Four Horsemen of Humanity
Foreword: My fiction muscle is horribly rusty. This is the first step towards knocking the rust off and as a result I am not proud of it. The fact it was written with minutes to spare before the deadline does not help. Regardless, I’ll publish it anyway. I might come back and rework the concept. Equally I might not. I am at the mercy of my Muse (she too rides a horse)
Hoofbeats rolling like thunder. The sun blotted out by a rising swell of strangling darkness. Other sounds rise to accompany the thunder: metal clashing frantically, a great gnashing of teeth; a sonorous tolling of bells and an eerie buzzing as if gigantic flies swirled in the foul clouds that covered the sun.
Four mounted figures rose over the horizon. Despite the rolling gallop that deafened all around, the shapes glided through the murk.
War sat astride a mountainous horse, steaming masses of rolling muscle and dark flesh. Both figure and beast were clad in obsidian black armor. Behind the shadowed eyeslit of the imposing helmet danced a red flicker.
Famine was dwarfed in comparison to this great bulk of armour and muscle. Her horse skeletal, barest slivers of tendons articulating the faded bones, she herself is gaunt, sunken eyes bottomless pits that in turn draw the eye of the unfortunate observer.
The horse of Pestilence, huge swaths of rotting skin cling to the exposed bone, blood and foul black rot dripping constantly, a cloud of flies envelopng horse and rider, masking any distinguishing features of the pustulent bulk that sits astride the decaying nag.
The fourth hourseman, by contrast indistinct, a whisper of clouded air, the hint of leg here, suggestion of skull there, the illusion completed by the impossibility of looking directly at the figure, the eye slips, refusing to look. Refusing to see. Refusing to acknowledge the manifestation of Death
Suddenly, the clamor died away. The riders stopped their rapid and murderous advance, halted as if they had run…no…glided…headlong into a solid wall. The black mist roiled angrily, as if frustrated.
The sound of bells came again. But not deep and ominous any longer. High and angelic.
War’s horse reared, letting out a great bellow. The mist shifted, and recoiled. In its retreat it revealed four new figures. Four more horsemen.
Peace, Plenty, Health and Life.
Four white horses, and four perfect men and woman astride them. Skin like painted porcelain, clad only in silky robes that billowed joyfully. White for peace, yellow for plenty, green for health and red for life.
“Ugh, such goddamn killjoys” growled the spiked helmet that rode between War’s shoulders.
Famine agreed in a voice as thin and reedy as her figure. Barely audible. Pestilence just laughed,a great thundering gurgle punctuated by explosive coughs.
Death did not speak. But what Death said was, “Poor fools. Chaos always wins.”
The Horsemen of Humanity heard. They heard, and knew it was true. But nevertheless, they fought. Moving as one, all withdrew shining blades flickering with the white flame of hope.
They fought, lost, fought again. Never giving up. A metaphor for humanity’s struggle against darkness. Ultimately futile, but meaningful despite this.
Thanks to Where Angels Fear for catching my tense mishaps.
