In the living world, the bearer of the scythe that emit the sound of fated death is commonly pictured as the horned skeleton in black cloak. As one raised in the same dimension, I believed in that too. Until it was my own breath that's to be taken. Some time ago, some years ago.. an eon.. when I still possess a vessel capable of trembling in a snowy day and longing for a warm rise of sun.
Amidst the battlefield gobbbled up in crimson cry of lying stinking corpses, there he appeared rigid and very much frightening in his raven cloak which allows only his keen and lethal long nails shown as he drag what polishes the legendary tale in hour of death--a huge scythe--which sound ring loudly my departure in life. I knew then and prepared myself to be beheaded, as it was the only atonement for thy mortal sin. My fear, however, can solely be stifled in eyes kept closed... only to be caught off guard and made it view the sight in front of me again. I felt his hand on my head. I then dared to raise my eyes and meet his as he voiced his first words to me.
"The thousandth soul." Slow, low and stolid he uttered. He looked down on me, making his red eyes much vivid. "A rickety child of battlefield in human morass. What a game to play, devils..." With him directly in front of me, I could only realize evven more how frightening was his presence I could not pay attention to what he says. But then, the death reaper acted against that. He lowered himself until our eyes were on the same level. With hands still kept on my head, he whispered a new fate upon me. "Rickety child of battlefield in human morass. Let thee be the reaper of thy death."
And just that, my fate turned upside down.. perhaps, even into a whirl.