"Welco—me...?" a voice called out to you, at first sounding cheerful but rapidly uncertain as you swiftly entered the silver-haired male's view. He looked at you, frowning, almost searching for something.

"This is the Undertaker's Parlor, correct?" you spoke up, tapping on a coffin. Obviously, it was, unless this guy was just some sort of deranged psychopath, but you decided to try and open up the conversation naturally. "I'd like to request a coffin be made."

"Ah, for whom would you like it to be made?" The Undertaker asked, seeming to refocus, his voice taking on the musical cadence of someone who probably shouldn't be fitting the dead for coffins with such a cheerful attitude. Then again, perhaps, that cheerfulness made you somewhat less unhappy.

"My mother; she died yesterday. Her body..." you faltered and swallowed your tears. "Her body is just outside, and I have payment ready."

"Afraid I'm not interested in the Queen's coins, darling~" the male hummed, placing a long-nailed finger upon your lips, and you shied back.

"You don't mean..."

"Yes, the extraordinary gift of laughter, my sweet! Tell me a good joke, and I will make your mother a beautiful coffin~" Your cheeks flushed.

"Ah, oh, right, umm..." That was not the direction you had been expecting. You furrowed your brow, trying to think through your flustered state of a suitable joke, but the Undertaker was already chuckling away, and he was soon laughing heartily, and though it was somewhat eerie, it seemed so familiar somehow.

"Your face, my dear! Ehehehe~ That's more than enough payment, sweetheart."

"Eh? Are you sure?" you asked, feeling nervous.

"Not only have you made me laugh, you've also reminded me of someone that was once very dear to me. Afraid I've already measured her for her coffin and attended to her funeral, so you have my thanks. Under what name shall I put your order?"

"Ah, F/N. F/N L/N." Undertaker froze, revealing a wide, bright green, piercing eye under his silver locks. "Sorry; I can leave if you wan—"

You were cut off as the Undertaker crushed you in a hug, and you wheezed, trying to push the man away. As attractive as he was, this was very odd. "As much as I needed a hug, I think you're going to kill me," you wheezed, and the Undertaker seemed to get ahold of himself as he let you go.

"No; I'd prefer you didn't leave. At least not," the Undertaker went into the back room and dumped a surprisingly heavy, flat stick inscribed with foreign characters in your hands. "without this."

"Uh... why?" you asked, confused.

"Er—it's to bless the dead's safe passage to the afterlife."

"Okay then..." you mumbled, slowly making your way out of the shop to meet your maid, who asked why you were carrying a stick almost as large as yourself and immediately took it off your hands before grunting at the weight.

"Why is this so heavy?" she grumbled under her breath.

"Probably because it's so full of mercy."

<><><>

"Undertaker, what are you doi—" you tried to say, only to have your words muffled by his cool hand, and you struggled as he gently hushed you.

"Little doll, I need you to calm down," Undertaker said.

"What? Why?! Get off me!"

"Shhh," he hushed fervently, revealing, again, his beautiful eyes, and now you were able to see they glowed in the dark. "Sweetheart, I'm sure this is very misleading, but I have no intention of doing what your dirty mind is thinking about. Unless you want it."

"Wh—"

"Shhhhhh."

And this time, you did shut your mouth because you heard something tearing... and what sounded like the growling of a beast. A sickening feeling gripped your stomach as you heard whatever it was eating, and you had the nauseating thought that it didn't sound like whatever the thing was tearing was meat from the pantry.

Mostly when you heard several large bones crack in quick succession. Undertaker was looking at your bedroom door, his bicolor eyes sharp as he lifted the stick he'd given you.

"I can't believe there are still things chasing after you," he muttered, sounding a little angry. "Trouble follows wherever you go, doesn't it, F/N?"

"It does not!" you hissed a soft protest. "And how did you get in here? The door was locked!"

"The window wasn't," the Undertaker replied with an impish grin, and despite the frankly terrifying situation, you couldn't help but smile.

And then a...creature, if it could even be called that, crawled into the room, having destroyed the door. It appeared to be made almost entirely of a sort of shiny black muscle stretched taut over its bones, the exception being its head, which was almost bulbous in appearance, though the smoothness of it was interrupted by its jagged, sharp teeth. It had no eyes, nor did it seem to possess ears or a nose.

"What... what is that?" you asked in a fervent, frightened whisper as it crawled around the room, its sharp nails clacking against the floor sharply in the silence.

"A demon's pet; if I recall right, it's a Svartalfar."

"A what?"

"Never mind; you haven't been in Hell."

"Wh—and you have?!"

"Once; it was terrible; I can't see how they live there. Down," The Undertaker pressed you into your bed as the Svar-whatever it was called pushed its head up against the Undertaker's, bearing its teeth in a grin before it tried to snap his head straight off his body. With astonishing reflexes, the man twisted around the creature, holding a blade against its neck. Wait, where did the the huge scythe come from?!

And then the creature's head was on the floor instead, dark purple blood spewing from the headless monster, but both parts were still moving, and the Undertaker let out a tsk before a sharp whistle rang through your ears, and the monster ran away.

For a long several moments, you were silent.

"Well. Um, thanks for saving me with the scythy thing," you said, staring at the scythe. A human skeleton formed the handle of the scythe, which was not unnerving at all.

"You're welcome."

"So. What on Earth are you?"

"Retired Grim Reaper."

"Sorry, what?"

"Thought you wouldn't believe me." You looked again at the scythe. Then at his glowing eyes.

"No," you said slowly. "I believe it, but why did you save my life? Isn't your job supposed to be ending life?"

"Retired," the Undertaker reminded, and the scythe became the stick he'd given you.

"My question stands," you grumbled, folding your arms. "You met me yesterday; what reason do you have to save a total stranger?"

"Well, I wouldn't say you're a stranger to me," the Undertaker said, removing something from under his coat, revealing more than six funeral lockets before he pointed out one to you.

A small lock hair, the same color as yours, rested above a small inscription of your first name, followed by your first initial. The date at the top, what was supposed to be your birthdate was the death date. "Do you remember that person I told you about at the shop?"

"You're not saying..."

"Don't you think it's odd, F/N, how you look so much like her, how you share her mannerisms, much of her mind... As well as..." Undertaker leaned closer, his porcelain face mere inches away. "The reason you first visited my shop?"

"T-That last one has to be pretty common," you mumbled, scooching against the wall. "Lots of people's mothers die, and you're one of the only undertakers in London..."

"I'm not mistaken," the Undertaker insisted, taking your hand in his. "I've stumbled upon the rarest of all human events; reincarnation, and in my bereaved wife no less..."

"W-W-Wife?"

"Excuse me; wife-to-be; you died before the ceremony," Undertaker said with some thought. "But I take it you don't remember my name?"

"Remember? You didn't even tell me, Adrian!"

The Undertaker seemed surprised before he grinned.

"How I've longed to hear that name uttered from your lips," he said softly. "I promise I will not let you die a second time...F/N."