The Reaper's Name is Kindness

4. A Penny for the Ferryman

The corridors of the Place Between were deathly silent, only the background fuzzing and murmuring emanated from its incorporeal pathways. The unnatural silence of the place divorced from the world of the living was not broken by either the young psychopomp or their charge. The assignment wasn't talking, not inquiring about anything that would or had already happened. She didn't exhibit any sign of wanting to know more, or to have the secrets of the universe revealed. 1-8 had to admire her ability to make her face unreadable, it must have been a reasonably valuable skill in life, but the psychopomp knew better and could see the questions simmering beneath her steely mask. They knew she wanted to learn more and to understand all that could be, but they did not probe, they did not invade the privacy of her mind to learn what inquiries were bubbling beneath the surface.

"The next archway shouldn't be too far now, after that is the ferry. If you have anything left you want answered, now would be a good time," 1-8 gently relayed to the assignment. Her response was not verbal as she quickly flicked her eyes over to the robed skeleton beside her and then back to the empty path ahead.

1-8 did not pry, if their assignment truly wished to join the Living Universe with unanswered questions, then they had no choice but to allow it. It was not their place, they believed, to force the words from someone's mind. All questions could be answered in their own time. But the firmness of where they stood did not hinder their curiosity.

"It's alright if you'd rather not speak, but do know, I wish to help you. The Living Universe may provide some of the answers you seek, but please if you have anything that you feel you must know, do not hesitate to ask me. It is my duty to guide you." 1-8 clenched their hand hidden away in the oversized cavern of their cloak's sleeve, their curiosity brimming. Their senses were tuned to the emptiness around them, a part of their mind still searching for Feather's critical leer. Not knowing where the apparently bipolar psychopomp had disappeared to or what they were doing at that moment. Though 1-8 did not have the time to suspect where their short-lived mentor had run off to, as something shifted in their immediate vicinity.

The young psychopomp felt a change in the woman's demeanor, her mind stirred and her thoughts were pushed forward. They felt the churn of her questions as they pushed up to the surface of her conscience and readied themselves for an imminent spoken freedom. 1-8 prepared themself, steeling their mind for the questions they so readily wished to answer. They waited for those words that would create the chance to prove that they were ready to truly begin their afterlife as the Living Universe's shepherd. They readied the catalog of answers provided to them by the grace of their Universe's desire to rejoin with the souls of humanity.

"What is your name?"

1-8's catalog was shoved away by the sudden shock of their assignment's question. They had expected or prepared for this. The answer of a name is one that they could not yet provide to their assignment. They were not a name, they were a number, a shepherd, and a guide. They did not require a name, and yet, they felt it rude to not give an answer to the woman who they had so desperately wanted to aid and relieve of worry. They could not simply lie and provide a false name. Lying was out of bounds for a psychopomp, and providing a false name would be akin to a psychopomp naming themself. 1-8 had hardly just begun to understand their role, they were nowhere near reaching the honor of a name.

They knew that this was not a dilemma that needed pondering or worrying, they knew what their answer was and could release it without issue. But it was a shock and a wonder that the final form of the woman before them had even been asked for a name.

"I, as do many other psychopomps, lack what humans may consider a regular name. We do have forms of address unique to us, but they are not names. I respond to the designation of Psychopomp number One dash Eight." The woman's straight-ahead gaze was broken as she gazed up at 1-8 with what felt to them like human pity.