Dormant

22

No wonder you're so stubborn,
Nobody ever made you dig deeper,
No wonder you've got demons.
Everything you ever did is coming back around,
I can't help you,
If I'm weaker,
You took the honey from the queen bee keeper,
No wonder,
You have demons,
Everyone's got a choice this time around.

- The Glitch Mob feat Aja Volkman, Our Demons

22

"Do you think there's anymore?"

Death pulled Despair to a halt on top of a hill, ignoring the question for a moment as he gazed out over the pasture that they were trotting down. His orange eyes flickered over the scene; where the fence ended to Jessica's horses that were on the loose, a forest grew, reaching up to the sky with trees of fantastic size and bearing their beautiful green leaves to the growing gray clouds above. From a planet of destruction, Earth had became a flourishing planet of green. Green had replaced the grays that Death had saw the last time that he had been on Earth. Without the same opportunities to create or use the same technology that they had before, the Kingdom of Man's new, less lazy lifestyle had allowed Earth to restore itself to most of its original glory. Their past, hauntingly familiar and still rather recent, was there; a lone house stood toward one side of the pasture, obviously showing signs of something ripping it clean open as a rusted, burned truck with overgrown vines and weeds crawled about its sides. But there was a certain beauty to it that was more beautiful than that Death could explain.

Tilting his head slightly to the side, the Pale Horseman watched as the woman who had volunteered to help him slowed her mare beside them. Her red hair was painfully obvious against the background splattered with different hues of gray skies and green hills. If that didn't help, the purple trench coat she was wearing made Death want to curl his nose up in pure disgust. What was up with purple anyways? She had borrowed a black v-neck shirt from Jessica and some noticeable scars decorated her bare collarbone. A rifle was slung across her shoulder, the same one that she had arrived with. Freckles adorned her cheeks framed her red lips. She was pretty. But, for some reason, every time that Death looked at her, he found that she reminded him of a young Fury with her distant, intelligent green eyes. Once upon a time, the Black Horsewoman was not as outspoken as what she was now.

Mama -Death felt funny calling her that, but the woman insisted that with everyone that she met- had said that the woman's name was Valir. She was a quiet person, almost a loner from how Mama had explained her. Back at the camp that was so famously ruled by Andrew (Mama acted as if he was a king), Valir tended to stay her distance from others and always took up a residence that were on the outskirts away from everyone. She was good at noticing things that were off apparently. She knew how to face danger without panicking and silently did whatever anyone asked her to do.

When Death announced that he was going to search for anymore Demon Lords, she had volunteered almost instantly, but that could have also been because she was becoming rather overwhelmed with the combination of Rosaline, Thomas, and Strife, who was worst than the two kids. His injuries were awful; Sera's teeth had almost completely ripped through the muscles on his left shoulder and several other gaping wounds had acquired immediate attention. Thanks to the witch, Mama, she was able to magically heal his wounds, but they still needed time. When Death and Valir had left, Strife was attempting with his wounded arm, that was bandaged from fingertips to shoulder, to color in the lines of some bubbly childish Strawshortcake color book with Thomas and Rosaline.

Speaking of injuries.... Death's gaze travelled to hand of Valir's right arm. Even with the bandages that were wrapped about her hand, she was holding the reins to her brown mare with a strong and steady grip. He was well aware what had made that injury. Like Strife, she too had been attacked by Sera, but, unlike his brother, Valir had not allowed Mama to use magic to hasten her recovery. When Mama had suggested it, the redhead had glanced at her wound before looking back at the older woman with pursed lips. Magic is for the weak, she had exclaimed. I can heal on my own.