I pass through my pale doors, always closed to the other three. These quarters are my own personal inner sanctum; the one place I may truly retreat, unbothered from Horseman and Heaven alike. None may pass the six great seals carved upon the two slabs of pale stone save myself, or at my invitation, though I may be summoned forth from behind them in the most extraordinary of circumstances.

Just as I have torn other Horsemen out from behind their seals, only to let the Messenger shatter the seventh.

Gabriel. The Messenger. I will grant the blasted archangel this one thing: never is he more professional and solemn than when he must strip a Horseman of their title. No smile crosses his face when he must bring his sceptre down upon the seal that marks the back of our necks.

Above me, a vault of constellations -- night suits me more than the light of day, and so my place of retreat is always the clearest of nights. Though, admittedly, today I would more suit a storm than the silence of the stars. I walk and wander through my maze-like garden, my twisted path teeming with life and painted reminders of the past. Memento mori to that which can no longer, and never again be.

What lies behind each Horseman's door is uniquely-suited to that Horseman, and that Horseman alone. I have only ever seen within two others': Famine, who always leaves her doors open, inviting all to see her, especially as she is less and less upon the Earth. And War -- a different War, my first War. He who was there from my very birth and who taught me to be as I am. I can still feel the heat of the summer sun that forever blazed behind his doors. What is there now, I do not know; as far as I am aware, Conquest is the only one of us who has passed behind the doors of this new War.

I reach the centre of my garden -- it is no difficult thing, the low maze. It wanders just enough so I may think, but not so much I may not find my way back. Here at the centre I pause before The Originals. The very first Four. And there, with a burning cloak that blazed a colour like fresh blood, is the first face I saw. The first War’s ink-painted cloak falls away as leaves to a tree whose roots reach under the frozen water. The fountain below the hanging portrait does not flow, and I press my hand to the mirror-like ice.

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I gaze at the figure in the image who reaches highest. At his leg is wrapped a tendril of vine, snaking out from a delicate hand that pulls upon his ankle, the beautiful creature that bears it ignites into the flames of that all-familiar cloak. The highest figure's staff is raised in...defiance? Protection? Joy? I can never tell when I look at him. Especially as I had never known him -- known any of them save for War.

The Four in harmony; the Four destroying each other. The Four who would be the first Horsemen. What would they think, I wonder, not only of what we are now, but of what humanity has become. Of the events happening now...of that human, whoever and whatever the boy is.

I almost think to call for Gabriel, but I would never wish him within this place, nor any of the other archangels. One’s own private sanctuary cannot remain as such when populated by others. I suppose, if I were forced to entertain an archangel as company, I could consider Gabriel’s younger brother, Raphael. Though I have only ever encountered him once, I have never known another being, let alone archangel, to be so kind. But, then again, I have never truly known the archangels, the warriors of God, whom they call their Father.

Family. A fascinating concept. The Horsemen have been, at times, a kind of makeshift family. One forged from similar experience, closeness, and familiarity. Of course, familiarity breeds discontent, and that is how so many incidents likely begin that lead a Horseman down the path to ruin. An argument or disagreement, however benign, may then snowball to the point that a Horseman rides through the Earth on their own, creating tragic events that were not meant to pass, merely for the sake of satisfying their own greed or desires.

What was it that led my War to ruin? What was it that ultimately shattered his control and sanity to the point that he…

I shake my head, banishing such thoughts.

The human -- does he have any family? He must. Who are they? What are they? Or does he, perhaps, truly know as little as I.

"Answers," I say to no one -- to the frozen-over fountain, to the funerary portrait of the Originals. I must have answers. I must understand, and so I return to my records: the words of the Death before, and absently wonder if, perhaps, it would do Death any good to pray.