Chapter 5

The room was dark except for a single, flickering candle in the far corner. Particles of dust danced about the flame, but the light was swallowed by the oppressive dark which painted the room in it's dreary tones. Despite this, William found that he could see his surroundings fairly well, and he sat up slowly to examine his new location. His head ached slightly as he moved, but he did his best to ignore the sensation as he looked.

Cobwebs hung from the corners of the low ceiling like ruined lace; laminated by years of accumulated dust. The same grime coated every available surface, including a pile of books, ancient by even William's standards, which had been tossed carelessly into the corner. A nearby lopsided desk was covered in yellowed parchment and countless jars, whose glass surfaces winked vaguely in the available light. Realization dawned on William, and he jumped quickly from the stone slab on which he had been sitting. This musty room was in the abandoned shop of the deserter known only as Undertaker - or, more specifically, a subbasement of the shop. It's location was only known to a few individuals as William had only accidentally stumbled upon it during a recent investigation, although the higher-ups hadn't seem particularly interested in the location. He had done his best not to care about their lack of interest since it wasn't his place to question, although it was impossible to completely quiet the nagging little voice in the back of his mind that demanded why.

Still uncertain of who or what might have lain on the slab before him, he quickly knocked the dust off of his clothes with exaggerated care. Even though he was alone, he did so with no outward emotion or betrayal of the innermost workings of his mind. His attire in order, he reached up to adjust his glasses, and it was only then that he noticed the eye wear was missing.

Panic seized his heart. His glasses were his tie to his realm and proof he was worthy to be reaper. Without them, he was nothing more than some creature that should have been dead a long time ago, but what scared him even more was that he could see. It was said that when a reaper truly deserted, and gave up his glasses, he regained a somewhat normal vision, or what had been normal during his life. William hadn't worn glasses in life, so it seemed that part of the rumor was true, and the truth weighed heavily on his heart.

He was a deserter.

He had given up on any chance of redemption. His absolute best future now was one of being constantly on the run while waiting for officials or a recovery agent to discover him. While he still was basically immortal, that was now more of a sentence than ever before. Somehow, it now seemed fitting that he was hiding out in the underground lair of another deserter.

With a loud sigh, he walked across the room, watching as plumes dust rose in his wake, to the lopsided desk. Shuffling the papers around, he looked for a clean sheet and a pen to write an apology. In truth, he had little idea of what he was apologizing for precisely. He knew he had killed Ronald, and he feared that he had killed some of the guards in the prison. As he lost consciousness, he heard their terrified screams slicing through the air - and odd disjointed laughter that could only been the sound of someone who had been driven mad at the sight. William still didn't quite understand why no one had stopped him or how he had came to be in this place. Perhaps he would learn the truth one day, but that would probably only happen if he was caught.

"I should turn myself in," he said aloud, and he was surprised at the hoarseness of his voice, "I am a criminal, and that was the right thing to do." Despite his words, he knew that he wouldn't give himself up to the authorities. It wasn't something he could explain, but he somehow was aware that he wasn't going to return to his realm without a fight. All he could assume was that he wasn't as moral as he had always thought.

Somewhat depressed, he found a slightly soiled yet empty page and put his pen to paper. At least he would have a chance to record some of his final words.

My name is William T. Spears, and I'm writing this letter to apologize for all that I have done.

He paused as his pen trembled just above the paper, and he had no idea of what he should say. He had apologized, but a single sentence simply wasn't enough to convey his true grief at his actions. It just wasn't good enough.

"You were never good enough."

He jumped a little at the voice, and almost turned around to see who had spoken, but his mind suddenly recognized the voice. It was the voice of his father; disappointed as always. While he knew his father had died many years earlier, to hear his father's words didn't particularly surprise him. After all, he had heard it said that those going insane often heard voices.

((x))

Grell walked quietly through the empty rooms of William's apartment as she looked about the modest surroundings. While she had been here in the past, she had never noticed just how plain and sparsely it was decorated. When William had lived here, it seemed to fit him so well that Grell had barely noticed. This place was simply a part of William, but now it looked like the neglected set of a somber play. She clucked her tongue disapprovingly as she glanced through all the doors and cabinets. There was no clue where William might be hiding, but she hadn't really expected there to be.

When someone deserted, a file was comprised of their usual haunts or possible hiding spots, but there had been little information on William in that regard. He rarely traveled to the human world and usually only did so when it was absolutely necessary. He had no favorite places to visit or anyone who might be considered even an acquaintance. She had known more information than the file contained, which she recognized as being rather sad. William truly had very little beyond his work.

The soft sound of wings filed the apartment, and she wasn't surprised when a soft, feathery body landed on her shoulder. "Hello, Rosalind," she greeted the plump pigeon, "Do you know where Willy is?"

Rosalind cocked her head slightly and looked at Grell with her dark eyes almost inquisitively. She didn't coo in response, nor did Grell expect her to as William had once told her that female pigeons didn't coo like their male counterparts.

"You must be hungry," Grell reasoned, "now that Will isn't here to feed you." Almost managing a smile, Grell stepped into the kitchen and retrieved the bird seed. Rosalind was practically dancing on her shoulder as Grell poured some into a small dish. "Here you go," she offered, and Rosalind didn't appear to need a second invitation. There was no doubt that she had been quite hungry with the way she devoured the food. "I'll come back and feed you," Grell announced, walking to the door, "so you won't get hungry again." While the pigeon was distracted, she slipped out of the door, but her heart was heavier than ever. While feeding poor Rosalind was a good thing, it only illustrated how helpless she was at the moment. She couldn't really do anything else in this situation, and she hated feeling like this. She just wanted to return things back to how they had been before, but she knew that it was impossible.

A loud tone echoed through their realm as if it was the clanging of a giant bell. The sound reverberated painfully in Grell's head, but she she only looked to the west because she knew what that sound meant. It was time for Ronald's funeral.

Funerals weren't a common occurrence in their realm, although Ronald's was far from the first. Typically it was a reaper who had been killed by a demon, but such an event hadn't happened in a very long time. Reapers who deserted weren't given the formality of respect of an actual funeral after their deaths since they were thought to have died without honor. While it wasn't a written rule, it was frowned upon to even talk about someone who had deserted in any sort of positive or respectful manner, and a funeral was certainly out of the question. After Eric's and Alan's death, their names had been stricken from all of the current records. William had tried to convince Upper Management that Alan hadn't technically deserted since the sickly reaper had been well-liked and many wanted a funeral, but it had been an impossible task as Alan had been discovered without his glasses.

Grell wrapped her arms about herself as she realized that her thoughts always returned to William. Despite the fact that she was walking to the funeral of someone who had died by his hand, she couldn't seem to stop thinking of him. Perhaps he had simply occupied her mind for too long, but she did her best to push her musing aside as she slipped inside the large entrance of the library. There were no churches in their realm, so all funeral were held here. Normally it was fitting since a reaper slain before redemption could be reborn so their memories would be passed to another body along with their soul, but now it almost seemed mocking. Ronald's soul had been ripped from his body cruelly, so there was no chance he would ever be reborn nor could he pass on to any other existence. He was simply gone.

The library was full as Ronald had been a very popular and well-liked young man, but the somberness of the occasion hung on the air like a stifling smoke. Conversations were being held in hushed tones and the occasional glimpse of a tear, glistening like a lost jewel, sometimes winked. They were death, but yet the passing of someone they cared about still affected them. It was almost like being human again but only in the most tragic way.

Grell's steps were solid as she locked her eyes on the the massive, mahogany casket setting silent and alone at the center of the room. Even with their best doctors, Ronald's body had been too badly mutilated to be shown, so the lid to the casket had been sealed shut away from prying eyes. Her hands shook as she walked towards that wretched box; wanting to rip the lock away and toss on the cold, marble floor. It didn't matter how he looked now, that had been her Ronnie, and she had loved him as if he had been her little brother. She deserved to see his face one last time. She resisted the urge, however, as she paused in front of the casket and pulled out a single, red rose from her coat. It was a perfect blossom which had been cut when it was still young and fresh. Like Ronald, it was now doomed to die all too soon. "Goodbye, Ronnie," she whispered as she laid the rose on the casket.

"What are you doing here?" a voice hissed.

Confused and annoyed, Grell turned only to find herself facing Emily. When they had met before, Grell had thought she was an average sort of pretty, but her grief had transformed her. While her reddened, puffy eyes wasn't what most would considered attractive, Grell could see the light of pure anguish shining deep within the green and gold depths of her irises. Her face had taken on a sort of glow as well that seemed to radiate around her like errant lightning. She was truly beautiful in that moment, although Ronald was no longer there to admire her. Grell opened her mouth to answer, but Emily didn't seem prepared to listen to anything she had to say.

"I asked what are you doing here?!" Emily screamed, and her voice echoed off the high ceiling of the library. Conversations around them hushed, and Grell could feel the weight of their eyes. She was used to being stared at since she was the biggest source of gossip at Dispatch, but now it angered her more than usual. Everyone should be focused on Ronald for a change and not her.

"I'm here to pay my respects," Grell replied through clenched teeth.

Emily laughed bitterly. "You have some nerve," she retorted, "How dare you come here when everyone knows you're in love with the bastard that killed Ronald!"

Grell gasped and lunged forward, not quite sure when her death scythe had suddenly appeared in her hand, as Emily jumped backwards only to land on the hard floor with a thud. Although there was fear in her face, that anger never left Emily's eyes as she stared up at Grell defiantly; despite the chainsaw that was now inches from her nose. For her part, Grell took several deep breaths to stop herself from slaughtering Ronald's girlfriend where she sat.

"Just so you know," Grell finally managed, "I plan to kill the beast that took Ronald away." Her voice was almost a growl and the entire library fell silent at the sound of her breath.

With those words, Grell marched from the library and back towards William's house. There had to be some way to find him, and she was going to discover it. As she stomped along, however, she felt the dampness on her cheeks and realized that she had begun to cry. It wasn't well known, but Grell had given up crying many years ago. Since her rebirth, she had promised herself that no one could bring her to tears again. She was strong now, and she had told herself she was beyond tears.

It looked like she had lied.

((x))

Although the house was modest compared to that of their neighbors, the parlor was immaculate and impressive. His mother had seen to that, and even in his youngest years, William could tell that it was important in some way he had yet to comprehend. Company was always escorted to the parlor, and their hushed tones and actions seemed almost more suited to a church, but William hated this room with a passion. For all it's fancy decor and furnishings, the room was haunted.

On the far wall over the fireplace, a single portrait hung of a young man who looked solidly about the room without a trace of a smile or humor, and he was the ghost that haunted this place. His name had been Martin, and he was actually William's older brother who had died before William had been born. Although he looked like an unassuming man in the portrait, and a bit like an older version of William, Martin had left behind an impossible legacy. Everything he had done was perfection and beyond rebuke. He excelled at everything he attempted, and he was the kind of son that every parent dreamed about having one day, until his untimely death.

His parents had mourned his passing, and they had thought they would never have another son, but then William came along. When they saw that he resembled their Martin, they rejoiced in thinking they had another chance at the perfect son, but they're hopes were soon dashed. Despite his best efforts, William just could never compare, and he was always left knowing he was a failure. He just couldn't compere with a ghost.

William could hear his parents in the other room as he slowly moved a chair into place just in front of the painting. He was going to toss that portrait into the fire and be done with it once and for all, even though his knew his parents would be angry. He would take their anger if that meant he would finally be done living in the shadow of a brother he had never even met.

"I hate you," William whispered to the painting, as his small hands took hold of the frame. A horrible, perverse laughter filled the room as he tossed the portrait into the fire and watched as the canvas began to bubble and warp. His brother's face twisted as if in agony, but the laughter only continued, and he figured out that wretched sound was somehow emitting from his own throat. Somehow, William wasn't even surprised.

((x))

William jerked awake almost painfully from the dream as his breath came in ragged gasps. He hadn't intended to fall asleep, nor had even felt tired, but he had undoubtedly succumbed to fatigue for him to fall victim to such an odd dream. Still struggling to catch his breath, he wiped away the sweat that gathered on his brow as he glanced down at the sheet of yellowed paper beneath his arm. A single sentence greeted his eyes. "My brother, Martin, was the perfect son." William had been trying to write a bit about his life, but somehow, those seven words told so much of the story.

That much of the dream had been accurate. His brother had died before he had even been born, but William had been put into constant competition for the ghost of the perfect son. No matter how hard he had tried, he had been haunted the realization that he could never measure up. The one time he had almost been able to succeed in the one area where Martin had failed, fate had found a way to stop him once more. It was then that William had realized that it was simply pointless to even try.

Oddly enough, the dream hadn't been entirely true. While William had been tempted to burn the painting of his brother, his mother had stopped him before he had even taken it down from the wall. He had never tossed into the fire, nor had ever laughed so horribly, but that laugh had still frighteningly familiar. "What's wrong with me?" he questioned aloud.

"Do you really want to know, darling?" asked the all too recognizable voice of Grell from the shadows.

William jumped to his feet as he turned around to face the red reaper. She was sitting on the steps leading down to this room in an almost casual manner, but he detected something very dangerous in her eyes. The candlelight gave her an orange like glow that suited her somehow as it danced off the lenses of her glasses and winked from the sharp blade of her scythe. He took a breath and straightened his form as he looked at her. "I'm surprised to see you, Sutcliff," he stated with false calmness, "How did you find me?"

Grell's smile grew as she leaned forward to reveal Rosalind setting on her shoulder. "You could say that a little bird told me," she replied, "All I had to do was to ask her to deliver a message, although I stopped her from actually giving you the note and waking you up. You appeared to be having a nightmare." Now that she seemed to realize Grell wouldn't stop her, Rosalind flew over and allowed William to remove a letter tied to her leg, which was blank. Her mission completed, she flew up to a rafter and rested comfortably.

"Perhaps," offered William in reference to the dream, although he preferred to change the subject, "I must commend you on using Rosalind. That was rather clever. So, what happens next at this point? Have you already reported my location?"

She shook her head and her crimson hair swished with her movement. "I don't suppose Upper Management ever informed you, love," she said, "about why they were so lenient on me when I was a bad girl not long ago."

"You killed women not on the death list, Sutcliff," he responded, "which I think counts for a bit more than just being, as you say, a bad girl, but you are right that I was never informed why you received so little punishment."

Grell's shrugged. "I didn't think you knew," she said, "They made me a recovery agent. I hunt down all the naughty little deserters. What do you think of that?"

"I didn't know," he replied, "but the occupation does suit you. So, have you come here to take me back to our realm to face punishment."

"Well, no one really cares if I bring you back or not," she explained, "since you were already slated to die for your crimes. Isn't that just perfect, Will? It is up to me to let you live until they kill you, or to kill you now. Either way, I will be your executioner."

"I suppose it is only fitting," he admitted as he took a step back. He actually wanted to submit since he had committed horrible acts and deserved punishment, but just as he knew he couldn't turn himself in, he knew he wouldn't go quietly. "I must warn you. I will resist."

"I know you will," she answered simply as she stood.

For the briefest of moments they simply looked at one another, but Grell was the one to make the first move as she leaped towards William in a blur of movement. William easily dodged as he called forth his own scythe, but he was surprised by how much she had improved since they had last fought. He was still stronger and faster, or at least he assumed that he was, but he had spent far more time behind a desk the last several years while she had remained in the field. It was only natural that her skills had improved.

"It's useless to resist, darling," she announced, rushing him from the front, "This was fated."

"Perhaps it was," he said, "but I still must resist."

"Must you?"

The question caught him off guard as he realized that despite the screaming and torment of his own brain, perhaps he still had some control over his actions. With every ounce of his willpower, he lowed his own scythe and leaned back his head. He only hoped that she would get this over with quickly as he felt cool metal touch his neck.