Flash Fiction Until Regular Posts Resume · 6:55pm Dec 26th, 2016
There are many common depictions of the four horseman, Death, Pestilence, Conquest and Famine. They are nearly all wrong. Especially about the horses.
Death is not a tall, pale rider, though he is the youngest and the tallest of the four. Conquest is not a tall, brutish warrior-Prince, Pestilence is not a green man of oozing sores, and Famine is not skin stretched taut over a weak skeletal frame.
The Riders are eternal children, and their steeds are sticks held between their legs. And when they play together, empires fall.
Famine cries constantly from hunger, with no mother to nurse him. He isn't old enough to know what is and isn't his; so he takes. And he takes, and he takes, and he takes.
Pestilence cries as well, softer. She has a rash under her nose from wiping away the dribbles, and her poor little throat hurts from the coughing. She toddles about the world, arms open, desperate for someone to cuddle up to until she feels better. They never seem to last long enough.
Conquest cries because he is angry. He's not mature enough to wonder why, or understand how he feels. He just knows he's very, very angry. He doesn't know to use his words, not his fists. He doesn't know many words anyway.
Death doesn't cry. He isn't even old enough to understand what he does. The other children think he's strange, following them around like a lost puppy. But they're the only ones that he ever sees twice.
They're a strange and restless bunch, fidgetting, tottering about the world wherever something catches their short-lived attention. There is nobody to teach them otherwise, and none of them truly understand what they do.
It's more comforting to think of them as old, and wise, as beings of intent.
But we should never attribute to malice what could readily be explained by ignorance.
Aww... That's sorta cute? ... We have no cuteness smiley...
This is certainly an interesting take on the horsemen.
How maliciously adorable.
A haunting interpretation. Maturity comes from a need to deal with a world one cannot yet deal with, so with great power comes great childishness. Very well done.
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I generally use
This is high on my wuh list. I just can't place it anywhere.
However, I now have a question. What happens to those who hug all of them at once?
Damn, that last line tho
That's what fellow immortals (or equinomorphic personifications) are for.
Does Death still talk in Smallcaps?
I wish I could add blog posts to bookshelves/favourites.
which one is conquest? I forget. I could have sworn one was conquest for some reason.
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Indeed:
Children, you say?
The summer rain fell gently upon the Carousel Boutique in a peaceful thrumming, a carefree break from the baking heat and humidity of the season that any pony would find relaxing. Any pony except for young students out on summer break, of course.
The Cutie Mark Crusaders lay slouched across Sweetie Belle’s bed while staring out of the window, waiting for the interminable rain to quit so they could go back to their favorite outdoor activity, i.e. anything that wasn’t an indoor activity.
“It’s probably a good thing we’re staying inside today, girls,” said Sweetie Belle with a sniff and a wipe of her nose that left a glistening yellow trail across the back of her hoof. “I really don’t feel like crusading outside today anyway. I’m probably going to wind up with tubes in my ears if this keeps up.”
“Again?” grumbled Scootaloo. She tapped against the window with one hoof while looking upwards for a flash of color, or perhaps a premature hole in the cloud cover. “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t get to go outside today either, since I’m grounded.”
“You shouldn’t have been fighting with Diamond Tiara,” warned Apple Bloom. She dug underneath the bed and dragged out her saddlebag, but a quick search did not reveal what she was looking for. “Durn it. Ah’m out of apples. Do you think we can go down to the kitchen and get some snacks from your sister, Sweetie?”
“In a little bit.” Sweetie Belle leaned up next to the glass and blew out to fog up one of the panes, leaving behind a faintly greasy spot once the condensation evaporated. “Yeah, I need to get another glass of juice anyway. Come on.”
The three Cutie Mark Crusaders trudged down the stairs, leaving behind a dented and scratched scooter leaning up against the window. A few hairs trimmed its metal surfaces from residents of Ponyville who had not moved fast enough when they heard the buzzing of tiny wings, but it had not tasted blood yet.
But soon. Very soon.