The young noblewomen sat in her rather plain and ordinary room in her uncle's country house, the dying sun casting a faint glow in the plain room. She was in great contrast with the rest of the room.
The noblewomen was five or so feet tall, wearing a flowing dress of silver silk with long brown hair tumbling like a wave down her shoulders. She was very lean and pale, with nary a mark upon her, a sign of a noblewoman. Her eyes were an emerald color that shone like jewels. In her long hair was a dethorned black rose. An odd flower, but a lovely one nonetheless.
In contrast to her rather regal appearance, the room was large, but the floors and walls were plain wood, as were the posts and headboard of the four-post bed. There was a wardrobe beside the west window, and a chair with a little table beside the east window. The only other thing was a writing desk pushed into the west corner. It was dusty, and stacked with unopened letters, half opened gifts, and old books. The bed was nothing special, made with simple white sheets and a tan comforter.
Her room was in the highest part of the large house, and so received all the light of the day. Not only that, but it was quiet and peaceful. She had even made friends with a large female Barn Owl that nested in a tree hollow outside of the west window.
There was a soft rap outside the door. It was her uncle, calling to her.
"Lila! I am retiring. Do not stay up too late!"
"Yes Uncle! I won't!"
Her uncle continued on his way, and a few minutes later a door closed and latched. The women of twenty-two, Lila, sighed. She rose from where she sat beside the window, reading, and put down her book in favor of picking up the candle. Lila crossed to her desk with a silent and dainty stride. She put down her candle and cleared off her dusty desk, placing each object on the floor with care. Beneath the clutter was a cherrywood desk, which had been protected from the dust by the burden of clutter it had bore.
From within a drawer, Lila pulled out a piece of crisp parchment and an inkwell. From within a small and carefully protected compartment, she pulled out a quill made of a primary feather from her owl friend. By the light of the candle, Lila began to pen a note to her lover back in London.
In London, night had descended, and with it came a cold and biting night air. The streets were empty, and each building shut tight. The cold air had driven every living thing off of the streets.
Standing in the darkness was an old women with silver hair, and a black robe speckled with white dots, as if the stars had descended from the sky and lain themselves upon her wrap. The women leaned against an otherworldly object disguised as the most common of farming tools. Appearing as a farming sickle, this object was in fact a Death Scythe used by the Shinigami. This particular model was the highest rank that could be obtained by the soul retrievers. This women was, in fact, a Shinigami. Neither was she dead, nor was she alive.
The old woman's eyes seemed to shine in the dark. Her eyes were fixed upon the only funeral parlor in London. In her hand she held spool of medical thread. In the darkest of nights, with no one to bear witness to the events, the circle of life would stop in its tracks, and rewind for one man.
Behind the parlor was a dirt path leading about half a mile out of town. If the dead were buried too close to town, the wild animals prowling the woods that dominated London at the time were sure to cause trouble within the city.
The old women walked down the path, her Scythe slung casually over her shoulder. Her expression was positively bored, but there was a little spark of interest in the way she walked. The task of retrieving souls was so mundane and monotonous, but every now and again that dull job was interrupted.
After death, most humans would move into their correct afterlife. But, a few were selected to continue living. They would become Shinigami, but it was a rare happening. The decision would be made when the body and soul separated, and the soul was judged. On rare occasions, a decision was changed after this process, as in this instant.
There was an undertaker's apprentice. The young lad, who had died of unknown causes, had his soul collected, stamped, and not given another thought. His soul did not move on, though. It lingered on Earth, even after the Reaping, in the form of a ghostly pale figure, wandering the streets and causing panic. Those in the higher offices of the Shinigami Dispatch, as it was called, were alarmed. It was important that the mortals continued to live in ignorance. To believe ghosts and zombies, angels and devils, and the Reapers of old, were only fairy tales. The mortals would not be able to comprehend the truth.
In the bone yard, among the stones, a pale man with sharp features wove between the stones, looking far and wide, as if looking for something. The women cleared her throat loudly to attract the ghoul's attention. She did indeed get the man's attention.
The man was pale white, very thin, and had very lean and sharp features. His hair was shaggy, and often fell in his face. He would occasionally reach out with long and spindly fingers that were tipped by long black fingernails, trying to grab something that was not there. After a few minutes, he spoke,
"...Who are you? What do you want?"
The old women walked down the path to the confused specter, speaking in a calming voice,
"My name is not important now, for I am simply doing my job as a Grim Reaper. We have seen your affairs with the young women, Lily, was it?"
The apprentice's ghoul snapped,
"Her name was Lila!"
He snapped his mouth closed.
Who is Lila? Why am I defending her so angrily, if all I know of her is her name?
The old women dipped her head gracefully.
"Lila, yes, my apologies. You do really care for her, I see. I am here to restore you to the world you once walked upon. You are a very interesting man. So, I will bring you back. I'll let you live again, but you will live for an eternity, collecting the souls of the deceased. Every human must be judged in their death, and sent away to their own eternity. You have avoided it, until now. In this, the darkest of nights, you are to be restored to life as a Shinigami, to collect souls and guide them through death for all eternity."
The Reaper raised her Scythe. The ghoul opened his mouth, but no words came out. Only a strangled scream as the blade cut into his throat. Blood spilled, real blood like what is in a human. His figure solidified, and the man's feet felt the ground. His skin began to have color again, but it was still very pale, as was his hair a silvery color. It had been years since the sun had touched his skin and hair, and now the color had faded away.
The man let out a strangled sound, and fell to his hands and knees on the ground, blood pouring from his neck. His entire body was on fire, blazing back to life and going haywire. The Reaper pulled the medical thread from her pocket, and tilted up the man's chin. She began carefully sowing the wound upon his neck closed in a wide diamond-like pattern. She did not have to do any work, instead, the thread unwound itself from the spool, weaving in and out of his skin to close the injury.
There was a tingling, and the stitching faded into his skin, as if it was a tattoo. The female grabbed his face sharply, studying it.
"Hm...You are still very recognizable, even as a dead man."
She stood, and with another sharp slash, she cut the man's face. He pitched back, spattering even more blood. The women then sat upon his chest so he could not move, and the thread began to get to work. The diamond stitch pattern faded into his skin once again, as if it was a tattoo. As she worked, the color in his eyes drained away and was replaced with the distinctive two colors in a Reaper's eyes.
She rose off of him, and cleaned her blade of his blood.
"Your soul has returned to you. For the rest of time you will serve as a protector of souls. However, I first have to persuade those in the higher offices, that I decided to do what was justified. You have some time to do as you want, but be careful of what you do. You are believed to be dead."
She turned to leave, but the resurrected man spoke the first question he had,
"Reaper! I have another question, what is my name? I do not remember."
She stopped.
"Your name...is Undertaker."