"Bea. Bea. Bea. Bea, Bea, Bea!" A short boy with a mop of ginger hair ran down the corridor, trying to keep up with his taller and older (but not by much!) colleague. His thin whisper extended into a reedy shout as Beatrice turned a corner, in complete disregard of her frustrated servant friend. The tips of her long dark braids rose behind her like wings as she walked swiftly through the corridors of the castle. It was a warm summer night, and the castle seemed empty, were it not for the pair that was being a bit noisy. Even for servants, they normally weren't up and about this late, but they had a job to do. A more secret job from everything else.

They had a man's soul to acquire.

The boy, called Bill by his friends and 'hey you' by everyone else, finally caught up with Beatrice, whom he grabbed by the arm and stopped, a cross expression on his face. "You know I can't walk as fast as ya! Slow down, ey?" His accent was that of someone from Gale's high country, lilting and sweet, and this time a little indignant. It wasn't common to hear in the capital, so he usually kept his slang to himself or disguised his accent so people wouldn't make fun of him. "There's no need to rush. He's not going anywhurr." Even as Bill said it, his feet shuffled slightly in a sort of unconscious impatience. He wasn't as zealous about watching the memories of the dead as Beatrice was, but he liked to feel busy. Even when he had been a toddler, he fiddled and played with whatever he could get his grubby little hands on.

Bill stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, taking overly dramatic breaths, puffing his chest in and out. After a moment he nodded. "A'right, let's go now," he said, voice filled with imaginary authority. He liked to think he kept Bea's more wild personality at bay and taught her proper manners, but it was more likely the outgoing girl rubbed off on him. But, at least, he still didn't swear.
They continued walking through the corridors before they made a sharp right into a courtyard with a big marble fountain where an statue of the King stood proud in the middle, water pouring out of his drawn broadsword. Bill pointed it out while simultaneously ridding himself of an itch under his nose. "I bet that ninny-goat hasn't wielded a sword in yurrs." If ever, he added to himself, pondering when Gale had last been at war. There were fights between the different groups within the kingdom, of course, but they hadn't had to defend their borders for a long time against human threat. The empire of Kumati to the east was peaceful, and loved to trade their spices and dyes for meats and tools. The people of Shepai, to the north and northwest, kept to themselves. Gale's territory spread to the sea in the west and south. It was safe in the kingdom for all.

if you excluded The Dragon, at least.

He was a scourge that had come to the land many years ago. Before Bill was born, at least, but after the King came to the throne. He stole and killed, burning down villages whenever he was in a bad mood. Few people had ever seen him and survived, except looking up at him in the skies. His name from stories was Karkherand, but Bill wasn't sure if Dragons really knew about names, so savage were they. They took livestock and treasure, stole from peasants, merchants, and royals in equal measure. Bill hated Karkherand. If he were able to, he would find him, and pierce a sword right through the creature's heart without remorse. But the Devil didn't let Reapers do much.

Bill bent down and scooped up a stick on the ground, brandishing it like a mighty weapon. He went to the edge of his balance on one foot, jabbing it fiercely at the stone dodo by the King's right foot. Dodos were very common in Gale, used in farming and as companions. Apparently everyone in the King's court had a dodo because of some strange tradition no one remembered. Apparently the creatures were supposed to be magic too, but Bill thought that was rubbish. He touched back down on two legs and began tracing the stick in the ground lightly while walking. "You got a sword, and I got a funny axe thingie. You know, they didn't even ask what I liked. You ever hurr of a knight with a funny axe?" Bill thought to the weapon on his belt, chewing his cheek out of habit.

A sudden mighty crashing noise came from within the corridors of the castle. Bill leaped up in self-defense, a jump surprising for one of such short stature. As he landed he realized the noise had been caused by a cheeky dodo that was very much alive and not made of marble, that had somehow knocked down a decorative suit of armour in the hall. Bill shot a glance at Bea in slight embarrassment at his response to the noise, then scampered over to the fallen equipment.

The dodo hadn't run from the danger, being absolutely stupid, and instead warbled at Bill in curiosity. "Well git on, dumb dodo," Bill warbled back, attempting to shoo the creature away. The dodo tilted its head, staring at Bill with friendly eyes. Bill rolled his eyes, getting on his knees to grab the helmet of the fallen soldier figure. Boy, was it heavy. Bill strained to get it back on the post, reaching on his tip-toes before finally sticking it on, just a little bit crooked. He was no perfectionist, and continued to assemble the behemoth of metal.

Bill couldn't imagine wearing something like what he was looking at now, with its chain undershirt and straps and heavy, heavy pieces. He was fine with his light servant's cloth. But maybe, a chest-plate and the skirty-thing that was attached to it would look mighty fine.... He stared at the armour for a few more moments before noticing that the dodo was still gazing at him. "Whatdeye want?" Bill chirped, glancing at the bird through narrow eyes. A membrane came over the dodo's eyes, like it was trying to blink seductively.

Bill did not want to be seduced by a dodo.

"Shoo," Bill flapped his arms. The dodo didn't move, but began wiggling its own wings and making a 'chuck chuck chuck' noise in the back of its throat. Oh no, thought Bill, maybe I've initiated some sort of mating dance? It was a well-bred one, with good wing composition, bill structure, and body shape. Of course, Bill was no expert, but he had helped all kinds of people in the castle, including the King's Royal Dodo Breeder. Bill could see dark blue and cream, with a little bit of white on the wings and on the neck in a little band that looked like a collar, or a choker necklace. It was kind of cute, in a birdy way.

Bil gave the dodo a final side glance before turning back to the courtyard. "Sorry, Bea. That stupid do-" Bill felt something headbutt his calf, almost bringing him to the ground from the force. He turned indignantly, to find that the dodo had followed him into the courtyard. Its speckled tail feathers were waggling like a dog's might.

"Oh my ged," Bill sighed, ruffling his hair, "it thinks I'm its mam or sumthin'." He glanced to the dodo, then to Bea, before turning his back on them both and walking several paces. Sure enough, when he turned back, the dodo was right behind him, looking pleased as pudding.

"Ehhhhh...." Bill let out a noise that was a mixture of distress and annoyance. He looked up to his friend. "I think this thing's going to follow us," he said, "I only hope he doesn't mind looking at ded bodies." He clapped suddenly, nodding firmly. "We've got ta get going or we'll miss 'im!"

He let Bea lead the way now. As much as Bill didn't like it, she was the more confident of the pair, and the leading compass.

Bill only hoped he could keep rank above the bloody dodo.

_________________

Beatrice, an orphan rendered servant and friendly, part-time medieval demon’s assistant, generally treated every reaping job, one after the other, with an extended enthusiasm that reflected her increasingly faster, echoing pitter-patters as she flew towards her target. Today was a special case, however, for the elderly man that they were about to review the memories of was none other than the King’s (and all of Gale’s for that matter) beloved, noble Duke Curtis himself! Admired, respected, living among riches and attending parties that peasant children like herself could only dream of… “Oh, how grand his memories must be, Bill-!” She harshly whispered with a grin, wisps of hair floating by her face as she scratched her head at the base of one of her pigtails. “‘Ey, do ye think we could observe him beforehand en study ho-”

Oh.

Bill’s annoyed grip pinned Beatrice’s tangent back to the ground. She raised her eyebrows as her grey rags abruptly sunk back to her legs and swivelled to face the boy, seemingly surprised by his expression. “Ah, heh, sorry, you’re right, Bill. But!" A friendly poke brushed the boy's shoulder. "We ne’er usually get someone just as important as this fellow. I’m excited.” Her voice was high pitched but mellow in tonality; an odd mixture of proper language observed through listening to conversations between nobility in the castle, and Gale’s street colloquials that were most predominantly heard in the general public’s local taverns late into the night. Admittedly, even the swearing side of a drunken peasant filtered into her voice when the mood persuaded her, amused that Bill, probably being exposed to such language himself all the time, would find it so scandalous. For a moment, Bill's puffing chest rose and fell more intently than the girl realised. Whoops. What a friend I am, she thought, patting him on the back. Well, maybe it was a little bit too hard of a back pat, but just as caring all the same, until the sheep-haired boy announced them ready to get back on track.

The two of them pursued deeper into the shadows of the corridor and around the bend to the elegant courtyard. Tranquil water hitting the rock of the fountain created ambience over the otherwise eerie quiet of their nighttime pilgrimage. She snorted a snicker at Bill's comment. "Ninny-goat-! Heh, more so a ninny-ass." Bill did have a point, though. Besides the strains of hierarchy and class establishing some forms of tension, the Kingdom of Gale and its residents were relatively peaceful. Good thing that it was, for Beatrice had enough problems of her own to battle already. Rumours of Karkherand were told through songs and stories of grandeur, but Beatrice didn't really want to believe any of it until she actually saw such a beast with her own eyes.

Wielding his glorified stick to the dodo, the girl smiled, amused, tilting her head at his comment. "Ehm, naw, I haven't seen a knight like that," she stroked her chin contemplatively, "but a Shepard's axe like yours is real deadly! Maybe you'll start a new movement!" Picking up a stick with him, she pointed her right leg outward, turned on its heel and danced around an imaginary opponent of stone, ready to swivel around and jab a solidified noble figure by the throat until the loud clanking of metal sounded from a castle opening. She slowly put the stick down and turned to glance at Bill, who contrastingly had a much more startled response. Blinking with a small, entertained smile, she guarded the open courtyard suspiciously, looking around as Bill tended to the armour. She wanted to keep a careful watch at each corridor and balcony entrance in the case that anyone within the castle walls may have woken up to investigate. As a pair, they had to ensure they looked out for each other's back; servants such as these two children also couldn't afford getting into any more trouble, as to find themselves kicked out to rot without any guardians to support them.

The clucking of a dodo reverberated along with Bill's voice and Beatrice sighed a wave of relief. Good; it was only one of those silly oddly-shaped chicken things that the Kingdom treasured so much for no reason. However, this pause in their plans passed by and lingered for an unsettling amount of time, settling a small fear at the bottom of her stomach as her partner hadn't yet returned. Staring daggers towards the corridor that Bill vanished off into, the night cloaked around her with bated breath and long, endless seconds. Finally, she heard his voice call back and his silhouette outlined as he returned, giving her a proper reason to sigh. "Goodness, Bill, what took ye so long? Had me worri-" Oh!

Urgent arms reached out from her sides as she leaped towards him, noticing the fall in his step. Once she observed the cause of his trip, though, she retreated her arms, her lips pursing into a curious smile. From behind his bent knee erupted an excitable, little, feather-wagging dodo! "Oh my ged indeed - what the 'ell were you doin' in there to woo a bleedin' dodo?!" A laugh bubbled from her throat, bending down to observe the tiny creature. It stared back before darting its head to Bill. She poked a tongue out and teased, "Birds of a feather fly t'gether. It's daring, strong, and short, just like you!" She patted him lightly on the arm at his small disgruntled groan. "Horaah to your newfound motherhood~ But let's hope this bird-butt companion doesn't get in the way. I swear, if that thing clucks in the dead of silence-" She shot the creature a threatening squint of her eyes in exchange for its dumb, open circular eyes blankly meeting her gaze. With one last scoffing laugh, she reached for Bill's hand and lightly tugged at it, pulling them back onto track again.

The underworld communicated to them through a sense of grim reaper instinct. In the girl's case, the blade of her steel sword casted illusions of small, detailed cursive lettering that only she and Bill could see through their reaper filters for eyes. Today, it marked: 'Duke Curtis. Dies of old age by the stroke of midnight. In a chair at the rear garden of the castle grounds, looking at tonight's full moon.'

"Lucky him, eh? A peaceful death. Won't even hafta know we're here." Calm deaths were easy to take care of, but many times in Gale people died during fights or battles, making things a little bit tricker. One could appear invisible to humans through dark sorcery, but it was another thing altogether to try and pierce a target's heart as accurately as possible if all they did was keep moving around until you let them have their demise. As an experienced grim reaper had explained to Beatrice before she returned to earth, a human's soul was like an agitated, immortal bird in a cage. If the cage rots and rusts through external forces on earth, the bird is not any less trapped. It was only through a reaper's enchanted 'keys' that these souls, these innocent birds, were truly set free.

"Look, do you see him? Apparently his ring's worth half as much as his property," she whispered as she had led them through the courtyard, crouching quietly along the side of the castle and to the back garden before peering through a hedge that was adjacent to the man, sitting only a few metres away. “So, do you want to do the honours?” Slowly drawing the sword from her side, the faint hum of the Duke could be heard, breaking through the chilly night's breeze.

_________________

Bill thought to their night's target. Duke Curtis. What a strong name, and a strong title. Beatrice seemed especially excited this time. He wasn't surprised. She liked the ones with power, status, fame. The shinies, exciting balls, and intrigue all enticed her. It was the kind of thing Bill had never gotten in his living, breathing life, and he imagined Beatrice hadn't either. Someone who fulfilled all their dreams on Earth wasn't likely to become a Reaper, as their mentor had told the pair. Bill didn't find it bad, and even he felt the attraction to the glamour and beauty of the nobility, but sometimes he didn't like the glimmer in Bea's eyes when she talked about the memories they would see. They were, after all, real people they were watching, not stage actors.

They didn't just take the souls of the aristocracy, but of the other servants and staff that lived in the castle as well. Sometimes it was a sad affair; some workers of the castle were owned from childhood to death. Bill thought of Marga, an old stable worker who had died the previous winter. Her life had been interesting, despite much of it being limited to the castle and the occasional trip to town, when the King felt like being generous. As well as unpaid workers, there were plenty of people such as carpenters, painters, horse and dodo trainers, and of course, many, many cooks. The nobles were always one for a feast. Bill and Beatrice would sometimes get the leftovers, or stealthily pocket food as they helped in the kitchens or brought it to the tables. Bill's favourite was Garneo pears, which was a bright, pink, juicy fruit that only grew in the Garneo valley, as its name suggested. It came to the castle every spring, and while Reapers didn't need to eat to survive, he could still enjoy and savour the taste. Bill didn't really consider it stealing. How could you steal from someone that had so very much?

Like Beatrice, Bill's weapon alerted him of when it was time to do their reaperly duties, his manifesting through changes in the carving on the wooden handle, creating etchings of the to-be-deceased. Bill had never learned to read when he was alive, being too low-class, but somehow his Reaper training had given him the ability. He had been so delighted, the first few days of his return were spent sneaking around in the Royal Library. Bill had been nervous around Bea when they first started, as he always was with strangers, but now they were as close as two peas in a pod.

"He won't utter a single peep, I swurr," Bill assured Beatrice in reference to the naughty dodo, after pretending to be extremely offended by her 'strong and short' comment. His head bobbed much like the creature that had so abruptly been added to their party. He gave the dodo a glare from the corner of his eye as he spoke, hoping he was right about the bird's noise levels. The dodo shrank back slightly, letting out a quiet burble as if it had understood. Bill nodded, satisfied. He let himself be pulled along by Beatrice's strong, slightly mannish hands.

"Peaceful indeed," Bill muttered, staring up at the beautiful, hazy moon, its silvery light giving the night a mystical vibe. Bill had died on a full moon. The sudden memory of his death startled him, and he pushed it back into its mind corner. He didn't want to think about it. It had been a bad week overall.

As they peered through the garden at the older gentleman, Bill began to make out the words that the Duke was humming. "Kiade's Third Sonnet," Bill mumbled under his breath, "what an irony, ey?" The sonnet was a famous one, known word-for-word by almost every man, woman, and child in the kingdom, and it was spoken or sung at every birth because of tradition and maybe a bit of fervent hope and good luck.

A ring, worth so much? Bill peered out of the bush to look at the thing. It was pretty, but why did it have such value? Why was it worth more than him and Bea? That's wasn't fair. He suddenly felt quite aggravated, and was pleased when Beatrice offered the "end" to him.

"I'll do," Bill responded, his eyes fixed on the Duke as he fetched his shepherd's axe from his belt. As he did so, the dodo that had followed them pressed its beak into his hand. "Shh," Bill hushed, turning and putting his finger to his lips. Maybe it's trained, Bill considered, and put his hand out, palm facing the ground. The dodo sat slowly. So it's not completely stupid, Bill mused, turning back to his task.

Right in the chest, Bill thought, sidling up to the unaware man, and there's never blood or nothing. In the faint distance, Bill could hear the town's clock tower announcing the time. Ten, eleven, twelve! he swung towards the man just as the final bell rang. Instead of a spray of red mist that usually occurred with such strikes, the axe sort of just... sank in, like it was going through the man's shadow, not his physical form, which was of course true. It wasn't a 'killing', it was simply the implementation of a magical lever, helping to dislodge the soul from the body.

As soon as the stroke fell, Bill was filled with memories. Not his own, but Duke Curtis'. It flew by in a fraction of a second, but felt like a lifetime. Bill wondered how many lives he had lived in this way.

Too many.

It was awful this time, too awful. The anger Bill had felt before multiplied as he learned what the Duke had done, in private, in secret. He had been lauded by his peers, and treated servants and slaves like animals. So many rewards for being born of the right woman. He wished he could unsee it, and from such a view. He was only fourteen and a third.

Reapers had to mature fast.

It wasn't like Bill to throw down his Reaper's axe, tears in his eyes, hands in his hair after seeing an aristocrat's life, but it was what happened. It had always been Bea's job to be high-strung, emotional. He was the level-headed, guarded one, the one that calmed her down after all the selfish lives. "It's not fair, Bea," he hissed, rubbing his eyes furiously, causing them to go red, "not fair."

The dodo suddenly let out a tiny, worried warble, poking at Bill's shin with his beak. Bill turned to look down at the creature, struggling against a smile breaking through. "Shaddup," he said hesitantly, arms crossed.

_________________

Beatrice nodded at Bill’s reassurance. He always knew what to say, which had surprised her ever since they had first met, when the underworld had claimed them a pair. He may have been shy at first, but the girl was a keen storyteller, and enjoyed making him laugh with her tales of mischief and funny quarrels between the royals. Whilst fixing the hair of a young princess one fortunate day, she even got to overhear some royal women talk gossip about the men they fancied from other empires, which stirred a rowdy debate. Supposedly, Shepai bore many ‘unfairly attractive men with feet that tended to dance negatively, away from us!’, as one lady put it to cause Beatrice to chuckle.

Even though they had lived between the same walls in their previous lives, the two children would have never become such good friends unless they had died around similar times… It was a scary thought, putting it that way, but nonetheless she was grateful to work with someone so patient to stand her own character. Her small, plaited head bobbed slowly to the tune of Kiade’s Third Sonnet, mouthing a small part of the lyrics as grubby hands and muddy eyes peered through the leaves.

O, thy child
Thy desperate eyes
Look o’er the waters
And stray from despise
O, thy ch-

And then it stopped. Duke Curtis’ eyes hollowed out like faded mothballs as he slowly sank back into his chair. It was as though he were sleepwalking, unconsciously, magically stepping backwards and completing his peaceful death as heavy eyelids settled atop his complexion. Beatrice’s eyes glimmered, refracting the marvellous moon above them, jumping out of the shadows as soon as Bill had settled in his axe unto him. Gripping her sword, the prose on her weapon glowed and dissipated away. Like a calm army of fireflies, the girl could see the man’s memories exude around Bill, and before they completely disappeared after the boy reviewed them, she reached out her sword and poked at a couple of these ‘memory orbs’, latching onto them and opening them up…

Beatrice looked down at her hands, or rather, the Duke’s elegantly gloved hands, and when the memory guided her eyes upward she was looking at the unmistakable chandelier of a royal ballroom! Ladies in gorgeous gowns blushed and stirred as soon as they looked towards Duke Curtis; Bea’s first person observation from the man’s eyes brought a delighted grin and giggle to her face, dancing around these bright memories as they filtered into her vision. Grabbing onto another memory, she peeked into another aspect of his life.

But it wasn’t the same.

Beatrice looked down. There was a tiny, dirty hand in the Duke’s palm. A hand that Beatrice recognised; a child slave to the King. This was a recent remembrance. With a swift, harsh movement, he lifted the hand and threw it to the side of him, sending its defenceless, bony recipient crashing to the ground. Beatrice widened her eyes in shock, angered but so helplessly forced to dare stray her eyes away, reflecting the face of the opposing child that she could do naught to help. Revolted, she waved away the memory viciously from her face. She felt disgusted to have treated Duke Curtis so highly, to have wished to be in his shoes - to let people like this carry on behind closed doors. Before the memory completely left, the man’s deep voice resounded through her thoughts…

You don’t deserve to be regarded a person, do you?

“What the HELL did he just say?!” Her sword spun between her fingers, snapping them towards the perished body, swooping around and stopping short to barely graze his chin. She gathered her spit together with furrowed brows and spat nastily at the ground beneath his shoe, biting her thumb at him before spinning around to see what Bill had thought. Tears pricked at her eyes as she saw that Bill had reacted in a similar way. They were breathing proof that despite trading their souls to that of a darker hue, they were as human as human could ever get. How could the Duke say that? Wasn’t he a bleedin’ gentleman in their society?

She huffed. Growled. Bit her lip. Tentatively, with each passing second, her movements turned sluggish, fumbling for a moment with putting her sword back into its sheathe. She slowly made her way over to him, facing his back, her digits fixating a tenacious grip on Bill’s arms. “Bill,” she croaked, “you hafta promise me, that when you become old and think old-people things, when your back be achin’ and you find small things like the moon suddenly oh-so wondrous to look at… Ne’er in your whole entire existence dare become a gentleman like him. I’ll ne’er forgive you if you do. And I’ll slap you with my strong hand.” She frowned at her words, bending down to bury her flustered face atop his scapula, fingers tense around his upper arm. “Maybe it’s a good thing we’re not like them.” The dodo quietened its actions for a solemn moment as fountain water turned a dark, murky pool of constellations and building shadows crawled closer towards them.

“Alright. Let’s go before we get spotted!” She stepped to the opposite side of him to meet him face to face, offered a small smile, and took a few steps backwards to usher them back into the directions of the hallway, and eventually down into their rooms. “By the way, what’re we gonna do with the bird?”

_________________

Beatrice and Bill shared the same memory that was not their own, and both were disgusted, expressing their deep grief in different ways. It seemed the pair were reaching their breaking point, stretching too thin to control themselves. They had to rely more and more on each other if they were to make it. Bill wondered if it was some kind of joke, that when they had become Reapers, they hadn't lost any sense of humanity.

As Beatrice swore and swung her sword, Bill raised a single finger to his lips and flapped the other hand in an attempt to hush and calm her, despite his selfish wish that her weapon could keep swinging. Her blade stopped just before his neck, thankfully. It wasn't like Bill could have stopped her anyway; in the way that she was louder, she was also stronger.

Bill swallowed the hard lump in his throat and wiped away the last of his tears as Beatrice completed her acts of defiant aggression. He would have spit too, if it weren't for his dry sandpaper mouth. He looked on as she began to huff and slow, her anger faded and replacing itself with resignation. Bill wished he had her fiery spirit, instead of just being a quiet crybaby. Someone like him couldn't change anything, but Beatrice, Beatrice would always do something, to make everything better, to make him feel better, to make others feel valued.

Even after death.

Small, indefatigable fingers gripped Bill's stocky arms from behind. He listened to Beatrice's croaky speech, nodding firmly after each pause. "I'll never think old-people things, Bea," Bill chewed his cheek, "that there needs wisdom, and I ain't got none o' that." Bill often said self-deprecating things, hard-wired from years of being told that he was inferior, and that humility meant thinking of yourself as worth less. His lips twitched slightly as he spoke again, "It wouldn't take long for my back to be achin' even now, if you were tae slap me with your strong hand." He ducked instinctively, afraid she would strike him. Even when hitting playfully, she could be right harsh. Instead, he felt her head press deeply into his shoulder. He didn't want to move. It was nice, to stand there, all still-like, feeling the shadows moving in, hearing the fountain water splash gently, and smell the flowers of the courtyard, picked up by the same breeze that tousled his messy hair.

Skin beginning to prickle as night set even deeper, Bill decided to end the silence.

"You would look right pretty in a dress, though, with frilly pink boys and things." This time, he absolutely had to duck. He threw himself to the side in an elaborate fashion, mimicking his 'excellent' sword-wielding skills from before, and nodded as Beatrice called for them to end their night's expedition.

The dodo let out a small cluck, as if it was aware they were speaking of his fate. He looked so sad and small. Bill didn't want to just leave him. As if to prove his point, the dodo shivered, puffing its feather up and shaking its head in the way only a bird could. Did birds get cold? Bill wasn't sure. "We can't just leave 'im, Bea," Bill said melancholically, "it might be lost. I can sneak 'im in to the boys' quarters, and we can try to find 'is owner in the morning. No one'll notice, the room smells like a barn enough as it is."

They took a few turns, Bill checking fervently that the dodo was following with each one, before going down a steep flight of marble stairs. Very few of the torches along the wall were lit, making it so that as soon as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, it was snatched from them by a golden flame. Bill had always found the little fires on candles so interesting. There was nothing around them to stop them from jumping from the wick, and yet they danced and writhed like they were trapped in an invisible prison. He remembered that when he had been alive, he wondered if they were magic.

But magic, as he now knew, was a lot different. At least, the kind he used was.

As they entered darkness again, Bill let his fingers run across the smoothed cobbles of the wall as a support in the shadows until he suddenly hit a piece of jagged stone, which made a thin cut in his ring finger. He let out a silent cry, sucking his finger to stop the bleeding. He reached out instinctively and grabbed Beatrice's arm. He quickly let go. "Sorry," he whispered.

They would soon reach the girls' quarters, where all the women servants stayed, except those with special jobs that needed to be where they worked, even at night. Bill wondered if the girls' quarters was nicer than the boys, and less cramped. Maybe they had flowers and nice blankets. It wouldn't smell as bad as the boys', for sure. Bill knew for a fact that girls didn't make bad smells.

_________________

Before they took off, Beatrice contemplated his words. “Bill, that isn’t wisdom! They’re the stoopid ones for thinking saying what they say to us is gentlemanly just ‘cause they think we don’t understand them. You’re heaps better than that, dummy.” A smile could be felt on his shoulder before she rose back upright. Bill could be just as harsh on himself mentally as Beatrice could onto him physically, although the latter came with much more innocent intentions. It seemed that most slaves and peasant children were self depreciating. It was just easier. It gave us an answer. It was the only way us kids could understand why we were treated this way. But Beatrice refused to believe that they were the problem. Not like this, anyway.

It was without a doubt that the girl was to instantly swat a hand at him, like the swift swiping of an agile cat’s paw, the moment he brought up pretty dresses and boys. Her face quickly flushed as she pursed a smile, watching him spin away while muttering; “y’know, I would look pretty in one,” before she willed the conversation to press on forward. Beatrice absolutely adored the fashion that rich people got to wear. It was why she took up sewing as one of her servant skills; she got to help fix noble children’s gowns and things, coming closer each day with the faint hope that she could learn how to weave similar seams. As for the whole marriage and ‘meeting handsome boys' ordeal, Beatrice reckoned that a man wouldn’t want someone as unladylike as her anyway, growing less and less interested in ‘gentlemen’ the more she worked as a reaper. Before she died, she had entertained the idea, though. What a life she could live if somehow an extremely handsome, rich, nice, intelligent boy fancied her attractive, married her into wealth, picked her off of the streets! That way she’d have a family, she wouldn’t be so alone, people would look after her for once, and she could be the beautiful heroine of the story that she had always wanted. A girl could dream…

But it’s hard to dream when you’re already dead.

Beatrice rolled her eyes as the dodo looked as though it were also going to die with its dramatically puffed up feathers. “Oh, please, get o’er yourself, dodo,” she snorted, “but yeah sure, you can look after him. He might make a nice pillow.” With teasing eyes, she looked down to stare at the creature, who gave a confused, startled cluck. And with a light tug on Bill’s sleeve, the three of them sought after the darkness.

She felt Bill’s hand grip after her arm as they walked down the steep staircase. She quickly turned around to find her friend had cut his finger. “Ah, did the cobblestone cut ye deep? I’ve a tiny handkerchief if you’d want it,” she offered (but more so stated), reaching into her dress pocket and tucking a small rectangle of linen into his palm before he even had the chance to respond. She often overreacted to things that were probably very minor, but Bill had become like family to her. They were part of an odd, immortal, dark magic, creepy underworld family, but that link made them familiars all the same. Due to this, she felt the need to protect him, no matter what. She didn’t want to ever lose sight of family again.

Eventually they reached the girl’s rooms, a torch lighting the double doors that held captive the young hearts of the tormented, tainted or misjudged. She patted away some of the dust and dirt from her dress that evidenced their venture outside before trotting over to the entrance. Looking over at Bill and the bird, she waved them off before carefully peeling open the large wooden frame and slipping into the narrow crack. A small, high pitched whisper of ‘nice work tonight!’ echoed over and accompanied Bill towards the boy’s quarters that lied further down the corridor.

Beatrice walked slowly to her specific room, which held four other roommates younger than her sleeping soundly in their mattresses; two beds on either side of a cramped space shared between them. Perhaps it was why they never seemed to question her too much when she left for reaping; they simply summed it up as extra duties for older children. She scratched the back of her head and sighed, wondering how many hours of sleep she’d get before someone in the castle needed her bleedin’ help again. Blindly and clumsily fumbling to her side of the bed, she changed into her sleeping gown as quickly as possible and sunk into her pillow.

It wasn’t to last long. Dragons were terrible at singing lullabies.

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Bill was forced to take the handkerchief before he could issue a stammering noise of complaint. In such the way when someone is given something against their will, he grudgingly used the square, pressing it against the pathetically tiny cut. Their way of sharing things was sometimes strange to the other servants. If someone had little, it was either very easy or very difficult to give. Both children found it easy to rely on each other to both give, return, and take.

Bea's such a worrywart Bill thought grudgingly but also endearingly, looking at the small slivered cave in his skin, it's not like I'll bleed to death. Death generally wasn't an issue for grim reapers, but it didn't mean you could be a fool, either. They had healing abilities, but if you fell off a cliff and were immediately trampled on by fifty horses, you'd probably lose a job and be sent back to The Place Where Dead Thing Go.

So focused on thinking was Bill, with his thick eyebrows furrowed together in a pained look that accompanied such deep thought, that he didn't notice they'd arrived at the girls' quarters until Bea gave a soft affirmation. His head came up to notice her wave, expression relaxing before he suddenly gave a quiet exclamation, reaching into his pocket where he had placed the lent handkerchief some time on their walk. "Yer ker-" he began, but the door was already closed. He gave a disappointed huff before stuffing the thing back in his tunic and heading towards the boys' quarters, making sure that the dodo was still following.

At last, as Bill's vision began to grow hazy from tiredness, he reached the room he was seeking. He swung the door open as quietly as possible, which was certainly easier said than done. He closed them with an equal amount of effort and care. While one could say Bill was lazy, the trait could be overridden by compassion, especially for the sleeping.

Bill did love his sleep, and he knew the boys that shared the cramped space with him did too.

Tiptoeing to his bed, Bill gave the pillow an attempted fluffing. The attempt did nothing to soften the conditions of the bedding, and he resigned himself to crawling in after he had unlaced his boots. He didn't take off his socks; it was cold in the underbelly of the castle.

The dodo let out a faint squawk, jumping up and crawling into his side. Bill was pleased to have such a sleeping companion. He would hate to see him go in the morning, once they found the bird's true owner. Unless they didn't, then...

He at least has to have a name, Bill insisted to himself, I can't just call him dodo.

"Hedgie," he whispered, saying the first pet-ish name that came to mind. The dodo blinked dourly.

That was settled. Bill closed his eyes and began counting, his usual method for falling asleep. It was comforting, to have something warm and alive curled up to him, something he hadn't felt since his real life.

One...two....three...four...

----

Four gold chalices. No, five. How delightful! Karkherand let his claws click against the precious metal. Such a great joy it was, to have so much wealth and possessions. The great Dragon's heart almost burst with the feeling.

And yet it still felt empty.

How could someone's heart feel empty when they had 367 rubies, 812 sapphires, 117 black pearls, 96 emeralds, 23 beautifully woven tapestries, countless small diamonds (and believe me, he still tried to count them), 12 crowns, 30 suits of armour, 120000 gold pieces, even more of silver and bronze, and now, five gold chalices, all decorated with precious jewels and precise skill? There was much more in Karkherand's collection that he had not yet counted.

It wasn't simply things of high monetary value either, but also of beauty and significance. For example, one item that Karkherand loved to caress and hold in his tail was a walnut comb, carved into the shape of a mermaid. It was worthless to most, a simple trinket. He had taken it from a woman who thought the comb to be worth more than the kingdom itself, and all treasure in it. An heirloom, the only thing that was passed down to her from her mother.

And now it was his! Karkherand picked at his teeth with a sharpened bone. He was a fastidious creature, especially when it came to personal hygiene. How he hated his breath to smell foul when he went into the country.

The country had been growing boring to visit lately, except for his occasional pilfering of cattle and other foodstuffs. It was always a treat to see the creatures mooing and braying and crying, running as if they could escape the mighty King of All Creatures, He Who Breathes Fire and Flies on Magnificent Wings.

People no longer kept their treasure in their homes; Karkherand could smell it. They hid it away, deep underground, which was the only place he could not go without effort, or into the city.

Oh, Gale's magnificent capital. A place of riches, and also torment. He wished to go there, to simply steal a single jewel, but he couldn't simply ignore the treaty.

Or could he?

Karkherand gazed out of his cave in the mountain. The stars were out, meaning that the kingdom would be quiet, peaceful as the humans slept. What weaklings, that they could not see clearly in the dark as he could. He stretched his body, his wealth clinking and clanking from under him as he lifted from his resting place and went to the entrance.

He could see far from his high place, to the valleys and the small towns and the rivers and: the city. Karkherand took a deep suck of the night air, massive nostrils flaring. It was all too tantalizing. Surely, he wouldn't mind, if Karkherand only took a few morsels? He gave so much in return. It was only fair.

With the decision made, Karkherand opened the great expanse of his wings and descended from the mountain.

Karkherand let out a haunting screech, ensuring that he would have an audience during his attack. What a vain creature he was.

Rip and tear, uproot and destroy. Search and find, take and hoard. Karkherand sank his claws into the castle's East Tower, scrabbling up it until he could take and crush the tower's head like pulling off the lid of a scroll case.

The screaming began. What a joyous sound, like bells and harps to the Dragon's ears. He did not let it distract him, however, as he searched, following the smell of the gold.

It was then he picked up a stronger scent, one of incredible value. In his mind, he saw a beautiful sceptre of silver, ivory, and gold, with a multitude of diamonds. The thing was crafted by Ihon. Karkherand grinned as much as an unsightly lizard beast could, dropping the tower's top and scuttling along the castle's wall.

The arrows began. None could pierce Karkherand's scales, though some did stick. How kind of them to provide more toothpicks.

Karkherand lifted another piece of the tower, and looked down on many magnificent treasures. He had interest in only one. With a single claw he sifted, and with a single claw he picked up the instrument.

The King surely has no practical use for this, the Dragon scoffed, clutching it tight.

With a mighty roar he lifted from the castle, and in a mighty flash of wings, He Who Breathes Fire was gone.

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