Saint Grimm and the Daughter of Death

Every culture has a theory concerning the afterlife. The Ancient Egyptians believed that a series of trials took place in the Underworld, and that the goddess of justice weighed a person's heart against a feather. If the heart was light, then that person was worthy of Heaven; if not, it was thrown to be devoured by a beast, and its owner was cast back into the Underworld forever.

This theory was incorrect.

Many cultures also believed in a sort of Angel of Death. There would be a guide, they reasoned, that knew what he was doing. A popular image of this guide was a hooded skeletal being, brandishing a large scythe- the Grim Reaper. Death.

This was partially accurate, although only in the same way that a person's driver's license is good at depicting the person who owns it.

Which is to say, not at all.

 

***

 

Death was currently lounging in his favorite armchair. The television blared lazily in front of him. If you had looked inside Death's window, you would not have known it, because at the moment the Grim Reaper looked nothing like his famous description. For one thing, his bones were covered with flesh, and his flesh was covered by clothing: a pair of corduroy trousers and a green argyle sweater, with his toes occasionally wiggling in their socks.

The 20th century had changed things rather tremendously. Technology these days was more similar to magic than ever, and in the 1990's, Death had finally been persuaded to buy a computer. It amazed him to no end, and with enough prodding and tinkering around from an old friend, he realized that it could do more for him than write eee-lekt-troh-nik letters and make blinky pictures appear on the box.

“Computers are going to be the way of the future, Death.” Acca had predicted. Death listened carefully, as Acca was more in touch with people than he was. Acca was one of the first witches in the world, which made her very wise, powerful, and old. Nearly as old as Death himself, some said that she alone knew and contained the sorcery necessary to destroy him, if she ever chose to. It wasn't hard to believe- her eyes were as fierce as a wolf's, and she could bark like one just as well.

Death tolerated her ferocious spirit like a man tolerates his wife. After thousands of years, he had become used to her company, and her keen insight for modern culture was invaluable to a being whose line of work never changed much and kept him rather distracted. Acca promised him that things were changing fast, and that there were new opportunities for him to change as well.

“I'm Death.” He had reasoned, “How do you expect me to change?”

Acca had mentioned settling down. Death shrugged. She suggested he could take up a hobby. He hmmed, but didn't seem interested. Then Acca had shown him the internet.

“What changes did you have in mind?”

 

 

What resulted from that conversation was the N. Com. It stood for “Netherworld Computer”, and there was only one that existed. Upon a glance, it looked like a regular PC, with a unique operating system that carefully resembled Windows 95. The hardware looked innocent enough, although if you were a scientist or just a very passionate metal-enthusiast, you might have been able to discover that the metals of which the computer was built with did not technically exist. This may have confused you, unless you also knew that the metals came from another dimensional plane that humans only went to when they died.

It was the same material as the blade on the Deathscythe, which was very important. Any kind of metal, when sharpened, can cut things. An ax can cut trees. A pair of scissors can cut paper. A knife can cut your finger if you're not careful, or your dinner. And a sharpened pendulum can cut a man in half, if you're into that sort of thing. But no metal on earth is capable of cutting the spirit, which cannot be seen. A slice across your soul can tear you from your body without a physical trace. Only one weapon was capable of such a job, and that was the Deathscythe. The metal in the blade was only capable of tearing souls, which was what Death liked about it. There was still a body left behind for the living to put on display. Funny ritual, Death thought, to put each other in little pine boxes and bury them in dirt. It wasn't like the body cared or anything.

The metal was what truly made the machine unique. Acca had taken her time to learn codes, but she cheated when it came to her own creation. Magic helped in a lot of ways, and in this case it was magic that helped run the system. With the N. Com., computers had finally done for Death what they had done for everyone else: it had taken his job.

 

 

This was all very well and good, Acca thought. Although the old bat hadn't transitioned to normalcy as well as she had hoped. It was a start when he had chosen a more human name, although the name “Oswald” wasn't really what she had hoped for.  Acca was prone to change her name every 70 years or so, to keep from sounding archaic. Her current name was Veronica, although she was considering renaming herself Michelle in about 20 more years. It sounded less like a secretary and more like a CEO.

Acca drove up to the house that was marked 042, and parked in the driveway. What a stupid thing to call the place you parked, but that was people for you. She walked to Death's door and rang the doorbell. It chimed a cheerful little tune, and she waited.

Death opened the door, and his face looked a little crestfallen. “Oh, it's you, Acca.” He smiled to mask his disappointment, and pushed a large pair of spectacles over the bridge of his nose. “I was just watching the picture box you gave me. The tell-eee-vih-shun.” He gestured towards the mentioned device, which was currently displaying a bald man on a talk show.

Acca had to bite back her sarcasm. She was here to propose an idea, after all. Something that might force him to come to grips with the modern age, and understand people the way she did. It couldn't be easy relating to how people lived if you had only ever paid attention to how they died.

Instead, she tried to make a joke. “Were you expecting someone a little younger?” she tried teasingly.

“Yes, actually.” Death said seriously. “A little girl named Samantha. I wanted to, ah, buy something.”

Acca raised a suspicious eyebrow, and began to swiftly march towards the kitchen. Death stood in her way.

“Let me through, old man.”

“It's kind of a mess in there, you know... didn't expect company today...”

“I'm not bothered.” Acca pushed him aside only to look past. The kitchen was littered with several colorful boxes, all emptied of their contents. The witch sighed in annoyance.

“Did you spend all your money on those?” She asked, already guessing the reply.

“Yes.” Death's answer sounded guilty.

If looks could kill.

“I'm sorry!” Death stammered. “But they were so adorable in those little uniforms, and they smiled at me, and... I never saw a little girl smile at me so sweetly before! And the cookies! They were delicious! I've never had time for sweets before, you know, and let me tell you how it felt to finally taste a thin mint...”

So he babbled his excuses and Acca rolled her eyes. Men were so typical, even supernatural ones.

“Money, Oswald, money.” Acca reminded him harshly. The use of his new human name seemed to snap Death into focus, and he nodded.

“I should have realized better.” He said.

“Damn right you should have.” Acca sniffed. “I came in to check to see how you were getting along, by the way. It looks like I'll have to be loaning you more funds.”

“Yes, it seems to be that way.” Death said, embarrassed.

“May I remind you that these are loans, and must be paid back?”

“Of course.”

“I could wait thousands of years for you to pay me back, you know. Do you realize how much interest that will be?”

“You really are an old witch.” Death said with a smile. Acca smirked.

“And you're an old fool, like you've always been.”

Death did not rise to the insult. He was accustomed to Acca's name-calling, and rather enjoyed it.

“Speaking of,” She continued purposefully, “I've realized that you're still living alone.”

“Hmm?” Death looked at her oddly. “How is that foolish?”

“The elderly shouldn't live alone.” She jabbed. “Although in all seriousness, I mean it. I thought you'd have been trying to mingle with humans a little more.”

“Well, I mingled with that little Samantha.” Death said thoughtfully, patting a slightly protruding belly.

“That doesn't count, numbskull. Girl Scouts hardly qualify as human contact.” There was a hint of humor in her tone, but her eyes were set in business.

“Then what does?” Death asked sulkily.

“Have you thought of taking up a hobby? Joining a club? Meeting a group of old geezers at a hospice you could talk to?” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, the world is out there. It's wide and interesting. Maybe you'd even find a little lady friend, hm?”

“Oh.” Death actually blushed. He had seen things on the picture box that had suddenly given him ideas. “I'm not sure I could do that...”

“What's stopping you, old man? Join us, the 21st century is on its way, and you're just sitting in your chair and eating thin mints!”

Death balked. “I'm not sure, it's too soon to think of all that, isn't it?”

It was too late to protest. Acca knew he would keep thinking about it until he convinced himself to try.

“Nervous about joining the dating scene? A smooth-looking fossil like yourself has nothing to fear.” She smiled like a knife.

The jab worked. “I don't look old, thank you very much.” Death said rather hotly. “Why, tons of women have offered themselves to me in the past-”

“-As a bargaining tool, while you held a scythe against their throats.” Acca feigned a yawn. “Really romantic, Oswald.”

“I just don't think, at this time...”

“No time like the present, I always say, my old friend.” Acca winked. “Besides, maybe you'll be lucky and find a woman who can actually bake for you. Imagine that, if you will. No more sulking around, waiting for little girls to ring your doorbell.”

“Hm.” It was very convincing. “Perhaps...”

“You could start a family.” Acca continued. As much as a woman would help this guy sort himself out, a youngster would be able to keep him aware of the changing decades.

Death thought of a sitcom he had watched. Family life looked complicated, but amusing. “You think I could?” He asked hopefully.

“Of course you could. Wouldn't you like that?” She paused for him to think. “A son, maybe, you could teach. Show him how to wield a Deathscythe, have a real Kodak moment together.”

“A what?” Death scratched his nose with a look of confusion.

“It's a type of camera... an expression... oh, you know what I was trying to say.”

“A son.” Death echoed. He smiled to himself, appearing idyllic. Yes, a son would be very nice. His chest swelled at the thought. A father-and-son duo. Classic!

Acca knew she had him hooked on the plan. “Maybe you should join a class or something, that's a good way to meet people. Might I suggest gourmet cooking? Women go wild over a man in an apron.”

“If that's a good idea.” Death decided.

“Of course it is, I thought of it didn't I? I'm happy for you.”

The rest of the visit involved Acca chatting casually with her old friend, and a checkup on the N. Com.  It worked remarkably well, but it never hurt to be extra careful. It was a sensitive invention, after all. Invaluable. It almost insulted Acca when she realized that Death commonly liked to use it to play solitaire, but since it did no harm she didn't say anything.

Finally, it came time for Acca to make her leave. She bid Death a farewell and drove away, tapping her fingernails against the steering wheel contemplatively. Who would want such a behind-the-times simpleton like Oswald?

He'd figure it out for himself, she supposed. It would be interesting to see how this went. She really hoped it worked.

 

***

 

It worked much faster than Acca had anticipated.

Death had joined the cooking class she suggested, and met a nice woman named Lenore. Lenore found the man she believed to be called Oswald endearing, and somehow the reaper had managed to not screw things up. The circumstances were almost all too perfect, but Acca was relieved that Death was doing something with his time, and had finally started calling the funny picture box in his living room a “television”.  Acca had been introduced once when she visited for the N. Com.'s regular inspection, and had to notice that Lenore was a rather fetching young lady. She had also noticed Death's erratic behavior the entire time, during which he had looked rather flustered and a bit red-faced. Such a funny world it was, Acca had surmised in her head. She bid the two a good day and reported that all was well with the machine before driving off.

She hoped it would stay that way.

 

***

 

A tight feeling crept up her throat. Acca forced herself to swallow it, and nearly choked.

Why didn't my magic help her? Her thoughts buzzed like agitated wasps. Questions stung her from the inside of her head. Was it because of him being a...?

“Acca!” Death rushed into the room, and stopped. His eyes froze, taking in the scene, and the reality struck him where it hurt.  With wobbly legs, he came closer. “Len?”

Acca held her breath. She watched his face, waiting for his expression to change. Would he turn on her for not doing more?

It had been a foolish idea in retrospect. Acca wished she could take it back, somehow. A child conceived from the entity of death would surely come with a toll. Why hadn't she thought of that?

Although Acca expected Death's face to contort with anger, it never did. Instead, his features fell apart, and he wept. His hands shot out to grip onto hers tightly, and his body shook as he tried to call her back.

It was just awful to see. Death was, of course, accustomed to watching humans die. He had just never grown specially fond of any of them before it happened. Once people died, they would go to either Heaven, Purgatory, or the Underworld. Death had never been to Heaven, and he couldn't follow Lenore there.

“I'm sorry, Death...”

“My son.” Death suddenly seemed sharp. “Where is my son?”

Acca snapped out of it. The baby, of course! She turned her full attention to it now. How could she have forgotten it?

She realized why with a cold dread. The baby had not been crying.

“Not you too, kid!” Acca screamed, giving the child a swift smack on the bottom. There were still no cries. Death became stiff with tension.

“Don't tell me...” His voice was low-pitched. It was scary.

“Hang on!” Acca hissed. She placed her fingertips against the little one's chest. Small sparks emitted from them and crawled inside the infant's body. Please work.

A tiny heart began to beat. Acca concentrated, sending sparks of magic into the baby's chest. Come on, you're doing great! Keep beating that heart, little guy.

An uncomfortable squirm, and then frantic wailing. Acca relaxed. The baby was going to be alright.

“My son...” Death was relieved. “Let me see my son...”

“Hold your horses, papa.” Acca said shakily. “Let me clean him off.”

She picked the little baby up, and went to wash the blood away from his body. When she realized something else.

“Hey, Death...” She said with a small smile, “I think you might want to see this little boy of yours...”

“Is something wrong?” Death was frantically concerned.

“Oh, there might be.” Acca was smirking. She was still quite an old witch.

 

 

People thought the boy was called Saint because of his angelic features. Let them think that if they wished, because it wasn't hard to believe. After all, Saint was boyishly handsome. With lofty golden hair, boldly blue eyes, and a white smile, it looked like he could grow up to be in the movies. It was a shame because his mother would have been delighted to provide him with acting lessons, if not for the cost.

Saint had been very young when his father disappeared. His mother, distraught, had struggled to find ways to support herself and her baby, but somehow they had survived. Although Saint couldn't remember his father, he still felt the ache of the loss by listening to his mother, who would sometimes cry at night, and hold him close to her while whispering, “My precious little boy, such a saint for putting up with his mother like this...”

He would close his eyes and let her murmurs lull him to sleep. Sometimes he wondered where his father could possibly be, and wondered if it were because of him that he left. He felt terrible for whatever it was that he did.

By the time he was ten years old, Saint knew the circumstances of his life weren't perfect. He lived with his mother in a motel, which he hardly spent any time in. At times, his mother would send him away to spend nights or weekends at another child's house, until that child's parents realized who his mother was. After that, Saint was hardly ever welcomed back. So instead, Saint would lie to his mother about going to spend the night with someone else, and he'd spend the night tucked in a storage closet with the extra pillows and sheets. Saint didn't like to lie to her, so he told himself it was acting.

It was also acting whenever he pulled a smile onto his face every day. He'd shoot one at his mother whenever she looked at him, and it always cheered her up a little. He also smiled around the other children, and he smiled around his teachers. No one ever caught on to the act.

He even smiled at the girl who lived at house 042. She never smiled back. Saint often wondered if she were sad about something.

 

***

 

The little girl hadn't been exactly the bundle of joy that Acca had hoped she would be. Somehow, the child had been able to keep him happy, so it probably didn't matter. The girl had been named Raven, which was a nice name, if not excruciatingly cliché. Still, you had to remember who had named her.

The first few years had been terrible on him. When he had reverted to calling televisions “moving picture boxes” again, it had made Acca worried. She didn't think he'd ever snap out of his grief-stricken stupor.

Little Raven had saved him from losing all touch with reality. She didn't know it of course, but she had become the center of his entire world. At first, Acca had tried to intervene, explaining to Death that his doting manner would produce a spoiled child. She needn't have worried, because Raven was as interested in becoming spoiled as a cat was interested in getting its paws wet. Also, Death wasn't about to listen to the advice anyway, he enjoyed indulging his only child. She was quiet, polite, and intelligent, like a little girl from a horror film. It was spooky.

It made her dad happy though, and that's what counted. He would often retell the story of how he had met Lenore, the girl's mother, and recount the details surrounding the birth of the daughter who had no heartbeat. Raven listened intently, her soft face growing more solemn each time, and after he kissed her goodnight she would silently stare against the wall, a pensive expression in her eyes.

 

 

No one ever wanted to play with Raven. She was often alone at recess, where she would sit against the wall with all of the detention kids. Teachers would smile at her kindly and remind her that she wasn't in detention, but she never answered to them. It was as though she hadn't even heard them. Once, a teacher tried to shoo her away forcefully, mistaking Raven's apathetic attitude for laziness. In reply, Raven had begun to recite a cryptic-sounding poem, and wasn't bothered about it again.

That girl gave everyone the creeps.

Everyone, that is, except only one. There's always an exception to every rule. This exception was a boy, slightly older, though not by much. He had pretty features and a smile that belonged in Hollywood. Whenever he passed the house and saw Raven, he'd flash that dazzling smile at her. Other little girls might have been smitten by the gesture. Raven, on the other hand, seemed to look past him, her expression stoic.

Raven wasn't the kind of child Acca had in mind, but children never are.

 

***

 

One of the housekeeping staff had prodded Saint awake. He always felt embarrassed whenever they caught him in their supply closet, but they never really yelled at him for it. They probably knew why he had to be there.

He decided to go to the lobby and have a muffin. The muffins were prepackaged, but they tasted alright, so Saint helped himself as usual. It was a chilly morning in autumn, and it would be the start of a day that Saint could never forget.

Once his unceremonious breakfast was finished, Saint threw the wrapper into a bin and walked back to his room. 313 was the brass number on the green door. He opened the door, but did not go inside. Something was wrong. Saint shook involuntarily, while his heart jumped into his throat.

“Mom?” He carefully called. “Mom?”

He stepped inside, fearful for the silence that waited for him. The white sheets were stained, and jumped out at him like a scream. His mind rattled with possible explanations, because the first one that came to him wasn't acceptable.

Saint checked the closet, then the bathroom. Both were empty. Maybe she had gone to breakfast, and he had been simply too tired to notice her walk past him. That could be it. Or, he would find her somewhere else in this room.

Saint looked downward, and his head began to spin. Stains were in the carpet. Slowly, carefully, he lifted a blanket that had fallen to the floor, thinking he saw something poking out.

 

 

Saint had run as far away as he could from the motel. What he had seen under the bed would haunt him for the rest of his life, and he was terrified. What would happen to him once someone found him? He had no home, no mother, and no friends. He was all alone now, good as dead. Saint wanted to cry, so he let himself fall over and weep. The unfairness of his mother's death swirled around him, and he wished himself to be the same way.

Slowly, Saint became faintly aware of someone watching him. He looked up to see that he had somehow managed to run all the way to house 042 without stopping. The sad girl was in her yard again, watching him with her blank eyes. She looked like a spirit to him, wearing a black dress that starkly contrasted her ghostly complexion. He suddenly felt furious with her. How dare she look so miserable? She didn't know what misery was truly like!

“What are you looking at?!” He snapped sharply. The girl stared at him. “Stop it!”

The girl stood silent for a moment longer, but then began to speak in a monotonous voice.

 

“How shall the ritual, then, be read? -the requiem how be sung

By you -by yours, the evil eye, -by yours, the slanderous tongue

That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

 

The girl spoke of death. Saint shivered slightly. How did she know?

“What do you mean by that?” He asked accusingly.

 

“Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song

Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!

The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,

Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride -

For her, the fair and debonnaire, that now so lowly lies,

The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes -

The life still there, upon her hair -the death upon her eyes.”

 

“You make no sense!” Saint snarled irritably. “What are you talking about?” The first time she had ever spoken, and it had to be incomprehensible!

“It's a poem.” The girl said factually. “Written by a dead man, about a dead woman.”

“A poem with a bunch of dead people? Who would want to hear something like that?” Saint asked, rather offended.

“Death is only natural.” The girl sniffed. “A day will come when you will die. That day comes for everybody.”

“You're weird.” Saint said coldly. “Why would you want to think about it? I wish I didn't.” Thoughts flashed back to the blood-stained motel room, and he shivered.

“I think of it because it is what I am.” She said quietly. “I am death.”

“Shut up. You're not.”

“I am.” She insisted. “I was born into this world without a heartbeat. I was born dead, and I took the life of my mother to live. I am death, it is my namesake.”

Saint stared at her.

“If you're death, then I hate you.” Saint said at last. “I hate death!”

The girl's dark eyes flashed. “Death is inevitable.”

“I don't care! It's stupid and unfair! Why did my mom have to die?!” He had risen his voice, and was almost in her face. “If you're death, then tell me why!”

Saint could almost see her reply in his own mind's eye. It was the same reply as the others' would be, if he had asked them why his mother had been killed.

“Because your mother was a wh-”

“SHUT UP!” He screamed angrily, punching one of them in the face. It wasn't until he had already done it when he realized he had actually punched the girl instead. She had nearly fallen over in surprise, but had somehow kept her balance. In spite of his anger, the goodness of his heart kicked in, and Saint tried to apologize profusely.

The girl blinked, but didn't seem hurt. She looked at him sharply, and a cold feeling swept over Saint's entire body. He actually shivered from loss of heat.

“What have you done?” She asked quietly.

“I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hit you-” Saint suddenly went silent, watching the girl in awe. Her dark irises seemed to expand, making the entire eye look like a black abyss. Her pale skin, by some strange occurrence, was not flushing red, but a stony gray. Darker and darker her skin turned, becoming blacker with every second. It was like looking at a silhouette.

Saint saw images flash before his eyes. Without his consent, his mind replayed the events of his past. He saw his mother underneath the bed, and he saw her alive, cradling him in the night, whispering “My handsome little boy, such a saint for putting up with this wretched life.”. He saw the faces of children looking at him curiously, and the hands of their mothers tugging them away.

“Stay away from that boy. I don't want you near him.”

Tears stung behind his eyes. Saint didn't let it ever show, but the rejection hurt. He watched as little by little, people began to turn away from him and his mother. No one had ever tried to help them. It was their stupid faults that she was dead, too.

“Mom, why did dad leave?” He remembered asking.

“I don't know, Saint. Things just have to happen sometimes. He always said his business was dangerous. It was always a secret. Perhaps...”

“Is dad dead?”

Saint could see the look of defeat on her face. He didn't want to watch that memory anymore, so it changed. He watched things he didn't remember happening, but now that he saw them he did. He was surprised to see himself with his mother and a man, and wondered  for a moment if it was a memory of his dad.

“One day, kid, I'll show you what it is that daddy does.” The man said with a smile, kissing Saint's infant head.

“Oh, but you won't tell your own wife?” His mother's voice sounded teasing, but there were hints of another conversation hidden in the way she spoke. Regardless of the accusation, his mother sounded rather happy. It was so different from what Saint was used to.

“Family trade, sweetheart. Blood relations only.” It was a kind tone, but punctuated with seriousness.

Before he could remember more of his father, he was swept away with a memory of bright lights. Saint became vaguely aware that he had been in a hospital, and he saw himself surrounded by smiling faces, and felt his mother holding him protectively against her chest. He remembered feeling so warm and tight in that embrace, and resting against the rise and fall of her chest as she cooed to him.

I remember being born. Saint thought. Impossible!

Although it is true that it's impossible for the brain to remember these things, it was not the brain that Saint had been looking through. Each memory belonged to the soul, which never forgot at all.

Saint was brought back to reality with a cold tug, and he saw the eerie girl that looked like a shadow. His heart thumped wildly against his ribs, and his entire body shook. He felt light-headed and very afraid.

“What do you want?!” Saint shouted fearfully, “I'm sorry I hit you, I really am!”

The girl said nothing, but began to walk towards him. She outstretched an arm towards him. Saint panicked.

“I'm sorry!” He repeated desperately, “I'm really scared of you, okay? Don't hurt me! Are you going to kill me? I don't want to die yet! Please!”

She stopped. The blackness began to fade, and her irises shrank to a normal size. Saint could scarcely believe it.

Was I making stuff up in my head? He wondered. Did seeing my mom make me go crazy?

Her body returned to normal. Saint held his breath, wondering what would happen. She looked sad again.

“Everyone is afraid of me. They all hate me.” She said regretfully.

“That's not true.” Saint tried to say, “I don't hate you, really.”

She gave a doubtful glare. “You already said you did.”

Saint shook his head to try and convince her. “Nah, I didn't mean that- I mean, I was just upset...”

“Your mother is dead.” The girl said. Saint nodded. “I saw your life. I know why you're sad.” She looked distant. “I'm sad too.”

“Why? Why are you always so sad? Just staring into space and talking about dead people... I can't imagine living a life only doing that stuff.”

The girl's eyes refocused, actually looking at him. “My name is Raven.” She said. “My mother is also dead. Her name was Lenore.”

“I'm... sorry.” Saint said, and meant it. “That sounds like a pretty name.”

“It was the name of the dead girl in the poem,” Raven continued. “and I am named after a poem as well. My namesake is of the messenger who brought news of Lenore's death. It's only appropriate.”

Saint tried very hard to make sense of Raven's talking, but it was too hard. “I'm sorry, but what-?”

 

“Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'”

 

“You're not making sense anymore.” Saint sighed. “Listen, I'm sorry about your mom, but-” He began to try to convince not only the strange girl, but himself, of the truth- “The dead are dead. The living are alive. When people die, it just happens. We don't... we don't die with them. We feel sad, but we live.”

Raven contemplated this. “I can't.” She said decidedly. “I'm not like you.”

“You're a kid!” Saint exclaimed. “C'mon, haven't you ever done anything fun?”

“I read, mostly.” Said Raven. “Or I like to draw.”

“Do you ever play games?” Saint asked hopefully. Raven shook her head, and he balked. “What?!”

“No one comes near me.” Raven said dejectedly.

“Yeah, because you're a little weirdo that talks about dead poem people.” Saint rolled his eyes. “That's not really very friendly.”

Raven stood stiffly. She sensed something about this boy, but she had never encountered anyone like him before.

“Who are you?” She asked. It was a reasonable question.

“Oh, sorry. Um, people call me Saint.”

“Is that your real name?”

“No...” Saint looked embarrassed. “My mom just called me that a lot... so...”

“Do you have a last name, Saint?”

“Yeah, of course I do. It's 'Grimm', two m's.” He smiled sheepishly. “What's your last name?” He asked slyly.

“Reaper.” Raven said, trying to mimic his smile.

“Hm. 'Grimm' and 'Reaper'. That's funny, sort of.” Saint laughed nervously. “Especially after what happened today. All this talk about dead people...” He laughed more.

Raven's smile grew a little more, and she made a muffled sound. Was it a laugh too?

Saint tapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, that's a first, isn't it?” He asked teasingly.

Raven laughed, and her face appeared much brighter now. She was less creepy and more human.

“Yes.” She admitted. “But it feels... good.”

“Then you should laugh more often.” Saint straightened himself. Making the sad girl happy? It was contagious. “I can help, if you'd like.”

“I would.” Raven said. Saint nodded.

“Then you have my word!”

 

 

A person was watching them from inside the house. He was smiling broadly to himself, his heart swelling with joy. It had almost burst when he heard Raven laugh- she sounded so beautiful, just like her mother.

“Something the matter, Death?” Acca was preoccupied with checking up on the N. Com. again, but she had detected a change in her friend's demeanor.

“It's Raven.” Death said, gazing out the window fondly. “Did you hear her? She was laughing.”

“Laughing?” Acca perked her head towards the window, though Death's head blocked her view of the girl. “Since when does the spawn of Death laugh? Did she watch a dog get run over by a car?”

“My daughter isn't like that.” Death said sternly. “She's just-” He tried to find the right word, but gave up.

Acca decided to cut into the silence. “She's much too preoccupied with her mother's tragedy. It really spooks people, you know.”

“She's like me, then.” Death added. Acca sighed.

“None of us are responsible for an accident. I've told you already.” She got up to walk towards the window, gently nudging Death to scoot over. Raven looked less rigid today. There was a boy with her, too. “Looks like Raven's found a playmate. If she doesn't scare him off.”

“His name is Anthony Grimm.” Said Death. It was the sort of thing he always knew. Acca looked thoughtful.

“Reminds me of someone. Name sounds familiar?”

“All names sound familiar at some point.” His eyes suddenly flashed remorsefully. “Oh, dear.”

“What?” Acca turned sharply towards him. She had felt his realization rush over her as it did to him.

“His parents. They're dead.” It was the other sort of thing he always knew.

“So he'll be sent to an orphanage.” Acca surmised. “Pity, we might not see him around again.”

Death was thinking.

“He might not be.” Said Death. Acca raised an eyebrow.

“Don't tell me you're adopting? You want two children reciting Gothic poetry?”

“Acca, that boy has been the only thing to make my Raven smile. I was afraid for so long that she wasn't even capable of feeling emotions, being that she's- well, not actually human. I don't want to lose her- and so, I can't afford to lose him.”

Acca could see his point. “So you want to save your daughter's humanity.”

“I want her to be happy, Acca. She needs a friend, right?”

“Well, certainly-”

“Then she'll hopefully find one in her new brother.” Death's mind seemed made up.

Acca let him make the decision and went back to checking up on the N. Com. A few years ago, someone had attempted to break it apart, so she had to utilize more spells to prevent the computer from being destructible. What a mess that had been! Not everyone approved of progress, apparently.

Meanwhile, Death had gone outside to greet his newest “son”. Saint looked uncertainly at Death and then at Raven, as if asking her if he were allowed to be there.

“It's okay.” Raven said. She looked up at the man who had approached them. “Hello, father.”

Death gave his daughter a gentle smile. “Is this your friend?” He asked kindly.

“Yes.” Said Raven. Saint nodded a confirmation.

“What's your name, son?”

“My name is Saint, sir.” No one could accuse Saint of being without his manners, even when he used his alias.

“That's an interesting name, Saint.” Said Death. “My name is Oswald, I'm Raven's father. Where did you come from?”

“I... I live with my mother.” Saint lied. Well, it used to be the truth, anyway.

“Oh? Where do you two live?”

Saint blushed. “In a... motel.” He said carefully.

“That doesn't seem like a very stable place to live. Where is your mother now?”

“She's in the motel room.” That part was honest, at least.

“Hmm.” Death seemed to regard him carefully. “You ought to come inside, I think you'll find it much nicer than a motel room. I have cookies.” He added.

“His mother is dead, father.” Raven informed him. Saint froze.

“That's terrible.” Death looked genuinely sympathetic for the boy. “Do you have anyone else you could stay with?”

Saint felt himself grow dizzy again. This man was going to send him away to live at some awful orphanage, where no one would adopt him because of who his mother had been...

“Yes.” Saint lied again. He just couldn't bear the thought of being trapped in some miserable building, being silently judged by adults.

“No.” Raven ratted him out. Saint silently cursed her. Some friend she was turning out to be...

Then she took his arm and linked it with her own. Saint was startled. “If it's okay with you, father, I think he should stay here. We have a room we don't use for anyone, we could give it to him.”

Saint's heart beat wildly in anticipation. Would Raven actually save him?

Finally, Death gave his daughter a nod. “I think you could use a brother.”

Saint could hardly believe his luck. Raven smiled for the second time, and began to lead him inside.

“I'll show you the room you can have.” She said. “I have some toys in my room, I don't play with them. You can have them if you want.”

“Sure...” Saint was bewildered. He wasn't sure what he should be feeling at the moment, but decided to let things happen and just go with it. Once he settled in he could mourn.

The two disappeared up a flight of stairs. Acca looked impressed.

“Just keep an eye on the boy. When they get older, he's going to be a handsome devil.”

Death seemed unconcerned. “I know my Raven. She'll only see him as a brother, don't worry.”

Acca smirked wickedly. “Your daughter won't be a bad looker, either.”

“Then I'll have to take the boy's soul.” It was a joke, though he could mean it if he wanted to.