Death is patient. Death can wait for years before arriving. Other times Death is restless and, like Time, waits for no one. I am the latter, going from quarters to stables to chapel and sanctum and back again, all in what feels an endless loop. Meanwhile that urge, the pull towards that wintry city only tightens. Little by little, increment by increment. No human would notice, but I do.

“A human.”

Famine’s voice floats out from her open black doors. She sits atop her marble counter, one long leg crossed over the other; her black heels rest next to her, feet covered only by the thigh-high black ribbed socks she wears. There are but centimetres between where they end and the pleated skirt of her jacket-dress begin. She looks up from her cookbook with a playful smile, black monolid eyes twinkling with delight beneath a curtain of dark lashes and winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut a human with its point. It could be called an irony that behind Famine’s doors would be a kitchen larger than any human could imagine.

“What?”

“No need to be coy, Death.”

“I would never presume to play your role, Famine.”

“That was uncalled for,” Famine sighs, shutting her book and swapping her crossed legs. She looks at me, saying nothing more, just watching and waiting.

“You went to Earth,” I realize. “It has been a long time since you felt the need to show your presence.”

“Let’s not beat around the bush: there is a human that can see us. A quite adorable little human too, while we’re talking about him.”

“He is human, then?”

Famine laughs, that high, sparkling sound that sounds so strange from her mouth. “The poor child didn’t know what to make of me, but, yes, he certainly smells human. But more importantly,” her smile fades, “someone else was there.”

That has my complete attention.

“Who?”

Famine shakes her head, “I don’t know for certain. I felt them, but they kept behind me. Whichever archangel it was, he saw them too -- that human.”

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“Archangel?”

“That’s what it felt and smelled like -- too old and powerful to be demonic. Plus there was a bunch of aether and spice around; that stench practically screams out ‘ARCHANGEL,’ even if they’re trying to be sneaky.”

“Was it Gabriel?”

“If it were Gabriel, do you think I’d be wondering about who it was? He can’t resist opening his mouth wherever he is; he’s chattier than War on a rampage. But Death--”

“Say no more to me. Gabriel must hear of this.” I motion towards the chapel and, beyond it, to the innermost sanctum.

Famine’s eyes widen, “You want me to give him this report alone?”

I nod. “Gabriel may have questions you will be able to answer.”

She arches a dark brow, “You don’t sound concerned.”

“Did the archangel attack you?”

“No.”

“Did you feel as though you would need to attack whichever archangel it was?”

“...No.”

“You hesitate.”

“There was something about the presence that was...predatory,” Famine shakes her head. “I don’t really know how to--”

“Go. Now.”

She balks at my stern command, a muscle twitching in her jaw; affront glitters in her black eyes. “There’s no need to be rude, Death.”

“I am not,” I sigh, resisting the urge to raise my voice. “I am merely telling you to cease wasting precious time with me and report to those who more readily require the information. Do your duty.”

“All work and no play...” Famine scoffs in a sing-songy voice, but she walks past me towards the chapel regardless. She does not stop as she turns her head to call over shoulder, “One of these days, Death, you’ll again remember to see beyond the job.”

I click my tongue, barely containing my contempt. Famine may be the second-eldest of us current Horsemen, but even she is too young to know what the whole of my tenure thus far has been. She has known but a fraction of my time, a lengthy exhalation after an even lengthier inhalation.

A kiss of frost tingles at the very tips of my fingers, and I twitch them in response. No. I am not an animal nor a human that I am to be driven by base instincts and desires. I have not held my title so long that a single mystery would drive me so mad...even as this very situation does just that.

The mystery and the silence. Gabriel has said nothing; I wonder if he will even come when Famine begins to write. I clench my hands into fists and stalk back, back behind the safety of my doors. Back into the solitude of my own racing mind, so that I may try again and again to unravel this mystery whose very threads are invisible to me.