Title: Shorter than the Day
Summary: This time, walking away from this casket, it feels like the first time.
Pairing: Vague angsty hints of Helen/John's past
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for End of Nights 1 & 2, Eulogy
A/N: Thank you to la_tante for her beta work. Also, thanks to mrspollifax for her help in the final phase of polishing up this fic.
"Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality."
Emily Dickinson
There was a time when Helen thought it possible she couldn't die. Back when she thought of death as merely a physical process. She has since come to know deathas a constant companion she loathes and yet grudgingly admires for his tenacity.
She told John the truth, that everything inside her screams that Ashley isn't gone. But he still has that singular influence, the only one capable of drawing her in and simultaneously hurling her toward her own personal hell.
Helen turns to walk away from the casket that doesn't contain a body, as she'd walked away from many caskets in her life. They have contained the real or whispered remainsof far too many friends, family, lovers, and loyal employees, and all of them chip pieces off of her.
This time, walking away from this casket, it feels like the first time. That first funeral she ever attended. Helen still remembers staring at her mother's pale figure,trying to process what it all meant. But the prominent memory she'd been left with that day, of all things, was that one of the fingernails on her mother's left hand was broken and crooked.
Her mother taught her that manicured nails, much like correct posture and proper manners, were a sign of goodsociety and good character. Helen was sure her mother would have risen the next morning and taken care of the chipped nail right away. She would have, but she never got the chance.
Will is suddenly there at her side. "I'll get you some tea." His voice breaks Helen fromher place ofmemory.
She rounds a corner in the corridor. "No." And as his pace slows, Helen realizes that she's said it sharply. "Thank you, Will, I'm fine."
She's aware of how often she says those words. Not only to Will, though he's the most common recipient. She wonders if he notices.
They arrive at her study, where a fire is already burning. The work of the Big Guy, she's sure, and no doubt he'll also check on her a half-dozen times this evening as well.
She glances down, the firelight reflects off the ring on her right hand, her mother's ring. Just before the casket was closed, they asked her father if he'd like to keep the wedding band. Gregory Magnus teared up and said that his wife never once took it off since the day they were married. Little Helen looked up at her father and asked if she could have it. Other than the brief time that she wore John's ring, it's the only other ring she's ever put on in all of her 158 years.
Helen wears it as some sort of talisman of loyalty because for all her mother's teachings and guidance, Helen has always been her father's daughter. She's never done the things her mother did. Arrange elegant dinner parties with the silver placed on the table just so. Tuesday afternoon card games with the ladies in the parlor. Lie in a bed dying, surrounded by a devoted husband and child. No, she'll never be her mother's daughter.
"So, um…" Will lingers at the door, watching her.
Helen settles on the sofa, opening a book. She won't read a word, but it'll give the appearance of something that she's certain Will is looking for.
"Let me know if you need anything." He stuffs his hands into his pockets. "I'll be in my office."
"I'm going to read for a while, before bed." She glances up and catches his nod, and then he leaves her.
The ring on her finger is the wrong one. There's a casket filled with tokens but no body. She's walking and breathing and talking, a perfect picture of life, but at the same time, she would swear that she has finally found death. And surprisingly, it was always nearby; just beyond the reach of her perfectly polished fingernails.