For those who don't know us (and since this is our first post, that's probably more than likely!), we are Dawnborn, a Scottish duo of twins: Didymus and Deethra. Our passion for storytelling has driven us to co-write, creating a fascinating yet complex process where we blend our ideas to forge something greater than we could achieve alone. We thrive on challenges, setting ourselves personal goals while stepping out of our comfort zones.
All our stories adhere to two main principles: they must be co-written and accessible to everyone, even those unfamiliar with the original universe. For this particular story, we drew inspiration from the Darksiders universe and the song "Drunk on Shadow" by H.I.M., randomly selected as part of our creative constraints.
We invite readers to judge for themselves whether we have succeeded in our challenge, and we hope you enjoy the journey!
The coolness of the night failed to seep into the humble circular house of packed earth, its woven thatched roof providing shelter against the fierce winds of Nimrach. The wooden and clay walls, sturdy yet simple, shielded the glowing hearth, while a small opening at the top of the roof allowed a thin trail of smoke to escape. Inside, the air was thick, stifling the throat, laden with the scent of burning wood and medicinal herbs smoldering to purify the space. Animal skins covered the floor, and everyday objects hung from the beams: wicker baskets, tools, and amulets made of polished stones and feathers.
At the center of the room, a young woman, drenched in sweat, groaned softly, her fingers tightly gripping the edge of a thick cloth wrapped around her wrist. Her face bore the strain of effort, while sweat glued her hair to her forehead. Two older women surrounded her, their calloused hands offering comfort and support, whispering words of encouragement.
Aisling, crouched between the young woman's thighs, brushed aside a lock of her chestnut hair from her eyes. She wore a simple linen tunic, slightly wrinkled and stained from the work, but her face remained calm, focused. Her green eyes shone with a gentle determination, reflecting the flickering candlelight that faintly illuminated the room.
"Breathe, slowly, you're doing wonderfully, Jenna," she said softly, her voice a soothing balm. She placed a reassuring hand on the young woman's knee and discreetly gestured to the other women. "Help her turn onto her side."
The women obeyed, murmuring encouragements. Aisling spoke calmly, her words tinged with the firm tenderness that was her own. "This will help, your hips will be freer, you'll be able to follow the contractions better. You're almost there."
The young mother nodded weakly, her lips trembling from the effort. She attempted a smile in response to Aisling's, but the tension in the room tightened, like a silent shadow. Births here were always a delicate moment. Every child born carried the fragile hope of their species, but also the fear that something might be missing — a soul. Many babies were born without that awakened gaze, that spark that once animated all of humanity. Aisling felt that fear floating like a heavy cloud above them, but she refused to be swept away by those thoughts.
Her attention returned to the young woman and the steady contractions shaking her lower belly. She guided each breath, each moan, while monitoring the rhythm of events. When she finally glimpsed the crown of the baby's head, a quiet sigh of encouragement passed through her lips.
"The head is there, you're almost at the end! One last push."
The mother, despite her exhaustion, gathered what strength she had left and, in a final effort, pushed once more, her body straining under the monumental task. And then, in a suspended moment, the baby finally slipped into Aisling's hands.
The child was there. Fragile and small, covered in amniotic fluid, still attached to the mother by the cord of life. Aisling carefully took the newborn, wrapping them in a clean cloth, while observing the first reaction of the mother, then the baby. A hush fell over the room. The air seemed to hold its breath.
But in that silence, an emptiness persisted.
Aisling scrutinized the baby's face. Its gaze remained detached, without the cry, without the first breath that should have filled the room with new vitality. The fear she had pushed aside roared to the surface, but she kept her features soft, her voice reassuring. She handed the newborn to the young mother with a comforting smile, though in her heart, she knew something was missing. Something that neither she nor any of the other women dared to speak aloud.
"You did very well," she said, placing the child against the mother's chest. But as the young woman cradled the baby in her arms, a shadow of sadness crossed her eyes. She had understood too.
The child, as adorable and fragile as it was, had no soul.
Aisling averted her eyes, her throat tight, but she knew she could not afford to show the slightest sign of weakness. This moment, she had lived through too often in her young life as a healer. The newborn's body was warm, vibrating with fragile life, but its gaze remained empty. Its eyelids fluttered, its tiny hands clenched, but the spark, that flame of life that once inhabited newborns, was simply not there. The child breathed, its heart beat, but everyone knew that breath would soon fade, like the touch of wind caressing the still surface of a lake.
The young mother held her baby close, her arms trembling with exhaustion and despair. Silent tears ran down her cheeks, tracing bright paths in the sweat still beading on her skin. Her lips whispered words of love, silent prayers, pleas to a god or a hope that would not answer. She knew, deep down, like every woman who gave birth here on Nimrach. But reality was always crueler than fear.
One of the old women standing by the bed closed her eyes and lowered her head. Her hands, rough and marked by age, trembled slightly as she crossed herself, a prayer repeated for every lost child. The other woman, younger but marked by the same despair, placed a comforting hand on the mother's shoulder, trying to stifle her own sobs. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. There was nothing to say, nothing that could mend what was missing.
Pain wove itself into the air, mingling with the flickering flames of the candles, embedding itself in the walls of the house. It was an ancient pain, a pain the three generations of women on Nimrach knew too well. This affliction, this strange malady that struck newborns, deprived them of that luminous soul, condemning their lives to fade before they truly began. Since the Apocalypse, since humanity had fled Earth, this curse plagued them, and Nimrach, so far from their former home, seemed unable to offer them lasting salvation.
But in this moment of devastation, the young mother was not thinking of humanity's history or the curse. All that mattered to her was her child. Her baby, whom she held close to her heart, desperately hoping that maybe, this time, it would be different. But deep down, she knew that the child would eventually stop breathing, that its short existence would unravel, disappearing like a dream.
Aisling, her hands still stained with the fluids of birth, remained silent. She felt this pain as deeply as the others, but she could not show it. The words of comfort, she had said them all before, but they rang hollow each time. No words could erase the suffering of this young mother, no words could fill the emptiness in the child's eyes.
She finished expelling the placenta, checking for any tears or bleeding that might require her care. Then she placed on a table the herbs and ointments the young mother would need to recover from the birth. She could do no more. She stood up slowly, wiping her hands with a cloth, and let out a quiet sigh. With a simple nod, she indicated to one of the elders to stay with the mother. The old woman nodded back, her face grave, marked by the experience of too many soulless children. She, too, knew the stories of the old days, of children who were always born with souls anchored in their being, but she herself had never seen those times with her own eyes.
Without another word, Aisling slipped out quietly. She grabbed her woolen cloak hanging near the door, pulling it around her shoulders to protect against the freezing wind and spray swirling outside. As she left, she hastily closed the door behind her, leaving inside the young mother's suffering.
Outside, under the heavy, dark sky, several men waited, gathered around a dying fire. The child's father, his face etched with hope, stood as he saw Aisling. His eyes searched for answers in her expression. The older men, those who had seen these scenes too often, exchanged glances heavy with anxiety. They knew what awaited them, but they still hoped, against all reason.
Aisling approached the father gently, her gaze kind but grave. She placed a compassionate hand on his shoulder, offering that silent comfort that words could not always give. He understood, even before she spoke. His face fell, but he said nothing.
"You must be brave," Aisling murmured, her voice soft, almost a breath in the wind. "She'll need you. Your love, your presence. The child will live a little longer, maybe a few days, maybe a few hours. But he'll need both of you, for the time he has left."
The father closed his eyes, clenching his jaw to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. He nodded slowly, trying to cling to the only thing he had left: time, however short it might be.
Aisling withdrew her hand, leaving him to his grief, and turned away. She knew she could do no more. The cold wind slapped her as she walked away, but she paid it no mind.
She walked through the village, her steps guided by the flickering torches planted along the path. They cast trembling shadows on the ground, as if the world itself shivered under the onslaught of the wind. Weak fires burned inside the houses, warming the families huddled against the biting cold of the night. The howling wind kept whistling in her ears, accompanying each step with a symphony of suffering and rage. It swirled around her, occasionally lifting the edges of her cloak, hitting her with icy gusts that stung her skin.
Beyond the cries of the wind, she heard the waves crashing violently against the rocky cliffs that surrounded their small island of Navika. Their crash echoed in the darkness, a wild echo wrapping around the coasts, relentlessly battering the steep shores.
Aisling pressed her lips together, holding back the bitterness that threatened to overwhelm her. She couldn't allow herself to be consumed by despair, not yet. There was still so much to do, so much to hope for, even though that light was fading day by day.
She walked alone through the deserted streets of the village, seeing no living soul. No one ventured out at this late hour, and Aisling almost welcomed the solitude. For now, she preferred to be alone.
After walking down a wind-swept path, she finally saw the lights of the tree-temple towering before her, immense and majestic, a sacred silhouette in the darkness of the night. The tree rose on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the village and the surroundings like a silent giant. Its gnarled roots stretched deep beneath the earth, breaking through the rock all the way to the ocean's foam below. The trunk, as wide as all the houses combined, seemed to breathe gently with the rhythm of the seasons and the wind. Its thick bark bore inscriptions and symbols carved by the previous guardians.
The branches spread like the arms of a benevolent protector, covering the island with their sheltering shadows. Fireflies of light reflected in the canopy, filtering through the dense leaves, seemingly offering a glimmer of comfort in this tumultuous night. The temple itself was a modest but harmonious construction, carved into the very heart of the trunk, nestled within the tree.
Aisling paused for a moment at the entrance, her hand resting on the rough bark. The wind still howled behind her, but here, it felt softer, as if this place offered protection from the fury of nature. She let out a sigh, raising her eyes to the colossal branches that disappeared into the black sky, almost invisible in the night.
Then she entered the temple, carefully closing the heavy wooden doors behind her. The creaking of the hinges was swallowed by the peaceful silence inside, and the cacophony of the wind and waves almost instantly vanished, replaced by a soothing calm. A marvel of natural architecture, the temple was made up of a series of circular rooms of various sizes and heights, all carved from the very wood of the tree. From the immense central hall radiated passages leading to smaller, more intimate chambers.
In this main room, a large circular hearth held a comforting fire. The flames danced with a tranquil liveliness, casting golden glows and shifting shadows on the carved walls, the "story walls." Adorned with engraved scenes, they told the story of humanity, from the days before the Fall to the Apocalypse, from the flight to Nimrach to the first days within its shelter. The carved wood, worn after a century of existence, seemed to almost whisper under the firelight, endlessly recounting the tales of ancient days.
Aisling shed her cloak and healer's satchel, placing them gently near the entrance. As she straightened up, she heard light footsteps behind her, coming from the stairs leading to the kitchens.
Ren appeared in the dim light, carrying a tray in his wrinkled yet still nimble hands, bringing two steaming bowls and a terracotta teapot. It had become their ritual: every time Aisling watched over a birth or treated a sick person late into the night, Ren would always be waiting with hot tea. He set the tray on a small low table near the fire, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing with mischief, a playful smile on his lips.
"Well? Boy or girl? We ancestors take these bets very seriously!" He cast a complicit, amused glance, as if hoping to lighten the mood.
Aisling gave a faint smile but did not answer. Ren, ever perceptive, immediately sensed the silence and his gaze softened. He didn't need words to understand what it meant. He sighed with compassion, lowering his eyes slightly before murmuring with tender resignation.
"It's with the Creator now…"
Aisling slowly nodded, but a biting sadness was visible in her green eyes, which shimmered with a troubled glow in the firelight. She exhaled heavily, shaken by the bitterness that, despite her efforts, continued to grow within her.
"What's the point, Ren?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "When we know He doesn't care… or He's not even there."
Ren remained silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the softly crackling flames. His pale, parchment-like skin contrasted with the shadows dancing around him. He had explained to Aisling, many years ago, that on Earth, his ancestors came from a place called Japan, which explained why they didn't look alike. She, with her brown skin, curly chestnut hair, and piercing green eyes; and he, with his fair complexion, almond-shaped eyes, and black hair that had long since turned white. The notion of ethnicity had never really made sense here on Nimrach. In this world, differences in appearance were nothing compared to the trials they all shared.
After a while, Ren softly resumed.
"Sometimes, it's not about whether He's there or not. It's about believing that, even in the silence... something remains, somewhere."
Aisling stared into the flames, her mind tormented by thoughts she struggled to quell. After a long silence, she murmured in a hoarse voice, "Believing is no longer enough."
Ren looked at her with tenderness, his wrinkled hands resting quietly on his knees. He took a deep breath before responding, his voice calm, as if beginning a lesson he had taught hundreds of times before.
"Over a century ago—"
"Over a century ago, our people thrived on Earth…" she gestured toward a section of the story walls. The carving depicted majestic towers reaching toward the sky, relics of a long-fallen city. She continued, as if reciting a tale learned in childhood, "And then one day, humanity discovered it wasn't alone in the universe. That there were angels, demons, thousands of worlds... and a war it knew nothing about. That an ancient truce had been broken, and humans were thrown into a conflict they hadn't asked for, for which they were unprepared."
Her voice cracked slightly, but she continued, almost in anger.
"And the rest of the universe did nothing. They left us in our ignorance until it was too late, as if our extinction was just a necessary evil," she stopped, her throat tight with indignation.
Ren remained silent, his dark eyes filled with deep compassion. She needed this moment, to let out the despair she hid beneath her soothing smile, beneath her healer's hands. He waited patiently for her to finish, his fingers gently gripping the armrest of the bench where he sat.
"You also know that humanity wasn't left alone."
He stood and slowly approached the wall, pointing to another carved scene, where an immense tree, with intertwined roots and branches, sheltered a group of humans. Beside it stood a massive figure, a giant armed with a hammer and a hooded human, watching over them. And nearby, a woman, her hair seemingly made of living flames, struck an imposing stance, like a guardian.
"The Maker and the Outlaw," Ren recalled with a softness laced with reverence. "They took us under their wings when all seemed lost, preserving our race in the smoking ruins of our world. Until..." He paused, his eyes lifting to the figure of the woman with flaming hair. "the Protector took it upon herself to lead us to safety. One of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse that was supposed to be our undoing was, in fact, our salvation. She's the one who led us to Nimrach. For decades, she watched over us. If we are still here today, it's thanks to her."
Aisling looked away slightly. She knew this story. She had heard it a thousand times, sometimes even reciting it herself to the few children in the village. But today, those words felt heavier, laden with a bitterness she struggled to digest.
"And now, she's gone," she murmured, her voice barely audible, "They're gone. There's no one left. Just us. For all we know, we could be the last ones in the universe."
Ren placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, his gaze still filled with infinite patience.
"The Protector brought us to safety. So that we could rise again, strengthen ourselves, prepare for the day when the portal opens once more, and we return to reclaim our Kingdom. To set things right. To bring justice."
Aisling looked at him with a bitterness that made his gaze falter slightly. She shook her head, incredulous.
"Justice? With what army? Humans are dying, scattered on islands of a world that is also dying. Healthy births are rare, the fields don't yield much, forest game is hard to track, and the storms devour our coasts a little more each year."
"Yet the people are content with this life."
"Because they don't know any better! We were once a great people. Look at us now! There may be answers beyond this lost world. If no one is coming to help us, then we must help ourselves!"
She crossed her arms, her jaw clenched, then continued, her voice lower but just as intense.
"We're no longer progressing, Ren. We're stagnating. Our vitality, our culture, everything we were, we are... is fading. How can you say we're prepared for the future, when all we do is survive?"
A heavy silence fell over the room. Ren watched Aisling with a soft sadness, aware of the weight she bore on her slender shoulders. He moved closer to her gently, taking her hands in his, holding them with a tenderness that never wavered.
"We're still very much alive, Aisling," he murmured with a gentle smile. "Maybe all of this seems dark to you now, but one day, when you're ready to take your place as Keeper of the Memories, you'll understand."
He kissed her forehead tenderly. "It's late, and the tea is cold. You should get some rest."
Aisling didn't reply, her mind still clouded with tumultuous thoughts. She simply nodded, her hands slowly slipping from Ren's. Without a word, she turned and made her way to the spiral staircase that climbed into the upper levels of the temple's trunk. Her feet brushed against the smooth wooden steps, each of her steps faintly echoing in the sacred silence of the place.
She reached one of the small circular rooms, little more than an alcove, but she had always found a certain comfort in this confined space. A simple bed, covered with hides and woven fabrics, awaited her. Aisling collapsed onto it with an overwhelming weariness, her body heavy from the day, but even more so from the turmoil gripping her soul.
Lying on her back, she stared at the curved ceiling, her thoughts swirling like the howling winds outside. She turned over several times, desperately seeking sleep, but each time her eyelids closed, images of the soulless child returned, followed by the echoes of her own doubts.
Eventually, she curled up beneath the covers, trying to ignore the growing darkness pressing on her heart. But even in the protective warmth of her bed, the weight of the world rested heavily on her shoulders.
The night would be long... if the one in her mind ever ended.