Revisiting Old Wounds
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Eridessa
“Grand Minister Judiah?”
I knock again and wait.
When no answer comes, I turn to leave, but hesitate.
I’ve already searched the entire monastery and haven’t been able to find him anywhere.
Worry coils tighter in my chest. It’s not like him to be absent from his duties this long, and the elders I questioned about his whereabouts offered only vague reassurances and polite deflections.
This time, after knocking once, I test the doorknob.
Locked.
That should be the end of it.
But two hours later, while seated on the edge of my bed, I find myself rereading the same passages that had sent me searching for him in the first place. The words refuse to make sense no matter how many times I read them, and sleep feels impossible with these questions plaguing me.
I know this was referenced somewhere else.
Not in the Good Book.
In the other text.
The one Grand Minister Judiah allows me to study only within the privacy of his quarters—scriptures reserved for the Chosen, hidden from the wider order. If I can get inside, maybe I can find it again. Maybe I can understand why I find this so disturbing.
I retrieve my notepad and pencil from the small writing desk and carefully copy the verses down, word for word.
And in the latter days, when the seals of Heaven are loosened, and the firmament grows thin, the Riders shall walk once more among the living.
They shall come as heralds of the final hour, bearing the weight of divine purpose.
The White shall rise first, and his voice shall carry conquest.
The Red shall follow, and war shall be his breath.
The Pale One shall measure the starving with righteous scales.
And the last shall bring a great silence, and his name shall be Death.
Together they shall pass through the nations, and the earth shall bow beneath their judgment.
Cities shall fall, and kingdoms shall be humbled.
Kings shall kneel beside beggars.
The rivers shall turn dry, and the fields shall yield no harvest.
And the children of man shall cry out in fear and supplication, and their voices shall rise to Heaven.
Then shall the Great Redeemer reawaken to His creation and look upon the world in its suffering and remembrance, and His heart shall be stirred for those who endure. He shall weigh the souls of mankind not only by their deeds, but by their mercy.
From the faithful, He shall gather light.
From the broken, He shall offer rest.
Though the world be brought low, it shall not be forgotten.
Many souls shall be called home. Many more shall remain to bear witness. And Heaven’s Gate shall open for those found worthy of grace.
All before the stars tremble in their resting places, and the firmament is made rife with holy fire.
Fear shall give way to courage. Hunger shall be met with compassion. Brother shall lift brother, even as the wastelands threaten to swallow what remains.
For the righteous shall rise in those days.
And from the righteous there will rise a Chosen.
Marked by faith.
Refined in trial.
Bound to both flesh and spirit.
A Chosen to carry the memory of what was and the promise of what shall yet be, and they shall guide mankind across the valley of ending, toward the light that does not fade.
For though the world must pass, the faithful shall find sanctuary in Heaven until it is remade.
And though judgment comes, mercy shall reign.
I set the notepad aside and press my palms to my thighs, grounding myself.
The words echo in my head, overlapping, rearranging themselves in ways that oppose a few of these passages.
Something about them doesn’t align with what I remember from Grand Minister Judiah’s private texts.
It’s subtle. A difference in tone. In intent.
Like two versions of the same truth told by different mouths.
I rise quietly and grab my notebook.
From the small wooden box beneath my bed, I retrieve a bobby pin and straighten it between my fingers. Then I slide on my slippers and draw my robe close around me.
The halls are empty at this hour. Wall sconces burn low, their flames casting warped shadows along the corridors. Crucifixes hang at regular intervals, Christ’s suffering etched in wood and bronze, and His gaze feels as if it follows me as I pass.
Every footstep feels louder than it should, though I work to remain as quiet as possible.
When I reach Judiah’s door again, I pause.
“Grand Minister Judiah,” I whisper as I knock softly once more.
Still no answer.
My pulse thuds in my ears as the seconds tick past.
I glance down the hallway, then kneel and slide the bobby pin into the lock. My hands remember this motion too easily from lessons the Order never sanctioned, but I, as a wayward child, because I was one of the youngest, learned them anyway.
After a few careful turns, the mechanism gives.
The door opens with a soft click.
Inside, his quarters are orderly and sparse, holding the faint scent of incense and old paper.
I step in and close the door quickly behind me, then reach for the taper near the entrance and light it from the hallway flame.
The candle casts a small, trembling circle of light that barely pushes back the shadows.
The bed dominates the room, neatly made, the linens smooth and untouched. Faded art lines the walls—painted saints and a small framed Madonna—all watching in solemn stillness as I step farther inside.
The wooden frame where his cassock hangs is across the room, and his stole is carefully draped over one arm, as if waiting for his return. Beside it sits a dresser, and there I set my notebook down as I look around.
The room looks much the same as the last time I visited, furnished with antiques and shelves filled to the brim with books and old religious relics.
I move first to the far shelves, lifting the candle higher as I scan the spines. Theology. History. Apocrypha. I slide volumes aside, then crouch to check the lower rows.
It isn’t here.
My gaze drifts to the narrow cabinet in the corner. When I reach it, I find it locked as well. I try to pick it, but the mechanism refuses to grant me entry.
My stomach tightens with unease.
I war with myself for a moment, then begin searching for a key.
If I’m already going to be burdened with the guilt for invading his space uninvited, I refuse to leave empty-handed.
I check the pockets of his cassock, my fingers brushing reverently over the wool and the embroidered symbols on his stole. I move to the nightstand beside his bed, rifling cautiously through his personal effects, careful to return everything exactly as I found it.
Nothing.
I cross the room to his desk, lifting a stack of papers, resetting them, checking beneath a rosary and a small wooden cross.
Still nothing.
My pulse quickens.
I tug at the top drawer and find it locked.
The key is beyond it. I just know it.
I pause to listen for footsteps, then kneel again. The pick slides in easily this time, though the lock resists at first before finally yielding. Slowly, I pull the drawer open.
Inside lies folded correspondence—and beneath it, tucked carefully out of sight, a small brass skeleton key.
My breath leaves me in a quiet rush.
I cross back to the cabinet and unlock it.
Inside rests a gold chalice, folded consecrated cloth, several sealed vials—and beneath them, wrapped in faded linen, a familiar volume. No title marks its cover, yet it is unmistakably ancient, so I treat it with care.
The leather is cracked with age. The edges of its pages are darkened by centuries of hands. It’s the texts that Judiah only allows a few select among the Chosen to study.
I gently free it from the cloth and lift it to my chest. I retrieve my notebook, then carry both back to his desk and set them down as I take a seat, drawing the candle closer.
I know what kind of punishment is in store if I’m caught, but I proceed anyway. Even after my fingers take a moment to find and brush the thin scars trailing over the top of my shoulder. A reminder of past corrections.
Palms damp, and sweat gathering beneath my robe, I close my eyes and whisper a prayer for forgiveness before opening the book.
The pages whisper as I turn them, candlelight trembling over familiar script and Judiah’s careful marginal notes. I flip faster, searching for the passage that has been haunting me.
And then I find it.
The words are similar, but just as I feared, they do not match those in the Good Book.
My pencil trembles as I steady it over my notepad.
I lean closer, heart pounding, and begin to copy it—every line, every deviation—while the monastery sleeps around me in peaceful slumber.
And in the latter days, when the seals of Heaven are loosened, and the firmament grows thin, the Riders shall walk once more among the living.
They shall come clothed in judgment, crowned in ash and fire, bearing the weight of divine decree.
The White shall rise first, and his voice shall carry conquest.
The Red shall follow, and war shall be his breath.
The Pale One shall measure the starving with uneven scales.
And the last shall bring about a great silence, and his name shall be Death.
Together they shall pass through the nations, and the earth shall bow beneath their hooves.
Cities shall crumble like dust.
Kings shall kneel beside beggars.
The rivers shall dry up, and the fields shall yield no harvest.
And the children of man shall cry out for mercy, but their prayers shall echo unanswered in the hollow places of Heaven.
For in that hour, the Creator shall turn His gaze away.
The Great Redeemer shall look beyond this world—its ruin and remembrance—and set His sight upon realms unformed. And the earth shall be written into the Book of Life as lost, its name sealed in sorrow.
From its dust, He shall draw the substance of a new world.
From its ashes, He shall fashion new dawns.
For this world shall be weighed and found wanting.
Among the souls gathered, many will be scattered to the four winds. And countless voices shall fall silent beneath the closing of Heaven’s Gate.