Chapter 2 | Outcasts

The air was cool in these early hours of the day, as the sun was still hidden behind the mountains to the east. The gathered angles, all members of the Venatores, were making the final preparations in the light of lanterns, each breath visible as a fine mist. Their orthos waited patiently, as the angels loaded weapons and other equipment unto their backs, some grooming their feather, others nipping at their armour.

Artemis checked the harness of her ortho one last time, making sure the satchels were properly secure as well. The vials they contained were crucial for the hunt, and it would take days to make replacements.

Once she was done, there was nothing left but to wait until Shamsiel gave the order to depart, and so she watched the others finishing up around her. Since she was now standing beside her mount's head, the ortho searched her for treats, gently pinching her hand with his curved beak, when he couldn't find any.

She chuckled. "Easy, Zephyr. Don't tell me you're still hungry after your breakfast."

The ortho gave no reply, but cooed, when she started to pet him, running a hand through the light grey feathers along his neck.

"It seems we're almost ready." Shamsiel appeared next to her, looking somewhat overdressed in his full angelic armour. Old habits die hard. In contrast Artemis' clothes were made of solid fabric, merely reinforced in some areas for a good balance of mobility and protection, while the fur lining along the collar would help her keep warm in the cold mountain air. "And I see the Horseman is waiting on us as well."

He was right. The White Rider stood apart from the angels, reins of his now fully armoured horse in hand, and she would wager that he was quite bored by now. He'd actually been among the first to arrive this morning. But it had given Artemis an opportunity to talk to him, give him directions, as the Venatores would fly for most the day. While they planned to stay close to paths a Phantom Horse would certainly have no trouble traversing, making the most of warm updrafts, she didn't want him to get lost in the Cloudbreaker Mountains.

Still, as she was more or less responsible for him, Artemis intended to stay in the Horseman's sight, flying apart from the rest of the hunting party.

"I must say, it was a good idea to seat him right next to Araciel yesterday," Shamsiel commended her.

The huntress smiled. "Yes; I had a feeling they might get along. They must have spent an hour talking about their experiences in the Arena." Araciel was a warrior through and through. After getting bored with life within the White City, he'd gone to fight in the Arena, until he had almost gotten himself killed. Naturally, Shamsiel had found out, seen the injuries and forbidden him from ever participating again. The ensuing argument had led to the infamous punch and Araciel's incarceration.

Meanwhile, Shamsiel's lower wings twitched, a sign that he displeased. "Warn me if they ever plan to spar."

Frankly, the huntress would love to see such a spectacle. One of their best warriors against a Horseman? That promised to be quite a show, but not one she would witness today. "Fear not, they haven't made plans yet," Artemis assured him. "Still worried this might be a bad idea?"

"I'm cautiously optimistic after last night, though I doubt he'll be taking orders," he confessed, referring to the Nephilim.

"When we camp tonight I will fill him in on our strategy and 'suggest' how he can best assist us."

"I suppose that will have to do. Fair winds, Artemis."

"Fair winds," she replied and Shamsiel departed to take his place at the front. Looking around one more time, Artemis saw that her fellow Venatores were finally ready, the riders saddling up. The orthos noticed of course and got excited, some pawing at the ground, eager to fly.

A few moments later Shamsiel bellowed an order across the court, and as one angels and orthos took off, the sudden gust of wind making even the branches of the surrounding trees sway. Artemis watched them for a short while, before she took Zephyr's reins and joined the Horseman, who was already on his steed.

"Took you guys long enough. Was starting to get drowsy over here."

Artemis frowned. When she first heard of a Horseman in town, she hadn't expected him to be quite so brazen. "Well, we will be bringing quite a bit more gear to the hunt. You do seem to be travelling considerably lighter. So, I trust you can keep up." The huntress gave him a meaningful look.

He leaned forward in his saddle, a gleam in his eyes. "That a challenge, Wings?" She could hear the grin in his voice.

"Perhaps." Artemis got on her orhto's back, flashing the Horseman a smirk. "Don't worry; I will do my best to remain in your sight and not leave you too far behind."

"Oh, you're on!"

As the morning progressed, Mayhem ate mile after mile, her hooves hardly having time to hit the rooky path she was following. Any other horse couldn't have kept such a breakneck pace, but the Phantom Horse showed no signs of tiring any time soon, while the airstream let her mane fly and Strife's scarf flutter violently behind him.

The path was leading them through a narrowing vale, ever higher into the mountains towards the snow line. As they travelled, the Nephilim took in the landscape surrounding them. They passed lush pastures and mixed woodlands on their way, crossed streams of impossibly clear water that he assumed flowed into the lake at the enclave. Sometimes he spotted rocks and little islands floating in mid-air, a rather common sight in the realms of Heaven.

Every now and then he looked up, but the angel and her ortho remained above, perhaps slightly ahead of them. She was following the path, same as him from what he could tell, and not using shortcuts to remain in the lead. Frankly, he was starting to like this one.

This morning he had only meant to tease the huntress, but instead of being offended, she surprisingly enough had jibed right back, turning their journey into a competition. Who could resist a challenge like that?

These Venatores seemed a lot more affable than the angels Strife was used to interacting with. Even those who had given him wary glances last night had abstained from saying anything stupid, though he couldn't tell which one of them had actually been civilians. Now that he thought about it, this morning he had only been around the Venatores themselves, and as a whole they seemed more inquisitive than hostile.

Compared to how stiff and haughty the average member of the White Army could be that perhaps wasn't saying terribly much, as he actually hadn't talked to anyone aside from Artemis and Araciel, but Strife wasn't about to complain.

He looked up again, only to see that the angel had increased her lead. There was a checkpoint halfway to the wyvern's valley, marking the finish for the first leg, and Strife had every intention to get there first. He wouldn't have been surprised, if his emotions were somehow spurring his steed on, as Mayhem neighed and increased her already respectable pace. Strife grinned behind his mask as he watched them catch up with the pair above.

By noon they were leaving the trees behind for good, and the path they were following only got narrower. To their right it was going pretty much straight down the mountainside, and to their left was an even steeper pasture going almost all the way up to the peak. Thankfully, Mayhem had no trouble finding her footing on the gravel beneath her hooves. In all their years together, she had proven sure of step on any surface, even ice.

Finally they reached the lowest point of the mountain ridge they needed to cross, probably one of the few places it was traversable by foot. This also meant the halfway point was just ahead. Artemis had described a protruding rock that provided a bit of shelter from the elements...there!

Just as he spotted it, he saw the ortho dive down, wings almost completely folded. When had she regained the lead?

"Come on, girl! Last stretch!"

Mayhem didn't need to be encouraged. By the way she galloped his horse did not want to lose to an ortho. Phantom Horses could be very proud at times...

Slithering Mayhem came to a stop right next to the rock, hooves kicking up plenty of gravel on the way. The ortho already on top of it shook his wings and screeched once into the near cloudless sky.

Artemis greeted him with a triumphant little smile on her lips, leaning down in the same manner he had just this morning. "I believe I won this one."

By eve they reached the wyvern's valley, where the Venatores were already setting up a simply campsite in the forest, next to one of the countless streams running through these mountains. While Artemis went to take care of her ortho, the Horseman found himself a cozy spot a little further uphill. From here he could pretty much see everything the angels were doing, while tending to his own mount. Mayhem was visible glad, when he removed saddle and her helm, immediately turning to the little stream for a drink. Strife meanwhile watched as the Venatores made final preparations for the hunt, giving out weapons and other equipment. By the looks of it they wanted to be ready on a moment's notice. Was it possible that the wyvern could show up at night?

Frankly, Strife knew next to nothing about its hunting habits, but it was possible. Or perhaps the angels just wanted to make the most of what little daylight was left.

Artemis showed up again at nightfall, carrying a little lamp to illuminate her way. Having not bothered with a fire, Strife's eyes needed a second to adjust to the light.

"A draw really isn't all that satisfying, you know," he greeted her. "We're gonna need a tiebreaker."

"Or we can both agree that if it hadn't been for all the trees, I could have dived straight down and taken the victory."

"You lost the second leg fair and square, Wings."

"Fine," the huntress conceded, pursing her lips ever so slightly, before quickly shifting them into a smile. "How about a race, once we return to the enclave. Straight line across the open field. No chance to cheat or for shortcuts."

"Sounds fair. Just promise me not to be a sore loser."

"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about that."

Strife grinned. "I like the confidence. It's gonna make victory all the sweeter."

The angel rolled her eyes, but appeared to be more amused than annoyed as her smile remained, and she made herself comfortable on the ground. She placed the lantern right beside her, letting them both bask in its warm and surprisingly bright light, considering how small the source was. The huntress' wavy, white hair, which she wore tied up today, was reflecting quite a bit as well. Even the small, up-pointing crescent moon on her forehead was standing out a little more from her tan skin.

Artemis shifted her wings to better shield herself from the cold wind, readjusting the fur collar so it covered everything up to her chin. Her unusual colouration caught his eye once more, as her gold-brown feathers shimmered in the lantern's light.

"I don't think I've actually ever seen wings like yours before." He had been curious as to their nature since his arrival in the enclave, but somehow the topic had never been addressed between discussions on how best to dismantle a demon force and recollections of Arena fights.

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm guessing most angels you've seen were soldiers in the White Army?"

"Almost exclusively, yes. What, you only get into certain divisions, when you're born with white wings?"

"No, not quite. A number angels, especially of the common people, are born with coloured feathers, but have them bleached upon entering the military. It's done with a simple spell, though it also intensifies the natural glow." The huntress took off the armour covering the joint of her left wing and spread it a little. Strife saw that her feathers, white on the inside of her wings, actually weren't completely shineless, though it was only in the darkness of night that their glow became truly visible.

The Horseman had noticed that many rank-and-file warriors all had the same bright wings, partially covered with armour, giving them an almost artificial look. "I'm guessing that glow is all part of the aesthetic?"

"Well, the White Army is going for a certain style. The Light against the Darkness and all." It sounded to like she found the whole notion quite farcical. Well, she was essentially an exile; he wouldn't be surprised, if she harboured a bit of resentment towards those in the White City.

"You guys are certainly ruining that look."

Artemis chuckled. "The least of our transgressions, I'm sure," she joked, yet her good mood quickly faded. "But uniformity is a big part of our society, even more so in the army. Unfortunately, fallen angels have coloured wings as well, often dark browns, red or even black. This has led to any colour becoming essentially synonymous with impurity. You get judged by your wings, so many civilians now bleach them as well to avoid discrimination."

"A few of you obviously didn't." While the majority still featured bright feathers, Strife guessed that at least a third among the Venatores had coloured wings. He had seen at least one with patterss reminiscent of a common kestrel, chestnut brown with blackish spots, and another with wings like a snowy owl.

"Actually, we just stopped bleaching them after every moult, when we found out that our natural colours help us blend in with our environment. Tey hide us better from demon eyes."

Made sense. You could usually see soldiers of the First Kingdom from far and wide, especially at night. "Yeah, that glow ain't all that subtle. Could say the same for the armour; bit too much gold for my taste." He picked up the piece she'd removed. Despite housing what he assumed to be some kind of propulsion engine, he seen angels levitate even fly with their help alone, it didn't seem to weigh more than one of his boots. "Lighter than I expected."

"Has to be, or it would drag us down. And a downed angel is often as good as dead, so our wings need some protection," the huntress explained. "They allow even the most heavily armoured soldier to remain in the sky. Still, I kept my set to a minimum, and wear it mostly for additional speed and mobility."

Strife examined the armour a bit more, but couldn't determine how exactly it worked. For all he knew there was some magic involved as well. Suddenly, he had an idea. "Could this armour get someone without wings airborne?"

He saw her eyes narrow. "I suppose, but I doubt you'd be able to control your flight properly. If you must try, I would ask you to do so after we've brought down the wyvern. Maybe around a lake," Artemis added.

"Aw; concerned for my safety, Wings?"

"I'd just hate to be the one, who has to explain to the Charred Council why one of their Riders crashed into a mountain and broke his neck."

Strife laughed. "Hey, have a little faith. I survived my fair share of stupid stunts."

"As reassuring as that sounds, I'd still appreciate it, if you could try another time." She took her armour back, almost as if she was afraid he would attempt to fly right here and now. "You did promise to help us with bringing down that wyvern."

"Don't worry, I haven't forgotten. So, what's the plan, anyway?"

Artemis picked up a twig and began to draw the outlines of their prey. "When hunting a beast like this, you need to ground it first. One group will distract the wyvern, allowing the second to strike at the wings. Then we can restrain him." She added a few lines to illustrate this. "Additionally, our arrowheads and spears will be covered with a strong drug. It won't kill, but sedate him."

"Why not just use a poison that can kill it? Seems like that would be less of a fuss."

"And less save to handle. Should someone accidently cut themselves or get hit one of these arrowheads, they will be unconscious for a few hours and wake with a massive headache, but they will live." Strife wondered if this had happened before, but didn't ask, and she continued to explain. "Also, with an animal this size it's difficult to judge the amount or concentration needed for a quick death. A wrong dosage could either drive it into a frenzy or lead to painful and prolonged death throes. Something we would like to avoid."

"That's very sweet and all, but then how do you want to finish it off? Or is this where I come in?" He didn't doubt that his bullets could pierce the wyvern's hide, and on the ground it would probably be an easy target.

"Actually, once we have him constrained, and the drug has done its work, we can get close enough to grant him a swift end." She circled two spots on her drawing. "Just behind the head, where it connects to the neck, the hide is thinner, so our spears will be able to cut through major blood vessels and nerves simultaneously."

It didn't sound like the required his help at all, which admittedly left him a little disappointed. "If that's the case, what do you need me for?"

"As part of the first group, getting the wyvern's attention. If he's focused on the ground, it won't notice us coming from above at his wings."

"You want me to be the bait?" Yep, definitely disappointed.

Artemis lifted her hands, clearly seeing that he wasn't exactly pleased with the idea. "You won't be alone, and once we brought him down, the wyvern needs to be restrained. We've brought chains for that very purpose, but for that task we need all hands available. Besides, the simple truth is: you can't fly. Unless of course you wish to take an ortho and leave your horse behind."

Mayhem immediately stamped her foot and huffed, making her feelings about this suggestion very clear.

"Hey, don't fret, girl. I would never do that to you," Strife assured her, patting the leg next to him.

"Araciel will be leading the diversion. I was hoping you two would get along and work together."

That was something at least. Besides, it was bit late to back out now, and he had given his word. "I can be a team player, don't you worry."

Artemis bought it, and seemed somewhat reassured, as her smile returned. "I'm glad to hear it. He will collect you before dawn, when we break camp." With that she rose and picked up her lantern. "Now, there are still a few things I must take care of before tomorrow. Pleasant night, Rider."

While a little surprised by her sudden departure, the Horseman didn't stop her. "See you at dawn, Wings."

She soon disappeared in the small campsite between her fellow hunters. Left behind in the semi-darkness, Strife made himself comfortable against a tree and looked up. The branches blocked most of the view, but he could still see a bit of the brass coloured moon above, as it made its way across the night sky.

Before dawn.

As early as that was, this still meant he had a few hours to wait. Just enough time for a little nap.

Since becoming a Horseman he'd noticed a few physiological changes. Among others it appeared that he didn't require that much sleep anymore. Perhaps he didn't need any. Frankly, he hadn't really put it to the test, as he would go to sleep or take naps, when he could, just out of habit. It kind of felt wrong not to, as those basic instincts hadn't changed. Besides, it did kill time and he had discovered that his injuries healed faster.

As the angles started to put out all but one fire, Strife closed his eyes and allowed himself to slumber, certain the birds wouldn't try anything funny and trusting Mayhem to be vigilant as always.

The sky was grey and bleak, the sun merely a dull orb beyond the smoke. Ash was falling like snow, while small fires still flickered all around him. Some of those embers would perhaps never fully die. Strife's eyes, however, were fixed on the Tree of Knowledge before him, towering above ruins. There was a cracking sound coming from beneath his boots, but he dared not looked down. He knew what he would find there.

Instead he took a step towards the tree, miles away, yet dwarfing everything else in sight. Since becoming one of the Horsemen, his life had become...more complicated. That was the problem once you started asking questions; it was very difficult to stop. Perhaps the Tree had the answers he sought. Perhaps it could free him from those nagging doubts that haunted him day and night.

Or drive him mad for good.

Nothing stirred as he walked through Eden, and entered a familiar looking settlement; he was alone among the dead. There was only the occasional breeze, keeping him company. Even the realm of the Lord of Bones wasn't this still, but this was what happened to any world the Nephilim invaded. At least mankind had been relocated in time, and instead the Nephilim had perished here. Their bones were now crumbling beneath his boots, and shattered with each step he took towards the Tree.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, as they say. He just hadn't known what kind of hell awaited him.

All he had wanted was to end the crusades, put a stop to the senseless slaughter. Had he been naïve of him to think it could have ended any other way? Absalom had never been someone to reason with.

Still, the Council had been quick to order the Nephilim's annihilation. Yet, none of them had protested, upon receiving their first mission. Killing was the one thing all four of them were good at, and it had been too late to turn back.

There had been no other way, right? He had always wondered. Would things have gone differently, if he had spoken up back then? Or had the Nephilim's fate been sealed long before Eden? In all his years as a Horseman he'd never found his answers.

Strife stopped dead in his tracks, when he heard something. A faint voice whispering in a language he hadn't heard in so long.

He listened carefully, tensely, but the voice was gone. Had he imagined it? The wind could create strange sounds as it blew through the ruins he was now passing through.

After a few more moments of absolute silence, Strife continued on. The Tree honestly didn't seem any closer. At this rate it would take him all day, perhaps longer to...

Strife

He froze. No mistake this time; there was a voice. There were several actually, faint, but coming from all around him. He could hear the bones shift, despite him being completely still.

No, not again.

Strife closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, trying his best to steel himself for what awaited him. His hands now rested on Mercy and Redemption, ready to draw them. It seemed like there was no peace, neither for them nor him.

When he opened his eyes again, Strife found himself surrounded, not by a horde, but a loose circle of crooked shapes. Long ago they had been warriors, standing tall and proud, unwavering. Now they stared had him with hollow eyes, their rotting bodies riddled with holes or shredded by deep cuts, threatening to fall apart at a moment's notice. He knew all too well what weapons had done this, what bullets wrought such devastation, tearing through armour, flesh and bone.

Strife didn't look away. He knew their faces, he even knew their names. Once he'd fought alongside them, he had shared food and drink with those, who now surrounded him. Some he had even called friends.

Yet none of that had stopped him from killing each and every one of them.

Strife.

It was a chorus of voices that spoke at once, like a chilling wind that found its way through the tiny gaps of his armour. Though it wasn't cold, he suddenly found himself shivering, while a tight feeling in his chest seemed to constrict his now pounding heart.

Traitor.

Strife backed away, but hesitated to draw his weapons. He didn't want to do this again. His dead brothers and sisters came closer, this time not animated by a fallen angel, but by their own volition. Each word they said was steeped in loathing.

His back was now only an arm's length away from the nearest house, when he slipped on something round. Instinctively, Strife looked down, as he found his footing again, for the first time taking in the ground beneath his feet.

There were only bones and ash beneath his boots, but they weren't all Nephilim. He recognized others, all from civilisations he had helped wipe out alongside his people. The universe would never see their likes again. They had brought worlds to the torch and he had enjoyed it, finding himself thriving in battle, in the senseless slaughter.

Murderer.

Yes. He was. And a hypocrite, who had executed his people for the same crimes he'd committed. No amount of Nephilim blood, or that of those who threatened the Balance, could ever wash way the blood of the innocent that was still on his hands. Only cover it with a new layer. His eyes were fixed on a small skull by his foot. A child's skull. It wasn't the only one.

Strife felt his stomach turn, guilt washing over him like a cold wave. He couldn't even swallow, as every muscles of his body seemed to tense up at once.

That bullet hole...

Suddenly the remains beneath his feet gave way, swallowing him whole. A sinkhole? Strife fell and after only a few second landed on another heap of bones and skulls. He cursed under his breath, ignoring the pain and looked around, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. It was some kind of chamber. His best guess was that he had fallen into the basement of one of the ruins.

Slowly, making sure the ground was stable, the Horseman got back on his feet, doing his best to pay no attention to the bones breaking into pieces as he moved. At least there were no undead Nephilim around, but was there an exit? It was then something else caught his attention. He knew this place and it shouldn't be on Eden.

It took him a moment to rummage through his memory, but when it hit him, it was like ice filled his veins. Here initial qualms had turned to doubts that would soon drive a wedge between him and his own people. Here he had first spoken with Death in secret about finding a way to end the slaughter.

Almost gingerly Strife walked over to a corner of the room and kneeled down, placing a hand on the ground. He had watched them die here, a little family, while his brothers and sisters had massacred countless civilians around him and razed yet another city, until no one was left alive. Only a barren world like so many, too many, before it. He didn't even know what their species had been called. It hadn't mattered. Not to Absalom, not to the other Nephilim.

But it had started to matter to him.

Yet he had only stood by, paralysed by his new doubts, not knowing what he should do. What he could he have done? Instead, he had helplessly watched these people die and while is kinsmen celebrated their victory that night, he had returned to bury them here, parents and child together. That is how Death had found him.

Strife pulled his hand away from the ground, as if it had burned him.

He really shouldn't be here, disturbing this graveside. Vaguely he remembered a door, a way out in the next room.

To his relief the house's layout was just as he recalled, but instead of a door, a wall of bones and skulls filled the wooden frame, blocking his way out. Strife muttered another curse, and started removing some of the remains, hoping to collapse the tasteless structure. Almost carelessly he threw them behind him, eager to leave this place. All he wanted was to get out, get to that bloody Tree, get his answers after all these years.

Bones started to shift as the wall became more and more destabilized and as dim light appeared between the cracks, Strife new he'd made it. Out of patience he slammed his body against blockade, finally collapsing it.

Having used a bit more power than required, Strife stumbled out into the street outside, kicking up more bones in the process. A quick glance around told him he was back on Eden. To his left the Tree, far away, but all he had to do was follow the road.

He was also alone. For the time being it seemed he'd lost his would be pursuers. Perhaps if he hurried, he could avoid running into them again.

Before he knew it, Strife found himself running down the street, ignoring the sounds his steps made, eyes focused on the road ahead. And his destination.

Therefore, it took him considerable time to notice that something was off. Had there been a town like this on Eden? Sure, the humans had lived here for a bit, but something about this place felt off. It was big settlement and hardly anything here fit typical architecture.

Strife stopped, having reached a crossroad and took a closer look. Now that he thought about it, none of these houses fit together, as if each had been designed by another architect, styles of various cultures clashing against one another in every street. No angel or Maker would have approved of this.

Ash was still snowing from the sky, now more densely than ever and it was starting to obscure his view. Even the mighty Tree of Knowledge was reduced to a looming shadow in this haze.

He should keep moving.

Just as he was about to take another step, a skeletal hand burst out of the ground, and grabbed him by his boot. Without thinking, Strife drew Mercy and fired, shattering the appendage into tiny bits. As if in response, four more emerged, and reached out for him, Strife quickly jumping back to escape their grasp.

Strife.

He hadn't quite escaped them after all. They had found him again, and in the haze dark silhouettes appeared all around the Horseman. They were closing in from all direction, blocking his escape.

Should he fight?

A part of him refused to go down without one, but his heart grew heavy at the thought. He didn't want to do this. He had killed them once and done it again, when that witch Astarte had raised them as her minions. Why was he forced to face them once more?

The risen Nephilim came closer, and more crawled out of the ground, emerging from beneath the bones of those slain in their crusades. Strife didn't draw Redemption, instead he just stood there, waiting. There was no escaping this, was there?

Are you not going to fight?

His brothers and sisters were now surrounding him, having stopped just out of arms reach. Strife tried to keep his eyes on the ground. He didn't want to look them in the eyes.

Are we not your enemy? A cold, female voice snarled.

Strife didn't reply. He took a deep breath and actually holstered Mercy. But that only seemed to enrage the dead further.

Do you think yourself better than us? A warrior spat, and then one by one they took their turn.

We all were born Nehpilim. We all were raised as Nephilim. We followed our elders, their teachings and orders. We followed them into battle countless times. And so did you.

But for you it wasn't enough. No, you enjoyed it so much you made it your profession. Any job that gave you the thrill of killing something...someone.

Did you enjoy it? When you slaughtered us. Did it give you the thrill you so crave?

Strife flinched at those words. He had always enjoyed fighting, killing; it was a Nephilim-thing. The heart-pounding thrill of combat was something they all naturally craved and yes, he had felt it even when battling his own kin. But he hadn't enjoyed it...right? Much of what had happened that day was a blur. The entire time he had tried not to think. Not to feel.

A Vindicator stepped forth from the group, and raised her hand. Now you masquerade as a protector of the Balance, she hissed, her claws scratching across the surface of his mask, her own shattered around the right eye, revealing part of an almost mummified face. Were our lives not worth protecting?

Another suddenly grasped him by the scarf and yanked violently, almost knocking Strife off his feet and bringing the Horseman close to his rotting face. There was no looking away now. No; we were not supposed to exist. There was never a place for us in all of creation. Merely a mistake that needed rectifying.

With blade and bullet, another chimed in, despite his lower jaw missing and the tattered tongue uselessly hanging out.

The one holding him by the scarf pushed him away, and Strife was caught by two others, their skeletal fingers seizing him with unnatural strength. You're the same monster you've always been. You still enjoy it. You thrive in battle and slaughter. You can't hide behind your mask and your duty.

So, why you? the Vindicator questioned, once again getting into his face. Of all of us, why did you deserve a second chance?

I didn't. That was all Strife could think, as she grabbed him by his mask, pulling his face close to hers.

WHY DID WE DESERVE TO DIE, WHILE YOU LIVE?!

He wasn't more deserving. He had as much blood on his hands as any of them. More than some perhaps.

But he'd realised that their murderous rampage needed end. Realised the whole, horrific magnitude of their actions and decided to no longer partake in the slaughter. But had that been enough? Enough to be rewarded with this new life, incredible power and near immortality?

Enough to escape punishment, when everyone else had paid the ultimate price? Strife knew that the Council had ordered their very souls destroyed. Death had seen to it, without protests, the heartless bastard.

No redemption, no second chance, no cleansing in the land of the dead and rebirth. The Nephilim had been erased as utterly as a people could be.

Bony hands pulled him down, as the undead Nephilim closed ranks, until there was hardly room to move. He heard weapons being drawn. Strife didn't fight them. They deserved their revenge.

...

Strife gasped, suddenly wide awake, heart pounding in his chest.

It took him a moment to remember where he was, and realize that he wasn't actually on Eden. He was in a forest deep within the Cloudbreaker Mountains. It was still pitch black, though his glowing eyes could make out some of his surroundings, and thankfully there was nothing but trees and sleeping angels. Strife groaned, running a hand across his mask.

Bloody nightmare.

He heard a snort and the sound of a hoof pawing the soil. Only now did he notice Mayhem beside him, clearly watching from what he could tell, though her eyes remained hidden behind the armour.

"I'm fine, girl."

She replied by huffing once, her breath rising as steam in the cool air. There was a connection between a Phantom Horse and their rider, but even without it, Mayhem was smart and knew him well enough to not be fooled.

She stepped closer and lowered her head to give him a gentle nudge, her armour scraping silently across the surface of his mask. Strife sighed and petted her snout, feeling her lean into his touch. It were moments like this he was especially grateful for her company, even if they couldn't really talk to each other. Oh, he would often tell her what was on his mind, but that wasn't the same as real conversation. But it felt good nonetheless.

Hopefully the coming hunt would take his mind of things, help him forget this dream. Honestly, there was much he wished he could forget. War had once adviced him to just put the past behind him. If only it were that easy.