Breath

by Jackie Morse Kessler

  “Words have meaning,” the boy said. “That’s the entire point of them.”

  “Words mean exactly what the person hearing them wants them to mean. Apocalypse is just a word.”

  “A word that means the end of the world!”

  “It’s a word, Xander. It doesn’t cause the end of anything, except, perhaps, my patience.”

  “But—”

  “Listen to you argue.” He leaned back against the wind and laughed softly. “What’s the point of explaining anything? You hear only what you want to hear. You always have. You can read the most complex meaning into the fall of a stray leaf, all the while ignoring someone screaming at you to get out of the way of the toppling tree. Subjective reality at its finest.”

  The boy threw his hands wide, his fear of heights long forgotten. “If that’s the case,” he said, “if I don’t believe you’re going to kill yourself and take the world with you, then it won’t happen. If reality is subjective, then it’s all what I make of it.”

  Death waited.

  “Is that what you’re saying?” the boy asked, his voice dropping low. “Are you just in my head?”

  He smiled. “One way to find out.”

  They stared at each other, the man who was not a man and the boy who had the world in his hand.

  “Release me from my boon,” he said to the boy, “and I’ll throw myself off your balcony right now. Maybe I’ll bounce when I hit bottom. Maybe where I touch down will be ground zero. Or maybe,” he said slyly, “nothing will happen because I don’t really exist. Maybe I’m a malevolent demon, and what you’re seeing is just an illusion. Are you willing to find out? Or will you still go along with what you think is real?”

  The boy closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. When he opened his eyes again, he said, “This is real. Right here, right now.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do,” the boy declared. “You said that apocalypse is just a word. Then what’s the purpose of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse?”

  “They’re great bridge players.”

  The boy glowered at him.

  “They help me, Xander. They each have their demesnes. Famine oversees the balance between starvation and abundance. War encourages outlets for aggression. Pestilence is the conqueror of disease and health. They take a lot off my plate.”

  “So they don’t kill people?”

  “Directly? They can. They usually don’t. People have a way of dying all by themselves.”

  “But why does there have to be a balance between starvation and abundance at all? Why do people have to go hungry? That’s cruel,” the boy said. “Dying of disease, dying from war, that’s wrong and cruel and stupid.”

  “Living things die, Xander. It’s just a matter of how and when. But if it makes you feel any better, the purpose of the Horsemen is to avoid having everyone die of disease or starvation or warfare. They prevent the apocalypse.”

  The boy frowned, and his forehead creased as he tried to make sense of the words. “What do you mean?”

  “My presence acts as a battery charger, as you said. What happens if a battery gets overcharged?”

  “Um . . . a short-circuit, I think . . .”

  “What happens if your world short-circuits?” He smiled. “I’ll tell you. Disease runs rampant. Crops fail. Earthquakes. Tidal waves. War. In other words, game over.”

  The boy’s face paled, and he let out a strangled “Oh.”

  “It’s always been a balancing act for me.” He felt the weight of millennia press against him, and he sighed. “I’m connected to everything, from the mold that causes food to rot to the germs that cause disease, to the people who willingly choose to slaughter one another. I can sway the tides and calm volcanoes. It’s a question of knowing when to do so.”

  “Like firefighters knowing when to let a forest fire burn itself out, and when to put it out?”

  “Exactly like that,” he said, nodding. “That had been part of my job for thousands of years: finding the balance of life and death.”

  “But now you had the Horsemen to help you with that.”

  “Yes.”

  “So how did the ‘Apocalypse’ part come into it? I know,” the boy said quickly, “I know it’s just a word. But it’s part of the name. It got there somehow.”

  “People have to name things, especially those things they don’t understand. It gives them a sense of control.” He shrugged. “Mortals can’t see the Horsemen unless the Horsemen wish to be seen. But mortals recognize us, even if they can’t see us. They sense us. In the backs of their minds, they know what we are. And that terrifies them. So they create destruction myths and place us front and center. Thus, we’re the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

  “That’s sort of unfair.”

  “Could have been worse. We could have been the Horsemen of Perpetual Cheer.”

  The boy grinned. “Now, that’s terrifying.”

  The two of them shared a laugh, and for that moment, it was good.

  “So now you had companions,” said the boy.

  He nodded. “I gave them a portion of my power, and they were reborn as Horsemen. The world trembled at their coming. That’s not hyperbole, by the way. Unleashing part of my power caused a massive earthquake. Completely leveled Sparta,” he said. “War, the Red Rider, took advantage of the chaos and incited the helots to rise up against their remaining masters. That wound up paving the way for the Peloponnesian War. She couldn’t have been happier.”

  “All of that,” the boy said, his voice filled with wonder, “from what you did?”

  “Yep.” He smiled fleetingly as he remembered War leading the helots into battle, her scream of defiance and violent joy tingeing the air red.

  “So many people died,” the boy said.

  “You make it sound like a tragedy,” he replied, clucking his tongue. “It’s just a matter of perspective. Like I said, Xander, everyone dies. It’s just a matter of how and when.”

  The boy said nothing for a long moment as he digested the words. Finally, he asked, “Once you had your companions helping you with your job, did that make things better for you?”

  “For a time,” he admitted. “I talked with them, far more than I ever had with other humans. I watched the world with them. I enjoyed their company. Well. For the most part. There were times when one or the other of them would be quite frustrating. But they did make things better for me.”

  “Because the Horsemen were your friends,” said the boy.

  He felt himself tense, though he didn’t know why.

  “Of course not,” he said. “Famine was too awed by me to ever be something as familiar as a friend, and Pestilence was too engrossed with his work and, frankly, with Famine.”

  Undeterred, the boy asked, “What about War?”

  He remembered her hand in his, so warm that it heated him from within. Her energy, her heat, thawing him, making him feel something close to alive.

  “She and I became . . . close.”

  “So she’s your friend,” the boy pressed. “Right?”

  The tension grew, and now it hinted at anger. “That War is long gone,” he said sharply. “All three of them died. For all of their new power, they were still just people. They died, and I offered their power to others.”

  “What others?”

  “Too many to count.”

  Flashes of red and white and black as he pictured the faces of the different Riders across the years.

  “When the first three Horsemen died, I took their power and placed it into specific tools. A set of scales for Famine. A sword for War. A crown for Pestilence. And then I gave those tools to other humans, who then became Horsemen.”

  “Dead humans?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Can a dead human wear a crown or wield a sword? No, only those first three were brought back to life. And that took too much out of me to do again. Plus, earthquakes. So every other Horseman-to-be from that point on was either dying, about to di
e, or thinking of dying. Teenagers, mostly.”

  “And yet, we’re not even allowed to vote. There’s irony for you.”

  “Adults have already become the people they’re going to be. But teenagers are first discovering who they really are, what they can do. I’d rather give massive power to someone who can grow into it and learn how to use it instead of giving it to someone who’s more rigid.” He smiled tightly. “Less tendency for teens to go power-crazy or just crazier than adults.”

  “Are there Horsemen out there today, now?”

  “Sure. Famine broods over calories, and Pestilence whispers to scientists to nudge them into finding cures. War is passionate as ever.”

  He traced his fingers along his mouth, imagined the feeling of War’s lips against his, of her fist against his face.

  He was so numb.

  “Then talk to them,” the boy said.

  He didn’t reply.

  “Tell them how you’re feeling,” urged the boy. “Tell them that you’re suicidal, that you want to end it all. They’re your companions. They understand you better than anyone else. They can help you.”

  “Help me?” he echoed coldly. “No, Xander Atwood. No, they wouldn’t help me.”

  “Of course they would . . .”

  “Do you know what they’re doing right now, as I prattle on and on about the life of Death?” He smiled a skeletal grin. “They’re talking about how to stop me.”

  Xander

  Death’s eyes gleamed as he gazed upon Xander. “What do you think of that?” he said, his voice cold and brittle. “The three other Horsemen are gathered right now, plotting against me.”

  “How could you know that?” Xander asked, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing.

  “I see everything. I’m connected to them, more so than to anything else. Part of me animates them, makes them what they are. I feel the wind on their flesh, the sun on their heads. I smell their sweat. I hear their accusations. Oh, the things I hear.”

  “What . . .” Xander’s voice cracked. “What do you hear?”

  “True things. Painful things.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s how they would help me, Xander. They use their words to flay me.”

  “But they’re your companions,” he said desperately. “Your friends.”

  Death leaned forward in a sudden motion, startling Xander into taking a step backward.

  “Friends?” Death hissed. “You mean the people who talk behind your back, who say things about you? Who betray you? Are those friends, Xander Atwood?”

  Ted’s face, looking wane and exhausted and so very haunted.

  Suzie shouting at him, telling him—

  “No,” Xander growled. “Friends have your back. You can turn to them, no matter what. That’s what they do,” he insisted. “Friends are there for you, always!”

  A smile crept along Death’s mouth. It was an upsetting smile, one completely devoid of humor and bordering on ugliness.

  “Friends can break your heart,” he said softly, poisonously. “Which is why I don’t have one. Excuse me for a moment.”

  With that, Death vanished.

  Xander stood on the empty balcony, his mouth opening and closing and opening again. A strong gust of wind whipped past, snapping him out of his daze. He grabbed the baby monitor and hightailed it back inside his apartment, shutting the balcony door behind him.

  He let out a shaky breath and wondered if he was losing his mind. A glance at his watch showed him that he’d been standing outside for almost thirty minutes.

  “Okay,” he said, trying to convince himself that it was, indeed, okay. “Okay.”

  He didn’t believe it was okay at all.

  Feeling lost and alone and hopeless, Xander wandered down the hall, heading for the nursery. One look at his baby brother would settle him, ground him, remind him of what was real. Because, honestly—Death? That was a bit much, wasn’t it?

  Of course it was.

  He must have imagined the entire thing. Vividly. Because Death wasn’t some anthropomorphic personification, let alone some stranded alien entity or a grounded angel. Death happened. People lived; people died. Period.

  Okay, he told himself as he opened the nursery door. He’d check on his brother, and then he’d try Riley again. Maybe even give Ted a call, see what he was up to. Xander, the man with the plan.

  Feeling renewed, he walked over to the crib and smiled as he peeked inside.

  The smile froze on his face, then cracked as his mouth twisted into a rictus of disbelief and horror.

  Lex was gone.

  Outside the apartment, the wind howled.

  Part Four

  INTERVENTION

  Everything intercepts us from ourselves.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  War

  War paced along the beach, her footprints marring the sand. The wind tore against the ground strongly enough to kick up dirt and silt, pelting War with sediment. She barely noticed. On one side of her, a massive cliff reached up, covered with green vegetation that seemed to mock her with its brightness. On the other side, the Pacific Ocean stretched out and out, the rolling water striped in ribbons of blue.

  She hated looking at all that blue. It made her think of him, of his eyes that were once so unfathomable.

  Snarling, she continued her march along the narrow strip of beach. Her warhorse kept out of her way, amusing itself by hunting rats in the undergrowth. Normally, she would have told the horse not to kill, but at the moment, she didn’t really give a damn. She was in a black, black mood, so she let her steed get its jollies by taking out as many rats as it wanted.

  Around her, the wind howled.

  War stomped her boots into the damp sand, leveling it, leaving impressions like ruins. As she marched, her fingers clenched and released, clenched and released. She was itching to summon her Sword, to feel its perfect weight in her hands and swing it far and wide. She wanted to split the sky and hear its screams; she wanted to hew the earth until it wept.

  She wanted the world to bleed.

  War breathed in through gritted teeth and refused to draw out her Sword. There would be time for blood after.

  She could always find time for blood.

  Missy Miller hasn’t cut herself in years, not since she truly accepted the Sword of War and all that it meant. The lock box with her razor is still sequestered in the safety of her bedroom; even though she never intends to use it again, she can’t bring herself to throw it away. It’s a part of who she is, or who she was—it’s a reminder of how far she’s come.

  Breathing deeply, taking in the taste of salt and dust, she continued her circuit of the beach. Waves slapped at the shore and receded and then returned, their rolling crashes echoing her own rolling fury—she fumed, she quieted, she fumed once more.

  Finally, she couldn’t bear the wait. She reached out with her mind and demanded, Where are you?

  A feeling like a stifled sneeze, and then a reply: Just over Peru. Be right there.

  A smell of burned chocolate, and another reply: I see New Zealand coming up.

  Move your asses, she growled.

  This time, there was no reply.

  War hated being ignored. She folded her arms and seethed.

  She still gets angry, sometimes so angry it’s like she loses herself in a sea of red. And there are other times when her control is a precarious thing, and the lock box becomes so very enticing. But overall, she’s found a balance between bottling her rage and letting it fly free. More than that, she’s found a way to be both Missy Miller and the Red Rider of the Apocalypse. Part of it is having a few years of experience under her belt, but most of it is listening to her gut, knowing when it’s time to put away the Sword and settle back with her college books and weekly phone calls with her family.

  And part of it is knowing that no matter what she does or who she is, he’s there for her.

  Moments later, the White Rider and his steed touched down on the beach, the horse running along
the sand and coming to a jerky halt not ten feet in front of her. She tapped her foot as he patted his horse’s neck and murmured that the steed shouldn’t worry, that he would be right there on the beach and he promised he’d come back. The horse blew against his gloved hand, a nervous reply that meant a range of things from “Okay, gotcha” to “Don’t leave me” to “I’ll be brave.”

  War rolled her eyes. The white steed suffered from separation anxiety. She had no patience for anxiety.

  Her own horse, fiery red and strong, agreed with her as it broke the back of yet another rat.

  War couldn’t complain about her horse eavesdropping, since she had just done the same with the White Rider and his steed. Even so, she didn’t like it. At the moment, she didn’t like much of anything.

  “Red,” said Pestilence, the White Rider, as he walked up to her. He had a confident stride and an easy smile, though his eyes were guarded. His outfit was snow white, but sand billowed around him as he walked, speckling the white with dirt. His thin silver crown caught the sunlight oddly, seeming almost invisible and then winking hypnotically. A broad white patch marked his hair, but whether that was from his tenure as the White Rider or simply a fashion statement, War couldn’t say; her own hair was short and spiky and tended to be various shades of red.

  She liked red. No matter how much she hated everything else, she would always like red.

  “White,” she replied, nodding once.

  Neither of them offered to shake hands.

  WEAK, War thought, but then pushed the thought away. That wasn’t her; it was the voice of the Sword. It had very distinct opinions, and she did her best to keep those opinions out of her brain. If it were up to the Sword, she would have set the world on fire long ago.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet,” she said. The three of them rarely got together, other than when work had them cross paths. She liked Pestilence well enough, though he was too much of a pacifist for her taste. As for Famine, War tolerated her. Barely.

  “I was glad you suggested it,” Pestilence said. A pause, and then: “Have you heard from him?”

  Her lip curled into a sneer. “Since this morning? No. You?”