Mortal Comforts || Kuroshitsuji OC

Peace and Quietus

     When they arrived at the parlor, Emilynne was still deep in thought.

     She had spent the entire ten minute duration of the walk dead silent, chasing scenario after scenario with a wild desperation to find anything to cling to. First, she had gone through the options of telling Mother he was a friend, which were laden with questioning and keen glares that pierced her very soul. Then, she went through the options of telling her he was more than a friend - that, yes, Mother, he was the person who had captured her heart. But most of those scenarios had ended with Mother telling her just to 'marry the Duke and be done with it, Emilynne, really,' and Emilynne found herself wondering why, even in her imagination, Mother couldn't be reasoned with.

     The Undertaker had been courteously quiet as Emilynne grappled with her thoughts; as it were, he had become quite bemused by her actions since the occurrence with her mother. He had taken to studying the varying expressions on her face as she went; many were the look of a woman peeved. Her eyebrows were sinking lower and lower over her dark brown irises, casting shadows down the creases of her forehead. Her nose crinkled at the bridge; her lips upturned in a pout. He did not need much more of a tell to sense something was amiss. Her visage spoke for itself, and with all due respect he did not want to exacerbate the young woman's worries, so he kept resigned to his own thoughts, watching her as she pressed her lips into a flat line, irritated.

     He spoke only when they reached the parlor, quipping a light, "after you, milady," to which she grunted and shouldered her way into the dank, thin air of the shop.

    Her demeanor was off-putting, but Undertaker made no move to display this fact. He merely sashayed about the caskets, plucking cloths and tools from their hiding places and brandishing them in an all too proud manner. Of course, he was smiling, but somehow it seemed more forced than it had before.

    "Alright, milady," came his trilling voice as he turned fast on his heel, "All I've got to do is cut those sutures out of you and you'll be sitting pretty. Shouldn't hurt much; you'll just feel a little tug, nothing more. Bear with me now, the worst is over already."

     He strode towards her, ushered her with quick hands to the nearest casket, seating her briskly and, beg pardon, milady, would you mind ever so kindly removing your shawl? He offered a soft smile for good measure, the shears in his hand glittering in the dim light. After a moment's deliberation she did, face blank as she dropped the soft woven garment to her lap, exposing the baby pinks of her healing wound. The Undertaker surveyed it carefully, clicked his tongue. It had healed up quite well, and he had to admit, he was surprised at how well her body had responded to the salve. Many a times his own wounds would take on nasty infections even with the assistance of a daily antiseptic. But this one seemed free of any such burden; the skin was coming cleanly back together, though the scar tissue was dense and dark, quite noticeable, really. She would be hard-pressed to hide that from her mother, and Undertaker grimaced, knowing that would be rather upsetting to dear Emilynne.

     With a gentle touch he brushed her hair over her shoulder and out of the way; it was soft, and quite pretty in the limited light of the parlor. He wondered how he had never noticed before.

     "Undertaker?" she asked, voice little more than a whisper as he began to wipe antiseptic over the length of her laceration.

     "Yes, milady?" 

     "Do you - oh, this is so silly of me. Do you believe in love?"

     He hummed thoughtfully as he picked up a pair of forceps with his left hand - his right was occupied with the surgical scissors, which Emilynne kept casting wary glances at - and pulled at the first of the stitches. The sutures lifted; he slid the scissors underneath and snipped right down the middle, then began to pull the severed chunks of thread from her wound. She winced at the tug, but said nothing. She was waiting on his response.