Disclaimer: Supernatural ain't mine. (Anyone curious, the 'poetry' rhyme stanza thingy is mine)
A/N: Alright, so this story actually seems like it will need some introduction.
So I'm basically going to be writing about how Ruby got to her place in the show and pretty much everything I write is going to be made up. My goal is to fill in all the blanks in her history with this story, because canon does not go into Ruby's past much.
Also, "she" and "her" refers to Ruby, because her name does not really match Medieval times.
Warning: I don't know if this will be any good. I haven't really done something like this before. Wish me luck?
Also, there will be vague spoilers for season 4 in the story, as well as specific season 4 spoilers in the following bold section.
What is known about Ruby (I'm getting this from "Super-wiki"):
Ruby became a witch by selling her soul around the time of the black plague.
Did you notice that in the series, Ruby seemed to be the only demon who knew exactly what Sam's role was from the very start? (I'm getting this from some of her last words, which were "You don't even know how hard this was! All the demons out for my head. No one knew. I was the best of those sons of bitches! The most loyal! Not even Alastair knew!").
Directly taken from their website, not my own words: "she is tasked with a secret undercover operation by Lilith (the new leader of the demon army) instead, one that pits her against her fellow soldiers: when 65 of the 66 Seals have been broken, Ruby has to get Sam Winchester to kill Lilith in order to break the last seal and free Lucifer."
Chapter 1: As She Once was Human, She Died a Witch
Maybe it is that she had mother and father and sister and family. Maybe she found a sweetheart and maybe she bore a child. She could have even been the rising glory of her hometown. Or she was, perhaps, orphaned, dirty, and alone.
But none of that is of importance, because it was from so very long ago and there is only one remnant from a time so dark and sick that is of interest. And that remnant, that manipulative blight, that simpering worm, is Ruby.
Though, of course, that is a name she claimed for herself once on a starry night in a future far off anything to which she was born from. Still, she is the wisp of nightmares for all times, because she is an evil that stains and an evil that crawls with the leeches.
And for all that she was passingly notorious, she is almost always nameless. Because she was worthless and remained worthless for all the while except for one or two fortunate years. And thus, she will not be called anything other than "she" or "her."
Here is, perchance and with more than an ounce of speculation, her origins.
She signed away all of it, soul and body,
Made the slaved fool in her worshipping folly
Because she was sure of herself, wanting for devilry,
And for that, she died painful, facing superstitious cavalry
And the ships sailed, in one day there and back, only to bring with them terror in the stead of food. See, the bodies were all lined up, against railings and tables and, of course, the food. Sailors were still and sightless, limp, ridden with welts which the people later called plague boils.
Twas a sight, but even more so a smell, that had lingered for longer than the death itself. It was the start of a darkened magic cast upon the lands and no one was safe, unless ye breath was held for all eternity.
The smart, the thinkers and the scientists (who were ever so clever, because yes, they were the ones who found that bloodletting would settle a hysterical woman right down), found that there was no end to it and they turned to the Church.
But even then, pastors and clergymen, the pope himself, said there nothing for it. They said it was mans' fault, because we are all dirty sinners and only forgiveness and prayer might stop God's wrath.
From there, it was a frenzy of the masses.
She had heard that death was coming to town. It would visit, kindly tipping its hat, and then turn about the whole place with pus and withering fever.
She was not a fan.
So quickly, as the death toll rose and she was able to hear more and more stories of the Sickness and its blazing agony, she decided she would not be victim to such a curse.
Subsequent days followed a blazing path of purpose.
She would find witchcraft and use it to tower over all. Because if there was ever a time for such risky practice, it would be now when others were weak and perhaps she could even perch upon a position of power, while heads were turned towards Sickness.
"So you come to us, bright light untouched by the Sickness?"
And she remained quiet, standing as still as she could and with each breath taken slowly.
"Yes. Oh yes, yes, yes. You are perfect. Come, young one."
The witch, though the hag was never introduced as such, but it is only to be assumed because she wears the robes and crackles with power, swept away and towards a long hall made of stones.
She follows.
To become a witch, one must lose themselves. They swallow down darkness, feel the itch of demons and can even lay their sights upon secrets that mostly the dead see. Maybe that is why most do not like witches. Or maybe, it is because witches are a cruel bunch, spelling evils and bringing death.
She does not think of this. She thinks of power.
"Here. The robe is yours." A witch, though not the old and ugly one that brought her here, passed along a red, velvet swath of material. It felt harsh against fingertips.
Smiling, a toothy, crooked thing, she took it. She put it on and it smelled dead.
"Sister, it smells of death." She said, rather than asked.
The witch cackled, hunching over as if this was all too funny. "Of course it does. That is the magic. So, so old and all for you, sweetie. Can you last longer than your robe?"
She flared with pride, because this is what she wanted and she'd known more dresses and clothing in her whole life than one simple, ugly robe.
"Of course."
This time, the witch did not laugh, but brewed forth in anger. The witch fisted her shirt and dragged her forth, bending her to the ground to face the witch's feet.
Her face touched old crow's toes and her stomach churned, as the witch said, "It is cursed, you idiot. Do not get cocky. That will be your undoing. Go. Get the herbs for tomorrow."
Call it waking dream or hallucination or even divine prophecy, but she once saw something that spelled out the future. Of course, she would not remember it for some time, that would be boring.
Young lady, I call to you.
Sometime far later than now, you will be important. Because, there will be a boy who wakes our God. You will help him.
I fear that you will lose this life rather quickly, because we need you to last long enough to turn him down a darker path.
Come home, little witch.
Come home to burn.
"Y- you bastard! We had a promise!"
Things change.
"I sold my soul for this!"
There are bigger things ahead than being a mere witch in these times.
So it was, that she once found herself scuttling the streets in the dead of night and amidst the decaying squish of carcass underfoot. She was stealthy and carried with her a satin sack of magical qualities. She needed the herbs for the witch's rites the next day, when sun rose, and each step was taken without much fear, because she had power now.
But of course, it is always the hubris of (wo)man that breaks the greats (and the not-so- greats who feel as though they are great), and it was the same for her on that night.
Because she was hooded, in red as was deigned her standing amongst her coven, and because she was alive, others sought her out for The Killing.
Tonight, like many other nights, those who had no one to hold onto atop mattresses of straw and patchwork made their way across the streets to find those who did not wear the mark of mourning (which was of black cloth, perched upon the head and covering all the way down to the toes).
So it was, that she found herself facing the angered, mourning crowd and their superstitions (though to call these beliefs baseless or not is difficult to say, because she was indeed a witch, but the methods they used to call her such during The Killing were not quite sensible.).
"She be a witch!"
"Yes, she wear the mark of the living, she does not plan to catch ill-fated sickness."
"The cross dispels your powers, you heretic!"
"Die! Witch, ye burn!"
And so the crowds chanted, roaring with foul mouths and raised weapons, sinking in closer and closer around her until the flames formed a ring above their heads.
And she fought the wretched masses, shrieking and promising no ill intent, clawing against their skins and grapping at shirts and limbs alike. It was of no use. They were distorted by the Sickness and they gave up all to come out tonight. She would not be given mercy.
And so it was that she was felled before them, weeping gashes oozing their vindication, eyes open and her skin sizzling from the punishing flames spread across her torso.
She fell. And then she fell, because this is not the end of her tale. No, she will reach flames hotter than these, undoubtedly.