We Four Horsemen

Prologue:

The world was ending, and everyone in the village knew it. The sky was dark with veins of red, their once-beloved mountain was bleeding from its top, blood the color of fire flowing down the sides as pitch black clouds hid the sun and surrounded them in midnight fog.

The sky was falling, and the world was ending.

In their frenzied state of panic, no one noticed the five figures standing in the midst of it all, unharmed by the poisonous gases and wearing clothes as clean as when they’d been made. They stood on a hilltop overlooking the grand city about to be destroyed, standing idly by, waiting for something else to do.

Their names were long-forgotten, replaced instead by their titles or even their numbers, yet what they represented would never disappear.

The first wore robes of violet and white, a messenger for the other four, but just as valuable as any of them, carrying a large scroll in his hand, with words of chaos and destruction written on red parchment. He was the first to visit any soon-to-be-decimated target.

The second wore a white robe trimmed with red on the sleeves, collar, and hem. He also wore a quiver full of arrows on his back, the bow resting comfortably against his thigh, hardened blue eyes watching as insects gathered about his feet, just a few, but enough for him to know that they hungered for the flesh of those below. He allowed them to go and feast, the scent of conquest and victory filling his nose.

Wearing red trimmed with black, the third’s eyes of many sunsets scanned the carnage as the volcano had burst into life just that morning, in the year future humans would label seventy-nine AD, one of the most important years in all of future history: the day countless people would be buried beneath at least twelve different layers of volcanic ash, their figures forever imprinted and granted the immortality humans had and always would crave. Snorting, he sat down with a bored look, his sword hanging loosely at his side and already thirsting for blood. He’d have loved to step in on this one, but no, they had to make this look like Nature’s fault…

Ah well, he’d take his sweet time come 1914 and 1939.

Fourth was a younger man whose silver eyes gazed hungrily at all the crops that he’d been sure to empty before destroying them, his black cloak trimmed with silver and billowing about his legs in the hot wind that blew over them. Looking over at the third, he could tell that his comrade was having a hard time containing himself, though as he looked to the fifth, that look of uncontrollable hunger seemed to dissipate. If anyone could aid his hunger, it was the fifth. Still, that didn’t ease the fourth’s feelings. He’d have to guard his scales tonight, considering just how well-laden with food they were and just how prone the third was to steal from him.

All thought stopped, however, as the fifth of them stood and began walking towards the slope of the hill, silver robes still despite the wind. Silence seemed to descend in spite of the roaring volcano off in the distance, and even the insects at the second’s feet began to tremble as the sweet smell of cinnamon wafted through the air.

It was the scent of Death.

The second stepped forward a few steps, blue eyes questioning as the fifth stepped forward, looking down at the frightened city below, “Are you sure?”

“To have something of this magnitude without loss would be most unacceptable,” was the fifth’s response, lifting slightly-tanned hands in the air in a gesture of welcome and embracing things to come, “it must be now.”

“As you say.” The second said, head bowed before returning to the line.

The four on the hill plugged their ears as the fifth let out a bellow so loud they all had to wonder just where it was kept in that small body. The fifth was the shortest of them, so where was all that sound coming from?

The fifth’s shadow morphed into… something, though none of them knew quite what it was. All they did know was that this seemingly-harmless shadow would bring about the death of all those who lay frightened below, in the city whose name would be famous even in the years to come:

This was the city of Pompeii, and it was these five who destroyed it.