Chapter Text
London, England. June 1349
Emma sat at her brother’s bedside, smoothing the damp hair back from his face. With the other hand, she held her brother’s in a light grasp, and looked worriedly at his blackened fingertips that were a clear sign of his illness. The Black Death had spread rapidly throughout the city, leaving families sickened and decimated. Emma, as young as she was, had naively thought her own family immune. She was proven horribly wrong when her younger sibling had contracted the plague -- now here he lay, dying. Her eyes traced over the boils that covered his pale skin as he slept.
Emma’s mother had died years ago, leaving her father to care for the family as best he could. He was gone, now, working to bring back just enough money for scraps of food. That left Emma, only twelve years old, to care for her sick brother.
She decided he might do well with a wet cloth to cool his fever. Leaving his bedside, Emma went to the kitchen to grab the water pitcher to take outside. She pulled over the stool to reach the shelf and climbed on top of it, reaching on her tip toes to grab the jug when she heard a rapping at their door. Emma sighed, wondering who it could be, and climbed back down. Her brother was still asleep and could wait a moment.
She ran to the door and pulled it open.
Emma gasped. Frightened, she looked up at the looming figure that stood in the doorway. They were dressed in a heavy black cloak which hid their face, but in the flickering candlelight, Emma could see the skeletal markings on the face beneath the hood. The blade of the scythe they held in one hand gleamed in the darkness.
Emma stumbled backwards, not thinking that maybe the best solution would have been to slam the door shut. The wraith stepped through the threshold of the door, standing over her.
Emma was no fool, she knew from looks alone who this… creature must be. And she knew that they were here for her brother, but Emma was determined to fight for his life in whatever way she could.
She spoke in a trembling voice, “If you want to take him, you’re going to have to go through me.”
The figure tilted their head, as if confused. Slowly raising one hand, they pointed behind her with a thin finger. Emma was afraid to look, but gathered up all her courage and turned around.
She froze in shock at the sight.
There was… her. Emma’s body lay on the ground, her neck bent at an unnatural angle, and the shattered glass from the water pitcher was scattered around her. The stool had been knocked over. She must have broken her neck trying to reach the jug. Emma looked down at herself. Her body was translucent, but in the center of her chest glowed a ball of blue fire. Her soul.
She turned back to the reaper. “You’re here for me, aren’t you?” Emma asked softly.
The figure nodded, and without a word, beckoned her with a finger and started to walk out the door.
Emma hesitated a moment. “Wait!” she called.
The wraith stopped, but did not turn around.
“What about my brother?” she asked, voice beginning to waver. Tears formed in her eyes. “He’ll die without me.”
“Yes,” the figure finally spoke. Emma was surprised that their voice was not hoarse or deep like death. The voice was almost… silvery. Light as a bell. “And when he does, I will be back. I am sorry,” they said, and their voice sounded almost said.
Emma sobbed, shaking her head in denial. She loved her brother with all her heart, “Please,” she cried, “Please don’t let him die.”
The creature turned back around, and slowly removed the hood of their cloak, revealing -- despite the skull pattern along it -- the face of a young person. They bent down to her level and reached out a hand to caress her tear-stained cheek. Their eyes were unnaturally bright, but looked old, and sad. Their touch immediately sent a wave of calm over Emma.
“Death comes for us all,” they spoke, “and life during these times especially is far more painful. He will be at peace at last. Now, walk with me.”
They stood back up and crooked a finger for her to follow once more. Drying her tears, Emma jogged to catch up with them. She noticed how both their feet left no tracks in the mud.
They walked through London’s streets together. Emma looked on in both awe and disgust at the streets filled with smoke and rot and filth. Bodies were piled up in pits and alleys, and diseased men carried carts of the dead, occasionally stopping near the piles to toss in more corpses.
They passed through the town square, and Emma gazed around. Now that she was dead, she could see the souls of the deceased floating all over London, waiting for their turn to be carried off to the afterlife. Emma’s curious mind wondered how the reaper was able to collect so many, so she asked.
“I am not the only one,” they said, “I do much, but not everything. I have brethren.”
“Oh…” Emma replied, “You must not sleep very well with all that work.”
The figure chuckled. “I do not sleep.”
They continued on in silence after that, but after a while Emma began to grow fidgety. She didn’t like the silence, so she spoke up.
“What’s your name?” she questioned.
“I am Death,” they replied.
Emma pouted. “Your name is Death?” she asked incredulously.
They hummed. “I do not have a name, really. But something like that.”
“And how old are you?” she prodded.
“I am as old as the notion of Life. One cannot exist without the other.”
Emma was unsatisfied, but she shut her mouth, knowing she likely wouldn’t get anything less cryptic than that. It was already hard enough for her young brain to wrap around.
As they walked, a person stepped out in front of them and tossed a bucket which must have been filled with blood and bile out the door. Frightened, Emma grabbed onto their hand. The reaper seemed almost shocked, and looked down where their hands were interlocked. Emma was afraid she’d done something wrong, but Death only stared for a moment before looking back ahead and continuing to walk.
Eventually, Death slowed to a halt, tightening their grip on Emma’s hand to get her to stop as well. Emma looked up at them in confusion, but only received a somber look in return.
“It’s time to go,” Death said softly, “I gave you as much extra time as I could.”
“Oh…” was all Emma could say. She hadn’t realized Death might’ve wasted their time explaining things to her when they had other souls to reap.
But she had one last request.
“Before I go,” Emma said, “Could you do something for me?”
Death sighed. “Depends. What is it?”
“Before my brother dies, can I be there to see him go? Or-- Or can you at least be the one to take him?” she begged. “Please.”
Death tsked, thinking for a moment, but eventually nodded. “When his time comes, I will be the one to take him,” they assured.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
With that, Emma was at peace. Her incorporeal form began to dissolve, and looking to Death one last time, she smiled before fading away. All that was left was her fiery soul, which they grasped with two hands and placed in their satchel filled with other souls.
Death sighed and swore. They hated it when they were given the responsibility of a child. They hated to see them leave so young.
But as they’d said themself, death comes for us all -- the danse macabre takes the rich and poor, young and old, evil and good. It was this reaper’s job to carry them on.
Death unites us all.
Rome. February 1821
Keats wheezed and coughed into his handkerchief, pulling it back to see an alarming amount of blood blooming on the fabric. It was no surprise to him, anymore. He’d seen blood many times before, ever since caring for his ill brother. It seemed that he’d suffer the same fate. Consumption had no mercy for any man.
His physician came in and looked over him in his bed worriedly, noting the uneaten plate of food. He caught eye of the bloody rag, and sighed.
“No better?” the doctor asked.
Keats shook his head in resignation. “I know the color of that blood. I cannot be deceived in that color. That drop of blood is my death warrant. I must die,” he rasped, short of breath.
His doctor made a frustrated face. “Mister Keats, no. It’s not your time--”
“Of course it is,” he rebutted, “Look at me, pale and weak, at Death’s door…”
Or, it was in fact Death that was at his.
There was a light knock at the door. The physician did not seem to notice, and insisted that there had been nothing there when Keats asked him to get it. Embittered, Keats gathered the last of his strength and climbed out of bed, hobbling slowly to the door.
He opened it, and frowned.
There was a carriage that seemed to be waiting for him, pulled along by two pale, almost skeletal horses. Keats tried to get a look at the figure at the reins, but could see nothing beneath the black cloak and hat.
Despite this being the first and possibly the last time he’d ever seen the figure, he didn’t need to be told who they were -- he knew them well.
Death turned to look at him, and pulled a piece of paper from their cloak, looking from it to him. “I’m here for a… Mister John Keats?” they inquired.
Keats sighed. “I assumed so. Yes, that’s me. And you must be… the Grim Reaper?”
Death huffed a laugh, “Yes, but I’d like to think I’m not so grim. Please, climb up here with me.”
Keats moved to do so, but when he looked down at his feet, he could see that the ground was visible through them. Shocked, he turned around in the threshold to see his body lying still in bed, the doctor frantically trying to revive him. He looked at his hands. “My God, I look ghostly.”
“Most ghosts do,” the reaper grinned beneath their cowl.
Keats wagged a finger at them, smiling back. “You’re sharper than I would’ve expected. I quite like it -- I don’t know why I feared you so terribly for so long.” He climbed up to sit next to Death on the carriage, and they snapped the reigns, causing the horses the gallop off.
“There's nothing to be afraid of,” they said as they rode on, “I only wish I could tell people that in life.”
“What do you know of life?” the poet asked, curious.
“That it ends,” Death said somberly.
Keats nodded, “And that is all?”
“That is all I need to know.”
“So you never lived?”
“No.”
“You’d quite like it, I think,” Keats said, “You exist, at least, You may exist differently, but you live in a way. Do you feel sadness? Joy? I think you do -- clearly so and we’ve barely spoken! Explore the world you move through, reaper. You will not regret it.”
Death tilted their head in consideration. “You suffocated from tuberculosis at 25 years old. What do you know of life?”
“Someone can die at 25 and have lived a fuller life than someone who lived to 90,” Keats replied curtly, “It’s not the age that matters -- it’s your outlook and your actions.”
Death was silent for a long time, when they spoke suddenly, “So what, in your opinion, is the meaning of life?”
“Ah,” Keats said, “The age-old question. My dearest Death, the meaning of life is simply to give life meaning.”
They thought about this, “And what was your life’s meaning?”
“Art, nature, beauty,” he waved a hand, “I was a poet! Would you like to hear one?” Keats asked hopefully. He’d never been very popular in life, but perhaps he could earn something in death.
Death was quiet for a moment, but eventually nodded.
“I think you’ll like this one,” Keats cleared his throat, “I call it ‘This Living Hand ...’”
“This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–
I hold it towards you.”
Death hummed, contemplating, and pulled the reigns to stop the carriage. They were no longer in the land of the living, and hadn’t been for some time. Keats took this as his sign to hop off.
He began to walk through the gates when he quickly halted and turned around. “Oh, reaper!” he called. Death looked up. “Promise me you’ll look at your own humanity more. You spend so much time amongst us, you must know what it’s like to be us to understand! Just… just a little.”
The reaper sighed, “I promise,” they were growing soft. Really, they’d been growing soft for several centuries now.
Curious, they thought as the poet walked away, satisfied. Very curious.