Nothing in this world is strange.
(Title: The grimmest fairy tale.)
…
The sky is the color of watered down crimson, it whispers of old world watercolor paintings and the changing of the guard. It is the sort of sky that mourns the passing of kings and proceeds the coming of earth-breaking storms.
Death's sky stays blue despite this. Never has there been a more pristine version of blue.
He watches through the black rimmed mirror as his son drags himself inside the front door of Gallows mansion. Flanking him are two girls, identically clad in grey t-shirts and dark navy jeans. They have the souls of weapons and upon realizing this Death suppresses an amazed smile.
Under any other circumstance it would be automatic to reach for an analogy, to try and liken this occurrence to something he has seen or anything he has heard of before. It is comforting to draw correlations, to compare the things in his long existence to things that mortal humans go through.
His mind stumbles a bit before he decides that, yes… this is just like a boy bringing home two rain soaked hellhounds (or did typical children bring home tamer creatures? He didn't know.) and asking for their asylum. Still, Death has never classed his son as normal, nor has anyone else who's met the young reaper.
He shoves the analogy away, it is unsuitable, after all. His eyes stay fixed to the glossy image. He notes, not for the first time, that the image stays dull due to the chosen color palate of Gallows mansion and the dim quality of the light at this late hour.
He could fix the quality of the image easily, by going to the residence instead of just observing. He stretches out his senses, letting the feel of every soul in the city brush against his before he snaps his attention to the three of them. He will not just wander into this.
He feels the interwoven and contrasting play between the two girls souls, the familiar tenor of his son's soul… and he decides that they will need space. They lack the harmony that is so automatic in technicians and their weapons.
Without realizing it he had turned away from the mirror. He shakes himself slightly and wanders back to the tall glossy shine of it, eyes lightly dusting across the sight in the frame.
They are in the black and white of Gallows kitchen, he spots the double oven in the background. The blue eyed siblings are quiet and Kid is pushing two plates in their direction. Sandwiches. Death notes that Kid vanishes from view quickly, probably off to go get the siblings something to drink.
The reaper shuts his eyes and prods over the souls of the two siblings. They were unique. Their attachment seemed organic, seamless in its nature. They felt strong for humans, so much so that the reaper let loose a slight laugh. The three of them would be perfect, in time.
He had thought, at first glance, that his son was making an error in judgment. That was scrubbed from his mind now. The young reaper hadn't made a mistake at all. This was not an action born of childish things, this wasn't soggy puppies or lost hellhounds and a whining plea to keep them.
The young reaper had understood, in a way his father was only beginning to grasp, that the two blue eyed sisters were perfect.
The smile that Death had been holding back cracked across his face. The analogy he had been looking for settled on him.
The reaper cast a last glance at the mirror.
This was Arthur, the quiet boy who would be king… and he'd brought his weapons home.
…
Author's note: I don't own this.