As the sun rose in the east, a quiet figure stood on the glossy green hills. Silhouetted on the morning star the figured leaned back on his horse and raised a sword high above his head. Pointing his steel ahead to the town below he rode quickly. Light shined, glaring off his steel. The rider clad in heavy armor rode blood red steed with a fiery mane, its speed unmatched and thundered sounded under its galloping hooves. Leaping into the fields the horseman set fire to the crops. Townspeople fled i sight of the barbarous terror that set siege to their humble hamlet.
Some stood transfixed by the fires, their minds corrupted by the war toned blaze. They joined the horseman in the slaughter, rising up against their own. Blood of innocent spilt upon the dirt. Virtue cut from their throats. The rider looked on and watched as war tore the once quaint town in twain. Measuring success in blood he smiled as his cup overflowed and with thunderous sound he rode into the west to continue on the path of War.
The sun had reached its peak and once again calmed. Fires extinguished, bodies laid to rest. Quiet whispers rolled through the land as a thin black horse appeared in the scorched fields, its cadaverous rider bearing scales. Dust curled around the rider, fluttering against his tarnished robe. The stranger spoke softly, curling his thin fingers through the dust. “Do not damage, the oil, and wine.” Slowly he rode through the town, crops wilted, cows went dry and the land became infertile.
The horseman reached the end of town and lifted his scales. “A quart of wheat for a days wages,” his pithy whisper echoed through every man and woman's ear. “and three quarts of barley for a days wages.” The emaciated horse turned as its rider pulled the reins leading them to the west, starving the land by Famine.
The evening star set in the west and gave the sky a red hue. A hiss sounded as yet another horsemen arrived on the eastern hill, riding a white horse. The rider held a bow and took aim at the famished town below. The horse took off, the last sunlight revealed the riders ostentatious appearance as he loosed poison arrows upon the town. A golden crown upon his head, silk robes and a quiver of arrows, tipped in germ and disease of all sort. Coughing ensued as infection spread, polluting life itself.
The horseman pulled aside the town well and from a burlap sack he pulled a severed head, holding it by the hair he dropped it down the well. Tainting the water supply. Plague struck at his very presence, bringing the people ever closer to the end. With silent vindication the rider spurred his horse and rode off on a conquest of permeating Pestilence.
The moon shined bright and full over the helpless hamlet. Yet another rider appeared on the eastern hill, riding a pale horse and bound in black robes. A chilling silence encompassed the land, no wind, nor animal, nor stirring soul made the slightest sound. As the horseman quickly descended the hill a scythe rose from the robes, shimmering in the moonlight. He raised the cleave above his head and beckoned as he passed through town. Life giving its last breath, the only sound was that of a faint sigh. Souls freed from their mortal coil were quickly apprehended by the reaper. The brilliant light collected, as each flew gently into the blade as it waved through the air.
The rider did not look back, he only rode on. Souls of the dead secured, and those pressing their time were put to rest. Riding toward the west the four horsemen seemed to take everything with them, but the silence. For no sound could be brought forth by the subtle guise, of Death.
© Copyright 2016 Tucker Haase. All rights reserved.
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