Disclaimer: Neither of the characters here belong to me. They are Yana Toboso's and musical's property (tend to forget names, beg your pardon).

Comments: So, I had this itching on me since a while ago, not this story exactly, but a part of it, and maybe to write about my second favourite grim reaper! (Because Sascha is still winning). This is… kind of an origin fic, but also a post-kuromyu2 fic, so it's kind of confusing, I am doing my best, I swear. Also, I'm using head canons on my own just to fill holes, my intention it is not to for you to take them as though they are true and confirmed.

I honestly hope you get to enjoy it, if I have to say something else, it'll be on the ending notes!

Reasons to be missed.

[1] Forgetting all the hurt.

He drew another circle around his eyes, just because he couldn't believe the enormous bags under them.

He blinked once. Then, twice. His gaze followed everything it could see, perpetually blinking. Eventually, his gaze met his own hands, strangely carrying with themselves some unknown feeling of foreignness, that which only surrealism was capable of explain.

Then his irises met some kind of glass in front of him, which showed undoubtedly his exterior, and even if it was distorted, he could see curiosity breathing out of those green-yellow things that confronted him from the reflection.

At some point, more clear and less abstract thoughts filled his brain, his primitive instincts activating and dragging doubts with them.

Where was he? What was going on? What had happened?

And foremost, who was he?

After a few minutes of existential crisis, and several blinks, he could feel his sight starting to blur, to the point where the only thing he could recognize in the mirror in front of him—later he realized it wasn't just some glass—was his blurry shape.

'Welcome.'

Like a surprised puppy, he jumped at the time his breathing became fast. He gazed around him, looking for the owner of the voice that greeted him.

'No need to be scared, nobody's gonna hurt you here. It's not like they could do it, anyway.'

'Wh-Who are you?'

His intention wasn't to sound scared.

'Oh, I'm terribly sorry,' the other whined at the time his voice filled itself with an apparent and sudden realisation. 'My name is Othello Wilmore, but if you like it, Othello is perfectly fine with me. Everybody here calls me that.'

He blinked several times and tried to focus his sight on the other, and it only made his head began to hurt. He could hear the other having the reaction of knowing something he didn't, which was rather unpleasant.

'I beg pardon again, I'm new at this of receiving, so I forgot every detail of the process.' His clothes seemed to ruffle and a hand came close to his face, putting some glasses on it. 'And, let's give this room some light, now shall we?' It wasn't until Othello said it that he noticed the gloomy aura around them. The other clapped his hands a few times and repentantly the world became too bright for him.

'Where are we?' This time his voice became clearer. He blinked a few times, and he stared at the crystal that moments ago was the only thing he could kind of recognise in the room. Now he knew he was in an almost empty room—it looked empty to him—that had little to nothing furniture, was eye-hurting and the wallpapers were white. Othello gazed at him and put one of his hands on the back of his neck, while averting his eyes from him, nervously.

'You see…' he let out a stifle that sounded closely like a laugh, 'this place is… where everyone… starts again, if you wish to call it somehow.'

'And why I am here? What did I do?' Othello's nervousness seemed only to grew, he bit his lip, unsure of what the protocol said to do.

'All of us are here for the same reason, you see. We're… we've committed something terrible against humanity, and we… are to be punished. That's why we are here.'

He looked again at his hands, and now he could see clearly all of its details pretty clear, and thanks to the glasses Othello put on them his sight had improved greatly. He took in air, and he let it out. He gazed back at Othello, who looked rather confused by his latest action.

'And… what did I do?'

Othello took a folder with some papers in it, and started to read. It wasn't until a few minutes later that he looked at him again. 'If this isn't wrong, you killed Mr. Alan Humphries; born in October 6th of 1780, parents were Lady Marianne of Humphries and Mr. Jonathan Humphries, death on December 3rd of 1799… he was pretty young' he looked at him again, and sighed, 'you were pretty young.'

He must have remembered if he killed someone named Alan Humphries… it shouldn't be a hard name to memorise. Then again, he didn't even remembered his own name, however, what Othello said…

'Was I this…Alan?' The question exited his lips before he could stop the words from forming in his throat.

'…Yes, you were. You are. We cannot take your name away unless you wish so,' explained Othello while looking again at his documents. 'And even if you ask it, it would be almost impossible for us to do so.'

Alan nodded. 'And… how did I do it? The killing thing, I mean.'

Othello shrugged at the time he looked at his folder. 'Well, here it says it was… huh, extraordinary, blossoms of aconitum and daphne? You surely made sure your death was a given.' He then read a few more paragraphs and his easy smile disappeared. 'You were written to die in April 24th of 1826. Cause of death: …not defined.'

Alan thought for a moment. Those… the aconitum and the daphne were… 'Flowers? I killed myself with flowers?'

'Poisonous flowers, I daresay,' Othello corrected him. Alan paused and thought for a moment about it. 'And terribly hard to find, that is. Or at least, in this part of the world, you cannot find them just for asking for them in the nearest flower shop. Not that anyone will give them to you willingly, for if they touch them, they may have the same destiny as you.'

Alan looked at his hands. They were creamy, and they were soft, untouched. He never could have guessed what made him do what he did, what made him take away his life. He gulped, repentantly in need to breathe, how had he happened to not breathe for about ten minutes? Or was it that he did it unconsciously that he didn't need to analyse it?

'That's a fair reaction for newbies. Don't worry, you'll be fine. Just… you need to get used to it.' Othello looked at something in his wrist and then opened his eyes wide. 'Oh, for the love of God, you're supposed to report yourself with the superiors. Follow me, I'll accompany you.'

He walked out of the room, soon followed by Alan, who still couldn't believe what he did, and couldn't seem to remember why he did it. They passed more brightly illuminated corridors, and small walls that formed some kind of square, where people was working in some illuminated boxes Alan couldn't made out. Anyhow, he didn't care what they were doing, nor what these boxes were for. He followed Othello around similar rooms like that one, some full of men, some full of women, until they reached an important-looking door. Othello raised his hand to Alan, telling him to wait for him. Alan stood where he was told to, and waited for the other to come out and fetch him. Until that moment, Alan tried to contain his breathing, until he couldn't any longer.

'Humphries, they're waiting for you.' He blinked several times until his brain could process the information. He then stared at the other, and when he finally understood the weight of what that meant, he nodded and took in air, then he let it out. Before he could even realise it, he was walking towards the room, which was full of tall walls (around six yards) with also tall tables that almost look taken out of a kid's nightmare when they were visiting their headmaster's office.

'Alan Humphries, born October 6th of 1780. Is this correct?'

'It is, I believe.'

'Death December 3rd of 1799, by poisoning. Is this correct?'

'It is.'

'You know what this place is for, Mr. Humphries?'

'For redemption. That is at least what I believe, sir.'

One of the so called superiors glanced at him from their chair and adjusted their glasses, and Alan started to feel the eyes of all of them on him. Not that he didn't felt them looking at him before, but it was more… subtle, that how they were doing it at that very moment.

'Are you aware that you are to pay for the sin you have committed, are you not?'

'That is what I was told, yes.'

'Do you have any idea of the punishment that awaits those who commit suicide?'

'Not the slightest, sir. But I guess it has to be really bad if I am to come back to life.'

'You are not alive, neither death, Alan Humphries. You cannot return to one side, nor go to the other. That is the first part of dealing with your punishment.' Said repentantly other of the superiors, seemingly annoyed.

'I suppose it had to be this way. Humans say it is to be casted right away into the inferno, who dare ever to threaten their own life; maybe that is why committing such an act causes taboo reactions from the crowd, whether is heard one of these.' He tried to choose wisely his words, not saying something that could be taken as inopportune or that could affect his image in front of the superiors, so he tried to not delude himself with the image death had to offer, tempting, but forbidden. Wrong, and yet so right. Crowded, but terribly lonely.

'That is in theory why they have to pay for their sins, for you see, an eternal punishment is nothing but torture, and torture would not be fair, not even for the worst sin.'

Alan nodded. 'I understand.'

'You are to become a Death God, Alan Humphries. This is… the punishment saved for those who commit suicide. Are you understanding this?'

Truth be told, he didn't really get that. Death God? What it the world was that supposed to mean? 'I understand I have to do something, but what is it I have to do, sir?'

'It will depend purely on your abilities. Some of them are scientific, some of them are forensic, some secretaries, General Affairs, glasses, Death Scythes, or recollection. But as we said, it is purely based on your abilities. We will see how your development on your first six months will go on the Reaper's academy, and then you will be chosen to a specific work, and then you will have to specificity on it. Is there any point without being told?'

'None, sir. I thank you for advising me of this, and taking in consideration… whatever has to be taken in consideration. I very appreciate the—this opportunity for redemption. I assure you will not be disappointed on my behalf.'

'We expect of you as much as we do from all of the Death Gods, you can retire now.'

Alan bid goodbye with a bow and walked into the exit. Once he was out and he was looking at Othello again, bowed a thanks to him.

'What am I to do now?'

'Wow, it seems as though the talk with the superiors sucked out your soul, now there's no expression at all in your face!' He smiled a little, and that seemed to take out one from Othello as well, only that his was more playful and willing to run just for the fun of it. 'There, that's better.'

'It just seems… like they can see through your very soul. What are they?'

'They are the same thing as us, no longer humans.' He shrugged the subject off, and then he added. 'Wanna see where you'll be living now?'

'It still feels so surreal, but I guess I'll say yes.'

They walked through all the edification, until they reached the ground floor. Once they were there, they walked away from an incredibly human-looking park, were other Death Gods were passing time, having some fun. Othello always did a conversation that could help Alan's memories to come back to him, he said it was part of the protocol, and Alan was grateful for it. Alan found out, thanks to Othello's conversations, that he was probably from a classy family.

'Did you know that the way you suicide yourself shows a lot of your personality?'

'I didn't pay attention to it, but I guess it has.'

Then something came to his eyes, it looked dull, and very far, almost like some bad taken picture. There laid his hands, and in them there were a lot of flowers, most of them, he could guess, were wild and no poisonous flowers, contrary to the ones that led him to his death. He could guess those were aloe flowers, and he also could tell they meant bitterness. In his hands there also laid some passion flowers. Was he mourning over someone?

He blinked, and soon he realised Othello was staring at him. 'I beg pardon. You see, I had—'

'No need to explain yourself. They happen to refill your memories. When you have all your memory regained, or at least the one that helps you to remember what lead you to your death, then you will be able to start your training. For now, you have to learn some basic rules.'

'Such as…?'

'Well, since you're a newbie, you have to live in the house of that who greeted you with this world, until your memories are back.' Alan arched an eyebrow at this, but Othello nodded, to confirm what he was saying as terribly true. 'For now, you can read, that will also help you with your speciality. Won't it?'

'Guess it will.' He shrugged the conversation off and they talked about something completely different, taking his mind away of the memories he could recall not.

Alan thought, at first that having his memories back would not be all that hard, since getting back the first one had been as easy as doing tea.

How foolish he'd been.

Not only hard, but apparently going on and about with Othello did nothing for his memories, going out to eat or get out and walk aimlessly, sometimes they would go to Othello's lab and talk about the decompound bodies—later in his first day as a Death God, he learned that Othello was on the forensic branch.

'What if Alan Humphries wasn't one to go out all that often?' He wondered aloud once, his mind numb and his fingers playing with the leaves of some lavender flowers. 'What if he was some kind of hermit and there's where we are walking the wrong path?' He asked his floury confidant.

Othello happened to walk into the room when Alan first started wondering, and now had one hand on his chin. From the obvious, since Alan came to the house, this was found an extraordinary acquaintance of plants. He wasn't amused by this fact, since it seemed to somehow calm the brunette even if said one didn't seemed to notice.

'If that was the case,' he said, announcing his presence and scaring the hell out of Alan. 'You would develop a patron that might told us you weren't fond of walking. Like staying secluded in your room whenever possible, and rejecting my invitations to go out. Which you haven't.'

Alan shrugged. 'I didn't want to look disrespectful. It's not… me, to be disrespectful.'

'Well, that might be a patron, it might be not.' He rubbed his neck nervously. 'But it still isn't proving you were a hermit. You usually spend time on the living room and other times you would go to the garden. You look as though you avoid your bedroom, if anything. What adds that you weren't fond of staying sleeping or rejecting people.'

Alan started at him, thoughtful. 'Then, who I was before… this, cannot be who I am now,' he took a pause, and then he looked again at the lavender blossom. 'Some of his perspectives may still be with me, but when he took the decision he took, he knew—or thought he knew—what he was doing and he knew he wouldn't be back.'

'Everybody knows they won't be back from it, which is no news.' Othello seated, and gestured for Alan to do the same. 'Neither of us are told we will be doing something more than suffering in hell if we do it, we just know we will be punished. Apparently, this is hell. However, that you…committed something against humankind, does by no way mean, that you are no longer the same person you were when you lived.'

Alan didn't retort, and Othello wouldn't press him to do so. The point was to regain his memories, and if he was stressed, there would effort wasted.

'One of the superiors brought this to my lab the other day. They said it was the clue they would give you, so you can have them back.'

In front of him, there stayed a book, thick and with a smell that made something with Alan's stomach, but he wasn't sure how to qualify it.

Floriography. It said.

By D. Adelains. It said under the title.

He stared at it a little more, and then he opened it, on one of the first pages, he passed them nonchalantly, until he reached the dedicatory. He felt his heart stop moving for a moment, or he could have sworn he heard it, if it still moved.

To my dearest friend, Alan, who helped me in great quantities and without his help this wouldn't be published. If you ever get to read this (what probably you will), then I send you an affectionate hug.

'It was one of the books stood in your bookshelf, the day you died.' Read aloud Othello, but Alan could not hear him, he was stricken by the words, and the apparent intimacy they were written under. Who could this D. Adelains be?

His head began to hurt, he belatedly realised it. He closed the book and took air in, he let a good time pass until he let it out. He extended the book to Othello. 'At the moment, it will be the best if I don't see it.'

'Yeah, of course' he answered almost immediately, accepting the book without a bit of offense. 'I know that feeling too, Humphries, everybody passes for this. Or at least, everybody that is of our kind.' He smiled a little, and Alan did the same grateful.

.

There was one day, Alan was sitting on a bench in Othello's backyard, hearing the soft ruffling of the leaves that could be heard from the distance, with Floriography in his hands. His hands were touching calmly all through one of the pages, as though what he had in hands was not an anthology—he remembered that the term came from the fusion of two Greek words that could be interpreted as 'a bunch of the best flowers'—but a letter. He thought of it as if it was a letter from a long lost from, who he longed terribly.

What exactly was his relationship with D. Adelains? His eyes opened, slightly surprised, but used to this sensation. He had had enough time thinking about it, so he had at least a bunch of his memories back. None of them, unfortunately, had any particular information that could help him to find out what led him to take such an extremist decision as he did.

But there was… one hand, a feminine hand. The memory was repentantly out of his reach, however, the image was printed in his retinas. This female hand obviously belonged to a delicate and cream-skinned woman. And this woman had Lilies of the valley between her fingers.

She had purity between her fingers.

He had a sensation of uneasiness, and before he could knew, he wore a chagrin on his lips. Was he frustrated because he couldn't guess what that memory fragment meant to him? Was it because he couldn't see who the woman was?

His head began to ache. He stared at the sky.

At night, he asked Othello about it. He replied that that was normal, and he assured him it was a fantastic new, because it meant he was close to reaching his "clean memory", as they called it.

Somehow, he wasn't pleased at the news. He smiled sheepishly to assure Othello he was impatient for that to happen.

Truth was, he wasn't. He was frightened.

At the next morning, Othello informed him it's been one full month since his human death.

'And you're working incredibly fast, so it's great news!' He added, and Alan felt himself again forced to smile, due to the other's enthusiasm. However, he wasn't feeling especially excited at the idea of finding out what his "clean memory" was, for it might depress him to remember the emotions he was feeling while that happened.

Somehow, Alan suspected this D. Adelains was related to the female arm.

His suspicion seemed to be true a few weeks after it, and he was mildly surprised at what exactly happened. He was sitting on the living room, drinking tea, when in front of his eyes there was a table he didn't remember buying, sitting in front of a refined lady, with soft brown hair, that looked almost golden with the glow of the sunrays trespassing the window, her features were delicate, almost porcelain, and her smile was something between affection and mocking.

He saw her moving her lips.

Alan her lips moved, but the word was muffled so he couldn't hear it, are you sure you're feeling well? You spaced out.

He blinked.

Of course I am, my lady he found his voice answering, though he didn't felt his lips moving. I just was reflecting on the knowledge that was taught to me a few hours ago, and he could see the vapour of the tea cup in front of his nostrils. He somehow knew it was Earl Grey, enjoying my tea.

He heard a muffled laugh coming out of the young lady, and when he noticed the sepia-like aura of the place was when he noticed that it was not an illusion but one of those repentant memories he had from time to time.

The other usually were fast and weren't this real, were he knew every exact detail of what was happening, or what he was saying. She said something, and he automatically answered, so he didn't felt the need to paid attention to the conversation and try and think on what to answer, so he would be just a spectator.

How's the project of the book going, by the way? He had the need to open wide his eyes at this—the problem is he couldn't. So, if what he just said was what he thought, she was the writer of Floriography? The book of flowers? When he thought about it, it was the only right answer for it. There wasn't many men interested in the meaning of the flowers, and even if he, apparently had one, he wasn't one to pursue a writing. However, she looked like one, and unexpectedly she wanted. This also answered why only the D of the author's first name was proposed at the cover.

It's going wonderfully, in fact, they said they could publish it without much problems, my brother brought the manuscript to the printer yesterday and they said they would do it she now had a sheepish smile on her face, proving she was proud but also nervous. If you wish, I can send you a copy of it.

No, I prefer buying it by myself he felt his lips twist into a smile, radiant and clear. But this is great news, dear Daphne.

He blinked a few times, and he felt something hot sting in his lap. When he downed his sight he noticed he had dropped the tea over his pants and it was getting cold, oh well. He went for a towel to dry himself to the kitchen as he let his cup of tea in the table in front of him, while he was trying to think again of what had happened in his so called memory.

D. Adelains. Daphne Adelains. Now everything was completely resolved. Or, at least, what he thought he needed to suicide. Had he had some kind romantic liking on her? Had she married someone else? Had she tried to run away with him? Had she gone out to other continent? What had happened to her?

Because Alan was sure that something happened related to her that provoked him to take his life away, for him to taking a lot of time to try and get her into his memories. Also, he was sure that he was close to his clean memory, more that he'd like, actually.

.

It was already February in Mortal Realm. Or that's what Othello said, at least. He had to go in Mortal Realm because he had to do some research and he couldn't do it on Reaper Realm.

'Almost two months, huh?' He whispered to himself, while taking a sip of coffee and reading some rules' book. 'It doesn't feel like it, when I'm trapped without any productive way of passing time by.'

Othello laughed at his drama. 'Don't make a soap opera out of your current situation, remember it changes nothing until you remember your clean memory, and hasn't happened yet, or has it?'

Alan shook his head, in negative. 'Then all we have to do is wait. Have you have a minimal idea of what you have to have so you can resemble that memory?'

Alan stared at his mug. 'I… might need knowledge of Daphne Adelains.'

Othello gazed at him with an arched eyebrow. 'I think I heard Grelle talk about her… some months ago. Why do you need it?'

Alan couldn't believe what he just heard. 'Grelle? Who is that?'

Othello did some movement with his hand to rest importance over it. 'Some friend of mine, however that's not important. Why do you need it?'

Alan went to the living room and gave Othello the book the superiors had brought him from his house. 'Are you saying that this author is called Daphne Adelains?'

'Hmph. I'm one hundred percent sure of it. I had a memory where she and I were talking about the publication of said one.' He said while nodding. Othello mumbled something to himself, while averting his gaze from him, as if he was avoiding him.

'Well… I might have figured out what had happened to her… I just remember Grelle bitching about some of her missions, it was…' and he repentantly was at a loss of words. Alan arched an eyebrow at his strange behaviour, but didn't push him to continue talking. 'I may convince her to talk personally to you. I have to work today too, since there's a lot to do in Forensics nowadays, with all the ruckus those… someone, is doing.'

Alan's suspicion only increased with the avoidance Othello was giving to the subject. However he kept his suspicions to himself and washed his mug, before going back to the living room and catching some of Othello's books. At this pace, he only had two days' worth of reading before he had nothing to read, at least he might like to try a re-read, that is.

But he had some feeling that, after meeting with Miss Grelle he would not need any more house seclusion and all-day-reading exercises.

.

As Othello promised him, he brought Grelle, but she wasn't anything Alan thought she could be.

For starters, Grelle wasn't a she. It was a truly odd sight to see, Alan admitted to himself, and he for sure wouldn't want to disturb the… other, with questions as to why Grelle addressed himself as a she—Othello warned him not to do it, Grelle was a Grim Reaper, what meant they had a Death Scythe, and it was capable of killing even them, Gods of Death.

'It's not often when I come to your place and have a nice conversation, sweetie, now is it?' Grell said while entering. She was about to say something when she spotted Alan reading on the living room. She gave Alan the same look he give at her: one of utterly surprise. Apparently neither of them were what the other expected (or may be that Grelle actually wasn't aware that he was to stay there until his clean memory appeared, per se.)

'I'm Alan Humphries,' he said, rising form the couch he was sitting in and approaching her, trying not to look bold. 'It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Grelle.' He offered his hand to shake, at to what she stared at it, almost surprised. After few seconds of awkwardness she smiled—some creepy smile Alan didn't like at all.

'Oh, you're so skinny I feel that I could eat you from a bite,' she giggled a little, much to Alan's surprise, and after processing she was doing some joke he himself did it a little. 'What's your age of die, fifteen? Sixteen?'

'Nineteen, one month and twenty-seven days, thank you.' Surprisingly enough, he didn't look stressed at the very mention of his death, what amused and interested her at first. Her smile became more mischievous, and Alan found himself looking for Othello's eyes wanting some help. 'I see you are… a Grim Reaper.'

'No any kind of Grim Reaper, darling, an A average Grim Reaper,' she corrected, and Alan nodded mumbling something along the lines of fair enough. 'Though, I must admit you look quite informed about the office.'

'He's eaten all of my books in less than a month and I had to full again my library, of course he would be further more than quite informed about the office' said Othello out of the blue, coming from the kitchen with what appeared to be glasses of brandy and a glass of red wine.

'I suppose that's why the superiors assigned this boy to you,' Grelle said, taking the offered wine. Othello handed him one of the brandy glasses, which he declined politely. 'Oh sweetie, don't tell me you don't like a little beverage from time to time?'

'I… I remember I used to loathe alcohol' was all he could defend himself with. It wasn't looking enough in eyes of Grelle, as she took the glass he declined and put it in front of him, the gesture almost looking demanding.

'Well, you're no longer that person, also… there's nothing that can kill you at this point, darling, at least not any kind of alcohol, and certainly not something like brandy. Now, it's only a glass, nothing to fuss about.' After that, she blinked at him, and he let out a sigh be out of his body. When Grelle was sure he was drinking from his glass, she turned her eyes at Othello, who was coming from the kitchen with some snacks to pass time. 'You said you needed to talk something of importance, what is it about?'

'Well, Alan is who's got the problem, so it may be better if he just spills it out. What do you think, Alan?'

'It's quite alright with me, Othello, thanks.' He stared at his glass, and he took a big sip, what lead him to cough a little. After he was recovered, he sighed. 'I was told you were working on a case involving Daphne Adelains, what was that about?'

Grelle looked as though she swallowed some bitter lemon, and she most probably did. 'I know her name, yes. It was involving some case of demons eating human souls. She was the last victim, and we couldn't stop the demon before it engulfed her soul with its obscurity. Was she of some importance for you?'

'My best friend, I believe.' Alan felt shocked at this, but he didn't let it show. He had to be calm, after all this wasn't his house, and this wasn't the way he had to behave in front of a lady. He did, however, rise a hand to accommodate his slipped glasses on their correct spot. 'I suppose it was to be expected, isn't it? Were' al born to die.'

Grelle tried to suppress a laugh, but she failed without a doubt. After looking oddly at her, she explained herself. 'You see, it is uncommon for me to see such straight-forward Death Gods such as you, not even stopping to analyse their own feelings or emotions, how the people that once was close to us die slowly, without us there to avoid such destiny, and yet, living eternally. In theory, only my William is as stiff as you, I think you two would get along well.'

Alan frowned a little at this statement. With her who? Othello chuckled a little at this, what apparently infuriated Grell, who let his glass on the table and started throwing some punches half-heartedly. She didn't looked angered, at least not in reality.

'I thank you so much for doing such a gentle comparison, Miss Grelle,' he said after a few seconds of awkwardness. She smiled at him and suddenly hugged him tightly. As though she wished him to die a second time.

'You're such a sweetheart, didn't you know?' And the conversation went on and over topics that came out of nowhere, or simply chit-chat. Alan smiled bemused at this, and found himself actually enjoying the glass of brandy.

.

He was awaken by some nightmare at the middle of three in the morning. Or so he suspected.

Truth is, that the thing that awoke him in the middle of the night wasn't a nightmare. He glanced at his surroundings, a little out of place, and when he recognized some shadows and thought clearly he let a steady breath out. After that, he let himself lay listless in the bed.

He already regained his clean memory. And he didn't liked what he saw.

There was someone taking the life away from Daphne Adelains. And he was witnessing every single bloody second of it.

He was scared at first, then he had done some reckless action that led the other to run away. The thing is… he was already late. There was no life left in the empty corpse he hold between his hands. He felt like all his… hopes of living any day more with her were long gone.

He felt substantial, as if he was watching some movie, after it. He knew she was no longer there, and still, he kissed her forehead one last time, and bid her farewell. And maybe, if she so wished it, he could go and accompany her in the lonely path that was hell. He could do it, that's what friends were for, after all.

People came to him at some point, and he was forced to break apart from her. He opposed no resistance, he hadn't the will, nor the strength for doing it, anyway.

And that's where the memory faded. He was awaken now, and he could visualize himself clearly, reading one last time her book and preparing some essence he had been waiting for a while. He was comfortable and the chimney was warm, he would have liked living the eternity like that. It would have been pleasant.

He didn't, however, and he had to blink a few times to take away the memory and stop himself from drinking that again. He knew what it was, after all. He got out of the bed, and found one of the rooms in the house with the lights on, so he went to investigate it. He didn't felt surprised when he noticed Othello doing some researches there.

'Morning,' he said as he entered into the room. 'Had you had a nice sleep?' he let his quill rest a bit after some time using it and stared at Alan, who shrugged as answer. 'How come?' He stated, smiling from such an unusual sight. Alan was evading him, somehow, and yet, he seemed eager to tell him something. He stopped his work to look at the brunette at the eye.

'I think I just regained my clean memory' he answered, and Othello stopped dead for a second, before regaining his composure and chill.

'Have you?' Alan nodded. 'Then, that's wonderful news!' He said, letting out an ear-to-ear grin. 'You may be the one who got their memory the less time, I have to say.'

'Have I? How much did you have to wait to have it back?'

Othello let out a little giggle. 'Around five months. And you just did it in two months sharp. That's more than just an outstanding. It's incredible.'

'Hasn't anyone done it in less than two months? I'm sure I'm the only one who's done it before.'

Othello shook his head. 'The quickest has done it in three months and half, and we are to check it on them, if they happen to surpass the last one we are to register it on the records, though, it is not a pleasant sensation the user must be feeling. How are you coping with this, by the way?'

Alan shrugged. 'I feel empty, I… know, I feel clearly why I wanted no longer life, and I know that my wish is impossible.'

'Well, at least you're not trying to kill yourself again. Now, that's a good beginning.' Othello cheered, but Alan didn't find it quite pleasant.

'I wanted the same demon… I wanted it to kill me, to devour me, so she and I were together again. She was my best friend, I couldn't leave her alone.' He thought about the whole situation for a moment. He remembered she said something to him about their friendship. 'I guess it didn't work and I couldn't attract the demon, huh?'

There was a moment of silence that followed his last sentence. Othello didn't appear wishful to break it, and instead he clapped one of Alan's shoulders and said steady and smoothly 'There, there' several times.

Alan wasn't sure if he wanted this opportunity to fix his sins. He'd gladly go to hell if he could avoid this emptiness, this solitude inside him.

.

Everything happened pretty quickly after that. He was attending some Academy, of what he forgot the name. Their first day, the teachers talked them about the different careers that they could be in, and Alan was somehow bored. He knew he had to study, and he knew he had to chase after one of those careers that they were offered, but he somehow couldn't find himself deciding right away. At that he was relieved, after all, he had six full months of training to find out and decide. That was great news.

After finding out his clean memory, he knew he had to move from Othello's, he wasn't in desire of doing it at the beginning, but he had to do it and Othello offered him all the possible comfort he could. A shake of hands, a few books and a promise to see you again was their farewell. Grell was there for him to go to the Academy.

The slowness of the things they had to do at the Academy (wait for six months to start their serious training on a speciality) was somehow messing with him, but he didn't let it show. He was occupied with school assignments, he hadn't time to overthink.

And so, the six months happened. He was the 'Head boy', and he was the cause of jealousy from much, he was hated. He hadn't heart enough to resent them, or pity them. He was still feeling empty. He knew he had something missing. He knew what he wanted to become, or at least from the offered careers was in front of his eyes, and that it had been all the way. He knew he had to take it, he had to chase after it. And that way he would fulfil that missing spot in himself that was empty. He would feel empty no more.

He chase after Grim Reaper, and he expected his hunch to be correct.

The first weeks were about introducing them to the subject. They told him he had a long year ahead him, they told him he had to study hard, physically and mentally. He had to be the best.

Everybody had to be the best. And Alan expected to be part of that everybody.

He passed some of his nights studying, some other of them he happened to talk with Othello, whom showed from time to time in the Academy for academic reasons (experiments he had to report to them) and asked him how he felt about this.

He was still the Head boy, but now no one would say things on his back, and he somehow was grateful about it. One of those days, he had someone—one of his classmates—asking him if he wanted a go-out with him and a few soon-to-be secretaries.

'Oi, you wanna come?' Said who he believed to be Knox. He ached an eyebrow, glanced oddly at one of the girls and then glanced back at him.

'I… think I'm better off if I just stay here. I have to wake up early tomorrow, anyways' he didn't wish to sound full of discourtesy, so he cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly. 'I wish you, however, luck in your… go-out.'

Knox sounded a little disappointed at this at the beginning, but after a few cries—courtesy of the girls in his two arms—he bid goodbye to Humphries and let him alone in his Academy room. Alan sighed after closing the door and tried to think clearly of something that could spare him another invitation like those. As of lately, Knox and other two classmates of his had become insistent of him to going out more than once a week, and even if he appreciated the gesture, he considered rather unnecessary to spend just in something wouldn't do a thing to them if they weren't human any more.

Instead, he passed his evening studying for his finals. The written exam had to be presented the next day, and he had no excuses to not be ready the next day. He was actually re-reading for at least the fourth time his book so it would help him pass his exam. He hoped to pass the exam.

.

He was in the Headmaster's office two weeks later. At his side was Ronald Knox, and the superiors seemed between the debate of something. After a few minutes of awkward silence, he decided to cough a little, so the superiors had his attention.

'Of course, we are terribly sorry at this.' One of them excused them, he looked at his papers again and sighed, 'Alan Humphries. You had a triple A in your written exam, an A in morality and a B in aptitudes. That gives you an average of A plus.' Then he looked at Ronald, readjusted his glasses and then seemed to prepare himself for something of terrible importance. 'Ronald Knox. You had a B in your written exam, a B in morality and a double A in aptitudes. That gives you an average of A less. You both have to work in your first recollection.' Then he extended one of the folders other superior had in his hands and started explaining their mission. 'Her name is Ayleen Rinehart, born at June 20th of 1763, she's supposed to die in September 7th of 1801. One month from now, is that clear, you both?'

'It is, sir' they said at unison.

They left the Headmaster's office bowing in signal of goodbye, and when they were out of there, Ronald let out a tiring sigh.

'Is something the matter, Mr. Knox?' Asked Alan, trying to be as polite as possible. Ronald shook his head and then he laughed a little, passing a hand over his hair.

'Nothing at all, Al'!' He looked to enjoy his own pun, as he laughed a little more. Alan sighed, in resignation and then he looked at the folder the Headmaster handed at him. 'Though, we have to spend a full month observing that woman, don't you find it a bit tiring? It's pretty much time, and we both know she won't be an exception.'

Alan said nothing to him, and started reading some of the information the teacher gave him, at the time he walked and Ronald kept on talking nonsense to him.

'Also, why won't you go out with us?' He said out of the blue, making Alan to pace out a little of his own world of written words and blinking startled at him, finally paying him attention. Ronald, looking at his reaction, knew he had to be more obvious. 'At going out. One of those girls really wanted to get to know you better the other day, that's why I had acceded a date with the other. We found ourselves quite uncomfortable without a second date, you know.'

'I am not interested in having any kind of relationship, at least not at the moment. Thank you very much for your concern.' He said, as politely as he could. Ronald puffed at this, and stared at him with an ached brow and a grin in his lips.

'Yeah but, you don't always have to be into the books, like you're just doing in this precise moment.' Then Ronald had a hand under his chin and looked almost wondering. 'You… appear to avoid something. But what?'

'Everybody's avoiding something here.' Was Alan's answer, even if he didn't upper his sight from the folder, he knew he somehow surprised Ronald with his bitter answer. 'In first place, we are here because we were avoiding life. Now we're doing what we are doing because we are avoiding the hell that our souls may fall into if we don't do. It's only perspective' then he shrugged and went off to the hall. They had to appear into the Human Realm, where some of the agents assigned them some sleeping places, where they would pass that month of human surveillance.

How promising that sounded. In all seriousness. If somebody had ever told Ronald he had to suffer this, he would never have pressed that trigger.

However, no one would tell him this.

.

Their month had been terribly boring. Ronald sometimes would suggest to go out, drink a little, flirt a little. Every time—or at least a 99.9 percent of the time—Alan would reject him, and say they had to survey the woman they were assigned to. Ronald would tell him they had nothing else to do, and that she wouldn't die just for not surveying her one freaking day, after all, they still had three weeks.

'Come on, lad, don't be so stir. Have some fun from time to time.' Alan rolled his eyes. He raised his sight from his reading, and looked at him mildly angered.

'I won't, Mr. Knox. I consider it quite inappropriate since it is our first recollection. We have to be prudent. Do consider, that they are testing our abilities and our behaviour. And certainly, one go-out for drinking wouldn't do good to our final note.' Ronald chagrined at this, but didn't reply. Instead, he glanced at the brunette and tried to focus on the tittle of the book, then, he opened one of his eyes incredibly surprised.

'Floriography?' He wondered aloud.

'Yes. Is there any problem with it?'

Ronald shook his head. 'No, it isn't. It just… surprised me seeing you, so serious, with this kind of book, for cheesy and always attentive women.'

Alan shrugged after a few seconds. 'I find it quite interesting. They are another language, like French or German. There's people who learn to speak it, who try to teach it to others. They comprehend it, they feel it.'

'Wow, Al, you sounded so…poetic.' Ronald chuckled. Alan rolled his eyes, but a little smile appeared on his face.

'This also was… a friend's,' he continued, and he gulped a little. 'And it somehow drives me closer to her.'

Ronald didn't know what to answer at this. He was surprised, evidently, but aside from that he just stared at him, a hand on the back of his neck nervously, and the other on his hips. After staring awkwardly at the floor, he then looked at him. 'So, tell me, Alan, where are you from? Your accent is quite… foreign to me, to be honest.' After seeing the look the other gave at him, he rapidly added, 'not that isn't incredible, but it's quite unusual.'

Alan sighed and Ronald thought his countenance looked ten years older that way. 'My parents were from Texas, and I was too, for around twelve years. Then, we came to England, decision of my grandparents, so I could learn more properly the ways of the high society.'

'It must have been way too tiring, for you to put it an ending.'

Alan's eyes then appeared to darken a little. 'It wasn't, but it was quite lonely. It is lonely still. Maybe that will never change.'

After some seconds of silence, then Ronald's face appeared to illuminate. 'And I guess she was the only thing that led you out of your loneliness, huh?'

He nodded and closed the book he was reading. 'She was indeed. I wish there was some way I could see her again.'

'Aren't we forbade to see the quick we aren't recollecting unless we're on a mission?'

'She's not part of the quick anymore. But I wish she was.'

There was another awkward silence, and Ronald this time didn't feel like breaking it. 'Do you wish to look for her tomb?' He offered, and Alan's eyes seemed to glide for a second, and then as fast as they shone, as fast as they were off. He apparently discarded the idea.

'I don't think it is a good idea, Knox. We are supposed to survey the woman from tomorrow on.' He recommended, and then he retired his own glasses, and proceeded to the bathroom to put on some pyjamas. 'Now if you excuse me, I will prepare myself to sleep. Tomorrow is proven to be probably the most tiring day of the entire month.'

.

And Alan wasn't wrong with his prediction. They were terribly bored at the fifth hour of surveillance. Alan didn't liked to admit, but he knew Ronald was right the past night, they hadn't to survey the woman every single second of her life until her death, and it was true that it was deathly boring—OK, he had to stop passing time with Miss Grelle, some of her puns started to linger on him, even if just a little.

So, after watching some group of birds pass by, he decided to follow Ronald's advice and let out a sigh. 'What do you think of going out for some beverages? My treat.'

Ronald smiled and accepted the suggestion. 'Sounds perfect to me, Alan!'

And so they left and went to some bar, where Ronald asked for a few beers and Alan asked for a glass of water for himself, he never drank because he looked childish, and people wouldn't let him. That's why he was surprised when Grelle first suggested him to drink, but then he assumed it was because she knew he was in no age restriction to drink applied to him anymore, or any appearance. That is.

He spent some time with Ronald talking about the written exam, and how Ronald found it as easy as someone who hadn't studied all the year could find it.

'But you had a B in your written exam, why do you say you found it easy?'

'Because I didn't thought when I was answering. It all was matter of logic, if you are fighting a demon, of course the priority is not the disease hour, but to make sure the demon won't steal the soul. Now is it?'

'I know that,' he said frowning, and he drank some sip from his water. 'However, you say you didn't studied at all, then why do you want to be a Grim Reaper?'

Ronald waited a few seconds, then smiled wickedly and glanced at him. 'Everybody's avoiding something here, Al. You're avoiding your reason as much as I am avoiding mine.'

Alan wanted to retort him with something, but he came with nothing. Instead, he sipped again his water and realised how outstanding someone drinking water in a place like the one they were in was. He blinked a few times, and then he let out a sigh, after it he decided he would continue looking for their exam. It was worth their grade, after all.

He gave a few bills to Ronald. 'It would be great if I receive my change. I need some fresh air now.'

He somehow suspected himself to be running away, and most probably Ronald thought the same about him. Alan wouldn't blame him, he kind of was.

.

The month passed, and after some struggles—you know, typical fights, who's right, who's wrong, who baths first, Ronald do not flirt with those girls, Ronald pay attention to our objective, Ronald just don't do something that could put us in danger—they already did the recollection. It wasn't that hard, and they somehow ended getting along well together. Alan learned from Ronald's care-free way, and Ronald became more serious over paperwork. They actually became friends, and Alan was amused by this; the sensation, however, didn't displease him at all.

In theory, Alan would admit out loud he liked it.

They graduated, they went with Death God Lawrence, who gave them their new Reaper's glasses. Alan's frame was simplistic, the rims were of a coconut-like brown, and his lenses were oval. Their design was pretty much alike the one he received "for testing." And now that he graduated, he couldn't think of himself having some different design of glasses, he had grown used to them.

He was expecting himself to exceed on his work.

·Finis pars una·

Well, for starters, it wasn't my intention to make it this long, and... guess what? I had to cut this up, and it's going to be three parts! (Yay!) I wanted to develope well Alan, who, as you can see, is the focuse of this story. I made some headcannons I thought could look good on him:

—Alan's age. As you see, my purpose was him to be younger than William and Grell's first recollection (Dec. 16th of 1776, I believe ) but not that young to be a newbie at Musical's era (1889) so I put him some dates, carefully selected, I swear. Also, the same goes for his exams, that were carefully counted, he passed 1 and half years in Academy, ended in 1881 with his final exam.

—Othello. Headcannon surname, and somehow I visualized him to be great friends with Alan, who also happens to befriend Grelle (Alan became used to address Grell as a woman, Othello's advise).

—My English. I know this is not part of the story, but I am not a native speaker (per see), and also… I used better British English rather than American… because it needed to sound British? (Also, I don't know about their gradding way, so I'm terribly sorry if it happened that I was wrong).

These are it at the moment, thank you so much for reading'till here, and wait for part two!

—gem—