The White Knight #3
As time trickles by, I begin to wonder whether she is more like me than like the others—an immortal bound to this plane of existence. Her voice within my mind doesn’t age, and her ability to move unseen only sharpens with time.
A single glimpse of her during her last visit only fueled my desire to know more.
The moment was fleeting, but I gathered what details I could in those passing seconds.
A slender figure hidden beneath a heavy cloak.
Alabaster skin, nearly translucent, visible where her hand clutched the edge of her hood to keep her face hidden.
A silver mask covers the bottom portion of her face.
A wisp of long white hair that spilled forward, trailing down her chest like a pale ribbon.
She is a ghost that haunts my thoughts in her absence.
Tonight, something is different.
I sense anticipation and determination from the White Witch. She’s restless—driven—and nearer than she’s ever dared come before. The hour is late as she creeps toward Sovereign Tuath Hall, her presence a faint but undeniably pulling at the edges of my awareness.
Then an impression brushes across my mind—honeysuckle, morning dew, wheat fields stirred by gentle wind—followed by the brief flash in my mind of a young dark-haired girl in a long white dress skipping through a field of gold.
Who is this? Is it her? I can’t be certain. The hair I had glimpsed before had been as white as my own.
At last, her feminine voice filters clearly into my thoughts.
The Bringer of Wrath. The Weaver of War. He comes. I can feel him drawing closer. How is this possible?
It’s true. Kahill and the army he has amassed are already making their way here.
I will take great pleasure in telling him the creative names she’s given him. He might not find them as amusing as I do, but the moment will still be worth waiting for. No doubt he will scowl and offer some scathing reply, seeing as my fellow Harbinger does not share my temperament.
Orán or Tíarnach might respond differently—perhaps amused, perhaps offended. On that, I can not say.
But Kahill, well, the Harbinger of Wrath is the most volatile among us, a self-fulfilling prophecy if ever there was one. He embodies the role he’s been created for.
In truth, I suppose we all do in one way or another.
But that she can sense him makes me pause. Can she sense me in the same way? If I push my awareness toward her, would she be able to hear my thoughts?
It’s entirely possible she’s no mere mortal, but something other—one of the few remnants still bound to this plane. Most have long since departed in search of another world, knowing this one has an expiration date.
To test the theory, I leave my desk and cross to a nearby window. I’ve been working in the study within my private suite, and though the windows are barred, they’re open to let in the night air. When the cool wind touches my face, I extend my awareness toward her.
Hello, White One. What is it you seek? Who is it you speak of? Do you know who I am?
There, on the building to my right. Her shadow shifts.
She’s crouched upon a stone balcony on one of the upper floors, her silhouette rigid and watchful, resembling a creature carved from the architecture itself.
A gothic figure. Yes—like a gargoyle. A finicky race of immortals with archaic beliefs and an unwavering devotion to hierarchy and command. Few remain, to my knowledge, if any.
Slowly, she withdraws.
There’s something willowy in the way she moves—grace woven with deliberate stealth. Beneath that elegance, however, I sense a fierce nature. She reminds me of a blade forged by a master smith: exquisite in form, lethal in purpose.
She slips over the balcony’s edge and descends the building with effortless precision, scaling the stone with a fluidity no mortal can possess. Then her pale form vanishes around a corner into the alley below. My connection to her lingers briefly, thinning like smoke before dissolving entirely.
Disappointment floods me at once.
The interest—no, the attachment—I feel toward her doesn’t bode well for me. All who have survived the apocalypse exist for one purpose alone: to be tested and judged. To prove themselves worthy of Heaven or be cast into eternal dominion under hell’s rule.
For the souls reborn in these final days, there will be no second chance.
Her visits grow more frequent as Kahill draws near. Her voice within my mind is vivid and expressive, yet her presence carries a quiet grace. She moves unseen through crowds, scales surrounding buildings, and often observes my addresses to the masses from high perches and rooftops.
Where is he? When will he arrive?
I long to extend my awareness again, to ask whether she speaks of War—but such an attempt would be unwise.
She vibrates with aggression and righteous fury.
She does not welcome his arrival, nor does my presence here seem to please her.
Contempt for me and for my promises of sanctuary and restoration radiates from her in relentless waves.
I’ve lost count of the slanderous and inventive names she bestowed upon me within the privacy of her thoughts.
But also, I’ve grown particularly fond of my favorites.
Serpent.
Stealer of Souls.
When spoken with such venom in her voice, my entire being responds in ways I’ve not experienced in eons—not an entirely unpleasant sensation. In truth, I’ve found myself craving to hear more of them. Awaiting each of her visits, and hoping to catch sight of her once more.
Yet her unease intensifies by the day, rendering her emotions more and more volatile. Her anxious mood appears to be tied to Kahill's approach.
I’m eager to ask Kahill his thoughts on the matter, to see if he possesses answers I do not. Maybe together we can devise a way to draw her from the shadows and bring whatever secrets she harbors to light.
I sense she means us harm. That much is certain.
Perhaps she believes herself capable of stopping what’s coming—a dangerous illusion, and one that will end in her death.
There is no stopping what has already been set into motion. Not even we possess that power.
We are instruments of God’s will. Executioners, sent to enact Judgment as decreed. We wield neither scythe nor blade, nor will a single soul fall directly by our hands—yet they will perish all the same.
By our will.
Which is an extension of His.