Chapter Text
In a 19th-century town lived a mysterious woman whom many called the "Phantom Lady"—and some even "Lady Death"—due to her peculiar nature. Her name was know by all the locals; she was loved by many and hated by others.
Yet, she bore something others might call a blessing, but which she considered a curse: eternal life. not aging a single day, and to her, this was hell; she had watched her entire family die, one by one, leaving only her behind.
Sitting in her armchair by the window, gazing out at the vast world and the large village in the distance, was Genevieve—the last descendant of the Mortem family. Her lineage should have vanished over seven hundred years ago; yet there she was, frozen in time, watching the world turn and evolve while she remained, much like a decorative object that refused to wither.
Immortality had taught her many things—such as the fact that nothing lasts and that the lives of the people out there were superficial—but her ancient heart was too kind to stand idly by. Genevieve had inherited palaces and empires but desired a more private life; she sold everything and moved to an imposing mansion in the middle of the forest—a place large enough to comfortably house thirty people. Yet, she lived there alone, owning the surrounding lands as well, thereby ensuring that no one disturbed her peace.
Watching the birds fly at day's end, she remained in that house for years, tending to her own vegetable and herb garden. She ate only to keep flesh upon her bones—so as not to waste away—and ventured out only when people needed her; The village down below was, in a sense, hers; having arrived when the place was merely a hamlet with few inhabitants, she acted as a dispenser of justice—and immortality had taught her to show no mercy to sinners.
n the past, she killed thieves who stole out of greed, as well as pedophiles, rapists, and slave traders—all under the cover of night. They even tried to burn her at the stake because she did not age; she allowed it to happen, enduring the agony of the flames, only to drive the villagers to despair when she rose from the ashes the next day as if nothing had occurred. From that moment on, they called her Saint Mortem, for she took souls away but never departed herself.
But the title gradually faded, eventually giving way to the name she is known by now: Lady Death. Her village was reputed to be the safest in the land, though no one—save for the oldest residents—knew exactly why.
When she returned years ago, the people regarded her almost as a deity; they wished to pay their respects and atone for how they had once treated her. Genevieve had no interest in such things, but the villagers’ ingenuity led them to propose sacrifices—an idea she initially opposed. That changed, however, when they revealed who the victims would be: "Saint Mortem, your sacrifices shall be sinners—just like those you once ushered into the afterlife. We shall cleanse the very lands you walk upon." One resident made the suggestion, and, to be honest, Genevieve liked the idea. They would do her the favor of sparing her the trouble of getting her hands dirty; after all, while she enjoyed watching the black blood of sinners spurt forth, the act itself wasn't always entertaining.
"Hmm... I must say, that is a tempting offer. But there is a condition... I want them on their deathbeds right before me; I want to witness their final breaths." It was simply too tempting to pass up. That marked the beginning of the ritual: every week, one or two criminals were brought to her—treated like trash until their very last breath. It was, quite simply, gratifying.
Yet, Genevieve craved something more from life. She had lived in the same house for over two hundred years without ever leaving those lands; books no longer held her interest, and her clothes grew more antiquated by the day. Adapting to each passing era was a struggle. "What lies out there?" she wondered, gazing at the world beyond one last time before deciding to embark on a journey—her first in decades.
Her home was filled with antique portraits—paintings of family members long dead—kept so she would not forget the faces of those she had once loved. Sadly, the sound of their voices had already faded from her memory. Many might have called the house haunted; the lighting was minimal, as she preferred an atmosphere darker than usual. Mirrors were scattered everywhere; every day she wanted to see if anything had changed in her appearance, but—as always—nothing had.
She cleaned that house all by herself, washing every curtain, bed sheets that haven't been used, excessive dust could leave a bad odor in the room. but still refusing to have any maids or butlers,
It wasn't as if anyone would work for her; the new generation was practically terrified of the Phantom Lady.
Walking through the place, there was the enormous dining table with chairs that had never been used and plates that always sat empty; a living room with a cold fireplace holding the remnants of the previous night's ash; and bedrooms that remained unused—hers being the only one with decorations and personal belongings. To anyone else, it would have been a sad scene, but for Genevieve, the emptiness of the house was simply normal.
Stepping out the door, she was greeted by the sight of the vast fields; the wind blew cold against her face—winter was approaching. As she walked, the only sounds were the wind and the birds settling in for the night. Outside stood a small stable housing a black Shire horse. "There you are, Salem," she said, running her hands over the horse's muzzle; he seemed happy at her presence. "Salem, how about a change of scenery, hmm?" Genevieve planned to travel somewhere distant, taking her carriage along to serve as a place to sleep; she hated staying in hotels—her last experiences there hadn't been the best.
She fed him the carrots she had brought along; Salem was her precious horse, her only companion in that empty world. always held a special place in her heart for animals.
Running her fingers through his long black mane—even braiding a few strands—she admired how Salem’s coat shimmered with an almost pearlescent sheen in the last rays of the sun. humming an old melody; Salem’s stable was enclosed to protect him from the extreme cold, and he had his own cozy corner there to keep warm as well.
A few minutes later, Genevieve decided she should get things ready for the next day in case she wanted to leave. Salem didn't seem happy about the prospect of her leaving so soon. "Don't worry, Salem; we'll have plenty of time together tomorrow." She gave him one last affectionate pat before heading back inside; the crickets were already chirping.
She went up to the second floor to her bedroom—a large door at the end of the hall. It was the place where she spent most of her time, whether painting, sewing, or embroidering—though none of those hobbies held quite the same appeal for her anymore.
Genevieve grabbed a large suitcase and packed a few personal items: money, blankets and clothes—mostly dresses, though she also liked men's clothing (to hell with what society thought)—some medicine and bandages; you never knew what might happen. All in all, there wasn't much to pack. "Okay... that's it." She considered everything in the bag, food would be packed later—most of it was for Salem, anyway, since for her, eating was merely a necessity to avoid turning into a walking skeleton.
All that was left to do for the moment was sleep—the one thing she still needed. Even though she was immortal, her body couldn't keep going for long without rest; Genevieve had learned that the hard way after forcing herself to stay active for nearly a whole week, only to collapse and pass out right there in her living room.
She tossed her packed suitcase onto the floor and simply threw herself onto the bed; tomorrow would be another day. Sleep overtook her quickly, yet it was as brief as it was deep—before she knew it, the sun was already shining, its rays reflecting off the window and striking her right in the face. "Hmm...? Is it morning already?" She felt a profound reluctance to get up; the only thing that roused her each morning was Salem, as he needed to be fed and they had a long journey ahead.
Dragging her suitcase along, she paused at a cabinet on her way to grab a few weapons—such as a knife to conceal in a leg sheath, a razor-sharp blade she had received from one of the village blacksmiths after protecting him in the past.
"Beautiful and sharp," she thought, admiring the knife before stowing it in its proper place. Finally, she made one last stop in the kitchen, gathering everything she could carry and packing the items into a separate bag. Genevieve mentally ran through a checklist: "Clothes, blanket, food, knife, herbs, medicine... a note!" She remembered that last item just in time—a note explaining that they would be away for a week and that no sacrifices were to be brought. She rushed to grab paper and a pen, scribbled the message quickly, and left it on the porch.
"There, all done!" She walked over to her old carriage—a fine mode of transport, large and ornate, designed with an emphasis on aesthetics and comfort; the interior was cushioned and adorned with curtains, offering plenty of headroom and width. Navigating the era of ballgowns and enormous hats centuries ago had been a challenge, yet the vehicle remained intact.
For Salem, the task was a breeze; The horse had once belonged to a large farm, but Genevieve had fallen in love with the black steed the moment she saw him standing in the middle of a field; she had offered a large sum for him, and there she was, having owned him for a few years now.
The woman placed the large luggage in the back of the carriage, tying it down so it wouldn't fall off—though even if someone tried to loot it, there was nothing of value inside.
Wiping the dust from her hands, only Salem remained; she walked toward the stable carrying a bundle of carrots. The horse was already awake and trotted over upon seeing his owner. "Hey Salem, ready for a ride?" The horse didn't care about that, though—he just wanted the treats in her hand. "Wow, someone here is hungry!" She laughed at Salem's excitement. A few minutes later, she had the necessary gear on Salem and led him to the carriage; within seconds, everything was in place. "House locked, note left—okay, we're ready!" Just taking one last check at everything.
Climbing into the carriage and taking up the reins, she said, "Let's go," and flicked the reins to signal Salem to move; the horse neighed and began to pull the carriage. The carriage looked almost like an aristocratic funeral coach, but she didn't mind; she appreciated its beauty. They made their way through the forest along the dirt road, and she admired the scenery—it was so lovely, the one thing that always manage to delighted her.
Then she encountered one of the villagers returning home with buckets full of fish—one of the fishermen from whom she frequently bought fresh catch. "Heya, Salem," she said, bringing the horse to a halt to speak with the man. "Mr. Evans" She addressed him by name, and he looked surprised to see her.
"Ah Miss Mortem! A beautiful morning, isn't it?'' The man said, smiling, as he noticed the old carriage and saw that the woman was going somewhere.
''If I may ask Miss, where are you headed?" They had known each other for years,watched him grow up and grow old, she offered one of her rare smiles and nodded. "Well, I decided to see what lies beyond the border, and oh, Mr. Evans, please could you do me a favor and let the others know that I won't be around for the next few days or weeks" knowing that he would accept the request without much thought, The man nodded. "As you wish. Take care then Miss Mortem" He said his goodbyes and continued on his way; Genevieve spoke little to the villagers, but those she dealt with at the market were the kindest among them.
She hoped this journey would bring something, or anything new into her life, living for so long was sometimes tedious.