Is this really the time?" groaned Beowulf under a new assault from Aglæca, claws sparking violently against his swords.
The witch might be bloodied, but Beowulf himself was in very rough shape. Knowing this was a shared nightmare had not erased any of the grievous injuries she'd scored him with earlier.
"Beowulf!" snapped the goddess.
"Yeah, of course!" It was hard to concentrate, with those pitch-black eyes boring into his over a mouth snarling with hatred. "With my life, I told you that… gah!"
"Then acknowledge my power and my right. Recognize the authority of death in this realm."
Beowulf's head spun. Aglæca's strikes came more heavily as the witch threw every ounce of power behind them. It made it damn hard to think. Did Eresh mean something formal, some grand speech to fate? He wasn't any good at that.
But he was still a king.
It would do.
"Yeah," he grinned, regretting that it was Aglæca's expression he was stuck seeing rather than his woman's. "Everything that is Ereshkigal— goddess, human, witch, I don't care!—is welcome here! Give her all due honour, and her—our—will be done!"
Nothing physically changed. The rock walls of the cavern stayed solid, the fiends hissed as loudly as ever. But there was a shift in the world around him, like reality had suddenly spun on its axis. His stomach lurched, his mind buzzed. For a brief moment, he shivered as invisible gears ground in some unfathomable machine.
Aglæca bared her teeth, shoulders tight. For the first time since she'd mocked him from the lakeshore, wearing his Master's skin, Beowulf saw fear in her ancient eyes.
Blue light flared in the darkness behind him, drowning out the dim green of the algae. Moments later, shadows erupted from the ground to engulf the sea fiends. Spectral skulls of beasts long dead clashed with deep sea horrors. The cave shook with their violent struggles.
The black crown gleamed on Ereshkigal's hair when she strode forward to stand by him. A symbol of death and conquest, but he could have kissed it. Though kissing her, in her fierce splendor, sounded even better.
"Enough, Aglæca!" commanded Ereshkigal in a voice of iron. "This underworld falls under my rule now. Submit and stand aside, or suffer my wrath."
The Queen of Kur stood before them, in all her dark glory. She seemed worlds away from the shy woman who lingered by riverbanks under the stars.
Beowulf knew they were the same. Stunningly beautiful, in all her forms. His, for as long as their breathes whispered together.
Aglæca shared none of that sentiment. Baring her teeth, she stared down Ereshkigal with the open loathing born of disappointment. "Never. Even if I must grasp it alone, I will have vengeance." Her brow darkened under the shadows cast by soul fire. "How else could I ever face him again?"
"Aglæca, you—" began Beowulf, when the witch threw up her hands.
"Wyrmcynnes fela, spirits of the dispossessed!" Her voice brimmed with ancient power, sizzled like ozone in his ears. "You who once ruled the sky and sea, pushed into the dark by the race of men! Heed my summons and share my vengeance!"
A great rumbling filled the chamber, the bellow of a thousand dragons on the wing. Then monsters streamed from the tunnel entrance, from every crack in the ground. Beowulf's eyes darted over them as he braced himself to meet the horde. He saw not only the scaled fiends and sharp-snouted beasts remembered from far seas, but all manner of snapping jaws and baleful eyes, webbed wings and shining auras. A living tide of malice made flesh, too much for even a god's blade to quell.
But it was the earth itself that responded to Ereshkigal's call when she planted the shining point of Meslamtaea into the trembling rock.
"Here is the wrath of the dead, the anger of the earth!"
Blue flame engulfed the cavern as gleaming cages burst from shadows. The shaking and heaving of the ground intensified to a great roar. Cracks opened, filled with a blinding red glow.
New strength poured into Beowulf as he watched the radiance flare, closing his wounds and filling his lungs with sizzling mana. The gratitude of Kur for its long-suffering mistress, spread to all those she took under her charge.
"Appear, o scorching shrine! Kur Ki Gal Irkalla!"
Crimson lightning shot from the cracks and tore through the darkness in great spears. Those beasts that weren't impaled outright found themselves caught in the bone-rattling blast. They were hurled up and dashed against the rocky ceiling in bursts of blood and chitin.
All except Aglæca herself. Though cruelly battered and torn by the heel of Kur, she reared up in its fiery wake. Powerful muscles constricted, set to lunge at an Ereshkigal still pulling her spear from the rubble.
"Not like this," hissed the witch between broken teeth, her eyes glittering. "Not while you're still watching, my darling..."
Her claws raised to strike.
Freed from fear and injuries, Beowulf was faster. His swords vanished into golden dust as he charged with all the ferocity of his namesake. Power surged through him, turning muscles to steel and his eyes blazing red.
A whirlwind of punches and kicks. The joy of fist on flesh. The power to crush mountains with a single blow.
"This is it, Aglæca!" bellowed Beowulf as he fell on her in a blur of savage motion. "I'll send ya to see your son!"
He attacked the witch in a savage flurry of blows, too fast for the naked eye. The steel of her gauntlets cracked under his fist. The remnants of her armor ripped away under his kicks.
"Grendel Buster!"he roared, forcing her back in a raging storm.
Right into the point of Ereshkigal's spear, held ready.
Steel burst through Aglæca's chest in a shower of black blood and splintered bones. Mouth agape, she stared at them in stunned disbelief. Shuddered and jerked on the wide metal shaft, gauntlets instinctively and futilely reaching to grab it. Beowulf recognized the gesture from another impalement, another world away, and winced in unexpected sympathy.
Her death rattle echoed in the cavern, blood gushing from her mouth. The body shivered once more, then went limp. Silence reigned for a long moment, save for distant tremors and the slick of pooling blood.
A glance passed between Beowulf and Ereshkigal. At her nod, he rolled his shoulders before gingerly pulling the giantess' body from Meslamtaea. He carefully laid her down on the ruined ground, then stepped back so Ereshkigal could perform her rites.
Only to have her arms lock around his neck instead. Blonde hair flew into his face as she pulled him down into a welcome, if crushing, embrace.
"Eresh—"
"Not a word," she murmured into the crook of his neck. "I… I… just let me have this."
"Yeah." Pulling off her ruined cloak, he wrapped her up in his arms and buried his nose in her hair. Just breathed in the scent of her, one he thought he'd lost forever. "As long as you need."
(as long as we both need)
He wasn't sure how long they stood in the darkness, holding each other. Time seemed to have lost all meaning with Eresh pressed up against him. Even in the place of his nightmares, soaked in blood and surrounded by the stench of fallen foes, he never wanted it to end.
Eventually she stirred and nudged him. More forcefully when he refused to let her go.
"Beowulf. We aren't done here yet."
The Berserker heaved a sigh. "Do you always gotta be so responsible?" he grumbled, holding on a shade longer before finally opening his arms. "You're right, though."
"As always," she said with a small smile. "I am a very reliable goddess, after all."
All mirth dried up as Beowulf stood to one side, giving her room to kneel by Aglæca's body. Carefully, Eresh brushed the eyelids closed.
"Life was unfair to you and your son," she murmured. "The Age of Men had no room for your kin, or the old ways. You both tainted your hands with blood, and so cannot blame the men for defending themselves. But the suffering you carried for your hatred…" Ereshkigal's sigh echoed in the gloom. "It was a price you should never have had to pay."
Beowulf wasn't sure about that. The image of Gunnhilde's face, wan from weeping, flashed before his eyes. But for Eresh's sake, he only grit his teeth and waited.
"Rest now," she said, and trickled earth on the giantess' breast. "I will not cage your soul, for that would bring you more pain than comfort. But I promise that nobody will desecrate your body, or disturb your slumber as you fade."
A few more heartbeats passed before Eresh straightened up, which Beowulf took as his signal to collapse. Even the blessing of the underworld could only do so much to heal a man on the brink of death.
Slender but strong arms caught him, as he knew they would. He lifted his head and grinned as Eresh's expression warred between the brightest smile and the deepest scowl.
"I really should kill you myself, you know," she said, soft voice draining the harshness from her words. She pressed her forehead against his and drew a shuddering breath. "The way you made me worry, Beowulf."
A few drops of warm liquid fell on his cheeks, and he realized with a start that she was crying. And he really was an asshole, because the ache in his chest at the sight felt a little bit sweet. His own eyes stung, bringing a rueful smile to his lips. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd cried.
"Sorry. I didn't want to be the one worrying about you," he rasped, gently thumbing the tears away so he could see the brightness of her eyes. "Then you came down here on your own anyway. So much for that, huh?"
She sniffled, a most unladylike sound from a queen usually so worried about dignity. "Idiot. Next time, reach out your hand in the first place. So instead of making me follow you into the dark, we walk through it together."
His bark of laughter snapped her head up. "... heh… now who's talking about next time? Glad I'm rubbing off on ya," he grinned, hoping to lift her mood.
"I should drop you right now," sighed Ereshkigal. The tears had stopped now, though her eyes were still a little red for his liking.
That faded away when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close. Her embrace ghosted cold over his skin. It was the most soothing sensation he'd ever felt.
"But in the state you're in, you might shatter to dust. So I'll save it for our next spar."
Beowulf knew the stupid grin was back on his face, and revelled in it. "Can't argue with the decree of a goddess."
He scratched his chin as he looked around the ruined cavern.
"Don't know how you got here, but we're definitely not going back through that fucking lake. Good thing I've got another idea." He held a hand out to her. "Let's go."
"Not yet," said Ereshkigal, lightly slapping his shoulder. "You have a task to finish."
The Berserker stared in astonishment as one of the floating souls flared bright, then took the form of a shadowy shovel.
"Oh come on, Urtur," he groaned, but willingly took hold of the implement. He cocked an eyebrow at Eresh. "Bury her with all the respect due a fallen foe, yeah?"
Eresh beamed at him. "You are teachable, after all." A small flush crept into her face in response to his flat look. "A-and I did say I would have you repent."
"This is solid rock, you know."
"I know you'll manage," she said cheerfully.
She really was lucky she was damned adorable. Beowulf wouldn't have hesitated to punch out any other death queen that spoke to him that way.
He ended up burying the giantess next to Grendel's body, even if the concentration of scaled bodies on the spot made his work that much harder. Only then did Eresh wrap her arms around his neck again and kiss him.
The blue flames of Kur's souls danced over their mistress' shoulders as she took her champion's hand. Together they left up the winding stairs that appeared hewn in the ancient rock, and stepped out into the first rays of morning.
Ereshkigal woke to warmth. Surrounding her, curved around her, cradling her close. A heartbeat not her own echoed in her ears, slow but steady. Alive.
Blinking her eyes open, she found the side of her cheek pressed into the hard muscle of a familiar chest. She was inelegantly sprawled on top of Beowulf, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing. His arms were wrapped around her waist to hold her close, his rough fingers curled under her dress to splay against the delicate skin at the small of her back. One of his legs was draped over her own, its powerful bulk pinning her in place.
Breath hitching, cheeks flaming, Ereshkigal glanced up at the sleeping man. Shaggy hair fell across a face she'd last seen bruised and broken, now miraculously made whole. His expression looked softer than she'd ever seen it, his brow relaxed and his mouth in a blissful smile. For a moment, she could glimpse the boy running along the shore with his friends, long before the warrior or the king.
A smile crossed her lips, even as tears welled in her eyes. She rubbed them away with the back of her hand and sighed. There was so much to do, so many pieces to square away before they could fully relax. She could expect hours being debriefed by Da Vinci and more. But all that, and the shuffling of feet and little mutters that her mind distantly caught and tossed aside, faded before the massive arms holding her.
Maybe it was alright to… just relax, for once. Indulge in Beowulf's radiant heat, suffusing her until cold was a distant memory. Savour this moment while they both could, before the world pulled them back into its unending whirlpool. After going to hell and back, they deserved a little time to rest.
Doubts banished for the moment, she closed her eyes and nuzzled into his chest. He was so warm, as warm as the chuckle drifting down to tickle her ears. Drowsily she looked up, and found red eyes gazing fondly down at her.
"There you are," he rumbled, pulling her a little closer. "I was starting to worry."
The flame in her cheeks intensified. Sputtering, she reached down to give his hand a little warning squeeze.
"D—don't you dare!" she huffed, trying to look stern even as his grin made her lips quirk. "Not after everything you put me through."
She frowned as his hands stroked soothingly through her hair. She was still angry with the Berserker, hot embers deep in the pit of her stomach. His utter pigheaded foolishness—his refusal to trust her, after all his promises!—had torn Ereshkigal's heart and almost cost them both their lives. The iron queen wanted to rip into Beowulf, tear him so raw he'd never dream of doing such a thing again.
But he'd opened himself to her down in the dream realm, when it mattered most. Thrown the doors of his mind and soul wide open, and invited Ereshkigal in — all of her, monster and queen and girl— without hesitation.
Just to save his skin, whispered the most spiteful part of her, the Ereshkigal that still shivered on her lonely throne.
The rest of her, the woman who loved the blemished image of a hero, knew that wasn't fair. Beowulf was a lousy actor, as he'd always protested. And the shining red of his eyes when he'd declared it aloud made it clear. He would say it anytime and anywhere, and give her the most insolent smirk while he did it.
Another shuffle from the side, a few coughs and whispers. Ereshkigal was too busy staring into the crimson of his eyes to pay them any mind.
"Yeah, my bad," said Beowulf after a moment, hands still tangled in her tresses. He straightened a little, pulling her up with him so they were half-lying and half-sitting. His head inclined in a slight bow. "Sorry about that. Should have told you everything after all."
"Yes, you should have! But…" she bit her lip, but forced herself onward. "I can understand… hiding the parts of yourself that you don't want to show. Because then they might walk away from you, and you couldn't bear it."
"Yeah. I thought you might," he rumbled, moving one hand to rub slow comforting circles along her shoulder. Gently, but enough to remind her that she wasn't alone.
Her tongue came undone under the tenderness of the gesture. "And…! I knew you were troubled, but I promised myself I wouldn't pry. I was afraid I might drive you away, even after everything you already accepted about me." More tears stung at the corner of her eyes. In front of anyone else, it would have been mortifying for a goddess to cry. In front of Beowulf, it was somehow alright. "I should have trusted you more, too."
"Hey," he said gently, then reached down to take her hand and pressed a kiss on the back of her knuckle. "We've already done something like this before, yeah? So let's just forgive each other and move on." He grinned at her. "I don't want to waste any more time."
"Good," she said, her mouth moving ahead of her mind in her affection for the impossible man. "Then to start with, you can lie back down and hold me." Then her words caught up and made her flush. "That—- if you insist, that is!"
"As the goddess commands," he laughed, and scooped her up so she was resting fully on his broad chest.
Sighing happily, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and sighed into the crook of his neck. His natural scent of smoke and musk was far better than the blood and rot that clung to him underground. Although there was an odd floral component that she didn't recognize.
Come to think of it, that same smell permeated the room. Sweet meadow flowers, and the familiar perfume of pomegranate. She must have breathed it in all along, and only noticed now that she was focused on that sense.
Oh no. A small shiver ran up her spine. Please, please don't tell me...
"Not gonna complain," Beowulf grinned at her. "The rest of them can damn well wait."
"Them?" repeated Ereshkigal hollowly, although she already knew the shape of her doom.
Sitting up, she turned to find a small group of people gathered on the other side of Beowulf's quarters. Ritsuka awkwardly cleared her throat as she leaned back in the sole chair, a furious blush on her face. The command seals on her hand were visibly missing a sigil.
Mash stood at one shoulder, her cheeks equally pink, while Ishtar floated over the other, arms crossed and a storm on her brow. Suddenly the missing sigil made perfect sense.
The image was completed by Merlin, who had somehow arranged a seat for himself from the remains of a ruined punching bag. Delicate flowers bloomed at his feet as he beamed at them and clapped his hands.
"Hahaha, a wonderful tale! I'm so very glad to have witnessed it. But shouldn't it end with true love's kiss?"
Deep red consumed Erehskigal's face, from her neck to the very tips of her ears. Squeaking, she instinctively ducked her head down into Beowulf's shoulder before she could stop herself.
"Merlin…!" hissed Ritsuka. "This really isn't the time!"
With a deep breath, Ereshkigal straightened herself and tried to assume some semblance of composure. The dignity and elegance of a goddess-
"He's right," rumbled Beowulf, unabashedly throwing an arm around her shoulder to ruin that composure. "You guys mind? I don't think I'm getting that kiss until you all clear out."
The tender stroking of his fingers over Ereshkigal's neck spoke volumes on how much he wanted that kiss, and whatever else he could get. She felt a strong urge to flee and hide away in her room for the next few years. She stayed anyway, coaxed by the comforting warmth of Beowulf pressed against her, and the sweet ache of happiness in her chest.
Ritsuka's expression grew stern as she leaned forward. "Not a chance. After the heart attack you both gave me, I think you owe—"
The command seal must have expired with the magus' words, for Ishtar brashly moved directly in front of her to scowl down at Ereshkigal.
"Of all the stupid, irresponsible..." Ishtar shouted, words tripping over themselves in her anger. "What the hell were you thinking, Ereshkigal? Going down into a dream realm like that, with only a sliver of your divinity…!" Her fists clenched at her side. "You could have died!"
"A world class blunder," agreed Ereshkigal shakily, unconsciously reaching up to resettle her crown. "I suppose we really are sisters."
"That's not funny!" growled the other goddess. "Really, did you even think for a moment? After all those lectures you give me, the utter nerve…"
Her shoulders slumped for mere heartbeat before she whirled on Beowulf.
"And you! How dare you drag my sister into something so unforgivably gloomy?"
"Hey, I meant to keep her out of it," protested the Berserker. "She's the one that followed me down." Before Ereshkigal realized it, his hand had closed around hers to interlace their fingers. "I'm really grateful she did, though."
Ereshkigal coughed against the renewed flame in her cheeks, then locked eyes with her sibling. "That's enough, Ishtar. He's mine, and I don't let anyone take what's mine. No matter how far I have to go to grasp it." Then she let her stern expression soften into a smile. "That's the way of a goddess, isn't it?"
A complicated kaleidoscope of emotions rippled across Ishtar's face. After a moment, she blew out a sigh. "The underworld blooms at last, I see." She floated back, wearing her most aggravating smirk. "Fine, fine. Then tell my brother-in-law I expect nothing but the best at the wedding feast."
"Ishtar!" blurted Ereshkigal, her face so hot she was sure steam might shoot from her ears. Even Beowulf's ears were visibly heated as Ishtar glided out with a laugh.
"Thank you for the lovely treat," said Merlin, rising from his seat with his usual serene smile. "Hmm, but as it seems that things are about settled here, I think I'll head to the cafetera. I have an inkling that some fresh entertainment is brewing."
It was only after the white robe fluttered out the door that Ereshkigal remembered Merlin was an incubus. An incubus who had waxed about a treat after she'd just woken up.
She might have chased him down if Ritsuka hadn't chosen that moment to drag her chair directly in front of the bed. The magus' stern expression belied the hands wringing themselves in her lap. Then she stiffened her shoulders and glared at them both.
"Okay, first off — never do that again. Either of you. "
Beowulf's mouth was halfway open when she jabbed an accusatory finger at him.
"If you're about to feed me nonsense about weapons and replaceable, then don't. Just don't." She reached up to massage her temples. "You're my friends, okay? And a lot more to each other, obviously."
Ereshkigal picked at the hem of her cloak, torn between bristling at the lecture (she was still a goddess!) and the little bit of extra warmth the words brought her. Silence seemed the wisest course, lest she say something she'd regret later.
The man at her side didn't share that wisdom. "We handled it, yeah?" he scowled. "Touch and go in a few places. But don't tell me you haven't done worse, Master."
"Not the point!" Ritsuka slammed her hands down on her thighs, before Mash's hand on her shoulder steadied her. She shot the Shielder a grateful smile, then turned back with a sigh. "Look… I have to lean on you guys all the time. Everyone that fights and bleeds and smiles for me."
"That is a part of our pact, Master," said Ereshkigal. "Each of us agreed to that when we stepped through the Third Gate."
"Yes, fine," grumbled Ritsuka. "I'm grateful, believe me. But… I'm always relying on you." She scratched the back of her neck. "So I kind of want you guys to rely on me, too. So you can enjoy the time you have here, even if it can't last. This time… it's the only reward I can offer any of you."
Even if Ereshkigal's feelings for her Master had shifted, that shy smile could still fell a mushushu at fifty feet. A small thrill of pride filled her as she slid to the edge of the bed. She hesitated only a moment before patting the magus' hand.
"Hush, Ritsuka. It's because of you that I set out on this journey at all. I've already forbidden you from disparaging yourself in my presence, haven't I?"
The magus looked like she was about to melt under the goddess' smile. Then Mash gave her another gentle nudge and her shoulders abruptly straightened.
"Ahem! Keep it in mind for next time, then. Also, you're both on punishment detail for the next two weeks." She preemptively raised a hand in Ereshkigal's direction. "Sorry Eresh. I know what you're going to say, but even a goddess has to repent sometimes."
Ereshkigal briefly thought it over, then smiled. "Of course, Master."
It was almost worth it simply for Ritsuka's open surprise.
"Then we shall upgrade the brewery as our penance," she continued. "I trust you have no objections."
The magus frowned. "Hey, that's hardly a p—"
"Senpai. Remember what we said about choosing your battles," said Mash.
As usual, Ritsuka was putty in her partner's hands. "Fine, I get it," she groaned as she slumped back in her seat, then cast a baleful eye on her two rogue Servants. "You both still have to report in to Nightingale, though. I don't think Dantès will be able to hold her back much longer."
Her scowl curved up into a smirk.
"Also, I want to be maid of honour."
Ereshkigal decided all of Chaldea was a conspiracy to see how much blood could rush to her face, especially when Mash meaningfully cleared her throat and Ritsuka crossed her arms.
"Really going to hold me to that…?" said the magus with an affectionate if exasperated roll of eyes. "Okay then—best man."
Beowulf's laugh rumbled through the room. "Sure. You can fight Cu for it."
"Haaah… guess it's back to training then." Ritsuka gave a rueful smile and rose from her seat. "Come on, Mash. Da Vinci's going to want a full report, but I think we can hold her off a little longer."
"Right, senpai!"
Magus and demi-servant left, finally leaving Ereshkigal alone with Beowulf. The whole scene had been aggravating, mortifying, entirely below her dignity.
And warm.
Beowulf gave her a tiny squeeze and drawled, "Still want to stay here? We've got a brewery to fix up, thanks to you."
"It can wait," said Ereshkigal, burying herself deeper in his arms.
Epilogue
The stream burbled and ebbed over the rocks in little cascades before coming to settle in a sunlit pond. Cardinal flowers and buttercups bloomed on the banks, the red and gold of summer.
Two ghosts made flesh wandered barefoot over the soft grass, admiring the blossoms. A single kingcup adorned the woman's blonde hair, placed there by the man. They walked slowly, as if they didn't have a care in the world.
A momentary sliver of time, a bubble in the river of fate. But for at least a little while, their time was their own.
Author's Note: A big thank you again to Exstarsis, for setting me on this journey, and to all the readers who came along for it. Hopefully the destination was worth it.
Please do not mention to the groaning wardrobe full of rarepair-hell concepts. If I just sip tea and pretend everything is normal, surely they'll all go away?