꧁𓊈𝔖𝔨𝔯𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔱𝔦𝔞'𝔰𓊉꧂

All are titles obtained through self hatred. He loathes the guilt that haunts his hands, that marks his twisted soul. With every dawn and dusk, there is nothing else he can call himself. These burdening sins that he must endure are a thousand tortures on his soul, like knives that shred and embed into his skin. But now, with humanity’s resurrection, there is a fighting chance. Perhaps one to find redemption in his role to protect them. To somehow make up for everything wrong he’s done. 

But there is one sin that is beyond atonement.

You. 

What he did is unforgivable. He’s not ready to confess to his siblings all that which he’s done. Maybe he never will be. Hardly can he find the courage to face it himself and because of this, he is tormented by his sin. By you. 

The embers of that funeral pyre refuse to burn out. To let him forget. To discard a memory he continues endlessly to purge and repent for. But there is no absolution. Not for this sin.

Not when he’d found that dagger amongst the treasure hoard all that time ago. An artefact from a time before; when the world made sense to him.

When the bloodshed made sense. The never ending slaughter and butchery of countless realms. Back when he was a cold-blooded — a black-hearted — killer. A time where he didn’t need a reason. When he enjoyed it. 

A time before he became a Horsemen… and only after he’d been too late at stopping himself from driving that dagger into your heart. 

The unfocused temper of his golden gaze flickers momentarily like a flame disturbed by a sudden breeze, wavering in his deep and dark reverie. A trip down a not-so-fond lane of memory. Always with the contemplation. The regret. The guilt.

Your enemy, the Nephilim, stands together as a wall that comes around to circle you, ever so creeping inward to cage you within their sights. The dented scraps of metal and bone ornament armour are beaten and cracked, bindings of adorned leather wither in ragged strips with threads splitting at the seams, and blood… blood, dirt and sweat clings to your skin so unnaturally that it stains your skin painfully. 

You lean upon the hilt of your broken blade mounted deeply within the dirt, it acts as a faltering pillar that’s due to give in at any moment. Each breath you take in is one believed to be your last, your chest quivers and aches under the strenuous force of keeping your body somewhat upright. Your eyes are heavy until your lashes flutter over the sunken rim beneath, sore from being aimed narrowly in constant motion. Little did your battle allow your brows to unease from furrowing with concentration. 

Breath tumbles over your bottom lip in hot, searing waves as your tousled hair glues to you in whichever way, wisps cast over your face with a shadowed curtain even more, given your poor, slouched-forward posture that barely holds any strength to stand. 

The shuddering weight of feet moves towards you, thick hided and iron enforced boots come into vision to easily overcrowd your entire line of sight. The barbaric appearance of his armour is coated in layers of dark blood but hardly shows signs of afflicted damage. He’d been watching you through the battle’s duration, that you can be rest assured of, and now his eyes take you in at this enclosed distance. A large, square shaped face leans down and forward that little more, his eyes aflame with a fiery glow and his mouth screws about into a victorious smirk that only stretches further into a grin.

“What now, warrior?” 

Your throat grips in a tightened recoil as you snarl, summoning what little spit you can gather on your dried tongue, you lather the dewy substance onto his face, and his grin comes to fall, however that smirk remains slightly as he raises a hand to wipe away your scornful spit. 

The massive size of his calloused hand grapples viciously to the adorning braid in your hair, a strengthened symbol of your endless and victorious feats, and a long one at that. With one swipe of his bladed axe, it is felled and your breath hitches violently in your lungs as your body becomes coldly rigged. 

For as long as you can remember, that braid has withstood the great battles of tyrannical beings that sought to wage war against your people. Now, those accomplishments are severed from you – from your very soul it feels – and Absalom brandishes his trophy for his brethren to witness. Their cheerful cries are awful and haunting, a band of howling beasts that roar in their gluttonous triumph. As a final insult. The remnant steel of your blade crumbles, shattering off into sharded pieces of metal to litter the ground, your body slumps forward much to your disgruntlement. The critter of dirt shuffles beneath your palms, digging harshly into your skin as you brush them over the splinters of your sword. Your fingers curl and grasp hold of a piece that fits firmly in your hand. 

It bears the burden of futility but it may serve you at some point. You do well to conceal it beneath the leather of your gauntlet. 

He tethers the braid of hair to his belt, alongside the many copies of your own kin, the silvery streaks of your mother’s braid are blended with dried, crusty blood. She too was felled by the very abomination before you. But unlike you – at least for now – her chest had been ruptured and torn open by his weapon. Yet you expect that fate will be shared very soon. 

“A pretty young creature.” His remark is sudden with a thoughtful furrow to his brows, the horned crown resting over his forehead making the action appear far more menacing. His hand snatches hold of your jaw, cupping it near its entirety within the rough pads of his enormous fingers along, but still you snarl like a cornered animal, hissing sharply. 

The Horseman is eager with gauntlet fingers plucking and squeezing at the triggers of his unrested spirit, a whirlwind of timeless spiralling. And by far, the more accepting - or at least resigning - to his fate at the tether of a watcher. He doesn’t exactly let his hesitation be known through the crack whip of his protesting joke, only for the Charred Council to be unamused by his antics. 

Upon the moment of linking with you, Strife greeted you with an ounce of fondness, though his expression lay hidden beneath his mask, his tone is the only representation of his mood. And he seemed… happy, and rather amused to meet you.

All you do is blink with utter surprise, eyes aglow with your stun, he rumbles out a faint chuckle, “Not much of a talker, ey?”

Thus begins your journey across the realms of the universe with the gunslinging Horseman, his travels taking him far and wide within the stretch of a shortened window of time. Thankful that your bindings allow you to slink into the chasm of his vessel, you however, find it a little saddening that you miss out on so much. 

For a Horseman who rides heavily on the winds, chasing adventure and anything that strikes his fancy, he also entertains your fascination and soon enough, he slows a little in his travels so that you may actually take in the surroundings. 

A youngling amongst the watchers that far exceed your age and experience, you’re very keen to inspect every crook and cranny of whatever world you inhabit. You had thought that he’d hold so little time and tolerance for your curious nature; but you’re proven wrong when he too takes the time to explore with you. From turning up every rock to find what lies under it, to becoming mesmerised to the fluttery fields of flowery pastures and intriguing bugs that dance in the dark sky like stars. Not only have the many sights been a joyous experience, no less with the Horseman to grant you nothing less than equitable and uplifting company, but the massing of collected trinkets is something of a newly-formed tradition. 

His siblings, in their scrutiny and judgement of this odd habit, find a level of distaste within it. The many collected odds and bits and bobs a tidal wave of obsession that they can’t fathom who started. But it matters little to the trigger happy brother. “What? It’s our thing!” he’ll claim loudly and without shame, only for you to hide behind him and away from their casted glares. “Aw, now look, you guys are scaring her!”

An impressive and still growing collection to this day, you now begin to find more personalised and thoughtful gifts to present to your rider, ones that you wish for him to hold onto. At first, he didn’t understand and would add them to your other found treasures, only for you to rapidly shake your head and gesture to him, holding your gift in hand, you move about like a frenzied ghost. 

Laughing, he questions, “What’re you saying, little Watcher?... you want me to hold onto it?” With a far enthusiastic nod, he laughs and agrees to keep your small artefacts on him at all times. Pleased with this, he takes notice of the shy glimmer that thins the dark lids of your eyes, how your darkened shaped head will bow and your hands curl in together aggressively. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume you had a little crush on him. 

Not too soon after, you are presented with small presents of his own. Ones he’s gathered in some far corner of the desolated chamber you’re investigating together, or a funny shaped piece that in your eyes, is a prized possession; and what’s more, it comes from your rider. He takes great pride, his chest puffed out and helmed chin held high when he sees how these small gifts entrance you, and you gesture in thanks with a smile unmade with a mouth. 

Your silence, however, irks him greatly. He loses focus and rest over it, it drives him that mad. Dealing with the edge of his siblings can be a trouble all its own, all he wants is to talk to someone, to hold a conversation. His disappointment is more noticeable than it was upon your first meeting him, seeing that you are indeed not a talker; much to his masked grimace. 

He tries everything to get you to talk. Just one word. That’s all he wants from you. And then he promises himself he’ll be satisfied. For some time…

Not that you’re distant and cold and quick to brush off his jokes and witty banter with a scoff or furrowed brow. You actually appear to be consumed with a heightened level of interest in what he says, the stories he tells you when taking short respites. 

From the wide, unblinking gaze your eyes hold to him, he sees you hang to every word and he cherishes that. In fact, he does tend to over-dramatise his stories just a little - if only to see the wonderment flutter in your eyes. For a face void of many features that are reminiscent of his own, he can only count on the motion of your eyes and the glow they have when something excites or scares you. 

And Heaven and Hell forbid if anything scares you, because that is a day of reckoning. Be it any fiend or beast, he’ll slay it. He goes above and beyond to keep you, his little watcher, safe and out of harm’s reach. When something makes you excited, Strife is one to note it down and repeat it later, and if that pattern continues then he’ll continue. 

Each time he catches your gaze on him, silent, yet eyes pooled in your amazement for his prowess on the battlefield, he smirks under the protection of his mask. He feels empowered when you look at him like that. It imbues him with the strength and mindset that he can accomplish anything, though he already knows this, it’s different when it’s you who watches him. 

Still making one-sided conversation, he eventually tries his luck again with another joke. “Alright, alright, little Watcher. Why is my brother, War, so serious all the time?”

With a kitten-like tilt of your head, you remain silent though he sees the cogs in your mind toil the answer. With a bow of your chin, you give in. 

“Because he has no funny bone!” Strife finds himself in awe of the sound that emanates from you. A chorus of reverberating giggles and after what feels like an eternity, he cherishes the angelic hue and bounce of your voice.