Dying in the Rian

The cacophony of rain panging off the thin metal of the helmet was maddening. Even as he drifted off into the oblivion of his mind, the noise refused to wrench itself from his ears. The thought of simply pulling it off came back to him every now and then, only to be reminded he was powerless. The heavy, wooden pillory he carried around his neck also trapped his hands, and he slowly remembered it was forced onto his head and locked in place.

'Where am I?' he thought as he once again regained some lucidity. It was dark. He shifted his weight and knew he was hunched over on his knees. Water pooled around him. He could no longer feel it, but he was freezing cold. Everything came back to him in waves and left just as quickly.

The blood and the killing, the beasts and the horrible misery of it all. The battle played in his head as if it happened all in an instant. The Four killed all his people.

‘I lost...’ He felt lightning jolt his body. 'Where's the girl?' The name came to his head, 'Avina, Avina!' With what was still in him, he willed his body to stand, but all strength was robbed from him long before then. He leant forward and fell, the weight of his body slamming the wooden pillory into his throat. His head splashed in a puddle, and the water began to pool in through the holes in the helmet's visor. He felt it chill his cheek as the taste of mud spilled into his mouth. 'I lost.'

Suddenly, he was dragged up, or the pillory was and he with it. His head hung heavy, and an orange beam broke through the darkness, spilling in through the slit in the visor. He struggled to adjust his eyes to focus through the light. There was someone there.

The figure loomed large above him, shadowed by the light that burned behind him. He couldn't make out the face- there was no face, no eyes, but the dim whiteness of his skull was unmistakable. Death looked down on him. He had covered himself in a black cloak that draped over his shoulders. There were no eyes, but his glare persisted.

Another figure adjusted him back up, not with care but an animalistic tear and almost dislocated the young man's shoulder. On his knees again, he could see Famine release his arm, the fur of his headpiece dripping wet. The horseman stood and gave a silent look to his brother in arms, whose skull gave the slightest of nods before turning away. The man thought to demand answers, but his voice failed to come out.

Famine grabbed the chain attached to the pillory just below the man's chin and suddenly drew him to his feet. With little strength he trudged behind them on feeble and trembling legs, his bare feet ice cold in the muddy rainwater. Famine pulled him behind Death, who walked beside his pale horse from which a lantern burned. Their footsteps were both heavy. The clanking of Death’s metal armor drummed powerfully against even the storm.

There were more lights in the distance. Difficult as it was to see, he lifted his head to get a view and saw a horse drawn carriage was stopped in the road with more lanterns strewn about its frame. Two men stood beside it along with a few horses.

The other two horsemen, War and Pestilence, stood and seemed to wait for the young man to arrive. Pestilence began to approach as soon as his fellow horsemen drew near, his white vestments soaked completely through.

He smirked. "Have you had your fun?" he asked, in a chiding tone.

"No," Famine hissed. He pulled the chain, and the young man was pulled back down to the mud once again with a heavy splash. "Why do we have to do this? They're going to kill him anyway." His rough voice growled like some creature.

Pestilence said, "They want to do it in a place people will see. They want justice, by the book.”

'So, they are going to kill me,' he thought. It made sense, though it was funny. These infamous figures following someone else's orders did come as some surprise. They seemed more like creatures a witch would summon in some dark ritual.

“It’s not fair!” Famine shouted. “This one was ours!”

“We have to play the game on this one.” Pestilence said in an even tone.

The young man couldn't help but wonder who these people were to each other. Those two especially, Pestilence and Famine, seemed so different. The Ill-maker was a noble, no doubt. He had that air about him and spoke like an educated man. But Famine was as far from that as could be, little more than a starving dog.

“I want my pound of flesh,” the wild man continued.

Pestilence laughed. "Hungry?"

The prisoner felt the stir of fear in his chest as Famine glared down at him.

"No," Famine hissed. "He’s not special. The meat would taste like shit anyway."

'Meat?' The man's mind raced. They talked about it so casually, like they had this conversation before. The horrors in his homeland caused by the old rulers were what their homeland used as a reason to invade- waving their moral superiority around like a banner. Brutality in war was one thing, but it seemed they had their own monsters.

Death stepped forward, leaning his skull face to Pestilence's ear. There were no words the man could hear, but breath escaped from under the dirty teeth of his face. He was a man after all.

Pestilence placed his hand on Death's shoulder, a metallic clank audible from their armor meeting. He pulled him to the side, seemingly to speak. With some effort, the man attempted to turn his head to follow them. Whatever it was they were speaking about it seemed important. The white of Pestilence's garb made it hard to lose him in the darkness as they stepped away from the lights, but Death's black armor and cloak made him disappear almost immediately, save the skull that loomed alone in the shadows.

A 'Clank, Clank' echoed in his helmet, shocking the young man’s senses. He recoiled, believing for a moment he was being attacked once again, but soon understood it to be a 'knock at the door' of sorts. Turning his head back, he saw the fourth of the horsemen, War, crouched over him with his cape tucked over his arm to keep it from the mud. The screaming, metal face emblazoned on his visor was quite the intimidating sight hovering a mere foot from the prisoner's own face.

"Hello!" called out War. His deep voice was somehow cordial. He tilted the visor up into his helmet and showed his face. He was a pale man in his forties with a deep red beard, weirdly similar to the face on the visor. "I've a question," he asked. Despite it all, he seemed affable.

The young man couldn't muster up any words but decided there was nothing to lose in listening. He moved his head enough to lift the helmet slowly up before letting it slump back down in the mud, hoping it looked something like a nod.

War smiled. "So," he began, "I understand why ye adopted the persona. A fine figure to rally support behind while hiding your identity."

Famine scoffed. "He’s just a coward."

War looked over his shoulder to his ally. "There's such a thing as a sore winner, lad," he said as if a scolding father.

Famine turned his head away, clearly bitter, as War looked back to his mud-soaked captive.

"Now," War continued, "My question is, why ‘The Yellow Lion’ as the persona? Was it a deliberate choice or did ye just happen upon the helmet and decide that was good enough?"

Though he couldn't answer, the young man found the question peculiar. What did it matter anymore now that he was exposed?

"He can't speak anymore." Famine chimed in after War waited patiently for an answer. After a brief consideration, war grabbed the man's ice-cold hand.

"One finger for Yes, two fingers for No." War smiled as if he were a friend.

This would almost certainly be the last friendly touch the young man would have, and he couldn't even feel it. Either from the hands of an executioner or perhaps an illness he was contracting at that very moment, he would die. He wouldn't plead for it; his life was not something he saw as precious, and he had already failed his duty. There was only one thing left in his world he would fight for.

Something near inaudible escaped the poor man's lips, and War leant down to hear, almost pressing his ear to the helmet.

"Av... ee..." was all the young man could force out of himself. War raised his head.

"The lass?" War asked.

A cold finger raised as the young man shouted in his mind, 'Avina! Avina!' He had to see her one more time. She had to be safe. It could not be for nothing.

War nodded. "She's safe. With her we've won, but ye know that. She's sleeping now. Answer my questions and I'll let ye see her."

There was hope in those words.

"Don't make promises," called out a voice. It was Pestilence, Death standing to his back. War looked at them and waved with a smile. "What are you doing?" Pestilence continued.

"Research," War said.

"A new ballad?" Pestilence asked, some exhaustion in his voice.

War stood. "Anyone who crosses blades with us and lives to tell about it deserves some recognition."

"He didn't." said Pestilence. "He died of his wounds."

War tilted his head. Their captive, despite freezing in the rain, felt his blood run cold. 'No,' he thought. 'Not yet!'

War crossed his arms and smirked, his head looking back and forth between Pestilence and Death. "I see. Little brother caught your ear, did he?"

Pestilence smiled, looked at Death out of the corner of his eye before stepping past War. "We did our best; we took him as far as we could." He approached Famine and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You don't come to us and expect a light touch." Famine seemed to perk up. Pestilence walked away, towards the horses. "Don't take all night. Strip the body of the shackles and toss it deep into the woods." War looked down at the young man, pulled his visor back down and turned to follow Pestilence.

Death grabbed his horse by the leads and began walking into the dark forest as Famine yanked the chain up to bring his prisoner to his feet. The young man felt terror rise in him. In vain, he tried to pull against his chain but knew he was powerless. The girl, the only thing he wanted, was slipping away. He was promised. 'That bastard,' he shrieked in his head. 'He made me hope! Ripped it away for nothing!’

Famine followed Death and pulled the prisoner with him. Desperately, the young man allowed himself to fall into the mud, allowing all his weight to anchor him there. Famine pulled with all his might and slowly dragged his dead weight through inches of cold filth.

"Avee...!" He tried to call out with a hoarse and broken voice. "Aveeen..." He felt his throat ache and strain. Famine turned back, approached and pulled viciously on the chain, bringing the young man to his knees once more.

"Lad!" A voice called out over the rain. It was that friendly voice War had used. With nothing to lose, the man tilted his head over to see. War stood beside the carriage, holding a little bundle of blankets in his arms. His eyes strained to see at that distance, but the reflection of the light against the strands of yellow hair shined like a beacon.

"Avina!" he cried, the very last of his strength creeping back up into his throat.

The girl, who was half asleep, snapped back to herself and understood who was under the helmet. She struggled to free herself from War's grasp as he stood unmoving like a statue.

“Father!” she cried.

He cried again, "Avina! Avina!” before being sent to the ground, having been struck in the head by a heavy, steel boot. He lay on his back, water dripping into his eyes and mouth. The dark figure stood above him then reached down and grabbed the chain at the base of his throat. The horseman pulled him up with no effort and dragged his feet behind him through the rainwater.

Death, finally, was taking him. It was all over. Pulled into darkness, the little cries vanishing into distance. The cacophony of rain panging off the thin metal of the helmet was maddening.