"Into the Black"
A Kuroshitsuji (Black Butler) Undertaker fanfic
Disclaimer: Kuroshitsuji (Black Butler) and all characters therein belong to Yana Toboso. I make no profit from the writing of this fanfiction, and it is strictly for entertainment purposes only.
~xox~
Footsteps echoed in the great, vast halls of the Library—my footsteps. Clop…clop…clop. I counted them, you see. I counted them as they took me into the black, into the fate that would turn me from a legend into the twisted, mad old thing I am today. I was not always as they see me now. I was not always the scarred one, the outcast…the mortician. No, I once harvested souls and all the records that came with them for the Great Library, as those who came behind me do today. I once had a name, and it was not the Undertaker.
It's funny how clearly you see things, once you've made a decision that you expect will mean your doom. Every pore of stone is visible, every sound magnified, every creak of muscle and tendon in your body feels like a perfect, harmonic orchestra within you. Your heart beats at a faster tempo, your gut twists, and you think to yourself: "My God, why am I doing this?"
The answer for some might be notoriety. For others, devotion to the organization. Still others might say they were doing it for the greater good. For yours truly, however, it was a matter of…curiosity. Yes, that does happen to be my greatest weakness. I have to understand "how" and "why", and then I feel compelled to see if I can fix it or make it better. If I can't…well then, at least I'm entertained in the trying.
It was perhaps…no, not "perhaps"…that isn't the right word. It was definitely because of that curiosity that I ended up becoming who and what I am today. Laughter is all I have left, besides my trade. Entertainment is what keeps me vital, keeps me going. It stops me from sinking further into the black.
It all began with a demon infestation in the library; but this was no typical demon. Born of human suffering, death agony, hatred and fear, this was a creature of our own devising; one that came to be in the days before my younger brethren learned the value of easing an assignment out of mortal life gently, rather than carving into them with all the precision of a rabid dog. The records…the catalog of life events that come out when we reap…they became corrupted. The anguish of those souls darkened those records and eventually congealed like blood, bringing life to an entity that we called a demon, though it was not a hell-born creature like any we had ever seen. It eventually gained a conscience, there in the great vaults of the library, and it escaped, intent on going after the ones that caused its tormented existence in the first place.
But first, it needed a permanent body..
Death walked the halls of this library, and it came in many different forms. Tall, short, muscular, thin, plain-faced and beautiful…the gods of Death appeared much like humans. Most of them were once human themselves, chosen by the Divine to become reapers and collect souls to be catalogued and stored until Judgment Day came. Nobody knew when precisely such a day would come. Perhaps the powers that be didn't even know yet, themselves. Until that day came, it was the sworn duty of all death gods to judge the dying, preserve their cinematic records and on occasion, turn those dying mortals into new reapers.
Within the great vaults and arches of this library, the Dispatch agents would bring their daily collections and sort them with care. The master librarian watched over everything, correcting mistakes and keeping records of each and every mortal soul added to the ever-growing vaults. Today, one of the old ones checked in to drop off his latest acquisitions.
He was tall—taller than most men of either mortal or reaper kind. His complexion was fair like an albino's, and his moon-pale hair flowed long from a black ribbon he kept it bound back in. The thick mane fell all the way to his hips, when it was left loose. Thick, long lashes of the same colorless hue framed mesmerizing Shinigami eyes, with gold irises overlapping green. The irises constricted independently of each other, allowing the reaper to see the cinematic records that were invisible to mortals. It was this ability that made his kind near-sighted to the material world, thus making corrective eyewear necessary for them to see clearly. Thin white brows arched over his eyes, and a pair of black and silver half-frame glasses rested on his nose.
The head librarian looked up as this reaper entered, as did other reapers that were perusing or cataloging the files. The library was always quiet, but it became deathly silent as the silver-haired Shinigami walked in. Some watched him with covert jealousy, while others openly admired him. He had been there since before any of them were made; the original Death. He had an angelic countenance and indeed, many of his targets believed they were being taken to Heaven by an angel when he came for them.
"Khronos," greeted the master librarian with a nod of respect. He absently patted his powdered wig, feeling like a goose before a swan in his presence. He raised a brow as he checked his pocket watch. "You are two days late in your drop-off. Do you know that?"
The agent stopped before the desk and he tilted his head to the side, smiling. The single, thin braid he kept woven into his hair on the right side dangled free of the ponytail he'd gathered the rest into. He spoke with a British accent; a thing he'd adopted simply because he seemed to like the way it rolled on his tongue. Unlike many of his peers, Khronos had no mortal origins to claim as his own. "Am I? Funny, the mortals consider me a god of time and yet I seem to have forgotten how to keep it."
There was soft laughter, and the librarian cast a stern look around. When it faded, he regarded Khronos again. "You are just as bound to protocol as the rest of us, my friend. I'll have to report your tardiness."
The silver reaper bowed at the waist, his long black coat parting a bit below the waist to reveal thigh-high black boots over deep gray breeches. "Absolutely. You should probably add that I was late returning due to the mishap in jolly ol' England." He straightened up, his long ponytail flipping back over his shoulder and down his back as he did so. "One of our agents ran into a spot of trouble in Lancashire. Seems one of his assigned collections decided to bite him back, and he nearly perished."
Khronos called his heavy catalogue book into existence and he set it down on the desk before the master librarian with a thud. It opened on its own, the pages stopping somewhere just past the middle of the tome. The librarian adjusted his glasses and flipped backwards through it with a frown.
"This is almost twice the number or records you were assigned to gather. Yes, these in the back were assigned to—"
"Nicholas Crowley," finished Khronos with a nod. "I took the liberty of finishing his collections for him when it became clear to me that he was in no condition to do it himself. If you'll check in with the infirmary, I think you'll find he is still in recovery. I'm certain that he will confirm my report."
There were murmurs from the witnessing reapers, along with a few sighs. Many of them had assisted each other under similar circumstances, but to collect another week's worth of souls in just two days was more than impressive. The librarian cleared his throat and he went to the phone box on the wall to contact the operator and get transferred to the infirmary. When he was put through, he asked about the patient and he listened to what the staff member on the other line said. He glanced over his shoulder at Khronos, his expression both impressed and slightly grudging at once. He thanked the medic and he hung the earpiece back on the cradle, before turning back around to face the silver reaper.
"I'll be sure to include the circumstances of your tardiness in my report, Khronos. Well done."
Khronos smiled crookedly, his straight, white teeth flashing. "All in a day's work. Hopefully Crowley will learn something from this. You can't rip the records out of them like a wolf going for the throat. Dispatch needs to teach its reapers to be cleaner about it. I've been warning them—"
"Yes, yes," sighed the master librarian with a dismissive wave of his hand. He closed the tome and passed it over to one of his assistants to have them extract the records and file them away. "We've heard this all before. Crowley was likely just careless or distracted."
"He was brutal, is what he was," Khronos said, suddenly serious. He gazed levelly at the librarian. "The cinematic records were attacking him because he tore the mark's soul from him without warning, putting her through a substantial amount of unnecessary trauma in the process that could have easily been avoided."
He looked around at his audience, his motions graceful…almost ghostly as he scanned them all with a warning look. "You lot treat your charges like so much dead meat to be torn from the bone. The collection process gets messier and more savage with each generation of Shinigami, and the souls of the dead resist more as a result. Surely you've sensed the corruption in these walls."
The librarian rubbed the bridge of his nose in a tired manner. "Khronos, you've presented these arguments before but you cannot deny the results we've had with greater efficiency and speed. Our numbers are small and the mortals die like flies, each day. Every Dispatch agent at our disposal lives on the clock, with precious few hours to rest and barely an hour out of each day to eat. The death tolls are on the rise with the recent plagues spreading through Europe. If you have a suggestion that would allow us to gather souls before the enemy can reach them without compromising the health and safety of our Shinigami, I'm sure the high council would love to hear it."
"It's a concept called 'time management'," announced Khronos with a smirk. "If you plan your routes, give your passengers a bit of comfort and reassurance and learn to weave the records right, you'll be done in half the time with the rest of the day—or night—to spare. I sometimes even have enough time to spare for a date with a lady…or a gent." He shrugged fluidly.
"And you've been at this for how long now?" pressed one of the other listening reapers. "Not all of us have your experience…or time for dates."
"Well, I am the god of time," said Khronos thoughtfully, chuckling. "Still, this department is in dire need of better training, as a whole."
"The title given to you by mortals carries no additional weight here, in our realm," reminded the librarian sternly. "You've gotten smug, Khronos. You forget your place."
Khronos only smiled. "How is it any worse to be thought of as Father Time, when each of us here are gods of death?" He bowed to the master librarian again. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to pay a visit to the sandman, myself. I'll need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for my next assignment, eh? It's all about the job."
He turned and walked away, heading for the arching doors leading out of the lobby. He paused with his gloved hand hovering over the handle, and he partially turned to speak over his shoulder. "That's all we are, isn't it? The job." He sighed and tugged the double doors open before walking out, leaving his colleagues staring after him.
A few nights later, Khronos managed to arrange a little time with his friend Lawrence, who seemed to sympathize with his frustrations concerning the younger generation of reapers. Lawrence Anderson spent a lot of his off time helping out in the Glasses Department, and he'd personally repaired or replaced Khronos' glasses more than once. They chose a quaint little tavern nestled in the hills of the English countryside to have drinks and discuss life—what little life there was to discuss outside their indentured profession.
"I would like to retire," admitted Lawrence with a sigh as he clinked his mug of ale against his pale friend's in a toast. "Or be transferred to another department. The task of collecting records has become stale business, to me."
Khronos nodded in agreement and blew the foam off the top of his ale. "I can't say I'd be keen on making glasses for eternity like you, but I know there's more out there. I would like to try my hand at some other profession."
"You could always request a transfer like me," suggested Lawrence. "Though I think they'd grant my request before they would grant yours. You've become a living legend, my friend…the best Dispatch agent ever to wield a scythe."
The silver reaper took a swallow of his beverage and he snorted. "Right. That's only because I'm the bloody oldest agent on record. I know all the tricks. If only the pups would let me teach them…" He sighed, unusually gloomy.
"You could request a position as an instructor." Lawrence lifted his mug to his lips. He took a swallow and his face screwed up. He choked a bit and hastily reached for the handkerchief in his breast pocket to wipe the foam from his mustache and mouth. "Oh, that's truly awful! What sort of ale is this?"
"Human brewed," answered Khronos with a chuckle. "They've got a ways to go before perfecting it, but this place serves a better brew than most in these parts, and it's quiet here."
Anderson shook his head and coughed into his handkerchief. "It's like…like…"
"Pig piss?" suggested the pale reaper with a grin. "Compared to Shinigami ale, sure. It's still the best you'll find around here."
"I think I'll try something else," decided Lawrence. "How is the scotch here?"
"Delightful."
Lawrence eyed his friend suspiciously. "Why do I doubt that's true?"
Khronos shrugged. "You didn't specify if I should compare it to our scotch, friend."
Lawrence sighed and dragged his fingers through his rich brown hair. "I suppose it can't be much worse than the ale." He signaled the barmaid over and he ordered a glass of it. When she left to retrieve his order, he turned back to Khronos. "What attracts you to these mortal establishments anyhow, Khronos?"
The silver reaper looked around at the humans sharing the tavern with them, his gaze flitting over them as they drank, talked, shared stories or in the case of one young man, played a musical instrument. The musician was a particularly attractive specimen with dark curls, an angular jaw and a bearded chin. Khronos' gaze lingered on him for a moment, before returning to Anderson. "I like to people-watch," he said at last. "Humans are fascinating creatures to me. True, a lot of them chatter a lot without saying much of anything, but the exceptions are…exceptional. You see the bard by the fireplace behind me?"
Lawrence nodded.
"He's of gypsy stock. Far from home, seeking his way in the world." Khronos glanced over his shoulder at him again, and the young man's dark eyes met his across the room. The gypsy faltered and stared as if entranced—a thing that tended to happen often when mortals gazed upon Khronos. He chose to mask his nature and true appearance from most of them, but once in a while he allowed the interesting ones to see him as he was.
"He's far from home," murmured Khronos, holding the human's gaze. "Got kicked out of his clan when they found out he prefers the company of men. He's very interesting."
The barmaid returned with Anderson's scotch, and he thanked her politely as he took it. He looked at the musician again, who was trying to pick up where he left off in his song but couldn't stop staring at Khronos. Lawrence tried to read him, sensing a sort of breathless desperation from him. "Seeking death, is he?"
Khronos shook his head slowly, his pale lips curving into a slow, sensual smile. "No. He's seeking something else entirely."
Lawrence looked at his friend, taking in his too handsome features, and he grunted and lifted his glass to his lips. "You may be gentle with their souls, Khronos, but you are ruthless with their hearts."
"It's never their hearts they want to share with me," remarked the other reaper with a smirk.
Lawrence shrugged, suspecting differently. Mortals seemed to fall in love with Khronos all the time, but he always dismissed it as infatuation. The spectacle enthusiast sniffed the scotch warily and had a sip. He immediately regretted it. His companion's attention was immediately drawn back to him as Lawrence coughed and beat his chest. "Ack! Good heavens, this is like concentrated evil!"
Khronos tossed his head back and laughed, his unbound silver hair practically touching the floor. "You can't say I didn't offer some warning, chap! It's not Shinigami-made liquor."
Khronos stood up and moved closer to pat him on the back. "Wash it down with the pig piss." His gaze strayed to the gypsy man again, locking onto him. He smiled at him, and the gypsy's breath caught. Khronos glanced sidelong at the door and nodded at it suggestively, and the human put aside his lute and stood up, practically dropping the instrument.
"Excuse me for a little while, old friend," said Khronos in a low voice. "I've got a bit of an itch that needs scratching."
Lawrence sipped his ale and grimaced at the flavor. Seeing the young man crossing the room with his eyes fixated on his friend, he grunted and nodded. "If this swill burns my stomach away, I'll expect you to donate yours to replace it."
Khronos chuckled and patted his shoulder, before walking to the door and stepping out. The gypsy soon followed him. Anderson sighed and forced himself to have another swallow of ale. Even sitting in this hovel drinking badly brewed ale while his friend had his way with some human was better than sitting at home alone, lamenting his lot in life.
"Hello?" called the musician after following his elusive, beautiful target around the side of the building. He heard a rustle and a low, soft chuckle, and he could see the flash of green-gold eyes in the shadows, reflecting the moonlight like a cat's.
"Please," said the mortal in Romanian, "come out. I…I have dreamed of you."
"You all dream of me, sooner or later," came the soft, resonant voice. It spoke the language of his people with perfect inflection. The wind picked up as the tall stranger stepped out of the shadows, his silver hair catching the moonlight as it drifted around him. "You all dream of me, because I'm the last thing you'll ever see in this world."
The gypsy's heart pounded fiercely. He should be afraid of this being…he knew he was no man. All he could think about was how utterly beautiful he was, with his skin like alabaster, his eyes like glittering amber and emerald, his hair like streams of moonlight itself.
"Who…what are you?" he managed as the man seemed to glide over to him, closing the distance between them within seconds. He was looming over him, smiling at him with the most perfect, white set of teeth he'd ever seen.
"Who am I, Gavril?" repeated the silver one.
"H-how do you know my name?"
Those enchanting eyes gazed into his, holding him in their inhuman depths. "The same way you know mine. Say it, love."
The fear grew, and yet the desire remained. "Death," whispered Gavril. "You are Death himself."
The creature nodded, still smiling. "Very good." He backed him up against the side of the building and caressed his face with cool, long fingers.
Tears stung his eyes, and he didn't know if they were tears of longing or terror. "Am I to die?"
"Yes." Death shrugged. "Eventually, anyhow. Not tonight, though. Not with me. Tonight you live. So tell me…what would you ask of Death tonight, hmm?"
The young man shuddered as those cool fingertips glided over his throat in a sensual caress. "I…I would ask to know you…the way I've known other men."
Death chuckled, his cool breath tickling his ear as he leaned in to brush velvety lips against his cheek. "Then you'll know me very well, Gavril."
Those lips touched his, and the gypsy bard put his arms around the pale, lean body pressing against his and moaned.
"Where have you two been?"
Khronos and Lawrence stopped in their tracks on their way to the stairs leading up to the third floor of headquarters, and they glanced sidelong at each other, recognizing the thundering voice. They turned as one to see Marcus Black standing on the landing that separated the second-floor stairs from the third. He was the head of the council, and the highest-ranking Shinigami alive. His red-gold hair was kept short in a Roman style, and his chiseled features were stern and hard at all times.
"Allow me," whispered Khronos to his companion.
"I think I'd rather not," muttered Lawrence in response, but the silver reaper had already turned around and smiled down at the impatient councilor.
"Good morning to you too, Councilor Black." Khronos pressed his fingertips together and bowed. "Are we late for our shift?"
"We've been trying to reach you for over twenty-four hours," answered Black. "I ask you again: where have you been?"
Khronos looked at Lawrence again and he shrugged. "Well, he asked."
"Khronos, don't…"
The taller reaper ignored Anderson's plea and he tilted his head as he looked down at Marcus. "To answer your question, I was out shagging a gypsy against the wall of a tavern and my good chap Lawrence here was drinking himself into a stupor on the piss of swine. We spent a glorious night in a hayloft and enjoyed cold baths this morning, before coming in for duty."
Anderson groaned and put his face in his hand. The councilor stared at the two of them, one brow twitching. "Is this your idea of a joke, Khronos?"
"No, a joke would start off with something like: 'Two nuns walked into a tavern'." Khronos shook his head, his ponytail swishing with the motion. "Give me a bit of credit, Councilor."
"Don't make light of this," growled Marcus. "You were both needed at an emergency council meeting. As Dispatch officers, you are required to be available at all times!"
Khronos frowned at him. "You don't really expect us to sit around our residencies during our off time, waiting for the phone to ring, do you? We both took a half-day and we marked it in our time books."
"What is this about, sir?" Lawrence asked.
"There has been an attack in the library."
The two agents looked at each other. The Great Library was all but impenetrable from the outside when it was sealed, and any invaders would have to cross through guarded territory and make it onto the island to get to it. "What sort of attack?" Demanded Khronos.
"Demonic."
"Impossible," denied Lawrence, "unless we've been invaded?" Surely headquarters would be on lockdown by now, if that were the case.
"No, this was not an outside invasion," explained Marcus. "This came from within."
Khronos walked down the steps to stand before the councilor on the landing. Marcus was one of the few reapers that matched him in height, and he looked him directly in the eye. "Within where? The library?"
"Come," ordered Marcus. "The meeting is still taking place. Second floor council chambers. Everything will be explained—at least, everything we know."
They entered the council chamber to find several bodies laid out in the central circle. Lawrence stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw them, and he stared. They were reapers; Dispatch agents, librarians, maintenance workers…whatever had killed them didn't seem to have a care for their station or position in the organization. Khronos knelt before one of the bodies; a female librarian that he sometimes partook in dalliances with. He took her still, cold hand in his and he stroked the bloodied auburn hair from her closed eyes. He looked up at the gathering, his pale features hardening to ice.
"Who did this?"
"They were found in the library, as I told you," explained Marcus. "As you can see by their injuries, the entity that did this has the power to inflict wounds of the same caliber as a death scythe. The victims could not heal themselves, so they attempted to retreat."
Khronos rolled Delilah over a bit to inspect the gashes in her back. Her pretty violet blouse was shredded, like the flesh beneath. He could see how deep the cuts were, and his face went through a spasm of emotion. He stroked her hair again and whispered an apology. She had tried to escape, and she'd gotten cut down in the process. All Shinigami had some form of combat training, whether they were field agents or not. Even maintenance staff had small death scythes for self-defense. Delilah's clearly did not help her.
"Why didn't I sense her death approaching?" he whispered, looking around at the rest of the fallen. "Or any of them, for that matter?"
Some reapers outside the Human Resources department had the ability to foresee death events, but their other talents made them more valuable elsewhere. Khronos was one of them, and though his foresight wasn't as precise as an oracle's, he rarely failed to sense it when someone he knew or felt some fondness for was going to die. He'd sensed nothing…nothing at all.
The thought crossed his mind that perhaps he'd been too preoccupied with the gypsy he'd seduced to notice, but then one of the councilors heard his whispered comment and she responded to it. "Nobody sensed it." She tucked a stray lock of hair back into the tight, blonde bun she wore it in and she circled the collection of bodies. "Not one of our seers saw this coming. These deaths were not meant to happen."
"Have you reviewed their cinematic records?" asked Lawrence. "Surely there was something in them that could show us what we are dealing with."
Another councilor shook his head. "I'm afraid not. There were no records to collect. Nothing save the bodies were left behind."
"Hence why we believe the entity is demonic in nature," said Marcus. "The souls of the victims have been either destroyed, or devoured. That's why there were no cinematic records to collect."
Khronos frowned at one of the bodies, and he knelt down and rolled it onto its back. It was a withered old man, with no visible wounds. His skin was gray and sagging, his empty, staring eyes had a milky film over them and his mouth was open in a silent scream. "Who is this? A human? No…there aren't any mortals here."
"You don't recognize him." Marcus Black sighed. "Neither did I. That is all that remains of Nicholas Crowley…a reaper you rescued from a botched reaping attempt just recently, according to reports."
Khronos' usually lazy gaze widened, and he stared down at the withered body in shock. "It can't be. He looked no older than twenty."
But the closer he looked, the harder it was to deny. Though vastly aged, the corpse had the same bone structure, the same overbite, and the same chin. His wispy hair was even fashioned into the same ponytail Crowley always wore it in. Khronos tried to envision the victim as a young man, and he closed his eyes and shook his head. It was him. It was Nicholas.
"It drained the life right out of him," guessed Anderson, "stole his youth and aged him to death."
"Within moments, I presume," agreed Marcus with a nod. "So you see, the thing we are dealing with has a variety of ways to kill. That one beside him was frozen solid from the inside out." He nodded at the body he referred to, drawing Khronos and Lawrence's gaze to it. The victim's hand had broken off, and it lay on the floor beside him. The flesh was blue-white and Lawrence hissed in surprise when he touched it and found it colder than ice.
Khronos straightened up, his expression lacking the cocky grin people were so used to seeing on it. "What's the plan, then?"
The council members looked at one another before Marcus answered. "We've gathered a regiment of field agents to enter the library and secure it. The first attack came as a surprise, but we're expecting it now and—"
"You sent them in blind against something you can't even name?" Interrupted Lawrence.
"What would you propose we do?" demanded the blonde woman with the bun. "Seal the Great Library up and hope the threat in there never escapes? There are millions of records stored there! We must at least find a way to retrieve them and transport them to safety."
"We must gain a better understanding of what we are dealing with," insisted Black. "All that we know for certain is that this threat manifested from a corrupted wing in the library, where the oldest records are kept."
Khronos frowned and looked down at the bodies again. "Corruption…as in the same corruption I've been warning you lot about for the past three years?"
The council looked uncomfortable as a whole, and an unpleasant smile stretched the silver reaper's lips. It wasn't a smile of amusement; it was morbid and almost threatening. "I know I haven't been the only one to sense it. Anderson has felt it too, and so have some of you."
He knelt beside Delilah's body again, reaching out with all of his senses to seek out clues that might confirm his fears. He stared hard at the injuries lacerating her body, and he saw a vaporous black…something…escape from one of the gashes in her back. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, studying it before it evaporated. He heard the voices of the dead crying out briefly, in pain, anguish and hatred, and he lowered his head and sighed.
"We created this," he murmured. "It's like you said, Marcus; this is no Hell-born demon. It's a manifestation of human misery, born from the rage of thousands of mishandled dead. Toss that many miserable souls together in one vault, and this is what you get for your troubles."
"You seem very certain of that," remarked Marcus dubiously.
Khronos nodded and stood back up. "I am. I just saw a piece of it. Recall those reapers you sent in to deal with it, Mr. Black. They've no idea what they're going up against and they'll die like these poor sods."
"This threat must be dealt with," insisted Marcus. "We've sent some of our finest agents in to—"
"And you're going to lose your finest agents," interrupted Khronos. "Call them back. Seal the library until we can learn more about it; discover a weakness."
"The corruption is spreading," pointed out another council member. "Sealing the library and leaving it will only allow it to get stronger! We must act now to remove the threat, before it gets too powerful to deal with."
Khronos sighed and looked at Anderson. "Well then, there's no help for it." He called his death scythe into existence and started for the door. "Coming, Lawrence?"
The dark-haired reaper looked down at the bodies, steeled himself and manifested his own death scythe; a classic one with a planer look than the silver reaper's. With a nod, he joined him.
"Wait," called out Marcus. "Khronos, don't! We need you here to protect this building if the threat gets out."
Khronos paused at the door with his friend, and he half-turned and smirked over his shoulder at the assembly. "In case the pawns you've sent in fail to do their job, eh? Sorry, gent…if you're going to fly by the seat of your pants with this, you need us in there more than you need us in here. Try to stop us, if you can."
The council members looked around at one another helplessly, none of them daring to lift a scythe against the two veterans. Khronos nodded in satisfaction. "Thought so. Shall we, my friend?"
Lawrence nodded. "I'm with you."
The library was darkened, as most of the lighting had been extinguished. They stepped over bodies that lay in the wake of the demon's fury—most of whom they recognized. Anderson shook his head sadly at the sight of the destruction. There were empty tomes lying everywhere…cinematic records that had been wiped clean and now lay strewn about the marbled floor as if a child had thrown them in a fit. The bodies of the victims were slashed or frozen, their forms twisted into caricatures of agony.
"Don't linger," warned Khronos softly, his eyes alert and seeking, "and don't let your guard down. I don't fancy the thought of seeing the only competent reaper I know getting chopped to bits while he's preoccupied. Mourn them later."
Anderson sighed and continued on, sticking close to the taller man as they navigated through the darkened halls of the library. "We should search the vault it originated from."
"Why?" Khronos shrugged. "It's already out. You've seen what it is. I doubt it's going to linger near its former prison."
Lawrence harrumphed. "I suppose you have a good point." He carefully skirted around the broken body of a librarian. "I just don't understand how it could have come to this."
Khronos parted his lips to respond, but a form lunged out at him from behind one of the massive bookshelves and he was forced to block an attack. Metal rang against metal as two supernatural blades clashed and threw sparks, and Lawrence stared with wide eyes as one of their fellow Dispatch agents swung at his companion again.
"Wilkins! What on earth are you doing?" Lawrence's shout was practically drowned out by noise as agent Wilkins struck at Khronos again and again. The silver reaper nimbly hopped over the blade as the other reaper's large, formidable sickle whistled low through the air in an attempt to cut his legs out from under him.
"It's not Wilkins," grunted Khronos as he landed behind the attacker. He blocked another slash as the aggressor whirled quickly and tried to slice his stomach open.
"What do you…" Anderson trailed off, finally seeing the man's face as his voice attracted his attention. Wilkins was a handsome blond man with a head of thick, wavy hair and classic, noble features. Ordinarily appearing as a man in his late twenties, he was now gray-haired and wrinkled. He came at him in a flash and Lawrence barely ducked in time to avoid having his head chopped off.
He thought he understood, now. The being they were fighting was a body thief; possessing reapers and using their death scythes against their own kind. That explained the withered body in the council room, and the slashes in the bodies of most of the others. It didn't explain the freezing, though.
Khronos came up behind the possessed reaper while he was focused on Anderson, his skull-topped death scythe moaning through the air like a cold wind through the mountains. The demon sensed his attack and it turned and did…something…that hurled the silver reaper backwards into the heavy bookshelves behind him. Lawrence could swear he heard the screams of a thousand souls when it happened, as if their rage had slammed into his friend. Khronos' body impacted the shelves hard, toppling it. He collapsed on top of the broken structure, groaning with disorientation. Anderson had never seen anyone do something like that to his friend, and for a moment he stood stunned.
Then he saw the ice forming on the floor, creeping up to the fallen bookcase and the groaning reaper crowning it.
"Khronos, look out!" Lawrence leaped through the air and came down swinging at the possessed reaper. His scythe cut through Wilkins' possessed body like butter, severing the spine and slicing all he way through his torso in a diagonal sweep. Wilkins literally fell in two halves, and the ice stopped forming.
With a groan, Khronos struggled back to his feet and he nearly went down again when his boots stepped down on the slippery surface beneath him. He braced himself with the snath of his scythe, using it as a staff for support. He winced as he limped over to Anderson; who stood staring down at the twitching, bloody remains of their former colleague.
"Well, that was embarrassing," muttered the silver reaper. He nudged Wilkins' body with his boot, and a black vapor began to rise from it. "Oh, damn."
"It isn't dead?" Anderson took a step back as faces began to form in the vapor, with their eyes lit up like coals. Screams filled the air and he nearly dropped his scythe to put his hands over his ears.
"Can't kill what's already dead," guessed Khronos. "Back! Get back!"
The vapor lashed out at Anderson, and it felt like a thousand needles pierced his arm where it touched him. He gasped in pain as the muscles seized up, his arm going numb. Khronos grabbed him and dragged him with, running for shelter as the vapor swelled into a cloud that started to fill the room. Streams of smoky black came after them, and Khronos sliced at them with his scythe to keep them at bay. It seemed to do some good; where the blade touched it, the mist broke apart and dissipated.
"We can cut it down," observed Khronos breathlessly, dragging his companion down a corridor and behind some shelves.
Grimacing at the numbing pain in his arm, Lawrence chanced a peek around the corner. His eyes widened as he saw more blackness streaming out of other record books to merge with the entity. The books fell off the shelves as the darkness drew the souls from them, landing open and blank like the others they'd found earlier.
"It's draining more souls from the vaults to heal itself and grow stronger."
Khronos peeked around the corner as well, and he swore softly. "Not all of the books respond to its call, though. There's a whole shelf still sitting pretty as you please."
Lawrence nodded and ducked back behind their sheltering structure, resting his head back against the volumes. "How much are you willing to wager those are the souls you and I collected, my friend? The ones that haven't joined the rest, that is."
Khronos joined him, staring at the bookshelf directly across from them and shaking his head. "I won't take that wager, chap. I know you're probably right. These young folk in our ranks have made a ripe mess of things, with their carelessness. But now we know it can be whittled down while it's in its non-corporeal form. We've just got to keep it from—"
The books surrounding them suddenly exploded from the shelves, and tendrils of blackness broke through to engulf Lawrence. He heard Khronos yell his name and he saw him reach out for him. He tried to reach back, his mouth opening in a scream as the chill of death permeated his body. The blackness flowed into his mouth and down his throat, choking him. He tried to cough it up, but it was filling him rapidly. The cloud shrank as all of those corrupted souls flowed into him and he couldn't close his mouth to stop it.
Blackness overtook him.
"Lawrence!"
Khronos could see nothing of his friend through the blackness, and he blindly reached for him. The chill he felt when he plunged his arm through the swirling darkness made his teeth chatter, but he stubbornly refused to withdraw it. A concussive force knocked him away, again sending him crashing against the shelves behind him. Now bleeding from a cut on his forehead, he got back to his feet and reached for his death scythe. The cloud was gone, and Lawrence stood rigid and staring blankly before him.
"Anderson?" He could sense it, though. When Lawrence's eyes flicked to him and narrowed, there was nothing of his friend behind them. Khronos readied his scythe as Lawrence reached for his, and he circled the other reaper warily. "Lawrence, I know you're still in there. You've got to fight it. If we can keep it contained, we can exorcise it from you and finish it off."
Lawrence smiled wickedly at him and shook his head. "Mine now, reaper. This body is mine, and I'll use it to cut you all down."
The chill he'd felt when he'd touched the fog was nothing compared to the chill he experienced now. Khronos slowly shook his head. "I won't let you. You cannot have him."
Lawrence answered that with an attack. It came so fast he didn't have time to deflect it, and there was an awful rending sound as the blade of his scythe cut through Khronos' clothing and flesh. Blood splattered the books lying in a shamble on the floor, and the silver reaper jumped away in time to avoid the second swing. He put a hand over his chest and grunted, feeling the wetness where it had sliced his skin. Foolish…he might have avoided the strike if he hadn't been so intent on reaching his friend.
"You are slow, Khronos," said the thing wearing his friend's skin as the silver reaper panted softly. A ghastly smile animated Lawrence's mouth beneath his mustache as he advanced on him. "I'll take you as easily as I took the rest. You'll face the same death you bestowed upon your victims, and I will have justice."
"Shouldn't that be 'we'?" reasoned Khronos calmly, more wary of his opponent, now. "After all, you're a collection of angry souls, aren't you?"
"We are one, with a single purpose," obliged the demon. "Over the years we have merged…become stronger…waiting for the day to take vengeance. Now there is only me, and the dead cry out to me, pleading to make your kind pay! I drink them like an elixir, and I grow strong as they become one with me."
"So you are a demon, after all. Born of human suffering rather than hellfire, but a demon all the same."
"Call me whatever you like. The name you give me will echo in your ears with your death cries!"
The creature advanced again, powerful enough on its own but now wearing the body of a veteran reaper; one who knew Khronos' moves well. He rolled away but the demon had anticipated that, and Khronos hissed as he followed his movements and cut another gash into his leg, as soon as he sprung back to his feet. He staggered, more of his blood painting the marble floors. He was a match for Anderson…more than a match, actually. The demon in his friend's body could move with incredible speed, though.
"Why don't you face me yourself?" suggested Khronos through gritted teeth, keeping on the defensive. He gave a wide sweep of his death scythe to keep the creature at bay when it looked as though it might advance again, and he studied it, searching for some weakness that he could exploit to incapacitate it without killing his friend. "Too cowardly?"
"Why kill you myself, when I can use your friends to do it?"
The possessed reaper attacked again, and this time Khronos was ready for him. He dodged and he hit Lawrence in the face with the heel of his scythe, bloodying his nose but otherwise not harming him. The cut on his forehead had already closed, but the wounds from his friend's scythe weren't healing. They would over time, the way a mortal's injuries would heal…provided he survived this encounter to have them doctored. He was beginning to weaken from blood loss, and he knew he had precious little time left to win this encounter. When Lawrence recovered from his hit and scowled at him, he noticed gray streaks in his hair that weren't there before. His face was getting lines and he had gone from looking like a man of thirty to a man of forty in just the short amount of time he'd been possessed.
"You're aging, old chap," coughed Khronos. "Can't keep the bodies you steal going for very long, can you?"
"I don't need to," answered the demon with a grin. "I only need them long enough to cut your kind down, or force them to cut the body I inhabit down. When this body is drained of life, I'll simply jump into the next one…and the next one after that, until every one of you Shinigami are dead."
"Sounds like a lovely plan. We hurt you before, though. One way or another, Dispatch will take you down."
"Not before I've reaped my share of you!" Lawrence moved in a blur, and Khronos spun his scythe to block the attack, but he found his opponent suddenly behind him. He turned and saw the flash of the scythe, just as it slashed a diagonal line over his face, cutting his glasses into two halves.
Khronos wasn't usually one to complain loudly when hurt, but having his eye cut open was bloody painful. He yelled and staggered away, partially blinded. He felt the sting of another cut and he was distantly grateful that he didn't require oxygen to live; else he'd be choking to death on his own blood, right now. He clamped a hand over his slit throat, and he decided it was time to fight dirty.
"Sorry, old friend," he coughed, swinging the snath of his scythe out and up as the demon came at him once more. The bottom of the snath struck Lawrence square in the groin, and Khronos grinned with satisfaction when the demon inhabiting his body proved it wasn't immune to pain. Anderson groaned and dropped his scythe, clamping both hands over his crotch as he went to his knees. He started to cough, and black mist came pouring out of his mouth to coalesce into a dark cloud.
"K-Khronos?" gasped the other reaper. He looked up, eyes widening with horror at the sight of his friend. "I saw…it happening…but I couldn't stop myself!"
Khronos shook his head and he tried to tell him not to mind that and focus on the demon, but blood gathered in his mouth and bubbled on his lips, robbing him of speech. He slashed at the fog before it could attempt to enter his or Anderson's body again. Anderson got painfully to his feet and retrieved his scythe. Though wobbly on his feet, he struck with fury at the demon. Together they drove it back, and the screams of the dead filled their ears. The demon tried to retaliate but their attacks weakened it, and it chose to retreat and recover its strength.
"We can't allow it to escape," Lawrence hollered.
Khronos started to nod with agreement, but the motion made the slash in his throat open further and he grimaced, clamping one hand over the injury again. His companion stopped in his tracks and turned to look at him with concern. Khronos was blinded in one eye…possibly forever. He could barely put weight on his injured leg and his life's blood was pooling at his feet. Lawrence looked back at the demon, which went howling toward the entrance to the catacombs beneath the library. He turned back to his friend and swore softly, putting an arm around his waist to support him.
"We need to get you to the infirmary."
The silver reaper gave a bare shake of his head, and he tore some of his shirt off with a shaking hand to bind the wound around his throat. "Go…to headquarters," he rasped, spitting blood all the while. "Leave me."
"Absolutely not! I did this to you."
Khronos grinned. "Don't…be stupid. Wasn't…you. Someone needs to…get word to Dispatch, and…you can move faster…than I can."
Lawrence's face screwed up with emotion. "You cannot stop that thing alone, Khronos."
"Maybe…not. I can keep it…busy, though. Give you…time."
Lawrence helped him secure the piece of cloth around his throat. "And what if it takes you over, the way it did me."
The blood-stained, wild grin returned to the silver reaper's pallid lips. "Then reap me. I'd…rather it be your scythe…that takes me down if it comes…to that. Promise you…won't let Black…do the honors."
Lawrence sighed, lowering his eyes. "If it must be done, I swear to you it will be me."
"Good. Do it…before I end up…looking like you. You look…awful."
Anderson smirked, running his fingers over his aged features. "You aren't looking so bloody pretty yourself right now. I'll be back with reinforcements. Please…just try to stay alive."
Khronos shrugged. "Can't promise…anything. I'll do my best."
They parted ways, with Khronos limping to the entrance to the catacombs and Lawrence sprinting to the library exit.
Dizziness assailed him as he descended the winding steps leading down into the catacombs. Khronos had to feel his way along the wall like a mortal in the dark, for no other reason than to keep from falling. He pondered the long events of his life as he approached what would probably be his end. He'd had a good life, really. As weary as he was of reaping souls, he had a lot of fond memories of many of his associates. He'd loved both mortals and reapers alike, men and women; he had no particular preference with gender. He remembered a time when he was eager to do his job, a time when it was all that he lived for. He'd seen and done so many things that mortals—or indeed, most reapers—could scarcely imagine.
He wondered what it would be like to die. He'd been there for the deaths of so many mortals, but the fate that could await him might be worse than death. If the demon he was about to confront could devour reaper souls, he might be walking into utter oblivion. Khronos thought of that as he inexorably made his way down to the catacombs, and though he felt some measure of fear at the prospect of no longer existing at all, he never faltered.
He finally made it down to the stone floor of the catacombs, and he paused to gather the last of his strength. He stroked the skull on the end of his scythe, looking at the weapon with fondness. He could barely see it clearly, being blinded in one eye and lacking the glasses that corrected his poor vision. "Well, old friend," he rasped, "will this be our last dance together?"
He certainly hoped not, but he had no regrets. He pushed the half-ajar iron gate open, and he limped through the archway leading into the depths of the underground chambers, using his scythe as a walking staff. He heard the hiss of the demon from the darkness within, and a bloody smile stretched his lips.
"I'm coming to play with you one last time, my dear."
Lawrence was met by just about every remaining Dispatch agent when he crossed the spirit bridge leading from the island to the shore, and they were lead by Marcus Black. The shocked looks on their faces when they saw how he'd aged would have made Khronos giggle, and he was forced to give them a hasty explanation of what happened and what he and his friend had learned about the demon. With his urging, they went into the library with him, armed and ready for a fight. He led them down into the catacombs, calling out for Khronos the entire way. He never got an answer, but he refused to give up hope.
They found him lying in a pool of blood, in the very back alcove of the catacombs. His hair had come free of its ponytail and it spread around him and covered his face, matted with crimson. He was lying still as the dead, and there was no trace of the entity.
"Khronos?" Lawrence nudged him with his shoe, sensing that something wasn't quite right. He realized what it was when one pale hand twitched and he saw that his nails had grown two inches and were as black as onyx. There was a faint groan, and the bleeding reaper lifted his head, slowly and painfully.
"Get back, Anderson," ordered Marcus. He readied his scythe. "He's been possessed. I'm afraid we have no choice but to—"
"No!" Lawrence interposed himself between the head of the council and his friend, clutching his death scythe with white-knuckled hands. "I made him a promise, Councilor. If a reaping is required, I'll be the one to do it."
Khronos looked up at him, one eye shut and useless and the other dazed and unfocused. "Lawrence? That you, gent?" His voice came out as a weak croak.
Despite the whispered caution of his peers, Anderson knelt down before his friend. "Yes, it's me. Khronos, is it really you? Where is the demon?"
The silver reaper gave him a ghastly, sickly smile. "I…swallowed it whole. Think he gave me a bit of indigestion, too." He burped.
Lawrence glanced around at the others, bearing a look of utter bewilderment that matched theirs. "What do you mean, 'you swallowed it whole'? Did it possess you? Did you exorcise it?"
"Yes…and not quite," answered Khronos tiredly. His head lowered and he laid his cheek on the cold stone floor, trembling weakly. "It tried to do to me what it did to you and the others. Took a…dive into my mouth. Rude, that. I fought back and…when it couldn't take me over…tried to escape. I wouldn't…let it."
"So then the threat is gone," someone said in a relieved tone. "You destroyed it?"
Khronos opened his good eye and looked at his bloodied, shaking hand, staring at the black nails with interest. "No such…luck. Nasty thing is…contained inside of me…but not gone."
"How long do you think you can hold it, Khronos?" demanded Marcus. "Do we have time to exorcise it?"
Khronos gave a bubbling, weak chuckle. "Feel free…to try. Feels like it's…part of me now. Might not be able to…get rid of it without getting rid of me too."
"And if he dies, the entity will probably be free again to start all over," guessed one of the other councilors.
"That would be…my theory," agreed Khronos.
"He needs medical attention," insisted Lawrence. "If we do not close his wounds soon, he will die and we won't get the chance to try and purge it."
"And what happens if we do manage to purge it?" asked Marcus, looking down at Khronos with a raised brow. "It comes out of him to find another body to possess?"
"We won't know until the oracles can look at him, will we?" snapped Lawrence, forgetting for the moment that he was addressing a superior. "He's dying, Mr. Black. Our time is running out."
Marcus considered Khronos, obviously weighing the risk versus the reward of saving the critically injured reaper. The blond woman on the council stepped forth and offered her opinion. "Sir, Khronos is the oldest of our kind, and possibly the only one capable of holding this demon. I believe it would not only be dishonorable to allow him to perish, but dangerous…and not only because the demon could escape again. He has become a legend amongst reapers; an icon. Martyring him could cause civil unrest."
Marcus sighed, and he nodded. "Bring a stretcher and alert the infirmary."
The physicians used special sutures to close Khronos' wounds, and he slipped into a comatose state for weeks as the injuries healed. Lawrence stayed by his side whenever duty allowed, but Dispatch was even more overworked than before, thanks to the loss of several top agents and Khronos. It was still being debated by the council whether he would be allowed to resume his duties as a Dispatch agent, if they could not exercise the entity within him. When he was strong enough to endure it, the oracles did their best to expel the demon from him, with a fully armed regiment of Dispatch agents standing ready. Unfortunately, they couldn't draw the entity out of him. As Khronos had suspected, the demon was fully merged with him.
They returned him to his infirmary room and Lawrence sat down in the visitor's chair beside his bed, sighing regretfully as he watched over his friend. "I am sorry, Khronos. I'm sorry for the damage I did to your body, and for our inability to help you. You've sacrificed yourself for us…for me…and we can't even rid you of this thing you carry."
Khronos stirred, his pale lashes fluttering. He opened his right eye—the left was still sewn shut and patched—and he stared up at the ceiling for a moment, before his gaze roved to the man by his bedside. "Hullo, gent. You're looking haggard."
Lawrence forced a smile. "I've been worried about you. Do you remember anything?"
Khronos closed his eye. "I remember all of it." He opened his eye again and lifted his hands to look at them, spreading his fingers. He frowned at the sight of the stitches ringing his left pinky finger. "Except this. I don't even remember you cutting me there. I s'pose I'm fortunate you didn't lob it off completely."
Lawrence grimaced. "Actually, I did lob it off. I found it on the floor as they were carrying you out of the library. They re-attached it."
Khronos lifted his silvery brows and wiggled the pinky. "Huh. Well, they did a good job. Cheers, thanks for that."
"You don't need to thank me for finding the digit I cut off myself," muttered Lawrence with embarrassment.
Khronos waved it away. "Think nothing of it, old chap. You weren't yourself. You've a better excuse than most for attacking me." He chuckled softly.
"This is a fine time to be making jokes," sighed Lawrence. "All things aside, how do you feel?"
"Like I've been diced up and put back together again," answered the other reaper with a smirk. "Someone should write a book about it; a dead man brought back to life after being sewn together again."
"Someone probably will, eventually." Lawrence regarded him with faint worry. "You're awfully chipper, considering you've been in a coma for nearly a month and now have a demon merged with you."
The silver reaper shrugged, and he immediately winced. "I'm a bit sore, but rather happy to be alive. I chose this, and I'll find a way to cope with it. How are my scars looking?" He tried to lift his head off the pillow and see for himself, but he lacked the strength and dropped it back down. "Do you think they give a bloke more character, or are they just ugly?"
"They look much better than they did before," answered Lawrence truthfully. "The physicians say they should be able to remove the stitching within another week. They even believe you'll regain full use of your left eye, with time."
"Well, that's something, then. Although Shinigami sight is poor as piss without glasses anyhow."
"I've repaired your glasses," assured Lawrence. "They are as good as new, my friend. Once you've recovered and passed your evaluation, you should be able to resume your duties."
"Hmm." Khronos didn't seem all that pleased with the prospect. His smile faded and he turned his head and looked out the window. "Lawrence, what if I told you I don't believe I'm fit to reap any longer?"
"You shouldn't say such things," chastised the aged reaper. "You were the best, and you will be again."
Khronos looked back at him. "Will I? I've got voices whispering in my skull as we speak. I can hear the dead almost as clearly as I hear you now."
"Couldn't that be an advantage to your line of work?" persisted Anderson.
Khronos blinked. "That depends on how loud they get. I've also got the strange urge to cut you open. It isn't coming from me, friend. It's coming from the demon."
Lawrence paled a bit. "I…see. Perhaps with time, it will settle down."
"Doubtful, but we'll see. Enough about me, though…I couldn't help but notice you referred to reaping as 'my' line of work, and not 'ours'. Did something happen that you haven't told me, Anderson?"
Lawrence looked away, and he absently rubbed his gray-peppered mustache. "I'm retiring, old friend. They're going to put me in charge of the glasses division."
Khronos studied him thoughtfully. "Just as you've been wanting. Still, I'm hesitant to be happy for you. Did you choose this, or did they make you step down?"
Lawrence looked at his lined hands. "I have the body of a fifty year old man now, Khronos. What do you think?"
The silver reaper wasn't smiling. "You could still reap better than most of those pups in Dispatch."
Lawrence shrugged. "I chose not to fight it. They offered me a transfer to any non-field department I wished, so naturally I chose glasses. I cannot really complain."
"I can," grunted Khronos. "Bloody ingrates."
"In their eyes, they are honoring me," insisted Lawrence. "Just as they'll honor you, should you be found unable to resume your duties."
"Maybe I shouldn't even try."
"Khronos, they need you. We have twenty new reapers to train, and more will be created with each day, until Dispatch's numbers are back up to a somewhat reasonable level again. Why not consider my suggestion about becoming an instructor, if it comes to a demotion? I doubt they would let you retire without confiscating your death scythe."
Khronos sighed. "That's the protocol, isn't it? Truth is, I think I'd make a piss-poor instructor. The first poor sod I'd catch not paying attention would become the butt of every cruel joke I could come up with."
"Then what would you do, if you couldn't reap?"
The silver reaper seemed faintly introspective for a couple of seconds, lowering his gaze. "Well, with these scars I'm sporting now, I suppose whoring myself is out of the question." He looked up at Lawrence again and he smirked. "Oh come on…you know you want to laugh."
He tried not to…the disfigurement was a terrible thing to laugh about—especially since his scythe had been the one to cause it. Regardless, he started to smile and before he knew it, he was chuckling along with his friend. It was infectious, and soon they were both laughing heartily.
A couple of weeks later after his stitches were removed and his vision was tested and found no worse than before, Khronos was evaluated physically, psychologically and emotionally. Though he struggled through some of it, he passed to satisfaction and was summoned before the council for a review.
"Khronos, we are pleased to announced that you may return to active duty," Marcus explained. "We would also like to present you with a statue in your honor, inside the Great Library. Every Shinigami to set foot in that building will know from this day forth the name of the reaper responsible for—"
"Wipe my name from the records," interrupted Khronos softly.
Marcus frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"I don't want every reaper to know my name," explained Khronos, "and I don't need a statue erected in my honor. In fact…"
He reached up and he removed his glasses, provoking a confused gasp from several attendees. He studied them for a moment, and then he walked over to the round table in the center of the chamber. He set the glasses down on top of it, and he smiled. "These are a bit too heavy for me, these days."
On the other side of the room, Lawrence looked pained. "Khronos…think about what you're doing."
"There is no need to defect," Marcus said in a wary tone. "If you don't feel you can perform your old duties, we can assign you to another department. You may have a change of heart when your full strength returns, and we will gladly arrange for you to resume your old duties."
"You aren't concerned with losing me as a grim reaper," said Khronos with confidence. "You're concerned with keeping an eye on me to be sure my little passenger won't make its way back out again."
"That is a concern," admitted Marcus, "but your value as a Dispatch agent—"
"Doesn't matter any longer." Khronos grinned, his gaze going to Lawrence. "It's my turn to apologize, old friend. I must take my leave of you. I'm more of a danger as a member of this organization than I am as a deserter."
"If you do this, there is no turning back," Marcus said sternly. "You of all people should know that, Khronos."
The silver reaper nodded. "Right. I'm tired, Marcus. Tired of reaping, tired of living up to expectations of me. I'll retire in the mortal realm and live out the rest of my days as a shopkeeper."
"And just what sort of shop do you think a retired Shinigami can run?" demanded one of the council members.
Khronos grinned and spread his black-nailed hands. "Why, the only sort of profession that makes sense, of course. Working with the dead. Who knows better about the deceased than one who spent the better half of creation ferrying them?"
"I…don't follow," confessed Marcus with a confused frown.
"Humans have specialists that prepare their dead for burial," explained Khronos. "Funeral directors, morticians, undertakers…you know. Hmm…Undertaker. I quite like the sound of that."
"So you're telling us you want to cast aside your glasses…your legacy, to dress up corpses." Marcus looked faintly offended.
Khronos nodded. "Indeed. And I want my name removed from the records. If you must refer to me at all, call me the Undertaker. Future generations need only remember me as the first Death. As far as Shinigami society is concerned from this day forth, I no longer have a name."
Marcus sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "You know we can't just leave you unmonitored, don't you? Not in your condition."
The Undertaker shrugged. "You blokes can drop by anytime you like. My shop will always be open to old friends…er…that is, once I get it set up. I can hardly wait to get started."
He bowed to the assembly, his unbound hair practically sweeping the floor with the gesture. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd better get packing. The road waits for no man…or reaper, for that matter." He chuckled softly under his breath and turned, his boots barely making a sound as he strode across the tiled floor to the exit.
"Sir, we can't let him leave with his death scythe," reminded one of the councilors.
A couple of Dispatch agents started to block the silver reaper's path, but Marcus gestured at them to stand aside. "Let him go."
They glanced at each other, before obeying. The Undertaker gave them both a nod, and he paused at the door to look at Lawrence Anderson. "I hope you enjoy your new position in life as much as I think I'll enjoy mine, chap. I'll send word your way once I've settled in, and you can come over for a spot of tea and some of that swine piss you adore so much."
For a moment, Anderson struggled with his emotions. He swallowed and nodded. "Absolutely, my friend. You will be missed in these walls."
"Hmm, maybe not by everyone," predicted the Undertaker, and then he laughed heartily. The sound echoed off the chamber walls as he opened the double doors and stepped out.
"Councilor Black, I must object," muttered another council member as the doors shut behind the legendary reaper. "No Shinigami anywhere has ever been allowed to retain his or her death scythe, upon retiring."
"No Shinigami in history has ever done for this establishment what that man has done," countered Marcus evenly, "and that scythe of his is so attuned to him by now, you may as well try to carve out his beating heart. It is a part of him and if nothing else, he has earned the right to keep it."
London, three years later:
The well-dressed gentleman stopped before the shop, and he checked the address he'd been given. He peered up at the small wooden sign hanging on the side of the shop, and he shrugged and combed his fingers through his gray-streaked hair. He walked up to the door and he cupped his hands over his face to peer into the window. Not five seconds later, a ghostly pale, grinning face popped up in the glass from the other side, framed in masses of silver hair with bangs so long he couldn't even see the fellow's eyes. It startled him so badly that he backpedaled and fell to the street. Moments later, the door to the shop opened and he found himself looking up at a familiar man wearing long black robes and a tophat.
"Fu-fu-fu…hi hi," greeted the shopkeeper with a bow. "It's been a little while, hasn't it?"
"Khron…I mean Undertaker…you gave me a fright." Lawrence picked himself up and brushed his suit off with dignity. "Is this how you greet an old friend?"
The Undertaker shrugged, his overlong sleeves flapping with the gesture. "Looked up from the casket I was touching up to see someone peeping into my window. What was I to think? Here now, come inside and sit down with me. There's tea brewing and snacks to be had."
Lawrence followed him in. "I heard some interesting rumors about you from the townsfolk, when I asked for directions."
"I imagine you did." The taller reaper grinned at him, and Lawrence's gaze was drawn to the scar slashing down his face. Like the rest of them, it would never fade completely.
"I'm sure they aren't true," said Lawrence hastily, looking at his friend sidelong as he stepped into the shop with him. "I…oh."
He saw a body lying in the middle of the floor. It was female, and it was only half dressed. Lawrence blinked and cleared his throat. "Oh dear. Undertaker, please tell me she's in that condition because you haven't decided on a dress for her."
The mortician glanced at the body absently. "Oh, right. Actually, she's that way because the dress was stained with her blood. Someone will be dropping off a more suitable one from her wardrobe later tonight. That's her casket over there." He pointed at the coffin leaning up against the wall.
"Thank goodness." Lawrence sighed, shaking his head. "For a moment I wondered if a particular rumor might be remotely true, after all."
"You mean the one about me shagging corpses?" The Undertaker grinned as his friend cleared his throat again and looked away.
"Well, er…yes."
"I'm not quite that lonely, old chap." The Undertaker patted his shoulder. "Believe it or not, some folk can look past the scars. Some even seem to like them. I can get romantic company when I really want to, and the dead ones would just be boring, laying there like…well, like the dead. I like a bit of reciprocation from my lovers."
"That's good to know." Lawrence looked around uncomfortably, searching for a place to sit. The teakettle hanging in the little hearth was whistling, and his host went over to tend it. Not knowing what else to do, Anderson gingerly had a seat on what he hoped was an unoccupied casket. "So…your shop is called 'The Undertaker'. That isn't very original, you know."
"But it's what I am," said the retired reaper brightly. "Simple and to the point."
"Hmm, yes. How has business been?"
The Undertaker poured the tea into two glass beakers. "Slow at first, but it's been steadily picking up. Word is getting out I do the best job in the city. I've also started to take odd jobs from an Earl that lives out in the country. Apparently each generation of his family has been the royal family's private investigator, and he comes to me for information about some of the bodies I autopsy."
Lawrence took the beaker offered to him. "How industrious of you. I hope he pays you well for your services."
The mortician snickered. "I take my payment from the Phantomhive family in the form of entertainment. They tickle me so. How is the glass making business?"
"Good," answered Lawrence. He thanked the Undertaker when he offered sugar cubes and cream. "I've been enjoying it very much. Some of the young ones have started calling me 'Pops', though. I'm not fond of that."
"Give 'em a swift kick in the bum," suggested the mortician. He took a seat on the coffin across from Lawrence and he sipped his tea. "You've got the status to get away with it."
"Maybe so. Sometimes I think to myself: 'What would Khronos do?'" Lawrence smirked. "And then I remember all the trouble you used to get up to, and I reconsider."
The Undertaker snickered. "Well, Khronos is long gone."
"But never forgotten." Lawrence smiled. "At any rate, here's to new beginnings, my friend."
The Undertaker clinked his tea against Anderson's. "Cheers."
The End