The Novalunian Frontier: Short stories

Blood without desire (Damien Sterling)

You may be wondering how I gained my wonderful little name, they call me the reaper. It is for good reason. Allow me to paint you a picture. This was about 3 maybe 4 years ago.

A misty valley with a small town resting in its midst. Dewhurst they called it, was known for its willow trees and beautifully constructed mausoleums. The graveyard that took over most of the land is where I find myself in this memory.

See we wrathrots enjoy the company of the dead, or at least we are supposed to. Often we get summoned by Wratherus from the graves in towns.

I remember the wet sidewalks and that it was forecasted to rain that day, unsurprisingly so for a place called Dewhurst.

I breathed in the wet air and stared at my gloved hands. I do not possess the touch of death like Mortimer or Nyx instead my bones show through the skin on my hands. Even through the thick leather, I could see the sickening glow. This glow always made me feel sick and made my head spin.

I could see my glowing red eyes glinting off every wet surface almost illuminating the graveyard where my gaze was drawn. I stared into the horizon up above the mountains that protected the valley. I could see the lights of the large caves going out.

The dragons must be going to sleep. The sun had just recently set but Dewhurst remained alive and active for the time being. They appeared to be preparing for some sort of ceremony.

I perched myself on top of one of the beautifully carved stone mausoleums. The cracks along the roof told stories of fallen trees and heavy rainfall.

I closed my eyes as I wondered what death could have called me here until I heard someone approaching the graveyard. I stared at the entrance hoping whoever it was would not be coming inside. The less I have to deal with living beings the better.

A couple walked past with boxes of stuff in their arms, they were chatting and laughing. How I wished I could live amongst the living and laugh with them. Everyone celebrates the wrathrot existence as a blessing, in truth, it is a lifelong curse.

We are born into a power granted only to those Wratherus itself has decided are worthy and live a life with death always on our heels. We live longer than most natural-born beings ever will only to lose our power when we become incapable of using it. In our final days, we seek out a new host to grant them the weapon, lantern, and artifacts.

If the user is lucky they might learn from the other wrathrots when they come of age of gaining the power. Some are not so lucky.

The smell of fear, death, and blood makes my stomach hurt. I never wish to lay my eyes upon the fear in someone else's eyes, my own bright red ones reflecting in theirs.

My bones ached. I stared at my hands again, they began to tremble as my bones glowed brighter. Death was close.

As if on command I jumped down from the mausoleum and removed my scythe from my back. I carried it over my shoulder listening to the chains clinking as they carried the weight of my lantern.

I could feel the cold air on what bare skin I had left uncovered and on my wings as I walked. I pulled my hood over my head and stared forwards ignoring any person that passed. They seemed frightened of me, for good reason.

It is a common belief that wrathrots are invisible to the living, but that is simply not true. It always frightens people when they learn that I am a wrathrot here for someone's soul, they believe immediately that it is them. Surely the living shouldn't see the source of death, right?

I was led to the center of town before I stared into the fountain, what I saw staring back at me would make any normal person jump. Having lived with death on my tail for my whole life nothing ever scared me anymore.

I barely remember what my own fear feels like. And in an instant, I closed my eyes and found myself in front of a door. A familiar door at that.

The beautifully carved door with a smashed-in handle. I held a key in my hand as if it had been there the whole time. I fit the key in and opened the door with a nonexistent door handle.

Before me stood a mirror. A beautiful mirror with carved decorations all along its sides. In that mirror, I didn't see myself I saw a child, a child with silver hair standing in the middle of a kitchen waving to someone.

The child called out to his mother but remained where he was. I blinked again and found myself perched on the top of the fountain, it had begun to rain.

My scythe sat in my hands and my lantern glowed brightly. The rain washed away blood from my scythe. Streams of light entered the lantern before it returned to its usual soft glow.

I could feel the rain on my outstretched wings. It felt cleansing. My reflection stared back at me in the bloody water. The glowing red eyes that stared back at me seemed sad.

The ache in my bones was gone and so was the glow. I felt sick.

I hopped down from the fountain and jerked back, I choked on air for a moment before I stood back up. My motions were nearly robotic.

I was not the cause of those deaths that day as far as I know, but reaping souls does not mean there will be no bloodshed. To witnesses of that day, they saw no blood on my scythe or my body.

Any who lived on that horrid day began to call me the reaper. I still to this day do not know what happened to kill so many beings, maybe it was me maybe it was something else. I refuse to ask because I am afraid I will dig up a buried memory that was never meant to return.

I remember seeing Mortimer and his weapon drawn as I passed him. He looked at me with the very same fear I saw in the living being's eyes only mine were not reflected. His bright blue eyes reflected against the wet ground as they stared at me and the ground as I dragged my scythe against the stone path.

I grabbed my artifact off my hip and opened a portal to a familiar place. Wratherus was letting me rest, for now, I had arrived at my home. At least it was where I made my home.

That was how I became known as Damien "Reaper" Sterling. A name I despise but wear with saddened pride.