Chapter Text
The truth was, humans have always had a complicated relationship with death. Different places, different times, wherever you went in the world the relationship might change, but it would never, ever be simple.
What happened afterwards… Some might know or some might not, but if anyone knew, truly knew, they weren't telling. And so long ago, in certain parts of the world, not knowing what monsters might lurk between death and whatever-came-after, when people chose land for burying the dead, they ensured that the first thing buried would stay behind. No whatever-came-after for that spirit; no, it would stay forever, to protect the spirits of all the dead to come.
But what human could they condemn to an eternity of binding? And what human spirit, once bound, could be trusted to faithfully carry out its duty?
None, they concluded, and the black dogs were born.
Before any human was laid to rest, a dog, humanity's ever faithful companion, was buried alone in the deep dark of the grave, their bound spirit arising as guardian of the dead.
Time passed as time does and colonisers carried their rituals with them into other lands, but eventually the truth of the black dogs was forgotten, their memory fading into myth. Belief became tradition, tradition with no meaning behind it, remembered only by those who worked with the dead. But tradition can be as powerful as ritual fuelled by belief and so—even if they didn't exactly know why—in new cemeteries, in new graveyards, in some deep, dark unregarded corner, the first thing buried was always a dog.