Hello~ While I'm still writing the next scenes to Incomplete, I am sating your thirsts for E/C with more macabre sort of romance stuff between these two, all Leroux based obviously. This is based off Not A Ghost3's story of Graveyard Fields, the same idea but a different take to it lol. This was beta-ed by Not A Ghost3. Thank you, dearie :-)
In other news, your poor authoress has been haunted by her own ghosts. School, studies, and the scariest, little demon girls like those in horror movies with their all black eyes, bloodied clothes and torn clothes...The worst thing was that I was walking down a long hospital hallway...It was all greenish bluish like those nightvision horror movie settings. Then the worst thing is when it turned into part Ib where Garry walks down the hallway and hands start slapping him part Phantom where the hands are holding the candlelabra...Except I can see that the hands are connected to those girls...And those bloodied candlelabras. Yes, this was my nightmare that kept me up til 4am last night.
/shudders/
Saya Yomino and sayainunderworld are not bedtime stories for me...
Erik had long wanted a living bride to love him. Erik had died without one, though.
As Christine trekked the long paths back to her Angel, where he would lay in the mortuary, she couldn't help but give a small sob. The rain pelted her small form, and she had left without Raoul, who would come to find her the minute he found her missing. No, instead, she had lied about needing to relieve herself and disappeared. Now was the time to fulfill her promise to a man long dead, as dead as the grave. The Living Corpse had finally become a real one, dead as a doornail. And she was to bury him.
Holding a small shovel in her hands, she instructed the men at the mortuary to assist her later, should she need to carry the coffin into the hole she dug. Funny then, that he should look so natural in it, as if falling asleep in a bed. Funny too then, that she should feel so unnaturally tired. Humming a soft tune from Faust, as she had sung, she begins to scoop the earth. Her dress is hardly suited for such work, and soon the hem is caked in mud. Nevertheless, she digs, and the men do not question her, after all, it was in Erik's will that she should bury him alone. She smiles, as the shovel hits the earth again and again, and soon she is sweating from the effort and drenched in the cold rain.
Raoul runs, runs from the hotel.
There have been too many accidents.
The hole is deep enough, enough for Erik to be buried in it. The gravestone is set up, and Christine says a prayer for him, saying a prayer for herself as she calls the men to help her, to put him in the ground, to be forgotten like the common man.
Except, who will forget the strange tale of the Phantom of the Opera? Christine laughs nervously as she fingers a single red rose, tied with a black ribbon. The men tip their hat to her as she watches him for the final time in his coffin. She carried another bouquet, a bouquet of nightshade.
Climbing into the pit, she withdraws a ring from her cloak, and also a veil. The veil is placed on her head, and the ring slipped on his finger. It bears no significance; she is already married to this corpse. She smiles, she knows. The nightshade is but a beautiful bouquet for a bride of the dead. The name itself bears the sin of the groom. A man shaded by night that he might become a shade…
A vial of liquid nightshade, the champagne and the prologue to their lives. A toast to bloody propriety and the society.
Coins clink in the hands of another man, a man chosen to bury the dead. He looks down.
"Are you done?" he asks, crude and brash.
She nods, opening the lid to the coffin. The cloth is cool as Erik's body is, and she smiles, and closes her eyes. Raoul is behind the man, before the dirt hits the closed coffin. He shakes him, and he cries, for Little Lotte is the Angel's Living Bride.
And the pious Catholic girl will now live with her Angel forever in a land far away, a land of dark music and flames that burn as bright as Don Juan Triumphant. Raoul is in a hopping rage, he is in a hopping rage certainly, and the tears will not stop falling. Don't ask why though, he never really had Christine.
The next day, the papers proclaim of Christine in the way that they had for Erik.
Christine is dead.
And as the carriage pulls away from the grave of the eternal lovers, two monochrome butterflies of one black and one white flit away, and it is seen that the black one is crisscrossed strangely with white.
The End! It's so short, and uh yeah. I wrote it quickly yesterday. /still crying in horror at the nightmare
In other news, Authoress has gotten past the wedding night, and the phic of Incomplete is officially M-rated! Lol.
I won't up the rating until I post that chapter though, in case any casual underage readers are out there and they find it through search or something...I just want them to hop onto the bandwagon before the fireworks begin~ ;-)
Thank you again, Not A Ghost3 :-)