I'll do any length of writing just specify; One-shot, drabble, headcanon
I'll do any type (And ofc a mix of them as well); Fluff, Angst, Smut, Semi-Smut
Gender must be specified, if not the reader will automatically be gender neutral. If the reader is a different gender then the one assigned at birth let me know with a afab/amab, it helps my writing be less vague
I write for the horsemen, Ulthane, Samael,and Vulgrim. I have yet to finish the first game, so I'll add more as I play.
I'll write for sensitive topics such as but not limited to, self-harms, eating disorders, past raped. (There will be large warning labels on anything I deem sensitive btw.)
To Hell with it. Big humpback whale Ulthane for Mermay.
Y/n is the survivor of a shipwreck and Ulthane, a mer who's lost his entire pod, finds them clinging to a large piece of driftwood, barely staying afloat in the open ocean.
Understanding that humans are predominantly a land-dwelling species, he brings them to a deserted island within his territory, pleased to at last have some company to stave off his isolation.
Y/n is just trying to get off the island, perplexed as to why this gruff, enormous mer keeps leaving them beautiful but functionless seashells, catching fish for them to eat, and otherwise thwarting any attempts they make to swim out into deeper waters.
Can't resist throwing in a dick joke or two with this Ulthane guilty smut thing, for example, this snippet:
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“This doesn’t have to go anywhere,” you tell him carefully, “Not if you don’t want it to.”
You’re giving him an out. A mercy. He almost chokes on a disbelieving laugh but it catches in his throat and he gulps it back. It's more than he deserves. Where is the disgust he expected? And if not disgust, then disapproval at least. Not this.... boldness from you that smacks dangerously of permission.
“Just say the word," you continue in a hushed tone, gazing up at him from beneath your lashes, "Tell me it’s a bad idea, and we'll stop. I’ll leave you alone. No hard feelings.”
Pausing for just a moment, you make a show of glancing down, one brow quirked in the direction of his loins as the side of your mouth cocks up at the corner. “Well,” you drawl, gradually raising your eyes to his again, “Maybe one hard feeling.”
Very briefly, Ulthane entertains the notion of lobbing you over the side of the Tree for daring to make such a crass and obvious joke while he’s busy tumbling over his own emotional precipice.
I miss my Haven fic. The kids know Ulthane has a crush on their teacher and vice versa, and so they spend the whole of December trying to get the two of you together.
Family Tree - Chapter 1 - Imagine_Darksiders - Darksiders (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]
When it comes down to it, Ulthane is shocked – and moderately alarmed – at how ferociously humans will fight for one of theirs, even at the risk of their own lives.
Consequently, he has to wonder when he’d been upgraded from ‘The Maker’ to ‘One of ours.’
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Chapter 1/2 of this rough little drabble I've been playing around with all week. The second chap is basically written, but I want to split it in two for pacing.
Summary: Ulthane suddenly finds himself in the desperate position of protecting six humans from twisted reflections of their own species. The situation is dire and growing more desperate by the second. But after failing to save so many in the past, the maker is determined not to fail in keeping his new charges from harm.
Warnings: Children in peril, blood, undead, gore, fighting, whump.
Hey guys, again, to make up for my lack of content, I’ve done you this massive chapter for Haven lol. Hope this distracts you for a bit xx
Words: 11687
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Death, in your humble opinion, has an ugliness about it, a kind that you'd have been very happy to take no notice of for the rest of your life.
But the corpses shuffling across the museum towards you serve as a stark and jarring reminder of humanity's inescapable fate, of what awaits you all beyond the grave.
'Is this it?' you find yourself wondering, aghast.
The creatures advance, dead lips pulled back over gnashing teeth, their equally lifeless eyes filled with such hatred, they could only have belonged to something that used to be human.
Death was supposed to be a graceful, natural thing. Now, you fear you'll never go back to seeing it as such, not after tonight. Tomorrow you will wake up, sadder, but wiser, and the cold and quiet comfort of the grave will no longer hold it's solemn appeal.
There are seven of them now, pressing in unrelentingly like a pack of wild dogs, jaws dripping wet and their movements slow and calculating, searching for a weakness in their prey's defence. With the children huddled out of sight behind a reception desk, that weakness is – inevitably – you.
Fortunate then, that standing between you and the salivating undead, is a maker.
Swaying like an oversized pendulum, Ulthane shifts his weight, side to side, side to side, and yet, he never puts a foot forward. To do so would leave you and the kids open and vulnerable to an attack. You don't know the maker especially well, but you can tell he's raring to charge into the fray and meet the former-humans head on.
It suddenly hits you that he's putting aside centuries of habit just to protect you.
Your gut twists uncomfortably and you swallow down a lump of guilt, recalling how mistrustful you've been of him thus far.
The feeling doesn't have too long to settle in however, for a split second later, one of the grotesque creatures drops its jaw and lets out a sharp bark, leaping from the ground and sailing straight at Ulthane.
“LOOK OUT!” you scream, although you soon find your belated warning to be unnecessary.
With startling speed, the maker swings his hammer through the air...
'SPLAT!'
The sound of impact is so, utterly gruesome that your hands are halfway to your ears in the vain hopes of blocking it out before you realise there's little point. Steel meets flesh in an ungodly connection that sends the undead hurtling sideways, bones snapping and decaying organs flattened under the force of Ulthane's swing.
It lands with a sickening thump somewhere off in one of the museum's darker corners, dead once again, for what you sincerely hope is the last time, though it wouldn't surprise you if these creatures are more resilient than they seem.
Huffing, Ulthane pulls his hammer back into its prior position and braces.
As if the death of their pack member had been just the nudge they needed to tip them over the edge of caution, the remaining six undead suddenly surge forth in a tidal wave of rotting flesh and flying spittle, their mouths twisted open, belting out hollow screams to let you know of their outrage.
They're fast. By god, they're fast.
But Ulthane is ready.
The first to reach him is splattered on the ground beneath the head of his formidable hammer, and the ensuing reverberations nearly topple you off your feet. One of your hands flies out to grab the desk behind you and you risk a glance over the top of it, spying the children's haunted faces staring back up at you, their fingers clutching at one another's coats and jackets, drawing comfort from whatever meagre form of touch they can find.
Jesus, you hope they can't see what's happening on your side of the desk.
A guttural snarl has you flinging yourself around to face the battle again and you blanch, eyes widening to find that one of the remaining beasts has managed to jump up and latch itself to the maker's arm whilst he's distracted with fending off the two that are trying to strafe around his other side, their swollen eyes fixed on you. With a snarl, he aims a kick at the assailants on the ground and gives his arm a vigorous shake in an attempt to dislodge the one sinking its teeth into his toughened flesh.
The others skitter backwards and out of range, apparently having just enough sense of self-preservation left in their heads to recognise their dwindling chances of taking down a full-grown maker. However, the undead with its teeth in his arm won't be so easily deterred. There's an awful moment where it seems to bite down even harder, then flings its head violently back and you can actually hear the squeak and tear of skin being ripped right off the muscle.
Ulthane screws his eyes shut and hisses through his teeth. He may be resilient but even the bellicose warrior can't ignore the white-hot spike of pain that shoots up his arm.
“Ulthane!”
Suddenly, the maker's eyes fly open and an ear twitches in response to your fretful cry and for just a second, his gaze flicks down towards you, seeing the open concern radiating off your face.
It's in that worry, he finds resolve.
Eyes hardening, the muscles in his jaw tighten and he emits a growl through clenched teeth before dropping his hammer on the ground and reaching up to grab the undead's skull, enclosing it in one, colossal fist.
You watch on, half enthralled, half horror-struck as the maker gives his hand a single, effortless flex. There's a muffled 'crack!' and just like that, the undead's legs stop flailing madly in the air and its nails cease their scrabbling against Ulthane's fingers.
It's only after he lets the body fall from his grasp that he realises you were watching when he crushed its skull. The pounding in his ears grows to a painful crescendo. He's suddenly reminded of the girl he'd failed to save, the girl who'd witnessed him violently unleash his temper on an already dead demon.
She'd been so frightened....
....of him.
Ulthane whips his head down to you and his heart stills in his chest. He's searching for that same fear in your face, expects it, even.
What he doesn't expect though, when he catches and holds your watery gaze, is to be asked, “Are you alright!?”
The question goes unanswered.
A dreadful chill slugs you in the gut upon seeing Ulthane's eyes flick up and widen as his mouth falls open, perhaps to shout a warning that will undoubtedly arrive too late. He'd been so focused on you, on the gentle easing of your brow after you realised he'd regained the upper hand, that the maker hadn't even noticed one undead creeping over the lip of the desk behind you, it's blank, lidless eyes trained on the children sheltering inside.
You whirl about in time to see what has the maker so rattled and let out a choked gasp at the sight before you.
“Oh christ...Oh my god!” you breathe as the creature's face lifts into view, recognisable even behind its accelerated state of decay, “That....That's Davies!”
The urge to vomit hits you out of nowhere but you stubbornly choke it back down.
Your former colleague is bent before you over the desk, eyes the colour of sour milk and she's still wearing that awful, pink, torsade necklace you hate so much. It's the only reason you really accept that it's her. Mousy brown hair that had once been pulled into a tight bun is now hanging loose, wispy and grey with only a few, withered clumps having managed to cling valiantly to her skull. The square-rimmed glasses she'd worn not four days ago dangle from their chain and bump against her skeletal chest as she crawls forwards, pulling herself across the desk with long, spindly fingers.
Something wet and cold trickles down your cheek and you open your mouth to taste the salt of a tear as it drips from your upper lip and lands on your tongue. Davies was a harsh woman, calculating and callous. But she didn't deserve this!
Nobody deserves this.
Ulthane, in the meantime, doesn't know who this 'Davies' is, nor does he particularly care. Whoever they used to be, they assuredly aren't that human anymore.
Your ex colleague drops down inside the ring, pushing a growl from her chest whilst the kids, literally petrified to the spot, can do nothing but whimper and cling to each other even more tightly and it's their fretful sobs that rip you from your moment of shocked grieving.
You and Ulthane move at exactly the same time.
He bellows out something incomprehensible but completely unmistakable in its intent and hurls himself at the desk, throwing his upper half over the top of it and slamming a massive arm down between the children and their decaying teacher. Beside him, with a strength conjured from the wildest parts of your biology, you brace your hands on the desk and vault over it in a single bound, and as you slide across it and down onto the floor on the other side, your hand curls around the first thing it comes into contact with – a nondescript, orange mug, still with the tea sloshing around inside.
Behind you, Ulthane's arm is huddling the reluctant children further underneath his chest while a wrathfulness consumes you like the flames of a raging fire, licking down your throat and coiling in your belly as the monstrous Davies in front of you takes an audacious step closer to the kids.
Perhaps if you'd have paused to consider the many, many ways your next move could go wrong, you wouldn't have charged so recklessly towards such a perilous foe and those precious, few seconds you might have saved would've given the undead enough time to defend herself.
To leap before one looks is a seldom-recommended course of action. However, there are moments – rarer than hen's teeth, mind – where leaping first pays off.
A satisfying 'smash' echoes through the museum after you swing the mug and it shatters against that mindless skull with such vigour, the undead crumples immediately to the ground and lets out a garbled moan, dazed and vulnerable on its back, but not dead.
Not yet.
Not until you throw yourself on top of her and grab a large, jagged fragment of ceramic from the pieces that now lay scattered on the floor, grasp it in two hands, lift it high over your head and then plunge it viciously between the undead's rolling eyes.
The sharpened edges cut into your palms from the pressure of forcing your makeshift weapon through bone and muscle but you manage to hold back a cry of pain, opting instead to wince, flecks of spittle flying off your tongue as you pant raggedly, waiting for the corpse pinned beneath you to finally stop twitching and lay still.
The kids – well hidden behind Ulthane's brawny arm – can't see what has just transpired. But the maker can.
He's aware of a commotion behind him when two sets of claws start tearing at his leg, though the thick material of his trousers is sturdy enough to withstand a few more seconds of punishment, more than enough time for him to raise his brows, impressed at your unexpected grit. The sweat gathered on your forehead glistens like dew under a moonbeam. With your lips pulled back over your teeth like that and the suffering's blood spattered in a graceful arc across your clavicle, a word comes to Ulthane's mind, a word that arrives as jarringly as the insistent and sudden 'thwump' of his heart.
'Beautiful,' he thinks, though he's quick to shake that thought away the moment it materialises. To distract himself, Ulthane gives a grunt and pushes himself upright once more, mindful of the tiny humans crowded near his hands.
Suddenly, he kicks back with a leg, sending the two, ravenous undead sprawling away from him across the marble floor, each letting out identical moans of frustration. They aren't put off for long, however, and as Ulthane hoists himself around to face them and smoothly retrieves his hammer from the ground, they drop down onto all fours and gallop towards him, relying on agility to be their last, remaining ally in this fight.
They aren't the first to underestimate a maker's speed, and they surely won't be the last.
Riding on the near-constant surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, Ulthane clenches his fists tightly around the hammer and heaves it out in front of him in a wide, sweeping arc.
His lips curl up into a twisted grin when the weapon's face connects with the first creature, only to immediately slam into its partner less than a second later with enough force to launch them straight across the museum where they join their fallen brethren, all seven of whom now lay scattered upon the marble floor, crushed and mangled beyond recognition.
“N' this time, stay dead,” Ulthane spits.
Rolling a kink out of one shoulder, the maker slings his hammer into place on his back and turns about.
“Y'alright wee ones?” he calls out softly, leaning over the desks and peering in.
The children all crane their necks back to see the underside of his looming face, their own damp with tears, tears that are still rolling in never-ending torrents down their cheeks alongside several sets of sniffles. Battle-hardened as tempered steel he may be, but the sight undoubtedly presses at something in the maker's chest. As much as seeing young humans cry might distress him, Ulthane finds that he can at least take some, small speck of relief from the fact that, so far as he can tell, they don't appear to be injured.
You on the other hand....
The maker's nostrils twitch, smelling blood that isn't his own on the air.
Troubled, he tears his gaze from the children and fixes it upon their matriarch instead.
You haven't moved. The eyes of the dead woman below you stare blankly up towards the ceiling, her jaw stretched open in an eternal scream, that primal outrage forever etched onto the fabric of history. 'Fitting, for a museum,' you muse.
There's fresh blood trickling lazily into her open eyes and you find yourself watching, morbidly fascinated that they don't twitch or try to blink the liquid out. It takes another second before you realise that the blood is coming out of you, and not her. Trembling hands slowly pry themselves off the large, ceramic shard they'd only recently used to skewer the head of your former colleague, right in front of her students. You'd gripped the shard so tightly, it had cut into your palms and you curse your prior hastiness. Extracting your hands is almost a more painful procedure.
“Lass?”
Gentle, yet somehow maintaining an insurmountable strength in that low rumble, Ulthane calls your name and begins to reach down, over the desk, over the children, until his fingertips brush against your back, following the bumps of your spine.
You're worryingly slow to turn and look up at him, casting the maker a hollow gaze, eyelids drooping, lips slightly parted to allow room for slow and shuddering breaths – he surmises you're teetering on the precipice of total collapse.
Ulthane blinks away from the empty stare you're giving him to the decaying body that lays motionless beneath you. “Did, er... You did well there, lass,” he nods, his mouth a grim line, “S'not easy fer a human to kill a-”
“To kill what? Another human?!” You're on your feet so abruptly, the children all gasp and flinch at the swift motion but you're too busy shoving yourself out from underneath Ulthane's hand to notice. Gone is the fatigue shadowing your eyes. It bleeds away to make room for something else.
The giant's bushy eyebrows twitch inwards a fraction as he retracts his arm and lays it on top of the desk, letting out a sigh that sounds more like a growl. “I told you, girlie, they're not human anymore.”
“Well they sure!-” Without meaning to, you've raised your voice loud enough that even you grimace at the echo chasing after it. Preferring to avoid bringing any more creatures scurrying out of the woodwork, you click your tongue and rein yourself back in, bitterly ending with a curt, “-They sure used to be. Not that long ago, in fact.”
Remaining silent, the maker watches your eyes travel down to the undead once more.
“Friend of yours?” he asks carefully, not missing the way your breath suddenly stops coming and your chest stills as a result.
After a few too many moments where he begins to regret even asking, you completely deflate, all the frustration rushing out of you like a hiss of hot steam as you falteringly reply, “She....we were...more like colleagues. We worked together-” Here, you gesture a floppy hand at the huddling children. “-At their school.”
After a moment of thought, you promptly grab a coat hanging from the back of a nearby chair and drop it hurriedly over the body. It isn't much, you know, but at least the kids don't have to look at it anymore.
Trying not to scare the young ones shuffling nervously underneath him, Ulthane slowly raises an arm and rubs at the back of his neck, focusing intently on the blood that dribbles from between your twitching fingers.
“M'sorry,” he mumbles, “I know how hard it is to do...that.”
To his surprise, you reply with an incautious scoff, emotionless eyes staring off into the darkness. He's privately grateful for that. It means you don't see his ears droop noticeably when you murmur, “How could you possibly know?”
Ulthane's mouth falls open, a response making its way along his tongue only to come up short at the very tip and he considers, for a moment, whether it would be wise to tell you of Corruption, of the dark plague that – even now – is spreading through his homeland with no signs of stopping or being stopped, turning any makers who fought back into mindless shells of their former selves. And how then, would you react to learning that the only way to spare them from Corruption's grasp was to kill them?
Destroy the host, and you destroy the parasite.
It was such a simple prospect in theory. But the practice of it... Eideard had tried to call it 'purifying,' perhaps in a bid to make the survivors in Tri Stone feel a little better about slaying the shadows of their old friends.
There was nothing 'pure' about what happened to those makers.
And after hearing the woeful despondency in your voice and seeing your eyes grow dull and defeated, Ulthane would not try to tell you – as Eideard had once told him – that you'd done what was necessary. That it was kinder to kill, in the end, than to let the poor bastards suffer.
It was the same thing he'd tried to tell himself, after every single, devastating blow of his hammer. It never, ever got easier.
'How could he possibly know?'
How could he possibly not?
A soft hiccough interrupts Ulthane's musings and he gives his head a decisive shake to dislodge the unpleasant memories. He glances down and immediately feels his tempered heart squeeze at the sight of five younglings watching him uneasily, each of them trying to shrink in on themselves as though they could disappear from his view if only they were a little smaller.
The maker considers them a moment longer, then presses his lips together. He's not about to burden you - or the younglings – with his own tragedies, not now.
Besides, he's wasted far too much time here. The precious fluid that drives your body is slowly seeping out of the wounds on your palms, and although he himself is suffering an injury, he knows for a fact that blood is much less essential to a maker than it is to a human.
There's a decisive air to the way Ulthane stands up and puts his hands on his hips, and the suddenness of his movement seems to draw you out of the somber chasm you've fallen into. As soon as he moves, you let out a throaty groan and press your fingertips to your eyelids, trying to squeeze the tiredness out of them.
“Hey. Listen. I'm sorry, man.” You shake your head, dropping your hands and looking up at Ulthane. “I shouldn't have snapped at you, I should be thanking you.”
He would deny it later, but the maker nearly buckles under the relief that hits him when he hears your apology. Not because he thinks for a second that he deserves it, but because it means you aren't angry with him, not really, though that thought in itself strikes him as odd and he frowns gently, surprised at himself for caring so much about what you think of him. Before he can say a word in reply however, your attention is suddenly on his arm and you let out a sharp gasp, rushing forwards to the side of the desk and standing on your tiptoes, your eyes fixed on the gaping bite.
“Oh, holy shi-! Uh, moly!” you manage to catch yourself before an expletive slips out in front of the children, “Are you okay!? I – I mean, it doesn't look okay, it looks like agony!” A little bewildered by the sudden level of alarm pointed his way, Ulthane sputters out a nonsensical reply before he collects himself and blows a laid-back puff of air past his lips.
“What? Oh, this?” He gestures to his arm and sniffs, the very picture of nonchalance. “Ach, nothin' to get yer knickers in a twist over, I've had worse scrapes than this, don't you worry.”
One of the children – you think it's Kitty – sniffles and lets out a bubbling giggle that sounds more nervous than amused but you cling to it, shooting Ulthane a secretive wink and pretending to wag a disapproving finger up at him. “My knickers are none of your concern,” you scold, earning another stifled snicker much to your delight and apparently the maker's as well, if the dashing smirk on his lips is anything to go by.
It feels odd, yet not in any way that's unpleasant, to be sharing this little moment of triumph together, even if it's only small. Your smile lingers for a few more seconds before it wavers and falls, leaving you to sigh through your nose, eyebrows pressing together until a firm line appears between them. “Jokes aside,” you ask quietly, “are you sure you're all right? That's quite the wound....”
Had he been among his own people, Ulthane would have been proud to show off his new battle scar, might have even lauded it over his brother's head for a few days. In maker culture, wounds and scars are a testament to one's prowess in battle. They signify resilience, strength and are a mark of accomplishment for most warriors, showing that a battle had been fought and won. The more scars a maker had, the more life-threatening situations they'd survived and overcome.
But here, standing before you, something is different. For reasons beyond his own understanding, the way you're staring at his ravaged skin with pinched brows and a gentle frown makes him suddenly self conscious of the injury and he lifts his opposite hand to cover it, hastily jutting his chin down at your palms. “S'no worse than yours, lass,” he says, “Elanya's not gonna be happy to see what you've done to yourself.” The maker neglects to mention that he's also far from pleased about the blood drying on your fingers.
You raise a brow at him, unimpressed with how he'd so clearly deflected the attention off himself, but the weariness in your bones and your reluctance to even acknowledge the stinging pain in your hands is enough to keep your tongue from calling the maker out. Instead, you offer him a simple, acknowledging nod and reply, “Well, I'll worry about that once we've got these kids back to your tree.”
Bending down, you force away a wince as you turn your hands inwards, sparing the five children from any gruesome glimpse they might catch of your injuries. “Are you guys all good?” you ask.
“Y-yeah!” Kitty bravely squeaks back, sounding about as convincing as a seven year old can be when they're shivering like a leaf in a hurricane. The second you reach out, Archie flings himself from the group and collapses into you, his head pressing uncomfortably hard against your jaw, yet you can't quite find it in you to complain.
“It's okay,” you reassure him, painfully aware of the fact that you're lying through your teeth. Things are about as far from 'okay' as they can possibly can be.
Shaking out your stinging hands, you touch them delicately to the boy's back only to find your progress halted by an enormous shadow looming over the little group and blocking out the moon's rays filtering down from the hole in the roof. Your heart is in your throat so fast you nearly choke on it, flinging your head up in anticipation. However, your shoulders sag with relief once you realise that it isn't a threat bearing down upon you, merely one of Ulthane's hands. The maker has once again leant over the desk and placed his appendage on the ground near your feet, palm tilted towards the ceiling.
“We need to move,” he mutters urgently, and it's only when you look up at his face that you realise his pointed ears are flicking periodically up and down, listening for something your human senses can't pick up. After staring avidly across the museum and out of a window on the far side, the maker fixes you with a meaningful glance. “It'll be a lot faster if I don't have to wait for the littl'uns to keep up.”
You catch his drift at about the same time as Lucia does. The girl begins to back away from his hand but you're too swift, snatching her up and lowering her into the maker's waiting palm. You have to stifle a snort when both he and the child stiffen as soon as they come into contact with one another. Eyes wide, Lucia clings to you even after you let her go and you gently but hurriedly ease her clenched fists off your sleeves.
And then, something happens that you hadn't been expecting.
With a gentleness that's entirely contrary to the brutal strength he exhibited just minutes ago, Ulthane curls his fingers inwards until Lucia sits in the cup of his palm and once he's certain she's not about to fall off, he begins to lift her up towards his face. Upon taking a quick glance up at the maker's expression, you're surprised to find that his soft, blue eyes are just as wide and mesmerised by the tiny being in his grasp as her's are by the giant holding her.
Unbeknownst to you, a strange, alien flurry of electrical impulses are firing off in his brain as he inspects the spark of life pressing back against his guarding fingers.
And here he was thinking you weighed next to nothing. This is something else.
The pack that had once been strapped to her back – an educational tool used for storing tomes, he seems to recall – has made its way around to her front and she holds it tight to her chest as some kind of physical barrier between he and herself.
The maker is suddenly and uncomfortably aware that she must be terrified to have him staring at her like this, but it's as if he can't tear himself away. He's never been so close to someone so fragile before. Not even their youngest, Karn, had been this small when he was born. Ulthane has vivid memories of being reluctant to hold the youngster, convinced that harm would befall him if the rough-and-tumble maker wasn't drastically careful. But this human....This isn't unlike handling a figure made from the finest, most highly breakable porcelain.
He tips his head to one side and after a beat, the girl copies the action, causing his ears to flick up in curiosity. Her reaction gives him pause and he considers her for another moment, then slowly tilts his head in the opposite direction. Once again, she follows suit and her breaths start to even out, intrigue at last superseding her nerves.
Swallowing audibly, Lucia looks down over the side of the giant's palm, seeing you've turned to help Sam and Ashleigh to their feet. Then, she looks past you, into the darkness of the museum and raises a hand, scrubbing the heel of it over her damp face and sniffling, “Did...did you kill all the monsters?”
Ulthane is so busy revelling in the triumph of having the child actually speak to him that he barely registers the question being posed. He lets out an idle hum, then seems to realise he's being stared at by an apprehensive youngling and he blinks, straightening up. “Oh! Oh, aye! Aye, you'll not be havin' any more trouble from those monsters,” he tells her proudly and jabs a thumb at his chest, “Old Ulthane took care of 'em.” A thoughtful look passes over his face then and he gets an idea.
Darting his eyes secretively from side to side, the maker brings her just a little closer in and, as he'd hoped, Lucia responds in kind by lowering her bag and shifting forwards, one of her hands coming to brace on the side of his thumb and subsequently sending an unexpected jolt right through his heart. Shoving the feeling aside, Ulthane lowers his voice to whisper conspiratorially, “That's my job, you know...”
“Wha-What is?” she whispers back, all traces of tears now drying on her cheeks.
You turn back around just in time to catch the next bit of the bizarre exchange, Kitty's hand holding your fingers in a vice-like grip. It seems that the maker is completely caught up in his own game when he replies to his enraptured audience member, his gruff voice dripping with grandeur, “Why, fightin' monsters, o' course!”
Shaking your head, you chime in, “Oh god, don't tell her that, she'll never leave you alone.”
But Lucia's eyes are already sparkling as though they're filled with stars and her mouth peels open to reveal a gap-tooth grin. “You're like Heracles!” she announces and her grip on his thumb excitedly grows stronger. .
Ulthane raises one of his brows and tilts his head at the girl. “Er, Hera-... Who?”
“Heracles!”
Lucia's abrupt shift in mood is apparently enough to pique the interests of her fellow classmates who all pick up on her noticeable lack of fear, edging just a little closer to the giant.
“He was the strongest, bravest man who ever lived!” the youngster in his hand gushes as she's raised to a broad shoulder and gingerly deposited there by fingers larger than her body, “He killed monsters too!”
“Did he now...?” With a little prodding, the girl's hand is eventually persuaded to wrap itself into Ulthane's thick, blue scarf for purchase. She hardly takes a breath before she starts listing off the famous hero's, twelve tasks whilst a bewildered Ulthane raises his brows down at you inquiringly.
You merely offer him a sympathetic shrug in return, though you don't bother to hide your palpable relief. With any luck, Sam, Ashleigh, Kitty and Archie will be put at ease now that their friend has tested the waters and proved that the threat this giant poses is minimal at best.
If nothing else, at least Ulthane has managed to appeal himself to one child.
With the girl still chattering in his ear, he lowers a hand once more and lays it on the ground near your feet. Kitty is next, crushing your fingers against one another as you help her up and into the maker's palm with gentle assurances that he won't let her fall. She frowns at you and adamantly insists that she isn't scared, though her bottom lip quivers as she too is lifted carefully to Ulthane's other shoulder.
Once she's close enough, she takes the opportunity to practically leap off his hand and finds herself scrabbling for purchase on his metallic pauldron. To her dismay however, a low chuckle slips out of the giant's mouth when she gradually begins to slide down his front and he reacts by catching her shirt between his thumb and forefinger before she can fall too far. “Slow down there, little'un,” he warns, plopping her back on his shoulder and waiting until she all but buries her hands into his scarf, her face a little paler than it was before, “Wouldn't want you fallin' off from up there.”
Although his tone is almost playful, there's still an underlying hint of caution to it.
A response comes from the girl, something that sounds a lot like an indignant, “I wasn't gonna fall,” though she goes oddly quiet, squeezing her lips together when Ulthane turns his head to the side and raises an amused eyebrow in her direction.
Even from the ground, you can see Kitty's lower jaw quivering, regardless of how hard she's trying to suppress it, and you suspect that she's putting on a brave front to either impress her peers, or reassure them. Having known the girl for a while now, you're fairly confident it's the former.
After seeing that nothing bad has happened to her friends, it becomes remarkably easy to coax Ashleigh into the maker's palm where she's swiftly joined by an emboldened Sam. The pair of them are so small, they fit snugly together with their fingers entwined in one another's coats and the sight of them both sitting in just one of Ulthane's hands really drives home how unignorably big he is....And how fragile they are.
Perhaps it's this revelation, or the tears still dripping from their chins that prompts the maker to raise them up and press them securely over his thundering heart, hand tilted in a way that partially hides them from the world outside. And when tiny fingertips brush reverently over the epicentre of each, pulsating beat, he has to fight down a contented rumble that threatens to crawl out of his throat.
Finally, he lowers his remaining hand for Archie.
Despite the others going ahead of him however, the young boy digs his heels in when you try steering him towards Ulthane's waiting palm. “No!” he sobs and claws at your sleeves and though it does make a spot in your chest ache terribly, you turn a deaf ear to his pleading as you slide your hands underneath his arms and lift him onto the maker's cupped appendage.
“Sorry, kiddo, but you'll be much safer up there than you will be on the ground,” you explain, “Ulthane'll take care of you.”
It's strange. The more you say it out loud, the more you start to realise you've actually begun to trust the maker who – no more than a few hours ago – was just an unfamiliar giant who had kidnapped you and taken you back to his lair halfway up a tree trunk. Perhaps you're more exhausted than you previously thought.
Shaking off the encroaching weariness from your bones, you cast a lingering glance back at the body of your former colleague and pull yourself up onto the desk, neglecting to notice that Ulthane's hand has remained poised beside you, expectant and waiting.
Gradually, a long crevice appears between his brows and he swivels his head around to follow your progress as you scoot across the flat, polished surface before hopping down to the floor on the other side.
“Oi!”
You flinch at the abrupt exclamation and turn to see the maker's lips twisted into an unhappy frown.
“...What?”
As if it were painfully obvious, he responds by extending his arm towards you once more and giving it the tiniest of shakes, mindful of an increasingly perplexed Archie clinging on in the centre of his palm.
After a moment, it dawns on you that he means for you to join the children, and though your body all but begs for you to cave in and accept his help, you hold up your hands and take several steps backwards, shaking your head. “Oh, no, that's okay! I – I can walk!”
No sooner do the words tumble out of your mouth than the line etched in Ulthane's forehead somehow manages to grow even deeper. “Now, I know I let you walk here,” he growls sternly, “but let me tell you somethin', bonnie, yer not walkin' all the way back.”
“Ulthane, you can't carry all of us.”
Affronted by your suggestion, the maker huffs and draws himself up. “Yes I bloody well can.”
“These kids are your priority right now,” you argue, "I don't need your protection. Not like they do.”
“You're hurt!” The maker's temper flares in conjunction with your stubborn refusal to be helped.
However, you merely plant a hand on your hip and throw the other out, gesturing wildly at his arm and declaring, “Well, so are you!”
“Wh-!” The maker actually scoffs at that, jostling his shoulders hard enough that Lucia and Kitty have to grab onto his scarf with both hands to avoid slipping off.
It's their squeaks of alarm that suddenly sap the frustration out of his old bones and he immediately falls still, which in turn allows the girls a chance to right themselves. Only once he's sure they're in no great peril, Ulthane blows a heavy sigh through his nostrils and then slowly, gingerly, he crouches down and offers you his hand once again. In an instant, you're opening your mouth to protest, but find yourself rendered silent by the word murmured gently from his lips.
“Please?”
Taken aback, you falter. Never in a million years did you think a being that big could speak so tenderly, and the way his troubled, blue eyes seem to gaze into yours as though you're just as important to him as the children are to you.....Well.
Allowing a groan to blurt out of your mouth, you throw your hands up in defeat, exasperated but willing to indulge him. “Just this once,” you stress firmly, ignoring the triumphant grin that spreads behind his auburn beard.
The maker hardly waits for you to turn around before he nudges his hand into the crook behind your knees and you narrowly avoid toppling backwards into Archie. The moment you're in Ulthane's grasp, the boy presses himself firmly against your side and it becomes brazenly obvious just how nerve-racking this whole situation is for him judging by the quakes of his leg against your thigh.
And if you can feel him shaking, then you're almost certain that Ulthane can too.
But the maker, while a little disheartened that no less than three of the children are in similar states of unrest, still feels a hefty weight lift from his shoulders at the knowledge that in his hands are six, very fragile, very alive humans.
It's like a tonic. Having them held so close eases a little of his agitation and he lets out a soft exhale. Suddenly, all seems right with the world once more.
“Okay,” he hums, absentmindedly pushing the pad of his thumb into your back just to feel your fluttering heartbeat, a reassurance that you're still okay, “Let's get you all back to the tree...”
You suddenly find yourself rocked in your seat when he begins to move swiftly but steadily towards the hole in the wall you'd entered through and you throw a hand out for balance, planting it on his thick-set wrist. All at once, your fingertips are greeted by the thrum of a strong pulse and you tiredly swing your head down to peer at Ulthane's forearm, if only to distract yourself from thinking about the many, many dangers that lay in wait out in the city.
It must be quite the sight, you think. An almighty maker tromping through streets and back alleys that were never built with a man his size in mind, and accompanying him, six humans, cupped either in his hands or perched upon his sturdy shoulders. A part of you still desperately wants to believe that this is all some terrible, twisted nightmare and it's so bizarre, you'll surely have to wake up from it soon...
Won't you?
The insistent pangs of hunger tell an unfortunate truth.
Apparently, you aren't the only one experiencing that hollow ache in your gut.
“Miss?”
Twisting your neck around, you peer up at Lucia. “Yeah?”
“M'hungry...” The girl trails off as a yawn overtakes her and she pauses, rubbing a fist into one of her eyes. You throw her a sympathetic smile but before you can reply, Ulthane catches your gaze.
“There's plenty of food back at the tree,” he explains, immediately raising some interested murmurs from the children. Your eyebrows shoot up and the corner of Ulthane's mouth quirks just enough to show off one of his tusks. “What? You didn't think we'd let any of you humans starve, did you?”
“No, it's not that. It's just...” Pausing to chew absently on your lower lip, you shrug. There's a topic of concern you feel needs to be broached, though you're a little anxious to do it. In the end, you wet your lips and say carefully, “You've already done...so much for us. And we haven't even done anything for you. Now you're saying you went out and found us food....”
Ulthane must be sharper than you give him credit for because within seconds, he's picked up on the badly concealed meaning behind your words.
“For all it must look from where you're standin', I'm a maker, not a monster. N' I'm not about to turn around and ask you for something in return,” he tells you with a simple directness that leaves you just a tiny bit sheepish. Then, stepping over the wall of rubble and emerging out into the museum carpark, he lowers his voice to a far kinder rumble and adds, “M'only tryin' to help you, lass.” He doesn't say anything further, and you only just manage to bite down on your urge to reply, 'We'll see,' instead turning your face up to the skyscrapers looming overhead and pushing a noncommittal noise from the back of your throat.
Praying to whatever deity you aren't even sure exists anymore for a safe journey back to the tree, you snake one arm around Archie and draw him further into your side whilst the fingers on your other hand trace lazy shapes in the softer skin of Ulthane's wrist. And if that steadfast pulse begins jackhammering in response to your light touches, you're much too exhausted to notice.
------------
The trip back through the ruined city passes by much faster than you expected it to.
Of course, that could be down to the frequent periods of blissful darkness that descend over you every time you decide to let your eyes droop for a brief rest.
You remember bits and pieces of the journey - Sam whimpering when a growl echoes up from beneath a manhole cover, prompting Ulthane to gently bounce the boy in his enormous hand a few times and shush him. A skittering of rocks and stones raining down from the roof of a building and the maker abruptly flattening himself against a wall, his eyes trained on the dark sky overhead.
At some point, you find yourself wondering whether he would bother to be so stealthy if you and the children weren't here. It isn't difficult to imagine a being with his daunting presence storming through the streets with nary a worry for whatever crosses his path. All the sneaking around, ducking into back alleys and keeping to the shadows doesn't fit his image at all. You're thankful though, not only for the obvious breaking of his own norms, but also for the way he's constantly angling his body so that those awful, familiar shapes littered upon the ground are kept predominantly out of the kids' line of sight.
It's odd, really. The thing that keeps you from slipping too far into the realm of sleep isn't the impending doom that could potentially lay around every corner or the knowledge that you and the children could well be the last humans alive in the city. It isn't the ceaseless stinging of your wounded palms and it isn't even the fact that you'd had to kill a woman you used to work with not too long ago.
No. It's hunger that keeps you jerking awake every two minutes and not even the lulling sway of your gigantic defender's footsteps is enough send you off to sleep.
So when he turns a corner and you find yourselves staring out over a recognisable city square, you nearly fall forwards off your perch when what feels like a truckload of relief slams into you at full force. Even some of the tension dribbles out of Ulthane's rigid stance.
“Never thought I'd be so happy to see a damn tree,” you chuckle quietly, earning a grunt of accord from the maker as he makes his way around the edge of the square, still on high alert.
“Looks like Elanya's been out here doin' some pest control,” he remarks as he steps over the flattened corpse of a four-legged demon with a canine's snout and razor-sharp teeth, fresh blood dripping from its glistening chops. He'd have to remember to both thank the young maker later, and reprimand her for leaving the tree by herself. There are several demons laying dead around the square, and not a one of them looks to have been killed by the blade of Yarin's axe.
The girl on his left shoulder – Kitty, he thinks – suddenly gives his beard a hesitant tug.
“Eh?” he grunts, turning his head to look at her and finding her gaping up at the tree's impressive trunk.
“Whassat?” she breathes and her fingers curl a little tighter around a fistful of his thick, coarse beard.
“That?” Ulthane returns his attention to the surrounding area and replies, “Tha's where we're goin', lassie. It's a maker tree.”
She makes a small sound of awe but doesn't ask him to elaborate and he gives a mental shrug, figuring she'll see for herself very soon anyway.
Creeping around the vast trunk, Ulthane eventually sags when the moving platform comes into view. One of the other makers must have guessed he'd be looking to take it back up, so they sent it down to meet him. 'Yarin, most likely,' he smirks to himself, 'Elanya wouldn't plan anything in advance.'
The Old one steps heavily onto the lift and allows a great heap of strain to leave his shoulders. When they slump down, Lucia tries to hold back a squeal as she's teetered off balance and fumbles for something to grab, eventually deciding to just smack one of her palms upon Ulthane's cheek and use his face to steady herself. If he minds at all, he doesn't show it.
Striding up to a lever in the centre of the platform, he pauses in front of it, casting you an almost apologetic look. “'Fraid I'll be needin' my hands back now,” he says, kneeling down and lowering you, Archie, Sam and Ashleigh to the wooden floor.
Offering him a wordless smile, you hoist yourself off his palm and turn to lift Archie down. On your other side, Ashleigh and Sam all but tumble from the maker's grasp and stagger away from him, shooting uncertain glances in every direction.
“Hey! What about us?”
The maker chuckles at Kitty's alarmed squeak and reaches up to scoop her off his shoulder. “Aye, I've not forgotten you either, missy.”
“Lucia!” you bark suddenly, “Please don't climb down by yourself! You might fall!”
While the maker was distracted with retrieving Kitty, Lucia took it upon herself to start an unsteady descent and promptly freezes with one foot slipped into the chain connecting Ulthane's pauldron to his belt, glancing back over a shoulder to gauge how serious you are.
Amused, the giant deposits Kitty next to her other classmates and uses two fingers to pluck the adventurous Lucia from his armour. She moans loudly and crosses her arms, complaining, “I can do it,” under her breath, only serving to widen Ulthane's grin.
Once free of humans, he straightens up again and grabs the enormous lever, giving it a firm tug and then a kick when the lift shudders again. “Blasted thing,” he grumbles, only relaxing when the platform starts to rumble steadily up off the ground.
A few of the children stagger sideways at the abrupt motion and you reach out a hand to snag Asheigh's sleeve, holding her upright. She tosses you a grateful look that's soon interrupted by a wide yawn.
Before you know it, you've succumbed as well. “Oh, oh excuse me!” you hum, covering your mouth. You don't notice the fond tilt of Ulthane's head, as if he'd never seen a human yawn before and finds the sight utterly captivating.
Then without warning, you're blinking sleepily up at him and he realises he's been staring. His eyes grow wide and he quickly jerks his gaze away, all of a sudden very interested in picking at the dirt under his nails.
Sure and steady, the lift trundles dutifully up into the tree and once the tarmac below falls completely out of view, you find yourself engulfed in a comforting warmth that has only a little to do with the thick tree bark blocking out the night's chill.
You'd made it back to the tree in once piece.
The kids are all here with you.
They're all tired and hungry, but they're okay.
The revelation is overwhelming and you press your lips together, closing your eyes against the sting of tears. From a general perspective, things are dire - worse than dire, of that you've no doubt. But for now, in this moment, things are just okay.
“Bonnie? Y'alright?”
Ulthane's gravelly voice seems to meld perfectly with the thrumming hum of the lift and you peel your reluctant eyes open again, sniffing hard. “Yeah, I'm okay. Just tired.”
The warm, orange glow is slowly growing brighter and brighter as you draw closer to the main chamber. Overhead, a large shadow dances across the wall and you hear a voice exclaim, “They're back!”
You suddenly have five children sidestepping across the lift once it comes to a loud, creaking stop until they're all standing behind you, rapidly blinking sleep from their eyes and trying desperately to stay alert in the face of an unfamiliar giant.
Elanya comes bounding across the tree and screeches to a halt just before she runs you all over, her hands lifting to squeeze her cheeks together.
Almost unconsciously, you move your arms out to the side and back the children up a step or two. Ulthane may have proven that he can be gentle with them but this new maker is still a complete stranger to you, regardless of whether she'd patched you up before.
“Oh! By! The! Stone!” she croons, her ears pricked up in delight, “Yarin! C'mere! They've got bairns with 'em!”
Behind her, the other maker approaches with far more caution, treading softly as if he's afraid that one misstep could send you and the kids running. To be honest, with the way Archie's arm's are shaking, you wouldn't be surprised if that ends up being the case. Yarin stops just shy of Elanya and peers over her shoulder, his dark brows raised almost high enough to let you see the small, incredulous eyes staring out from underneath them.
“Well, bugger me....” he mutters and rubs at the back of his bald head, bewildered.
Behind you, Sam cringes and hides his face in the back of your blouse.
It comes as a shock to you, and apparently to the other makers as well, when Ulthane takes a sudden, decisive step in front of you and the children, effectively obscuring you from sight. “Easy, gal,” he warns Elanya, who blinks and drags her gaze back up to him, “They're a mite jumpy. Think it's best we don't rattle 'em too much, aye?.”
The youngling must have seen something in his face that you can't from your angle because she abruptly ducks her head, hands swinging to clasp each other behind her back. “Aye,” she huffs defeatedly, “Sorry.”
You watch him cuff her playfully on the chin and she snorts, her smile creeping back into its usual spot.
“How about fetchin' something for these wee tykes to eat, eh?” Ulthane suggests and she springs upright once more, a hand flying to her head to give him a quick salute before she's bounding away across the tree and almost bowling Yarin over in the process.
With a satisfied grunt, Ulthane steps away from the lift and beckons for you to follow him. After casting the third maker a wary glance, you take Archie and Ashleigh by the hands and lead your little group after him, feet dragging the whole way.
“She's got a good heart,” Ulthane tells you quietly when you reach his side again, nodding over to where Elanya is rummaging around in a large, cardboard box, “But she's still young. Everythin' here is all so new and excitin' for her.”
“It's fine,” you wave his apology aside and try to stifle another, sleepy yawn. Ever observant, Ulthane catches it and sends you a knowing smirk.
“Need me to carry you upstairs?” He's only half joking. He'd do it in a second if you asked him to. But alas, you merely shake your head and usher the five kids over to the first rope bridge, guided by Ulthane's hand at your back.
“Where are we going?” Ashleigh asks in a whisper, her heavy-lidded eyes barely keeping themselves propped open.
“Straight to bed. I think.” You glance over a shoulder at Ulthane and receive an affirming nod. You make it halfway up the initial ramp when Elanya abruptly pops her head up and beams proudly down at you. To your credit, you only take a single step away instead of falling onto your backside like Archie.
Behind you, Ulthane grumbles at her and reaches down to lift the young boy back onto his feet while in the meantime, you find yourself presented with a handful of crisp packets by an oblivious Elanya.
“Will these be okay for now?” she asks, poking one with a finger as thick as your arm, “I-if not, I think I can find somethin' different.”
She suddenly seems unsure of herself, glaring down at the crisps as though they're inadequate and you've already rejected them.
A little taken aback, you swallow down your trepidation and step closer, cautiously opening your hands and glancing up at her face, hesitating for just a moment before scooping the packets into your arms. “These are....they're perfect. Thank you, Elanya.” For the first time, you send a warm smile up at her. It soon twists into a troubled frown however, upon seeing her own features tipped towards your palms, her amber eyes unexpectedly dark and cold. “E-Elanya? I...These are fine, really.”
She doesn't reply, in fact it seems as though she doesn't even hear you. Instead she points at one of your hands and says, “What's that?”
The shift in demeanour is so jarring, you barely even realise what she's indicating until you glance down past the crisp packets and spot the dried blood meandering between your fingers and down your wrists like rivers of rusty brown.
At your back, Sam tries to lean around you to see.
Before you can come up with an answer for the maker though, she whips her head up and directs that ire-choked scowl at Ulthane.
“You were s'posed to keep her safe,” she growls accusingly and when you look up to the older maker, you're confused that he doesn't even try to defend himself, he just glowers down at your injury with a faraway look in his eye.
Twisting your palms until they're hidden up against the crisps, you swiftly plaster on a look of ebullience and grin up at the giant woman in front of you. “Oh, what, this?” you scoff and it's eerie how much you sound like Ulthane in that moment, “This is nothing. Just a flesh wound! And besides, it was my own, clumsy fault.”
Skeptical, the maker scrunches her nose up, prompting you to press on. “Really, it looks a lot worse than it is. Trust me, I'm a human. I know how much blood we can lose before we need to be worried. The only thing I'm worried about right now, is getting these kids to bed.”
Elanya casts a quick glance over your shoulder to see the five younglings cowering close to the wall and although she looks far from convinced, she lets out a sharp 'tsk' and fixes you with a squinted eye. “You'll let me have a proper look at it when you wake up?”
You have the feeling that you really won't get a say in the matter, so you simply breathe a sigh of resignation and reply, “Promise.”
And just like that, the young maker's face lights up with a dazzling smile. “Smashin'! I'll see you on the morrow, then!” she beams.
“Oh, well I – Yeah, see you.” If you hadn't just seen her manner shift with your own two eyes, you would have sworn up and down that she could have been an entirely different maker.
With another nod of gratitude, you turn and motion for the children to continue up the ramp whilst Elanya looks on, enraptured.
“Watch your step,” Ulthane warns once you reach the swinging rope bridge, though he needn't have worried at all. One by one, the kids navigate the slats of wood with relative ease, although their legs have to stretch to cover the gaps in between. The maker inwardly curses himself for not making the bridge a little more solid.
But, soon enough, all six humans are safely on the other side and as you pass through the large archway into a warm, familiar hollow, you can't quite hold back a groan that sneaks out of you at the sight of a real – albeit rustic – bunkbed.
Just inside the entrance is a large, wooden table and you drag yourself over to it, dumping the packets onto its surface before swivelling about and clapping your hands together. “Okay,” you announce to the gaggle of children, who've already begun to meander towards the back of the room where the pair of bunkbeds lay enticingly in wait. At the sound of your voice, they stop and look over at you. Sam and Archie even try to make their way back to you but you quickly wave a hand at the pillows. “No, no. Go on, get into bed. I was only going to say that one of you needs to share with someone else. There're only four.”
Without hesitation, Lucia grabs Kitty's hand tugs her towards one of the bunks. “I can go top to toe with Kitty!” she calls, “We've had to do it at sleepovers before.”
Kitty nods, rubbing at her eyes and allowing herself to be shepherded up a ladder and onto the higher bed with Lucia scrambling up after her. Behind you, a throaty chuckle catches your ear and you glance back to find Ulthane leaning up against the side of the tree in the entrance, his arms folded loosely across his chest. Despite his casual stance, you can tell he's surveying the room intently, one eye screwed shut while the other follows Ashleigh all the way up her own ladder, like he expects her to fall at any moment.
Sam takes the bunk beneath her which leaves Archie to fumble his way over to the final spot, directly under Kitty and Lucia. On the way, he has his arms stretched out before him and he grabs hold of the ladder before carefully manoeuvring around it, sitting on the dusty, green bedroll.
You could almost smack yourself for forgetting. “Oh, Archie, your glasses...”
The maker tips his head to one side, watching raptly as you get to your feet and select five of the tiny, red packets Elanya had fetched for you. “Glasses?” he pipes up.
“Yeah, poor Archie's got a crack in his.” Shaking your head, you amble over to the boy and hold a packet out in front of him, waiting while he squints at it for a moment, then eventually he plucks it from your grasp and sets about tearing it open. Lucia bends down from her bed and grabs two more packets for herself and Kitty as you turn to look back at Ulthane, raising a brow. “Do you guys not have glasses?”
He lifts his shoulders in a half shrug. “Can't say we do. What're they for?”
“Well-” You pause to move between the beds, passing Sam his own crisps. “- Some humans don't have the best eyesight, so they need these cool little gadgets to help them see. Archie's partially sighted, so.....” You trail off, biting your lip. Jesus, that poor kid. How in the world are you going to fix them, or find a replacement pair? How can you just up and tell him that he'll probably have to cope without them?
Aware that Ulthane's attention is still on you, you clear your throat and continue, “Let's just say he really needed those glasses...”
The maker's brow dips into a frown and he roves his eyes over to the young boy sitting with his knees up against his chest, a now empty crisp packet discarded at his side and the tiny, glass spectacles now laying uselessly on the end of the bed, as if they'd been tossed there begrudgingly.
You miss the maker's contemplative expression because you're too busy stretching up to hand Ashleigh the fifth and final packet.
“I'm not allowed crisps before bed,” she says quietly.
Giving the girl an encouraging smile, you press the food into her hands. “Well, you are tonight.”
It seems as though a massive weight lifts off your shoulders once you're certain all the kids have had some sustenance and you traipse back over to the table, sinking heavily into one of the chairs there with a sigh.
You only close your eyes to alleviate the sting of fatigue but when you open them again, the wax candles dotted around the room have shrunk by a few inches and the children are all lying down on their respective bedrolls, sound asleep if the light snores are any indication. At that moment, your belly rumbles noisily and you realise why you must have woken up.
Just then, something shifts to your right and you whip your head towards the sound, heart rising into your throat. To your relief however, the culprit is none other than Ulthane. He's managed to slump down in the same spot he stood in earlier, his arms draped restfully over bent knees and his gaze tipped back to study the tree's newest layer of heartwood.
A small part of you feels it should be unsettled that you'd fallen asleep in his presence when you ought to have been watching the kids, but to be perfectly frank, you'd be useless to defend them anyway with the state you're in.
Placing a hand over your chest, you sigh and struggle up onto unsteady legs after grabbing a packet of crisps off the table, tearing it open and tipping the contents into your mouth.
The crinkling packet garners the maker's attention and he lowers his head, something in his jaw loosening as you plod over to the entrance and take the side opposite his, plonking yourself down onto your rear with a dull thud and pressing a hand tenderly to a knot in the side of your neck.
“Sorry I didn't wake you,” he murmurs, eyeing the discomfort on your face, “Chair's not the best place for a human to sleep, but you looked like you could use the rest.”
“Mmm, well you weren't wrong there,” you return with a yawn and let your head thunk against the bark behind you, eyes slipping shut.
For a time, you're content to just sit still, listening to the extraordinary tree creak all around you whilst outside, thousands upon thousands of leaves whisper their haunting chorus as they sway in the wind.
The moment doesn't last. It isn't long before you have the distinct inkling you're being watched. Cracking open an eyelid, you peek up at the maker sitting across from you and notice that he's giving your hands a decidedly heated glare, his cheek propped upon a single, gigantic fist.
“You okay there, big fella?”
At the sound of your question, the maker gives a start and snatches his head away, none too discreetly, and you have to suppress a smile at the idea that you could make him jump. Turning his glower onto the nearby table instead, he grumbles something unintelligible and huffs.
You continue to inspect the side of his face idly, almost challenging the giant to meet your gaze again but when it becomes clear he isn't going to, you heave a sigh and lower your eyes to the gouges left in your palms. “You know....It...wasn't your fault, Ulthane.”
All at once, the maker's chest constricts, his guts lurch and he slowly turns his head to look back down at you, filled with a terrible sense of urgency, something in him wanting – needing - to hear the words again. “What did....” He pauses, wetting his lips. “What did you say?”
“I said, it wasn't your fault, what happened.” He only continues to stare at you, so you hold your hands up, showing him the wounds. “To me?”
'Oh....Maker's bones, he really thought you were talking about-?...' Ulthane shakes himself and rushes to answer aloud, “Oh. Yeah, no, I know. It just looks painful, s'all.” He tries to play off nonchalance by scratching the underside of his thick, auburn beard and adding, “You'll really let Elanya have a look tomorrow?”
“Only if you let her look at your arm.”
He tries to sneer at you, though it lacks any real contempt and you just end up with an even broader grin which in turn draws an amused grunt out of his throat. Ulthane regards you carefully for a minute and you can't ignore that there's a definite shadow lingering between his brows, stamped into his skin like a permanent badge of melancholia. Then, before you can look too closely into it, he turns away and nods towards the back of the tree. “Y'know, there's another bedroll over there. Haven't exactly tested it myself-” He chuckles softly and gestures from his head to his boots, managing to pull another half smile from your exhausted lips as well.
“-But I imagine it's more comfy than a wooden chair.”
You roll your head over to where he indicated. Somehow, the vast expanse between you and a bed seems insurmountable from here.
When you don't move, a frown tugs at the maker's lips. “Lass, you should-”
“I'll go, I'll go,” you cut him off with a lazy wave of your hand, adding, “In a minute.”
Sleep sounds like the best thing in the world right now. All you want to do is collapse onto a pillow and be unconscious for a little while. But the horrible truth is, you know that the sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you'll have to wake up. And waking up sounds like the absolute worst thing in the world right now...
“Boy...Tomorrow's gonna suck, huh?”
Ulthane snorts softly, his lips parting around those formidable tusks.
“What?” you ask.
“Oh, nothin'. It's just the way you talk.” His grin softens a fraction. “S'different...I like it.”
Now it's your tun to snort. “Wow, you're easily pleased.”
The pair of you share a moment of easy amusement before the room lapses back into perfect silence once more, broken only by one of the children's muffled snores.
“Hey, Ulthane?” Your eyes are so heavy now, as if each eyelash weighs a metric tonne.
“Aye?”
A yawn steals the words from your lips so you try again, stretching your legs out across the floor. “I'm not ready for tomorrow,” you admit in a whisper. Tomorrow is when you'll have to face reality and come to terms with what's happening to the world, now that you're in a place safe enough to give you the luxury of thinking again.
“Best not to worry about it for now,” the maker replies after a moment of reflection, “You n' the littl'uns are safe, that's what matters, bonnie.”
You try to smile. You think you manage it, but your mind isn't really paying attention and you let your chin drop onto your collarbone. Gradually, each blink starts coming slower and slower until your eyes remain shut. “...Ulthane?” you mumble.
The maker's resounding hum is barely more than a low rumble through your chest. “Mm?”
“What does.... bonnie...... mean?” The last word trails off into silence and your head rolls sideways, a cheek squashing up against the wooden wall as sleep finally, mercifully comes to claim you.
