Darksiders: Redemption and Reckoning
Disclaimer: I do not own the Darksiders or RWBY franchises, they belong to their respective owners.
(A/N: Sorry I haven't done anything good or finished anything in awhile... but at least, I'm doing it now! Anyhoo, now that the disclaimer's over: let's have some fun! Also: Happy Halloween/Samhain!)
Prologue
How would one atone for one's sins? Is it by the blood of oneself? Righteous acts? Mercy? Or the blood of others? How could one atone for the most heinous of sins that not just yourself partook in... but of your entire race? Would you be willing to atone to redeem yourself? Or allow a reckoning upon yourself?
Much is told and said of the Four Horsemen: Death, Fury, Strife, and War- the last-known survivors of the Nephilim, the cursed offspring of Angels and Demons. Many know that in exchange for power, they would be the enforcers of the Charred Council, a body of three that were meant to mediate between all across creation in the name of the Creator. Since the day they slew their kinsmen in Mankind's former home of Eden, they served the Council and acted on their behalf, on occasion acting on their own authority with just cause. As many know, their time as the Council's enforcers has come to an end. Earth lies in ruins thanks to a conspiracy enabled by the Council that all too willingly seeks the extermination of Men, seeing them as a threat to their power.
Our story begins long before the event (and between it) of the Seventh Seal being broken by War after the Death of Abaddon. Long before... back to the last days of the Nephilim horde. Not with the Horsemen before they became their role, though they do have a role. No- our tale begins with two other Nephilim.
The fires burned long into the night on the latest world brought to ruin. Cities were in smoking ruins with bodies in the streets. Camps had been set up for the victorious, barbaric horde of hybrids. Much feasting and boasting would be done as well as acts of depravity and debauchery. Songs of wicked deeds were sung along with tales of murder and massacres.
In a tent was a sort of makeshift laboratory with beakers and vials and everything else lining the walls. Corpses laid on stretchers, their eyes closed with sheets covering them... almost as if someone had remorse. A hooded figure watched over another body, this one still breathing. Its eyes were glassy and red, blood seeped out of its nose with its mouth wheezing. Sores were practically everywhere on its body. The figure towered over the last victim, its eyes watching with what one would swear was sorrow and remorse. The thing that had once been a sane and healthy male of its race looked up and around for anyone... anything other than the author of its pain. It knew what what this figure was, its kinsmen were outside, feasting and defiling the corpses of its race as trophies or worse.
Its chest heaved with every breath it took, its lungs damaged beyond repair by any normal means and its heart struggling to pump blood into diseased organs that were now bleeding out. The hooded figure looked at the entrance to the tent, seeing that the flap was closed and sighed. The last member of the world's native race looked at the figure with fear. The figure, in response, grabbed its left arm and knelt down to its eye level, holding its hand as it died. "Your race fought well," The figure softly said in a somewhat raspy voice... as if its throat was sore. It closed its eyes and opened them again. "You have every right to hate my kind... and you should..." The figure said. "But know this: I..." He paused. The last survivor looked at him with its glassy eyes, delirious with pain and fever. Its hand was warm and nearly hot to the touch. It couldn't hear, but nevertheless... he would do this. He continued. "I had no choice but to follow my chieftain's orders. I. Had. No. Choice." It said. "I did indeed spread this plague to your world as my lord intended... I made sure that though you fought, you would be sick as another ensured that you would be hungry..." He paused, looking outside to the flap and sighed, seeing that it was still closed. It dipped its head as the thing's breath became more labored and it started to become unresponsive. He grabbed the arm tighter, but not too tight. This one wouldn't die alone... "I am sorry your kind suffered. May you all find peace in the City of the Dead." He said his blessing, however small and hypocritical it was. The thing suddenly stopped breathing, its arm became limp as its throat rattled.
The hooded figure sighed and stood. He closed the dead one's eyes with his massive bony fingers and laid the sheet over it. He pulled down his hood and rubbed his face. Another world... another race... so many dead... so many lives lost... so much pain... so much madness... and for what? A new home? Every world they conquered was razed to the ground and unfit for settlement by default... "Is there any way other than this?" he asked aloud to no one in particular. "Is there?" He asked the ceiling. Yellow eyes looked up with tired guilt. He pulled his hood over head and walked out. In the firelight, his cloak and robes were an earthy brown and looked like patchwork rags. His frame was bulky like the others of his kind. He turned his eyes away from things best unseen and went off to find someone he trusted.
Just then, he heard the sound of the flap being moved and turned his head to see a figure in the doorway as he felt the cold air rush in. His spine shivered in fear. He bowed his head in dreadful silence. "Firstborn," He said to the newcomer. The figure wore no armor or robes that covered the top half of his body. His skin color was like that of a corpse with his jet black hair over a face many recognized in the camp and so many dared not anger or disrespect. He was a Firstborn, one of the first generation of Nephilim. His name was Death, and he was one of the worst in the opinion of many.
"Pestilence," Death said, stepping forward. "I was wondering if you were done experimenting."
"I just finished overseeing the final results of the strain I let loose on this world. I am told we had little difficulty in eliminating the enemy in its entirety." Pestilence sighed. "You sound as if you're irritated by our string of victories," Death laughed a little. "Not so much as irritated as frustrated," Pestilence countered, shrugging. "I would like to see something resist my strains every once-in-a-while... and not weakened by hunger either. Famine has been complaining to me about it." Pestilence said with faux cheerfulness.
"If I may see the results?" Death asked. Pestilence nodded though he wanted to tell him to get out. "Yes, you may." He said and showed him the corpse of the last dead thing. "Interesting... very interesting." Death noted. "This one looks like it died recently... remarkable endurance for so few of them." Death commented. Pestilence found his tone very... odd. Normally, he would sound... well... somewhere between pleased and interested. He sounded a bit off. Like, his mind was elsewhere.
"Yes, it does." Pestilence softly said. "This was the last one of the inhabitants of this world, actually... to my knowledge." He said to his superior. Death looked at him, then down at the body and at the sheets that covered the others. "You cover the dead subjects. Having a bit of remorse, are we?" Death teased. Pestilence snorted with laughter. 'Why yes I am, you son of a bitch! I released yet another plague on another world to soften up our enemies for you to slay. Oh- and you all have me use the prisoners for test subjects. If I refuse to test my shit on them- you'll likely kill me and do Creator-knows-what with my corpse!'
"I wouldn't dream of it," Pestilence retorted, crossing his arms. "What do you want me to do to the bodies?" He asked. "Do what you will with them, it matters not." Death said. "Then again, I could have some more minions," Death thought aloud. It took every ounce of self control not to clench his fist and smash Death's face in. Necromancer or not. Firstborn or not... the facade was ending.
The necromancer then looked as if he wanted to say something and stepped forward, looking to the tent flap. "What do you think of Absalom? What he has had us done?" The Firstborn strangely asked. Pestilence raised a brow. This was odd coming from one of the Firstborn and (by all accounts) one of the worst Nephilim to have ever existed. This was the one that had him work on the Abominations along with other kinds of horrible things. "Absalom is Absalom. He is our leader and I would follow him from the White City to the lowest depths of Hell," Pestilence lied. Death raised a brow. "You are sure of this answer?" He asked.
Pestilence nodded, disturbed that Death would be asking this. "Why do you ask such questions, Firstborn?" He asked. "If I may ask?" Pestilence inquired. Death then spoke in a softer tone. "I am having a meeting tonight in my private tent. A few others that I trust. I was wondering if you could attend along with Famine?" Death asked. Pestilence looked at him. He sensed all manner of disturbances here. He was not like Death- not a Necromancer... but he did have some form of sense. Some ill sense of foreboding. "I will ask Famine and see if we can both attend," Pestilence lied. Whatever Death was planning, he would have no part of it. Waging this mindless, bloody crusade across Creation- that was one thing... but a mutiny?! He regretted his actions, really... but planning a mutiny was low- even for him. "I will keep my lips silent on our talk to anyone outside of myself and Famine. I swear it." Pestilence said, nodding. Death nodded. He then put a hand on Pestilence. "Things will change, brother." Pestilence had every urge to shrug the hand off, but simply nodded. "Farewell, Firstborn." Pestilence nodded with respect. Death's hand fell off.
"We meet in three hours," Death told him. Pestilence nodded, having every intention of not being there. Death left his tent. Pestilence sighed as soon as he heard the footsteps fade away amongst the noise. He turned around and looked at the corpses. There was one last thing he would do to ensure that the bodies wouldn't be defiled like their brethren. He snapped his fingers and left the tent for the last time.
The bodies would immediately decay and rot in a manner of seconds, turning into sludge. It was the least he could do for them. There was no time to bury them. He threw his hood up and walked towards another tent in the distance. He avoided looking at the scenes of debauchery that had been common for pretty much his entire life.
Upon arrival to his destination, he was greeted by the stench of rotting plants and... something else... something... fresh? He tilted his head. He walked into the tent. "Famine, are you-" He stopped as soon as he entered. His brother was hunched over something. Like his own tent, it had a makeshift laboratory of sorts. Odds and ends taken from every world his people had pillaged. They had need of the knowledge for their craft. Famine turned to him. He looked very gaunt, sickly even- as if he had never eaten a day in his life. Like his brother, he had a hooded robe, but unlike his brother, he never put it on. Famine regarded his brother with a nod. "Well?" He asked, his deep voice having a tone of interest and a bit of sorrow. Pestilence sighed and closed the flap behind him.
"The last one just died moments ago. My work on this world is pretty much finished," He told Famine. His brother's shaved head nodded in response, closing his eyes. "They would kill us if we did otherwise... or suspected." He said in a murmur. "How goes that project you've been doing?" Pestilence asked, stepping forward, his eyes then drifted towards a series of pots with mostly rotted plants... until he looked at three small pots in a corner, light filtered in from outside. Pestilence tilted his head. "Are those... fresh?" He asked, curious. Famine smiled. Rarely did he do so with genuine cheer. "My first crops that I've actually raised," Famine said, crossing his arms. He then frowned. "I'm tired of starving others. After what's happened for so long..." Famine sighed. "I don't think I could do any more of this," His yellow eyes became regretful. Pestilence looked at his brother and nodded, hugging him. They hugged for a short bit.
"I came here to tell you that Death asked me to find you. He wants us at a meeting at his private tent." Pestilence said in a whisper. Famine tilted his head. "What?" He hissed. "Why?" He asked with paranoia. "He's having a few others there as well. In the same conversation, he asked what I thought of Absalom. I told him 'Absalom is Absalom'." Famine tilted his head. "This doesn't bode well. Not at all," Famine worriedly commented.
"He expects us in three hours," Pestilence said. Famine sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm not partaking in mutiny," The sickly Nephilim said. "Neither am I going to keep using my gifts for barbaric acts... I do not enjoy doing this. Not any more," Famine stated with regret. "You and me both, brother." Pestilence reassured him. "What if we leave here and never return? Go somewhere else?" Pestilence asked. "We've spoken of it before," Famine told him. "And we could be killed for desertion-or worse!" He hissed. "What if we go to the Council?" Pestilence asked.
"Oh? And do what?" Famine skeptically asked. Famine sighed, shaking his head. They stood in silence for a little while. "What if we were to find somewhere to hide... never cause trouble for anyone again... unless they deserve it?" Famine suggested. Pestilence thought. "Where could we go?" He thought aloud. "Where could we go?" He tapped his chin and then nodded. "The universe is big enough to hide... but I've heard tales of other universes: both parallel and alternate- unlike or similar to our own."
"Where could we find these 'alternate universes'? How could we even reach them? Would they be beyond the reach of the Council or Heaven or Hell?" Famine skeptically asked. Pestilence grinned. "Funny you should ask... I think I know of one place." He shrugged. "Remember that place three worlds back? That odd-looking gate with statues of monsters defending it? The one we never told Death about?"
"Most of the people there died of the plagues and famine we spread," Famine regretfully said. Pestilence nodded. The survivors had been exterminated. If they knew of the gate, none never spoke of it or ever would. "We could try going there for starters..." Pestilence suggested. Famine thought for a moment and sighed. "Fine, let us depart." He said. "I'm sick of partaking in all of this madness." Famine muttered. He turned to the three growing plants, his first crops. "You'll raise more where we're going," Pestilence encouraged him. Famine nodded. The plants immediately rotted away. Famine sighed, grabbing a few items and some food. "Let's go. Best to leave now." Famine said. Pestilence nodded, smiling under his hood. The two departed the tent and then went to the edge of the camp.
"Going off to Eden, spread plague and famine as usual." Famine lied to the guards. "We'll soften them up for you, like always." Pestilence lied with a smile. The guards laughed. "Good hunting," They bid them farewell. The two walked away from the camp, grinning like demons. Death would hold the meeting regardless with three others. They too would leave. Awhile later, the Nephilim would be slaughtered in Eden, with no survivors. Their murderers would be four of their own. Few knew where Pestilence and Famine had gone, but the Four would assume they died at Eden, slain amongst their depraved kinsmen. As the horde's bodies rotted away and the Nephilim reported in to their next task... a gate was opened and then shut. Almost none would ever hear or know about the ones called Pestilence and Famine ever again for a time.
On the world of Remnant, far from the troubles of Heaven, Hell, and more... in a castle that sat in a barren land with crystals and dark pools that spawned nightmarish beasts, an ashen-pale woman with red eyes and black sclera watched two beings with interest for a time. Whom they were, she could only guess at. What they were, she knew even less. But, her observations would bear some fruit.