The reaper walked through the woods with a string of rabbits tied at his belt. Two days had passed since he’d tried walking away from his blade. He’d journeyed far enough west that his eyes no longer ached. Only the watchers remand, their eyes growing heavy when he looked away from his unseen goal. 

He glanced up at the sun slipping down into the trees. He patted the uncleaned game at his side eager for a hot meal. He’d taken time that day to clean himself and his cloak in a river and catch some real food. He’d even found a few mushrooms growing along his path and had gathered a handful of nuts from beneath a walnut tree. A fine meal by the reaper’s standards. 

He set up camp for the night beneath a boulder held in the arms of a massive willow. He skinned his game, started a fire, and rolled out the thick sheepskin he used for a bed. 

He was halfway through his feast when he first heard the voices. 

Two men and three women about four hundred yards to the west. His hearing, like all his senses, was better than a man’s should be. It had saved his life more times than he could count while harvesting. He wished other men were faster. 

He set aside his roast rabbit and focused on the feeling of the watchers, the itch behind his eyes. Was it growing stronger? Were these to be his next harvest? 

No. No, they were just travelers happening across the reaper’s path. He tucked his haft-axe under the sheepskin bedding so only the wood handle protruded. He waited. 

His food had grown cold and his body tense by the time they reached his makeshift camp. They’d no doubt been drawn by the firelight and smell of roasting meat. One of the men stepped into the clearing first, alone so as not to scare a stranger on his own; he needn’t have worried. Still, it was nice to see these folk had manners. If only those manners would last once they realized he wasn’t a man, but the reaper. 

The reaper sat with his hands in his lap, away from the haft of his harvester but close enough should he need it. The man approached from the other side of the fire. Unsurprisingly, he looked fit with youthful features, dark hair, and a thick well-trimmed beard. He could be no older than thirty. His eyes were a soft green, not as rich as the reapers but still filled with color: a good sign. 

“Evening friend,” the man said. “I’m traveling to Elharra with some friends. We smelled your fire and thought you might not mind sharing. We have water and wine to offer. May we—” the man cut off, finally seeing the reaper’s weathered skin and grey-patched hair. 

“You’re welcome to my fire,” the reaper said. 

The man blinked. 

“You and your companions are welcome to join me,” the reaper repeated as the man began backing away. “Wine would be divine. Can’t remember the last time I had wine. I don’t have much by way of food. But I what I have your welcome to…” 

The man had backed all the way into a tree by the time the reaper finished his invitation. Upon hitting, the man jumped, spun on his heel, and dashed into the woods screaming of death, the reaper, and the world’s end. 

“Well that could have gone worse,” the reaper said to the forest. “Wine really would have been nice.”

He waited until the screaming was a long way off, then finished his meal, packed up his camp, and moved on in case they came back with something more dangerous than wine.