Death. The ultimate ending to everything. Nothing escaped its cold hands. Everything strove to deny it, fought with their last breaths, their last remaining strength, in an attempt to claw their way back into life. And even those who succeeded would be found later, would be claimed as just another body. Death was the final act in every life, the ending to the drawn out drama of one's existence. Every actor had to one day leave the stage.
That was when he came in. He took the deaths of others and elevated it to an art form. He made death beautiful. He made the lifeless bodies given to him shine, gave them their final resting place. Those who remained alive looked upon his duty with begrudging thanks, knowing that no other could do what he did the way he did it. They went to him at the end of the game. He was the final spectator left in the auditorium as the plays of the life came to a close. He drew the final curtain.
To him, though, death was not something to be feared. To him, that final act was the most beautiful, the most profound. As the bodies came in, untended, fresh from the scene, that was when he found them the most intriguing. Every body looked unique, every person falling to the cold hands of their demise in different ways. The wounds inflicted, the state of their dress, the appearance of their face, that was where he found the beauty.
Once, he had been the one to deliver that death. He had been the best at what he'd done, topping all others in his field. He took life like others drew breath, delivered mortal men into the hands of their maker. He would see their final moments, would watch their lives unfold before his eyes, would see the vivacity leave their eyes. It was intriguing, there was no doubt. But he'd grown tired of it. He wanted…something else. Still, he read the manuscripts. Still, he visited the libraries to watch the lives of the fallen, to see their final moments, to watch that familiar fading of the light in the otherwise vivid eyes.
Death, to him, was amusing. Watching the living squirm when they walked into his shop, watching the horror and discomfort on their faces as he discussed the appropriate casket for their deceased loved one, always brought a smile to his face. The stitched scar on his nose would crinkle with his amusement, would ripple with his laughter. Very few could stand to be in his presence and not fear for their lives, for their sanity.
He had given up his life as a Shinigami, walked away from taking the lives of others to live in the mortal world, among those he'd once called victims. Yet even then, he'd stayed where he felt most comfortable. An undertaker just seemed so…appropriate for one of his talents. He did deal in information as well, however, trading knowledge for laughter. But that would never be enough to cause him to quit his day job. Closing the final curtain was just too much fun.