CW: Descriptions of injury and gore, gladiatorial combat, descriptions of body horror
Summary: Long ago, a child born of half blood was given away to the Masters of Hell’s Black Pit; a means to be rid of him far from anywhere muddying the parents own hands. One brutal upbringing later he carries the title of the Dreadbearer, and whispers of his heritage find their way to the ears of the two beings in all Creation that might answer even his most ancient questions…
> New OC alert 🚨🚨 AND I get to write Anathem fighting?? Ooo this one was a treat for me to write uwu
vvvv Start reading below the GIF :D vvvv
“Never ‘eard of ‘em Nephilim sellin’ off one of ‘eir own. Thought the bastards just ate the bad ones.”
“Bah! Y’ask me, the Masters got swindled! Pipsqueak’s just a half-breed.”
The gravel-voiced brute which stalked to the child’s left gave him a harsh shove forward as it barked, jostling the hood over his head enough to catch a glimpse of his own feeble feet stumbling against the dirt.
“An ‘alf-breed of an ‘alf-breed’s still gotta count for sumthin’, ya twod! Even a young’un’s got all the fire and bloodlust in ‘im to be feared.”
The chains binding his feet and wrists dug cold into his skin despite his lesser frame, and he had to fight against the iron collar around his neck to keep his head up. While he’d been brought a far ways away from the titans he was born amongst, from the sounds of the hellborns’ earlier bickering he still had quite the distance to walk before he’d arrive at his new home… if it could be called that.
“Wouldn’t be surprised if half’a million half-bastards were out there. Don’t see what makes this’un so special.”
“Think ‘e’s from one of ‘em Firstborn? I ‘ear thems the ones ya really need t’watch for.”
“Shut’chyur trap already! Only the Masters gotta worry ‘bout what it is or ain’t. If it’s strong enough to live, better learn fast how to be fierce.”
—
The roar of the day’s crowd deafened about the same as any other, hundreds of guttural bellows from just about any shape or sized brute making up Hell’s diverse population calling and howling at the show of bloodshed. The crack of skull and squelch of brainmatter oddly grounded the man as he pulled his weapon—a large warpick with a serrated edge over the length of the beak—from the bludgeoned head of his fallen opponent, heaving a relieved exhale with the most casual roll of his shoulder. The Stalker—a gigantic scaled feline of a beast with dangerous paws nearly twice the size of its own head—had given him far more trouble today than it should have, even managing to clip him along the shoulderblades to decorate his back with a new jagged gash. The offending claw even shred his shoddy tunic to hang as torn rags over his rope belt. The warmth of his blood dripping down his newly bared back stung in the arid air of the arena; the Masters of the Black Pit had designed their coliseum to be as hostile an environment as the Hells could offer, and wore their accomplishments as a badge of honour.
“ANOTHER BRUTAL SHOW BY THE DREADBEARER!” The shrill voice of the arena’s announcer declared over the cacophony, signaling for him to play to the crowd before he needed to return to the pens. He hoisted the blunt end of his weapon to rest over his shoulder and punched his free fist high above his head, pointed teeth bared to air in his roar. Despite the sloppy footwork that earned him the back injury, he was actually rather proud of his performance— only needed the one warpick to take down the three foes of today’s Beast Round. The second of a pair was still secured to his hip, unbloody. When his gruff cry ebbed out and he needed to breathe again, he returned the first pick to his belt and made for the far left, towards the pens; to his turned back the announcer began calling for the closing match. Whoever operated the thorned door of the gate from the onlook had it swung wide open for him some steps ahead of necessary, slamming it shut so soon after he’d stepped in the iron spikes nearly kissed his wound. He didn’t startle at the sound, only rolled his citrine eyes. He dared the thought that, after a lifetime in the arena without once trying to escape the Masters, they might inform their underlings to take it easy with treating him like another animal. But alas that would require the Masters seeing him as anything more than another beast to lead to slaughter, for the dark delight and glittering coin of bloodlusting crowds. He allowed himself a single tired sigh before he straightened his back, not to be seen as easy prey to the other hunters waiting in this hole.
“Caught ya nasty today, ey Half-Spine??” A crooked-tooth grin taunted him off the side, the being whose scarred face hosted it sitting slumped with elbows leaned forward in the twin crescents of its large axe. This was the only way he could look it straight in the eyes; if it were standing fully straight, it would tower over him by more than twice his height.
“Saw that, did you Old One?” He threw out over his shoulder without looking back, wishing he kept his warpick out so he’d have something to hold.
“Shouldn’t have troubled your old bones, it got lucky.”
The Old One’s mocking laugh bounced off the walls as he walked on, old-copper eyes almost trying to cauterize the cut in his back by stare alone. When he made it clear no rise would be pulled from him this time the Old One’s staring relented, but the crowded funnel of the fighters’ area meant there were a plethora of stolen glances and glares to trudge through on his way to the very back— his preferred waiting spot. There was very little he could do to hide what he was; even if any number of these monsters had never personally seen a living breathing Nephilim, his half heritage clung to him like a bad smell. Many of those considered the “old guard” in here had their own nickname for him, Half-Spine being the one preferred by the Masters’ only Maker gladiator. It wasn’t very creative, considering some others, only mocking him for his shorter height —which was hardly unique to him given that Makers always tend to dwarf races around them— and the single black devil horn piercing from his forehead. Maybe that’s what earned the old bastard some of his respect, or just by being the oldest one in here. Didn’t really matter, they all went out someday or other. While the fighters hugged the funnel by the gate to get their best shot of watching the show, or stayed close to the calling area in hopes to be the first ones out the pens when the day ended, he’d always just wait at the very back: the best seat in the house for keeping an eye on everyone. Sometimes, the day’s chosen champions were a bit too eager to taste blood, and it would start to spill in the halls farthest from cheering eyes. That would not be his end, not if he could help it. There was also the lesser known advantage of this wall being the thinnest, and right on the other side was always where the Masters’ underlings seemed especially chatty. He had to tune out any potential address to pick up what was muttered on the other side, but there seemed to be a special occasion: the Masters had a guest of honour to entertain the masses tomorrow, a certain—
“Eyes up, Dreadbaron!” The old gladiator’s voice boomed at him, somehow having snuck up close despite a Maker’s lumbering girth. He had to bite back every impulse to jump at the sudden address —actually biting his tongue in the process but waving off the pain so as to not be seen caught off guard— and met eyes with the giant, having to tilt up his head to make the distance.
“Dread bearer,” he corrected, earning a thundering laugh from the Old One.
“You're no BEAR, wee one! C’mon now, can’t be sleeping in ‘ere! S’gonna be a cull t’morrow.”
His heart plummeted at the words. Every so often, the Masters felt the need to seriously cut down the pool of fighters they could pull from, something about keeping faces fresh and blood new. Pile that on top of a special guest in attendance to impress, and it promised a veritable slaughter. He stood up slowly from his seat, seeing now that the pens had nearly emptied by the time the Maker broke him from his eavesdropping.
“Worried it’ll be your last?” He asked without challenge, returning a kindness in his own way. The Maker sneered, turning to walk off with axe over shoulder.
“If it is, better be messy! And don’t be gettin’ excited, Half-Spine; ain’t gonna be by the likes’a you.”
If that helps you sleep tonight, he thought to himself. They had an odd on-and-off camaraderie, as close as you could have when the threat of being forced to kill each other one day loomed overhead like the primed blade of a guillotine. Still, the Maker at least took much in stride and with good humour; he wondered if it was the Old One’s choice to be in here.
“Anything to know about the Masters’ guest of honour?” He asked plainly, following a step behind and to the side so both beings could keep each other in sight— a show of some respect.
“Y’ave a name?”
“The guards called them Kingslayer, I think.” He recalled the muttered name he but barely caught before the Old One had startled him.
“The Kingslayer, ye say?” There was a foreboding surprise to the Maker’s voice, as if breathing the name of a legend. Not good.
“Aye, plenty ta know bout him, none that's gonna help ye. Yer gonna want both yer picks fer this’un.”
“Are you saying he’ll be fighting in the arena himself?”
“Nay, not him. But that champion’s nothing ta scoff at. Two of ‘em came outta nowhere and took’over the old Defiler’s claim, right’out from under all those vying underlords— ‘eard nay a sound from any of ‘em folks since. Ye best mind yerself t’morrow, lad… that thing is more weapon than man.”
The Maker, usually so full of boast and flippant pride, actually sounded serious when they parted ways to their respective kennels. It did not make for a sound night’s sleep…
—
By the morning, he expected to catch sights of a veritable monster—thrashing its covered cage to devour them all whole—being hauled or escorted to the challengers’ area. When he and his fellow “champions of the Masters” were herded to the pens to find a new face already waiting inside, the half-Nephilim couldn’t be sure he wasn’t target of some joke. Sure, this wasn’t any man he’d ever seen before; even by Hell’s peculiar standards of appearance, the way this being felt to be a carefully constructed combination of many yet still with the simple semblance of a man felt a little shy of purely grotesque. Not disgusting or repulsive, just plainly unattural— utterly wrong.
Second thing to notice was just how… small it was. The half-Nephilim was by no means the most imposing fighter in the pens, in fact—discounting the odd shadowcaster, imp, or such—he tended to be the smallest one in here any given day. And this thing—this Champion of the Kingslayer’s—maybe reached him at the clavicle, maybe; hard to say for certain with how much it slouched. Everyone that came in caught a look of the Champion and just scoffed or sneered, going on their way near the funnel or the gate as per usual. Unfortunately for our Dreadbearer, however, this foe shared his preference to wait at the back wall. He stood still in the center of the room for a fair few minutes, debating what to do—what was wise to do—when he felt a forceful shove square in his now closed back.
“Out of the way, Nephyl!” Barked a Demon, nearly clipping his side with that brutal hooked warhammer it carried around in one hand. The Champion seemed to have been asleep or at least meditating before, but with the commotion it now stared at the Dreadbearer rather intensely. He forced away the slight shiver felt under the scrutiny of the four eyes unevenly distributed on its face; three which lightly glowed neon yellow on the right side— left side hosting only the one, with a golden marble of a pupil in a pool of blooded crimson. Not wanting to be perceived as looking for trouble, he faked a stretch and made for his usual seat with caution. Thankfully the guest’s Champion perched as if a gargoyle on the bench opposite his, so at least there was some distance between the two. While the Dreadbearer was trying his best to only steal subtle glances at his would-be opponent, it was not a gesture returned; the Champion made no secret of its soul-burrowing stare, to him or anything that moved. It was especially unsettling how those three yellow eyes could move completely independently of each other and the solo left one. It wasn’t foolish nor seeking to stir trouble, merely unapologetic as it sized-up its foes. The Dreadbearer caught himself staring out the corner of his eye when it met his gaze, not even seeming to mind the looks in return. Though it certainly lingered in how it observed him, as if he was a secret tome cracked half-open. No doubt it heard what that disgruntled gladiator called him, and even less of doubt it already picked up on his cursed heritage. He learned young not to bring more attention to himself than was necessary; just about every being in Creation had a bone to pick with those ancient brutes and one look at him tended to spark a lot of strong reactions. Many could hardly even wait to be in the arena before making their grievances known, so if the Champion had a problem with him it certainly made no show of it. It looked curious, actually; perhaps it wouldn’t mind a chat to pass the time…?
“Names don’t mean much in the Pit, but you’ll hear them call me the Dreadbearer.” He tried his hand at approachable, leaning back in a way his hands would be further away from his warpicks. If it showed any signs of aggression he still bet he could at least have one out before it got too close. He received a long, flat look from its two largest eyes, so long in silence he began to wonder if it even understood him.
“Picked that yourself?” Finally it spoke in a low crackle of a voice, tusked jaw-mask barely lowering with the stifled movement of its mouth. If it was giving him a tone it had spoken too quietly for it to be heard, and before he’d settled on how to answer, it chose to move on.
“…Anathem.”
“Pardon?”
“My name. Anathem.”
The Dreadbearer felt a bit stunned; not once had his introductions ever been met before! Not without being cursed or cussed out, at least. The Champion—Anathem—hummed once at his wide eyes, as if somehow he learned a great deal from the short exchange alone. He wasn’t giving the impression of being all that interested in continuing a conversation, nor did he look particularly disinterested; the half-Nephilim clung to this like the high rung of a very tall ladder.
“Are you uh… new to the Black Pit—”
“I tire of your tongue, wretch!” The same Demon that shoved him shouted hoarsely from nearer the entrance, its glare travelling the distance to land squarely on the young man. Fighters of its ilk were always in a foul mood, but this particular one especially seemed to have it out for him; now it looked like it finally had enough. The Dreadbearer moved his hands to his hips, ready to call on his weapons the moment the demon made a wrong move as it stalked over. Made sense there’d be conflict before the fights even began, tensions were always highest the day of a cull. But to his surprise, the man sitting with him stood from his perch and stepped between him and the hellspawn brute. Now with a good view of Anathem’s back, the Dreadbearer’s eyes stuck to the iron chain-anchors firmly embedded in the Champion’s shoulderblades; the way the spine links that trailed from those anchors to connect at the hefty shackle on either wrist rattled as they were disturbed like the warnings of a rattlesnake. Those odd chains… they looked to be the ghosts of bones, how did he not notice them before?
“Shove off, pissant!” The Demon had no intention of stopping its approach, readying to backhand the smallfry with its warhammer. Despite how the twin trails would phase through each other and anything else solid in their way save for his back, one length of chain seemed to become physical as Anathem jerked up his wrist to grab it in a loose loop. As the dangerous end of the warhammer came just shy of shattering the Champion’s ribs, he dove forward of the blow and pivoted to jump off the large striking forearm, the leap arching him up and over the brute as if it had all been choreographed. The chains—previously just short of dragging in the dirt—now extended seamlessly after him as if their tangle around the warhammer’s head was a fixed point in the Universe, only ceasing to lengthen when Anathem’s feet met soil and threw his entire bodyweight in with the momentum. The Dreadbearer and the Demon offender barely had the moment to watch the warhammer continue its dreadful swing in the direction of the wielder’s own head, a gruesome crack punctuating the pens’ otherwise silence as if a firecracker at a funeral. The body rocked from the power behind the swing, falling backwards on its heels for the concave bowl of its once rage-filled head to spill its contents, muddying the dirt.
“Too loud,” Anathem mumbled into his shoulder while dusting himself off, the chains reeling themselves back to their resting length as if pulled by an invisible winch. The other gladiators were about even-split between staring and going back to their own business, but only the half-Nephilim felt Anathem’s attention, all three right eyes firmly locked on him in a sideways glance.
“I’ll be seeing you last, Dreadbearer.”
And with that he casually made for the inside exit of the pens, the fighters standing nearest that guarded door able to attest how easily he was let out and escorted elsewhere with only a light-knuckled knock. The Dreadbearer couldn’t help his jaw from lightly hanging open as his mind very slowly understood he’d been addressed. In the sea of turned faces he found the eyes of the Maker, and both shared a knowing but indiscernible expression.
—
One by one, each fighter was called upon to face the Kingslayer’s Champion. The first few were quite boisterous and rowdy in their exit, as the beginner matchups always were. It was eerie how as more and more faces disappeared to the other side of the thorned gate—with not a single one succeeding to return—the jeering and boasts lessened, until only bitter growls and a sullen silence signaled their departure. It appeared he was appropriately warned; he now sat alone as the last of the Masters’ roster in the pens, the Maker having gone out just moments ago.
“Don’t go down easy, lad. Not fer no’un.” The Old One’s last advice was barely that, more of a half-assed ‘catch you later’ than anything. Now that the place was empty he could reasonably go all the way up to the gate and actually watch a match for once, but truth be told the sounds he’d been hearing—even at the farthest end of his cage—painted enough of a picture to churn his stomach. All things considered, the Maker’s round took longer than the others to conclude, but it did end eventually.
“Out you go, Half-Mutt! S’your turn.” The guard’s voice boomed at him without even stepping into the pens, treating the area and the lone man within as if condemned.
“What, no escort out the front door?” He called out to no reply, slow to rise to his feet. The worn leather soles of his tattered boots actually creaked underfoot, as if crying out in protest against every step forward. He made great effort not to think about anything, just counting the 40-odd paces to the thorned gate and making note of useless details along the way. The iron-barred door to the Arena had already been swung open; there wasn’t anyone to worry about getting loose. While this part of Hell lacked its own sun, the violent glow of the burnt sky required a minute of rapid blinks to get acclimate, and the horrors the light hid behind painful reflection off the sand were nothing short of hellish. He could smell the gore wafting while still in the pens, but out here was much worse. The bodies of each fighter he’d ever caught glimpse of in the pens lay everywhere, scattered and opened, veritably torn apart. He was so used to the roar of the audience he barely tuned in to it, but it sounded especially riled, as if any moment now they might jump into the Pit themselves and become their own entertainment. This level of enthusiasm was unheard of in his experience, any gladiator who’d earned such an uproar would surely be bathing in the glory as if a fresh downpour of rain in this most arid sandtrap… yet he saw no champion standing tall and proud, fist high above head to claim the acclamations of a lifetime. As he continued his approach of the Arena centre through yet another scarlet painted patch—so soaked it didn’t kick up any dust—his eyes fell on the body of the Maker, the handle of his dual-bladed axe still clutched in a severed hand some paces away from the rest of him. There was a slight comfort to seeing the much smaller arm and leg laid by it— at least it meant he didn’t go down easy. The Dreadbearer moved his eyes back to the mountain of a body, perhaps hoping to catch a last bold look or sneer of crooked teeth, but instead found a fresh horror.
Crawled on top of the Maker’s broad chest, a horrid mass of spindly limbs writhed and twitched like drying worms, having finished shredding through the gladiator’s flesh and bones as if he were made of papier mâché. It was hard to discern what was an arm or a leg or some new, other appendage; every joint twisted and flexed at whatever angle it needed, as much made in flesh as it suddenly sprouted into bone, adorned with sharp claws and jagged teeth shaped and placed as was needed for any swipe to be as lethal as could be. Some appendages weren’t even proper limbs; a bicep elongating into a bone sword, a stationary sawblade of far too many fangs folded along a spine far too long and curved for the body which birthed this tangled nightmare of itself. The half-Nephilim watched with wide, unblinking eyes as the limbs slowly retreated back in-between split open shoulderblades, all the while the monster’s teeth buried and tore chunks of glistening flesh in continue of its consumption. He didn’t remember the thought for his hands to brandish the warpicks, yet there they were sitting pretty and primed in his white-knuckles grip. As the flesh of Anathem’s back knit itself back together over his exposed bones—swallowing the eldritch tangle of limbs back out of sight where they rightfully belonged—he finally had the thought to regard his onlooker, the lingering fires of utter bloodlust illuminating the shadows behind stray strands of hair. As he raised his head from the behemoth’s carcass, the tusks of his jaw-mask slid free from the flesh like raw steak off the prongs of a meat fork. The Dreadbearer felt what little colour he still had to his face drain as a sickening pop and squelch resounded from Anathem’s tiny frame, a brand new arm slinking out of the gored stub of his right bicep as his body reshaped one of those horrid appendages in his back to replace the lost limb. The same gruesome process regenerated his missing leg mere seconds after, and as Anathem dragged himself to his feet like a freshly dug up ghoul he looked to absolutely tower above the taller man— yes physically, but in spirit too.
“OUR FINAL FIGHT,” that familiar announcer finally broke his attention off the monster in the form of a man, reminding him why he was here in the first place.
“THE LAST HOPE OF THE MASTERS, THE BLACK PIT’S VERY OWN DREADBEARER — VERSUS THE DAY’S REIGNING VICTOR, AND CHAMPION OF THE KINGSLAYER; ANATHEM!”
The crowd erupted in their cheers that carnage might soon begin again, but until someone made the first move the Dreadbearer had another moment to breathe and brace himself for the fight to come. When Anathem slid himself to the ground below, landing in a low crouched as if some feral animal, the half-Nephilim took a sharp step back but found no further hostile action. Rather, Anathem slowly rose and began to walk a wide circle around him, eyes of a predator firmly fixed on his opponent as to catch even the slightest twitch. The Dreadbearer swallowed his nerves and steeled his footing, determined to stand a chance. Never go down easy, not for anyone.
He stayed his spot but followed Anathem’s prowl to keep his back from being turned. He tried to relax a little, if he started shaking now he was as good as dead already. As they both drew a circle in the sand—Anathem’s a wide outer perimeter, the Dreadbearer’s the bullseye to this lateral target—he caught something change in his foe’s attention; the topmost right eye shifted from him to affix high into the crowd, likely to the booth hosting the Black Pit’s most special of guests. He followed that single gaze as subtly as he could, waiting until he was about a quarter turned to focus out of the corner of his eye.
He expected a demon, and in a way that is what he found. The man certainly wore the horns of a Hellborn, a matching set of crimson tusks affixed to the sides of a skull-like visage, completely hiding all features of his face and head under a large fur hood. A carved scowl fixed his glower down on the Arena; to Anathem, but strangely onto him as well. If only he had another moment to take in the sight of this lord, but at the bored flick of his thick wrist—a most quiet beckoning to proceed—the Dreadbearer forced his attention back to his foe barely in time to escape his soundless lunge. One second Anathem was a few good yards away, and in a blink had pounced the distance as if he’d been but a handful of feet ahead. The gladiator sharply lurched to the side and out of the way of a striking claw, his own bones chilling under the caress of those spectral chains passing through his body. He wasn’t even spared a second to recompose before he felt a sharp tug against the back of his neck, the last length of bone links becoming physical to clothesline him forward— something he felt was a dirty move. Nearly twisting his ankle to duck away from another vicious swipe, he did manage to swing up the deadly point of his left warpick, only the serrated teeth along the curve grazing the deep indigo fabric loosely worn over Anathem’s torso. The Dreadbearer wanted nothing more than to step back and reintroduce some distance between them both—maybe even afford himself the opportunity to properly assess how his opponent moved, how he fought—but having witnessed how the lengths of his chains could extend beyond natural at what seemed to be the smallest whim, his better chance to win was keeping the conflict close and confined.
It disturbed him just how intent the creature was to shred and gore him, completely fine with wagering its limbs of flesh and bone against weapons of more solid make, not even flinching when the serrated curve cut gashes on the little flesh his picks were able to catch. To Anathem’s credit he was agile beyond reproach, completely in control of each inch of himself flung around in momentum, never any angle of himself unprepared to twist and throw himself into a new direction. If it weren’t so feral, it might almost be comparable to an aggressive dance. When the Dreadbearer finally saw his chance—a stretch of chain whipping forward to try and crack across his face—he sharply bent his angle and snagged the physical bone links in the beak of his rightmost weapon, forcing Anathem to finally lose footing.
He didn’t care if it made for a short show with an anticlimactic end, the half-Nephilim had to aim for the head— this could be his only chance. As he swung down his other pick with all the might he could force into his arm, his throat rattling out his roar—his warcry—he barely made note of Anathem’s rising arms, likely an instinctive attempt to shield his face from the deathblow. The gladiator really should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy…
Mismatched feet kicked against his torso as the warpick’s descent was interrupted in a dual-wielded parry, forcing the Dreadbearer to stumble backward and stagger. He hadn’t a clue how those fangblades came to be in his opponent’s wield, but by how the dark iron manacles now bore glowing runes and connected the ghost-chains to the hollowed hilts, it was safe to assume this was just another hidden trick Anathem had to pull from. He barely had the mind to shield himself from the cruel hook that came biting down across his clavicle, losing his grip on his raised left warpick as he felt the sting of his flesh breaking open under a caustic cut. Though not very deep the wound burned as if afflicted by a minor curse, feeling to thrash against his ability to heal and slowing it down to a near crawl. He raised his hand to clutch his injury, as if whatever infection now laced in his blood could be clawed out with a few swipes of an unwashed hand. In his disorientation he failed to sidestep the blade thrown to lash his calf, the pull of the passing hook forcing him to kneel while the chain caught on his remaining weapon and pulled it from his grasp. As the blade returned to Anathem’s hand the Abomination rushed him with arms crossed, moments away now from gouging out the Dreadbearer’s trachea with a clean cleave of piercing hooks. The half-Nephilim all but saw his life flash before his eyes in the unshakable glare of his vanquisher, when all seemed to freeze at once. The bone blades pressed cold against his throat, the hooked ends lightly biting beyond the barrier of skin like a vampire’s foreplay, but all momentum to the swing had stopped dead. Confused, the Dreadbearer tore his senses from catatonic to try and find what forced this development. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Kingslayer; now stood out of his seat and towering by the front railing of the box, his left hand ever so slightly raised off the banister in a way that could easily have been missed.
“THE VICTOR IS CLEAR! WINNER BY FOE FORFEIT, THE KINGSLAYER’S CHOSEN, ANATHEM, IS CHAMPION OF THE BLACK PIT!!”
…Forfeit?
The Dreadbearer was very suddenly made to remember this fight was for an audience, one that now uproared and outraged that the final round ended so un-gruesome. The pluck of Anathem’s blades from his throat let trickle the thinnest bubble of blood, indeed having been halted at the very beginning of their puncture. The Dreadbearer watched—utterly bewildered—as his opponent pulled away from him with a stretch to his back and roll of his shoulders, a casual flick of his wrists banishing his blades back to the non-existence they spawned from. Once more the bone chains rattled as they shortened, and Anathem turned from him as casually as if they both just finished having lunch.
“Coming?” The Dreadbearer startled as Anathem tossed his rough voice over his shoulder, left crimson-and-gold eye fixed on him without any lingering malice. While nowhere near a shout, it was the loudest the half-Nephilim had heard him speak.
“Wh—what? Where?” He did not mean to stammer, but he didn’t even expect to still be alive at this point. Anathem walked the short distance to where he pulled the Dreadbearer’s chosen armaments and picked them up from the sand.
“He wants to meet you. Best not keep him waiting.” The Abomination returned the half-Nephilim his weapons with a jerk of his head towards the Masters’ booth, where the Dreadbearer caught the last few seconds of the Kingslayer’s gaze before he turned and left the box. The gladiator barely felt the weight of his warpicks back in his hands when Anathem turned to leave as well, making for the main exit out the Arena as opposed to the entrance to the pens.
His choices—if he had any, it was difficult to say for certain—were stay in his kneel where the crowd of angry Hellizens might jump down to tear him apart themselves, or follow the monster that not moments ago looked to rob him of his life. Despite the stinging of his injured calf, the Dreadbearer brought himself back to his feet and hurried after Anathem, securing his weapons to his sides.
“You… um…” He felt he should say something, this strange situation and its accompanying confusion was uncomfortable enough without the silence. But what was there to even say? “You… fought well, back there.”
Anathem stole a backwards scrutiny as he waited for the gate to open. Finding no hidden message in the taller man’s eyes, he made a sound in his exhale— a chuckle without smile.
“…Likewise.”
—
Being let out of the Arena’s main gate was special occasion enough, but to then face absolutely no resistance as he and Anathem walked right out the Black Pit’s front door?? The Dreadbearer had to stop himself from asking so many questions, not even sure he wanted the answers anyhow. He hadn’t seen the outside of the arena since he’d first been brought over, back when it had just finished construction… Centuries ago, at this point? Over half a millennium? More? There wasn’t an easy way for him to say for certain. He watched with some awe as Anathem opened a portal by simply clawing his left hand at the open air in front of them, swirls of blue magics seeping through the invisible tears his talons made in the fabric of reality.
“How did you—” He began, his words falling short as he wondered if he should even be asking. Anathem tossed a look to him, then to his own dusky limb.
“Shadowcaster.” He flexed his fingers for emphasis, not all that keen to elaborate. Of course, he should’ve recognized the dark tone and spindly claw-ended fingers… The Deadbearer made a hum in his intrigue.
“Have you mastered many of their spells then?”
“Nope.”
Anathem marked the end of his answer by stepping through the portal— the half-Nephilim followed, feeling the smallest twinge of disappointment. He found himself now in more of a damp and cold castle, definitely a change to the arid climate of the Black Pit. The architecture was nothing he’d ever seen before; grand and imposing, gothic and ornate, the smaller details of which were carved skulls and visages of shrieking masses. This was just one room of the Defiler’s palace, and it gave the impression of a massive cathedral to the worship of torment and suffering. The light fixtures hanging in high cages gave a nearly heavenly glow, likely a gift from being Heaven-born to begin with. The Dreadbearer nearly felt it a shame the dozen bodies which wore those radiant wings were all twisted beyond recognition, broken and reforged to live an eternal death. But he had fought Angels before—captured in secret and forced into the Pit—and with the trouble they always gave him he felt it easy to brush these ones away from his worry. He did wonder how they ended up in such appearances, when he realized a new being had entered the room from the other end.
The fur hood and crimson stained horns were the Dreadbearer’s first clue, the glowering skull with matching tusks the feature that sealed his recognition. He came to expect this is who Anathem mentioned was looking to meet him, and the half-Nephilim’s very first thought was how the Kingslayer seemed… slighter here, now standing the same ground as earlier’s entertainment. But it was as he met those burning eyes head-on that it hit him; some cosmic recognition, the primal familiarity of having seen a face before but not being able to place it, even if there couldn’t possibly be any way… Is this how everyone felt when they first looked at him? Was he even close?
In his gaze he felt small, smaller than the existing foot of difference between himself and this slouching titan, smaller still than the Abomination who barely reached his defined chest. The half-Nephilim half-wondered if he should kneel, but seeing Anathem not even falter as he closed the last of the distance to the side of his lord, he figured he’d just avert his eyes and lightly bow his head.
“What do they call you?” The Kingslayer carried himself with such certainty, such power; even his voice felt to command the very air to silence as he spoke, dark and gravelly. The Dreadbearer steadied a breath.
“The Masters called me Dreadbearer.” He felt some pride that his own voice answered firm, though then felt a bit sheepish as the lord rolled his eyes.
“Your name, boy,” he clarified, a sigh rattling in his throat.
“I’m asking after a name, not a title.”
“I… don’t have one…”
Anathem shot the masked man a look the Dreadbearer couldn’t quite read, seeming to help subdue his rising growl if only a little.
“Then pick one.” The annoyance was clear in his tone, a menacing flame dawning his eyes as his glare hardened. The gladiator’s every fiber begged for him to run, to escape before he acquired the wrath of a being he’d only ever heard spoken of in terror and disgust, but something told him that running away would only have his fate end worse. He racked his mind fast, painfully aware of each second that passed in tense, heavy silence.
“…Dreadgen, I guess?” He braced for a bad reaction, and had to stop his shoulders from dropping in his relief as the Kingslayer seemed to accept the answer.
“Very well, Dreadgen it is.” The Kingslayer finally flicked back his large hood and peeled the skull mask from his face, which removed the imposing horns and tusks off with it. The newly named Dreadgen was caught by some surprise to see the visage of another of his heritage— a full-blooded Nephilim. He had a strong square jawline despite his hollowed cheeks and sharp cheekbones, blazing eyes darkly sunken despite not a trace of exhaustion existing upon his form, mid-parted hair draping his pronounced trapezii in a black more profound than the feathers of an Abyssal raven. His appearance from head to toe was utterly ghoulish, but what drew Dreadgen’s eyes the most was the diagonal scar running over his crooked nose from temple to jaw… and how it could be described to faintly, faintly glow in the cold gloom.
“I am Death,” the elder Nephilim introduced himself in a manner void of any warmth.
“And there is much we need to discuss.”
—
Anathem sat high on the railing of this room’s upper walkway, one with the shadows as he silently observed the younger half-blood below. He took it everything rather well all things considered, only releasing the flurry of emotions brought about from learning the extent of the genocide when he had found privacy… a privacy he thought he still posessed. The palace of the old Defiler was a large keep, a necessity as to host his massive size when he was still alive to lumber its halls; but Anathem had closely familiarized himself with these rafters in the time since he and Death took up residence, and now there was not one room free of his prying eyes if he so desired. He counted his fortunes that Dreadgen chose this room to skulk in then, as the upper walkway allowed for Death to join him in private contemplation.
“Did he cause all this havok on his own?” The Firstborn asked with barely a lift of an eyebrow at the trashed room below, earning a hum of confirmation from Anathem.
“You’re still worse for it,” he added in a mutter, well aware Death could catch even the quietest word he breathed.
“At least he didn’t tear through any walls…”
“I much prefer an open concept to the throne room,” Death, ever unapologetic in the devastation he was capable of when lost to a moment of wrath, retorted. Anathem exhaled a sharp, single chuckle with only the vaguest hint of a smirk thinning his lips, swiftly dropped as he returned to his thoughts. But Death was not interested in staying silent.
“Your performance in the arena was most impressive,” he complimented in sincerity, large hand coming to rest palm against Anathem’s ribs, his forearm feeling the slight leaning back of weight as the Abomination trusted him to prevent his fall. Another brief hum vibrated the smaller man’s palate.
“Tasted like shit though, ‘cept that Maker. Could get used to a few more of those…”
“I’ll have the Masters send the rest of the carcass before the next dawn.” At that, Anathem let his hand travel up to rest on Death’s encircling fingers, a show of appreciation while his mind ran elsewhere.
“Remind me why we bothered again?” His growl was weak, only vaguely annoyed, as he leaned more of himself against his Reaper, feeling Death’s thumb rub circles in his back in a small gesture of comfort.
“He may only be half, but given our options I would not say we have much choice. The boy will need time and extensive training, but I would sooner place trust in my line than any other.” Death repeated the reasoning he’d given every time Anathem had asked for it, though now that they succeeded in retrieving the Universe’s little secret he felt humoured enough to add on.
“He is your son as well, you know.”
Anathem stiffened, his final words to the conversation delivered with a growl much more pronounced, guttural.
