I’m fascinated by this—to be able to hear about the thoughts of people who died. My mind wanders to my own family. Naturally, grief wells up, just like it always does. But it’s a strange sort of gift to hear about their personalities continuing on, even after death.
“So,” I say, “my brothers and sisters, my mom and my nieces and nephews …”
“They were confused for a moment because their deaths came without warning or pain. After that, there was peace.”
I force down the sudden rush of emotion.
“What is it like, taking souls?” I ask, turning the subject away from my family.
Death gets real quiet, and for several moments, all I hear is the clop of the horse’s hooves.
“I blink and ages have passed,” he finally says. “The man I took only a moment ago has decayed to dust. The roads of the town I just visited have altered their paths. Round and round the wheel of time turns, faster than even I can make sense of.”
“Does it still feel like that, even now?” I ask.
There’s another long pause.
“No,” he concedes. “Being human has made me experience time much differently.” After a moment, he adds, “I used to hate it. Each minute felt like an eternity, and the only thing to punctuate the monotony of my existence was the clop of my horse’s hooves. I thought I might go mad.
“But then,” he says, his hand finding the edge of my shirt. His fingers brush the skin beneath, “things changed once I found you. Now, I am absurdly grateful when the sun takes its time setting or rising. I’ve come to savor it like I do your skin, kismet. Every minute that drags on is one more spent with you, and I cannot imagine life ever returning to the way it once was.”
My throat closes up. No one has ever spoken to me this way—as though the world only turns because I am in it—and it makes me breathless. I can barely process that Death feels that way—and that I react to it. This would be so much easier if Thanatos wasn’t also responsible for all my grief.
I press my lips together, and though my thoughts are racing, I say nothing at all, and the two of us are left to ride in uncertain silence.
Chapter 59
Interstate 10, Southeastern California
September, Year 27 of the Horsemen
We do end up finding water shortly after we enter California. My heart pounds when I realize we’ve just about hit the western edge of the United States. I’m farther from home than I ever imagined I’d be, and I’m that much closer to seeing my son again.
We’re also that much closer to the end of the world, and there are many, many people living on this side of the country. I spent all my time resenting the large swathes of barren land we crossed that I never took a moment to revel in the fact that then, there was no one for Death to kill.
The same cannot be said of the West Coast.
“What would happen if you just let people live?” I say softly. It’s an old question, but one that bears repeating.
“I cannot,” Thanatos responds, and there is true remorse in his voice. “You have your instincts, I have mine.”
After a moment, he adds, “This is the same urge Famine fights even now.”
The thought gives me goosebumps. Ben is in his care. To think that this need to kill and destroy still lingers inside him …
My breath hitches.
“Is it just Famine who feels that way?” I ask, grasping at the hope that the other brothers will temper Famine’s … instincts.
“War and Pestilence are different,” Thanatos says. “Their drives have been cleaved away from them along with their immortality. But Famine … he is still immortal.”
“Why is he still immortal?” I ask. I’ve heard enough of the story to know that he wanted to give up his purpose and his immortality. And he’s proven that he wants to stop Death every bit as much as War and Pestilence do.
“My brother tried to set aside his task for his own personal reasons,” Thanatos says grimly. “It had nothing to do with humanity, which he still wants to burn.”
Does he though? I’ve witnessed enough of Famine’s anger and resentment to believe Death, but then, I saw the unguarded way he looked at my son, and I know there’s more to that thorny horseman. I think Death knows it too.
I frown. “But if Famine believed giving up his mortality for a single human was worth it all the same, shouldn’t that still count?” That says so much about the power of love. Is it being selfish then to choose that over destruction?