Fragments

The Pale Rider

It had been cold that night, I remembered. Even though I sat directly before the smoldering flames of the fireplace, the radiant heat did little to warm me. That had been the first sign of his impending approach which quickly gave way to the second; an overwhelming nauseated feeling that only seemed to worsen as time passed.

I knew it wouldn't be long now. Not long at all.

Though I was prepared, I couldn't suppress the shudders that wrought my body as I sensed him draw near. He didn't use the door—he didn't need to. As easily and effortlessly as the prophet had parted the raging waters of the sea, he entered the room. His cloak, the color of a starless night sky and tattered by the eons of use, trailed and billowed as he strode towards me and brandished in the pale white hand of his left, the crescent-shaped blade loomed in the air. It seemed to emit a silver radiance all on its own, glistening in the low light of the room, its blade curved like a menacing smile—hungry, craving.

"You have outlasted them all, but now even your time has come." His voice was much softer, much gentler than I remembered, almost like a comfort to soothe the pain of its devastating blow.

"A-All of them have perished?"

"You are the only to remain."

I had known. The Black horse had struck first. Millions starved. Those that survived were ravaged by the power of the White, disease-ridden and spoiled. The little who endured played into the hands of the Red one. Blood and carnage and strife devastating the lands. Then, even fewer remained, persistent and foolish. Only a few had persisted, but now, the eldest had descended. The final of them all.

The Soul Reaver.

"Why?"