The perishing sun is censored by the ash atmosphere hovering glumly over two titanic metal and bronze statues. They stand guard hooded and faceless at either side of the entrance to the City of The Dead. The statues are equipped with large swords at either sides of them with a large shield upright at their feet. As If the guardians are deemed with the purpose of protecting the impenetrable barrier of the enormous dead city.
Only age has managed to penetrate the mountain high walls. Only finding it's way through the cracks and erosion riddled about it's articulate copper foundations as well as it's face. Nonetheless, it remains powerfully stagnant since the dawn of time, fading far into the fog of the horizon as it broods both valiantly and intimidatingly over the girl awoken first and before her guard. Unable to compare the sights to any great towers of her birthplace of London, or the dominant city skylines of Hollywood, California where she passed.
But that was a short while ago and she's almost past the now tiresome thought in her easily distracted mind. Though she has nothing else to focus on, the only thing to bother her thoughts in the nothingness of the entrance is the scenery of the long bridge behind them crossing an endless desert of ash.
And the fear, the uncountable fears that cloud thicker in her mind worse than the grumbling clouds floating sickly above her. The fears of the the endless monsters, the strange new worlds, the blasted King and his jealous subjects, even Death. She looks down, the human's spine shaking due to her heaviest concern embracing her as he slept, out cold with his heavy arm draping over waist with it's hand snaked underneath the back of a ravaged sweater. His mask had never left the bare, toned skin of her stomach that he rests comfortably in his unconsciousness.
Genevieve had been knocked out as well, waking up to have fallen on her side over the horseman's other arm, but it served as no pillow and her aching neck is the product of that mistake. This woman cannot move, her one hundred and thirty-three pound weight is pinned under an arm that must be twice that. She slithers her body out of his grasp but hears a tiresome growl when doing so. The grip of his claws dig almost softly into her skin as she pulled away, nails creating four white lines that turn a soft red on Genevieve's skin. As if to be a subconscious tactic to lock the girl in his arms so he may have something to hold as he slept.
When the scuffed strawberry blonde fully pulls her leg from her sleeping partner, she feels horridly lightheaded and her eye blurs heavily upon moving her drained skull. Having been drained of nutrients, energy and blood, her mind still full of thought and bubbled over with emotions even with all the crimson missing. She is so humiliated by the king and his subjects and sickeningly happy from the vengeance of their outcomes. What consumes her the most is her horror of the man she made a pact with, yet relieved that she had someone so powerful on her side. Though, Death was the most fearsome of all in her eye.
Bloodstained, paled hands hold her cranium from the dizzying pain and trying to physically shun the thoughts of him to the back of her mind. She looks over to the army knapsack still fastened heavy to her back and shakes it off. It thumps to the ground with the sound of metal clanking strangely in the bag. She catches the noise and realizes she hasn't peered inside the whole time she's hauled it. It isn't as if she had time, she was too preoccupied with getting her eye gutted.
Drully, she first takes the rubber canteen, turns the black rubber nozzle, and chugs as she pulls the largest zipper about the bag. A dewy, soft smile shows on her lips as she finds more bandages, a small bag full of glit, bowie knives, a first aid kit, body wash, and a gun.
Pulling the handle carefully from the pack, her eyes widen, her smile fades and the bottle falls. For her fear engulfs her once again as she threw the shot gun across the floor with a shriek.
This was no ordinary shot gun, being none other than the twelve gauge that belonged to the man that took her. The woman knows it was his, she's too familiar with the gun to not know. So having been made to be so familiar that she remembers the model, it's uses for hunting, she even knows the serial number engraved onto the side as well as her heavy heart. Her face warps slightly from the self disgust but she swallows her tears before one would dare to depart from her lashes. That old bastard haunts her too much to give him anymore, even in death.
Facing her frights, she gets back on her feet with some difficulty, teetering over from loosing balance. Resuming her standing, she limps over and retrieves the gun with the past as dark as hers. Scriptures glowing orange at the side of the barrel to her touch.
"Who's sick joke is this?" She barks in her thoughts, strangling the gun that plagues her dreams. "That fucking goat!" The flustering soul's eye reopens and her anger is ripped from her face by a sudden stroke of logic. Attempting to put together part of a thousand piece puzzle with the mere few she had in her mind. "B-but he would have sold it all if he knew what was in there!"
"SHIT!" She hisses aloud out of hopeless confusion. This is no coincidence, she knows that. She has barely known of the new worlds and already there is someone, or something, torturing her silently with every step.
The life force left in Genevieve's barely ticking core drops the thought. Bringing a more current one into play in her actions.
For what if the deal was done, the less vulnerable woman thought, what would she mean to him? What if she angered him became on the receiving end of that blade?
She ponders on this for a great amount of time as she ran her dirtied palms over the scriptures along the shotgun's barrel, limping to the scythe barer and plopping herself in front of the mask. If the deal was done and he had no more use for her after she gives up the amulet set about her chest. Would he be rid of her and never utter a word to her again. Would they part in good spirits and sorrows like losing an old friend. Not possible, she thought, they don't care for each other enough to have such memorable moments.
What if the deal was done and she is no longer of any use? Would he kill her?
Genevieve tried to tune out such a possible thought as she began to clench the barrel with much more stress. But the theory is so loud, so possible given that Death, the destroyer of life on Earth, could simply kill off one more without a second thought. She stared intently at the mask leaning on it's side as his head leans on his forearm. Death's eyes remaining dormant with discomfort creasing his brows as his psyche yearns for his pillow of soft skin and flesh.
As unsure as she is about the subject, she knew one thing was certain.
Genevieve has a gun. And her greatest worry is before her. Asleep. Vulnerable. Blissfully ignorant to the girls thought and actions at hand.
The nozzle of the gun raises between two dormant amber spheres with the rusting metal barely shy of grazing the pale rider's barren nose. The girl begins to perspire enough to lubricate her shaking forefinger on the trigger, making it slippery and more difficult to hold. Recalling all the harsh words he spat at her. Being pushed into the front lines and dangled in front of monsters like a little chew toy to a pack of wolves. Only to pull her back at the final second before the creatures snapped their mighty teeth on her delicate bones. Recalling the Eternal Throne, the tearing of olden flesh and fracturing bones that make themselves known again and again that makes her finger tremble and ache to pull the trigger.
Her arching eye relaxes and fades to her regular softening one. Tears shape under her quivering pupil. Genevieve cannot just run, she can barely stand from the haziness and pain. Even if she were healthy, there's no where to go or hide, she would run aimlessly for miles through the desert. It would have been an absolutely hopeless effort. The forefinger slightly recedes form the slick metal. At the verge of changing it's decision to kill for it's first time.
Then in an instant, a loud caw along with long talons crash into Genevieve's chest. She and the gun fall backward but the trigger is pulled. Unleashing blast loud enough to tremor the desert ash for miles. The scattergun shoots at the large eastern metal guardian's face. A bright and fiery explosion of shrapnel and soot sprouts the ancient sculpture. Rubble crashes down by the tons from the balloons of pulverized ancient rock. Exploding to smaller debris to the ground not far from the now standing and highly alarmed Grim Reaper.
"What in damnation was that!?" He thunders at the girl shoving off his pet crow. She says nothing as she holds the steaming red hot gun in her lap as Dust retreats to the skies once again. Shame washes over her, her forefinger finally leaves the slippery trigger. She lowers her head with face blank of emotion. Death rips the killing machine from the being's lifeless hands and she puts no fight to have it back.
"You did that, did you not?" The horseman interrogates gravely, the human girl retorts in silence and shame. His impatience quadruples."You will be wise to answer me!"
His shouting does nothing to pull her from her state. Doing nothing but stare at the ground, numb to her pain and suffering as well as anything the eldest Nephilim could deal out himself. Before he could call out again, a recalled servant's voice interferes.
"I fear that I may have come at a bad time?" Death turns to the well known, level headed voice that belongs to none other than the Chancellor. The regal corpse rises from a serpent hole in the ground.
Calming down slightly, the horseman answers spitefully, "I guess in a case considering such artwork has been destroyed to shambles. As well as your King and your subjects."
"It is of no trouble, horseman. My King has returned from more extensive tortures." The deathly servant grins, "As for the guard, more and more die every day. It will not be long until those positions are filled. But let us move on to more important business. What have you learned from the lord of Bones?"
"I suppose he lives up to his name, if not his bargains." Death states with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
"The Dead King has granted you passage to the City of the Dead."
"Who must I seek in the City of The Dead?" Death questions forwardly, sparking a grave chuckle from under the Chancellor's hood. He slowly wags a long and bony finger playfully in the mask's direction.
"There is no fun in simply telling you."
"Answer my question, scarecrow!" The masked Nephilim forces. It does nothing to intimidate, only entertaining the ghoul further. "What will I find in the City of The Dead, besides more corpses."
"Something more precious than sinew and bone. Souls, Rider. From every kingdom under a dying a sun. Including the girl's kingdom of Eden." Noticing that he had captured the girl's attention from the corner of his dark eyes. He tells more of what he knows. "In the city, their past lives are cleansed, that they may pass through the well and be reborn. Many souls do survive this purification. Some are driven mad. And a few even manage to escape their bonds. Which is how I come across the subject of your small muse. My king may not know of her origins, but I hold some information you may deem. . . worthy."
"Then I intend you speak not in riddles and be forward with what you know. Before I force open your mouth to speak much like I've done to your beloved King." The Chancellor recedes his neck with a small and snooty huff. Shrouding his worry to suffer a similar fate as the rest on board. So he complies.
"The girl is neither of the living or the dead." Death raises a brow as Genevieve's face shifts upwards from blank to a wide eyed, confused state. "Having been plucked from a pool of billions at just the right moment. At the point of being fully cleansed of the impurities of sin done unto her being as well as achieving her mind to remain perfectly intact. A near impossible task, but can be done. But only by one with great, expendable power." The Chancellor turns his brittle head to the human girl and his voice shifts as well, turning more conniving, "It seems that this worthless child of man has a guardian angel so to speak. And a powerful one at that. More powerful than you pale rider."
"What do you know of the Amulet? Why has the Lord of Bones sought for it?"
"That is an answer to seek elsewhere, Death." He shakes his head underneath his large cult-like shroud. "Though heed my words, it is said that the Sun Amulet is bound to it's selected entirely, if she falls to a more gravely state, the power bound in it will cease to exist." The Chancellor warns with an emaciated finger pointed to the amulet about it's wearer. "I only say what I know to assure that you tread carefully, outcast. My Lord may seek your power again."
Genevieve glares for a moment. She breaks her silence as she spits to the to the ghoul that gave the order to drop her from the balcony.
"Like all of Creation, you will return to our domain, and we will remember you." The Chancellor's words fail to linger to their reciever as a serpent hole opens underneath the ghostly servant and he descends. Leaving as quickly as he came.
As the girl wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, she hears Death sigh but cannot bear to look at him. Her eye is only brought to him when she hears the demonic whinny from Despair.
"Get on the horse." The rider orders calmly and holds out his hand, his order emotionless of any asking or plea. It doesn't matter if it's an order or a plead. She complies takes the gauntlet in her hand and she boosts onto the black metal saddle. Despair begins to gallop, his hooves kicking up ash and green smoke in it's trail.
A few minutes into the ride, Genevieve begins to speak. "Death, I'm so sorry. About the gun I was-"
"I know."
"Huh?"
"I know you tried to kill me. But I cannot simply kill you for it. Not with the new information we've acquired. So I'm sending you away. So that I can focus on redeeming my brother and keep you out of trouble. You cannot be trusted with your life as well as mine."
". . . I understand." She agrees, looking down in sorrow. Only Despair's trots through the powder and Dust's periodic caws above are all that can be heard in their mutual silence. Genevieve's couldn't think of anything to say. She cannot be upset with him for loosing his trust. What she had nearly done is unforgivable that she herself cannot get over.
"'Ki ask where we're goin?" She asks shyly, only passing a look to the Nephilim rider by the corner of her good eye. His look never breaking with the horizon of ash and expiration.
"Someplace safer." Death states dryly. "But twice as damned."
The two days travel seems to be an intimidating amount for the two souls. There's no vials everywhere they looked. In crates, enemies, they are no where to be found and Genevieve is getting weaker by the hour.
The two are forced to stop as the injured one has to change her bandages for a third time. They set up camp near a cliff side. It is still gloomy in the skies, but the shadowy plains have more signs of life stretching thin with dying grass and flowers. Lifeless skeletons were still found in the ash dunes and dying meadows, but at least the yellowing forgery is a somewhat nicer change of scenery.
Genevieve sits on a patch of dead wheat grass with her aching back against one of the many towering rocks that scattered across the hills. She undresses her wound as Death takes the olden third kingdom pack off of Despair's saddle. Behind his back, he hears the girl mumble something under her breath due to weakness and loss of focus. It aggravates the horseman slightly.
"I do enjoy when you're silent, but don't mumble like you suppose that I can hear you." He orders, tossing the bag at the rock she leans on, not paying her a glance.
"I asked," She stresses slightly louder, but her voice is still hoarse and sickly, "If you would be so kind. 'Need your medical expertise." Death sighs, turns and only looks at the roll of clean bandages in the injured's scuffed hand. He kneels in front of her, taking the roll and finally dares himself looks up to her face.
The last bandage had fallen, revealing the purplish-black skin underneath with light-green at the outskirts of the wound. The line from her forehead to her cheek has scabbed auburn, but the bleeding in her socket barely stops. The sack of a once beautiful navy eye is now deflated and sullied beyond the repair of human medicine. Both her iris and pupil has been stolen of it's once illustrious hue, becoming an infected yellowish blue with a gaping crimson crevice down the middle.
Death isn't disgusted, he has inflicted far worse wounds in his days. Alternatively, it makes his anger mix with the guilt forming in his features. Furrowing his brows and eyes lower in flare. He looks away to pick up the clean bandages but to also avoid a look from the unbroken eye that betrayed him, yet he feels to have done the same. Death's eyes return only when a small hand touches his cheek that points away and pulls him back to her small and strangely forgiving smile.
"I know you can't stand me right now." Genevieve realizes. Death makes as small hum in agreement. Genevieve adds gingerly, "I entirely understand that. But I don't hate you. And I don't blame you for what happened on that ship." The wrinkles around Death's eyes smoothen as he relaxes, he begins wrapping Genevieve's ruptured eye. "You saved me. So many times and you have no idea how grateful I am for all you've done. It's just that you. . . You freak me out." Her voice is getting slower.
"'I freak you out.'" He scoffs bitterly as he tightens the knot above her right cowlick. "An explanatory reason to kill."
"Look." She pushes softly, doesn't have much time to say what she must. "You don't have to forgive me. . . But I forgive you. And I'm. . ." Genevieve's voice sounds off, her life is fading and Death knows it as her hand drops like dead weight to the ash ridden tall grass.
"Mortal," He warns halfway to the verge of his anxiety, "Don't you dare go under on me."
"I'm going to make this up you . . ." Her head bobs forward as her body instantly goes numb. "Somehow." She slurs.
Her sight goes black and she barely hears Death growl a curse and feels cold hands jerk her from the ground. She then feels nothing, only to fade down as she had done before on the eve of the Apocalypse and the day of her demise.
Yeah, bit of a slower chapter, I know. But entirely necessary.
Thank you for the feedback, it's all been excruciatingly sweet :)