Willed this path before me into existence. Which I now realize was more self-fulfilling than prophecy, or so it would now seem. Yet I don’t fully fault the girl I had been. She knew only what had been given to her. An innocent, just as my sisters were.
Which is neither here nor there.
It simply is how it unfolded, and now I bear the regret, shame, and grief from a time I can not rewrite, no matter how much I wish to do so. And the duty to ensure it was not all done in vain.
I can’t change the past. This alone is something I remind myself of when my remorse builds and becomes too much to hold. But I also can’t let it paralyze me. My gaze ventures over to the figure striding quietly beside me. I can only make sure their deaths hold meaning far and above what I previously gave them the honor of.
However, this man, this angel—though those titles don’t exactly seem to fit either, Harbinger is more fitting—is not like I was led to believe he would be. He’s not heartless. Though he kills and is capable of killing all living things, there is honor in him. In the short time we’ve been together, I have found him to be patient, kind, fierce, and protective. He’s also thoughtful and contemplative, as if he wants only to understand my thoughts, actions, and reasoning.
It’s unsettling.
I wonder then if he knew, knew it all, how then would he see me? As a monster, as a killer, as a sinner worthy of life, or one he should strip it from? Because at times I find myself no better than the beasts rising from the depths of Hell, to slaughter those in their path. If he could see every action my soul committed, would he see that my belief led me to commit acts I wouldn’t have otherwise chosen? Does it even matter?
He’s still a Horseman, and I’m still who I am.
Who I am.
This thought takes me further back to the days when I had a name and an identity separate from that of the Order or the other Chosen.
The woman who acted very much like a mother to me called me Eri. Short for Eridessa. My surname is harder to recall. As if it had once been written in a scrap of paper, but burned in a fire seconds after I’d read it in her messy script. The letters are all I recall, and the look of it in print. Wrathborn. Eridessa Wrathborn. When I would write my first name as a child, I’d do so with a star above the I instead of a dot. A messy star to match that of the birthmark on my collarbone, the one that supposedly made me special.
I peer up at the sun breaking through the gloomy sky and let my surname roam through my mind. Wrath. Born. Another self-fulfilling prophecy or truth?
In a way, like a rose bush that’s grown more deadly and unruly when left to fend for itself. Taking over the nearby land when it’s not tended to. Surviving through harsh conditions. Blooming under clear skies, shriveling up only when exposed to long-extended darkness.
Seeing as I spent too much time there and nearly lost my mind to the madness for a while.
“You asked earlier if I had a name.”
This catches the Horseman off guard, and his light eyes go wide as they snap to mine. “Yes, will you share it with me? I’d very much like to hear it.”
“They called me Eri, short for Eridessa.”
His chin dips, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “An interesting name. Appropriate, seeing as I still don’t know what to make of you, but from what I do know, I’m both unsettled and intrigued.”
A small chuckle leaves me. “Same, Horseman.”
I’m giving him this. However, it’s more out of guilt than anything else. That, and thinking about my sisters, made me realize it would be unwise to repeat the same mistakes.
Raising my blade to someone whom I don’t yet know the worth of.
Maybe he doesn’t need to die. Maybe simply taking away his ability to kill what remains of the world will do wonders for the survivors struggling to endure.
He’s siphoning life from this world to send it back to God—or so he claims. But isn’t God powerful enough to create all life? Doesn’t He possess endless power without needing to recycle it from one thing to another?
It’s what I was taught. What I believe.
So then why send a Horseman here to decimate an already war-torn world? Why make the remaining survivors even more desperate than they already are?
Unless the life remaining here is something he no longer cares for.
Then these actions make sense.
Allowing the Horseman to wander freely in pursuit of his mission will cost countless lives, weaken the world, and permit him to strip away what little chance of survival the survivors have left.
I think of the divine weapons at my disposal. Not those meant to destroy creatures immune to steel or iron, but the ones designed to restrain—the kind that could bind a being such as him.
I need time. Time to understand why his mission differs from mine. Time to decide whether what he says is true, or whether he is a threat to humanity as a whole.
