Darksiders - One More Night
Title: One More Night
Fandom: Darksiders
Characters/pairings: War, Ulthane (War/Ulthane hinted)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ulthane makes a request before his death, and War keeps his word.
Warnings: Post-game, though mostly spoiler-free.
Notes: Sometime just after beating the Greiver:
Dude, if they lived in the modern world, Ulthane would be that guy that brews his own beer and keeps talking War into coming over and trying his newest brew. And then War wakes up the next day on the other side of town with a stripper, a hangover, and a black eye, because Ulthane decided sometime around the second keg that War needed some loosening up and forcibly dragged him down town. And War keeps showing up at Ulthane's, anyway, because this way, he's at least getting laid semi-regularly.
And that discussion became this. Somehow. Idefk anymore.
Table of Contents
o o o
He knew himself to be large. Ulthane was larger, a massive behemoth that made even Samael seem small.
He knew himself to be strong. Ulthane was stronger; even after the return of his full power, he would only be able to defeat Ulthane in pure strength as a True Horseman.
He knew himself to be ancient, hardened to the wiles of the world. Ulthane was older, and had hinted more than once to witnessing the birth of the Horsemen personally.
He thought he knew himself to not be a fool. Until he went to claim Ulthane's life.
"One night, Horseman," Ulthane had requested. "I set events into motion what broke yer chains. Least you could give me is one night o' yer time." And War, for some reason, had agreed. One night, sunset to sunrise, and at dawn, Ulthane's life was forfeit.
War half-expected a trap when he entered Ulthane's home. What he got were sprites, and ale. Forge sprites, hearth sprites, wood sprites, others barely glimpsed; Ulthane's loyal servants. And a great, foaming tankard of ale that brought far too poetic of description to mind.
They talked. Well, Ulthane talked, War listened and met the Old One glass for glass, not fearing any poison or spell in the brew. Ulthane spun a great tapestry of woven dialogue; old stories and new legends, ancient battles and on-going celebrations, the virtues of an eager sprite and the siren song of a hammer on hot metal. Time seemed non-existent while Ulthane spoke, the rough timbre of his voice drawing a listener in, weaving a web even Silitha would have envied. On and on, through hours or centuries, and perhaps the ale was bespelled, for War somehow was convinced to thread the tapestry with a few strands of his own.
Near midnight (had it really been only a few hours?) Ulthane rose and beckoned. War followed him out into the night, through doors in reality and to a great lodge. Fey streamed out to greet them; Ulthane warmly, War cautiously. War had not known that any of the ancient lodges still stood, or that the fey were still active in the forgotten corners of the world. His word held him, and he allowed himself to be ushered into light and music, and flowing wine.
The Master blew his clarion horn, calling the Hunt. Golden hinds were their prey, loosed in a forest that stood outside of time. Ulthane ran with the Hunt and War ran with Ulthane, no armor save their own skin, no weapons save what they had been born with. They tracked the hinds through the midnight woods, finding and losing and finding the trail. Sometimes, they ran with the fey. Sometimes, they hunted alone, the only real creatures visible in a forest that was too alive, too aware. They found a hind, tussled over the right to make the kill, and accepted the laughter of the fey when their prey escaped. The next one, they dropped as a team.
Back to the lodge, half-dressed and drunk on blood and fey magic, to celebrate the successful Hunt. Toasts were made; to War, to Ulthane, to the Hunt, to the Endwar, to Ulthane's impending death. More stories were shared, more songs were sung, and Ulthane coaxed War into the tale of the Destroyer's demise and the rise of the Horsemen. Swirling carnival, Ulthane the only steady rock in the sea of hedonism and debauchery, a counterweight to unfamiliar heat and unfamiliar thoughts.
A lover, a forge sprite, all molten heat and knife-sharp nails in his back. And though it was the sprite beneath him, urging him on with hot words and challenging eyes, it was Ulthane who coached him, who taught him, who stood by and guided him through the act. And it was Ulthane who's eyes he met at the end, who held his gaze as he spent himself with the sprite's pleased cry in his ears.
Briefly, he wished things had been different.
The dawn would be clear, beautiful. They were on the grass-thatched roof of Ulthane's home. War stood, stoic and unmoving, giving no indication of the fiercely sick headache pounding behind his eyes. Ulthane knelt in the grass, not a stitch on him, even his hair unbound. He would go to Mother Earth as he had arrived, he said, and they watched the eastern sky lighten in silence.
As the horizon grew too bright to look at, War spoke. "Why?" he asked, not looking at Ulthane.
Ulthane shrugged, grinning in the corner of War's vision. "Mebbe I jus' wanted to see what was under all o' that armor," he leered cheerfully.
War considered the possibility of truth in that statement; certainly, Ulthane had waxed rhapsodic about male sprites as well as female ones. But if there was truth, it was not all of it. "You would lie to me after such hospitality?" he asked instead.
Ulthane's expression sobered. "I call no one friend until they've drunk wit me," he said finally. "And Horseman, if anyone in this world needs someone to call 'em 'friend', it's you."
"I need no friend," War said stonily. "How can you call me such, when I am about to kill you?"
"Everyone needs at least one," Ulthane replied easily. "Everyone needs a'least one good night t'remember. Even a Horseman."
The sun lifted above the horizon, bathing them in gold. War drew his sword. "Do not expect gratitude," he said, turning to Ulthane at last.
Ulthane looked peaceful for the first time since they had met. "I don't," he said, bowing his head to expose the nape of his neck. "Yer welcome, anyway."
Again, a brief flit, gone almost before he could identify it. A wish, that they had met under better circumstances. And then it was gone, and War lifted his sword over his head.
Fandom: Darksiders
Characters/pairings: War, Ulthane (War/Ulthane hinted)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ulthane makes a request before his death, and War keeps his word.
Warnings: Post-game, though mostly spoiler-free.
Notes: Sometime just after beating the Greiver:
Dude, if they lived in the modern world, Ulthane would be that guy that brews his own beer and keeps talking War into coming over and trying his newest brew. And then War wakes up the next day on the other side of town with a stripper, a hangover, and a black eye, because Ulthane decided sometime around the second keg that War needed some loosening up and forcibly dragged him down town. And War keeps showing up at Ulthane's, anyway, because this way, he's at least getting laid semi-regularly.
And that discussion became this. Somehow. Idefk anymore.
Table of Contents
o o o
He knew himself to be large. Ulthane was larger, a massive behemoth that made even Samael seem small.
He knew himself to be strong. Ulthane was stronger; even after the return of his full power, he would only be able to defeat Ulthane in pure strength as a True Horseman.
He knew himself to be ancient, hardened to the wiles of the world. Ulthane was older, and had hinted more than once to witnessing the birth of the Horsemen personally.
He thought he knew himself to not be a fool. Until he went to claim Ulthane's life.
"One night, Horseman," Ulthane had requested. "I set events into motion what broke yer chains. Least you could give me is one night o' yer time." And War, for some reason, had agreed. One night, sunset to sunrise, and at dawn, Ulthane's life was forfeit.
War half-expected a trap when he entered Ulthane's home. What he got were sprites, and ale. Forge sprites, hearth sprites, wood sprites, others barely glimpsed; Ulthane's loyal servants. And a great, foaming tankard of ale that brought far too poetic of description to mind.
They talked. Well, Ulthane talked, War listened and met the Old One glass for glass, not fearing any poison or spell in the brew. Ulthane spun a great tapestry of woven dialogue; old stories and new legends, ancient battles and on-going celebrations, the virtues of an eager sprite and the siren song of a hammer on hot metal. Time seemed non-existent while Ulthane spoke, the rough timbre of his voice drawing a listener in, weaving a web even Silitha would have envied. On and on, through hours or centuries, and perhaps the ale was bespelled, for War somehow was convinced to thread the tapestry with a few strands of his own.
Near midnight (had it really been only a few hours?) Ulthane rose and beckoned. War followed him out into the night, through doors in reality and to a great lodge. Fey streamed out to greet them; Ulthane warmly, War cautiously. War had not known that any of the ancient lodges still stood, or that the fey were still active in the forgotten corners of the world. His word held him, and he allowed himself to be ushered into light and music, and flowing wine.
The Master blew his clarion horn, calling the Hunt. Golden hinds were their prey, loosed in a forest that stood outside of time. Ulthane ran with the Hunt and War ran with Ulthane, no armor save their own skin, no weapons save what they had been born with. They tracked the hinds through the midnight woods, finding and losing and finding the trail. Sometimes, they ran with the fey. Sometimes, they hunted alone, the only real creatures visible in a forest that was too alive, too aware. They found a hind, tussled over the right to make the kill, and accepted the laughter of the fey when their prey escaped. The next one, they dropped as a team.
Back to the lodge, half-dressed and drunk on blood and fey magic, to celebrate the successful Hunt. Toasts were made; to War, to Ulthane, to the Hunt, to the Endwar, to Ulthane's impending death. More stories were shared, more songs were sung, and Ulthane coaxed War into the tale of the Destroyer's demise and the rise of the Horsemen. Swirling carnival, Ulthane the only steady rock in the sea of hedonism and debauchery, a counterweight to unfamiliar heat and unfamiliar thoughts.
A lover, a forge sprite, all molten heat and knife-sharp nails in his back. And though it was the sprite beneath him, urging him on with hot words and challenging eyes, it was Ulthane who coached him, who taught him, who stood by and guided him through the act. And it was Ulthane who's eyes he met at the end, who held his gaze as he spent himself with the sprite's pleased cry in his ears.
Briefly, he wished things had been different.
The dawn would be clear, beautiful. They were on the grass-thatched roof of Ulthane's home. War stood, stoic and unmoving, giving no indication of the fiercely sick headache pounding behind his eyes. Ulthane knelt in the grass, not a stitch on him, even his hair unbound. He would go to Mother Earth as he had arrived, he said, and they watched the eastern sky lighten in silence.
As the horizon grew too bright to look at, War spoke. "Why?" he asked, not looking at Ulthane.
Ulthane shrugged, grinning in the corner of War's vision. "Mebbe I jus' wanted to see what was under all o' that armor," he leered cheerfully.
War considered the possibility of truth in that statement; certainly, Ulthane had waxed rhapsodic about male sprites as well as female ones. But if there was truth, it was not all of it. "You would lie to me after such hospitality?" he asked instead.
Ulthane's expression sobered. "I call no one friend until they've drunk wit me," he said finally. "And Horseman, if anyone in this world needs someone to call 'em 'friend', it's you."
"I need no friend," War said stonily. "How can you call me such, when I am about to kill you?"
"Everyone needs at least one," Ulthane replied easily. "Everyone needs a'least one good night t'remember. Even a Horseman."
The sun lifted above the horizon, bathing them in gold. War drew his sword. "Do not expect gratitude," he said, turning to Ulthane at last.
Ulthane looked peaceful for the first time since they had met. "I don't," he said, bowing his head to expose the nape of his neck. "Yer welcome, anyway."
Again, a brief flit, gone almost before he could identify it. A wish, that they had met under better circumstances. And then it was gone, and War lifted his sword over his head.