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1866
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"Undertaker. Come out."
The whipped command left no room for questioning. Although he couldn't help but grin as he opened the lid of the coffin he was hiding in, he knew something was wrong. She had visited him during the first days of the new year, to see how he was recovering from his injuries - unnaturally fast, of course. Her concern for his wellbeing had been clearly present, but so had the remnant of their discussion on that dreadful night. They exchanged very few words and none coming close to the subject of the argument, not even when both of them knew Claudia had already delivered a report to the Queen, whatever that report was. After ensuring Undertaker was indeed recovering, she had not returned since. It was now two weeks.
Brushing the long bangs away from his face, he saw Claudia standing by the door, having closed it shut but otherwise not stepping forward. Not going to stay long, then.
"You are in a dreadful mood today~" he jested, standing up and out of the coffin. Some normality had to be restored to their lives; he couldn't keep from smiling for too many days, after all.
"I..."
The small attempt was shaken. He had learned to fear Claudia's hesitation.
"I have decided against telling the whole truth."
Undertaker halted; perhaps a too abrupt movement, showing too much of his reaction to her words.
"I considered Her Majesty's reaction to the information, and... Any person would be fascinated and terrified. Anyone," she emphasized. Seeing as the important part of this decision was that she heeded Undertaker's advice, he wouldn't mind her emphasis work as defense mechanism; that incomprehensive loyalty to the Queen.
But he didn't grant her a vocal agreement on the Queen's human corruptive nature, either. Claudia knew his opinion, and it would feel an immature retort, a childish fight all over again. The heavy furrow on her brow was enough for both of them.
"Most of all, I considered how delivering this information would inevitably tie your involvement with it. And I chose against it."
Undertaker blinked, nodding slowly.
"You have trusted me with the truth of whom you really are for years. Maybe not in the concrete manner you confined in me on the end of the year, but regardless, you were never afraid to hide yourself from me, confinding in me. I gathered that from the moment I would need to mention you to Her Majesty, all of it would inevitably be revealed, and something like that... It's dangerous."
She paused then. It looked as if she was trying to swallow a painful lump on her throat, the last two words suddenly revealing a truth she wasn't ready for.
Undertaker should have said something, but instead remained silent. Claudia's struggle had muted him on the time he should have been her grounding and reassurance.
"This decision has consequences I should be fully prepared for, yet it seems like I'm being fully irresponsible. I have to report to the Queen, and I owe her the truth on this case. However, I could not do that without revealing the existence of demons and the overwhelming power they hold. Even just presenting this fact is... should be the right thing to do, yet I cannot shake my gut feeling. The very mention of this will require investigation, and I'll be forced to name you as an informant. Even if I don't, it will be inevitable. How could I have survived an attack of such nature? And how could you have survived? Shady characters in the underworld of London is one thing - this steps into waters that are sudenly too deep to venture. A man with such knowledge of the occult, the Queen would demand your collaboration. And exposing you in such a manner... Your nature and the realilty of Death walking about, I just cannot..." Claudia sighed loudly. "Out of two evils, I have to chose. Chosing one side and betraying another. And God help me, I didn't chose my Queen."
"You are not betraying anyone."
"I am willingly and intentionally witholding important information from the Queen. Should - when - this information comes to light another time, under another circumstance, I will be held accountable for my decision."
"Explain her exactly what you told me. If she is worthy the respect you give her, she might not accept, but understand your reasoning."
But that was the problem. It's dangerous. What Undertaker knew about rulers and power from experience, Claudia had started to fathom.
His own words felt too patronizing and vain. If that was his way to try make Claudia feel better, he hadn't learn a thing in the past decades about human interaction or about Claudia. Or maybe he did. It was human to use such words, even and specially if both parties knew how shallow they were.
So he had to step into his own self, regardless how his new words were rooted in dark truth.
"Let me ease your consciousness, Claudia. Why do you think a ruler of a country finding about the existence of demons is dangerous?"
Claudia scoffed, turning her back to him.
"I've said my piece. I have places to be. With the Queen, for one."
"You have answered the question to yourself. Voice your thoughts. No one hears us but the dead."
"I know the answer, so there's no point in this. Hearing the words won't make them any better or worse. You're trying to make me see they are not wrong, and they a-"
"Are you betraying someone when the information you are withholding could change the course of wars and History?"
"Don't interrupt me again. You insist on-"
"What would a ruler of a country do, should they know they could summon monsters and interact with beings above Life and Death?"
She stopped before stepping out of the door, but didn't turn to him. Without a word, she resumed her path. The hinges of the door creaked sharply when it closed.
.
Claudia's visits decreased to the point of months passing without her coming by the funeral parlour. Whenever certain guests arrived his care that might be of her interest, she often sent Tanaka as her representative instead.
Eventually, some of the guests started to form a pattern, one that left Undertaker increasingly concerned, to the point of sending a request through Tanaka.
She granted him his request. When he felt her presence approaching, he couldn't help but feel relieved despite the gloomy motives. He was determined to restore some form of normality and routine back to them, as small and meaningless as it might be.
It wasn't meaningless - it was everything.
He didn't prepare a coffin reception, but rather a jar of cookies appearing suddenly in front of her the moment the door opened.
"This is new. You had yet to throw bones at my face."
"Hee hee, at least it's a sweeter surprise, I gather~?"
Claudia shot him a deadly glare, pincing a cookie out with the tips of her fingers. "Charming."
"It's been an awful amount of time, Claudia."
"I've been busy. What did you want to show me?"
Undertaker's fragile attempt started to break so swiftly. It was so sad.
"I wanted to ask you a question."
"Must be an important one," she retorted while Undertaker stepped to his desk, lowering the cookie jar on the top. "And I don't need you to make it. Yes."
Undertaker turned around to face her.
"This latest body count was significatively higher than usual, but you have been noticing it for some time now. Yes, I killed them."
Claudia was never one to feign ignorance. The coincidence of certain bodies being delivered to his care during Claudia's investigations soon proved to be no coincidence at all, and that pattern alerted him. The latest case had been a waving flag from beginning to end; a cult of satanists who kidnapped and abused children, performing ritualistic summonings. Tanaka had been the one to retrieve his autopsy reports and the information he came across with his contacts, therefore Undertaker still effectively helped the investigation.
The whole affair was distasteful and dreadful at its very core. Not just for the victims involved, but for the circumstances of their deaths. And then, the outcome of Claudia's investigation, which dismantled the sect - or perhaps a portion of it - done by thoroughly executing all the thirteen members found.
"I wish I could say the problem isn't this latest case," Undertaker began. And he wished he could say the biggest problem was the very nature of the case - satanists of an underworld sect, whom just so casually happened to peek the Good Queen Victoria's interest? What a coincidence - but it was not. "The fact remains that these were just thirteen more to add to the list."
"I've already said it. Yes, I killed them. These thirteen perverts, that woman last week, those hostages the other time, those criminals, that married couple, those siblings, hell, I am certain you remember them all better than I do. Don't tell me you made your precious hair lockets for all of them? You'll soon be unable to walk with all that weight around your waist."
Undertaker didn't smile then. He did remember all of them. "How many culprits have been arrested in your investigations lately, Claudia?"
"My orders don't include acting like a saviour of souls, Undertaker." She cut him before he could fully form the thought in his mind. "And don't. Don't even bother pinning your blames on the Queen. Her orders have nothing to do with my actions. Death is premeditated."
He blinked. Again, she didn't give him time to reply. "You said you used to watch people die. How would you be there to witness it if you didn't know beforehand?"
"That is..." Grim Reapers, soul retrieval lists and cinematic records and all else, suddenly it all felt too much to process, and too much that should have been explained already.
"That is just but another one of the truths of this world. Let me ease that specific concern out of your mind and leave you plently of room for all your other hundred concerns: I did not tell Her Majesty."
"I'm concerned about you, first and foremost."
"All these are my burdens to bear. All your truths, all those dreadful powers and knowledges that could chance History, they are mine to bear. Including this one you didn't tell me, but I am not so stupid not to see it: Death is premeditated. Whether by you, the people like you, or whichever God rules over us, people die because someone has already decided. So don't try to patronize me. All of those people I have been killing were meant to die, otherwise they wouldn't be there, I wouldn't be there, and I wouldn't have killed them. All their future victims don't die because it is premeditated that I will be there to stop it from happening. Whatever method of killing I chose is not chosen, it's decided. I'm not changing anything in your grand scheme of things, I am acting exactly like I am supposed to act. It's not only my power to do so - it is, apparently, my destiny. How awfully poetic." She scoffed then, bitterly. "That's all there is to it."
Too much power.
"Claudia..."
"Our conversations have been awfully repetitive, Undertaker. If that's all you wanted to ask me, I am leaving."
"I miss our conversations." That silly, little and useless attempt to restore normality. I miss you. Why didn't he simply say it directly?
Claudia didn't seem as eager as him to restore those precious moments. She started to turn on her heels to the door.
"Would you like me to make us tea before you leave?"
"No. I'm not working on any case now, and I'm expected at home."
"I see." His hand touched the skull he had left on the desk absent-mindedly. A couple of seconds passed before he said, just as Claudia was holding the doorknob: "I understand a lot has changed, Claudia. It doesn't matter whose fault that might be. It's possibly no one's fault."
Claudia's hand moved slowly, fingers slipping from the doorknob and resting against her thigh before she crossed her arms instead; almost childishly stubborn, like being rebuked by bad behaviour, but he knew better. She knew the reason for his request today, replied so nonchalantly, but still she came. She was listening.
"I don't wish to abandon you and leave you alone while you are going through all this. I'm tired of having things happen because they are premeditated, because they are supposed to be that way. I'm tired." He raised his face to her, one of his eyes peeking from behind the layer of hair "Without metaphors or patronizing speeches, I am asking you, please, do not push me away. Take all the power you now have into your hands and please, don't push me away."
Claudia didn't turn around. Undertaker lowered his face and nodded.
"Until then, Claudia."
"Be seeing you." Before leaving, however, she added: "I will bring cookies though, you need to improve your recipe."
The sudden remark caused a warm tickle in his chest and he found himself scoffing dryly.
"You've been eating my cookies for years now, you know~" She hadn't taste hers this time, though. The bone cookie was still in her hand.
Just as he thought just that, she raised the cookie to her lips and it crushed loudly between her teeth. She didn't spend more than a second chewing before adding: "I've done you a kindness. They are horrible."
She left him chuckling like before, like always. Such a simple, fleeting thing, happiness.
Alone in his parlour, he snatched a cookie from the offended jar and returned to his work, normality so slowly but surely returning. Some things weren't premeditated; some things were choices, and he chose to be with Claudia through this.
.
.
.
He didn't feel anything.
He didn't wake up startled from a nightmare. His hands did not suddenly halt in their funeral preparations to his guest that day. There was no phantom anxiety, laboured breathing to the point of physical pain. No cold shiver without any breeze to cause it, no sense of horrible dread. No piercing ache. If the day had darkened and night fell forever over the world outside, he had sensed no signal of it.
No sort of warning.
Nothing. Anything that could have allowed him to change it before it happened.
And yet he knew.
When the guest was fully attended to, washed, stitched, fresh roses on her iced fingers, beautiful and peacefully asleep in her custom made coffin, he knew.
They had been so apart in the past months; it wasn't as if that last visit could immediately fix their routines. So, there would be no meeting scheduled, no important case under investigation to justify a work visit, or tea invitation to the town house. It was Summer, and the day ought to have been pleasant, inviting a stroll and book discussion outside. They always had their personal routines, and the times when they entwined never had a mandatory rule.
They had every reason to not need to see each other on that day, as it had been happening for months. And everything was all right on the next day, and the next, until the next time they met.
And yet he knew.
When the day ended and he got no news from Claudia, like it happened so many other days, he knew.
She wasn't safe, working on her future cases, reading her books, discussing her theories, teaching Francis, writing to Vincent, busy with mundane routines, or resting and sleeping soundlessly in her bed next to her husband after a long day.
Eventually she would come to him after one such days, like so many other days.
And now she would not.
And when he knew, his hand froze over the corpse. His whole body froze, until the ice shiver caused his breathing to stagger. A sense of vertigo clawed to his head with the increased shallowing of his attempts to breathe. He barely managed to hold on to the brim of the coffin, something tightening around his throat and cutting air more painfully than any Death Scythe ever could. He couldn't breathe. This would make sense in a nightmare, but he was wide awake.
The day had darkened and night had fallen outside forever. It would never change, time would never move again.
It couldn't. It couldn't, time couldn't continue to see another dawn, washing everything like it never happened.
It couldn't.
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No.
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"Mr Undertaker!" Tanaka's surprise reflected the urgency emanating from him. "Is something the matter? Lady Claudia is not-"
"Where is she?"
"She has left hours ago. There was a sudden development on a case..."
"Claudia doesn't have any case."
"It was nothing serious. I assisted her myself with the Yard's exchanges. What..." The confusion but urgency in the man's voice conflicted with him trying to fully process the events, why they were discussing this matter on the mansion's doorway, what information was relevant at that point, and why was Undertaker here to begin with. But the man wasn't Claudia's butler for no reason. His eyes widened and any blood trace disappeared from his face immediately before his posture shifted. "What do you require?"
"Where did she go?"
"She left with two servants. The Murderer of the Silk Trade escaped captivity and butchered three police officers. Lady Claudia received immediate orders to re-capture him."
It was irrelevant whom the Murderer of the Silk Trade was. The case was nothing serious, not serious enough to require his assistance nor serious enough for the victims to have reached his care or so much hear whispers of the killer's name. Yet the man's evasion required immediate action. The Queen of England learned of the evasion of a non-important criminal that very day and required the Watchdog to act at once.
"Where did she go?"
"Western Docks, on the Isle of Dogs."
So close. East End. He had been so close.
"I will-"
He didn't stay to listen to the man. He turned and disappeared from the front of the Phantomhive manor, reappearing kilometers away on the West India Docks. He couldn't and wouldn't bring the butler with him, not when a human's body couldn't withstand a Grim Reaper's ability. Or bother with the fact he had just revealed his nature to the man. Neither thoughts crossed his mind.
There was no moon. Instead, thousands of stars littered the sky, the sparce gaslight lamps hauntingly illuminating the docks through hazed night mist. It was unsettling, and screamed danger, horror and pain.
None of the fears humans would feel here plagued at his mind. He had only one, and he refused to believe it.
Careful to listen for any sign of life, any trace of humans nearby, he stepped through the dock. The sound echoed time and again, step after step. The very air was drenched and heavy with all the sickening stenches East Enders had to survive with. Rats ran by the sides of the warehouses, low squeaks. The water rustled and scrapped against the harbors, like whispers in the night.
There was not a soul in the docks. No smugglers, late time workers, thieves or starving children.
How could there be no one in a place like this?
The steps tapped softly through the air. Everything seemed so obvious, so clearly perfect for a trap, a set-up layed out based on the simplest and most effective of flaws - blind emotion. Loyalty.
Love.
But no one was targetting him. The trap wasn't meant for him. No one was expecting him here.
His feet guided him on their own through a seemlessly endless row of dirty and scrapped storages towards the exact correct one, the very last one; as if some part of him knew, drawn by that invisible line that lured him like a familiar lullaby. Like he could feel exactly where to go. Feel it now that it was over.
The open door of the warehouse now stood in front of Undertaker. The window by its side had been shattered. The door stood like a mouth of darkness, where rays of the gaslight lamp around the corner pierced inside hazily through a row of windows on the side of the building.
One of the windows was casting light over a bundle on the floor.
He saw it. If he tried, he could fathom another dark shape closer to the door, merged in that darkness. But there was no need.
A strange, distant part of him was glad his eyes weren't reliable anymore. That part was smothered and suffocated by the dread he wanted avoid with every inch of his being.
There was no soul inside either. No police. No criminal. No horde of useless bypassers who would gather for the sake of a spectacle of gore and death, but a horde of people would have never made it here. This was not a street murder, a petty theft, an accident, a terrible misfortune of some poor soul wretching about their painful lives and meeting a goreful end.
This was deliberate. Planned, however simple and matter-of-factly it might have been, and executed. Premeditated. The stench of filth and stale dust vanished under the metallic smell rigged in the air, weightening it down to a gagging twitch.
It was too familiar.
The first Undertaker saw was the man. The servant who had once delivered him a message at his parlour, so many years ago, and had granted such loud and happy laughs from the startle Undertaker had given him. So young then, but nearly two decades after, he had grown to be a trustworthy servant under Claudia's orders. It was the same man who had been in the underground factory facility, the poor man carrying all Undertaker's load of files. The man was now lying on his side, eyes wide, blind, mouth gaped open, a pool of thick dark blood and bowels spilled from his shredded abdomen.
The world slowly suspended around him, any faint sound hissing away to nothing, the air no longer heavy, the stench no longer bothersome. Oxygen no longer needed to breathe. He stepped forward, his body weightless, his mind empty.
There was another body close by. A stranger; an accomplice, the cuffs of his shirt smudged with blood and knife scattered next to his hand. Another accomplice, a dark bundle by the left side was slouched behind a barricade that clearly didn't do its work. He barely noticed another body fallen against the wall to his right, hidden amongst the shadows and away from the light that came from the door. A single drop of blood splashed eerily into a pool; following the sound, he found another man on an upper storey, his vantage point discovered and now laying with arm dangling over the side of the edge.
The next one was some meters ahead, the maid, another familiar face covered by strings of hair, having so recently helped them on the demon case. Hauntingly illuminated by the gaslight that pierced in through the greasy window like a sight out of a nightmare. The real, earthly outcome was a scattered body, lying face down like discarted trash. All the blood on her seemed aged, the red dimming somehow into brown under the light, trails smudged into the sepian white of her uniform from countless bullet holes. Shot from behind many more times than required to kill her.
His body kept moving against his will. In this suspended, slowed reality, his brain had no control over his legs. Over his eyes, rising from the maid into the darkness that followed, the trail of corpses so blantantly luring him to the outcome.
The light rays cutting in from the next window did not reach her. Instead, it basked burnt, yellowed light, unclear shades over the dark shape, the bod- person laying ahead.
The suspension of the world vanished and everything crashed down.
His knees bunked under him. The physical pain would feel like a caress, had he been able to feel his body for that one second. Maybe it was a blessing, how for that one moment, he felt nothing. There was nothing at all.
The black puddle gleamed faintly. Dark strands of hair stood out strangely under the half light, dipped in it like roots of some nightmarish scene. Undertaker's body crawled forward through that nightmare, somehow. Hands first slipping, clawing at the darkened pool, knees and robes soaking, white hair falling over hers now damp and dyed black. Her hands were drenched like his, fallen at her side, one so close to her face. He placed his arm behind her nape, heavy and soaked in still lukewarm blood, lifting her head from the floor. It ran and soaked into his sleeve, into his arm. A lock of hair had fallen over her face, crossing over her features and her eyes. Slowly, he brushed it aside, unintentionally smudging her face with more blood. Her blue eyes were dark, cold and blinded, away from the light that would give them the color and life they had.
He stood there, holding her like that. Absolutely still, painfully still.
She was gone.
Claudia was d-
This can't be real.
Her soul was gone. The Grim Reaper that came for her was gone. There was no one anymore.
She was dead.
.
No.
.
Undertaker didn't care if someone could appear, culprit or police, and see him summoning and holding an otherworldly weapon. Had anyone come, he would have killed them for stepping between him and his task.
Centuries watching human lives in cinematic records couldn't be erased by a couple of blessed decades. There was no hesitation on his hold, like certainly there was none before, on those countless times. But here, now, he had to know. It was neither denial nor anger or negociation, depression and certainly not acceptance. He had to know.
Humans need to understand, and if he had long stopped being human, the only person that helped him feel like one again had drowned in a pool of blood.
Letting go of Claudia was the hardest thing he had ever done. Carefully, he placed her head back down, loathing himself for leaving her so uncomfortable on a cold stained floor. He took her hand into his, drops falling from their fingers. Nearly dropped to the ground, the scythe's blade barely touched her palm. The cinematic record gushed out, a rush of color film shinning and swirling and for a moment giving life back to her eyes.
The row of images flooded his senses, overwhelming every part of him. The images and sounds blurred from more than his weakened eyes, and slowly drowned in front of him, laughter echoing in the worst penance the world could throw at him. Against all his will, Undertaker shut his eyes at the image of child Claudia, images exactly like the ones he remembered, the beautiful face he had seen so few years ago. He couldn't block the sound of her voice, the change in pitch from a little girl to a young woman happening so fast. When Claudia called his name, two silent tears fell from his eyes, clearing his vision for but a moment when he looked up.
He saw himself in the images, a well behaved doll as Lady Claudia once presented him with a suitable hairstyle, the remnant of it still with him now, the simple braid he kept repeating through the years to keep that precious moment with him. Swirls of white fabric, rows of faces, laughter, cries, her beautiful children and the husband that made her laugh, the monster with a human face and blood letters on the wall, the Queen Victoria of England and a white-clad young butler. A letter, a command, a trip to the docks.
It all flashed by so fast. He was already here, what he needed to see and know, but then...
Claudia was armed, as were her two servants. They arrived on foot, undetected, guarded by the shadows. The silence of the night betrayed by a low, hastened rustle of voices, and the gaslight lamps gleamed like haunting specters in the cold night.
The Murderer of the Silk Trade had two accomplices of his own. The man's face was obscured by a dark beret, and his clearly frantic haste was stressing the henchmen.
"Let's do this quick, now!" the man hissed through his teeth.
The group entered the warehouse, the henchmen quickly surveying the surroundings before following inside.
"Victor, cover the outer docks. There may be more men hiding. Alice, with me."
"Yes, my lady."
They approached the building; the door had been left ajar. Both women peered through the nearby window, catching movement inside. The men seemed to be transporting some sort of cargo, speaking in hushed voices. They were in a hurry, understandably, but not because they had been alerted. They wouldn't suspect Claudia moving on them and narrowing their escape route through the docks under such short notice, so soon after the prison escape.
She signalled the maid. The men had their hands full with cargo boxes, and the Murderer (what the blast was the man's name again? She didn't remember, his delusions of grandeur and his self-given criminal name had ultimately been such smoke and mirrors that she barely cared to remember much of the man besides his screams prior to being arrested by the Yard that had caught up with her at the time. He wouldn't be alive otherwise.) would be the apparent sole person to pose a threat; if he could get to reach his gun. They would be easy targets in a surprise attack; there needn't be much flair about this.
There seemed to be no other people inside, but the sparse lighting could betray their assessments. Victor was signalled to stay by the window outside and shoot any possible backup that would make their presence noted when the gunfire started.
Claudia swung the door open, kneeling in a single flowed motion while Alice stood behind her, guns ready and aimed. One of the henchmen by the Murdered howled at the gunshot ripping through his shoulder blade. The other two reacted immediately, flying to opposite sides and taking cover behind nearby boxes under Alice's row of bullets. The wounded man lifted a gun but was put down before he could fire; Victor's gunshot shattered the glass and hit the thug in the forehead, throwing him to the floor like a heavy ragdoll.
Claudia and Alice quickly found refuges of their own, precisely as bullets were fired to where they had previously been standing. Claudia rushed towards the safety of a box by the right side of the door, leaning her back against the wooden container. She readied her gun while her eyes looked towards the door, cursing herself for probably causing flash blindedness for the seconds to follow, and waited for the break between gunshots from the Murderer's side in order to peer from the side and take down the remaining henchman that would be within range.
That was when she saw the movement in the shadows just in front of her and her heart skipped a beat. Her arm moved out of reflex if not anything else and she fired towards the wall, but even through the denouncing growl, the hidden henchman fired his gun before dying. Claudia was thrown back at the box and the air was knocked out of her lungs, a grunt of pain escaping her lips.
From her end, Alice was immediately alerted by the commition, but as she screamed for her lady, a gunshot exploded through the wooden box's top, higher than any of the two men could have fired from their locations. The bullet scrapped the maid's head, missing her skull for but a centimeter. The woman ducked and was forced into an unbalanced position that stopped her from pinpointing her attacker's higher point, a second row of gunshots started on her other side; another shooter?! How many were they?
From his post, Victor realized the trap and was able to take down the henchman that had been hiding on the upper storey after a couple of shots. He scanned the storey that had appeared to be empty before, making sure it was now fully cleared of men before trying to shoot the Murderer as the man aimed, arm stretched over his blockade. The henchman closer to the Murderer fired continuously against the window, forcing Victor to retreat before he could fire.
Claudia clasped her hand tightly against the side of her torso, trying to stop the blood that stubbornly ran from her fingers. She didn't have time to see how bad the wound was. She looked up and to her right, trying to see if Alice was hurt or dead, bullets still flying and quickly forcing the men to recharge. As her eyes passed through the door again, she saw Victor entering, moving towards Alice's side to replace her and allow Alice to proceed forward. By the time Claudia noticed it, it was too late; she couldn't raise her gun to fire. Just as there had been one man hiding against the wall on her side, there was one on Alice's side too; the maid had failed to see him with the firing from above distracting her. The man caught Victor by the waist; the thrust was so brutal Claudia could hear the blade ripping through the flesh twice. Dark blood sprayed the floor when the henchman gutted her servant as if he was nothing. Victor's dying groan was muffled by Alice's gunshots that took down the assassin from behind; Victor dropped to his knees and fell over his shoulder, body jerking for a gruesome moment before falling still.
"The Watchdog comes to the Isle of Dogs again, huh?" The Murderer took the opportunity to claim from his end. "How poetic, eh? How're ye feeling, knowing yer servants are going to die failing to protect ye?"
For someone who had already lost four men, he was awfully cheerful. But how were there men to begin with? How many more? How could they've known? Victor...
"I've been waiting for ye, Countess," the Murdered continued, spitting loudly enough to resonate in the warehouse. Alice fired at his direction, but the aim failed and wood scraps flyed instead. "Yer pretty damn fast, eh?! I was expectin' ye to come tomorrow night, but lo and behold, I get the word of yer movements tonight? Couldn't let me breathe fresh air for long now could ye?"
Claudia tried to count and think over the man's words; the Murderer and the first henchman. Those two for certain were still alive. There was still a third thug, one she hadn't seen yet but he had fired against Alice from the sidelines. Three targets.
"Too high on yer high horse, eh?! Thought this would be a feast, wouldn't bother to be careful, would ye? That's the problem with ye, ye bitch. Too high on yer fucking horse!"
Alice fired two gunshots towards the man, covering up for Claudia who bit down her teeth in frustration and stood up despite her body screaming against her, firing at the henchman whose location she did know; opposite to the Murderer. She saw his head poke behind his blockade and missed it by a whisker. She glided towards a box further ahead and closer to the Murderer, feeling the hiss of the bullet pass near her head. The opportunity wasn't missed by Alice, who could pinpoint the third shooter; the man screamed and his body fell with a heavy thud.
The Murderer tried to shoot both at Alice and Claudia, growling loudly and falling behind his blockage.
"There hasn't been a single day in that cell I haven't been plannin' this. Every bribe, every contact, ensuring my escape and ensuring I'd get ye when I was out... But I couldn't get ye on yer ground now could I? Ye had to come to me. Good thing I had ye followed! Ye've hastened your end! I can almost thank ye!"
Claudia's breathing hissed as she pressed the wound on her side, still holding the gun tightly. How could the man have her followed? She would have noticed it... Damn it all to hell. She had to recharge, but she was closer, perhaps within shooting range already.
"Ye see, this shows I am the better man," the man kept bragging on. "My men have been keepin' ye under watch for days, preparin' for my escape. I could have had them shoot yer beloved fair-skinned daughter and yer lofty husband. I should have, ye bitch, I should have made ye watch them bleed in front of ye so ye'd know what ye made me go through! Ye didn't have to kill them! My wife had surrendered!"
Alice must have moved further inside as well, judging by the gunshots that started to rage around them. The man was still shouting aftewards: "Ye killed them both! I had given up! I had surrendered and ye murdered them all the same! My brother didn't have anythin' to do with it! All he did was carry cargo, he shouldn't have died!"
Claudia was reloading her gun, her grip slippery from the blood and her teeth clenched harder in frustration. Thankfully the man's talk buyed her enough time for it.
"But then again, I still have time. It's still vengeance if ye die knowing I'm gonna kill yer family after I kill ye. That'll be a-"
Claudia threw herself on the floor and twisted her body to the side, aiming at the man, who couldn't catch her position so suddenly. Her bullet found flesh and Claudia glided back to the barricade under the man's pained howl and the row of gunfire that tried to hit either her or Alice. Chaos dwelled for some infinite seconds, screams of "She shot me! The bitch shot me! Kill her! Kill them both!" as the two remaining men ran around from blockade to blockade. Claudia peered over to see the Murderer was trying to run towards the door, now left unprotected by Alice. His henchman was hiding out of sight, to give him cover.
Claudia gritted her teeth and stood up, aiming her gun higher and removing her hand from the bleeding wound to lock aim at the back of the man's head.
"My lady!" the maid shouted when Claudia had raised both hands to hold the gun. A piercing bullet ripped through the servant's back and shattered her rib, the impact nearly throwing the woman off balance, and in an instant her shocked gaze fell to the front of her uniform. The bullet had not exited. Whether the absense of blood reassured her mind or the last adrenaline rush drove her, she lifted her gun up, but not to the henchmand who shot her. She aimed it at Claudia.
Claudia's blood froze and she reacted immediately. As her maid was mercilessly gunned down before she could fire, Claudia turned on her heels, but her arm was locked tight by the person behind her.
Her reflexes were praiseworthy. Unable to turn and face the new opponent, she turned her wrist around and fired at point blank range, the gunshot blasting her ear drum. Even with the evident pain, she attempted a second shot before her wrist was twisted in a menacing turn. The perpetrator moved his free hand, holding something gleaming, first against the side of her ribcage, sinking it deep and ripping it out, indifferent to the grunt of pain it caused in her, her body bending forward in reflex, taking the intented distraction to lock it under Claudia's chin, pulling her up.
The cut was swift. Almost merciful, in some distorted reality rather than this one. A single motion, slashing deep, deliberately.
Claudia gasped. The gun dropped from her hand, still locked by the grip, and her other hand flew to the wound, blood helplessly slipping through her fingers. She choked, and as she coughed for air, only blood came out, dripping from her mouth. The tight hold on her arm disappeared and her knees dropped beneath her, her body falling backwards. The loose hair strands spilled on the floor, quickly growing damp and heavy from the pool spilling under it. Panic settled in as the blood flood didn't stop, chest quivering, her desperatively suffocating gasps and coughs the only sound now echoing in the warehouse after all the gun shots had ceased, the criminals silent in their own confusion or disbelief of how it all came to an end. She still tried to stanch the bleeding, the wound stretching horribly as she fought against it to turn her head, to find the person that should tower over her in victory, that should be somewhere near, somewhere Undertaker could see him with the gaslight coming from the window just behind them, but they weren't. Slowly, the quivers started to soften. Her fingers slipped and slided to her shoulder, her hand falling next to her face. She thought of her children then. Her eyes were blurred under the lock of hair that had fallen over her face, but it didn't hide their loss of focus, or the moment they lost their light.
... the cinematic record reached THE END.
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Eventually, he forced himself to stand up. Barely managing to walk towards the fallen servant three meters away and cutting into one of the bullet wounds, he indifferently watched her life, her struggles and victories, down to these docks, this warehouse, his little Claudia standing three meters away, alive, hurting, fighting. When the first bullet struck the servant, the woman held on to her training, her will to live, her orders to save her lady from the threat she couldn't see. But the maid could. Flash blinded by the light basking hauntingly over her, she saw it, the form behind her lady, the person approaching cowardly from the darkness. A shadow, shining when one gaslight ray grazed a fraction of white clothes turned aged sepia by the night. And her memories ended with the death of her body.
A flash of white. That was all he had on the person who killed his reason to smile.
The rest of the night unfolded to him in a distant cinematic reel. Maybe someone would one day see it in his own cinematic record. He didn't see or register any of it.
Tanaka arrived at some point, as did more servants and the Scotland Yard. The emotional words resonated to someone, but not to him. The words he himself spoke did not reach his ears: Francis and Cedric could be in danger. Whether the servants heard him, he didn't know.
They wanted to take Claudia away. A hand touched his shoulder, faintly, compassionately. All he felt was a weight. Tanaka. No one else would have dared to approach. The butler's expression was ignored by him, not bothering to lift his eyes to the man. A hand lowered over Claudia's face, and he halted it with a simple word. Tanaka stopped for a moment, but the man's fingers still fell over her eyes, blocking them from view, brushing softly down and hiding them forever.
Takana wanted to take them. Another simple word stopped the butler.
He took her. The servants, as well as the criminals, had to be transported with the Yard's help, but he was the one to take her. He was the Undertaker. It was his human job. The one he would have ellected eventually by proxy, but the one he accepted out of the memories of Claudia.
Dawn didn't dare to rise before he reached the funeral parlour. For once, for the last time, it granted him that peace.
The two servants were laid on the furthest tables. They would be treated like all his guests. The guest's coffin he had on the center table, abandoned hours prior, was relocated to the furthest end, contrasting painfully in her attire and fresh flowers against the butchered bloodied bodies who would need to wait to enter the chamber. The criminals were thrown on the floor of another chamber; they would need attending too, soon, but he didn't want them near now.
The procedure was always the same. Water, rugs, sponges, needles, thread, embalming oil, pumps, hair brush, clean attire, flowers.
From the very first moment, it was different. The blood that dripped from his sleeves and hands smudged into the clean water, making him realize he couldn't attend to any guest that way. Several white strands of his damp hair had dried into clustered blood clogs. His hands were covered by such a thick layer of blood he couldn't see the color of his skin. He had to attend to himself first if he wanted to work. He didn't remember ever moving so slowly, so suspended, like floating.
Drowning.
The clothes burned. The white sheet laid over her turned dark and moist. The softest sponge available brushed her face, her cheeks, lips, chin, jaw line, nape. All the blood ran down, leaving the wounds bare and dark. Chin gently raised. Skin stretched, pulled by the thread and slowly tied back together, perfect sutures. Bullet was pulled from her rib, wrapped in skin and bone, stab wound stitched and closed until it could be mistaken by a rib gently pressing at her skin. All traces of dirt under her fingernails vanished. Basin after basin was filled and refilled with water until it finally remained clean, her hair gently wavering under the surface. He didn't notice when the replaced the water with disinfectant.
He felt the presence even before the door to the parlour opened and closed. The steps were respectfully undisturbing, and exited quickly. Tanaka, leaving three sets of clothes for burial.
The rest of the process was mechanical; his mind was distant, his body moving on its own accord again as he carefully pinched the skin under the arm and watched the blood drain from the body. He replaced it with a mixture of chemicals and oils he had made. He followed thoroughly with careful incisions, strategic points to drain her organs and refill the chest neatly with more of his mixture so the guest would look beautiful.
He didn't look at her face then. When he did (for the guest needed to be brushed and attended), the weight sunk into him and forced him back to what this really was.
Her damp hair dried in a halo of greyish blue around her head as he laced fragmented oils. The dress was black; it suited her, made her skin stand out, powdered and less gaunt now.
Her skin was so cold.
Undertaker stopped. She was almost ready, but the hair wasn't quite right yet. It didn't suit her like she would want it. Slowly, as if he wasn't wary to disturb her - as if he hadn't been atendding to her for the past hours - his fingers brushed through the silk locks of hair. He braided two sets of hair, one for her and one for him, framing and falling past her shoulders delicately. It looked slightly better now.
He picked a pair of scissors then.
She would have likely glared at him and slapped his hand away, saying it was inappropriate to neglect personal space or something of the sort. The sound he made was so familiar and yet now so strange, but before he knew it, he was chuckling and smiling just from the thought. He could hear Claudia's sharp voice saying those words, the hilarious look on her face and that little mischievous smile as she turned away, both a warning not to go against her command again but amused by the shown affection.
His smile wavered as his lip trembled, falling down under the weight of the world. The scissors clinkled sharply on the floor.
Smiling didn't relieve him. It hurt him more.
Without thinking, he removed his hand from her hair and touched her shoulders, locking a hold on the sides of her chest and pulled her up to him. Her head still fell back like a doll, like she was asleep, even if that wound on her throat could never fool his most hopeful wishes, before it fell against his shoulder. And ironically, on that moment he realized he had never held her in his arms, touched her hands or her hair before this day. All these years, undercover missions, countless hours of conversations, tea sessions and shared laughter... never. As if painfully reinforcing that fact, his mind brought the softness of her fingers when she had so fearlessly unveiled his face and nature as a young woman, and instead of shiver or retreat, spinned him around like a doll in a child's hairdresser. Her hilarious face on her wedding tailoring session, clasping at his wrist and pulling him into what she told was her Hell and it was nothing of the sort to him. The dreadful dooming end of the year, when she had helped him with his wounds, careful not to harm him.
He had never touched her until she was gone.
None of it made him feel better. Not the memory of her days ago, not years ago, not the vision of her cinematic record, not when she was a teenager playing with his hair, not when she was a child in disguise, not when she was a baby, smiling to-
Pulling, squeezing her so painfully against him, he tried to numb it any way he could. If he had held her like this when she was a little child, a baby... so small and... if he had held her days ago, or at that dreadful end of the year... She hadn't spent Christmas with her family, nor attended the social gatherings she should have at the end of the year, all those silly superstitions on luck.
The straining and forceful pull burned the muscles in his arms, his chest, his ribcage pressed and piercing into his heart and his lungs, but she didn't feel it, not when he was hurting her to ease his pain into her, not when he was hurting himself to push her wounds and death into him. Forcing the life he had scattered aside to now replace hers that had been stolen away. But she still didn't wake up.
He shouldn't be alive. I shouldn't be alive, I killed myself for this very reason, this pain, to be gone, forever and they had forced him to live. He didn't want to be alive. And when he had find a reason to be alive, the only reason for it, he couldn't do what he needed and what was right.
His life wasn't his. It had never been since he had ended it. He was alive for her, and now he couldn't return what belonged to her to begin with.
The irony of life.
Death is premeditated.
No.
I'm tired of things happening because they are premeditated.
Choking, drowning and dying, Undertaker buried his face on Claudia's hair to stop breathing once and for all, and when he couldn't, he screamed. He couldn't manage a second scream before his voice choked and drowned and he broke down sobbing.
No one heard him but the dead.
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to be continued
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Author's Note I wasn't going to include in this chapter but here we are:
I started writing this between November 13 and 14th 2017, which are painful dates to me. I only realized it a couple of hours later after sitting to write, and how the subject was ironically tied to the date, and so I tried to write it all down. I'm an idiot, obviously. I sat down for 10 hours, and still didn't finish it all.
Also, the first draft that was fully written and revised had a very different lighting during Claudia's scene - as in, full moon on that night. I decided to casually check July 13 1866 moon phase and it was fucking new moon. So I changed the whole thing. Because I see the scenes I write in my head as movies scenes, I do think the gaslight suddenly gives this an even more haunting quality than a pale moon lighting would. I also read several stuff about embalming, but I didn't really know how to include it here.
I listened to a lot of songs to write this, more than usual particularly due to the amount of months it's been since I've been writing it back and forth. The ones I give huge and most distinct mention are 'Never Go Back' and 'End of the Dream' by Evanescence in their Synthesis format, as well as rear sound version of 'Imperfection'. It should be pretty obvious from their names alone.
Despite the name, this isn't the end of the fic yet! ahah I want to thank everyone who has been reading until this point and sticking with me in this headcanon!
Thank you for reading.