The Demons Within

End of the Horsemen

         Death has always wanted more power, ever since the War of Sin. His Scythe has first fed then, and it constantly hungered for more Souls. It spoke to him, whispering of the power he would gain, if only he threw off his shackles.
         For awhile he merely sated himself on the mortals, but they were weak and feeble. Their souls were bland compared to the delicacy that was the souls of angels. Oh, how he enjoyed slaughtering an angel, and feasting on its soul. Fallen or not, it made no true difference. Just the sweetness of their soul mattered.
         But then the mortals became more advanced, slowing their rampant population growth and extending their own life spans. Less and less of the mortals died each day. Famines became almost non-existent and Wars held more drones and AI then mortals. The mortals, in the prime of their arrogance, wished conquer him.
       His hunger, however, never diminished. The call became louder and louder, almost deafening at one point. And no one else could hear the infernal voice, only him. Only him, who was doomed by the laws and machinations of Yahweh.
      So he began to ride early more and more often. First by a couple days, then a year, then full decades before they should have died. Pestilence was beginning to show an almost unnatural eagerness to corrupt stars into killing those that they had birthed from the sheer amount of times that they began to ride.
     Yet it still wasn't enough. He would have brief moments of relief, before his hunger came back and the voice echoed louder then it had before. It warped and twisted him, forcing him to believe that Yahweh was purposely starving him, eager to watch Death's pain.
        And in a way, it was true. Yahweh imposed new laws onto the Horsemen each year, caring more about the feeble mortals then his original creations. Yahweh was the one who had forced Death to make his Scythe, Yahweh was the banner Death had first killed under.  Yet Yahweh aided his family extremely little, merely watching them suffer.
    So Death began to seek a way for his family's freedom. He dabbled into Pestilence's blood magic and Technology, War's control over mortals, and Victory's power over the laws of matter. If he could convince his family to help him, they could Easily overthrow Yahweh and his accursed Light.
         His army of the Dead swelled massively as he slaughtered more and more, and Pestilence never spoke of the missing souls he had given the intelligence to lead his new army. Whilst the dead where weak due to their former mortality, Death cured them of that weakness, dreaming of the days that his family would rule.
     He had not truly strayed from Yahweh's side until he unleashed his army upon a mortal world for 'training'. His army swelled even larger as instead of reanimating the skeletons himself, his army did it for him.
      But he had walked down a path he could not return from. He returned to the Castle of the four, only to discover the other three Horsemen on their thrones and a smoldering pile of gold where his throne use to reside. Undoubtedly Yahweh's work.
          Victory glared murderous at Death, her purple eyes fixating on his slow moving form, thinking of when her friends had rebelled against Yahweh so long ago. War was grinning eagerly, his dark red eyes lighting up as he made plans of how to aid his outcasted Imperium. Pestilence was holding his scales lifelessly as they swung up and down wildly. His quartz mug lay shattered under his foot, the pale red contents dripping down the golden steps of his throne and onto the white marble of the floor.
       Wordlessly, Death turned around and walked out the door, his long black robes trailing behind him. The heavy wooden doors slammed behind him, the voices of War and Victory already arguing...
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        War always had wished for more, well, war. Death had began his revolt against Yahweh, and War would soon follow. Much like Death, his hunger had been hampered by Yahweh's laws. Each year he had less and less freedom, until he couldn't even stir up conflict between the mortals!
     Hell, if Pestilence and Him hadn't elevated the humans to their Interstellar Imperium, War would likely be fully starving and almost as feeble as a mortal. The only other Warlike race was exterminated in a biological attack by the Council long ago, due to them allying against the council. The 'Serene' Valt'yre had disbanded their military and instead used drones for everything remotely involving hard work.
If he could get Pestilence to join them, then they wouldn't even live to regret that choice. They were a sufficiently advanced collection of races, with portable wormhole creators and access to hyperspace, yet they paled in comparison to Pestilence. His Clockwork Guards could fight gods, and his mechanical army numbered in the thousands.
        War began grinning as he thought of what they could achieve, completely ignoring Victory's angry screams. He would say in one ear, out the other, but honestly the words didn't even reach one ear. Glancing at Pestilence he saw the same thing as before, him watching his Scales bob uncontrollably as Death unleashed his undead scourge upon the living.
He turned to face Victory once more as she was pacing across the room, yelling at and to no one in particular. With a wide grin that immediately caught Victory's attention he began fishing in his pocket. As she started walking towards him he pulled out an ornate dagger before slamming it into the arm of his golden throne. "Death has finally rebelled against the tyranny of Yahweh. Good, why should we stop him?" War exclaimed, pulling himself up from his throne.
His words finally garnered a reaction from Pestilence, his tired red eyes moving away from the Scales causing them to bob even more wildly. "War..." he said softly, sounding more exhausted then ever before, drawing Victory's attention to him and stopping her screaming.
He then promptly collapsed into his throne provoking two completely different responses. Victory ran over to help her brother, whilst War, despite being worried for Pestilence, teleported out to aid Death in his rebellion.
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"Pestilence, I know what you want to hide." Victory said gently, her usually charming, smooth, calm features falling away to creases and exhaustion. "I may not know what you hide, but I know what you want to hide."

Pestilence chuckled, sloshing whatever drink he had in a new mug, this one black as obsidian. He slowly leaned into his throne, one of the only two left. "You know nothing of what I choose to hide, Victory. You know of none of the insanity of the mortals, of their cruelty and hatred."

Her face suddenly grew hard. Guarded. Angry. "Test me," she said coolly. "Our brothers have lost their minds. War fights across the universe. Death wants to prove we are more than Horsemen. He wants to be us to be gods. I know plenty of madness and Insanity."

"To hell you do," he slurred, standing. His mug fell from his lap, clattering to the floor. His dark red drink splashed across the floor of the empty throne room. Empty but for two of the four thrones demolished and the pulsating star in the middle of the room. Empty but for the last two Horsemen determined to stick with their job. Their only purpose. "Have you seen what I've seen, Victory? Have you seen it all?"

She stood tall, even though she was two feet shorter than her fellow Horseman. "I've seen what I need to. Carry on with your choice to hide. I wish you the best of luck."

"The best of luck? For what..?" He trailed off, suddenly much more awake, and much less drunk. "Vic... Don't. You can't turn from this path once you start"

"The last two Horsemen has become one." Victory bowed her head, going silent as her hair fell in front of her face. There was a flash of bright white, and she was gone. And so two had become one. The only sound in the once grand throne room was the crumbling of another golden throne...
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Pestilence had always tried to serve faithfully, but look where that got him. His family abandoned him, and he was the last to guard a useless Creator. He had stood fast, no matter what he had seen or done... but now, it was so hard. He had watched the others grow up into who they were today, gently guiding them along their path.
But now, it was only him once again. Empty and alone. The once grand castle that he had built for his family lay shattered in a fit of rage. His new mug lay shattered once more, the purple liquid creating a solid layer over the cold marble floor.
He sat on his golden throne, the only one remaining, holding a doll that he had created for Victory when she still acted like a child, and the bronze seal of sloth in the other hand. The purple eyes of Pride stared at the worn doll, gently cleaning the dust off of it as he thought of the past.
Oh how he had enjoyed raising the others. They were children in an adult body at first, desperate to latch onto someone. Victory and her little rebellions, War and his constant need to explore, Death with his tendency to ask questions at the worst possible time... If only he could go back in time and crush that infernal scythe that had corrupted Death.
He had to make a decision and soon. He would need to fight his family or join them and rebel against Yahweh. Looking up slightly, he brushed his eyes free of any tears that had sprung loose and stared directly into the miniature star in the center of the room.
Gripping the doll tightly, he stood up and crushed the seal of Sloth. The Drunken coward would never return, it was time to restore honor to his family. His cold metal boots touched the marbled floor, dousing themselves in the purple wine. His white cloak lay unlatched, slowly drifting to the ground and then being consumed by the wine.
He slowly walked forward, clutching the doll like his life depended on it. He slowly extended his empty hand towards the star, and despite the near blinding pain, he reached in and grabbed the core of the miniature star. It's brilliance slowly dimmed and patches of oily blackness bubbled to the top. The star slowly shrunk as more and more of the molten crust became corrupted.
At last, it shrunk until it was the size of an apple. The bubbling oil consumed the dying light like a locust before settling down and hardening in his hand. The flesh on Pestilence's hand had slowly melted off as he had thrusted it into the star but quickly reformed around the bone as the darkness settled.
Turning around rapidly he drew his steel longsword and walked to his throne, its brilliance dimming as his continued to clutch the doll. In one swift movement he cut the chair in half, snarling "For my family"
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Alright, that is finally done. I would like to thank my friend eclipse_0 for both inspiring me to write this, as well as letting me use a modified version of one of the scenes she has written, but not published yet. (The Victory leaving scene, which is why its different to the other 3 parts) I changed it slightly, but that scene is mostly hers. Also, sorry Fightora , you went insane.