REAPER IN RED

INTERLUDE 4: The Hero's Daughter

Many seasons long gone, there was a time in this world, where magic and power roamed free for all to wield. There was power and strength in mere words if one understood how to utilize them. One brave soul stood tall above the rest. A man of great talent and respect. As but a child, he did whisper his first magic phrase, his family cried out with thanks to their gods. He was born. The saviour. The chosen. The blessed. And in the words of their people in a language since passed, they named him after his magic. The hero child. Ozma Salos.

His birth was signaled by a changing storm. A flash of brilliant light across the sky. Torrential rains pulling trees from their roots. Horrid winds and gales and squalls. Born to those of lesser nobility, the hero Ozma was the seventh son of the seventh son. His birth was recognized by the great spirits on Remnant. The sky cracked and the ground fractured when he let forth his first cry of life. Eyes of silver sparked with early recognition. With early genius. The great men and women which saw his arrival knew what was to come.

The hero Ozma's first years were spent away from his small villa with the lesser nobility of his parents. They were instead in the great keep, surrounded by the finest teachers and tutors. By the legendary sword masters and the king's own retinue of knights. He supped with the children of lords and read in the libraries of wizards and witches. His days were filled with wonderment and amazement. Nights with dreams of adventure and heroics.

His first words were that of his own name. Of Ozma. The great spell for which he was named for. And in these first words, magic did spark in his eyes and spell work did erupt from his fingers. It was said by the king himself that the young hero took to magic and the sword, better than a fairie took to flight. Better than a chimera to the flame. His was a path few could achieve or dream to achieve and yet there he stood, a child at arms.

As a child, he spoke to the priests about a dream recurring. One which plagued him so, day and night. While at practice in the field or at study in the temple. A dream of his future. Of a woman with hair of the earth and forest and eyes of sparkling gemstone. His nights were tormented by this vision of beauty with eyes like a rose. Of their time together and of someone else with them. Someone whom he would wake in tears after having seen them.

He told priests and mystics and wizards and all the learned men of magic in the palace. For any hope of deciphering his vision, his dream. Yet none could. With determination of one with a noble mission of the heart, he ventured forth from his home amongst nobility to find one who could realize his dreams.

His first stop was at a bridge. One which was blocked by a foul smelling ogre. The ogre, of putrid breath and mindless eyes, attacked all those who tried to cross. Around him lay the bodies of the dead. Hunters with their bows and arrows, knights with their sword and shield. The bones of peasants and farmers, trying to get through to the other side. With a word, the hero Ozma spun his magics, lulling the beast to sleep. With a single swing of his mighty sword, he cleaved the beast in two.

For his bravery, the townsfolk showered him with wealth and riches. But, he took no maiden. For he was searching for one to share his dreams. He was looking for the one in his dreams. He spoke with the elder, and much the same. The dreams he could not decipher, much to his shame. But, they did mention a village. One set far to the West. It was one controlled by the crop, the farmers holding sway. All the foodstuff of the town, owned by so few. They controlled the food, the wealth, the power.

Maybe there the hero Ozma could find whom he sought. It was his duty, his honour, nay his mission to help out those in need. He could rescue those defenseless and bring back order to the village controlled by the farmers. And so he would travel. And so he did. To the very edges of the map and beyond it still. He would talk to travelers and tradesmen. Defeating monsters and saving towns. His name became known throughout, but to that village he still ventured.

And with each passing day and each passing night, new tales emerged about such a place. Where those that controlled the grains were controlling the town. How they forced the men to serve them by day. And forced the women to serve them by night. The ruler. The leader of such a group had stolen the daughter of a local baker to have his way with. To create an heir to name his successor. To place a crown on its head and turn their town, their village into a kingdom. One in which he controlled the food and all were subservient to him. It was foretold that his child would be blessed with beauty and magic. And so he took her. That baker's daughter, said to be the most beautiful in the land. Her beauty was not just in the way she looked, but in the way she spoke. In the way she thought and the way she moved. Her very soul was beauty and compassion.

And now it was chained.

The more the hero Ozma ventured, the more he heard about such a beauty. The more he learned of such a town. The more he fell in love with her. His mission slowly changed. He wished to know his dream, but he wished to know her more. And so his travelling continued. Hearing stories and defending towns. His reputation grew. His strength and power grew. The magics which surrounded him and blessed him grew. And then he reached it. That small, little town, where they were lacking in fresh grain and all served the master of the crops.

It was at dawn that the hero Ozma came face to face with that man. The hero Ozma spoke to him, pleaded with him to release that girl whom he had stolen from her family and let her choose whom she loved. To let the people of the town eat the grain without subservience. He weaved magic into his words. He did not wish for a fight, but only for change. And the man, that farmer, convinced by word and magic, relented. He promised to do just that. And so he left town, promising to return when he had redeemed himself.

They hugged as friends. The man traveled East. The hero traveled West.

He reached a cabin, a small home beside the fields of grain, where a woman toiled alone. The hero laid eyes on her and he wept. For she was was that of true beauty. And she was that which filled his dreams. He kneeled in front of her and spoke of what he had done. He spoke the truth and all that he could, never once gazing up at her until his story was finished. And then she helped him to his feet and hugged him most kindly. She allowed him to stay in her home and told him of what she had been forced to do. To toil in the fields alone each day and forced into his bed each night. And the two spoke. Of places they traveled and dreams they dreamt. And the two grew closer. And the two fell in love.

And the woman, most beautiful grew large with child. And the hero Ozma was happy. Rumours did emerge of what was happening in the East. Of a man of great power and wealth whom was raising an army. One of sword and shield and magic to strike at those which had wronged him. Tales spread and evolved. tales grew and grew. And they were all true. The man was returning to the West. To claim back his town which was to become his kingdom. To reclaim his woman and slave. And to kill the hero whom had forced him to flee.

And so the hero Ozma took up sword once more. He wished a safe home to the woman of his dreams and she bid him safe travels. And they two cherished each other. And the hero set out on an adventure most grand. To defeat the army which was to take those whom he had grown to love. To steal away their freedom which they had so longed for.

Many moons passed as the hero fought. From one town to the next he battled and vanquished his foe. They chose not to remain as one large horde, but in smaller forces to wear down the hero Ozma. To strike and strike and strike with sword and shield and magic until he grew too weak to raise his own. But still he fought on. To protect his love and his future sire. To defeat those that had wronged the woman of his dreams. No matter how many he fought and how many he faced, he could not find that man. That man whom had had hugged as a friend and let live that day.

And after many a moon's turn, he was satisfied and he was complete. He returned to his village to meet again the woman of his dreams and their sire. And as he stood in front of the village, he wept at what he saw. That man had returned while he was away. He stole away his woman and his sire. A daughter she had named Salem after him. She, who had hair like his own and eyes like her. Who was beautiful in appearance and beautiful in her soul. With magic that touched her lips as she spoke, just as it had with him. But she grew up while he was away. That sweet child had been stolen from her mother and forced to serve that man who named himself father.

The hero Ozma stayed in hiding in that town. To know what had happened to his woman and his own daughter. He had learned that the woman of his dreams had died. How his daughter was raised with cruelty in her heart from her father. How his sweet Salem had once been a child most beautiful, had grown wicked and mean. It was not the man whom had killed his woman. It had been that most innocent girl. Who had wished to weave magic most powerful. To bring about creatures which matched her wickedness and evil. Those whom she would name as her children, her offspring.

And the hero Ozma did cry as he learned. His own blood and sire had been corrupted by darkness. Corrupted by cruelty. Any action of evil she would bring would be his fault and his sin. All those sired of Salem's wickedness and blood would be his own as well. And with tears, he went to meet her. The girl whom should have been his daughter.

And so he went to that cabin which had for a time been his home. And she was there. She looked pale and sick and weak. And the hero Ozma went to her side to learn more. To find her truth. For there could be many truths. And she told him. Salem spoke of what she had done. How she had stretched her magic to its extent. The words of wisdom. The words of courage. The words of bravery and of strength. Those magical words of Ozma, which the hero had been named for. Salem spoke of that passing moon which she spoke of power.

And she smiled as he leaned towards her. How she reached around him to beg for forgiveness for what she had done. And the hero Ozma, looking at that girl who looked so much like he and so much like her, cherished her so. And his daughter laughed a most vile laugh. And the hero fell and the hero died.

And that wicked Salem emerged most powerful. A realm most grand to rule over. The hero Ozma had fallen. And the hero's daughter had emerged. And as the hero wept blood and tears, for he had failed in his final mission and final purpose, so too did the rest of the land.

I closed the story book with a loud thump. I could feel the gears in my own mind twist and turn as they worked out the similarities of the two tales. And then it clicked. I shot up from my chair, knocking it backwards. The sound it made might have been loud in the quiet room, but I didn't know for sure. All that I could hear was the voice inside my own head. It's chanting and repetition brought a growing grin to my face.

"i know what I need to do."

Ruby figured it out. Now, can you?

AnAtomicPanda95 - Hopefully this chapters clears up your question. If not, then know the two aren't the same person.

Dragonqueen1993 - Yes, poor Salem indeed. :)

Firewyrm2 - I get that it's annoying to wait for new chapters. I have the same problem when I read fanfics too. But at least it's (mostly) consistent! :D

Darknight2124 - Both of these stories didn't use any real references, though I read a bunch of poetry before writing the Farmer's Daughter, and a couple Greek myths while writing the Hero's Daughter, just to get the flow somewhat correct.

FN75 - You're gonna love the next major arc.

Amir2000 - Thank you! I don't plan on stopping anytime soon, so there will most definitely be more!