22. An Eerie Name
Chapter Twenty-Two
An Eerie Name
The Chosen
Speaking of the Order, even for only a moment, brought so much history to the forefront of my mind. Especially because the Horseman, one of the reasons for absolute secrecy and the sacrifices made in my life, walks by my side.
Walks freely by my side as though we are companions.
Which has me questioning the soundness of this choice, and begs the question…
Do I intend to invite him inside my home, and current sanctuary, as my guest or as my prisoner?
Each step brings me closer to a decision I don’t feel prepared to make.
I relive it backward, the years I’ve spent alone and learning all I can of God’s Chosen, these four immortal men he’s sent to judge and reset the world.
The devotion and physical training, the morning and nightly prayers, the endless hours of study.
The private lessons on matters that still trouble my heart.
The tattoos, sigils, successful and failed, that at times have done more harm than good.
If I don’t move against him now, is it all for naught?
The rumbling. The terror. The desperate race through the monastery to make it through the nave and into the tunnel in time.
The years spent in the dark, moving around only by candlelight with nothing but my own company and those of long-dead people in books, or the ghosts who haunted my days and dreams. The underground cave, now a tomb.
The worst of my dreaded memories and dreams come from that night. The culling, and then watching my two Chosen sisters, the last of us, drink from the lake while knowing what lay within the waters.
It changed me in ways nothing else, not even the elixir, has.
As I walk through the forest and the wind whips through the trees, the leaves whisper, and to this day, it reminds me of their whispered prayers echoing off the rafters in the nave.
Some nights, I sit beside them in my dreams while we sing an old hymn.
Those nights were some of the most pleasant.
Days I’d do well to remember over the nightmares where they assault me with accusations and stare at me as blood spills from their eyes and wounds.
Nights when my subconscious uses my guilt to twist reality and make me pay for past mistakes.
The Horseman said my own stores of it were tainted. Which in a way feels like divine karma… justice. Because I once knelt beside my sisters, watching them drink from tainted waters, while filled with pride for my ability to outthink them and rise above them.
As if this existence was some great reward for being far more underhanded than they were.
As if the calling of being the Order’s Chosen was an easy path to walk.
I willed this to be my birthright.
Willed this path before me into existence. Which I now realize was more self-fulfilling than prophecy, or so it would now seem. Yet I don’t fully fault the girl I had been. She knew only what had been given to her. An innocent, just as my sisters were.
Which is neither here nor there.
It simply is how it unfolded, and now I bear the regret, shame, and grief from a time I can not rewrite, no matter how much I wish to do so. And the duty to ensure it was not all done in vain.
I can’t change the past. This alone is something I remind myself of when my remorse builds and becomes too much to hold.
But I also can’t let it paralyze me. My gaze ventures over to the figure striding quietly beside me.
I can only make sure their deaths hold meaning far and above what I previously gave them the honor of.
However, this man, this angel—though those titles don’t exactly seem to fit either, Harbinger is more fitting—is not like I was led to believe he would be.
He’s not heartless. Though he kills and is capable of killing all living things, there is honor in him.
In the short time we’ve been together, I have found him to be patient, kind, fierce, and protective.
He’s also thoughtful and contemplative, as if he wants only to understand my thoughts, actions, and reasoning.
It’s unsettling.
I wonder then if he knew, knew it all, how then would he see me?
As a monster, as a killer, as a sinner worthy of life, or one he should strip it from?
Because at times I find myself no better than the beasts rising from the depths of Hell, to slaughter those in their path.
If he could see every action my soul committed, would he see that my belief led me to commit acts I wouldn’t have otherwise chosen? Does it even matter?
He’s still a Horseman, and I’m still who I am.
Who I am.
This thought takes me further back to the days when I had a name and an identity separate from that of the Order or the other Chosen.
The woman who acted very much like a mother to me called me Eri.
Short for Eridessa. My surname is harder to recall.
As if it had once been written in a scrap of paper, but burned in a fire seconds after I’d read it in her messy script.
The letters are all I recall, and the look of it in print.
Wrathborn. Eridessa Wrathborn. When I would write my first name as a child, I’d do so with a star above the I instead of a dot.
A messy star to match that of the birthmark on my collarbone, the one that supposedly made me special.
I peer up at the sun breaking through the gloomy sky and let my surname roam through my mind. Wrath. Born. Another self-fulfilling prophecy or truth?
In a way, like a rose bush that’s grown more deadly and unruly when left to fend for itself. Taking over the nearby land when it’s not tended to. Surviving through harsh conditions. Blooming under clear skies, shriveling up only when exposed to long-extended darkness.
Seeing as I spent too much time there and nearly lost my mind to the madness for a while.
“You asked earlier if I had a name.”
This catches the Horseman off guard, and his light eyes go wide as they snap to mine. “Yes, will you share it with me? I’d very much like to hear it.”
“They called me Eri, short for Eridessa.”
His chin dips, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “An interesting name. Appropriate, seeing as I still don’t know what to make of you, but from what I do know, I’m both unsettled and intrigued.”
A small chuckle leaves me. “Same, Horseman.”
I’m giving him this. However, it’s more out of guilt than anything else. That, and thinking about my sisters, made me realize it would be unwise to repeat the same mistakes.
Raising my blade to someone whom I don’t yet know the worth of.
Maybe he doesn’t need to die. Maybe simply taking away his ability to kill what remains of the world will do wonders for the survivors struggling to endure.
He’s siphoning life from this world to send it back to God—or so he claims. But isn’t God powerful enough to create all life? Doesn’t He possess endless power without needing to recycle it from one thing to another?
It’s what I was taught. What I believe.
So then why send a Horseman here to decimate an already war-torn world? Why make the remaining survivors even more desperate than they already are?
Unless the life remaining here is something he no longer cares for.
Then these actions make sense.
Allowing the Horseman to wander freely in pursuit of his mission will cost countless lives, weaken the world, and permit him to strip away what little chance of survival the survivors have left.
I think of the divine weapons at my disposal. Not those meant to destroy creatures immune to steel or iron, but the ones designed to restrain—the kind that could bind a being such as him.
I need time. Time to understand why his mission differs from mine. Time to decide whether what he says is true, or whether he is a threat to humanity as a whole.
Playing the damsel in distress worked in my favor… briefly. The cost of it nearly got me killed, though.
I spend the remainder of the journey leading him toward my home, planning in silence.
Calculating my odds. Accounting for every way this could unravel and turn against me.
Grand Minister Judiah’s last words to me repeat like a mantra in my head.
“Only from great sacrifice can great aims be achieved.”
When the horses arrive, I mount the stallion and adjust the reins, then tug up my cloak and touch my arm briefly. My gaze falls on the symbol etched along the inside of my forearm.
I’ve never tested it.
It might not work.
Attempting to do so would essentially be a trial by fire, and one I may not be ready for, but it is another power I have at my disposal. One that could lend me an advantage. In a way, I would be remiss not to use it.
We are both road-worn and weary by the time we reach the homestead.
Orán says nothing. He simply takes it in as Nexus slows—his stern expression transforming to one of quiet curiosity.
His gaze travels first to the small horse stable, then the roughly constructed barn beside it, and finally to the single-level house that somehow endured the catastrophes that destroyed all others nearby.
I mended the roof where a tree had fallen through and patched the exterior as best I could.
I also replaced the broken windows where needed.
Then I spent weeks traveling back and forth, relocating my belongings here—collections I couldn’t bear to part with—while the rest remained safely tucked away for the future.
Not luxury, but more than sufficient for my needs. There are no settlements within a day's ride, no roads leading travelers directly to it. So there is little chance of someone stumbling across it by chance.
The garden lies behind the house, fenced and carefully concealed. Tall pines cluster close, their branches casting deep shade and breaking the roofline from above.
The deadfall surrounding it is the only drawback—dangerous during storms, but useful all the same. The crunch of brittle leaves and the snap of underbrush carry, turning the forest floor into a natural warning system.