"Ashes to Ashes" - Part 1, Business as Usual
Title: Ashes to Ashes - Part 1, Business as Usual
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji
Rating/Warnings: PG for now. Corpses, mortuary practices, and general death-related material abound. Later chapters will have gore and upsetting themes.
Notes: That's right - another origin story. XD I enjoy writing them, what can I say? I would like to bring up the proverbial elephant in the room right off, however...yes, I gave him a name. I wasn't going to write a roughly seventeen chapter fanfic about a character calling him "Undertaker" the whole time! As for the name I picked...I don't really know why. It's just the name I've associated him with, so it's the name I use.
This story will begin a bit tamer than "Colorless," but, as many of you have guessed, I'm certain, the Reapers don't have the kindest backstories where my work is concerned.
...Also, I need an Undertaker icon now, I suppose. XD' I'm out of icon space, aaaah!
Thanks for shoebandit for betaing, and thanks as always to seigakussiren for her support. <3 I'd also like to thank my readers who encouraged me after reading "Gravedigger." The song selected for this chapter was in reference to the fic that started this. ^^
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji or Undertaker. This version of the backstory, however, and many characters contained within, are my own creation.
"Ashes to Ashes"
Part 1 - Business as Usual
"Gravedigger...
When you dig my grave,
Could you make it shallow,
So that I can feel the rain...?
Gravedigger...." --"Gravedigger," Dave Matthews Band
The water in the basin was ice-cold by now - it sent a little thrill through his fingertips as he swished his hands through it, watching the grime from his latest project float away from his pale skin. It was a cold autumn day outside, chilling the air that crept in around the edges of the drafty shop door. The building had stood for so long now that it was little surprise that it didn't keep out the weather as well as it once had...but he didn't mind. Things kept better in cold than they did in warm, and it only served to aid him in his work.
Dabbing his fingers dry on an old towel he kept handy, he turned back around, long, dark robes rippling about his knees. Smiling broadly, he surveyed his work where it lay on the slab...a woman of middle-age who had taken a fall. Her body was clean now, the wounds about her collarbone and cheek sewn shut and disguised with a bit of wax and a skillful hand. He was pleased with himself, as he usually was...but he wasn't finished just yet. She was still undressed, with only rags draped across her breasts and lap for modesty...her skin still the grayish pallor of the dead.
Humming a rather cheerful little tune, he paced across the room to where a white dress hung - the one her family had selected - and took it down, careful not to let it drag against the dusty floor. As he approached the body, he rather unceremoniously removed the rags, hardly even looking at her as he began the task of dressing her lifeless form.
"I wonder if they would have picked the same dress if they knew what I know?" He was talking aloud, knowing full well that she would no longer care what he was saying. It was just a habit, filling the silence that hung in the room like a dark shroud. "Your little secret that you're taking with you...."
Soon enough, he had her suitably clothed - and at a leisurely pace, he wandered over to one of his cabinets, rifling through it to select a small array of cosmetics. "It isn't any of my business, really - your secret is safe with me - but I could tell death is really what you wanted," he continued, his arms full of little pots of creams and powders when he returned to her side. "Your neck and face were injured, but nothing on your arms or hands? You weren't even trying to stop yourself."
He knew he was right, of course. He had been at this for a very long time, and he had been watching for still longer. His father was an Undertaker. His grandfather was an Undertaker. As far as he knew, his family had all been Undertakers since as long as they could be traced back, and it suited him just fine. He had seen much in all the time he had spent watching and practicing his art...and he had learned that the only ones who could ever tell him the whole story of how a person died were the ones that could no longer speak.
Laying all the makeup in a neat row beside him, he grinned, twisting the cap off of one of the jars and gathering some of the cream foundation upon his fingertips. "...Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."
Going back to his humming, he set to work on blending her skin towards a healthier color, his skill apparent, if a bit surprising. He didn't look like very much, himself - hunched over the slab in his dark, baggy robes, an unruly mop of black hair tumbling about his shoulders and falling into his pale face. A slightly over-large top hat rested atop his head, the fabric at the top sharply narrowing and twisting down his back in a strange, long sort of tail. He wasn't necessarily an unattractive man, his features still bright with youth...but the time he spent indoors and the dark, heavy clothing made him look washed-out and gaunt.
It wasn't as if he really cared what he looked like...the robes and hat had, like the shop, been in his family for years. They were rather too large for his truthfully lanky frame, and they were stained in many places with cemetery mud and even blood - but they were tradition, and he cherished them. For that matter, the only bit of care he took with his appearance at all was to use that hat and that unruly hair to obscure his eyes. They, too, were a family trait...a family trait which had a way of making people very uncomfortable. Such a pale gray that they were nearly white - in sharp contrast to his jet black hair, making him look rather like some sort of wraith in those dark clothes.
It was hard enough to speak to the grieving without them being afraid to look at him; he had seen his father's frustrations with other people because of that ethereal gaze...so he hid his own. It was only to make things simple - to better facilitate his job.
Once he was satisfied with the base color of her skin, he opened a pot of lip color, painting the woman's lips with careful strokes. "This color would look best on you," he murmured, canting his head to one side in concentration. "With your hair color...ah! I nearly forgot!" Finishing with her lips, he capped off the pot, moving back to his cabinet once more and returning with a bit of string and a pair of scissors.
Running his fingers through her long blonde hair, he parted her locks carefully, separating a segment that would not be missed and binding it off with the twine. Sliding the scissors into place, he cut the lock away above the tie, setting it off to one side and shifting the rest of her hair back into position.
"Thank you," he chuckled as he went back to the makeup once more, brushing on a bit of powdery blue-gray about the eyes. "I only needed a bit for the palette work. I didn't disturb your hairstyle, not to worry."
In addition to the work he did in this room, he also did memorial hairwork - taking bits of hair from the deceased (or sometimes great amounts for a woven chain, if requested or provided) to weave into jewelry or small tokens of remembrance: Memento Mori. The family of this woman had placed such a request for a small token, and had not supplemented any hair...but he didn't mind cutting it himself. For that matter, he could gather the locks much neater that way, making the designing easier. It was a hobby of his, and what he considered a pleasant way to unwind at home.
Placing the final touches on the woman's face - he had already blended what was visible of her neck and arms - he straightened up, looking her over critically to be sure she was to his standards with a little smile on his face. It wasn't really that he enjoyed the idea of death, nor did he delight in anyone's grieving...this was simply his job, and that was that. He liked to do a good job, and he had been around death for so long that it was simply a part of his life. There was really nothing for him to get upset about, after all...there was plenty of that going on around him at all times, and he needn't add to it.
Glancing back towards the window, he noted the way that the sun was sinking, deepening the shadows in the already-dim mortuary. It was getting late, and he was getting hungry...time to go home for his dinner. Cheerfully puttering about, he put the pots of makeup away, tucking the lock of hair into one of his robe's many pockets. Stooping over, he carefully lifted the body, laying her back in her casket and neatly arranging her. Placing his hand on the lid, he bowed a little, his voice merry.
"Have a good sleep," he offered, shutting the casket with a little click. Wasting little time, he went about the shop turning out the lights. He could leave everything as it was otherwise - no one else had a key, and who would dare break into a mortuary at night?
Slipping out, he turned the large brass key in the lock, satisfied at the little clicking sound it made. Tucking it back in his pocket, he started down the road, sleeves flopping about at his sides as he moved. It was a bit chilly, but he hardly minded...he found the weather pleasantly cool against what little skin was exposed. It wasn't a rainy evening, and the sun setting was giving the sky a warm glow that didn't always reach the streets of London.
His residence wasn't very far from the shop, so he never troubled himself with a carriage or anything of the like. He preferred these little walks in the fresh air - even the rain, persistent as it seemed to be in this city, scarcely made him wish to remain indoors. Simply walking down the road in the rain was nothing...nor was digging a grave in the mud. It was all the same to him in the end...it was all a part of life, and in his trade, one learned to enjoy everything about living.
Finally turning down a short walkway, he approached the door of his old, rather imposing family home. It wasn't a mansion by any means - merely an intimidating, severe building of dark brick, windows flickering with the lit candles inside. Pulling his house key from a pocket inside his robe, he entered, blinking to adjust to the dim light as he shut the door behind him.
Turning to hang his hat upon a dark wooden stand in the entryway, he called out in a merry tone, glancing down the short hall towards where he could hear a soft, lilting little hum drifting in the air. "Clara! I'm home!"
The humming stopped - and after only a moment or two, a head poked around the corner, green eyes with a mischievous twinkle landing upon him. A smile spread across dark painted lips, lighting the pale face they stood in such sharp contrast to.
The wife of an Undertaker.
"Hello, Sydney."
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji
Rating/Warnings: PG for now. Corpses, mortuary practices, and general death-related material abound. Later chapters will have gore and upsetting themes.
Notes: That's right - another origin story. XD I enjoy writing them, what can I say? I would like to bring up the proverbial elephant in the room right off, however...yes, I gave him a name. I wasn't going to write a roughly seventeen chapter fanfic about a character calling him "Undertaker" the whole time! As for the name I picked...I don't really know why. It's just the name I've associated him with, so it's the name I use.
This story will begin a bit tamer than "Colorless," but, as many of you have guessed, I'm certain, the Reapers don't have the kindest backstories where my work is concerned.
...Also, I need an Undertaker icon now, I suppose. XD' I'm out of icon space, aaaah!
Thanks for shoebandit for betaing, and thanks as always to seigakussiren for her support. <3 I'd also like to thank my readers who encouraged me after reading "Gravedigger." The song selected for this chapter was in reference to the fic that started this. ^^
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji or Undertaker. This version of the backstory, however, and many characters contained within, are my own creation.
"Ashes to Ashes"
Part 1 - Business as Usual
"Gravedigger...
When you dig my grave,
Could you make it shallow,
So that I can feel the rain...?
Gravedigger...." --"Gravedigger," Dave Matthews Band
The water in the basin was ice-cold by now - it sent a little thrill through his fingertips as he swished his hands through it, watching the grime from his latest project float away from his pale skin. It was a cold autumn day outside, chilling the air that crept in around the edges of the drafty shop door. The building had stood for so long now that it was little surprise that it didn't keep out the weather as well as it once had...but he didn't mind. Things kept better in cold than they did in warm, and it only served to aid him in his work.
Dabbing his fingers dry on an old towel he kept handy, he turned back around, long, dark robes rippling about his knees. Smiling broadly, he surveyed his work where it lay on the slab...a woman of middle-age who had taken a fall. Her body was clean now, the wounds about her collarbone and cheek sewn shut and disguised with a bit of wax and a skillful hand. He was pleased with himself, as he usually was...but he wasn't finished just yet. She was still undressed, with only rags draped across her breasts and lap for modesty...her skin still the grayish pallor of the dead.
Humming a rather cheerful little tune, he paced across the room to where a white dress hung - the one her family had selected - and took it down, careful not to let it drag against the dusty floor. As he approached the body, he rather unceremoniously removed the rags, hardly even looking at her as he began the task of dressing her lifeless form.
"I wonder if they would have picked the same dress if they knew what I know?" He was talking aloud, knowing full well that she would no longer care what he was saying. It was just a habit, filling the silence that hung in the room like a dark shroud. "Your little secret that you're taking with you...."
Soon enough, he had her suitably clothed - and at a leisurely pace, he wandered over to one of his cabinets, rifling through it to select a small array of cosmetics. "It isn't any of my business, really - your secret is safe with me - but I could tell death is really what you wanted," he continued, his arms full of little pots of creams and powders when he returned to her side. "Your neck and face were injured, but nothing on your arms or hands? You weren't even trying to stop yourself."
He knew he was right, of course. He had been at this for a very long time, and he had been watching for still longer. His father was an Undertaker. His grandfather was an Undertaker. As far as he knew, his family had all been Undertakers since as long as they could be traced back, and it suited him just fine. He had seen much in all the time he had spent watching and practicing his art...and he had learned that the only ones who could ever tell him the whole story of how a person died were the ones that could no longer speak.
Laying all the makeup in a neat row beside him, he grinned, twisting the cap off of one of the jars and gathering some of the cream foundation upon his fingertips. "...Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."
Going back to his humming, he set to work on blending her skin towards a healthier color, his skill apparent, if a bit surprising. He didn't look like very much, himself - hunched over the slab in his dark, baggy robes, an unruly mop of black hair tumbling about his shoulders and falling into his pale face. A slightly over-large top hat rested atop his head, the fabric at the top sharply narrowing and twisting down his back in a strange, long sort of tail. He wasn't necessarily an unattractive man, his features still bright with youth...but the time he spent indoors and the dark, heavy clothing made him look washed-out and gaunt.
It wasn't as if he really cared what he looked like...the robes and hat had, like the shop, been in his family for years. They were rather too large for his truthfully lanky frame, and they were stained in many places with cemetery mud and even blood - but they were tradition, and he cherished them. For that matter, the only bit of care he took with his appearance at all was to use that hat and that unruly hair to obscure his eyes. They, too, were a family trait...a family trait which had a way of making people very uncomfortable. Such a pale gray that they were nearly white - in sharp contrast to his jet black hair, making him look rather like some sort of wraith in those dark clothes.
It was hard enough to speak to the grieving without them being afraid to look at him; he had seen his father's frustrations with other people because of that ethereal gaze...so he hid his own. It was only to make things simple - to better facilitate his job.
Once he was satisfied with the base color of her skin, he opened a pot of lip color, painting the woman's lips with careful strokes. "This color would look best on you," he murmured, canting his head to one side in concentration. "With your hair color...ah! I nearly forgot!" Finishing with her lips, he capped off the pot, moving back to his cabinet once more and returning with a bit of string and a pair of scissors.
Running his fingers through her long blonde hair, he parted her locks carefully, separating a segment that would not be missed and binding it off with the twine. Sliding the scissors into place, he cut the lock away above the tie, setting it off to one side and shifting the rest of her hair back into position.
"Thank you," he chuckled as he went back to the makeup once more, brushing on a bit of powdery blue-gray about the eyes. "I only needed a bit for the palette work. I didn't disturb your hairstyle, not to worry."
In addition to the work he did in this room, he also did memorial hairwork - taking bits of hair from the deceased (or sometimes great amounts for a woven chain, if requested or provided) to weave into jewelry or small tokens of remembrance: Memento Mori. The family of this woman had placed such a request for a small token, and had not supplemented any hair...but he didn't mind cutting it himself. For that matter, he could gather the locks much neater that way, making the designing easier. It was a hobby of his, and what he considered a pleasant way to unwind at home.
Placing the final touches on the woman's face - he had already blended what was visible of her neck and arms - he straightened up, looking her over critically to be sure she was to his standards with a little smile on his face. It wasn't really that he enjoyed the idea of death, nor did he delight in anyone's grieving...this was simply his job, and that was that. He liked to do a good job, and he had been around death for so long that it was simply a part of his life. There was really nothing for him to get upset about, after all...there was plenty of that going on around him at all times, and he needn't add to it.
Glancing back towards the window, he noted the way that the sun was sinking, deepening the shadows in the already-dim mortuary. It was getting late, and he was getting hungry...time to go home for his dinner. Cheerfully puttering about, he put the pots of makeup away, tucking the lock of hair into one of his robe's many pockets. Stooping over, he carefully lifted the body, laying her back in her casket and neatly arranging her. Placing his hand on the lid, he bowed a little, his voice merry.
"Have a good sleep," he offered, shutting the casket with a little click. Wasting little time, he went about the shop turning out the lights. He could leave everything as it was otherwise - no one else had a key, and who would dare break into a mortuary at night?
Slipping out, he turned the large brass key in the lock, satisfied at the little clicking sound it made. Tucking it back in his pocket, he started down the road, sleeves flopping about at his sides as he moved. It was a bit chilly, but he hardly minded...he found the weather pleasantly cool against what little skin was exposed. It wasn't a rainy evening, and the sun setting was giving the sky a warm glow that didn't always reach the streets of London.
His residence wasn't very far from the shop, so he never troubled himself with a carriage or anything of the like. He preferred these little walks in the fresh air - even the rain, persistent as it seemed to be in this city, scarcely made him wish to remain indoors. Simply walking down the road in the rain was nothing...nor was digging a grave in the mud. It was all the same to him in the end...it was all a part of life, and in his trade, one learned to enjoy everything about living.
Finally turning down a short walkway, he approached the door of his old, rather imposing family home. It wasn't a mansion by any means - merely an intimidating, severe building of dark brick, windows flickering with the lit candles inside. Pulling his house key from a pocket inside his robe, he entered, blinking to adjust to the dim light as he shut the door behind him.
Turning to hang his hat upon a dark wooden stand in the entryway, he called out in a merry tone, glancing down the short hall towards where he could hear a soft, lilting little hum drifting in the air. "Clara! I'm home!"
The humming stopped - and after only a moment or two, a head poked around the corner, green eyes with a mischievous twinkle landing upon him. A smile spread across dark painted lips, lighting the pale face they stood in such sharp contrast to.
The wife of an Undertaker.
"Hello, Sydney."