Disclaimer: Kuroshitsuji belongs to Toboso Yana.
A Mortician's Heartbreak is a Temporary Thing
Prologue
A bell chimed as two men trudged through a door, carrying a carefully wrapped sack. They looked around the dark room, searching for a sign of movement. In the far corner, a long figure slithered into sight, seemingly excited at their presence.
"I have visitors?" hummed a grayed man with long hair and a long black robe.
The two men gently set the sack on the ground, a sigh of relief escaping their lips once rid of the weight.
A man took off his cap, respectfully, to show a head of dirty blonde hair.
"This man here got in a carriage accident few days ago. Needs some fittin'," he said as he wiped his forehead.
"Ahh, let me see the guest."
The men picked up the sack again and set it on a coffin, seeing as there was no table. The shop owner inspected the wrapped body, taking measurements and eyeing the wound in the victim's stomach with a grin on his face.
The other man coughed and fixed his glasses. "We will also be needing a headstone for another deceased. There's no body, though."
"Oh, no body?" the shop owner smiled curiously while pattering his long fingers together.
"With the man was his pregnant wife. She survived the accident, but, unfortunately, her child did not. She asked for a headstone to be made for the unborn as well," he replied solemnly.
The grayed man nodded with understanding.
"Two graves, what a lovely pair," he chortled to himself. "They'll make great company."
The two men gazed apprehensively at the old man who was laughing at his own death jokes.
They left the body with the shop owner and voiced their thanks before leaving, but he said nothing save for a lowly chuckle as they left.
He returned to the body sprawled atop the coffin, his twisted arm sticking up from his shoulder.
"May I?" the grayed man amused himself by taking the dead man's hand and spinning him around the room twice. He twirled him once more before artistically laying him in a temporary coffin, then sitting on it, crossing his legs and humming a tune. He sat like this for three minutes before grabbing his top hat, and abruptly left the shop.
London, this fine evening, was pleasantly trite and indolently terse. People bustled to and fro, the clouds not far behind them, but unaware of their daunting presence.
He dawdled around town until he came upon a large brick building and entered through one of the archways. No one noticed as he slipped past the halls with ease, making his way to a certain patient's room. He opened the door to see the very woman he was searching for.
Wine-soaked waves of hair flew like a wisp of air as her breath respired, even as a violin bow and peaceful as the moon's glow. She lay motionless in a bed, her wounds healed, but her soul shattered.
On the table next to her were medical papers that the gray-haired man took the liberty of reading.
"Abortion," he tsked. "Such a waste."
Then he read the next word, "Hysterectomy" and understood more clearly the extent of the surgery.
For a moment, the man stood still, staring so raptly emotionless at the sleeping woman, almost as if he were trying to read her broken soul.
Cold gusts of wind coming through the window ruffled his gray hair, breaking his deep trance, and as if he found the very key he was looking for, he cracked a wide grin and chuckled.
He walked to the foot of the bed, leering over her sleeping form. The corners of his mouth curled even more as he raised a long scythe in the air, and dropped it down upon the woman's womb.