Right, wrong. God, man—myself. And I am not one to question, wife.”
He glances beyond me, looking at the horizon again. “I have spent so much time judging men’s hearts that I haven’t judged my own. Not until now. And wife, … I have found it wanting.”
Chapter 54
That night, War holds me close—closer even than usual. I feel his uncertainty and inner conflict in the desperate grip of his arms. He really isn’t the type of creature to question himself, and now that he has, it seems his identity is crumbling apart.
What is War without war?
The horseman searches my eyes. “I love you.” His voice is rough with his own emotion. “More than my sword, more than my task. I love you more than war itself.” He presses his forehead to mine. “I’m so sorry, Miriam. I’m so goddamn sorry for everything. For not listening. For your pain and suffering. For every last thing.”
War’s face blurs as I stare at him. There has been so much suffering.
“Why are you telling me this now?” My voice is hoarse.
He strokes my cheek. “Because I am making the decision to end the fighting.”
I love you but it has been destroying us both, the horseman had once said. I hadn’t realized that he might’ve meant that literally when referring to himself. War and apathy go hand in hand. To feel, to empathize, to love—that must be the beginning of the end for war itself.
Was he doomed the moment he laid eyes on me in Jerusalem? Or was it when I nearly died—or when I surrendered? I know by the time the horseman looked at me and wiped out the entire camp, it was there. He loved me then, though he had no name for what he felt; it was the burn of betrayal that set him off. But by then, the spark that set everything else into motion had already been lit. Sparing the children, then the righteous.
And now, War is considering stopping the destruction altogether.
It’s beyond my wildest hope, so I don’t know why I feel fear, but that oily sensation twists my gut.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
The horseman gives me a soft smile. “Always questioning my motives. I thought you’d be glad.”
“What will happen to you?”
I can’t bear to say, What will God do to you? But I’m imagining it all the same. The horseman is turning his back on his violent purpose. Surely there are some consequences to that.
War tilts my chin up. “Are you actually worried for me?”
My lower lip is beginning to tremble just the slightest. “Of course I am. I don’t want you to—die.” My voice breaks.
I know he’s said it’s impossible for him to die, but is it really any less possible than raising the dead or healing the wounded or speaking dead languages? Impossible no longer means the same thing it once has.
The horseman’s thumb brushes my lower lip. “And who says I will?”
“Tell me you won’t,” I say a bit desperately.
“My brother didn’t.”
I go still. “So Pestilence is still alive?”
War nods. “Do you want to know what happened to him?” he asks. “What really happened?”
“How he was stopped, you mean?” I say.
War’s fingers move to my scar, tracing the symbol. “It wasn’t violence that got him in the end. It was love.”
I don’t breathe.
“My brother fell in love with a human woman, and he gave up his divine mission to be with her.
Which is exactly what my horseman seems to be doing.
I try to keep my voice steady. “What happened to him?” What will happen to you?
“He and his wife live—they have children too,” War says.
I feel myself begin to breathe steadily again.
“So they’re alive?” I ask. “And happy?”
“As far as I know,” War says.
Relief washes through me. War won’t die, just as Pestilence didn’t. He can leave the fighting behind, and we can have a good life together. A mundane and happy and hopefully long life.
I study War’s expression again. “So you’re not worried about leaving your task behind?”
War hesitates. “I wouldn’t say that.”
Like snapping his fingers, my fear returns.
He must see it because he says, “Miriam, do you believe that I can be redeemed?”
“What do you mean? Are you asking if you can right your wrongs?”
The warlord gives a sharp nod.
He’s done so many abominable things. From the very day he arrived, he’s brought death with him. But what he’s done is a different question from the one he’s asking.
“I think you’re already redeeming yourself,” I say. “So, yes, War, I do