Death (The Four Horsemen, #4)

by Laura Thalassa

After a moment, I ask, “What does that word mean? Kismet?” He’s called me that several times before. There’s a long pause. “I assumed you would know,” he finally says. “It is a human word after all.” He adds, “It means fate.”

“Death and life, caught in an eternal embrace,” he explains. “They look like lovers,” I whisper. “They are lovers.” His eyes find mine, and I swear they can see straight to my soul.

“So run, my kismet—I’ll even give you a head start. But make no mistake: I will catch you. Your time is running out.”

“Come with me, Lazarus. Let me know what it is like to hold you instead of fighting you.”

“Which rider are you?” I ask. “The least pleasant one—excepting Death, of course.” I continue to stare at him, waiting for an actual answer. He sighs. “Humans,” he mutters under his breath. “Famine. I’m Famine—I also answer to ‘the Reaper’.”

“You can relax,” Famine says, “that’s not your boyfriend.” “Death is not my boyfriend,” I snap as rain begins to drip through the many holes in the roof. The Reaper flashes me that damn smirk. “Sure, tootsie.”

As Famine walks off with Ben, I hear him say, “I can make you more flowers, but if you shit on me, deal’s off.” “Famine,” Pestilence snaps after him. “Relax, Grandpa,” Famine calls out over his shoulder, “Ben’s going to wait until he’s on your horse before he does anything funny.” Pestilence rubs his temples. “He’ll be alright,” the horseman insists to me, dropping his hand.

“What are you thinking of when you stare at me?” I dare to ask. “That I could look at you for a thousand years and never get bored,” he says without missing a beat.

Life and death, the lovers.

“You and I are immortal. Even if it takes centuries, even if you and I are the last creatures in existence, I vow to you this: I will get you to love me—mind, body, and heart.”

“You’ve shown me how humans have sex,” he says, lifting me as he rises off the bed. His black wings spread wide behind him. “Now it’s time I show you how angels do it.”

“To live is to die,” he adds. “That was the agreement you made when you came into this world. You cannot have one without the other.”

“In all of my existence, I have never come across anything worth forsaking my duty for until I met you,” I say fervently. “You are my everything, kismet.”

I suck in my scream as Pestilence leaps, his body plummeting towards the earth. Before he can hit the ground, Famine’s plants reach out and catch the horseman. The foliage rustles as it deposits him onto the far edge of the bridge. It takes Pestilence a moment to get his bearings, but once he has them, he moves across the ropy bridge with surprising agility. He steps off of it, giving Famine a nod. “Thanks brother,” Pestilence says, lifting his bow off of his chest. “Just doing my job,” Famine says. “Ana tells me we must take care of our elderly.” The Reaper seriously does not know how to handle gratitude.

“Famine, Pestilence, Lazarus—it’s been an honor fighting at your sides. It will be an honor dying at them too. Let’s make it worth it.” “Aww, don’t get emotional on us now,” Famine quips, but the set of his mouth is all wrong and his sharp eyes glisten. “An honor,” Pestilence says, nodding to War.

“Did he do it?” he asks. I glance over my shoulder and meet Death’s gaze. He stands where I left him, and without his wings and armor, the horseman looks all the more vulnerable. “He did,” I confirm, giving Thanatos another small smile. I turn back to War. “Humanity has been saved, once and for all.” “That … bastard,” War grits out. “I knew he had it in him.”

“I’m mortal!” he shouts. His words are cut short by a sharp, hacking cough. “Fuck,” he wheezes, “I’m mortal.” “Just wait until you age,” Pestilence calls out hoarsely. “Looking forward to it, grandpa,” Famine replies.

“You were thinking about death, and I was thinking about life.” “Yes, but life and death are lovers, kismet. They always choose each other in the end.” I turn my face from the stars and meet Death’s dark gaze. “We did,” I agree, and then I kiss him.

And one awful day, Lazarus goes too, and none of my knowledge of the afterlife does anything to dull the unbearable agony of her passing. I feel her soul slip away, I see its flight up into the heavens, and this time, though a part of my essence does lead her there, it’s not this part of me—the conscious, mortal man I’ve become. And then she’s gone. And somehow, I still live, though by all rights, the part of me that matters has left. For a handful of years I exist without her, and I understand finally, truly, Lazarus’s words about loss. Then, there comes a day when I feel my own death upon me, and I want to laugh that I have somehow come full circle—I am both Death and the dying. My children and grandchildren gather around me—and those of my brothers’ flesh as well. Ben, who’s an old man himself, holds my hand as I draw my final breaths. Between one thought and the next, I slip away. There is no ferryman to lead me on, but it doesn’t matter. I know the way. I have memorized it over the eons. There, standing at the threshold of the afterlife, are my brothers, their wives— And Lazarus, my sweet Lazarus. She opens her arms, and I walk into them. And once again I am home.

*sobs*