Chapter One: Christine
She thought she was dreaming.
There was a silvery shimmer to the air, and a quiet hum lingered in it. Her eyes fluttered wildly, but all was darkness around her, the darkness, not of a comforting night, but darkness of the soul—
Self-induced—
Self-inflicted—
Whatever was happening to her now, whatever had happened , would happen— it was her fault, and worst of all— there was nothing she could do to change it.
She couldn't catch her breath— she breathed as if she'd been running, exerting her body far beyond what it could bear.
Light suddenly blossomed, assaulted her eyes. It was harsh white, tinted at the edge with red— it looked as though the sun was coming up and she was in the very centre of it's glory. She cried out and closed her eyes, but it was there all the same— she couldn't escape it—
Slowly, she began to make out shapes in the brightness.
Some were quite small, well below her knees; others loomed above her, great hulking shapes that filled her with unutterable dread.
She was in a graveyard— a house of the dead—
Her father was here, waiting somewhere, waiting to come forth and claim his daughter—
She wept silently, and without tears.
Looking down at herself, she saw she wore white. It blended with the brightness around her till she couldn't tell where it began and where it ended. It was pale, fabulously beaded, exquisitely beautiful, and white as milk. The folds of it fell past her feet, joining the cold whiteness there on the ground—
Snow.
She was surrounded by snow.
And the red around the edges was the blood running down her face, past her eyes, to pool in drops at her chin, then to fall to the pristine whiteness of the wedding dress—
She was to be married in a cemetery.
And there were two grooms.
They emerged from the whiteness, coming towards her slowly— the taller, thinner figure stalked; the slighter one walked with shoulders held back, square and proud. Both men, but a world of difference between them— the younger, smaller one had a noble face, a bright, clear pair of brown eyes, a firm chin, a determined set to his lips. He looked clean and safe and warm and comforting.
The older, taller one was entirely different altogether. A mask concealed most of his features— all she could see was eyes with the color and energy of a lightning-storm, and a mouth that was both cruel and soft, proud and humble, distant and desired— lips shaped with a perfection that made her want to weep.
They came and stood before her and asked her to make her choice.
She cried— she wept— she begged, she implored them— not to make her do this. To take the choice out of her hands, her weak hands— she could not bear to break the heart of either one of them. She pleaded with them not to leave a decision like this on her shoulders, not to doom her to a life spent in regret—
Either way she chose, she would lose.
They saw reason.
Clearly they could not leave this matter to her. After all, she was not the only person concerned— the lives and happinesses of three beings were contingent on the outcome of this situation.
"She cannot marry us both," said the younger. "We cannot both have her."
The older said nothing, but the look in his eyes was clear—
If I cannot have her, no one will!
Men. Men are weak, just as much as women are. When a decision cannot be made by words, the only thing left is action.
In the blink of an eye, the rapiers were out— they flashed in the light, silver streaks of death, plunging, thrusting—
The younger man was fitter— his arms were well-muscled and ready— he fought hard, panting with exertion.
The older man fought harder, and no breath escaped his lips, for he had stopped breathing long ago.
Christine shut her eyes and prayed that, no matter what the outcome, it would be over soon. She did not want anyone to be hurt, she did not want anyone to die, but she wanted even more for this hell to end—
It did.
In an unnaturally swift motion, the older man ran the younger through. He forced the sword in deep— the younger gasped out his last breaths and sank to his knees in the snow, blood staining it in an ever-widening circle. The older left his rapier where it was, stood up straight and turned his back on the younger man's corpse—
Turned to Christine and—
Cursed her name for making him a murderer.
She thought she was dreaming.
She did not know if it was dream or reality.
She thought it was reality when she awoke, and even the comforting bulk of her husband in the bed next to her could not convince her otherwise.
She breathed in deep—
Her eyes were wide—
She dreamed of him still, after two years—
And somewhere out there, in whatever hole he had dug for himself, Erik dreamed of her.