Applejack looked over the materials laid out on the table before her. The shaft of petrified wood. Crystals from the realm of Char. Iron mined from an asteroid near a massive planet with a prominent red spot that continuously circled its southern hemisphere. These would be combined to form her Scythe.

Death had explained how to build the Scythe, stating that it was almost exactly like how she would normally build a scythe with the chief differences being during the smelting and sharpening phases of construction.

She had already ground down the iron into a rusty-red dust. When she ground the crystal, it looked like gold dust.

Death's bloomery furnace looked like a larger version of the one she had learned to operate on the farm. She had been working to heat it with charcoal and, with a quick check, found it ready. The next part of the process was going to last several hours. She picked up her bucket and laid down a layer of finely-ground charcoal. Atop that went a layer of iron and a layer of crystal.

She continued to stack her materials in this manner until the furnace was full. Over the next few hours, the oxygen in the iron would be burned away by the fires fueled by the fine charcoal. The crystals, Death assured her, would withstand the heat and merge with the iron as it melted. If they merged properly, the final bloom would glitter.

There would be a wait as the metal melted and collected in the small stone bin. From there, she would have to work quickly to forge her blade before the iron cooled.

She took the shaft set it next to the tongs, hammer and anvil. She still had some time before the iron was ready to be forged and she had some questions for Death. Leaving the workshop, she went into the cottage and found it, again, at its desk.

“Ah need to ask ya somthin'. Ah remember readin' somewhere that a pony died somethin' like every twelve minutes or so. How is it that ya got as much free time is ya do?”

IT'S ACTUALLY EVERY ELEVEN-POINT-THREE-THREE MINUTES, GIVE OR TAKE A SECOND. He looked up from his scroll. ALLOW ME TO ASK THIS: DOES PRINCESS CELESTIA OR PRINCESS LUNA APPEAR ON YOUR DOORSTEP AND TELL YOU HOW TO RUN YOUR LIFE?

“Well...no.”

THERE IS NO NEED FOR THEM TO PERSONALLY OVERSEE THE LIVES OF THEIR SUBJECTS NOR IS THERE NEED FOR ME TO PERSONALLY OVERSEE THE DEATHS OF MINE. LIKE THEM, I NEED TO INTERCEDE ONLY WHEN A PROBLEM ARISES OR DURING UNFORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES.

“Ah see.” She replied, bringing up her second question. “There was this little colt, back at the hospital. His mom roughed him up pretty good.”

Death sighed. I REMEMBER HIM.

“Don'tcha think it's time he moved on?”

I AGREE AND I'M SURPRISED HE HAS NOT.

Applejack blinked in surprise. “Pardon?”

JUST AS I DO NOT NEED TO INTERCEDE IN EVERY DEATH, I DO NOT NEED TO ESCORT EACH PONY ON TO ELYSIUM OR TARTARUS. WHEN I FIRST COLLECTED HIM, I EXPECTED HIM TO WANT TO MOVE ON IMMEDIATELY. HE DENIED THAT AND SAID HE STILL NEEDED TO EARN HIS WAY. I LEFT HIM TO DO JUST THAT.

“So, he can just mosey into Elysium? Just like that?”

MOVING ONTO THE NEXT PLANE IS NEVER AS SIMPLE AS THAT. IN ORDER TO MOVE ON, A BEING MUST GENUINELY BELIEVE THAT IS WHERE THEY BELONG.

“But, if that was the case, no pony would go to Tartarus.”

YOU WOULD BE SURPRISED HOW MANY DO. GENUINE BELIEF CAN ONLY OCCUR IF THERE IS NO SHADOW OF DOUBT. IF, AT ANY POINT, AN INDIVIDUAL REMEMBERS SOMETHING THAT MIGHT, JUST MIGHT, DENY THEM ENTRANCE TO ELYSIUM, THEN SURELY THEY SHALL BE CONDEMNED TO TARTARUS.

Her mind spun. “So, he can go whenever he wants?”

WHEN HE REALIZES THAT NOTHING THAT HAPPENED TO HIM WAS HIS FAULT. NONE OF THE PUNISHMENTS HE RECEIVED AT HIS MOTHER'S HOOVES, NOR THE ONES HE SUFFERS NOW, WERE TRULY EARNED. WHEN THAT REALIZATION COMES TO HIM, HE WILL BE FREE TO GO.

Applejack's ears lowered. “One more question; what happened to his mother?”

Death blinked. HOW IS THAT RELEVANT?

“Humor me.”

AFTER HER SON'S DEATH, SHE BECAME CONTRITE AND TOOK HER OWN LIFE. SHE GENUINELY BELIEVED SHE BELONGED IN TARTARUS FOR HER CRIMES. Death stood. COME. WE MUST CONTINUE THE WORK ON YOUR SCYTHE.

She shook her head. “We should still have a few hours until the iron's done smelting.”

Death turned back to her and she could swear it was grinning. COME, APPLEJACK. WE MUST CONTINUE WORK ON YOUR SCYTHE.

Doubting, she followed it back out to the workshop only to find that the iron was nearly finished smelting. Already, a sizeable amount had oozed out of the furnace into the catch-basin. What had collected had cooled enough to easily handle and forge.

She stared at it incredulously. This would only have happened after hours, not the minutes she had been gone.

“H-how?”

TIME IS AT MY WHIM HERE. THE REQUIRED AMOUNT OF TIME PASSED WHILE WE WERE TALKING. THERE IS MUCH TO DO AND I DO NOT WISH TO LINGER WHILE WE WAIT FOR THIS TO FINISH.

Taking the tongs, he took the bloom of iron and set it atop the anvil. Applejack, meanwhile, removed her hat and tied her mane back in a tight bun. She didn't know if the flying sparks could set her mane ablaze, but she wasn't willing to find out.

She took the heavy hammer in her mouth and swung with all of her strength, smashing into the soft iron. The strikes came rapidly and Death moved the iron as she needed. Slowly, the blade began to take shape.

Usually, it was Macintosh who forged the metal for the tools while she held and maneuvered it. He had the experience and the endurance to do it properly. She soon found herself sweating and panting as the work continued. Strands of her mane had slipped loose and fell across her face, forcing her to pause and reset the bun.

Nearly finished after what seemed to be an eternity, which could very well have been, given what Death had told her, the blade was formed. Death flipped the metal in his tongs and placed it against the anvil's horn.

The pounding started up again, just as heavy but more precise as she worked the metal around the horn to form the sheath where the shaft would join the blade. Each blow flattened and stretched the metal which circled the horn as it was turned and, finally, joined the other side.

But still, they were not done. The blade needed an edge, which needed to be sharpened. She didn't know how sharp a blade would have to been in order to sever a soul from a body, but she knew how to get it sharp enough to cut a pony without them feeling it. She knew because, more than once, she had cut her hoof while sharpening the farm's scythes.

The blows weren't nearly has heavy as the edge began to take shape. She was amazed that the metal had remained warm enough to be malleable after this much time. Usually, she would have to reheat the iron several times before they made it this far.

She leaned close to inspect her work, blowing away the iron dust that had gathered during the forging. The edge had several nicks and would need honing before it was ready, but that was to be expected. She took the shaft and fitted it into the sheath on the end of the blade, working it until it was seated securely and giving the metal one or two taps to make certain that it would bond to the stone wood.

To the grindstone, where powerful legs worked the pedals, turning the massive stone wheel, and steady hooves held the blade straight. Friction forced even more sparks to fly as tiny shards of the iron were sheared away into a precise edge.

To the whetstone where the edge was honed and sharpened further. Normally, this would be enough, but she wanted to work it still more.

From one table hung a strip of leather. She took it and pulled it taut, hooking it securely to the anvil. Along the leather, she ran the blade, making sure to keep the pressure gentle, but constant. It took dozens of passes on both sides of the blade until she was satisfied. Inspecting her work, she saw that the edge resembled one of Macintosh's razors and, she was willing to bet, just as sharp.

The Scythe was long. Its blade was broad at the shaft, narrowing down to a sharply curled point at the very tip. This was a design that her grandfather had created, allowing him to hook and sweep away what he had cut with each swing.

She watched as the light danced across the smooth black metal, causing the infused crystals to shimmer. It was a work of art and, easily, the best one she had ever crafted. She looked to Death, as an apprentice to a master, and searched for his approval.

IT IS A FINE SCYTHE BUT WE ARE NOT DONE YET. THERE IS STILL THE FINAL SHARPENING.

He turned and left the workshop. She followed, more than a little confused.

“Ah don't get it. How can ya get this blade even sharper. Hay, you could shave a pony with this thing.”

BUT YOU WILL NOT BE SHAVING PONIES, APPLEJACK. YOU WILL BE SEVERING SOULS. FOR THAT, YOUR BLADE IS AS DULL AS A BUTTER KNIFE. THE FINAL SHARPENING MUST COMMENCE. LIFT YOUR BLADE.

She couldn't see the purpose of this, but did as she was told.

THE SUN RISES. LET THE LIGHT STRIKE THE BLADE. LET IT RUN ALONG THE METAL. NOW, APPLEJACK. THERE ISN'T A MOMENT TO LOSE.

She began to furiously swing the Scythe in the air as the sun peeked over the horizon. The light blasted into her eyes, causing her to squint. She was glad there were no other ponies around, fully aware of how ridiculous she looked, waving her Scythe like a flag. She spun the shaft in her hooves, allowing the light to caress each side of the blade evenly.

“Ah don't/ /point in all/ /.” She objected.

/ see the/ / of this/

She paused in surprise and stopped swinging. Had that just happened? Had she literally cut up a sentence?

QUICKLY, APPLEJACK. YOU MUST CONTINUE. IF WE MISS THIS CHANCE, ALL OF YOUR WORK WILL BE FOR NOTHING.

She swung the Scythe with more ferocity, watching as it began to glow with an incredible aura. “Ah think/ /!”

/ it's workin'/

She continued to swing the blade as the sun rose high into the sky, stopping only when Death called to her. Turning to him, she held out the Scythe for inspection.

WELL DONE, APPLEJACK. YOUR SCYTHE IS COMPLETE. THIS IS YOURS AND YOURS ALONE. IT IS IMBUED WITH YOUR ESSENCE AND WILL FOLLOW YOUR COMMAND. THIS IS TRULY A REAPER'S SCYTHE.

“So, how do Ah do that thing like you do where Ah cut open the air and walk through?”

Death nodded. PICTURE WHERE YOU WISH TO GO AND SWING THE SCYTHE. IT WILL OPEN A ROUTE TO THERE. He pointed back to the workshop. NOW GO, POLISH YOUR BLADE. TEND TO IT AS A MOTHER WOULD HER NEWBORN, THEN IT SHALL TRULY BOND TO YOU, BUT BE CAREFUL. THE ONLY THING THAT CAN CUT A SPIRIT IS A REAPER'S SCYTHE. I'M SURE YOU WOULDN'T WANT AN ACCIDENT TO OCCUR.

Author's Note

Whoo-wee!

So, now we have a fully-fledged Reaper, complete with Scythe.

Initially, I wanted to lengthen this out quite a bit more, devoting a chapters to how she gathers the crystals and the iron, but, the crystal gathering was too complex to fit into canon (Darn you season 3 opener. Why couldn't you have drawn out the battle with Sombra over two episodes) and the iron was too boring to devote more than a few sentences to. That's why this chapter took so long (well, that and the half dozen other stories I have going on. Good thing I don't have video games to distract me).

Hopefully, with this out of the way, we can get into the real meat and bones of the story.

Until next time, Children.