ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴛᴀᴋᴇʀ x ғᴇᴍ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (Platonic)
6.1 pages 2,112 words
As you navigated the bustling streets of Victorian London, your curious eyes searched for opportunities to snatch coins or scraps of bread. You had been successful yesterday, but it had come at the cost of a bruised rib. You hoped for better luck today, as it would spare you from starvation.
With a sigh, you settled on the edge of the pavement, hunched over with your hands resting on your cheeks and a frown on your face. You weren’t particularly skilled at stealing or tricking people. Once, you had been part of the working class until your father passed away, leaving only you and your mother. Unfortunately, your mother—being uneducated and a woman—found it very difficult to secure a decent job, which limited her options to less respectable means of earning money.
Look where that got her… dead. Disregarded and buried in the gutter. As far as you knew, your mother had contracted some disease from her job, which ultimately killed her. Now you were all that remained, having fallen in class but still alive and struggling to survive.
Your eyes darted to each carriage that passed, filled with blue-blooded individuals who only sneered and looked uptight in their ridiculous hats. You stood up, dusted off your worn dress, and decided not to feel sorry for yourself. You resolved to do something about your situation—perhaps you could find a job. Maybe people would take pity on you, a child, and offer you a position as an assistant or something similar. But that felt like wishful thinking, especially considering what had happened to your mother.
With some newfound energy, you strutted down the street, the soles of your shoes slapping against the cobbled ground. Perhaps you could steal some rich kid's clothes, replace them, and become an earl, or whatever it is that girls become. Wives? Not for you. You wanted to be rich and powerful.
Your strutting came to a halt when you spotted a group of sorrowful people entering a church in the cemetery. 'Who died today? Probably some rich guy, considering the number of people here; he obviously had enough money for a funeral,' you thought bitterly, holding onto the iron fence. You sighed. Maybe you could take the coins from his eyes and get a slice of bread, but alas, you’d get caught.
Your gaze flicked to the side when you saw a black blur stop at the fence on the other side. You raised an eyebrow at the strange man. 'How can he even see with all that hair?' You believed yourself to be a kind and cheerful girl, so you decided to approach him.
The man's tall and imposing presence was accentuated by a cascade of long, silver-grey hair that looked somewhat dusty. "Today is a man’s special gala—the final great ceremony in every human's life: a funeral," he spoke, as if to no one in particular.
You skipped over and abruptly skidded to a stop in front of him. "Hello, Mister!" you grinned brightly at the man, a stark contrast to the weeping souls behind him. Your curious voice pierced through the solemn air, catching the attention of the tall man. His gaze shifted downwards to meet your young face, a flicker of surprise in his intense eyes. He studied you for a moment, his expression stoic yet intrigued, before responding with a wry smile. "Ah, there we go. A curious one we have here," he replied, his voice as velvety as the surrounding mist.
He leaned down a bit, bringing his head closer to your level, his hair framing his face like a silver veil. As he spoke, his eyes seemed to dance with an undercurrent of playful humour. "I take it you’re not here to mourn but to observe, are you not, young one?" You nodded your head. "I was passing by and it caught my attention. They’re pretty loud, to be honest; hard not to notice."
At your affirmation, the man chuckled softly, the sound like a whisper against the stillness of the cemetery. "I thought as much. You've got a curious gleam in your eye, one that yearns for more than a mere funeral. Tell me, curiosity, what’s your name?"
"I'm (Y/n)," you said, holding out your hand. The man's grin widened at the sound of your name. He nodded, silently committing it to memory, and shook your hand. "(Y/n), is it? A fine name indeed. As fine as your curiosity, I dare say." He straightened up again, still towering above you, and looked out across the gathering mourners with an air of practised calm.
The man's gaze lingered on the sombre scene before them, the mourners like black moths drawn to the flickering flames of grief. He spoke quietly, his voice a soothing murmur, as if he was sharing a secret. "An aristocrat, one of the wealthy elites who hold this city in the palm of their hand. His name, however, has little significance anymore. To me, he is simply another name on a long list of those who've shuffled off this mortal coil."
Your eyebrows furrowed as you grabbed the iron bars and bent your back, looking up at the silver-haired man in a position deemed 'unladylike' by others, but the strange man didn’t seem to care about a child's need to constantly move. "What's mortal mean?"
The man's eyes glinted with a hint of amusement. He chuckled softly again at your innocent question. "Ah, mortal, simply put, means 'of this world'—alive. A mortal coil is another way of referring to life. To say someone shuffled off this mortal coil means they have died."
You pressed your lips into a thin line, still confused. "So, people who are mortals... will die soon?" The man paused for a moment, his gaze still fixed on the funeral, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Ah, yes. All mortals face death, young one. It's the one certainty in this world. No matter who you are or how powerful you might be, death comes for us all."
You released your grip on the iron fence, straightened your back, and stood on your tiptoes to look over. "And then the Grim Reaper will take them away?" The man's grin twisted into an almost mischievous smile at the mention of the Grim Reaper. He leaned down a bit closer to you as if sharing a tantalizing secret. "Oh, the Grim Reaper, hmm? You've heard of him, have you? Yes, he's quite infamous. And you're right. When a mortal shuffles off this mortal coil, the Grim Reaper greets them and guides them to the world beyond our own."
His voice dropped to an almost conspiratorial tone, a hint of dark humour in his eyes as he continued. "Some say he's a fearsome sight, a cloaked figure with a giant scythe. Others say he's a friendly fellow who simply does his job. But one thing is for sure: he's part of the natural order of things. As certain as night follows day, the Grim Reaper comes for us all in the end."
You nodded, your eyes sparkling with a curious gleam for a child discussing death. The man chuckled softly at your wide-eyed acknowledgement, amused by how seriously you seemed to take the information. "You're very receptive, aren't you? Most children your age wouldn't approach this conversation so seriously. But not you. You have a thirst for knowledge, hmm?"
You grinned at the man, admiration already beginning to settle in. "Yeah!" You were practically bouncing on your feet. The man chuckled again, unable to help but smile at your enthusiasm. He raised an eyebrow, his eyes glittering with curiosity "Well then, since you're so keen to learn more, here’s a question for you," the man paused, his grin widening ever so slightly. "Have you ever wondered what actually happens after death?"
"Eh..." Your expression dropped as you lightly scratched your cheek and shrugged your shoulders. "I don't know; I haven't really thought about it... never bothered to, despite..." You paused mid-sentence. "I'm ten," you added, changing the last part.
The man chuckled again, a touch of amused disbelief in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, studying you for a moment before responding. "A bit young, huh? Well, that's fair. But it's quite interesting you're curious about everything else, but not this. Can I ask you another question, (Y/n)?"
The man's gaze turned thoughtful, his eyes studying you closely as he asked his next question. His voice still carried a note of quiet humor. "You said you weren't here to mourn, but to observe, yes? So, what exactly is the most interesting thing you've spotted about this funeral so far?"
"...The body," you say, looking down. You wanted those damn coins, but you couldn't admit that, so you said, "It looks like he was stabbed in the face." In that moment of deception, you hoped it was true.
The man's eyes widened slightly, a mix of surprise and dark humour playing on his face. He chuckled softly to himself. "Ah, I see. You observed the dead man, did you? And that's the most interesting thing you've noticed, eh? A face full of stab wounds, you say? Quite a macabre observation, young one."
'Was that seriously what happened?!' Despite the shocking revelation swirling in your mind, you cringed outwardly, continuing to maintain your falsehood. "Yeah... it must have hurt a lot."
The man grinned again, a mixture of wry humour and morbid fascination dancing in his eyes. "Oh, I can assure you, it did hurt. It probably hurt an unthinkable amount. Death by stab wounds is anything but pleasant."
"What dead bodies have you seen?" you say, tilting your head and placing your hands behind your back, looking like a polite schoolboy.
The man paused for a moment, his mind seemingly flickering through the memory of past funerals. The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he responded, but his eyes held a touch of dark amusement. "Ah, I've seen quite a few. A rather... unique part of my job as a funeral director. But I suppose some stick in my memory more than others."
“Oooh! You’re the funeral person! What’s your full name? Under...under-” you ask, racking your brain for it. You honestly thought he was just some oddly dressed guest.
The man chuckled again, clearly amused by your attempt to remember the word. He leaned down a touch, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Undertaker. Just call me Undertaker, dearie."
You nodded before looking back at the steets, your stomach rumbling. You frowned at the Inconvenience. "I have to go now..."
The man, Undertaker, chuckled at the sound of your stomach growling. He watched you with an amused smile for a moment before responding. "Ah, hungry are we? Well, I suppose it's time for you to be on your way then, dearie."
You waved your hand at him, begging to walk away. "Bye, bye!" You'll definitely be going back to him.
Undertaker watched you waving and grinned, nodding his head in farewell, a hint of amusement still dancing in his green eyes. "Farewell, (Y/n). Until we meet again."
As you turned to leave, the man watched you go, an amused smile lingering on his face. For a moment, he almost seemed like a different person, someone less grim and more... human. But as you disappeared into the crowd, the humor slowly faded from his expression, and the man known as the Undertaker of Death returned, an eccentric figure standing in the shadows of the graveyard, observing the funeral from a distance.
He watched the rest of the funeral proceedings with a stoic exterior, his mind now filled with curious thoughts about the young, observant child. You were certainly unlike any other child he had encountered during a funeral. Your morbid curiosity and eagerness to learn were a stark contrast to the usual sobs and tears.
The ceremony eventually came to an end, and the mourners began to disperse. The man known as the Undertaker remained in his place, his gaze lingering a moment longer on the spot where you had stood. Then, with a final glance at the grave, he turned and silently disappeared into the shadows of the graveyard, his thoughts still focused on the curious, morbid child he had just encountered.
"AHHHH I COULD'VE JUST ASKED FOR A JOB THENNNN!!"
