My first attempt — in all these years! — at a drabble.
It would have to be a shallow grave. Raoul brought the pickaxe down wearily yet again, and when Christine laid small hands to the shovel he had not the strength to stop her.
This, then, was the true start of their marriage, this shared selfless labour, and not the quick patter of the priest; the bride would not gain a ring, but return one.
Erik was some days dead, he thought, but the sunken features were no more ghastly than in life, and he had closed the eyes before they could trouble Christine. And with that death, life could begin.