The blue reaper

Typically, when one finds a man half buried in mud on a battlefield, it would be unwise to attempt to inspect the body. Not even as the chest shifted and sighed amidst the silence after.

Tyr was not one of such sense, especially within the circumstances he found himself in. In between bodies and metal armor alike hacked through, all cold and stinking of rust and decay, one grey body was mostly unharmed, save for healing bruises. Tyr almost walked over the body had he not noticed a large, blue-tinted thorn in the ground moving. Tyr felt around it, somewhat surprised to find hair, a whole horned head. Carefully, he pulled up the head and the rest of the body, turning it over to see more. The eyes were closed, but the chest rose and fell softly, as if asleep. Clearly, this horned man was still living.

Tyr brushed some of the mud from the man’s face, so it didn’t get in his nose and eyes. He wrapped the man carefully in a spare blanket he had with him and pulled him across his shoulders so he could carry the man without making him stand.

The battlefield was vast with crows gathering what they could stomach. There was bloodshed here, obviously, but the distance across made Tyr suspicious. Still, he continued until the clouds cleared for nightfall over the rolling hills. The man didn’t move or speak or do anything to suggest he was still lucid or aware, not even when Tyr turned his face to the fire he made for warmth and food. Paranoid that the grey man was some war demon, Tyr took the precaution of tying the hands behind his back so that if he did awake in the night, Tyr would notice. Tyr watched him all night, his interest renewed every time the demon turned his head every long while or so. Still, no noise came from him, and Tyr eventually fell asleep…

Tyr awoke at dawn to a dying fire and the grey horned man sitting upright. He had managed to free himself in the night, but still didn’t move. Instead, he stared straight through Tyr with tired, empty blue eyes. Tyr jumped back, seeing a dead man live again, but settled himself as he noticed that the man wasn’t going to move again. He was seized then with a newfound curiosity, as no matter where he stood and moved, those hollow eyes would follow him. After a while, Tyr sat next the man.

“Can you… Can you tell me your name?”

For a moment, the man looked away, as if it took a moment to recall. In an unusually small and quiet voice, he replied, “Holly.” Holly. An unusual name, no doubt in anticipation for someone different. Tyr kept that notion to himself as he carried on.

“Well, it’s good to see you alive, Holly.”

“Why did you take me?” The cadence, too, was unusual, almost pitiful, plainly sad. Holly asked that as if he truly belonged among the mud and corpses, like a relic stolen and misplaced. Tyr was even stung with a little guilt as blue eyes gazed through him again. They were a powerful shade, now that Tyr could see them up close, maybe like an old broken gem.

“Why, you were breathing and unhurt. Couldn’t let the crows carry you, could I?”

  Holly turned away to the fading embers. Tyr took the chance to better examine him, how his pointed ears were just barely blue at the tips, how his hair was gathered in some braided knot at the base of his neck. Holly even tried to wipe himself of more mud with his shoulder but succeeded only in streaking his face with more of it at some point. It was almost dry then, and when Tyr brushed away what would crumble, he found a younger face, one that certainly didn’t belong out in the middle of bloody nowhere.

“Let’s go, Holly. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

They traveled together for some time until they came across a flowing river, where Tyr had to encourage Holly to soak in the water properly. Even as he slowly woke up over the course of the day, every time Tyr tried to handle Holly himself was when Holly was most active, keen on defending himself from Tyr’s care. After a long, quiet, one-sided argument, Holly finally let Tyr help him wash the mud from soot-colored hair, which turned out to actually be inky black. The rest of Holly was indeed a blue-grey, and his clothes were once plain black trousers and a tawny linen shirt, both of which were rather forcibly washed. Tyr supplied Holly with an oversized tunic and a pair of tights for the time being, which Holly accepted wordlessly, but with some reserve.

“Now you look more like a Holly,” Tyr remarked, winding the length of rope from that night around Holly’s waist to make it fit. “I don’t think holly bushels like to grow in…” Tyr stopped himself.

“…Blood?” Holly finished. Tyr’s solemn look affirmed his guess. “I don’t understand why you insist with me.”

“Well, you’re young and in need of a second chance, aren’t you?” Tyr hurried. “Whatever it was you were caught up in couldn’t have been your fault, could it? You know how these kings are waging their wars nowadays, with magic and new metals, and what not. I’d leave it behind if I were you, move on. How many years are ahead of you? How old could you possibly be?”

Holly looked off into the distance to remember. “Eighteen, maybe.”

“See? A lifetime ahead. How about somewhere quiet for you?”

Quiet was accurate. A day and an evening later, Tyr and Holly happened upon a small tavern inn leading into a settlement. There were all types there, as there were travelers with larger horns or brilliant red skin or multiple arms or simply larger or smaller than usual, so Holly and Tyr, notably unremarkable in appearance, didn’t quite stand out.

“Avon!” Tyr greeted the barkeep warmly. “How are things with you? Still short a hand?”

Avon looked nearly as unremarkable as Tyr, only with warm but completely black eyes. Avon regarded Holly quickly, forcing joviality as Holly’s stare bled him of it. “I’m well, and I actually still am. Is this your man?”

“Yep, and he’s all yours, now. Real sweet thing, he won’t bother you, promise,” Tyr rushed, giving Holly a heaving pat on the back, urging him to the bar.

“Now, Tyr, slow down.” Avon gestured for the two to follow him behind the bar to a kitchen, smelling of tough meat and barley ale. He pulled out two stools for Tyr and Holly and opted for a table himself. Firelight from a large oven and a few candles illuminated the room, with the last of the sunset filtering through a row of windows.

“So, let me tell you a bit about our Jolly Holly here— Good lad, like I said, very quiet, will absolutely get the job done, won’t you?” Tyr nudged Holly’s shoulder, but his expression refused to change, even if that emptiness in his eyes was shallower than before.

“Oh, come on. Let him speak for himself,” Avon sighed, before nodding to Holly. “Your name isn’t really ‘Jolly Holly’ is it?”

“It’s only Holly,” he replied, solemnly. Avon leaned in.

“I see. Where are you from?”

Holly did his usual stare into the distance, jogging his memory, but nothing came up. He shook his head.

“Er, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“Holly branches,” Holly replied, quickly. “Holly branches and a cat.”

“Wait,” Tyr interjected, “What about the rest of those— no, nevermind.”

“What?” Avon’s gaze flickered between Holly, sinking into himself, and Tyr, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Nothing, nothing, Avon. It’s nothing.” Tyr looked up to Holly, resigned in expressionless silence. “He just needs something to do and someplace to stay. It’s the least I can do.”

Avon crossed his arms but chose not to press either of them. Tyr’s been a friend for years, there ought to be a good reason for him to push this fledgling into his tavern, even if the truth was obscure. Avon let Holly stay in a small spare room off the side of the kitchen for the night and spent the next few days showing him what to do. Holly took to simple work easily and even said a few words back to the patrons and guests, much to the intrigue of Avon and many regulars. During the short time there, Holly gradually became more relaxed, and the silence was no longer uncomfortable. He was ever present and welcome. Tyr had long left, returning briefly every now and again, and Avon did remain, mainly as a staple in the tiny town they were in. Holly learned to like his life.

Some months later, Avon was good enough on his own to run the bar on his own with some supervision. He smiled some, said the appropriate and polite mannerisms, and directed the travelers needing a bed to Avon. When he wasn’t need, he closed his eyes, taking in the peace. This was his quiet world, and he didn’t want to lose it.

In one of these quiet days, an army came marching through, though to Holly, it sounded like a parade of the grieving and the shamed. From the glimpses he bothered with just through the door and a window, the men of the army wore the colors of some kingdom, bearing the flag of some rule. This alarmed some of the regular patrons, who rushed out to either greet or scold the soldiers or rush home for whatever reason, some of these patrons didn’t bother to finish their drinks.

It seemed that only Holly didn’t care much for what was going on, so long as his little world wasn’t disturbed. When one of the soldiers walked in, glancing around at the locals with suspicion, he approached the bar as if he knew he didn’t belong but didn’t care. Then he looked at Holly.

His hands flew to the hilt of his sword as he froze, stuck staring at bright blue eyes. His swagger turned hostile and defensive, then afraid. Holly felt a certain fear too, one that flooded his senses against his will. He didn’t move, save for a hidden flex of fingers. He recognized the feeling as waiting, waiting for stray soldier to draw his sword, to attack.

Why was he waiting? What was he going to do? What could he do in the face of a sword? Was he going to fight? Was he going to fight for his life as he did before? Wasn’t that why he alone was alive?

“How?” the soldier demanded.

The fear in Holly began to burn into him, into his heart and through his head. He knew how, they both knew how the other survived. One because he wouldn’t allow himself to be killed, the other through being either lucky or wise to not cross Holly so long ago.

The soldier turned and ran out, shouting something Holly didn’t think about. The fear didn’t leave him, so he took a mug and filled it with ale, abandoning the bar to his room, taking a roll of bread on his way through the kitchen.

The bread was warm and so it warmed his stomach in a way he never knew, and the mug of ale was too much for him to handle at once. As he kneeled over his bed, swimming through newfound drunkenness, he recalled what was said.

The blue reaper.