This part of the archives was only known to two people at any given time- Death, who had served the Council for countless millenia now, and a child who the Council kept as a slave. There had been many children, but only one ever lived here every generation. Candlelight flickered across the names inscribed here- Adam, Josephine, Mary, Jack, Tabitha, Daniel, Samuel, Thomas, Loretta, Salvia, Rosa, Mohammed, Chandra, Anum, Faith, Cillia, Peter- and thousands upon thousands more that the Pale Rider had inscribed here over the years since the Council decreed that their capture was for the good of the Balance.
The Charred Council had decided that, after the feats of the wizard, Merlin, had come to their attention, that no human should be allowed to follow the same path, that once a child had discovered their arcane gift, they were to be hunted and destroyed. However, this initially came as controversy to other beings in Creation who were sympathetic towards humanity. Seeing that these children could be of some use, even if one with such a gift was only born once a generation, the Council then decided that they would take the child from their homes and keep them as slaves. They would only be returned to their families when they were dead, a task Death had carried out perhaps an hour ago now.
This one lasted the longest. She was eight when she was taken, hardly the youngest, and the Horsemen had some fond memories of her during her service. Her name was Clara, and she had come to the Council's attention when she cursed her entire school for failing to help her sister, who had been bullied so harshly that the little one tried to take her own life and only just survived. Some students started dropping dead in the classroom, teachers met ill-fated ends from falling down stairs or being hit by those 'cars' that Strife had taken a liking to. She lasted ten years- most of the children who were brought here barely made it to adolescence, let alone adulthood. She was still quite charming and friendly, even if so black a hatred could have spurred her to not even bat an eye when one classmate fell at her feet, frothing at the mouth as his eyes rolled back into his head. In that regard, she was dangerous.
Slate-blue eyes and hair black as night, Clara took confidence in that good fortune and longevity and mastered her gifts deep in the archives, always something new to show off in the field, always something to talk about despite her position. Death supposed that was always her problem- too confident, too stubborn to die, or to stay down. If she had just stayed down…
It was kinder, the Pale Rider told himself, than what the Council would have done once they had gotten bored of her, or if she had grown too powerful for their liking.
Azrael would have to be informed of her demise- he always wanted to know how the children were doing, and he'd been fond of Clara. When the first child had been taken, he was furious that the Council would stoop so low as to use human children as lackeys, or to keep them as a novelty, even more so when the first one had been killed after two years. Then the next one came, and the one after that, and the one after that- John, Ava, Owen, Katja, Connor, Rebecca, Leon- he stopped saying anything about it after coming to accept he could do nothing for them.
This now-empty corner was where they'd all slept during their service to the Council. As to why he kept doing this, Death did not know. Perhaps as some sort of memorial, if only that, or a warning as to what they would become when they died or if the Council grew bored of them- another name on a wall- Quinn, Lucy, Mitchell, Alice, Damien, Marina, Isaac... He took out a metal stylus and a small hammer from his pocket, found an empty space, and got to work. He told every child the Council enslaved about this wall, told them the significance of it, and the conversation usually ended the same way- "One day, you'll be joining them." Clara hadn't counted on being on this list for some years to come, so sure that she'd become powerful enough to gain her freedom. Maybe, Death mused as he finished chiseling her name into the rock and began engraving her age beneath it, one day, she could have freed herself. Perhaps that was why the Council was so insistent on her power being limited.
His work was soon done, and Death stepped back to examine the engraving. Clara, it read. Aged 18. Though the room was empty, the Horseman always had the terrible feeling of having all those eyes upon him, a pair for every name, every time he came to add another name. All those children, children that he and his brothers had come to know and trust, even if they were meant to kill them if the Council so demanded it. Jason, always a charmer; Hannah, always so clever; Edmund, always pragmatic; Sophie, too naive for her own good; Matthew, too headstrong; Francoise, quick, but not quick enough; Luca, the Council tired of him quickly- Death felt the presence of these children, saw their hauntingly mute expressions, some holding hands with others, some of the older ones sitting with the younger ones- before him stood the figure of Clara, her eyes empty as they had been when she had died. "Someday," Death sighed, "There'll be some method to this madness."
Then, cutting through the solemn silence, Death heard his youngest brother calling out. "Death? Come on out, the Council's caught another one."
Death had turned his head towards the sound of War's voice for a moment, but when he turned back, the figures were gone. With a sigh, Death pocketed the tools he'd brought and, with Harvester in hand, went to meet his brother.
And so the cycle continues…