The White Knight #2
And his voice… well, his voice is another matter entirely.
His words, when spoken, are imbued with an eloquent lilt—whether genuine or carefully crafted—I cannot say. Only that the sound of it draws the ear, and leaves an ache behind. One such as I have never heard.
His litany of words flows together in such a measured cadence, not unlike a soothing melody, one of hope, reassurance, and amity that quiets doubt and kindles belief.
Even I, at times, feel its pull and fall victim to it.
This accounts for why the crowds revere him and watch on with expressions softened by awe and worship.
Through whatever ability given to him by the heavens, he’s convinced them all that he’s their savior.
When in reality, he’s an agent of God sent down to Judge. To conquer. To distract. To herd them all into one area like fish in a massive barrel so that the next Horseman who arrives will have an easier time of it, of decimating what is left of the world's population.
It’s the first test for humanity, and they have failed miserably.
Disheartening, but not irredeemable.
I endeavor to keep in mind that they don’t see what I see.
They do not know what I know, or understand his true intentions.
That he will deliver a reckoning upon them, one they will not see coming or be prepared for.
His purpose is not to lead them to a better tomorrow or offer salvation. He’s merely drawing them together to stand united when the end finally comes and the time to enact Judgment arrives.
Fire and brimstone wait just beyond the horizon. Yet they listen like devoted sheep, unaware of the thrall tightening around them with every word he utters.
Like a divine noose.
I want to act now. Every instinct urges me to confront him, to end this before his influence spreads farther, to save as many as I can from this enthrallment. But I cannot risk it. Revealing myself too soon could cost everything.
So I wait, prepare, and find a way to draw closer without exposing who—or what—I am.
I move through the city as nothing more than a shadow—garbed in a heavy wool cloak layered over countless garments, my hood drawn low, my mask ever-present to conceal my face as I pass unnoticed through the crowds.
I may appear young, though in truth, I’m older than most of the citizens of the city. The truth is, time no longer moves through me as it once did due to the elixir filling my veins, which has altered much more than my appearance.
In the beginning, the transformation came slowly—so slowly that I did not understand what it was doing to my body. Not just granting me stamina beyond mortal limits and longevity, but changing my very makeup.
My skin turned ashen. My hair whitened. Color drained from me entirely until I resembled the elixir itself—pale, grey-white, almost spectral.
Only a trace of hazel remained in my gaze, but even that shifted and became something else, more predatory.
What once was warm now glows with something nearer to chartreuse, as though the divine light living beneath my skin has begun to show through.
For whatever reason, the freckles dotting my skin remain untouched, as does the birthmark in the shape of a stretched star on my collarbone.
The elixir did not make me immortal. But it has slowed time’s claim on me, leaving me suspended between life and death, neither fully human nor wholly divine.
Half wraith, half something sanctified.
And as long as it courses through my blood, death cannot easily claim me.
Though I suspect there are limits.
Beheading, perhaps. Dismemberment.
Both ends I wish not to test, nor have the misfortune of experiencing.
Which is beside the point.
As predicted by Grand Minister Judiah, it’s saved me from countless near misses and continues to ensure my survival. One of the ways in which, even long after his death, his legacy lives on through me.
He prepared me well, gave me the tools I needed to complete my task, and arranged secret reserves of the elixir, hidden in chambers known only to me. A safeguard. A necessity. Something I learned on the night before my awakening, when he delivered his final lesson.
Though many years have passed, that night remains vivid. I remember his death with perfect clarity. The jeweled dagger. Black blade. Bone handle. The one I drove through his chest.
An act of obedience.
An act of love.
A promise made in faith.
It’s what steadies me when hope begins to fade. A secret yearning I hold in my heart as time travels ever forward. That I will see him again, and pride for me will shine in his eyes when I do all he has instructed and am finally permitted to follow him into the afterlife.
It is a hope I carry still. And with each dose of the elixir, I remember and renew the vows I made—to him, to our order, to the purpose he set before me.
All reminders of why I cannot fail and must stay the course.
When the elixir wanes, there are signs.
My true coloring returns—dark hair, the bronze coloring of my skin blooms back to life, even the veins beneath transform from translucent to dark blue. If I delay too long, the aging begins. Not all at once, but faster than it should.
The worst part, though, is the cravings.
The elixir binds more than flesh. It calls to the mind, and the need for it becomes a constant whisper, a weight pressing against thought and will alike.
As its power wanes, strength and dexterity leave me.
My body grows sluggish and heavy, and my thoughts cloud over.
I become altogether unsteady and vulnerable.
Because of this, I carry small reserves on my person.
Emergency doses. Touched only when necessary.
When in dire need, and my greater supply remains hidden and out of reach.
Supplies that are finite.
Limited.
Much like my time here.
Now that one Horseman walks among humanity, the others will soon follow.
I do not know when, only that they will come.
It’s a balance I’m forced to maintain, and also the reason I cannot reveal myself too soon.
The divine weapons must stay beyond their reach.
And the elixir will only grant me so much time to see to their end.
So when I strike, it needs to be at a precise moment that will give me the best chance of sending all four back to Heaven.
Which means, for now, I stay hidden.
I wait.
I watch.
I study Pollock's movements, while keeping an ear to the ground about the whereabouts of the others. And every day I prepare myself for their arrival—no matter how many minds are lost while I remain idle.
After all, my mission is not to save the many. It is to ensure humanity endures.
All I have to do… is kill the Horsemen before they lay waste to the world and everyone in it.
Pollock
Year 2266
The White Witch has returned.
I first sensed her among the people some years ago, though at the time it was only a distant awareness.
It had been impossible to zero in on her location due to the outpouring of emotions from the souls surrounding me, which had formed a kaleidoscope of positive and negative energy.
She had been merely one among many who remained suspicious of my true aims.
But later, as I drew more into my thrall and my empathic abilities expanded, I was able to pinpoint her general whereabouts. Not who she was—only that I sensed she was female. Her feminine outrage rang out like an off-key harp string, plucked at the end of an ominous song of war.
Now I can easily find her within the crowd and hear an echo of her thoughts. Little whispers on the wind, as it were.
How can they not see it? Hear it?
False prophet. Soul Serpent.
This insult comes quite often, and I have taken a liking to it.
She hisses both as they roll through her thoughts with such fever that even I feel the sting of her vehemence.
Judgment pours off her in waves, yet none but me seems privy to it.
Her internal meanderings carry her voice in a distinct way.
Her words were somehow strangely old and foreign, yet familiar to me, as if she came from a different time.
One that still lives in my heart and mind.
If her words were not filled with such vitriol, I could almost claim that it’s a lovely voice—sultry, lyrical and pleasing.
All lies.
They are lost.
None of them is worthy of being saved.
Like Lucifer, he beguiles them with his charm and feeds them everything they desire to hear. Nothing but false promises. He’s feeding on their hope and desperation.
How can they not see he isn’t here to save us?
He is a wolf, leading sheep to the slaughter.
This last thought catches me by surprise, and I speak aloud. “A wolf?”
I like this comparison very much. Though I could not quite pinpoint why, pride fills my chest at the thought.
But as before, she doesn’t respond to my question.
Why I wish to converse with her, I don’t know. Only that she intrigues me. Who this woman is—and why she continues to seek me out when she clearly doesn’t wish to hear my message to the people—is a riddle I work to unravel.
Where are they… the others?
This last question stirs my own curiosity. Is she speaking of my brothers? Does she know what we are?
Not possible.
Yet as her mind becomes more familiar to me during her brief visits to the city, I begin to suspect she somehow knows exactly who and what I am—and what I came here to do.
Can she see beyond the facade I wear, or has she acquired divine knowledge through other means? And though it shouldn’t trouble me, one question plagues me more than the rest.
Where does she go when she vanishes for months at a time?
The difficulty lay in the distance she always maintains.
She’s kept herself well beyond my reach, never lingering long enough for me to gather more than fragments.
And since I can not lure her with the same influence I wield over the multitudes, I’m forced to consider other means of drawing her out.