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Edit: just to get things straight the "poem" is the lyrics to the song that inspired the story.

there is a link to a youtube video of the song and another with "the making of" thing that said a couple extra things that got my brain working on a plot.

So. basically, the poor guy is cursed and... yes. he does end up rather horribly evil.

but. trust me. it has an AWESOME ending. (at least I think it's awesome, lol. ^^ )

caution, tis, naturally, rather dark. And not very well done, yet, tis totally unedited and basically what has come to me relating to the story so far.
(started Thursday June 12th. So, as of this post, this is only the second day working on it and I have the plot mostly thought out, though I have to fill in some parts, make it a bit longer, and work out how to get from where I am to where I'm going. ninja which should be fun, muahaha. cool )

*ish working on a story/shortish book based on this song that suddenly caught her fancy*
(song)
(a vid about "making of" or whatnot. *ish what gave me the idea* ninja )
( lyrics )

Once I finish the main plot, I'll probably do a total overhaul and rewrite it from the beginning, but here's what I have. cool




In the valley of the dying sun
I walk a crooked path alone
I came across the shadow of a man
With an angel's breath

'O boy' he said to me
'I see your future'
'Though you long for peace
The sword is your father

I'm thinking of you
I'm thinking of you when I kill a good man
To keep myself from being killed by him
I'm thinking of you
I'm thinking of you when I hold my girl
And wonder if she'll ever love again
I'm thinking of you
Wash the blood off my hands

Bathed in the powder of a thousand guns
I am the king of sorrows
Watered by the tears of the innocent ones
The river grows
It moves
It swells

'Son' It calls to me
'Your days are numbered
Sow the seeds you will
But I am the reaper'

'I'm thinking of you
I'm thinking of you when you kill a good man
To keep yourself from being killed by him
I'm thinking of you
I'm thinking of you when you hold your girl
And wonder if she'll ever love again
I'm thinking of you
Wash the blood off your hands'

I howled at the moon like a wolf in the night
You want to finish it
We're gonna finish it right

And then I felt it with a chill up my spine
There are no words to use that truly describe
The glory of the angel or the terror in me
Tonight will be my ending or tonight my new beginning. . .








(next page)

In the valley of the dying sun, I walk a crooked path alone...

the sky drained of all color... all but the brilliant red of the bleeding sun. The valley called, it spoke, it whispered as I

walked, down, down, down, down the rocky path. The path left no space to turn back; with each turn I thought I

would plunge to my death. . . but I did not. . . sweat poured from me as i descended that endless trail, silently cursing

the day of my birth. . . and welcoming this, the day of my death. . . or so I hoped. Death followed me. Today, I

would meet it, stare it in the face, and embrace it at last, and The world would be all the better for it, for you see, I

am the reaper. . .

I came across the shadow of a man with an angel's breath. . .

There he stood. Draped in shadow, glowing a strange light, stradeling the path that was hardly wide enough for one

foot to stay upon. . . the valley grew dark as the reddened moon showed her bloody face. . . I drew my sword. He

opened his eyes and spoke. . . And I remembered. . .

"oh boy" he said to me "I see your future.
Though you long for peace, the sword is your father. . ."

I'm thinking of you, I'm thinking of you
when I kill a good man
to keep myself from being killed by him. . .




Father. . . I called him father. Yet he was not. For you see, I was a foundling. . . left upon the step by a dying woman,

now burried in the yard of the church. . .her identity was never known, nor that of my father. . . but I know that she

died horribly. They both did. I told them so you see. I was then but 2 years of age.
Father raised me as a son, taught me right and wrong, taught me to care for others, not simply by words, but my

actions. Here, here was a man who lived truth first and spoke it second. For five years I grew under his tuelage. I still

remember, faintly, though it pains me now... I remember. . .

(insert some happy bit of memory of him as a 7-year old kid making mischief about the church and the village, he had

friends... I know! He got in a fight again and father patiently explained to him, once again, why it was wrong.
He had seriously hurt two other boys this time, and last time he had picked a fight with someone much younger than

him, he was sent to his room.
what is his name? Not reaper... I know, peter, means "the rock" or not. Hmm. Will decide later. I'll call him that for

now.

But the bell rings, commotion is heard. Father comands him to stay in his room, looks very very troubled...

smoke... cries are heard outside. . . Father returns, wounded but not mortally, and looks to peter. First he gives a

frantic prayer, then turns to the boy.
"What's wrong? What's happening? Father, you're hurt! If everyone ok?" Father shakes his head. "No my son,

they're not. They are all dead, or worse." he seems indesicive... then turns to the boy and shakes his head. "My son. .

. know that I do this as a mercy, both to you, and to all. Your curse has brought this. Alas, I could not help you;

instead, I shall spare you." You see, father knew what I was all along. It was true. I still wish he had been sucessful;

that I had been spared, for it would truly have been a mercy. But he failed. . .
Father lifted a daggar, but hesitated. He had not the heart to do what had to be done. . . my eyes flashed red. In a

moment, I came to myself and realized what I had done. The daggar rested in father's chest. The light in the room

dimmed as a great cloud drifted across the light of the sun, plunging us into shadow.
"Peter... my son. . ." a horrid gugrling cough crept like a parasite from his throat. My stomach churned; my tears burst

forth anew from that seemingly endless well of liquid that children are fortunate to carrybehind their eyes. "Listen!" he

wheezed intensely. "you must. . ." another sound from the death throes that I inflicted upon my first victem. . . "You

must hear me out." he continued with many pauses to speak the words that have haunted me my whole life. "I know

now you shall not die by the sword. Yet it will follow you, even as it already has. You brought this; it shall follow you

until the end. . . when you weary, seek the valley of the dying sun. Find the one. . . who waits. . . And. . . death. . ."

He said no more. Ironically enough, his last word was death itself, as if christening me with the name that I soon

earned for myself. . .

A short while later, a raider burst in upon the scene of a young boy sobbing his heart out, hiding in the corner from the

body of his dead mentor. . . He whistled. Another entered and paused at the scene. "looky here! that at his age,

imagine! Kill him now, or send him to the slaveyards?" the one called spindle,a scrawny guy with the whining voice

mumbled in his comrad's ear. Eagar, the thick-set bear of a man beside him, shook his head and laughed. "Nay, I say

we keep him. We need a new sneak since the last flea stuck his neck out too far and lost it. Tie his hands and bring

him with; we'll ask Armenius about him." Spindle tore some strips of cloth from the dead form before he approached

Peter. Looking down at the pitiful thing that cowered in the corner, he cursed softly, then shook his head with a soft

chuckle. "killed a priest at your age... Boy, if you wish to live, you'd best stick with us."

With that, my fate was sealed. For ten years I roamed, hemmed on all sides by the raiders, my "comrades." They sent

me into towns ahead of them to spy out the land at first, but on my third go I was caught. . .

"Lemme go!" pether shouted, squirming as he attempted to wrench himself free of the grip that held his shoulder as

tight as the death-clamp of a bulldog, but to no avail. The man roughly threw the boy, now eight, into the arms of a

watchman. "Thief. And spy too by the looks of him." the vendor growled. Peter's mind flooded with thoughts. Fears

and plans vied for space as he tried to figure his way out of this mess. This is how the last one died; don't be a fool.

he thought as his eyes flashed darkly. The vendor walked away; the watchman dragged him through the

medium-sized town. There was a variety of odd, tantelizing smels that drifted up from the booths as they passed

people who, more often than not, stared after with condemning smirks. With everything in him, peter hated them. He

hated them all. . . guilty as he was, he hated them. It was dizzyingly hot that sunny afternoon; flies followed them,

followed the sweaty, dirty smell of the boy as they sought an opportunity to land. The guard half-dragged Peter as he

headed for the small building where criminals were stowed until their punishments. Eventually they reached it; by that

time the guard had, with mutteret curses, thrown the boy over his shoulder. He pretended to be too weak to walk. his

head swam as he kept it down; the ride was less than pleasant, and, for a while, he pretended to be elsewhere. First

a king on a charger riding into battle. . . but that made his head hurt. Then, he was a great warrior locked in combat

with his mortal foe. . . but, alas, he grew bored of that, for his current foe had already bested the boy. So finally he

imagined himself back home, fighting two boys and thrashing them both soundly for no other reason than for the sake

of the fight. . . he remembered father's words then. They arose, unprompted, to his mind. ." . . you shall not die by

the sword. Yet it will follow you, even as it already has. You brought this; it shall follow you until the end. . ." Rage,

guilt, fear and hatred mingled as they reached their destination. He knew they had by the fact that he found himself

flung hard upon the floor. A quick glance showed him where the weapons were, where the people were, (there were

only three; his captor and two others, a thick, rather dull-looking man behind a desk and another watchman on the

other side of the room. It was oddly cool; the stone building had few amenities, it didn't even boast a paved floor, yet

it was quieter here. The noise and light, the heat and confusion of the streets stopped at the door. . . The boy waited

a few seconds, enjoyin the change, collecting his wits, and preparing himself for what he intended to do next. The first

watchman spoke quietly to the dull man, the third had seated himself upon a three-legged stool and seemed to be

taking a nap. Peter, through mostly-closed eyelids, watched them relax. They thought he slept. They would not look

to him again. . . a minute later, the first watchman's eyes glazed; a daggar protruded from his back. The dull man had

no time to react for in a moment Peter was upon him. . . the third awoke and, finding them dead, cried out. . . that cry

was his last.
That was the beginning. Those deaths were only he first of a multitude of murders I committed over the length of the

ten years spent with the raiders. Ordinarily comradship would grow; time after time after horrible time I watched as

new recruits joined and became one of ours. Yet I was not. Fathers words haunted me still. The sword indeed

followed me, yet I seemed invincible. I earned the name the reaper by my tehth birthday nd by the time I was thirteen

I had made my way to the top position in the once vast hoarde of scoundrels that comprised the small army of

raiders. Where once people feared us they were in terror, where once half the country knew of our existance, now all

who were left whispered of us with hushed breath like a phantom from a children's story. I, the chief of raiders, the

reaper, bleached my hair white and grew it out; in the back I tied it into a braid, along the front I left a twisted lock

dyed in blood. All knew me. All feared me. A child and I had slain more than most could hope in a lifetime to defeat.

I was invincible. . . But my men were not. you see, they feared me. Gradually, desertion rose, as did the death toll on

our side from my reckless attempts to prove myself, my men, and, perhaps, to justify by strength the atrocity that I

had become. . . and, perhaps, to prove father wrong. I didn't know it at the time, but I longed, even then, for death.

And death came to meet me, he was my closest ally, my most cherished friend. All around me death raged, yet I

stood, striding beside him, bringing him to hundreds... while he never touched me. . . not even close.
The city burned as the inhabitants fled; they ha arrived, there was no hope. only flight promised escape, there was

none other. Leave kindred and goods, home and hearth behind and pray to whatever god you had that you could

hide. . .'
(enter episode with burning city, Peter "the reaper" striding through the town, reminded of a passage that spoke of the

devil being like a lion roaming to and fro seeking whom they may devour eyes alight upon a child, a girl, who paused,

looked at him, and said something like "you're so young. . . Not much older. . . than me. . ." cold eyes turned upon

her as he turned to glance upon the one who spoke. Twas a girl, about 13 years of age. He said nothing but walked

toward her.

That evening she found herself in chains in the caravan with others; mostly badly beated and bruised. "the bloody

reaper'll kill us all..." the man beside her mumbled.

( Outline: stuff happens, that was great victory, put in a part where he thinks over it all and is scared by how little he

cares about everything, etc. put in something about the memories iincreasing, almos as if i lived it again.... then move

through a few more raids and thoughts, on to when they sat around the fire, he was then 17, they want to end it, there

are 30 of them left, they don't want to die... he refuses to let them leave, one jumps him, fight breaks out... he ends up

alone and more than a little scared about it... but he shaves his trade-mark hair and takes some clothing from their

stuff and walks away, taking only a little money, some food, and a few such things...
thought that he might be wrong... I knew in my heart that it was true, but somehow, I thought that by denying it I

could somehow escape the truth of father's words.
It seems he was indeed a prophet.

I walked and walked until I reached it, several days after I set out. For a few fleeting seconds my heart felt for those who fell by my hand... my friends, back in the camp beside the river, as I searched for wild plants to suppliment what I had brought away with me, but, alas, it faded quickly. Wicked, horrible, nasty men who had done worse than I had... though less of what they did. My fellows were prone to rape and pillaging. I, however, seemed eternally locked in bloody battle. Never since I joined had we left without blood spilled on both sides. I refused to believe it, I didn't want to. I told myself I did, yet I denied it in my heart though I knew it with both heart and mind...
Peter stumbled in the night toward a light in the distance. He had not meant to go by night but, alas, this land was inhabited. Someone heard him and they were up in arms, hiding behind every barn and tree, ready with bows to slay the raider;s scout. You see, without his signature no one knew him. The reaper's hair was whiter than the sun with the bloodied lock, the reaper wore the best they had. This boy, they saw, wore ordinairy traveler's clothes, this boy, they saw, had dusty hair that seemed to blend with his stern dust-caked features.
Day showed him all to clearly. Night, like a blessed cloak, kept those watching for him safely crouched behind their doors guarding their own.
Tonight... well, tonight was different. He needed food. Around the back of the hut he crept, listening well for sounds of breathing, breathing, breathing... food. In the back. Chickens there were, and grain to feed them. And were he found chickens, there he might also find eggs if he were lucky.
common thievery... Peter remembered, as he stood outside the henhouse, something that had happened long ago. A raid as a child, led by another boy. It was late in the night when nicholas rapped on his bedroom door quietly, urging him with fierce whispers to come outside... "Peter! Peter! Come with me! I have something to show you." Nicholas cracked the door open as peter blearily sat up. "Why? It's the middle of the night. Whatever couold you see in all this dark?" Little peter yawned as he blearily blinked. "Oh, you stupid kid, just come. I'll show you!" Nicholas groaned. "Now get dressed. Watch out for mud; we can't get dirty. Father will find us out and we'll be in trouble for sure."
Young peter grumbled and whined in protest, yet got dressed anyway, waking more and more as the minutes passed, growing more excited all the while. What could it be? There must be a thousand wonderful things in the night tht Nicholas could show him, after all, Nicholas was a much older and smarter boy. To peter, it seemed as if Nicholas knew jut about everything there was to know, even things that Father didn't care to speak of. "What is it? What is it?" peter pestered, pattering quickly after Nicholas. "Oh hush youstupid kid! I knew I should never have brought you!"
"Oh, come on, please? Tell me. I'll be quiet, I promise. What is it? Is it good? Oh, I do hope it's something fun!"
"Well quit talkingthen! How'll we ever get past father if you keep carrying on like that?"
"Ok Nicholas, i'll be good. I promise." Peter sighed. "But why can't we bring father along?"
"Because h's a grown-up and he'll ruin all the fun. Now shut up and come with me or I'll leave you behind."
and with tht, out into the night air the boys crept like a pair of shadows through the night air...
Peter smirked wistfully at the thought of himself back then. Nicholas had peter squeeze through the hole in the fence so that they could sneak into the orchard and have their fill of fruit.
Morning came and havoc reigned in the monastary as a search for the boys began.
The sunrise found Nicholas and peter asleep beneath the apple tree, faces and clothes smeared with fruit juice as they slept off their midnight feast. A shadow fell across the boys, waking Peter. Father chukles softly. "Just as I suspected. Come boys, you caused quite a stir. Why don't we head back now and let the others know they can stop their search?" Despite his fiercest attempts to look stern and forboding Father could't help but smile as he held out a hand toward Peter.
Blinking blearily the boy hesitated. "But what about Nicholas? He is still asleep."
Father smirked. "Methinks I will let the gardener deal with him. After all, Alfred could use a hand with his work for a few weeks." Father chuckled again. "Knowing him, Nicholas won't have time to get into trouble for the next few weeks."
And, honestly, neither did Peter. Yet it wasn't bad, Nicholas rather enjoyed his weekes learning the gardener's trade, and Peter... well, he began to learn as lessons commenced.

Peter came to himself as his hand rested upon the handle of the hen house and sighed. What have I become? I never wanted this. What am I doing? for a brief moment he stood as mixed feelings tried to sort themselves out. Then, he did something he hadn't done for longer than he remembered... He decided to do the right thing. In honor of Father. He thought as he retracted his hand, wishing once again that he could have remained in peace at the monastary forever. Yet, now that he thought of it, it wasn't peacefull very often. Always there was someone to tend with injuries from fights, from animals, from fires. Now that he some had looked on him oddly, as if there was something wrong. Peter sighed. He did remember now. He had seen the signs but, as a child, he ignored them, pblivious to what they thought of him. cursed? Yes. That was what the fight was over. A village boy made the sign of the cross at him and Peter, naturally, defended his honor and challenged him and his cronnies that day.
A chill crept bak over Peter as he remembered that day. They were, no doubt, all dead... either dead or slavees. Peter glared darkly at the door of the chicken coup.

bathed in the powder of a thousand guns
I am the king of sorrows
watered by the tears of the innocent ones
the river runs, it moves, it flows,
son, it calls to me... your days are numbered.
Sow the seeds you will....
I am the reaper.

I remember that night well. As I turned to I heard a sound. It was a boy aut my age wielding an axe. He shoted something... I don't remember what... as I tried to leave, but he gave me chase. Ironic, how fate rewarded that brief moment of decency. I don't care to recall or recount that brawl, but it ended with me, once again, standing bloodied above my defeated foe.
As silence returned to the night air something broke throug into the night like the shriek of a ghost. A child... a child's cry... a babe, I listned closely and heard the soft sound of a mother trying to quiet her child... I ran. I ran until morning broke. I had wandered deep into the fennland between the land I had left and the one from which I hale. We had, you see, ransacked lands wherever we pleased, reguardless of the land we were in. Still, I suppose something in me called me home. I never thought of it, I simply took the path my feet tread upon, but I walked until I could walk no more. Though I couldn't bring myself to raid another coup, I stole food, only ccasionally coming into open conflict, though it invarriably ended with victory on my part. Still, I found empty huts and burned farms all along the way. Farms that I had burned. That I had emptied. it was eerie treading along my oen path, viewing the destruction I had wrought.
After a point I found no more farms but burned wreckages for days on end. For a time I hunted, for a time, I survived, but, in the end, my strength failed. I came upon a field in the night, crosses stood like barren, dead trees in the moonlight, weathered and gray. I approached the place softly; an odd, eerie feeling crept through me as the moon shone above, iluminating the carving on the tallest of them.
Like a knife the name tore me, I staggered.
FATHER

I looked at the next one. Nicholas. And the third, on the other side of father? alfred.
names I knew. All of them... I wanted to run... but how could I run? I could hardly stand... my sins followed my like my shadow, always there, always there, always there... here.
I knelt down beside the grave of the man I had killed and felt the emptiness of despair.

I don't remember falling into sleep; yet I must have... I heard a voice. A girl's voice.



"Are you ok? Hey, you there. can you hear me?" Peter sat up and blinked blearily as he looked up at the one who woke him. It was a girl, she stood close, but far enough away to be able to flee whould the stranger try anything. She, oddly enough, held flowers. Peter looked up. The flowers fell from her hand, the color drained from her face. A ghost. It cannot be. Tis a ghost. she thought as she took a step backward, throwing up the sign against evil toward him.
Peter sighed and looked down. "I'll go..." He stood, but found that he couldn't walk. His legs wobbled. as he looked back to her. Who is she? He didn't recognize her. "Did... did you know them?" he looked down at the flowers, then back to Father's grave marker and sighed. "Who are you?" she peered at him piercingly. Realization flashed across her face. "Peter? Peter!" She ran forward and nearly knocked him over with embrace. "I thought you were dead." she said quietly as she tried not to cry. He still didn't know who she was. "No... not yet." he said quietly. "Come! Come! The village moved after the attack. I'll show you! though... most of us were killed, and the monestary was destroyed... but you're alive! This is wonderful!"
peter nearly collapsed as she tried to pull him after her. He said little and let her fuss over him, then waited as she ran and fetched food and water.
Peter... peter... like music her voice rippled, producing the odd sound by which I had been known oh so long ago. Peter. Was I peter? I almost forgot. I did not call myself by that name. No. No... but perhaps that child could return to claim it someday. Hope, that elusive jewel we horrid humans always reach for but seldom have the strength to grasp, sparked at last. Perhaps it was all just a terrible dream. Perhaps it was some weird otherworld that I had somehow wandered into so long. Perhaps... perhaps... perhaps I was peter, perhaps there was no curse, perhaps I could leave it all behind and return to the beginning... As the breeze wafted through the trees that surrounded the grass-capped hill I sat, enjoying the sun, the beauty, the peace. As I sat with my back to Father's gravemarker, my mind wandered back to what I scarcely remembered. How strange, that I returned to that of all places, of all the places in this world I could have gone to lie down and die... instead, I found the one place I secretly longed for that, until now, had been closed to me. I didn't deserve this.

But something led me there anyway. I don't understand... but, for that day, I was overwhelmed by the grace granted to me by fate... by God... or by whatever spirit saw fit to lead me home at last.

"Peter, are you listening? Peter!" she shook him gently as he blinked, then looked baco to her. "Where's your mind at you silly boy?" She sighed. "Oh well, it doesn't really matter, but you could at least pretend to listen for my sake." She chuckled as he stared, then turned back to looking at the sky. "We really should be getting back you know. Father will be overjoyed at finding you alive. And besides, we could use another hand around the village." She proded him gently. He stuttered, then smirked. "As you wish. Where did you say itwas now?" He


















All through the night I wrestled the angel to undo the curse that's burdened me all of my life. . .

I came to myself to realize that I was shouting; shouting myself hoarse as I screamed at him what I was, what I had done, what had been done to me. . . all my crimes, all the atrocities I was part of and had committed... murder, rape, torture, depravity of all sorts. . . I remembered and knew that I was guilty. . . and I was glad to face death in the face at last. . . for a fleeting moment my mind returned to those I had briefly loved. . . Father... (gir;'s name) . . . Wash the blood off my hands... it could not be done. I was blood. . . I was the reaper. . . As he stood there and stared the last rays of twilight faded, leaving us alone in the dark beneath the glowing red moon. I howled like a madman as my eyes flared red, redder than the bloody sky. "You want to finish it? We're going to finish it right. right here!" I howled as I rushed him more ferociously than any mere creature could hope to attack. Light flared, my eyes dimmed. on and on our battle raged. I remember little of it. . .

All through the night I wrestled the angel. . .

Something was changing; I could feel it; I was frightened, frightened beyond hope of description as I grapeled with a creature far far greater than myself. . . Like drinking the sea. . . the essence of awe overflowed from my shaking hands as I fought with this thing; this being that I knew I had no right to look upon, much less kill. I knew that this night, I would die. . . or be reborn. . . and I knew that, at long last, I wanted life. . . and as the first light of dawn crept above the hills, the conclusion was reached. The being I fought lay in a crupled pile of twisted flesh at my feet. His blood drenched me, as the blood of so many innocents had for so very long, and, as I turned to face the dawn, I knew the meaning of true despair.

Then, the sun rose.

I looked downward, averting my eyes from the rising light. . . and saw a shadow. A shadow not cast by the sun that shone before me, but cast by something brighter, something at my back.

I turned to look, then fell to my knees. The angel stood before me, scarred by my blows. . . but in his full glory, more lifelike than anything I have yet seen in this shadow realm we call earth. It was then that I knew that what I saw last night was but a portion of what this one truly was and I averted my eyes as I awaited the deathstroke I knew I had gained for myself. . . yet it did not come.
After waiting a bit, I looked up, and lo, he smiled as he vieled his true nature so that I might look upon him without being blinded and stood before me as a man.
"But. . . you were. . ." I struggled for words; they seemed false somehow;, they stuck in my throat as I tried to speak.
"Dead. Death was required. But I became your curse so that your curse might die. . . and through this, you would live; through this, you would be free. Remember This. Now go." He smiled as brightly as the sun as I closed my eyes, blinded by the light, and found myself in a church; in the church where it all began.

I sit here and ponder this, this thing, this nightmare, and I am at a loss as to what to say. I, I cannot undo what I have done. I cannot regain those I have lost, nor can I repay a single soul for aught I have stolen, not lives, not goods, not homes or health or freedom lost, but I know now that I am no longer cursed and a chill rises up my spine. It's an odd excitement that fills my veins and lightens my step, that quickens the blood in my veins, and I know that it will fade, for memories, like leaves, fade when their season is up. But I will remember. And forever I shall stand amazed that I. . . yes, that I, who have done such things. . . have been given life when the world cried for death. When I cried for death.

This is my tale. This is the tale of the reaper. Hear it and know that you need not fear anymore. The reaper has died. And with him went the blood on my hands. I am not the reaper, nor am I death any longer. Finally, finally, today, I am life. And life I shall be from this day forward until the day my old friend greets me at last. . . and then the true life will begin.