A/N: Going to be rewritten... eventually.

Oh, My Sweet Madeline

Her fingers were bleeding and raw from picking at the ropes binding wrists, and her breathing accelerated as it kept time with the austere chanting coming from the next room. She tried to blink away the tears that were blinding her, so she could see the signal when it arrived. It was almost time, almost time.

First, however, she had to free herself.

Her hand bumped against something cold and textured. Reaching back, she grasped it carefully with her fingers. One end had a sharp point, while the other was round and flat. A rusty nail. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks as she drew it against the tough fibers, and felt them spilt.

Relieved to the point of fresh tears, she began to work vigorously. She stilled as she saw shadows moving in the entry way, but it was only a pair of guards, come to poke their heads in and make sure all the sacrifices were where they were supposed to be. Though they were instructed to count to make sure no one had escaped, neither of them felt like counting ninety-nine sobbing wenches, so they simply gave the chamber a once over and moved on. Continuing her work, she cut and cut until, finally, her wrists were free. She was just in time, too.

The signal had arrived.

It was nothing short of divine intervention that caused her to have been seated in the back, directly below the only window, and out of the lines of vision of the other women. This allowed her to see the bird that flew in over her head. Though here were many of them roosting in the rafters of the tower, this one was a bit different. Emblazoned upon its beige under side was a streak of burning crimson, painted with the juice of crushed nightshade.

She acted quickly, discarding the ropes under a loose stone, before climbing quietly to her feet. Not a single woman noticed her, as they were all wailing and sobbing into their skirts. She peeked her head out the window, and there he was.

Alfred, her savior, come to rescue her at long last.

"Elizabeth!" he breathed, grasping her hand. He was gripping the hand holes created in the side of the tower by years and years of rain eroding away the cement that held the stone in place. She scrambled up onto the ledge of the arched window, and clung to her lover as he guided her hands and feet to cracks in the masonry.

"Alfred," she said, the taste of his name on her tongue sweet after so long without it. Though the wind whipped her long hair around her face and the cold rain bit her skin where it was exposed, she had to ask. "How did you get here?" They'd been communicating by sending brief smoke signals, a system they had devised long ago, in a past life where the most distressing thing on her mind was her father's disapproval of the American man who had won her heart.

Before that first incident that had caused a horrific chain of events to unfold.

"I've been the stable boy here for about two weeks," he explained, as they moved slowly down the tower. "Never mind that now, Lizzie. The guards will be at the bottom within the hour, and we have to beat them there."

They continued silently. Elizabeth slipped many times, and she began to think her death was inevitable either way. However, Alfred's determination kept her descending, and his steady hands kept her from falling.

It may have taken one hour and it may have taken five, but eventually, they reached the base. Though her limbs were stiff from cold and her heart was frozen with fear, Elizabeth allowed Alfred to take her hand and lead her across the vast grounds towards the temporary solace of the dry stable.

She collapsed on the straw, much too tired to shed another tear. "We don't have much time," warned Alfred as he hastily strapped on saddle bags and removed sacks of feed from two horses, a large white and a smaller chestnut. She stood haggardly, and her companion helped her mount the latter. "Time to get out of here," he said, as he took the reins of both steeds, and led them out of the stable.

As they approached the tremendous iron gates that encircled that property, Alfred said, "Tonight, the guards are so focused on making sure no one gets out of that infernal tower to be bothered about who gets into the grounds, so there's no one posted at the gates." Another miracle.

When they finally reached the barrier, Alfred jumped from his horse and began to turn the crank that allowed the entry way to open or close. He led the horses through, and hopped back on on the other side, not bothering to close the gates. "Even if it is discovered that we've escaped, I've got contacts throughout the country that can help us out until we get to New York. We can have a new beginning," he said, and when he smiled at her, Elizabeth knew that even though the hurricane was far from over, they had reached the eye of the storm.

Arthur Kirkland was young for the title of lord.

At seventeen, his father, Edward Kirkland, had died, and his son had inherited his property as well his title. He had been left with an extravagant fortune, and was thus quite popular with the young ladies of his class. However, several years later, he had fallen in love with his French parlor maid, and made her his wife.

Sixth months later, however, she had died in a terrible carriage accident while returning from visiting her sister on the Continent. That was when Lord Kirkland had cracked, burying himself in the study of the occult.

There he was, a year later, in the East Tower of his castle, chanting incantations in the center of a giant and elaborate pentagram painted with the blood of a new born calf. He held his Grimmary high as he said the words of power, weaving an intricate spell invisible to those of the mundane world.

"It is time!" he called to his guards. "Bring in the sacrifices!"

One by one, ninety-nine tearstained young women entered the room, making every noise from sniffling to all out shrieking as the guards forced them to kneel in the correct positions around the pentagram. He had no sympathy for their tearful pleading. They had no right to live while his beloved wife remained trapped in the realm of Death.

That was why he was going to use them to rescue her from it.

He began his chanting once more, this time walking counter clockwise around the circle. He did this seven times, before moving back to the middle. "Amaimon, King of Earth, I present unto thee ninety-nine maids, all under the age of one-and-twenty. Return to me my beloved wife whom you have taken into your realm, Madeline of Paris!" At once, an unearthly chill came over the room. The flames of the candles flickered with the wind that swept through the room even though there were no windows to be seen.

That was when the screaming started.

The first sacrifice clutched her throat, eyes bugging out, and when she removed her hands, the palms were stained red with the blood from her throat, which had been slit by an invisible force. She sank to the ground, blue in the face, as the process repeated around the circle, each sacrifice displaying a similar reaction. Everything was going according to plan.

Or so he thought.

In his excitement, Lord Kirkland had neglected to count the sacrifices, to make sure all ninety-nine were present for the ritual. The one eyed monk had warned him of what the consequences would be if the rite was performed without enough sacrifices.

Oh, how grievous they were.

A preternatural light filled the room, leaving as swiftly as it had come. When it was gone, all but the blood stains left by the ninety-eight maidens filled the room. In their place, in the center of the pentagram, was another woman, outstripping them all in beauty.

Madeline Kirkland sat up, putting a hand to her head. She looked around, dazed, as though she had fainted and was only now waking. Arthur ran to her.

"Oh, Madeline, my sweet Madeline," he said, embracing her.

She looked up at him, an odd quality in her eyes that he couldn't quite place. "Arthur," she said, her voice as soft and breathy as he remembered it. It had been a year since he had last heard that voice, a whole year, and he was glad, so glad she had returned that tears were pouring from his eyes.

"Madeline," he sighed, hugging her tightly.

That was when it all began to go wrong.

Lord Kirkland felt something warm on his shirt, and at first he thought that she, too, was weeping for their good fortune. However, the liquid was much too warm and sticky to be her tears. He pulled her away, alarmed, to find her bleeding from every orifice.

"Arthur," she said again, still smiling her lovely smile as blood poured down her chin and from her eyes, a grotesque reflection of his happiness.

"Madeline!" he cried, feeling as though his heart had been torn in two once again. "Madeline, don't leave me, don't leave me!"

Her eyes closed, and, with a content sigh, she slumped in his arms, cold and lifeless.

Arthur Kirkland sat with her for a long time, not believing the sight before him. Madeline, Madeline, Madeline, gone for good this time. She was no more, no more.

He stood, staggering slightly, as though he were drunk. He walked, jerkily as if he were a marionette being controlled by some cruel puppet master hidden in the shadows above the stage. Down the corridor he went, into the tower's enormous domicile, to the window. Looking out, he could see two figures in the distance, riding out of the gate on his horses. One of them was a man, young with dark blond hair, and the other was female, dressed in the same rags he had issued to all of his prisoners for the last month.

The final sacrifice had escaped.

She had cost Madeline her resurrection.

Lord Kirkland knew enough of the occult to know that once you took something back from the World Beyond, you could not take it back again. He thought he would have a few years more of his love, but it was not to be.

So he decided to join her.

He scrambled up onto the stone ledge, feeling the wind tousle his fair hair.

And then he fell.

And as he fell, he smiled.

"Madeline."