I want to thank everyone for taking the time to review!

I'm really sorry for the hiatus guys, but the past year has not been easy. See, way back in November of last year my step-grandfather, who'd been living with my mom and step-dad for little less than a year, fell very ill. I, being one of the only kids who still lives relatively close to our parents, was tasked with taking care of him throughout the day. Naturally, that took up a lot of my time. Then my maternal grandmother started getting sick last December. She passed away mid-January, and then my step-grandfather passed away early March.

Recently my favorite uncle, who's suffered from heart problems over the years, had to go through numerous surgeries that ultimately didn't work. Thankfully, he's doing better now, though he'll be undergoing more tests soon. Then another one of my uncles, one I was never very close to, died in late October, while my step-grandmother died a week before Thanksgiving.

Suffice to say, this year has not been a good one.

Chapter 8: Fool Of A Friend

"The trickster's function is to break taboos, create mischief, stir things up. In the end, the trickster gives people what they really want, some sort of freedom." –Tim Robbins

1494

Davy had never been as hyperaware of time until she had Jim as a Believer. Years that had passed before with a barely acknowledged glance now seemed to hang over her like a guillotine. The possibility of Jimbo growing out of his Belief in her was always there, more than once she'd woken from a fitful sleep, plagued by nightmares of the boy, forgetting her. Pitch had no doubt noticed this new fear, but in a rare sense of kindness, he had not brought attention to it.

As the years passed though, and Jim grew from a child to a teenager to a young adult, he never stopped Believing in her. In fact, only a few people in the town of Ipswich didn't Believe in Davy Jones. The small fishing village, though not exactly the birthplace of her story, had grown to hail her as their own guardian spirit, telling her story as it was meant to be rather than the current belief that she was the devil's bounty hunter.

It was an amazing thing, to sail the Dutchman near the town and have sailors and fishermen on nearby vessels holler out to her. Or to visit the town itself and have the children and teenagers crowd her, demanding to go on treasure hunts or challenge her to swordfights. Davy's skills with her cutlass had grown exponentially over the years, and many boys who planned to join the king's royal navy came to her for lessons. So far, no one had beaten her and doing so had become a task which all males, both child and adult, attempted at least once.

Pitch warned her it wouldn't last forever, and maybe he was just preying on the flash of fear that gave her, but she knew he was right. Eventually, she would fade into obscurity and become a myth. Her territory was the water, and in the end sailing, explorations, and even fishing itself, would lose the importance it had in this day and age.

While she missed the 21st Century dearly, the thought of running into commercial cruise liners or cargo ships filled her with a strange sense of bleakness. She wasn't so sure how she would handle that, nor of becoming a silly superstition that future generations would eventually shake their heads at, but Davy felt like she could bare it so long as Jim never stopped Believing in her. And at 20 years old, it looked as if he wouldn't ever forget her.

However, while she was reassured in that regard, the Captain was still overly attentive of the passing years. James may never stop Believing in her, but her time with him was still numbered. The morality rate for people in the 15th Century was low, what with diseases and poor living conditions. If she was lucky, he'd live for another 40 years or so.

As if summoned by her thoughts of death, Grimm stepped out from the shadows of the mainmast. Davy waved at him from where she stood at the helm, smiling wanly as he approached her, his scythe tapping idly against the wood planks. She pushed aside her depressing thoughts and greeted her friend enthusiastically.

"Ahoy matey! What brings ye aboard the Dutchman today?"

"I bring news." He announced. "A Spirit has been created, the second of thine generation." The Captain blinked in surprise at this information. For some reason she thought there wouldn't be another Spirit until Jack came around.

"Really?" He nodded, and she mulled over it for a moment before smiling. "Any idea where I can find'em?"

"Thou intends to meet him?" Grimm asked sounding a little off, but she paid more attention to the reveal of the new Spirit's gender.

"Aye, we're part o' the same generation after all. Dost that not make him akin ta me brother or cousin?" Grimm made a muffled noise, and she couldn't tell if it expressed shock, annoyance, or hurt. She was leaning towards the latter though, considering the Reaper curled in on himself a little, his shoulders hunching defensively as he gripped his scythe tightly. What had she said that made him so upset? "Grimm, art ye alright?"

"Fine. I am fine." He replied somewhat harshly, and then promptly flinched at his own tone. "I apologize, Davina. Truly, I did not mean to–"

"Matey, it's okay. Take a breath, ye didn't do anythin' wrong." She quickly reassured him, stepping away from the steering wheel to approach her friend. She'd never seen him act this way before and it troubled her in a way she couldn't quite describe. Grimm had always seemed above such emotions. Sure, he could get irritated and make terrible puns, but he was ultimately a being of guidance and insight in her mind. He was ages older than her, he was Death personified, and yet now…

Now he looked hurt, vulnerable, and small in a way that made her heart ache.

Worst of all, she had no idea what had set him off. Davy hesitated for a moment, briefly unsure of herself, before laying a hand on his shoulder, trying to offer comfort to someone she hadn't considered in need of it.

Something, she wasn't sure what, happened next.

It was instantaneous, her consciousness blanked out for a moment, as if rebooting, and she found herself collapsing at Grimm's feet with a cutoff cry. She could partially hear the Reaper's panicked exclamations, but Davy was too overwhelmed by the sensation of that something, to hear what he was saying exactly. It hadn't been pain, even now she wasn't hurt, but she felt like her throat was clogging up, smothering her lungs in an icy, gritty grasp.

The Captain coughed, desperate to get rid of the feeling, but to no avail. There was a pervasive weakness in her body, one that left her limbs too weak to support herself, leaving Davy to flop on the deck like a dying fish. With a rapid flutter of blinks, her blurry vision could barely make out Grimm, who hovered over her, hands reaching out to touch her before swiftly reeling back.

"Davina, oh damn it all! Just lay still, thy daft woman!" The anxious shout was the first words she could hear clearly, though she was aware that her friend had been speaking to her nonstop. The noise had been muffled before, as if Grimm had been very far away, but his voice thrummed loudly in her ears now, making her cringe.

"A-Aye…" She answered faintly, letting her body droop as she gave up on trying to stand. "Wha…?" Her tongue felt unbelievably heavy. Just staying conscious seemed like a chore.

"I am sorry Davina! I did not mean to– but thou touched me and–" He cut himself off, tone growing forlorn and self-loathing. "No one should ever touch me. I am Death."

"Am I…" 'Dying?' Was left unsaid more from the dread of uttering such a possibility than tiredness. Thankfully, Grimm shook his head vigorously and what little tension that had taken root in her body faded with a relieved sigh.

"Nay, my friend. Tis impossible for me to kill another Spirit or Demon by touch. I can however," He continued guiltily, bowing his head further in apology. "cause thy body to reexperience thine dying moments, leaving thee frail and weak." Davy processed this slowly before mustering a feeble smile.

"S'pose askin'ye… ta take'me… ta'me cabin… is'outta… the question?" She asked sluggishly, her words barely recognizable as they slurred into one another. She heard Grimm scoff, though it half sounded like a small sob, and she desperately tried to keep her eyes open. It was hard though, her eyelids felt so very heavy, and she could feel her entire being aching for slumber, but making sure her friend was okay was more important. "Not… yer… fault…" She huffed and his shook his head once again.

"I-I will find thine First Mate." The Reaper said, stuttering for the first time in Davy's presence. "She will be able to help thee." Before she could protest, Grimm vanished into the shadows, leaving her to stare after him in worry before sleep finally claimed her.

Marques Avril was born to the world in the year 1463, ten years after the Hundred Years' War ended. His family lived in a poor village, one of many that had been ravaged by the war, where famine and illness thrived. His mère passed away when he was six from a fever, which subsequently took his unborn sibling as well. Years later, his père was killed while heading home from the village's pub. Someone had robbed and stabbed him, leaving his body to rot in a ditch until Marques had found it a day later. Orphaned at eleven, he'd taken only what he could carry and left. He knew the Duke would soon reclaim his parents' land, it had happened to several villagers already. Had he stayed, they would've sent him to a workhouse.

He headed for Paris, believing the city would have jobs available. The capital failed to live up to his imaginings though. Paris was filthy in many areas and overcrowded with others who'd fled to the city after losing everything to the war. Unable to find anyone who would apprentice him as a cook or craftsman, and being unable to read or write, Marques' supplies quickly dwindled away with no means to provide for himself. The resigned boy had nearly joined a workhouse. At least there he would have a roof to sleep under and food, however meager or stale, to fill his empty belly.

However, his luck changed one day while he stalked the streets, seriously contemplating the risks and rewards of becoming a pickpocket, when he idly began to play with one of the few things he owned. It was a set of three sacks, the purple cloth slightly faded and dirty, each about the size of his fist and filled with sand. The balls had been a gift from his père, who taught him how to juggle, which Marques mastered and then expanded upon.

Paying no mind to the people walking the street, he began to juggle, reflecting on happier memories. He soon started humming one of his mère's songs to help him keep in rhythm, unaware that he was drawing in a small crowd. Instead he was focused on his tricks, of tossing a ball behind his back where it returned to its brothers. The claps and laughs that echoed around him nearly made him trip up, but he somehow kept juggling, staring wide-eyed at the people surrounding him.

Realizing that he was the center of attention, Marques began to put on a bit of a show and proceeded to greet the crowed with more cheer than he'd felt in weeks. He asked if they would like to see anything specific and the children of various ages shouted out demands for different tricks. He performed the ones he could, and when he attempted one he'd never tried before, failing rather spectacularly, he made a joke that had the crowd roaring with laughter.

That was how Marques stumbled upon his calling as a fool.

He performed everywhere, from Paris' street corners, to fields during festivals, and in the main plazas of the smaller towns surrounding the city. He worked on his juggling, learnt more difficult tricks, picked up some acrobatic feats, while also memorizing songs, poems, and stories. He horded words, and with them he strung together puns, riddles, one-liners, and jokes both child-friendly and lewd. As his repertoire grew, so too did the crowds.

He didn't need a home, for there was always someone who'd let a traveling jester stay with them in exchange for entertainment. The coin he earned was enough to pay for food and clothes. Most importantly, it was a living that Marques treasured. He enjoyed making the children laugh with his jokes and pranks, of seeing the weathered faces of adults turn years younger as they forgot about their troubles for a little while. In time, people started to use his pranks on each other, on their friends, siblings, and even their parents. As Marques grew older, he took pride in bringing laughter to a world that so desperately needed it.

Sadly, his hijinks and games weren't always appreciated by some. Quite a few people saw something odd about him. And as he expanded more on skills, mastering slight-of-hand and introducing magic to his act, he gained more distrustful looks. It wasn't something he'd noticed until it was too late. All that had caught his attention at the time was how the children's faces lit up with delight every time he made something disappear or appear out of thin air.

In 1494, during the midseason of autumn, he'd arrived in the town known as Valais, which had been an extremely foolish decision on his part. There'd been rumors of something being off with the town, but Marques had thought nothing of it. He took to his usual ways, exploring new areas and playing with the children when he could, but mostly focusing on the adults to earn his living.

The people of Valais didn't like his magic tricks, they didn't like his humor, and they most certainly didn't like him when some of the children started to go missing.

After the third child disappeared on his fifth day in town, a mob had arrived at the inn he'd been staying at in the middle of the night, tearing him from his sleep as they threw him into a caged wagon. They paraded him through the streets, calling him horrible things and accusing him of truly dreadful crimes. Some claimed he could turn invisible while others said he could turn into a vicious beast under the light of a full moon. Worst of all though, were the shouts slandering him as a demon, that he'd been stealing the children to sate his hunger.

Marques denied it of course, he protested till his throat was raw and even then, he didn't stop. There was no trial, the townspeople were convinced of his guilt. The man was just thankful that no children were present to see how depraved their parents could act. He was tied upon a ladder with a large wooden crucifix in his arms and a bag of gunpowder around his neck. The ladder was then pushed into the burning bonfire they'd built on the town's outskirts.

He died, but not from suffocating on smoke or by burning alive. No, the bag of powder around his neck reacted instantly when it met the flames. It was over in seconds and he didn't feel anything besides mind-numbing terror. He imagined his had been a gory death to witness.

Marques Avril, however, continued to exist.

The fool blinked at the moon above, floating several feet in the air, and with the remnants of his execution on the ground as proof for what had happened. It had not taken long for his last moments before death to shove its way to the forefront of his mind with perfect clarity, destroying the brief spell of merciful amnesia. Before he could sink too deeply into the memory, the moon's light flashed brighter, warmer, soothing away the panic. The moon spoke to him then, saying a single word.

d'Avril

With that Marques was set upon the wreckage of his demise, confused and scared, where he soon discovered that he his clothes had changed. Gone was the checkered tunic, dark breeches, and deer hide boots he'd been wearing, replaced with the type of extravagant jester's outfit one would only see in a king's court. The stockings he now wore were a mesh of designs, his left leg was a solid dark purple while the right was stripped vertically with yellow and purple again. His long-sleeved tunic was split down the middle; the left side was checkered with purple and yellow diamonds while the right side was completely purple. His left sleeve was a solid purple with his right being entirely yellow. The ends of his sleeves were tucked into long black gloves that had silver embroidery around the edges in a pattern that looked like laughing faces.

On his feet were black slippers, the embroidery around the edges matching the ones on his gloves, and a small silver bell was on the pointed ends of each shoe. Around his waist he wore a simple black sash, with a black pouch tucked against his right side. A black cowl rested over his over his collarbone, shoulders, and back, cut in a triangular fashion. At the tip of each point rested a silver bell and the fabric itself was once again embroidered in the detailed pattern of laughing faces. Pulling open the pouch, Marques found his cherished juggling balls inside, though like his clothes, the balls seemed to have been changed as well. The purple fabric looked as good as new, while also sporting new colors as well, this being yellow and black.

A black hat now rested upon his head, not the traditional Fool's hat that most jesters wore, but a rather normal one. The wide brim went all the way around, stretching out into the air by a few inches. The brim itself was also embroidered in silver and a purple feather stuck out on the right side, drooping a little at the end due to its long length. He also found, much to his confusion, that a silver hooped earing had been added to his left earlobe.

Marques dithered there for a long time, calling out to the Moon for an explanation. Was he dead? Was he a lingering spirit doomed to wander the earth because no one had given him a proper burial? And perhaps least importantly, although no less confusing, why had his clothes changed? Sadly, his questions went unanswered as the Moon simply repeated "d'Avril" three more times before becoming silent. With nothing left to do, he made his way to town, though certainly not back into Valais. It took him all night and part of the next day before he stumbled upon a young shepherd tending to his herd.

"Bonjour mon ami!" The man called, relieved to find another person. The shepherd did not look up, but Marques was not deterred. He tried again and was once more ignored. Losing his good mood, he'd reached out to touch the young man's shoulder, and yelped as he found his hand pierce through the boy's body. Reeling back, Marques let the horror of what happened sink in for a moment before timidly trying again. When met with the same results, he scrambled away from the shepherd and his herd, breathing frantically as the realized that the possibility of him being a spirit may in fact be a horrifyingly truth.

He fled. Racing across the open field, he didn't stop when he reached the woods, but barreled through them without any of his usual grace. Branches smacked at him, roots tripped him and sent him sprawling across the leaf covered ground. He got up with hardly a thought, too lost in his own panic to do anything but run. Eventually, he did come to a stop, but only after tumbling down a steep hill. He landed heavily on his back, where he panted loudly, eyes shut to block out the nausea and the memory of his hand going through that man.

After an undetermined amount of time, Marques eyelids peeled open and he stared up at the grey sky with a sense of hopelessness. What now? What was he do with this ethereal existence? Was he meant to haunt the people of Valais? Why was he here and not in heaven with his family? Was he being punished for something?

Marques was not one prone to cry, but he shed more than a few tears at the base of that hill.

It took Grimm a week to remember that Davy had wanted to befriend the newest Spirit.

He didn't want to leave his home, he wanted to remain hiding in the shadows, wallowing in his self-loathing. But Davina had been so excited to meet the new Spirit. Death winced as he thought about his dearest friend, knowing her current state was entirely his fault.

So, it was out of obligation to her that he left the sanctity of his home and appeared on top of Notre-Dame de Paris. His sights turned to the sky, where the stars were out, and the moon hung high. Grimmons frowned at his creator, staying in the shadows he arrived in to avoid the moonbeams. He knew that Manny was offering him clemency, some comfort, but Death did not feel like he should be allowed to bask in Manny's gentle acceptance.

He would not allow himself to bask in the light until Davina was well again.

Instead, Grimm dropped his gaze to the newest Spirit with a sense of reluctance. The man, not young, but not old either, was sitting on a ledge of the cathedral, head bowed as he stared down at the plaza below. He studied the Spirit, taking in what he could from their positions, making a note of everything so that he could share it with Davina when she awoke.

That is, if she was still willing to speak with him.

The Spirit was a fairly tall man, though not nearly as tall as the Reaper himself. He wore a brightly colored fool's outfit with chaotic patterns in purple and yellow, with black and silver accentuating the outfit. He had neck-length, brown hair accompanied by a trimmed goatee. He possessed a reedy build, his limbs almost gangly and a little awkward. His eyes matched his outfit, the left being purple with the right being yellow.

A simple silver hoop earring hung from his left earlobe. A black hat, not all that dissimilar to Davy's, rested on his head. The wide brim went all the way around, stretching out into the air by a few inches, and was embroidered in silver smiles. A lone purple feather stuck out on the right side, drooping a little at the end due to its long length. Grimm sighed heavily, a noise that immediately attracted the new Spirit, who whirled around so fast they almost lost their balance and fell off the cathedral.

"Sacrebleu!" The fool froze after his surprised shout, his wide-eyed gaze locked on the Reaper and looking not unlike a cornered animal being confronted by its natural predator.

This reaction was the usual one Grimmons got whenever he encountered new Spirits. The most notable exceptions being Sandy, Pitch Black, and Davina. Sandy had greeted him with an eager wave upon their first interaction, Pitch had subtly prodded him for information, and Davy consumed in her grief over a child's death, had hardly reacted to his presence at all. The fear that shone in the man's duel colored eyes was infinitely more familiar, and with the Reaper's current mood, it was a reaction he felt he deserved.

"Greetings." He said after a few moments when it became apparent that the Fool was too stunned to speak. "I am Grimmons, the Grim Reaper, better known to mortals as Death."

"Art…" The man started weakly, speaking with a heavy French accent before swallowing loudly. "Art zou h-here to take me away?"

"No." Grimm answered, an unseen frown tugging at his mouth. "Why wouldst thou think that?"

"I am a ghost, am I not?" The Fool replied hesitantly.

"Hmph, ghosts. A mortal word that fails to describe what we truly are." He stated as his gaze drifted back to the sky. "Thou art no more a ghost than I. We art Spirits."

"…Is zere a difference?" The dubiousness in the man's tone caught Grimm off guard enough that he chuckled a little before recovering his demeanor.

"To thine ears, likely not." He answered, trying to dismiss the burst of humor the man had unintentionally inspired. "We art not restless souls meant to haunt the living. No, we were chosen by the Man in the Moon to watch over humanity."

"Ze Man in ze Moon?" The Fool replied lowly, his eyes darting up to the silvery-white orb in the sky. "He talked to me when I awoke after–" He stopped, his expression twisting up into a pained grimace, one that the Reaper unconsciously mirrored.

"So, thou remembers that, do thee? Odd, most who suffer a death as brutal as yours usually forgets how they died." Grimmons knew that Davina did not remember her death, which was not so unusual amongst Spirits, but she was the only one whose death he had not witnessed. It was an intriguing situation to be honest, not knowing how another Spirit had died, not being there to witness their last moments or see their rebirth.

Sanderson could not recall how he'd died, but Grimm had been there to see the small man sacrifice himself to save a pair of siblings from a hungry wildcat. He had seen Cupid take an arrow to the heart to save her younger brother. He had watched Will-o'-the-Wisp trudge through the wilderness for days until he collapsed from starvation after finding and saving his best friend. Then there was Pitch, who perhaps had the most tragic death and rebirth of them all, but Grimm hated to think of how the Boogeyman had come into existence, so he did not allow himself to dwell on that memory.

North recalled his death, having died almost peacefully while delivering toys in a blizzard. The man had fallen asleep in a snow drift and awoken to Manny's soft voice. The Muse's death had not been so painless, but she remembered it too. When a horrible sickness had spread throughout her village, she had taken care of the ill who had been shunned by those too afraid to help. In the end, she caught their illness and passed away, surrounded by those she'd been trying to save. Naturally, as the Guardian of Memories, Toothianna knew of her own demise. She had died by saving a little girl from falling into a ravine, unfortunately by falling in herself.

"He– it– ze moon," The Fool began haltingly. "Ze Man in za Moon called me d'Avril."

"Well, tis a pleasure to meet thee, d'Avril."

"Quoi?" The man remarked countered, looking lost. "Zat is not– Wait, is zat supposed to be my name now?" He asked and Grimmons sighed. "Because it is not. My name is Marques Avril."

"Thou art a rather slow one I see."

"Excusez-moi?"

"Sit, d'Avril, and I will explain what I can."

Davy woke up in her bed. She came to slowly, her mind sluggish and not processing anything for several minutes. With a weakness that she hadn't felt since being human, she tried to push herself up onto her elbows, before giving up. Her blurry vision clearing very slow as she blinked at her surroundings almost uncomprehendingly. Her cabin eventually came into view as moonlight spilled in through her windows. A particularly strong beam embraced her, and Davy sighed at the sensation, mustering a tired smile for the Man in the Moon.

"Ahoy, Manny." She said, her words coming out as a rasp, catching almost painfully in her throat. Oh god, when was the last time she'd drank anything? The light lingered for a long moment before disappearing. The Captain tried once more to get up and found herself struggling to get out from under her blankets, which felt ten pounds heavier than normal. She paused when the door flung open, revealing a rather disheveled and frantic looking Undine.

"Captain!" The Mermaid shouted as she rushed to her bedside. "Thou should not be moving yet!" Undine, with a disturbing amount of ease, pushed Davy flat against her bed. She dithered around the Captain, fluffing her pillow excessively and even tucked the woman back under her restraining covers.

"What… happened?" Davy croaked weakly, feeling oddly disoriented. Undine froze, a shudder running across her face before her expression turned blank and unreadable.

"What dost thou remember?"

"I… were with… Grimm, aye?" She answered unsurely, swallowing against the roughness of her throat, and her First Mate nodded stiffly. "And thar be... a new Spirit." She continued, a small rush of excitement returning with her recollection. She attempted to sit up, but a firm hand from Undine kept her frustratingly in place.

"And?"

"And what?" Davy asked irately as she narrowed her eyes at the other woman. Undine was unphased, however.

"How did thee end up in this state?"

"I–" The Captain fell quiet as she thought. She had a hard time remembering her conversation with Grimm for some reason. She just felt exhausted, both physically and mentally. Like she was on the rebound from a bad flu or something. "I don't… really remember. Everythin' becomes a blur… after Grimm told me 'bout the new Spirit." She glanced up at her First Mate, immediately noticing the harsh glare that had taken over her face. "Alright, what am I missin' here… that's put ye in such a foul mood?"

"Thou touched Death!" Undine shouted, her usually calm disposition lost in a rare show of anger. The outburst was enough to render Davy mute as she stared at the Mermaid in surprise. "How could thee do something so foolish?! I had thought thee would have better sense than that!" As the woman continued to yell, Davy's memory slowly came back to her. She remembered Grimm's distress and how she'd reached out to comfort him, laying a hand on his shoulder when–

She'd collapsed. And Grimm had been panicked.

"Where's Grimmons? Is he okay?"

"Where is– Captain!" Undine sputtered, sounding legitimately incensed. "Were thee human, thou would be dead! Dost thou not understand the direness thee art in? Thou will be bedridden for several days more, and even then, thou will not be at full strength for some time."

"But I'm not dyin', aye?"

"Nay." The Mermaid replied with a breathy sigh.

"Then I don't see how this matters. It were an accident. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to touch him. I apologize for the stress I caused ye, but–"

"Thou hast been asleep for seven months!" Davy stared stupidly at her First Mate, wondering if she'd misheard her for a moment, but the regretful expression the swiftly took over the Mermaid's face proved otherwise.

"…What?" She rasped faintly, barely hearing her own voice.

"When a Spirit is touched by Death," Undine begin, her tone turning gentle as she reached out and laid a hand upon Davy's own. "he drains them of all strength and they… slip away for a long time. Had thou no Believers to help thee regain strength, thou could have–" She seemed to be searching for the right word, her lips pursing sullenly. "Slept for years. As it is, thou has not been active in the world for some time." Undine finished lowly, a flash of guilt taking over her pretty features before she glanced over at the globe.

Numbly, Davy followed her gaze, a choked noise escaping her throat as she saw how many lights had disappeared from the globe. Where hundreds of lights had twinkled all around the globe, scattered along the coasts or gathered in villages, it had become frighteningly darker, the shine dulled to less than a third of what she'd had.

Her Believers had stopped believing in her.

Translations from French to English: mère – mother | père – father | bonjour – hello | mon ami – my friend | quoi – what | excusez-moi – excuse me | Sacrebleu is an old French profanity meant as a cry of surprise or anger. Since d'Avril is French he'll speak with an accent. As you no doubt noticed, I've replaced most of the th-words with the letter z. So, when he's saying that or the, it sounds like zat or ze.

I bet you guys weren't expecting that twist I threw in there with Grimm's "no-touchy" rule. I kinda hated to do it, as I've grown really attached to Grimm and hate doing anything mean to his character, but he has a sad backstory that will be explored much later in this fic. He has a lot of self-loathing too, which Davy is only starting to recognize As such, I wanted to give Grimm another friend, which turned out to be d'Avril, who will hopefully put a lot more laughter in the Reaper's life.

–Hexalys