The Reaper

Chapter I

Half-Death

The town was common enough, stationed on the outskirts of a thriving forest. A high wall surrounded the town, mainly for protection against large animals, but its occupants lived in peace, happily going about their daily lives. The sun had reached its zenith and was beginning its descent when a young woman, average enough, emerged from a small alleyway. The alley was narrow, and she was very much alone. Thinking she had dropped something, she turned and headed back down the alley, scanning the ground. The woman was young, but her face was lined and drawn, her eyes blank and devoid of life. Her clothes, although once rather elegant, were now dirty and slightly ragged. However, she clutched a purse to her chest, barely held closed, and the audible chink of metal on metal was easily heard.

As the woman turned around, she was confronted by the sight of a large man, an ugly scar running from the bridge of his nose to his ear by the jaw line. He was tall and broad, and a curved, rusty knife was clenched in one meaty fist. His small eyes, pale and watery, were fixed on the bulging purse in the woman's grasp. She screamed and did the only thing an unprotected, frightened woman could; she fled. She ran back the way she had come, only to scrabble frantically at the brick wall that impeded her progress. Whimpering softly, she slid down the wall and settled on the floor, still hugging the purse to her. The man leaned against the wall, running a thumb along the knife. He could wait; she wasn't going anywhere.

Eventually, he grew tired of her, so he pushed himself away from the wall and came towards her, savoring in the fright that grew rapidly in her eyes. With the blade held high in the air, he had no problems wrenching the purse from her startled grasp. He tossed it over to the other side of the alley so as not to stain it with the inevitable blood that was to follow. He had no restraints as he sliced at her with the blade, watching the blood pour from a dozen wounds onto his hands and the ground beneath them. Her screams turned into whimpers, which became groans, and then, silence. The man wiped his knife on her ragged clothing and picked up the purse, weighing it happily in his hand. He turned to leave, the woman's mangled body flung against the brick wall, but a figure was standing at the mouth of the alley, and for some reason, the figure sent shivers of intense fear down the man's spine.

The figure was cloaked, but the cloak's hood was thrown back, revealing slightly shaggy hair that could belong to either a man or a woman. It came almost to the figure's eyes, eyes that were emerald in color, but so dark that it was hard to tell. The figure's hair was reddish, but darkly so, as were the eyes. It was almost as if someone had darkened every shade about the figure's being. The skin was the only trait exempt from this darkening; it was quite pale, with a few scattered freckles. The clothing that the being wore was as dark as the cloak; loosely tied black pants and a tighter black shirt, accompanied by black boots made from soft, supple leather. The figure itself was not terribly imposing; it was neither large nor powerful looking, but the man with the knife was terrified all the same.

As all macho men must, he hid most of his fear and brandished the blade at the intruder, baring his teeth. The figure, however, for reasons unbeknownst to the murderer, brushed right past him and hurried to the end of the alley. Once there, the figure knelt down by the woman and began whispering, stroking her head idly. The murderer could not understand this odd behavior, so he came up behind the strange person and gave him a hard smack in the side of the head.

"Must you interrupt me?" the figure stated. The voice was definitely that of a male, and the murderer was unsure how to respond. Without another glance for the man behind him, the cloaked man refocused his attention upon the woman at his feet. The murderer, with the knife still gripped in one hand, could only stare. He had tossed the purse to one side in order to properly deal with the confusing man before him. For a moment, as he stared, he thought he saw the form of a young lady, woven from air, take the man's hand. He whispered to her, and she smiled, but just as soon as she had appeared she was gone. The man sighed heavily, and his shoulders sagged, but he turned to face the murderer all the same.

"Are you really so cowardly as to murder and steal from the weak?" he asked, malice burning in his eyes. His voice was cold and low, but the murderer would have preferred yelling, screaming, anything compared to that voice. The murderer was at a loss for words for a moment as he met that gaze, unable to look away. The eyes were so much deeper than he could have imagined; they seemed to be endless, hiding secrets that no one would ever know. He finally broke away from the man’s gaze and replied to the question by pulling back his arm and stabbing him in the stomach with the knife.

The man grunted, staring at the steel protruding from his belly, but he did not fall over as the murderer had expected. Where were the screaming and the gurgling? Where was the dying? True, blood was flowing steadily and silently from the wound, trickling down the man's leg and staining his shirt a deep red, but the man continued to stand. The only move he made was to turn and spit, a thin trickle of blood staining his chin.

The murderer could not take this any longer. Women made of air were bad enough, but this…this was definitely not normal, and anything that left the boundaries of normality was not to be tolerated. Leaving the purse where it was and the knife still in the man's stomach, he turned and fled, the fear that had been in the woman’s eyes now mirrored tenfold in his own.

The man, coughing feebly, settled himself against the wall next to the dead woman, closing his eyes. He was not afraid of death; he wasn't about to die. As a reaper he was safe. To the reaper’s knowledge, there were actually multiple others like him, though they were quite rare and many had not even heard of them. Death was unable to touch him or the other reapers. He had certain powers of regeneration, but in his present condition, he was not in any position to pull the wicked blade from his stomach. He had used much of his energy that day freeing the souls of the dead, so all he could do was lean against the wall and pray that someone would happen along, someone who could save him from an eternal existence in the state between life and death.