The Reaper’s Garden is a very small area in the forest surrounding the Scottish Sanctuary, walled off by old, worn and mossed over bricks. It is surrounded by lush, green grass and beautiful flowers, yet each of them, seems to be sad about something. This makes the average observer very confused. How can flowers seem sad? And yet, they do. There is a small arch in the wall, filled by heavy, mahogany doors. It is silent there, in no other place do you not dare think, because if you do it seems you may shatter the silence forever. Clothes do not ruffle, breaths do not wheeze.
It is tended to by a cleaver in black robes. He did away with his mask a long time ago, his scythe is bent out of shape, so he can use it to cut the grass. He is it’s gardner, it’s protector, its gardian, if you get the joke. He was injured a long time ago, and so retired here. It was his duty to watch this place, now and forever.
He finished cutting the grass, every blade the same height, and sat down. Beside him, six feet under the ground lay the first man ever to come to this place. That same man was the reason The Reaper had not died that day, and the reason he would stay here forever more. That man had been so kind, and so selfless, and had held his ideals so close he had given his life for a cleaver. He was so revered every Scottish spotter who had died since had followed him to The Reaper’s Garden.
And every Christmas Day, all spotters who have no one else, spend their Christmas with the reaper, who they know will one day look after them.