The Study of Man #2
He stops at once when I call him to a halt. I jump down, throwing back the cowl of my cloak in the process so it doesn’t impede my sight.
I reward Enoch with some of the treats I’ve stored away, then I untie my bow and the case filled with arrows from his back. Whistling low two times in quick succession, I let him know he’s free to roam until I need him again. He slowly meanders away, leaving me to my own devices.
As the Horseman draws near, a strange and silent hush falls over the woodlands. Nature seems to hold its breath in response to his presence. I ignore it as best as I can and hunt for a good portion of the morning.
Bigger game eludes me while I'm on foot, but truth be told, it’s not the thrill of the hunt I’m seeking. Yes, there’s a momentary feeling of achievement when I’m successful, but it’s not with a sense of victory, more that my purpose in the Order of things is being fulfilled.
Dusk has set in when I finally pass the trap, and I move on quickly, refusing to let my gaze linger there too long so as not to give myself away.
It’s not until I have half a dozen skinned and gutted creatures hanging from the rope I carry over my shoulder that I make my way back to it.
Not telegraphing emotion is difficult. The fear of the pain. Or the rising anxiety when I know I’m sealing my own fate with each footstep. Or the fact that I might just accomplish what I have set out to do and come face-to-face with another Horseman.
Then there’s the sound of the latch being triggered—the release of the trap—all in slow motion, and also instantaneously. Skin parts. Bone snaps. A blood-curdling scream unleashes from my lips.
Birds and other animals scatter.
The second cry that tears from my chest and throat is visceral and very real.
It’s born of agony. As genuine as the ground beneath my feet and the hazy sky above.
What feels like fire spirals up my leg, blotting out every other feeling.
The viselike jaws of the trap not only bit through layers of skin but also a healthy amount of muscle, and the force of it broke my shin.
I bend to get a better look, and my knees buckle. Pain steals my capacity to think rationally. Holy Mary Mother… it is worse than I expected. The bone is visible, and my skin is absolutely shredded. The trap’s rusty metal teeth are barely visible.
I do not fight it. I give in to it. Since giving in is easier. Desperation for freedom overrides everything else. I claw at the metal and try to pry the jaws apart, but bloodstained hands make each attempt futile, and the two sides snap back together, sinking deeper still.
Scanning my surroundings, I search for a branch, anything to give me leverage. The leaves below me are coated, stained red. There’s also a puddle blooming beneath my foot as my blood soaks into the earth below.
He does not come to me as a man. Nor is he shielded or camouflaged to blend into the forest around us.
He comes as the being I saw all those years ago.
In a tattered grey cloak that dissolves at the edges into smoke.
A full body of dark armor, not polished and shiny like the White Horseman’s.
It’s weathered and tattered. His armor, too, appears beaten, battle-scarred, medieval steel with scales, Celtic symbols, and sharp edges, worn by time, worn by the many assaults it has outlived.
The cloak ends are frayed, complete with holes and uneven edges.
Like the White Horseman’s, his face is hidden under the hood.
While he rushes forward on his beast, which is decorated with a similar cloak and tarnished armor, he prepares to jump down.
Already one leg is thrown over to the other side, and before the horse comes to a stop, he vaults off and dashes for me, skidding to a knee at my side seconds later.
“Shhh. Shhh. You’re okay.”
It takes little effort on his part to pry them apart, and I gasp as a new pain spears through my body once I’m free of it. I curl over my injured leg and nearly touch the protruding bone before he snatches my hand up and moves it away.
“It’s better if you don’t touch it. I’m not sure if you're prone to infection, but I’d rather not risk it.”
“Oh God, it hurts!”
“Yes, I have no doubt it does.”
I grit my teeth and groan. My vision nearly whites out as the pain rolls through me. His head rises, and the dead space underneath greets me. I feel his penetrating gaze even though pure blackness stares back at me.
“Did you not see it?” he asks. He speaks with a subtle accent similar to the White Horseman’s, but his voice is much softer. Soothing in tone, tempered with placidity.
Scowling, I bite out, “No. Do you think that if I did, I would have stepped on it? Gahh!” I turn my head as bile rises up and bend over the ground to my right. The pain is too much. My leg is on fire.
He stops and considers this for a moment. When I look back, his head dips again. His armored hand moves over my wound, a few inches away, not touching, but whatever he is doing makes my leg hurt even more.
“Stop! Stop! Ohhh, gah…wh-what are y-you doing?”
But then I see some of the skin knit back together. The bleeding slows. He does not fully close the wound, but the bone gives an audible pop and settles into place as my skin partially mends.
“How are you…how did you do that?”
“No questions.”
“No questions? You just fix a broken bone in seconds, and you expect me not to ask how?”
“Don’t play dumb, Priestess. I may not know what you are planning with today’s little stunt, but I know you are not as unaware of magic as you seem.”
I stare back at him. His arm curls to rest on top of his knee as he continues to stare for a long moment, not breaking the uncomfortable silence between us with more words.
Then slowly, he lifts his hand and tosses the hood of his cloak back, letting it fall to his shoulders.
Shadows peel away from his visage as he does so.
His face is revealed, and I notice right away that he has a similar look to the White Horseman.
They share the same dark brows, but where the Serpent is more clean-cut, this one has a few days’ worth of facial hair and a more unkempt way about him.
His hair is longer with slight waves, layered, and the ends rest against the back of his neck.
Their strands lean more toward ashen than white, and fine lines play near the corners of his mouth.
His eyes could be considered hazel, though a strident yellow hue dominates them and calls to mind the color found in many birds of prey.
Though he holds eye contact with me, he shifts as if it makes him uncomfortable to do so. His brows are drawn, and two wrinkles form between them. He is handsome, in an unsettling kind of way, because he looks like no man I have ever seen, and I find myself staring for longer than I should.
The silent watchfulness—I sense this is a part of his personality. As the Plague Caster, I wonder whether he has had much interaction with humanity or spends his days mostly among nature, spreading death and decay.