Beatrice and Bill shared the same memory that was not their own, and both were disgusted, expressing their deep grief in different ways. It seemed the pair were reaching their breaking point, stretching too thin to control themselves. They had to rely more and more on each other if they were to make it. Bill wondered if it was some kind of joke, that when they had become Reapers, they hadn't lost any sense of humanity.<br/><br/>As Beatrice swore and swung her sword, Bill raised a single finger to his lips and flapped the other hand in an attempt to hush and calm her, despite his selfish wish that her weapon could keep swinging. Her blade stopped just before his neck, thankfully. It wasn't like Bill could have stopped her anyway; in the way that she was louder, she was also stronger.<br/><br/>Bill swallowed the hard lump in his throat and wiped away the last of his tears as Beatrice completed her acts of defiant aggression. He would have spit too, if it weren't for his dry sandpaper mouth. He looked on as she began to huff and slow, her anger faded and replacing itself with resignation. Bill wished he had her fiery spirit, instead of just being a quiet crybaby. Someone like him couldn't change anything, but Beatrice, Beatrice would always do something, to make everything better, to make him feel better, to make others feel valued.<br/><br/>Even after death.<br/><br/>Small, indefatigable fingers gripped Bill's stocky arms from behind. He listened to Beatrice's croaky speech, nodding firmly after each pause. "I'll never think old-people things, Bea," Bill chewed his cheek, "that there needs wisdom, and I ain't got none o' that." Bill often said self-deprecating things, hard-wired from years of being told that he was inferior, and that humility meant thinking of yourself as worth less. His lips twitched slightly as he spoke again, "It wouldn't take long for my back to be achin' even now, if you were tae slap me with your strong hand." He ducked instinctively, afraid she would strike him. Even when hitting playfully, she could be right harsh. Instead, he felt her head press deeply into his shoulder. He didn't want to move. It was nice, to stand there, all still-like, feeling the shadows moving in, hearing the fountain water splash gently, and smell the flowers of the courtyard, picked up by the same breeze that tousled his messy hair.<br/><br/>Skin beginning to prickle as night set even deeper, Bill decided to end the silence.<br/><br/>"You would look right pretty in a dress, though, with frilly pink boys and things." This time, he absolutely had to duck. He threw himself to the side in an elaborate fashion, mimicking his 'excellent' sword-wielding skills from before, and nodded as Beatrice called for them to end their night's expedition.<br/><br/>The dodo let out a small cluck, as if it was aware they were speaking of his fate. He looked so sad and small. Bill didn't want to just leave him. As if to prove his point, the dodo shivered, puffing its feather up and shaking its head in the way only a bird could. Did birds get cold? Bill wasn't sure. "We can't just leave 'im, Bea," Bill said melancholically, "it might be lost. I can sneak 'im in to the boys' quarters, and we can try to find 'is owner in the morning. No one'll notice, the room smells like a barn enough as it is."<br/><br/>They took a few turns, Bill checking fervently that the dodo was following with each one, before going down a steep flight of marble stairs. Very few of the torches along the wall were lit, making it so that as soon as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, it was snatched from them by a golden flame. Bill had always found the little fires on candles so interesting. There was nothing around them to stop them from jumping from the wick, and yet they danced and writhed like they were trapped in an invisible prison. He remembered that when he had been alive, he wondered if they were magic.<br/><br/>But magic, as he now knew, was a lot different. At least, the kind he used was.<br/><br/>As they entered darkness again, Bill let his fingers run across the smoothed cobbles of the wall as a support in the shadows until he suddenly hit a piece of jagged stone, which made a thin cut in his ring finger. He let out a silent cry, sucking his finger to stop the bleeding. He reached out instinctively and grabbed Beatrice's arm. He quickly let go. "Sorry," he whispered.<br/><br/>They would soon reach the girls' quarters, where all the women servants stayed, except those with special jobs that needed to be where they worked, even at night. Bill wondered if the girls' quarters was nicer than the boys, and less cramped. Maybe they had flowers and nice blankets. It wouldn't smell as bad as the boys', for sure. Bill knew for a fact that girls didn't make bad smells.