Work Text:
Sinning Jenny leaned against the Mortician's doorframe, exhausted. She wouldn't meet his eyes.
"You might be needed soon."
He raised an eyebrow, even as he began to check on his own stores of supplies. There was really only one person that she would mean. "Might?"
Myrrh. Natron. Long strips of linen. He'd likely need more palm wine. It had been a long time since he'd needed it last.
"She should come back. But I figured... just in case... I should let you know."
He went quiet for a moment, running a thumb over a jar of pine resin, before taking a deep breath to ground himself. "Thank you, for that."
Jenny nodded shakily, turning away to survey the street. If she saw anything, she didn't let on, and he didn't ask.
"I should get back to her." She murmured after a lengthy silence.
The Mortician could only nod.
---
Later, it is his turn to hover on the threshold. A courtesy call.
The Mother Superior sits on the edge of her bed, back ramrod straight, face concealed behind gold and beryl. Sinning Jenny shuffles around a few rooms over, busying herself with the chamomile tea he'd brought along.
"It suits you." He says gently.
She raises a still-bandaged hand to the edge of the burial mask she wears. "...I would hope so." She replies, sounding almost hollow.
He takes a step forward, and when she doesn't stop him, he takes another. Lowers himself to the floor even as his knees creak and his back twinges.
He's been far from royalty since the beginning, but so is she, now. It's the only reason he dares to offer her his hand, palm up.
She stares at it for far too many heartbeats before laying her own hand across his.
"The Field of Reeds will have to wait a little longer, it seems." He says. The words could be almost lighthearted if not for the palpable ache in them. "I'm sorry."
The mask doesn't muffle the hitch in her breath, or the sob that follows.
It only echoes.