Chapter Text
Chapter 5
The year was 1942. The date, October 24th. The battle had been raging on for nearly a full twenty four hours. It was as if the Japanese armed forces just kept coming and coming. The more men they deployed, the more bodies piled upon the shore.
Alfred F. Jones, nineteen years old, U.S. Army. The boy flinched as a loud explosion echoed across the battlefield. He lifted his crystal gaze just in time to see an Air Force plane spiral towards the sea, leaving a thick trial of smoke and flames in its wake. A cry sounded from behind him and he turned to see one of his comrades fall to his knees, swaying before finally crashing to the earth. A steady flow of blood pooling from his abdomen.
Alfred looked away, gritting his teeth as unshed tears threatening to leak past his waterline. He needed to focus on the task at hand. The blonde peeked over the barrier he was stationed behind, eyeing a Japanese soldier as he raised his gun, aiming for another American. His actions, however, were cut short as a bullet from Alfred's gun found the man's temple. It was clean shot, nearly perfect precision. The foreigners death was quick and painless. Still, it didn't help to comfort the fact that he had just taken another human being's life. Alfred sunk behind the barricade once more, trying to steady his breathing.
This wasn't what he expected the war to be like. He hated this. He hated killing people. But he also loved his country and didn't want it to fall under the rule of Adolf Hitler. But what more did he expect? Of course the battles weren't going to be all fine and dandy. Nobody would walk away without suffering injuries or casualties. In truth, he was just a naive boy looking for some type of adventure. Well, he sure as hell got an adrenaline rush in the line of battle, but it wasn't the thrill he was looking for. What good was victory knowing that either way someone had to pay a horrible price in the end?
He silently cursed his ability. He had one of the best shots out of the entire U.S. Army. He was athletic, agile, and fast. He was strong too and had a good eye. Practically the perfect soldier. That's why he was chosen to be on the front lines. He wanted to be a hero. He wanted to save the lives of the innocent, protect those who couldn't protect themselves. He didn't want to be the one to destroy this precious concept known as life. It was tearing him apart.
They only good thing that's come out of this goddamn war was Matthew. Alfred didn't know how the sweet Canadian had gotten mixed up in this mess in the first place. The poor guy had been drafted into the Army and had to serve against his will. They were both so young. Him and Matthew alike, so they were almost drawn to each other. Alfred knew he could be a bit rambunctious at times, but the other never seemed to mind. In fact he found the American's antics to be amusing. The training camps were such bleak and lifeless facilities, Alfred helped to give their situations those rare bright moments that Matthew needed to badly. Matt was taller, but wasn't as physically fit as the other blonde. After all he aspired to be an artist like his mother, not a soldier. Alfred was always there to give him a helping hand. In no way was Mathew weak, he just didn't pick things up as fast as Alfred did. There were even timed when Matt was the one to save Al's ass. Whether it be helping him over the last wall they had to climb, or sharing his rations, he was always there for the other. That's just how they worked.
Overtime, Alfred's feeling grew to more than just friendship. Of course he never acted on these newfound emotions. He didn't want to scare Matthew away, or ruin the relationship he had worked so hard to build. Hell, he didn't even know if the other was interested in men. Even if he was, homosexuality was something that was frowned upon in this day and age. As sad as it was, it could get them kicked out of the military and shunned by their own friends and family. It was best for Al to keep his feelings to himself.
It was battles like this that had the American worried sick. Matthew was placed somewhere in midst of the troops. Al had no means of finding him until the heat of battle had calmed. His blue eyes frantically scanned the crowd of soldiers. He tried to avoid the more gruesome sights, but had to make sure Matt wasn't one of the victims. He was just glad he wasn't part of the cleanup crew. Their job was to burn and bury the mass amount of corpses. He had heard tales of the disgusting men amongst them. The ones that cut off the fingers of the deceased in order to obtain silver and gold rings. The thought made him sick to his stomach. He didn't want heartless men like that to represent the country he so respected.
He was pulled from his thoughts when he spotted light blond hair out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough it was Matthew. The American pushed himself from his hideout, running into the open in order to get to his friend. It was stupid, but Alfred had always been impulsive. Especially when his sharp vision picked up the sight of an enemy soldier taking aim at the other male.
"Matt!" His voice rang clear. Lilac eyes shifted to him, wide with fear and shock. Alfred reached out to the taller male, grabbing him by the arm. In one swift movement, he pushed Mathew behind him and against the barricade. A sudden sharp pain shot through his chest as he stumbled over an abandoned gun. He landed at Matthews feet and crawled the last few inches behind the barrier. He looked up to see...tears?
Why was Matthew crying?
He opened his mouth in hopes of asking, but nothing came out except for saliva and blood. He coughed up the crimson liquid as his arms gave out. His face hit the dirt and everything went oddly quiet. There was this ringing in his ears and he could hear what seemed to be muffled cries and shouts from a distance. His vision became blurry as it was obscured by blonde curls and light purple orbs. Matthew applied pressure to his chest, trying to stop the bleeding from the gaping wound. There was no end to the supply of blood from where Alfred had been shot.
He had been shot? When? How? The American didn't have time to think of that as a flurry of emotions whisked through his mind in a matter of nanoseconds. He literally saw his life flash before his eyes. He was with his dad. It was just him and the old war veteran. His father was the one who inspired him to join the army in the first place. He had warned Alfred of the dangers but allowed him to follow his calling. Then he was at school, complaining about the too-tight uniforms. Next was track, he had won first place in the hundred meter dash. His dad had been so proud. There was the draft. The first time he had seen those bright lilac eyes, laced with innocence and wonder. They shared a bunk, trained together, ate together. God Alfred was so in love with the male above him. He couldn't bare to see him cry. It was all the more painful when those salty tears dripped onto his face and mixed with his own. He could feel his strength fading, his heart slowing. Gently, he reached up with trembling hands and pulled Matthew's face towards him. The other male was hysterical and Alfred tried to smile to calm him down. It only seems to make him more upset when he saw the pearly white teeth now stained with blood and dirt.
"Matty..." Alfred cooed, his voice only a whisper. "I- I love-" his voice was cut off by a pair of soft lips pressing against his own. Using the last of his strength, he pushed his whole self into the kiss and gripped Matthew's hair with shaking hands. He could still feel tears cascading down the other's checks, landing on his. He could feel the soft lips moving against his own, and quivering, blood stained hands gripping the sides of his face. It was the last thing he remembered before everything faded to black.
It felt like he was drowning. Azure hues creaked opened only to snap shut again. He was surrounded by a blinding blue light that seemed to encircle his entire existence. It wasn't painful. In fact, it didn't feel like anything at all. There was a faint sensation of floating, but that was it. He slowly peeked open and let his eyes adjust to the brightness. He ran slender fingers against the light, watching as it sifted through the digits like sand as it rushed around him. Slowly, the light faded until he was surrounded by nothing but darkness. He was too shocked to speak so he settled for frantically looking each and every way, hoping to catch a sign of some sort of life in the abyss.
"Alfred." A firm, yet gently voice spoke. The American jolted as a figure suddenly manifested in front of him. A man appeared before him, dressed in elegant silk robes that looked far too large for his small body. He had long chestnut hair, tied into a ponytail that rested on his left shoulder.
"Wh-who are you?" Alfred asked, still in shock from the whole ordeal. He slowly drifted to the ground before his feet made contact with what he presumed to be solid land.
"I am Yao Wang, the collector of souls." The spirit spoke, stepping towards him. He seemed to glow in the darkness as his amber eyes trailed the American's every movement.
"Am I dead?" The soldier asked, not entirely sure what to make of the situation.
"I guess you could say that." The man answered, his voice echoing in the very depths of Alfred's mind. Yao tapped his chest, above his heart and the blonde instinctually looked to his own torso. What he saw made him fall silent. There was a gaping wound, right over his heart. It had a sort of ghostly glow and a crimson liquid resembling blood pooled out before evaporating into thin air.
"Ok what the hell is going on?" Alfred questioned, becoming angry that he couldn't understand what was happening.
"You have been chosen for the next position as reaper. You will continue on where I have left off."
"What?!" The American exclaimed, stumbling backward. "I don't want to be the collector of souls, grim reaper, whatever the hell it is."
"Sorry to disappoint you but the decision is final," Yao suddenly pulled a long, nasty looking sword from his robes. It glowed with the same soft amber that surrounded the man himself. Alfred recognized the weapon as a dadao, an ancient Chinese sword. The literal translation was something along the lines of 'big knife'. Researching weaponry had been one of his favorite past times before the war, he used to spend hours upon hours in the library, studying the books and pictures on the deadly devices. His train of thought was interrupted by the blade speeding towards his face. It stopped no less than and inch from the center of his glasses. "If you object, I will have to use force."
"Why me?" Alfred questioned.
"Although you were not my first choice, the pros overshadowed the cons. Bravery, perseverance, the willingness to risk your own life for another," the blade moved down to poke at his wound. However there was no pain, only slight discomfort. "A heart of gold." The man finished.
Alfred decided he'd had enough and pushed the blade away with his bare hands. "And what is my job as the collector of souls?"
"Reapers like us are meant to help guide stray souls."
"Modern day English, please." Alfred commanded, fed up with the poetic metaphors.
"To break it down to more understandable terms," the Chinese man said as he returned the blade to his robes. Alfred watched in aw as it seemed to disappear in a flash of amber lift. "We help restless souls move on. For instant, we mostly work with abrupt deaths, people who have unfinished business in the mortal realm. Weather it be revenge, final goodbyes, confessions, we help them achieve it so they can move on to the afterlife."
"What if their intentions are evil?" Alfred asked. "Do we still help them if their goal is to kill or something?"
"That is not our place to judge." The reaper responded. "We are not the highest level of authority so we are in no place to question our duty. The soul will go through judgment after they pass on. It does no good for anyone to be stuck in limbo, even if they desire to do horrible things." Yao paused, waiting for the boy to absorb the foreign information. "Remember Alfred," his voice faded as did his figure. The soldier watched as the man slowly disappeared into the darkness. "Everything happens for a reason."
Alfred sat in the open graveyard, wondering what type of stories each tombstone held. He had only been to one funeral in his life. His mom's. But he doesn't remember that now, she passed away when he was only a boy.
Slowly, he stood, trudging onwards. It felt as if his feet were weighed down by the newfound responsibility as he walked down the stone path. Eventually he stopped. In front of him were rows of endless white headstones. They represented deceased soldiers. Alfred would soon be one of them. Just another faceless name, inscribed in a sea of white. It was only a matter of time before his friends, family, and fellow soldiers completely forgot about him.
He watched, the scene surreal and silent, as a chariot passed by at a steady pace. It was led by two ash white horses and followed by a line of soldiers in uniform. His azure orbs landed on the sight of a grand oak coffin, blanketed by the American flag. His body was in there, still clad in uniform and signature bomber jacket. The coat had belonged to his father, a keepsake of some sort to make him feel safe when away from home. Alfred watched as the funeral attendees surrounded the coffin. His father was holding his hat tightly to his chest, silent tears streaming down his aged face. A few of his friends hung their heads in sorrow. And Matty. Oh Matt. He had his hand tightly clamped over his mouth, trying in vain to stop the pitiful sobs from escaping his lips. Alfred wanted nothing more than to embrace the man and kiss his tears away. The scene was too much, he had to look away.
A warm hand placed itself firmly on his shoulder. The reaper spun to see Yao standing tall behind him. "This...is the most difficult part." The older man confessed.
"How did you die?" Alfred asked before he could stop himself. He regretted the question immediately when he saw the flash of pain in the Chinese man's amber eyes.
Yao took a shaky breath before speaking. "I was assassinated, but it was written off as suicide."
"Suicide?" Alfred questioned. Yao was silent, thinking to himself for a moment. He seemed to come to a decision and swiftly pulled the oversized sleeves of his robes back. The young reaper fell silent at the reveal of porcelain skin marked with macabre slits across the wrists. A crimson liquid, similar to the one surrounding his bullet wound, leaked from the cuts.
"Who killed you, a-and why?" Alfred asked, astonished as Yao pulled the silk sleeves back down.
"I was next in line for the throne, my cousin didn't think I was fit for the position. He was power hungry and driven by the promise of endless riches and privilege." The older man returned his gaze to the funeral. "They forged my suicide note, saying that I couldn't handle the pressure of becoming emperor. I didn't even see them coming, I barely put up a fight." Even after all these years, it was still difficult for Yao to speak of his death.
"Why were you chosen?" The soldier asked, watching as one of his colleagues began to play the traditional melody of Taps on a lone bugler.
"For my wisdom and quick decision making." Alfred looked down at himself. His uniform had been replaced with solid black clothing, the only familiar thing that remained was his bomber jacket. It was longer, almost like a cloak. The ends were torn and seemed to almost fade to nothingness. The American wasn't one to usually care about his appearance, but he had to admit the getup seemed pretty bad ass. But that didn't stop himself from thinking of how different he and Yao were.
"We are nothing alike," the boy said. "Why were we both chosen?"
Yao pursed his lips in thought for a moment. "Each collector of souls is special in their own way. Different time periods call for different reapers. I can't tell you for sure why either of us were chosen, but a reason if waiting down the line for you." He paused, watching as the soldiers began to fold the American flag. "As for me, I finally get to move on to the afterlife." Yao disappeared, leaving the new reaper to listen to the last grisly details of his death.
Alfred. F Jones, nineteen, U.S Army. Killed in the line of fire in The Battle for Henderson Field. Eighty-six total casualties.
Here he was. Another graveyard, another funeral. This time, however, it wasn't his own. Or for anyone he knew very well either. Alfred sat on the corner of one of the large building, overshadowing the small, nearly forgotten cemetery. There were also a lot less people at this memorial. The reaper recognized two girls, Ivan's sister. But the rest he didn't know. There were a couple classmates, a few professors, no other family. It was sad really, the Russian must have been a pretty lonely guy. He seemed nice enough, but good manners never got anyone that far in life.
"Well, what do you we have here?" Alfred asked himself. He observed a pale figure, dressed in all black and holding a bouquet of sunflowers approaching the scene. And there just happened to be a decapitated ghost trailing behind him. The man, Gilbert, the reaper recognized, turned to encourage the Russian onwards. Ivan nodded shyly and continued down the path towards his grave. Alfred realized that the graveyard was quite a ways away from Gilbert's apartment. Considering his current condition, Ivan certainly wouldn't have been able to make the walk or stay standing on both feet on his own. The German must have either suggested they go or granted Ivan's wish to attend his own funeral. Maybe the other ghost was right, the albino wasn't that bad of a guy.
Gilbert slowly made his way down the path, passing by the older tombstones which had been carefully tended to by the groundskeeper. He had to admire the polished state of each grave, no matter how old, they all looked relatively neat.
"C'mon Van, we're almost there."Van, really Gilbert? You're giving the ghost sent to haunt you a fucking pet name? He gripped the bouquet of sunflowers he was holding harder.
"I-I might be having second thoughts," Ivan said sheepishly as they edged closer to the scene.
"Aw, seriously man? I nearly drove a fucking hour, don't wuss out now!" Gilbert spat angrily. He figured now wasn't the time to be an ass considering the guy was literally sitting in at his own memorial. "It'll be alright, I promise." He said a bit softer. "I'll be right next to you the whole time and we can leave whenever you want." He slowed a bit more, waiting for the ghost to catch up with him.
"Thank you Gilbert," Ivan said, as he inched closer to the German.
It wasn't long before they were standing amongst a small group of mourners. There were only about eight people in attendance. How sad. Gilbert kept his head low as he worked his way to the front of the crowd. He approached what looked to be a small shrine of some sort. A large urn sat on the table, it must of held Ivan's ashes. After all the body had been much too mangled for an open casket funeral. There were a few framed pictures of Ivan. One from high school graduation, or at least that's what Gilbert assumed based off the cap and gown on the younger looking Russian. His hair was a bit longer than now, more messy, and the German couldn't look past the acne. But hey, he had it in high school as well, he was in no position to judge. It was actually kind of cute. Gilbert moved on to the next picture, Ivan was smiling in this one, a wide open mouthed grin and violet eyes screwed shut with joy as he hugged two smaller women. The albino presumed they were his sisters considering the similar face shape and hair color.
A hand suddenly touched him on the shoulder, startling him slightly. "Did you know him well?" An accented voice asked from behind him. "Sunflowers were his favorite." He gripped he flowers close and turned to see one of the women from the photo. She was short and slightly pudgy. Kind of cute though with her round face and wide eyes, even when red and puffy from tears.
"Um- I- no." Gilbert answered. "I had a few classes with him." He quickly fabricated the lie. He looked past the squat woman to see the other girl from the picture. She was tall and thin with a resting bitch face. "You are Katyusha, correct?" He asked the friendlier looking woman, remembering the Russian's stories.
"Yes I am, and that is Natalia." She glanced over her shoulder, fiddling with the hem of her black skirt. A nervous habit that ran in the family. "I'm sorry, she is very upset at the moment."
"I understand," Gilbert replied. "If you'll excuse me." He nodded his head in respect and backed away. He couldn't face Ivan's grieving sisters. Now after what he had done. He returned his attention to the shrine, admiring the Russian's face once again. He looked so happy in all of the pictures, so alive. Gilbert glanced over his shoulder, spotting Ivan loitering by a tree, trying to work up the courage to come closer. He looked so much paler than in the photos, maybe the fact that he was nearly transparent contributed. His cheeks were hallowed out, his eyes sunken in with dark bags underneath. And not to mention the severed head that continued to drip a never ending flow of blood. One would barely recognize him in death. The German locked eyes with the ghost, nodding his head in an attempt to get the Russian to follow him. Eventually the spirit gave in and joined him near the shrine. He wouldn't look at it. Gilbert reached out, taking Ivan's hand in his own. The poor guy was trembling. Slowly, he pulled him forwards. They arrived in front of the Russian's tombstone, still hand in hand. Gilbert knelt, pulling the ghost with him as he gently laid the sunflowers on the grave. He looked up, Ivan was fighting back tears.
"Maybe we should go." He suggested. The entity nodded, standing. Gilbert bid one last goodbye to the Russian's sisters and quickly left.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Gilbert asked lightly, still holding tightly to the other male's hand. No response. Oh well. Knowing that he had been with the ghost the whole time in case he needed him was enough to ease the German's mind. At least for now.