It began in the mornings, every morning, when the mists lay heavy in the air and dew sparkled in the grass. People wove their way past one another, eyes so blankly set on their own destinations that they paid no mind to the unusually thick, cold mist. If they had they may have noticed.
The first to arrive came on a White horse, it’s riders hands were empty as they stood, still and quiet. And if you squinted you see it’s coat, for just a moment, blinding against the grey mist.
He was Conquest. Pestilence. He spread through the mist, into lungs, through skin. He was steeped into the water we drank and the food we ate.
Then came the sunrise. Blazing red and yellow gold, spreading across the mist like a beautiful, terrible fire. And across each beam ran a Red horse, urged on by its rider who’s hand stretched out as they chased the light, as if to catch it. And if you looked closely you could see the glint of his sword.
He was War, and he spread through the fire of each sunrise, as each ray slipped through opening eyes and into our hearts.
Next came the cold nights, when the flowers would close their blooms and we would close our eyes. And none of us would remember the way we dreamed, of empty fields and empty skies. Of a Black horse who’s rider held scales in one hand.
He was Justice. Famine. And he would curl into our minds, and sit in our memories, and we would awaken hungry.
Finally there was the nature. The trees, the birds, the things that crawled beneath the earth and those that walked upon it. They groaned and glowed, and watched us with eyes that saw far too much.
And with them came a Pale horse, peering through the trees without a rider, moving quickly as though always searching, always so far away, but always right beside you if you looked.
And it was on the last day that it happened; the mist cleared, and we blinked at the clarity. We recalled our dreams, and wept at the emptiness we’d seen. The sun didn’t rise, and we ran out to the darkened streets. The animals fled into forests that grew overnight, and we followed them to the edges.
And it was from these forests that they finally came forward, these men on their horses.
The White rider of Conquest.
The Black rider of Justice.
And trailing behind came the Ashen Grey, the Pale horse, and upon his back there was at last a rider, and we knew then that he was Death. And we fell to our knees, in awe and horror, as they turned their backs and faced the pitch black horizon.
Conquest had indeed conquered us, his vitality and hope spreading through us like a disease, until we knew no illness.
War gifted us the fire in our hearts, each beat pushing it through our minds and bodies until we stood tall, ready to rage against the coming end.
Justice starved us, left us hungry for life, a rally cry against the injustice of the end.
Death stood beside us, an eternal companion, watching and waiting, and he gave us hope for more than we could see.
The Horsemen of the Apocalypse had come, and they were here to save us.
izzy806
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
ellievsbear
snowghoul
