1. Always An Undertaker

Anastasia

He always was an undertaker.

That was how I met him, so I suppose there was something sentimental about working with the dead and deceased for us both. Though I strived forward and became a state coroner, Adrian stayed in his steady profession as our local Mortician. I had been drawn to the small shop with the bone-white clay carving of a skull hanging above the doorway, like a moth to a flame.

And what a flame to behold he was; all long silver hair and emerald green eyes. Always wearing black or charcoal-colored robes during work hours, I was one of the few people to see him in the loose white flannel button-down shirt and a pair of tight black trousers that were his casual-wear.

He took me too a cemetery for our first date, but then it got too cold, and we soon found ourselves seeking shelter under the awnings of a nearby cottage. The owner, Loraine, saw us and we ended up spending that stormy night with her in little house. That night, Adrian and I, rather than retiring to our separate bedrooms, falling asleep together beside the fire, curled up in each other's arms; as we were told later the next day.

I wonder what would've happened, had we went our separate ways after that night, after I left for my grand villa in central London. Sometimes, I imagine what my other husband would've been like. Would I have named my child Adrian, or if I only bore little ladies, Adrienne? I don't think so. But, back in those days, I was a sucker for the tragedies of Gothic romance and soul-mates torn by the strings tying them to their different fates.

I remember his questions, as always, almost more than his words of affection. "Why do you smell like while lilies and orchid, but then always remind me on cinnamon?" was one of my favorites. Odd, I know, but sweet. "Do you know that a shared coffin is considered perverted and vulgar? Personally, I would love to have someone poking around in my coffin one day, right beside me."

"Would you mind if I was poking around in your coffin?" I had asked him sheepishly. Black, deathly humor was not my strong point, but rather came out naturally, like I was bad at something I loved to do.

"If that is what you wish, my deary." He had laughed once, then looked away, dropping my hands, previously clasped between his. "That is what I wish."

That was one of the few times he had expressed his love without making it into a flippant joke, and leaving me wondering whether or not he truly was serious. Silly, I suppose; that I remembered those things as I sat there, front row, looking up at the shiny silver trim on the black-stained mahogany casket.

We had designed the twin coffins together not a year previously. Not months ago, we had presented the two finished, stylized and personalized products to each other as private wedding gifts. It was the perfect night. Spent in the perfect way:

Curled up in his small, dusty room, on his thin, single-bed mattress, his mellow, velvety voice reading to me from his collection of Classic English literature and Shakespearean plays, as the candle-lights flickered with every hitch in his voice, every so often reminding me that, at least to those I know and love, believe I have tied myself to a madman, playing lunatic.

But, it was as I kept telling them, both in and out of his company, he was my madman, my lunatic. He was mine. And I was his. So, why did he never tell me the truth?

Why did it take him until his death bed to tell me the story of his life? That he had only loved to me see if he could feel again. And he did, that he promised. But, if that was so, then why did he jump out of his bedroom window. I wonder, had he waited until I took him to stay at the country manor? Did he know that I would give him the room next to mine, with the best view, up there on the third storey?

Was this all a lie? Was what he did and said and promised, all those lonely nights when, I was the one on the verge of madness, claiming lunacy and begging for death's sweet kiss... And he held me, and he made the pain go away, and he let me soil his favorite shirt with my tears and snot, and he held me until I was no longer afraid.

I let the tears fall, knowing that they would be my last. After all, a broken heart cannot be cured by tears and sadness. It can only be saved by one's self. I ran from the church that I had once loved, and once held dear, next to the memories of our wedding day.

I ran, and ran, until my legs gave way, and I fell to my knees, the dirt and moist ground staining my black garment. Mother would've killed me, had she lived through the accident, like I had. My mother and father and big brother, all of them died in a fire, and they all burned in our little cottage in that little town. Later I was told that a few of the orphans had lived, and that they were being sent to Lord Trancey's Manor, but only the boys. Only the boys. No, the girls were sent to the factories with the ugly boys. We, "little ladies" weren't good enough for that pervert's tastes. No matter.

I do not wish to say how I acquired my current power. We both know that I have done things that ladies should never do, and for people a lady should never have to know exist. But, my past is my past. If I keep looking to the past for guidance, then I will never be able to move forward. Adrian once said that to me. And it is his death-dawned words that I live my to this day.

Damn! Damn him to Hell! That Demon!

No, he was no demon. Adrian was perfect. He was a God, to me.

He saved me from the streets of London, a fresh-of-flesh young lady with new money and a full purse. Four different sets of orphans and beggars tried to take my goods before I had turned the first corner. He saved me from myself, when I had been battered and bruised and could no longer believe in the good of a man anymore. He even saved, and forgave me when I came home, covered in blood and cum and crying from the pain deep, down below.

I felt my eyes go dry, and I looked up from the ground, letting my thin fingers release the grass from my fists. As my fingers went limp, I felt a phase surface, like a memory I had forgotten. I cooed out a melody, without knowing the tune... dum, de, dum, da, dadum-dum, dadum-dum, dadum-dum... My fair lady...

"'When in Hell, only the Devil can save you,'" I whispered, looking to the sky, remembering the poem, but forgetting the author. "'When your God abandons you, and leaves you with tears in your eyes, and fire in your heart, accept me, and you will be free of the pain, free to dance in the fires of Hell.'" My child, do you accept me? The Devil cooed back, as though a ghost were whispering to my, over my shoulder.

Foolish Demon, I thought to myself. Present yourself in your thorned glory to me, and display your talents. We shall see.

"You are a brave soul, stupid girl." The pale man, clad in his rodes of black and gray said as he touched my shoulder. "Allow me to take it from you; that brave, sweet-smelling soul." He crouched in front of me, and cupped my chin. I tried to lift my arms to bat his hand away, but my limbs held no strength. A spark of panic flared in my heart.

"Bind yourself to me, sweet girl." He spoke to me without moving his lips, which moved only to capture mine beneath them. "I have starved for too long. Your soul will replenish my power and life on forever in my depts. Do you not want your immortality?"

I bit my lip and growled out my words. "What you offer is not immortality... Argh! I'tis... Damnation!" I screamed as I felt a surge of power release from my body and fling the demon back, into a nearby gravestone. I clenched my eyes shut from the blinding light surrounding me, but I found that my heart now shied from the dark of my own being, and with that simply instinct guiding me, I opened my eyes to what I found was not such a harsh light, as I had thought, but a warm glow resonating from the very core of my being.

I glanced down and saw was a large circle in violent crimson carving itself into my breast-bone, just below my throat's base. The lines burned as they appeared, but the euphoria that had blessed my mind quickly overcame any pain they posed me.

"You can't touch her, Behemoth." Came a voice, that sounded to me to be the embodiment of all of God's terrible power captured in each beautiful syllable. Lighting, thunder, hurricanes and volcanoes and earthquakes resonated from his words. I wanted so badly to turn and lay my eyes upon the being to which that wondrous voice belonged, but a silent fear had crept into my mind, refusing such an action.

"You are safe, child. Do not fear me, nor my power. I cannot hurt you, and neither can any he." The thunderous voice spoke only to me now. "I cannot vanquish his mortal form until I myself take the flesh of another. Will you allow me your body?"

"Are you crazy?!" The spell binding my tongue and body broke and I whirled on the being behind me, but stopped the moment my eyes met with those familiar emerald eyes, now with a golden hue rimming their middle. A long scar had seemingly long-since carved itself into his face, marring his original form's beauty, but magnifying it tenfold. His silver hair was longer, no longer shoulder-length, but past his behind and creeping down to his knees. The black garb that he had so loved was back, but different some how. Somehow, he wasn't even there at all.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I am crazy, my beloved Anastasia."