Death's Merriest Christmas
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Yana Toboso and Square Enix, Co. Ltd. I don't own them; I just examine all their possibilities.
Author's Note: This is a series of short scenes based on my background stories for the reapers; I'm sticking to four of them unless I get any sudden ideas. This is mostly my headcanon and nothing is based in canon.
Part 1: The party guest
25 December, 1108
Yorkshire, England
The moon was nigh full, giving John a better view of his family's vast fields and the dark woods surrounding it. He looked over the railing of the balcony to see a few servants collecting wood from the shed outside. They would be needing a lot, though the night was not that cold yet. John had stood out here for the past five minutes and was barely feeling a chill, but he prided himself on his heartiness. He spent an hour in the cold yesterday stalking a deer with father, last night's meal was the result of such stoutness. He was the son of knights of in service of kings, not soft nobles who would be perturbed by a breeze.
Already he could hear the bustle around the house as the guests arrived to the manor. Mother and father had a huge feast planned for Christmas; lords would be coming from across the county to take part in the finest meat and drink in the land. He was already dressed in his best blue tunic and cape. The future Earl of Tynell should stand out in such a party, being 12-years-old was but a trifle.
John looked over the horizon, seeing a few flickers through the trees. Travelers possibly, no, the flames were coming from bonfires and not torches. Judging by the positioning they were bonfires set by the nearby villagers; all of them hunters and light farmers, all of them still practicing their old religion. Their sacred winter holiday was a few nights back, apparently they were doing a little more celebrating. He could see a few dancing figures through a few shifting branches.
He was very familiar with these people. Most nobles would chase away or slaughter such "heathens," father however was a master at negotiation. These men and women were also trained warriors, they were better as allies than enemies. What religion they practiced meant nothing. Father and mother were devoted to Christ, but they were more wise to the world and understanding that a free ally is better than an oppressed ally.
A gust of wind blew over the balcony, sending his long brown hair into his face and a chill through the rest of him. It was time to get inside and enjoy the party. He walked through the double doors leading back to the manor, the warmth of the torches and fireplaces radiating off the stone walls and warming him instantly. He smoothed out his hair and his cape and walked down the stairs leading to the feast hall.
The chatter and laughter echoed through the halls. The closer he got the clearer he could hear a merry pipes and singing. He heard the happy giggles of his two younger sisters behind him, looking back to see their nurse leading them down the hallway by the hand.
"Let's go to a lovely party, John," little Miriam said jumping up and down.
"Mother's going to let us eat cake and sing songs," Mary chimed in.
"Want to have some cake John, it's almond cake with honey," Miriam added.
"Of course I'll have cake with you ladies," John said with a smile.
They clapped and fell alongside him, Miriam grabbing his hand as they walked to the doors. Two servants opened the doors and gave them bows. John could already see father and mother arm in arm and raising glasses of mead. Father was in his most festive burgundy outfit, mother in a long white dress with a fur collar. Father spotted them and smiled wide, motioning for them to come in. Mother pulled away and attended to the girls, father walked up to John and put an arm around his shoulder.
"Spirits are high tonight, my boy," he said. "The pheasants will be done soon, in the meantime go get yourself some cider."
"Yes, father," John said.
Father patted him on the back and he walked forward. John made his way to servants serving drinks across the room, avoiding some dancing lords with their ladies and occasionally being stopped by some well-wishers. He finally got that glass of cider and it was indeed delicious; pressed right at the manor that autumn.
The steaming pheasants came out on plates a short time later with bowls of cooked apples and turnips and beets with exotic spices. Pies and fruit were passed around as well. It was a legendary spread fit for Christmas and everyone enjoyed themselves fully. Bellies were filled with food and drink, guests growing more amusing the more they toasted to the holiday. Musicians took up pipe and lute and lords and ladies danced across the hall.
John worked the room, carrying on conversation after conversation. He was practically a man now, this year he had more schooling and more practice in swordsmanship. He took part in talk about business and philosophy, all his conversation partners spoke to him with the tone of an adult and not talking down to a boy. Yes John was the son of the earl and that demanded respect, but when he was told "You really are an astute man, my lord," it felt wonderful.
As the party continued, the more rowdy and jovial people became. Even father was laughing a bit louder and stumbling a bit, but maintaining some decorum. He was better off than a few of the guests; already people were leaning laying on benches or on the floor mumbling incoherently to themselves.
John got himself another glass of cider, probably his third; he wasn't interested in getting sick tonight. He walked over to a servant pouring drinks. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a man in blue and black clothing, more in the style of a merchant than a noble, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall clearly passed out from the drink. The man, a friend of father's probably, snorted a few times, but he was mostly still. John didn't think anything of it, he got his refill and the servant walked away.
John sipped his drink and glanced over to the man again. Standing beside him was a tall figure in black robes. John did a double-take; he hadn't seen a man in this manner of dress at the party. He paused and looked over, seeing the robed man staring at the drunken trader; one hand holding some type of magnifying glass over his eye, the other hand holding a book. Maybe he was a doctor, his patient did look a little worse for wear. John took a few steps to the side, then looked over at the robed man again from another angle.
Cradled in the crook of his arm was a staff, on further inspection it was a mowing scythe. John's blood ran cold, he clutched his glass and stared at the robed figure. The figure marked something in the book with a type of quill, then placed the book in his robes. John swore he saw a wisp of shadows collect the tome and it disappeared. He took a deep breath and walked a few steps closer; his imagination playing tricks on him of course. Maybe he could be of some assistance.
The robed man paused, then slowly turned his head over to John. John got a better look at the figure's curly blond hair and thin beard; his eyes a striking shade of green.
"Are you a doctor, sir?" John asked.
The man merely smiled and bowed his head, walking for the door.
"Merry Christmas to you, young lord," he said, walking toward the door.
John furrowed his brows, watching the figure walk from the room. He followed him for a few steps, then swore he blended with the shadows in the hallway. John practically sprinted back to the feast hall, walking over to the drunken trader. He lightly shook him, asking if he were well. No response, he shifted limply with the shaking.
"Is everything all right, boy?" father said behind him.
John looked at him, his father's smile relaxed.
"Dear me you look like you've seen the devil," father said.
John grabbed father's hand and pulled him aside, his heart pounding in his ears. This was not a matter for fear; he was a man of the house, he had every right to express concerns to the earl. John leaned in father's ear, brushing aside a few locks of his gray hair and quietly explained what he had seen. He wanted to keep the explanation to a concern over an unwanted guest, but his voice caught too much behind a tightness in his throat.
Father's jovial expression straightened to graveness. John pulled back, father staring at him.
"I swear to God father, I'm not mad," he said.
Father shook his head.
"No, John, you are not," father said. "I know what you saw."
Father walked right over to the merchant, feeling his wrist and putting a hand to his nose. He then shook his head and rose, summoning a few servants and giving them commands. Later the man was covered in a blanket, a few people walked out with him with bowed heads. The man had died right there.
John had seen the Grim Reaper that night. Father explained this to him later in his room. Reapers are the ones who send souls to God for their final judgment. But reapers cannot be seen unless they want to be seen, or if someone has a clear enough vision to see them.
"There is nothing to fear, son," father said. "They are gentle beings; stern, but there is a task they take with the utmost seriousness."
Father never explained how he knew of such things, but there were many things father knew that few did. Father was a wise man after all, one who didn't see the work of the Devil in everything. John always respected that about him.
The experience made for a few sleepless nights afterward, eventually he learned to accept it. Death was a part of life, death should not be feared. The Reaper was merely a man doing his job; he would come for them all someday, but such should not be a fearsome prospect.
The memory played in his mind twenty-five years later when the man in the black robe appeared before him. It stuck with him even more when he too took the black robes and Book of Death. It was a memory he gladly shared for the next few hundred years; the robes turned to suits, the glass evolved to spectacles, but the theme remained the same. As for the reaper he saw that night, they would be colleagues and friends for many centuries. Both of them would retire around the same time.
John settled in London, opening his own mortuary, and was more known as the Undertaker. The local children would come by sometimes for biscuits and a scary story. During the winter holidays he was fond of sharing the story of a young lad in medieval times who learned Death was but a party guest.