Author's Note:

This story (with the exception of the very first scene, obviously) begins just over one century before the current Kuroshitsuji arc, around the time my personal headcanon has Undertaker retiring from the Dispatch Association. As it explores details not in the current canon, it could be considered AU, and as such I will be using a number of OC's to help the story along. But have no fear! Most will be minor characters (with the exception of Undertaker's daughter, of course), and NONE of them will be paired in ANY significant way with canon characters. At some point I will also skip forward in the timeline to explore the training of new reapers, so expect appearances from some of our favourite Shinigami, in their younger - but hopefully no less entertaining - forms.

In the event that things start to get a bit gritty (which they will; I like my gore), I will put an appropriate trigger warning at the beginning of the chapter. I'll do my best with this, but if you are upset by something that you were NOT warned of, please don't hesitate to tell me and I will fix it. I'm deeply grateful to anyone who reads my work and I certainly don't to scare any of you off.

Alright, I think that's all! Thank you very much for reading.

Let's get started, shall we?

Warnings for violence, gore

It was that day of the year again. The day that Ronald Knox had awaited with equal parts trepidation and intrigue every year since graduating from the Academy nearly half a decade ago. It was the day that William T. Spears, the boss from Hell, Mr Rules himself, relaxed his iron fist and became something almost resembling human.

And Ronald still had no idea why.

'Sorry, darling,' Grell had said, when Ronald voiced his concern about their boss' frankly alarming lack of reaction to Eric spinning across the room in his desk-chair to fetch something from Alan. 'It's really not my place to say anything.' The red-haired reaper had ruffled Ronald's own blond mop affectionately, giving the younger reaper a somewhat subdued version of his trademark grin. 'Cheer up, Knoxie. I'm sure he'll tell you himself, in due time.'

That had been three years ago, and, despite Grell's assurances, William seemed no closer to revealing the significance of this particular day than he had ever been. Grell also remained uncharacteristically tight-lipped on the matter, which in itself was enough to get anyone curious… and curiosity was Ronald's middle name.

Well, actually it was Arbuthnott, but no one needed to know that.

In any case, this year Ronald was determined to find out just what had had such a profound effect on his naturally imperturbable boss that a riot could break out in his office and he would hardly do more than give the perpetrators a vague, slightly mournful stare. It was only the fact that this indifference was a great deal more unsettling than his usual icy rage that kept his workers from starting said riot, and even Grell – who on any other day would have delighted in the ability to get away with bloody murder (literally) – kept his head down and actually got on with his work, with nary a glimpse of his shark-like smile. It was enough to do poor Ronald's head in. So what if he was the youngest in the office? He worked just as hard as any of them; surely that meant he had the right to know as much as they very clearly did, from the looks they gave him whenever he started asking questions. Well, he'd had enough of being kept in the dark. He'd find out what was so bloody special about the twentieth of April if it bloody killed him.

Ronald threw a final, cursory glance over the paperwork in front of him, gathered it up, stuffed it into a folder and pushed back his chair, before crossing the room to where Alan Humphries sat, categorising that day's reaps. Alan seemed the most logical place to start; the petite, brown-haired reaper was the most honest being Ronald had ever met. He didn't think the man could tell a lie if you paid him. Surely if he saw that Ronald was genuinely curious (and he was!), he'd have no qualms about telling him what he wanted to know… right?

'Hey, Alan,' he greeted the other reaper brightly, handing him the thick folder of paperwork.

Alan took the folder and flipped through it. 'Hello, Ronald,' he said, sounding a little tired, perhaps, but not unkindly. Yup, Ronald's odds were looking good. 'You've certainly had a busy day.'

'Looks like I'm not the only one,' he laughed, with a meaningful glance in Grell's direction. Unladylike snores were rising from the desk where the red-haired reaper was slumped over his own paperwork, glasses askew and a line of drool making its way from the corner of his mouth.

The brunette reaper chuckled. 'Someone better save his paperwork before the ink is ruined.' His face fell at the thought of having to rewrite Grell's papers from scratch. Why must we be so understaffed? I'll die if I get any more overtime this week…

'Got it!' Ronald said, darting over to rescue his comatose colleague's precious paperwork. He whipped it out from beneath Grell's cheek just in time – a second longer and "Mayer, John" would have been reduced to an unsightly grey blot. He shook out the creases in the paper, before returning to Alan's desk.

The reaper gave a sigh of relief and took the papers from Ronald as though they were a newborn babe. 'Thanks, Ronald, I owe you one. And so does Grell, when he wakes up,' he added, adjusting his spectacles.

The small movement immediately reminded Ronald of what he'd come over here to ask. As nonchalantly as he could, he perched himself on the edge of Alan's desk and began fiddling with a pencil. 'It's weird, huh?'

Alan blinked at him. 'Hm? What is?'

Ronald gestured vaguely in Grell's direction. 'Spears usually wouldn't let Sutcliff slack off like that. Usually he'd be out here in a flash, whacking Grell with his scythe and giving us all a lecture on "efficiency", threatening us with overtime and what-not.' He gave the pencil an idle twirl, watching Alan covertly out of the corner of his eye. 'It's weird, don'tcha think?'

'Er, yes, I suppose so,' Alan muttered, not meeting Ronald's gaze, in what the blonde reaper thought was a very pointed evasion of the issue. Aha! I was right, he does know something! Now, in for the kill…

'I mean, it's weird that something like that would affect Spears so much,' he went on casually, as if he wasn't internally hopping up and down. 'He doesn't really seem the type, you know?'

That made Alan look at him. 'You know about that?' he whispered, leaning in slightly and giving the door to William's office a fearful look. 'He told you?'

'He may have mentioned something about it, yeah,' Ronald lied easily. 'But I figured most of it out on my own. I mean, it is pretty obvious.'

'Is it?'

It was Ronald's turn to blink. 'Huh?'

'Is it obvious?' Alan had leaned back, and he was giving Ronald a funny look. 'As far as I know, he's never expressed any sort of interest in… well, you know.' He blushed. 'And you've known him almost as long as I have. So, I just thought… obvious is a bit of an odd choice of words. In my opinion.'

Ronald opened and closed his mouth several times, but his mind had gone horribly blank in the face of Alan's now piercing stare.

'You don't know, do you,' Alan said, returning his attention to his paperwork with an audible sigh.

Well, so much for that. 'Oh come on, Alan!' Ronald cried, abandoning the now useless pretext. He slid off Alan's desk and placed his hands there instead, leaning in to fix the other reaper with an imploring stare. 'I thought we were mates! I'm going crazy here, you gotta give me something!'

'We are, no you're not and no, I don't,' Alan said, calmly carrying on with his work as though Ronald wasn't there, far too familiar with the blonde's "kicked puppy" routine to be at all fazed by it. 'Spears will tell you himself, when he wants to.'

'Did he tell you?'

That, to Ronald's immense satisfaction, caused the other reaper to blush furiously. 'Er, of course he-'

'No, he didn't,' Ronald interrupted his now severely flustered colleague. 'Eric told you, didn't he?'

Alan ignored him, but the sheer heat coming off his face was enough to tell Ronald exactly what he wanted to know.

'Aha!' Ronald pumped the air with his fist, before bounding away in search of Eric. 'Thanks, Alan!'

'Wait!' Alan hissed, almost pulling a muscle in his hurry to twist around in his seat. 'Ronald! Don't, you'll get us both in trouble! Oh, bugger.'

The blonde's only reply was a cheery wave as he disappeared out the door, and he was halfway down the outside hallway before he realised he had no idea where Eric was. Ronald hadn't seen him leave the office, but he'd been neck deep in his own paperwork all afternoon so that wasn't really that surprising. Presumably he had clocked out early (taking advantage of William's once-yearly indifference to, well, everything), but where he had gone after that was anyone's guess (except, perhaps, for Alan, but there was no way he was going back there to ask him). So it was with somewhat less confidence that Ronald set off down the corridor, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, trying to maintain the carefree air of one who has every right to be where he is. In actual fact he was beginning to regret this whole mad venture. William wasn't a bad guy; a bit of a hard-ass, yeah, but did that give Ronald the right to go sneaking around behind his back?

Yeah, but it's not like he's ever going to just tell me, said that impatient part of his brain – the one that had got him into this mess in the first place. And the rest of Ronald's brain had to agree that no, William wasn't about to go sharing the significance of the twentieth of April with his youngest, most hot-headed subordinate. And that, as far as he was concerned, settled it. Now, if I were a crazy-haired Sasquatch named Eric, where would I be?

He had just decided to check General Affairs (he thought he remembered Eric saying something about getting a nick in his scythe fixed), when he felt a Presence manifest itself just behind him.

At first he thought nothing of it. Probably just some secretary. But the Presence didn't budge, and Ronald began to wonder if he had felt it somewhere before; it certainly seemed familiar.

And that was when he froze, grimacing at his own stupidity.

Because he knew exactly who was standing behind him.

'And just where do you think you are going, Mr Knox?'

Oh, bugger me. Ronald bit back a groan, plastered an exaggerated smile over his expression of horror, and turned to face his doom.

'Oh, er, hi Mr Spears!' he said brightly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. 'Fancy seeing you here.'

William quirked an eyebrow, adjusting his spectacles with the end of his ever-present scythe. 'I hardly think so,' he said in a clipped tone. 'This is my Department, as I am sure you are aware.'

Ronald's cheeks were beginning to ache with the strain of holding his grin in place. 'Ha, yeah, of course. Silly me. I'll just be on my way, then…'

William, however, was having none of it. 'Come with me, Knox,' he said, in that same, brisk voice, and without waiting for Ronald to reply he strode past the younger reaper, evidently expecting the blonde to follow him.

When he reached the end of the corridor and found himself alone, however, he turned abruptly on his heel and fixed Ronald (who appeared to be having a brain aneurysm) with a hawk-like stare.

'Well?' he spoke sharply. 'Are you coming of your own accord, or do I have to drag you by the ear like Sutcliff? Honestly, you've been spending too much time with that embarrassment.'

This brief resurgence of William T. Spears, Head of Collections, was enough to snap Ronald out of his reverie, and the young reaper hurried to his superior's side before he earned himself a scythe to the face. Once he was sure the blonde wasn't going to try and make a run for it, William made another neat turn and set off again.

William set a brisk pace, and Ronald found himself almost jogging to keep up with the much longer-legged reaper. 'Sir?' he ventured, as they passed through General Affairs (no sign of Eric's tell-tale hairstyle) and out onto the Bridge. 'Where are we going, if you don't mind me asking?'

'You will see soon enough,' William answered, leading the way towards the immense, palace-like structure that housed the Cinematic Records.

The Library… Ronald gulped. There was a belief amongst the reapers-in-training that, if you broke The Rules, Senior Spears would take you behind the Library Archives and… dispatch you. Ronald had always thought it a sort of long-running joke, but suddenly he was not so sure.

Gods help me, he knows I was sniffing around and now he's bringing me out here to off me…

'I see that rumour pertaining to the Library Archives is still in circulation, then?'

Ronald paled visibly. 'W-what?' Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods! He knows I'm onto him, this is the end, this is how I die-

The young reaper was too busy watching his life flash before his eyes to notice the hint of a smile that tugged at the corner of William's mouth. 'Do calm down, Knox. I am not bringing you out here just to kill you. If I wanted to do that, trust me when I say that you would already be dead.'

Ronald wasn't quite sure how that was supposed to reassure him. 'So… you're not going to kill me?'

'No.' There was a soft click as William adjusted his spectacles. 'Honestly. Leave it to Eric Slingby to start such a ridiculous rumour. Offing my employees behind the Archives, really,' he scoffed.

'And, er… you're not going to fire me, either?'

William raised an eyebrow at that. 'Have you given me a reason to do so, Mr Knox?'

'No, Sir,' Ronald said quickly, and this time, he didn't miss the hint of a smile that William gave him.

'Very well then.'

They walked in silence, passing the Library and starting up the grassy hill behind it. Ronald knew about this area of the Dispatch, and though he had never been there himself, he had a feeling that they were nearing their destination. He shot William a curious glance, but the dark-haired reaper's gaze was fixed on the crest of the hill, so intent on his purpose that he almost seemed to have forgotten the blonde was there.

'Oh, wow…'

They had reached the top of the hill. There, spread out before them, was the Reaper Cemetery.

'This way,' William murmured, moving off between the ancient stones. Ronald tried to get a look at a few as he hurried past, but any names that had once decorated the graves had long since worn away. A deep sadness settled in the pit of his stomach as he followed William through row after row of their fallen colleagues. There are so many…

William led the blonde off to the right, where the graves were more well-kept and the stones cleaner. I guess these still have friends alive to take care of them. He peered at the names, but, to his relief, found none that were familiar to him.

The dark haired reaper came to a halt in front of one of the more well-maintained plots in the field, and Ronald stepped hesitantly up beside him. An almost palpable sadness seemed to be emanating from the man, and Ronald wondered if he ought to say something. William surprised him, however, by speaking first.

'Well?' he said quietly, still gazing fixedly at the headstone. 'This is what you wanted to know, is it not?'

Ronald, who had developed a sudden overwhelming interest in the grass between his shoes, shifted uncomfortably. 'Alan told you, huh?'

'No. You did, just now.'

Ronald could have kicked himself. 'Sir, I didn't mean-'

'I know.'

Caught off guard by the softness of his superior's voice, Ronald looked up to find William gazing at him with unnatural kindness. The dark-haired reaper smiled that tiny, sad smile at the blonde's stunned expression.

'Though I would prefer you come directly to me, the next time you want to know something. Slingby gives unreliable information at best, and the last thing I need is him filling my employees' heads with more nonsense than they already contain.'

Ronald managed a small, shaky laugh. 'Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.' He turned back to the headstone. 'So, er… who was he?'

William's tentative smile evaporated. 'The brightest student the Academy has ever seen, I suspect.'

'Oh? So, you were his teacher?'

'No. We were in the same year.'

Ronald blinked. He had always thought of William as the top-of-the-class type, what with his obsession with The Rules… not to mention that Ronald had never met a being possessed of a more fierce intelligence than the dark-haired reaper. The thought of there being someone even more intelligent than the Head of Collections was as frightening as it was impressive, even if he was dead.

'And her name, Mr Knox, was Anais Stone.'

Wait, did he hear that right? 'Her name, Sir?' No, that couldn't be right. There were no female reapers, and as far as he knew, there never had been. Well, technically there were, but they were all in secretarial positions, and they certainly wouldn't have gone through the Academy. He didn't know exactly why (he wasn't sure anyone did, to be honest); it was simply The Way Things Were.

'You heard me,' William said, a touch of his usual sharpness creeping into his voice.

Ronald decided it was best not to argue, and they stood in silence for a few moments longer.

'Did you love her?' Ronald asked at length, quietly.

William seemed surprised by the question, and for a long moment he didn't answer.

'I suppose I must have,' he said slowly. 'Insofar as someone like me could love someone like her, that is. Yes, Mr Knox. I suppose I did love her.'

And just like that, Ronald suddenly felt immensely guilty. I shouldn't have been sneaking around, trying to find out why today was so special. I should have just asked. Gods, I'm such an idiot. And yet, William was trusting him enough to bring him here and open up to him, knowing how vulnerable he was making himself by doing so – William Spears, the strongest, most stoic man he had ever had the fortune to know. Ronald couldn't have spoken a word even if he'd wanted to, so great was his shame. He hung his head, willing the ground to open and swallow him up.

'You remind me of her, actually,' William added suddenly. Ronald looked up to find his superior's lip twitching again. 'She, too, had an utter disregard for personal privacy.'

Realising that the dark-haired reaper was not trying to make him feel worse than he already did, Ronald made a valiant – but short-lived – attempt at a smile. A thought had just occurred to him; a question that had to be asked. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

'What happened to her, Sir? If you don't want to say, I totally understand,' he added quickly, when William looked at him.

'No, it's fine,' William said quietly. The reaper lifted his scythe, and adjusted his spectacles.

'She died, Mr Knox, because someone broke the rules.'

xxx

Many, many years earlier...

Red was the world, and quiet. Long ago, the reaper had made a habit of walking as though the souls of the dead, like delicate flowers, would be bruised if he stepped too heavily. They deserved at least that modicum of respect, after all. Gods knew they had seen little enough of it in life.

A light tread and a welcoming smile; these, perhaps even more so than his scythe, were the reaper's signature tools. But although the first came as easily as breathing (figuratively speaking of course; the reaper had little use for breathing in the literal sense), tonight the latter was giving him a bit of difficulty. For the first time in many long centuries, as his footsteps cast red ripples across the floor, the reaper reached for that old, familiar smile, and could not find it.

They were puddled on the floor, a heap of bloody rags and skin and bone. The little girl, barely five years old if the To-Die List was to be believed, was still wrapped protectively in her mother's cold white arms. He had passed the son in the front hallway, a tall young man spread-eagled at the head of a long red smear. Even with half his innards spilling out, he had crawled towards his mother and sister, though what he had hoped to accomplish in such a state the reaper could not say. A testament to the human spirit, he had wondered as he gathered up the man's soul, or human stubbornness?

Perhaps there was not as much difference between the two as people would like to believe. Either way, the young man and his mother were dead. The woman was taken care of with a dispassionate swipe of the scythe, and the Reaper turned his attention to the final name on his List.

Anna Starling. Five years old. Stabbed seven times. To die on the 20th of April 1789, at twenty-three minutes past eleven.

It was a brutal and senseless murder, but he had seen too many and wasted too much of his life wondering why such things occurred. Sighing, the reaper closed the List and stowed in one of the many pockets of his overcoat, and from another produced a heavy silver pocket-watch. Eleven-twenty.

'Three minutes to go, little bird,' he murmured, surprised by the sadness in his voice. The pocket-watch disappeared back into its pocket, and the reaper settled down on the floor to get a better look at the girl whose soul would soon be in his care.

She was strong for one so small. Seven times the murderer had driven his blade into her tiny body, and yet her chest still rose and fell with the desperate fluttering of her heart. Blood welled between her lips where they were pressed against her mother's dead flesh. A slash to the face had closed her right eye, but her left was open – and it was staring, quite unmistakably, at her reaper.

That in itself was not so very unusual; the dying are often more sensitive to that which the living cannot ordinarily see, and children especially so. Many times his charges' eyes had found his in their last earthly moments, cursing him, or begging; sometimes for mercy, but oftentimes simply for an end to the pain. But never in all his long years had the reaper encountered one who stared at him with such accusation, as if he were somehow to blame for all she had suffered.

The reaper sat back, blinking behind his spectacles, and took out his pocket-watch again. One minute, thirty seconds left. It was not unheard of, for a reaper to spare a human; but that human would have to be remarkable indeed to warrant such a deviation from reaper law… remarkable enough to change the world. He had spared one such, in times long gone by, but she had been nothing less than exceptional. To break reaper law for the sake of one unremarkable little girl, in a moment of what could only be seen as pitiable sentimentality (most unbefitting a reaper of his calibre), why, it was unthinkable!

Unthinkable, eh? More unthinkable than letting her die? The reaper tapped his front teeth with a fingernail. Who's to say one soul is more remarkable than another? Perhaps in not as large a way as others, but surely… who's to say this little bird will or won't change someone's world, someday?

I am. The thought came to him suddenly, madly, like a gasp of fresh air to a drowning man. He glanced at his pocket-watch. One minute…

The girl was no longer staring. Her bright blue eye had drooped closed, the rise and fall of her chest no longer fluttered like a desperate bird but came slow and staggered. The red pool around her knees had widened. If he was going to save her, it would have to be soon. And why shouldn't I? Who's to say who lives or dies, but for me? In the end, I am all there is.

Fifteen seconds. As the reaper's fingers tightened around his scythe, little Anna gave a gasp. Her eye opened once more and a tiny red hand flung out suddenly, desperately, reaching for him. Her fingers brushed against a lock of his long, silver hair, and found it soft, almost like a cat's. Whether she wanted him to spare her or end her, the reaper did not know, but after a moment of hesitation he removed a glove and took her hand gently in his.

Her small fingers were cold and trembling against his palm. Five seconds. Their eyes met, blue into yellow-green.

Four. Very quietly, the reaper whispered, 'Do you want to go home, little bird?'

Three.

Two.

And very quietly, the girl answered, 'Yes.'

xxx

George Ellerby was at his desk, looking over the day's register with a slightly pinched expression, by the light of a single guttering candle. Now and then he would take up a pen and scrawl a word or two beside an entry on the page, which was so long that it tumbled over the edge of the desk and across the floor like a paper waterfall. The London Register contained the names of all the souls that had been collected that day, and Ellerby's job as assistant librarian was to ensure that each Cinematic Record had been accessed, reviewed, and, once severed, removed from the 'In Progress' section of the Library, and stored in the 'Archives.' While not overly difficult, it was a dismal and boring job, but really nothing more than a green reaper like young Ellerby could expect.

At least it was better than the ablutions job. Ellerby supressed a shudder and adjusted his glasses, before making a final note on the Register and leaning back in his chair with a deeply satisfied sigh. Finally. Now, with any luck, he could head back to his apartments and snatch a few hours of sleep before tomorrow's shift. The thought of being out in the field, reaping souls instead of cataloguing them, made him more than a little uneasy, but he knew it was for a very good reason. The role of assistant librarian never fell to the same newbie twice in a row, on account of the Records. They did funny things to the mind, if you were around them for too long.

George Ellerby allowed himself a luxuriant stretch – he had been sitting far too long – before rolling up the Register and heading for the door. If his attention hadn't already been firmly fixed on thoughts of his bed, he might have seen the stack of Records lurking just behind his desk. As it was, he found himself sprawled on the floor of the Library with his dignity bruised and both the Register and his spectacles absent without leave. He wasted several minutes crawling blindly about on the floor, letting out an occasional curse when his adventures led him to a close encounter with the corner of a desk or bookshelf, before one groping hand alighted miraculously upon the wayward spectacles. Almost ready to weep with relief he pushed the spectacles onto his nose, and quickly located the Register, which he had somehow managed to sit on. He uncrumpled it as best he could, hoping his superior wouldn't notice that it was a little bent, and finally turned his attention to the source of this whole annoyance – the Records.

Damn. The Librarian must have left them there when Ellerby was double-checking the Register. He wasn't surprised that he hadn't seen the other reaper; no one ever saw the Librarian. In fact there was some doubt – even amongst the senior reapers – that he even existed. Ellerby himself had his suspicions. On his first night alone in the Library he could have sworn he saw one of the books move, but it had been very late by then and he had later decided that he had imagined it.

Subsequent evenings had somewhat dampened this conviction. By the third or fourth time he'd drawn Library duty, Ellerby was forced to admit that yes, the books did indeed move about entirely of their own accord. He decided then that the shadowy Librarian must be more of a book-shepherd than a book-keeper (if he existed at all); for while the books moved, it was not always to where they were supposed to be.

So with a resigned sigh Ellerby thrust the Register through a belt loop, determined not to let it escape him a second time, gathered up the wandering Records, and set about returning them to their proper places.

Half-twelve found him deep in the maze of shelves, holding the last book and muttering, 'Starling, Starling,' while he frowned at the faded names before him. The books themselves were not entirely silent; small scratchings could be heard from within each Record, as the soul's stories quietly wrote themselves. The result was a steady rustling that echoed throughout the great Library, like dry leaves in a breeze, or a thousand voices in an empty house. The other young reapers found the noise unsettling, but Ellerby thought it comforting, in an odd sort of way.

At last he gave a little 'Aha!' of triumph, coming across a promising gap in the spines, and was just about to slot the Record into place when something peculiar happened. Well, more peculiar than usual. The Record marked 'Starling, Anna' began to tremble in his hand, so suddenly and violently that he almost dropped it. He seized the struggling book with both hands in an attempt to force it into its place on the shelf, grunting with the effort of holding it shut, and to his horror it began to glow an angry, fiery green.

Ellerby stared in mute terror, hardly aware that the Record was now becoming uncomfortably warm. Only when his hands began to burn in earnest did he finally release the book, letting out a pained yelp as the tome tumbled flaming from his grasp, landing open on the Library floor, at the very last entry. Cradling his scorched hands Ellerby dropped to his knees and leaned forward to read, only to realise that as fast as his eyes skimmed over them, the words on the page were disappearing.

'No…' the word croaked out of him; he felt as though he were being choked. Desperately he began to turn the pages of the book, mindless of the pain in his hands, but it was no use. The words were vanishing! 'No, no, no, NO, NO!'

He gave a scream of frustration, tearing his scythe from his belt and raising it, trembling, only to realise that he had no idea what to do. He had never heard of anything like this occurring; he hadn't even thought it possible! He had never felt so helpless, or so useless as he did in that moment, watching as Anna Starling's story was erased. As the last word winked out of existence he let the scythe, a curved pruning-saw, fall haplessly to his side. The glow faded, and the Library was dark and quiet once more. Even the rustling of the Records seemed subdued, as though they were aware of – and perhaps mourned – their sister's incomprehensible demise.

Ellerby reached out a tentative hand, and, finding the book quite cool, paged silently through. Blank. Blank. Blank, blank, blank, blank. Every page, blank. Tears of sadness and shame stung his eyes and, with no one but the books to see, rolled freely down his cheeks. This wasn't supposed to happen.

He gathered up the empty book, wondering what on earth he was supposed to do now, only to drop it again with a startled shout as green flames burst from the cover, this time burning so intensely that the heart of the book glowed white and Ellerby had to cover his eyes to avoid being blinded. The book fell open, to the first page now, and he peered out from between his arms with eyes narrowed against the vicious heat.

Words appeared. Slowly, Anna Starling's story was being rewritten in fiery green scrawl. Ellerby leaned as close to the burning book as he could bear, trying to make out the words…

And when he did, George Ellerby's eyes rolled back in his head, and he clutched at his hair, and he screamed.

xxx

At thirty-nine minutes past eleven, the reaper emerged from the Starling residence with Anna fast asleep and cradled in his arms. He was gazing at his pocket watch, apparently oblivious to the four suited figures waiting in the street below. After a moment he seemed to come to some sort of decision, and he closed the watch with a snap and dropped it into his pocket. The scythe, too, had been folded neatly and stowed away in the depths of his long overcoat, along with the To-Die List. With any amount of luck, he would never have to look at either again.

'Reaper Dullahan!'

The reaper ignored the shout. He was busy rearranging Anna's position, so that he could carry her in one arm.

'An unauthorised Cinematic Record alteration has been detected at this address,' the man went on. 'This is a blatant violation of the Grim Reaper Code of Law, clause XVIII, line twenty two 'B' of paragraph four. We are here to take you into custody.'

The reaper grinned. He had known that they would be on him, like flies on a corpse – but he hadn't expected them to go about it so stupidly. Their first mistake had been in sending only four reapers – he inhaled deeply – one of them very clearly as green as spring grass, by the smell of fear in the air. In fact, all of them were afraid (as well they should be), but the one who had squawked the Code at him like a well-trained parrot had his head stuck too far up his own arse to realise it.

Their second was quoting the Code. He'd written it.

Their third and most unfortunate mistake was allowing him to shift the girl's weight to his left arm, because that left his right free to do this-

The fight – if it could be called that – was brief. The reaper moved impossibly fast, a silver-haired blur, and with three sharp consecutive thwacks the three younger men were out cold. The Parrot, though, clearly had more sense than first appearances might have suggested, and as soon as he had heard his men go down he had brought his scythe up-

-Only to have the silver-haired reaper appear out of bloody nowhere and seize his wrist, giving it a vicious twist. The sharp crack broke the quiet of the night like a gunshot, and the man's whisper turned into a wretched gurgle as the older reaper released his fractured wrist and took hold hold of his throat instead.

'Move that scythe again and I'll wring your head clean off your scrawny neck, reaper,' he whispered sweetly, tightening his grip. The man's eyes bulged behind his square-framed spectacles, and he emitted a high-pitched whine. Satisfied that he had his captive's pig-headed manner well and truly cowed, the Reaper kicked one of the man's knees out from under him, feeling something crunch. Once the Parrot had fallen heavily into the street he stepped neatly over him, ignoring the man's groans.

Pathetic. He had almost hoped for one last good fight, to finish off his career with style. We were made of sterner stuff once, we reapers. He'd not even had to use his scythe, for gods' sake. It was all most disappointing.

His free hand reached up to remove his spectacles. He had considered keeping them, but a clean cut was always preferable to a messy one, and the glasses were tied to a thousand memories he would sooner forget.

The spectacles fell into the street with a tinkle of breaking glass. In his arms, Anna (who had remained miraculously asleep for the duration of the scuffle) made a small, frightened noise. He smoothed her soft black hair back from her face, revealing a worried eye that now gleamed yellow-green.

'Come, little bird,' he whispered. 'Let's take you home. I promised I would, didn't I?'

The girl nuzzled drowsily at the reaper's scarred neck, and he smiled.

He was still smiling when he stepped down into the street, and when he felt the broken spectacles crunch beneath his boot, he made sure to tread lightly, as if they were a delicate flower.

They deserved that modicum of respect, after all.

Wooo! First chapter of my first proper fic ever, done and dusted! And boy, was it long! Don't worry, the rest will hopefully be a lot shorter (writing a 6000 word chapter every day would probably kill me). I'm really excited about this, so please review!

Fun Fact #1: This fic was inspired by the story of The Enchanter's Daughter, by Antonia Barber. Little Anna Starling is based on it's title character, Thi Phi Yen, which means 'pretty flying bird' (hence 'Starling').

Fun Fact #2: Undertaker is referred to here as 'Dullahan', which is a Celtic grim reaper figure distinguished by its creepy smile, which is so wide it reaches its ears. The dullahan carries a whip made from a human spine, and drives a carriage pulled by black horses. I suspect that it was one of the several grim-reaper figures in European folklore that Undertaker was based on.

(I might make a habit of putting these little fun facts at the end of each chapter. Let me know what you think!)