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It really is a beautiful day for a funeral.
It’s a day in mid-March. The sun is shining, there’s a smattering of clouds in the sky, and a cool breeze blows across the hill that I’m sitting on, rustling the grass and the yellow wildflowers that pepper the landscape. I lean my head against the trunk of the tree I’m sitting under and sigh, grateful for the moment’s rest.
I set down my book of poems into my skirt’s expanse of black fabric. From where I’m sitting, I can see the last remnants of the funeral procession standing around the new grave. One man is crouched down with his head near the freshly dug up earth, and another man has a hand on his back.
“It’s a touching scene, really,” a voice says behind me, and I turn my head to see my partner walking up to the top of the hill where I’m sitting. Undertaker stops next to me and wistfully gazes on the funeral goers, his mouth in a thin line. “They were engaged. They didn’t even have time to get married before her illness took her.”
“How tragic,” I murmur, turning my head back to the small graveyard. Everyone has left but the young man now, who has not moved from his knees. “The funeral was quite beautiful, though. You did a wonderful job.”
He chuckles. “I did, didn’t I? That coffin was one of my finer pieces, with the carved lilies on it. And I must say, her body looked better than it did when she was nearing the end of her illness. She had a bit of color in her face again.”
I point an accusing finger at him, grinning. “That’s just because you finally let me buy that rouge like I had been asking you to for months! I told you it would make a difference, and not - what did you say again? - make her look like a harlot!”
“Yes, yes dear, you were right,” he laments, but from under the shadows cast by his silver bangs, I can see the unmistakable upturn of a smile. His gaze must pass to my hands, because he gestures towards the object in my skirts. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Oh,” I say, my cheeks heating a little as I wave the book around nervously. “It’s just a book of poems. I had been trying to find a good place to read them outside, but London wasn’t exactly…”
“The damp alley next to a funeral parlor wouldn’t really do for such a thing,” he agrees, nodding his head seriously. He tilts his head, and suddenly I can see his eyes through his bangs, and it feels that he’s almost looking through me. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“No, not at all,” I say quickly, and before I know it, I gesture towards my lap before looking up hesitantly at him.
Undertaker just smiles softly, before wordlessly walking over to me and lying down on the ground, settling his head directly into my lap. He sets his hat somewhere off to the side on the ground, and his silvery hair, now free of their confines, spills across my black skirts. His bangs are pushed back just slightly to where his face is visible to me, and he slides his eyes shut with a peaceful smile, his scar stretching across his face.
“Read to me?” he asks quietly.
“Of course,” I murmur back, and I pass the book to my left hand and begin to read aloud softly. My right hand finds his head and I begin to lazily card my fingers through his hair. He gives a content hum, eyes still closed.
We stay there, me sitting under the tree and him lying down with his head on my lap reading together until I can see the young man finally walk away from his lover’s grave. I finish the poem I’m on and then slowly close my book and set it aside, never pausing in the slow, deliberate teasing with his hair.
He sighs and opens his eyes slowly. I can see every silver eyelash flutter open and shine as they catch the light, and in that moment, Undertaker is so beautiful the words I was about to say get caught in my throat.
He reaches for my free hand instead, his long-nailed fingers curling around mine. “That was lovely, dear,” he hums with a smile, and as I look into his eyes, I feel my cheeks heat again. “The ones about death, specifically… how exquisite. It’s curious how much your kind knows of death when they have yet to experience it.”
“You’d do well to keep up with the modern authors of today,” I chastise lightly, squeezing his hand. “Death is a popular subject among modern literature. I’ve told you you’d like them before.”
Undertaker full on laughs now. “Darling, why would I waste my time reading something myself when I could enjoy your company as you read it to me? That seems a bit silly.”
I pause, processing. “…well, if you really like it that much,” I say quietly. “You’re welcome to listen to me read whenever you’d like.”
“Even in the parlor?” he questions.
“In one of the back rooms,” I amend, thoughtful. “Away from the corpses. That seems a little disrespectful.”
“So, my bedroom then,” he grins, and I untangle my fingers from his hair to lightly swat him across the forehead. He barks a laugh, his eyes glowing with mirth.
“Whatever,” I mumble, and I know without looking at my reflection that my entire face has been painted a crimson red. "I’ll read you your creepy death poems in your creepy parlor.”
“Creepy?” he questions, his smile sliding off his face. “On the contrary, my dear, death is not creepy. To one such as yourself, it is unnerving, I’m sure, but never creepy, no, no. It is the final form of the human experience, the culmination of what makes you humans so fascinating! It is what enriches life, is it not? To know that there is an end, that your days have a limit to them, and you must make the most out of the precious time you are given. It’s a beautiful thing, death.”
I laugh humorlessly. “I hardly think that when I die, I would consider my corpse something beautiful. I’d just be a dead, rotting pile of flesh that… takes up space, I guess.”
He stares at me for a second, his gaze incredulous, and his chartreuse eyes seem to stare right into my soul. “My dear,” he says reverently. “I believe that in death, you would be positively ethereal.”
I swallow hard, meeting his stare, and wait for him to continue.
“Your form, forever at rest and relaxation. Your eyes forever shut, your brain forever sleeping. Your skin and hair all unsullied by the weight of the world. You’ll be free from suffering, from heartache, from regret. What else can I call that but ethereal?” He reaches up to cup the side of my face in one of his hands, and I can’t help but lean into the touch.
“I’ll be a little envious when the time comes,” he admits quietly. “However, I will be right there with you at your side. I’ll be there when death washes over you and take care of you in the moments after. I promise I will.”
“And what if I’m old?” I ask. “What if I’m wrinkly and grey and can’t move anymore. Will I still be beautiful then?”
He smiles a mournful smile. “You’ll always be exquisite to me,” he murmurs as he runs his thumb across the expanse of my cheek. “An older death means a fuller life. Isn’t that a beautiful thing?”
I stare at him, full of some emotion that I can’t quite describe, but it weighs my entire body down with its gravity. “You’re a bit of a freak,” is what I settle on saying, and he barks out a laugh in response.
“Undoubtedly,” he grins. “But you still love me, yes?”
Ah. So that’s what that emotion is.
“Of course I do,” I whisper, and he takes the hand that is entwined with his and brings it down to him, pressing a gentle kiss on the bit of exposed skin on my wrist between the fabric of my sleeve and my glove. His lips are cold, but my entire body heats at the contact.
‘I think it’s time to go back home, my dear,’ he says quietly, and I ruefully disentangle myself from him to allow him to sit up. He reaches for his hat and sets it back on his head, and his green eyes disappear once more under his swathe of silver bangs. He stands up and offers me a hand, which I gratefully take after stowing my poem book into one of my skirt pockets. After standing, I notice that he’s still holding on to my hand, and I stare at the ground while I entwine my fingers with his once more. All he gives is a chuckle before we set off together in the direction of the train station.
To London.
To the parlor.
To home.