Where Death Rode

Where Death rode, demons followed in hordes.

The Guardian Angel Celesta served a different Horseman. Right now, a separate duty was her main priority.

Her eyes returned to the spot where her charge lay hidden underneath a pile of rubble. He couldn’t die with the others. More importantly, she did not want him in the hands of the demons who’d come to take possession of his body. With Hell’s gates wide open, more and more humans succumbed to demonic control.

The little boy needed her. Celesta was all he had left and she would not abandon him in the village where everyone else lay dead. With no charge to protect the others of her kind had already taken their leave and gone off to mourn their losses.

She’d lost track of how many fiends she’d slain to preserve the single remaining human life.

Her sword brandished red, obscuring the silver blade. Today’s outfit was ruined and it was going to take several washes to get the blood out of her red hair.

A glimmer on the ground caught Celesta’s eye as she returned her sword to the sheath on her hip. She bent to pick up the object next to her feet. A locket in the shape of a heart. Authentic gold. The clasp was broken. She’d seen the piece of jewelry before. It had belonged to her boy’s mother before Celesta ran a sword through the demon inhabiting the woman’s body. He might like to have it one day. Placing the locket in her pocket, she returned her focus to her duty.

Weary and gore-stained, she walked over to where her sleeping charge lay. Removing the rubble, Celesta lifted the child into her arms. She clutched him tight as the little body grew colder in her arms.

A quick sweep of her rural surroundings revealed most of the buildings still standing. Broken glass littered the ground second only to the blood soaked into the grass. The smell of smoke told her a fire she hadn’t set drew nearer. What had once been farmland disappeared underneath the flames. No one would come back here in time to provide the care her charge needed. Vultures and other scavengers would arrive soon and make use of the unburied dead.

With the boy’s head held close to her heart, Celesta walked away from the remains of the place where her charge was born. There were other people in the world to leave her boy with. Humans, while fragile, were resourceful. Babies were not as common as they once were.

When Death appeared before her, she faced the Angel with determination renewed. She had not fought for the child only to have him die.

“I can’t let you take him,” Celesta said. She had never been afraid of Death until now.

The Angel of Death said nothing, imposing in black and shrouded in quietness.

Celesta found his silence more alarming than if he’d spoken. His disposition did not match that of most Angels. She had never seen him any other way than aloof, almost dismissive.

If she could keep Death away from the child, he would continue living. She’d figure out the rest.

The inability to see Death’s expression did nothing to ease her anxiety.

“The boy is meant to die, Celesta.”

The Guardian Angel held the child closer to her. “I know,” she replied, voice sad though it did not waver.

Death may not have wanted a fight, but she would give him one. With reluctance she lowered the sleeping infant to the ground. She could fight with one hand occupied without difficulty. Having the boy that much closer to Death negated the need for combat. She would not make it easy for him.

“I’m not going to fight you,” he said.

She frowned, sword drawn and at the ready.

Death’s famed scythe was nowhere to be found. His lack of a weapon did not prompt Celesta to abandon hers. The odds were against her enough as it was.

She did not worry he would overpower her physically like a human woman might. Her primary concern was his capability to hold the light of her soul. The light which made her nestled underneath her human skin. If he laid a hand on her, the fight ended there. Regaining her body while in his grip, she suspected as an impossibility.

“Celesta.”

The sound of her name coming from Death both soothed and frightened.

For the sake of her charge, she solidified her resolve. She respected Death. Knew he had his job to do as well. How unfortunate for it to clash with hers. Under other less dire circumstances, she would brag to her compatriots about going up against the leader of the Four Horsemen.

Death had arrived alone. Just as quickly, they had other company. Three of the Four Horsemen stood before her.

Celesta held her ground. Let her die if she had to. Let her lose the crimson red wings marking her Guardian Angel station if it came down to it. Whatever it took to ensure her charge survived.

She turned to the new arrivals.

One could have been a mirrored image of the other. They shared an identical face. She could tell them apart, serving one adamantly and interacting with the other sporadically. They had not dressed alike: one in a suit no doubt of a reputable designer and the other as a soldier not yet gone to battle.

Her sword lowered. She re-sheathed it out of deference. It would not bode well to wield a weapon against War and Strife without being invited to.

“It figures you’d find trouble when I give you a day off,” Strife said, his tone almost jovial. He gave her a smile, which she supposed was comforting if she did not know what his smiles often meant.

She smiled back and watched in silence as he lifted her boy into a pair of suit jacket clad arms.

The Horseman examined the boy part curious and part inspective.

Strife turned his attention to her again when he found nothing amiss. “Don’t you think the kid needs a mother?”

War gave Celesta a look she couldn’t read. The brothers must not surprise each other often, not in terms of behavior as far as she could tell.

“You’re willing to lose a legionnaire?” War asked.

A shifting of broad shoulders in designer fabric shrugged. “One spot is filled easily enough,” Strife answered his twin, placing the boy back into Celesta’s awaiting arms. “Her first duty is to her charge.”

Celesta blinked back tears.

War posed no counter argument.

Death stayed silent.

“Let her raise the boy. If he dies under her care, then let her live with the guilt,” the Angel in the iron-grey suit responded.

“He’ll die eventually. What difference does it make to you if it’s now or seventy years down the road?” the Horseman in fatigues replied.

Celesta tensed, sensing Death’s gaze on her again. She fought the urge to check to see if the sleeping child still breathed.

“Raise him well,” Death said. “He won’t be spared again.”

The wind picked up and the Horsemen were gone, leaving the Guardian Angel alone with her charge.

Celesta heard horses’ hooves in the distance and turned in the opposite direction. A bath would help clear her head after her infant was fed. The baby’s cry pierced the air. She rocked the child gently in her arms as she headed home.