Rider of Styx

“There are only a couple certainties in life; the fact that taxes are listed as one of the certainties is certainly amusing. Somehow, the notion that something created by humanity, becoming such an integral part of their lives that they cannot imagine a world without such a thing; who wouldn’t laugh at such a thought? Wouldn’t you agree?” The black robed girl, sitting across a wooden beam, muttered those thoughts aloud as she gazed down at the figure below her: a bespectacled figure surrounded by stacks of paper was seen working at a desk as the man continued to work without paying mind to his visitor.

“I didn’t take you for the philosophical type.” He comments while placing a stamped sheet on one of the massive piles he has lined up. “Worker types like us don’t have the opportunity to think on our own all that often.” The conversation didn’t seem to slow down his work speed a single bit as he continued to read through the documents, marking down any discrepancies and organizing sheets. 

“When you’re around as long as I have, the opportunities to have thoughts start to pile up.” She responds as she kicks off the wooden beam, dropping down to land gracefully on her feet. The image seemed akin to a black cat in the man’s eyes; the grace in which she dropped let not one single sound reverberate throughout the room as her black eyes meet his gaze. “I wouldn’t exactly call you a worker type though. How do I say this nicely…” she holds her chin pondering. “Someone who pretends to do his work diligently, but actually falsifies documents and lies to his lord about the state of the territory.”

“They call that person a traitor.”

“I wouldn’t be that harsh.”

“No, that’s precisely what I am doing.” He replies without changing his expression, as he places one stack of the pile into the trash can, where at the end of the day he would burn, while the other stack he would forge some of the numbers to seem higher than they were. Having done this for many years, he has gotten into a sort of rhythm that made his treachery so much more efficient. 

“It’s commendable though, tax evasion for one person can be such a hassle, but for an entire territory’s worth of people? That’s something that takes real skill.” She walks around the room, almost entirely undecorated save for the one desk. 

“I thank you for the compliment, but I don’t see how skill has anything to do with this sort of thing. Only a fool would engage in such an act as opposing their lord.”

“Yeah, you’re absolutely awful when it comes to decorating. A painting in this room would really lighten it up.”

“I’ll buy one off the street next time I’m in the market.” He replies while continuing to work, taking off his glasses for a moment as he pinches the bridge off his nose. Meanwhile, the black robed girl continues to walk around the room, finally stopping once she reaches the windowsill.

“Looks like you don’t really have that chance.” Turning his head, entering his view is an array of soldiers in armor approaching the manor, viewing the crest upon their uniform, it seemed to be the guards of the very lord he served. The girl watched his expression as it turned serious, as he pulled a drawer out from the desk and retrieved a single match. Lighting it, he sets it down upon the stack of paper without missing a beat as the soldiers approaches closer and closer. “Are you afraid?” Her words reached his ear as the fire started to burn the papers down to cinders. 

“Yeah, can’t let those guys know how much is actually being taken, they might just increase the rate again without knowing what the real effect is.” Making sure that all the papers are burnt, he picks himself up, dusts himself of the ash and starts to head towards the door.

“Guess I’m not doing a good job then, upper management told me to make people fear me, but I guess people got too used to that image.”

“No, you’re plenty scary enough. A woman’s wrath is one of the scariest things in the world.”

“Why thanks, but don’t forget your glasses.” She comments as she hands him the pair that was on the desk before he lit it on fire.

“Thanks, one must always look presentable in front of their lord after all.”

“I was thinking that your head would look better with glasses when the decapitation was finished.”

“That as well.” He presents a wry smile to the girl as the sound of footsteps approaching becomes more and more present. “You’ll be there for the event won’t you?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be by your side the whole time.” That was the last thing spoken before the door was knocked down, and the man was grabbed, glancing back at the girl, she followed along behind, and was there the moment he was executed just as Death said she would.

Ferrying souls of the dead, she will always be present during one’s most dire times, in order to save the ones who are suffering the only way she knows how. The one who carries a scythe, the fourth horseman of apocalypse, the one known as the black rider, the name of the girl is Death.

Winter is a particularly rough season, especially for those who don’t have access to heating. On such a day, a young girl was tossed out of her home and told to go sell some matches, so that maybe the family could buy a piece of coal. Quite a sad story, one that felt all too repetitive to the figure who watched down from above. Having watched the girl for hours, with not a single cent to her name, she knew the girl could not go back for fear of getting beaten. 

As the night drew darker, the girl huddled towards an alleyway, as everyone else was going home, and there was no one left to buy matches. Her fingers began to freeze and her feet frosted from walking, entering her gaze was the dark robed figure of someone clothed in black, the sight of them dropping down from the sky caused the little girl to lose trust in her eyes. Rubbing her eyes, she found the figure to still be standing there, and she now understood that figure to belong to a black haired girl.

“Do you want to buy a match?” She musters the words from her frozen mouth as she tries to extend a box towards the figure, but the only movement was the matches dropping from her freezing hand as she could no longer use any strength.

“Sorry kiddo,” the figure kneels down to her height as she apologizes with a sorrowful expression. “I don’t have any money.” Those words cause the little girl to lose all the strength that she didn’t know she had left, and she felt her body collapse as her last hope died.

“...so you’re a useless adult…” 

“Harsh words for a kid.” The figure continued to speak calmly with her, as if it was normal to see the sight of a child suffering.

“Kind words only help when begging, and I can’t beg from a person who can’t work.”

“I have a job you know, I just don’t get paid.”

“Then you’re just a tool.” The girl said as her expression darkened. “Just like me.” The figure in black said nothing in response to her as she sat besides the girl; she shifted her gaze, but her presence there remained as the two sat in silence.

Staring up at the sky, the girl watched as the snow began to fall from the dark grey clouds. Every single flake of pure white snow draining the feeling from her body. “You should try lighting a match, seeing as no one is paying for them, might as well use them yourself for warmth.” Finding no words to argue with the useless adult, she uses the last of her effort to try and hold the match in her hand, flicking it against the box, the result was a weak flame that burned red. Not even giving enough warmth to defrost her own fingers.

“...thanks, I hate it.”

“You’re very welcome.” The girl continued to look into the flame, becoming increasingly disgruntled at the sight. Within that small light, she remembers the light of a well lit Christmas tree, a table topped with a stuffed turkey, and her family smiling all around her. She continues to light match after light until the whole bundle is almost depleted, to try and find that memory of a time that has long since passed, and all that’s left behind is a bitter feeling of resentment as she smothers the with her own fingers before throwing the match to the ground as she rejects the scene and returns back to staring at the cold stone wall that lays in front of her. Breathing heavily, she sits back down as her heart lays in turmoil.

“I really hate this world...”

“Do you now.”

“This world can blow up for all I care.”

“That’d make my job a lot more difficult.” A wry smile appears on the black haired girl’s face as she continues to speak with her. Ignoring her comment, the girl continues.

“I wish I was never born, then maybe I wouldn't have had to suffer for all this time.”

“Oh? So your life has been just a series of unfortunate events hasn’t it?”

“Exactly.”

“There’s not a single moment that made living worth it.”

“Not a single one.” 

“Not even her?” The image of her grandmother’s face appears in her mind. The warm smile that managed to brighten her cloudiest day, who treated her kindly even when she did something wrong. She opened her mouth to try and deny even that, but she just couldn’t; unable to say those words to her face, her eyes started to water as a flood of emotion swept over her.

“Try and light another one. Look, there’s still one last match left.” The girl acts without argument as she pulls out a match, even though the radiance of the flame is no brighter than the bundle she burned before, in the girl’s eyes, it burns brighter than the sun ever could. Her tears start to stream down her face as she turns her wettened eyes, that even the eve’s frost couldn’t freeze over, towards the black eyed girl.

“I want to see her.” Smiling at the girl’s response, she pats her on the head and wraps her arms around her. The temperature of the black haired girl was no greater than the cold nights air, yet her warmth still was transmitted to the girl.

“Do you like horses?”

“No,”

“...I’m going to take you somewhere far away.” Unsure of how to follow that up, she just continued on. “You won’t feel hunger any more. There won’t be night or winter. There’s no need to sell matches since there’ll be no money to buy them with...and”

“Will grandma be there?” The girl cut off the black figure’s voice, causing her to pause her thoughts. The lips of the figure raised as she responded to the girl.

“Yes, she will.” The figure spoke those words, trying to convince the both of them. “All you need to do is close your eyes.” Nodding her head, the girl’s eyelids relaxed as she let herself fall limp into the arms of Death, who carried her soul to a place far away, where nothing could make her suffer any longer.

Sitting in a sunlit room sat an elderly man sitting at a canvas. Placing the final stroke of paint across it, he looked at his work with a sense of satisfaction as he let himself place the brush and the palette down; never intending to pick up the two again. Hearing the door open, the voice of a young man's footsteps filled the studio. 

“Master, I’m back!” He called out from the entrance of the room.

“Quiet down you little runt,” the elderly man called back with a mischievous smirk, “you went independent far too long ago to still be calling me master.”

“If I can’t call you master, you can’t keep calling me a little runt anymore.” 

“Oh, once a runt, always a runt.” 

“Then I guess you’ll always be my master.” Having settled on their agreement, the young man approached the master close enough to finally be able to see what was painted. 

“Portrait art huh...that’s rather rare for you.”

“This particular client was rather special.”

“Master, you have a child…”

“I didn’t raise an apprentice just so he could slander me.” He broke his vow of not picking the brush up again in order to whack the young man upside the head; the only response was for him to laugh at their antics. “...I suggested for the painting to be done by you, but the girl was insistent that I be the one to paint it. Honestly she was probably the worst client I ever had.”

“Worse than the barkeeps who wanted to fresco their entire store?”

“At least those idiots paid upfront.” Taking the painting off the stand before tossing it to the young man, who panicked as the large frame was tossed over without warning.

“What are you doing?” The young man exclaimed after finally managing to secure it without leaving a mark on the painting itself, to which the master merely turned his face away as if it wasn’t his issue.

“I don’t want to look at that painting anymore, do with it what you will.”

“What about the client?”

“That client didn’t look like she could scrounger up even a single penny if you told her to strip to her socks.”

“So you really did lay your hands on her.” The young man looks with sympathetic eyes, before having to duck from a palette being thrown at his head. “Anyways,” Trying to distract from the pain in his head from repeated blunt force trauma, the young man deferred to the painting. “Do you have a name for this?” 

The master gazed up as he contemplated, before finally formulating a response. “Let’s name it 'Rider of Styx'.”

“Really...what did this girl do to you.”

“One more word I’m aiming for the painting next.” The young man immediately shuts up as he signals that he’d be leaving immediately, to which the master calls out. “And don’t come back until you’ve found an apprentice this time!” As the boy left the room, the master turned back towards the stool that the boy thought of as empty. Filling the artist’s eyes was a black robes figure, who’s ominous coloration was contrasted by her rather pouty expression.

“Do I really look that poor?”

“Have you seen your outfit? You look like you’re in rags.” 

She looks down at herself as she makes a mental note to herself to make a complaint to upper management about the dress codes. 

“Maybe I should ask for a salary too.”

“Yeah, maybe you’ll be able to pay for the next painting.”

"I'll be sure to visit the little runt when his time comes."

"His name is Carlos."

“Speaking of names...'Rider of Styx'.” She nods to herself, seemingly proud of the moniker that the artist came up with.

“Ferrying souls of the dead, she will always be present during one’s most dire times, in order to save the ones who are suffering the only way she knows how. The one who carries a scythe, the fourth horseman of apocalypse, the one known as the black rider, the name of the girl is Death. Wouldn’t you say it’s a fitting name?”

“Stop! It’s embarrassing if you're the one saying it.”

The old man smirks, lifting himself in an attempt to stand up, his leg collapses from under him as the old man toppled to the floor. The black figure looming over him.

“Do you need help getting to the bed?”

Shaking his head, he merely smiles. “Get to bed, Hah! I’d rather die in the studio where I lived.” He laughs at the notion, to which Death calmly smiles back at him. 

“Well then, whenever you’re ready.” She reaches out her hand to him, and the old man reaches back.

In everyone’s most dire time, she will always be there. Whether it’s to remind people of life’s value, to force people to avoid her at all cost, or to calmly accept the ones who have no choice but to meet her. There has never been anything in life that is more certain than the presence and inevitability of Death itself.