Do Not Fear The Reaper... Because He Fears You.
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Do Not Fear The Reaper... Because He Fears You.
Softly, the tones of a lullaby echoed down the halls of Canterlot Castle. The sound was chilling to it, the one who flitted inside the shadows. The long, tattered robe of the Reaper gently floated behind him as he trotted down the empty moonlit hall. The ghostly robe flitted in an ethereal wind.
The silent clip-clop of his hooves against the marble floor didn't disturb a soul, for he was unseen and unheard by all. All except two. And those two were billions of light-years away. The sickly yellow glowing orbs that were his eyes crossed, and he stopped, perturbed. It wasn't often he was perturbed, though.
'A third?'
And then he continued his task, for it was all he had left. Trotting forward, his scythe made the ground spark, yet not a sound could be heard by the mortal ears of the room's occupants as he slithered into a doorway. Inside, a pink alicorn stood over a crib, where a small filly alicorn was sleeping. The pink alicorn worriedly checked the babe's temperature, fearing the worst for her daughter. As she silently did this, two unicorns stood in a corner of the room, talking in hushed and worried tones. He knew what they were talking about before he even started listening.
A white stallion with a cobalt mane spoke to a brown stallion, "Is... Is my daughter going to be okay, doctor?"
The brown stallion sadly responded, "If the fever doesn't come down in a few hours..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence. They both knew what would happen if it didn't come down. The Reaper would come. The father put his face in his hooves, the doctor lowering his head in sadness. They shared a moment of silence.
But the Reaper was already here, sadly gazing at the sickly child. He sighed a sigh of resignation as he watched the two stallions trot out of the room, the mother holding her dying baby close. He closed his eyes and brandished his scythe, raising it high above his head. As he swung down the farming tool turned soul harvesting weapon, his only thought was,
'It never gets easier.'
He opened his eyes, seeing the mother suddenly shake and shiver, shocked at the death of her baby. She panicked, shouting for the doctor. The brown pony rushed in, the other stallion following closely behind. However, the white stallion picked up his speed as soon as he saw the pale look on his wife's face. He reached her, desperately trying to elicit a reaction from the dead child.
The Reaper turned, his head low, but not crying. He couldn't cry. They wouldn't allow it. Shambling away in shame, the Reaper walked to find the next one he was to harvest.
The grating sound of the scythe being dragged against the ground by the haft was only heard by the Reaper as he walked his solemn walk, a road only he traveled. His hooves clipped and clopped gently against the ground, the cloak he wore billowing in a nonexistent breeze. This was his existence. He was never heard, never seen, and never loved. Born as a pony, he died at the age of two months from sickness, his mother abusive and uncaring, his father never home. But that was not the saddest story he had ever heard.
As he trotted, the only thing he thought of was the faces of those ponies he had killed over the seven thousand years of being the Reaper. Glitter Shine. A young-faced, nineteen year old gem-cutter. She was a pretty cyan with a red mane and beige highlights. Doctor Whooves. He was an eighty six year old stallion, who was the famous doctor who cured many deadly diseases in his youth. So many ponies, he had been there with them in their last moments, unable to comfort them. He hated how they cried out his name in anger when their families died, for it was not his fault they forced him to do this.
But now, another would join the afterlife, a miss Granny Smith. And this would be his only chance to be seen, storing souls for his own use was against the rules. To be seen, though, it would be worth it. It would be worth it to finally have the chance to talk with another pony. He had never spoken with anypony, only listened to their conversations and took mental notes. He had even practiced talking, enough to talk with a pony in their, and his, last moments.
He phased through the door of the farmhouse, floating up the steps as slowly as he could. He turned, coming to a hallway. Slithering down the expanse, he came to a stop at a door. He walked through it, the form of an old pony sleeping in their bed was a familiar sight. He concentrated, feeling the souls he had stored coming into one, granting his final wish before they faded into Elysium, finally free. He finally felt something, the hard wooden floor against his bony hooves. The feeling was like heaven, to the unfeeling pony.
He trotted to the bedside of the mare, watching as she roused from sleep.
"Took 'yeh long enough! Ah was beginning ta think yeh fergot 'bout me, yeh old geezer!" The old pony said, playfully. The Reaper was taken aback, never had he ever heard a pony speak so lightly of him. Never had they been so accepting of their death, the end of their life.
"I...I'm sorry about this." He said.
"T'ain't nuthin' to it, me 'ole bones been needin' a rest." The Reaper swung the scythe down, the old pony passing away. As soon as the pony had passed, he felt the sensation of fading. It would be the last thing he felt for a long time.
As he withered, he thought one more thought,
'In the end, I got my wish.'