REAPER IN RED
INTERLUDE 3: The Farmer's Daughter
There once was a baker who had a daughter. She was kind and sweet and lovely to behold. She swept the shop floor while still smaller than the broom. She sold bread and sweet cakes on the streets. She wove flowers in her hair and held a song on her lips. She married a farmer on the edge of the village. A man of strong stature, of charm and of wit. A man whom would cherish her and whom she cherished in turn.
There once was a hero. A warrior of olde. Who weaved magic into words and enchantment into bronze. He was brave and fierce and beautiful to look upon. He slay dragon grimm while still a boy. He fended poor maidens and protected many homes. He sung songs of valour and danced with grace. He never married. The woman he wished for was kind and sweet and lovely to behold. Someone who would cherish him and care for him and cook for him and clean.
A baker's daughter found life on a farm hard and tough. A baker's daughter found life on a farm joyful and pleasant. On the edge of the village, tall flowers bloomed with colours and smells most vibrant to behold. To wake up with the dawn and feed her hens and heifers. To wipe sweet sweat from her brow alongside her farmer. To reap the harvest and make bread from the spoils. Life was, what life was.
A hero found life on the road hard and tough. A hero found life on the road superior and good. To travel was to see. Towns and peoples, of many colours and smells most vibrant to behold. To wake up whenever with whomever he chose. To wipe sweat from his brow as he struck down his next foe. To reap the rewards and keep the spoils. Life was whatever he chose.
The baker's daughter wished her farmer swift travels. He would make great haste to sell his crop in towns out East. He would wish his baker's daughter farewell and a safe return. She wished him great travels and a warm bed to return to. She gave him a kiss. He gave her a hug.
The hero wished to travel at great speeds. He had heard of a village, one which may hold his dream out West. He wished his townsfolk farewell and his own return to them. They wished him great travels and new spoils of victory. He kissed whomever he pleased. He touched whomever her chose.
The baker's daughter was lonely without her farmer. By day she worked and toiled and plowed. By night she relaxed, thinking to the future. She dreamed of a child with hair of gold. With ruby red eyes and with skin to pale to behold. In her dreams they laughed and sang and danced. When awake she gave her family portrait a glance. Her hair was the colour of the earth, which her farmer toiled. His hair was the colour of coal, which a baker valued most.
The hero was lonely on the road without a woman to please him. By day he marched and fought and slew. By night he relaxed, thinking of his past. He dreamed of a child with hair matching his own. With eyes like the fire his magic summoned and skin like picked bone. In his dreams, they fought with sword and magic and wit. When he awoke, he gazed at his reflection in the pool, taking attention to it. His hair was sweet corn, which he feasted that dawn. His hair of the sun, of treasure, of gold.
On the tenth day alone, the farmer's daughter met him. A hero of a man whose voice echoed the sun. Whose wit and charm could know no bounds, who said she was lovely and handsome and like a rose. She allowed him to stay, to sleep in her home. He would be gone before dawn, the hero had sworn. It was true that he was. But she was not left alone.
The hero had met her, the woman of his dreams. She was sweet and lovely and open to work. He wooed and wooed and yet she remain firm. Her farmer was gone now, but soon he would return. She allowed him to stay, to sleep alone. He promised to leave by dawn, yet with words of magic, he did not sleep alone. When he left, she was not left alone.
The farmer returned to the baker's daughter he held dear. She was with child, but soon tears did appear. She clung to his arms, for safety and assurance. The farmer was strong and cherished her so. He made no note of her dalliance. On the eve of the first snows, a winter daughter was born. He named her Salem, though not his own, she was perfect and peaceful, and he cherished her so. Her hair was gold and eyes red like fire. They knew not what to do, but take care of their sire.
The farmer's daughter, for she was so, grew to be kind and sweet and lovely to behold. She fed her hens and heifers from hands most small. She reaped her wheat with her scythe and toiled with her pitch. She wove flowers in her mother's hair and held a song on her lips. Her words brought forth bird and bug and beast. She smiled at her magics, how shadows did retreat.
The farmer's daughter lived and breathed and grew. She sang sweet songs, and danced sweet tunes. The farmer's daughter was beautiful, and strong and smart. She held magic on her lips, but love in her heart. On a day like all others, her farmer sat her down, his baker's daughter knelt before her and they shared their story, their lips a frown.
The farmer's daughter loved with all of her heart. How could she hate her farmer, who cherished her so? How could she hate her mother, whose adoration so true? To despise another was not something she cared for. Her family spoke of love, her real family was there. She told them of her magics, with not but a word. Her family grew fearful, for a hero might have heard.
A hero had heard, still fighting with magic and sword. His hair now grey, and his treasure, a horde. None held more power, none could rival his stead. Though his voice frail, his charm he did not shed. He had grown bitter and callous, angry in his lonesome. His perfect woman, a wife. That farmer, most loathsome. He had little to his name but gold and precious stone. No child to carry, no lineage of his own. He prayed to the gods, furious if they did not hear. But hear of else he did, a new fate drew near.
A woman of his loins. One of his sires. With words of magic, and strength he desired. He would make her his with but a single spell. For he was the hero, none stronger to tell. An heir, a sire, a kin, a child. For one of his own to reap but grain? A curse hath befallen his glorious name. He met this girl, this daughter of the field, and with a great blow, brought her to her knees.
The hero warned her of what was in store. For she was his own, to do with, unknown. He would rule, to become the hero king prophesized. And she his princess, his pawn to utilize. She begged and pleaded, that life was not for her. She was but a farmer's daughter, little else did she prefer. She had her family, a farmer and a baker's daughter. What use was a hero's life? Filled with not but slaughter?
The hero weaved sweet magics in his voice, how can such a girl demand such a choice? The farmer's daughter did beg, did plead and did cry. She had found her life, her happiness, her time. Her little village to call home. Her family to hold close. Toiling in the fields, with scythe of the harvest. To the edge of her village, the distance she traversed the farthest. Her world was small, and that she did know. But what else did she want? What other fields to watch grow?
Each passing moon, the hero did beg. His words growing stronger, growing frantic, with rage. His magic was powerful, but her love more so. His anger drew thoughts, ideas evil to behold. In a night with no moon and no stars, the hero vanquished his foe, his enemy, his folly. He slew them to a man, to a woman, to a sire. When the sun returned, he laughed among the fire.
That farmer's daughter did weep. She had nothing left to hold. No mother, nor farther, nor field to sow. All that remained was her tool of the harvest. And her magic and her wish. For safety and joy. With a wail of pain, of anguish too great, shadows once retreating grew faint, grew great. The sky hath darkened. The winds they did rise. Great Salem gave up humanity, with calm in her eyes.
The hero did fear, for the first time at all. This monster, his daughter, his foe to behold. He struck at her skin. It did not but glance. Sweet Salem did cry, his life she refused to take. He fell upon his sword, his own ire his downfall, this farmer's daughter, too peaceful, her one wish her wall. She set about the village, to do what she can. Reap souls of the fallen, for peace and joy her demand.
A farmer's daughter lived. A farmer's daughter died. She did what could be done, but death and pain, survived. Sweet daughter of the field, great tool sure in hand. What promises do you bring, what assurances you command? Why cover your head, in garments most dreary, wishing those feelings away. Your anguish to be seen clearly. One may not lose, what one cannot gain. Humanity and mercy, one side of a coin. Goodness and good will, another to be carried.
This farmer's daughter with tool kept in hand. To forever leave her fields, to forever leave her land. To have her soul call out for others in despair. True peace and humility. True love and true care. What can one do, but start a new people. To live for the land, to live for a people. The people of the field, those daughters of the farm. Who reap what others sow, who cherish what others show. The ones who remember. The ones who forget. The brilliance of life, the pain of death.
To stick to a place, one who sows may reap. A month and a day of captivity and of life, her power did creep. In passing lay promise, and in promises lay bare, a farmer's daughter did what she could. A hero's soul, reaped without despair. True to her word, a farmer's daughter is so. Her ancient promise to love humanity, and her detachment come fro.
It is with peace and understanding, she reaps with great love. The hero had died, but his words hath he cried. The farmer's daughter would forever remain alone. Not in peace, and not in pain. With great peace and with great pain. She who toils the fields of mankind, walks her path alone. Death doth come, in every a home. Death is truth. Death is freedom. Great anguish and sorrow, in truth and freedom.
There once was a farmer's daughter. She was sweet and lovely and beautiful to behold. With eyes of red diamond. Hair of sweet gold. She toiled in her fields of men, tool to reap from the fray. She once wove flowers in her mother's hair with a sweet song on her lips. Now she does not speak, her purpose in their grips.
A farmer's daughter reaps, what a farmer and a baker's daughter does sow. What a hero does live for, a farmer's daughter must go. A hero travels the land, slaying his rival. A farmer's daughter must travel, to ensure their survival. A farmer's daughter weeps, tears to be shed. A hero's name lives on forever. Her own. Dead.
Nagaichi - More is always on the way!
Dragonqueen1993 - Let me know how I did!
Firewyrm2 - Don't worry. That moment as well as the aftermath is already planned out.
JackTheSpades - Hopefully you can figure out how Ruby plans on doing it. Don't worry if you can't figure it out. Next chapter may clear up some things.
Alucard45 - Where's the fun in keeping our sanity? I let go of that thing ages ago! More Reaper knowledge will appear soon. It is an important part of the story after all. Even so, set-up is required. Even more set-up than I already had.
Forthenco - Thank you! i will try my best to live up to that.
Guest - ;) Spoilers
Theshcoker517 - Ruby and her mother are in fact just normal, everyday Reapers. Nothing super special about them
CaptainTacoBell - Ya. I love Zwei and had to include him somewhere. But it wouldn't make any sense for her to have that 'dog' with her now.
Cun - Can't go about revealing too much of what's going to happen in the future. :)