Disclaimer: I do not own POTO, or Corpse Bride. Or 'An easy guide to Necromancy'; just in case you lot were getting any ideas.
Moonjava: Glad you do.
MetalMyersJason: I see your point – even though I have no idea who Jason Vorhees is. But I'll take your word for it. You are certainly dedicated – then again, I suppose my Erik is no worse than Leroux's Erik. After all, he was skeleton thin, and resembled a corpse; at least I've made my one good looking, to a certain extent. I expect it's all principle, isn't it? Yes, he does – or at least, attempt to claim her. Whether she will let herself be claimed, considering she's already engaged, remains to be seen.
musicallover: Necromancy is cool – just not in practice. You'll find that in such practices, you almost always have to give up a life for the one you bring back. Or something like that. Anyway, I was hoping to imply some of the terror Christine was feeling – I know this sounds a bit corny, but this is based on an actual dream I had. It wasn't Erik chasing me; it was just some guy, and I knew – really knew – that I didn't want him to catch me; and he kept catching up with me, and I was so scared and desperate. I suppose Christine's thoughts are almost what I thought in my dream. When I think of Erik, Jack Skellington doesn't come to mind ,so much as this rather gruesome picture of Hel – whom I mentioned in the last chapter – which I once saw in a picture book; with her skirt in rags about her skeleton legs and her pointing at something and looking rather grim. Normality will intercede between the time our two spend together, I promise.
Ripper de la Blackstaff: Amen to that, in your case. Like I said before, I wanted to imply terror; not 'Oh I'm so afraid and I'm going to run away as fast as I can – but not so fast that he won't catch me' terror, but real, actual fear for your life. And, I am sure, any normal person would do the same as our beloved Christine did. It's what makes her more real! The kiss? Hmm. We'll have to see! I don't watch Stargate – but your example is certainly interesting, and inspiring. Thanks for the correction about rigor mortis – darn, I'm so ashamed; both my parents are doctors and I still didn't know that! I think you can take it with a pinch of salt – I suppose I was trying to imply that since his body's been in the ground for so long – and is, we assume, quite chilled, since it's winter and all – the bones and remaining skin and stuff are a bit stiff, to say the least. Thanks again for the information!
Kat097: Welcome back! That's okay, just breathe – and re-hinge your jaw while you're at it. Enjoy this and what is to come!
SimplyElymas: Thanks, I wanted Christine to be really scared. Well, we all love Erik; but wouldn't you be just a leetle alarmed at the sight of a rotting – yes, rotting – corpse, who's fought his way out of the grave. And yes, erik is calm – after all, he's achieved two of his desires, in a sense. Don't worry, Nadir will still be around! Who said Erik was going to stay above ground. And yes, Erik is still very much 'dead'- just not as dead as some people would like him to be, I'm sure.
Morianerulz: Whew – no offence, but it's much less confusing when you write like that – though your muses are still lovely! In some fictions Carlotta is a cow; but in this I want people to see that she has another side – and why she got to be such a cow in the first place. Well, wouldn't you be if you had to put up with having relatives like her? Perhaps in this she will be redeemed? I like watching 'Prima Donna' on the DVD; the bit where Firmin drinks out of her shoe always cracks me up. Extreme morbidity isn't really my thing – says the girl who's cast Erik as a risen-again-corpse whose skeleton arm comes off at awkward moments. But, it could be worse – in the film, the Corpse Bride has a maggot, conveniently called Maggot, who lives in her…wait for it. Her eyeball. Apparently he pops out from time to time to give her advice; as one person said 'like the most repulsive version of Jiminy Cricket you could imagine'. Think I'll pass on that, if it's all right with you.
Willow Rose 3: Well, there will be more Erik to come. Glad you are so happy with me – after being annoyed. That could, I suppose, unnerve anyone. But then again, you haven't really been deprived. Erik's had…let me see…three chapters to himself, on the whole, if you count the prologue. Be content, luv!
Count yourselves lucky that you had two E and C chapters in a row. Unfortunately for all you Erik nuts, we're back to normality in this chapter – or as normal as the situation can be. While Christine's been waking up corpses and fleeing through woods and fainting from the smell of Erik's hand – in case you think she's a WUSS for fainting at this point, when she managed to deal with him coming up out of the ground and all that, let me put this suggestion to you.
Get some meat. Steak, sausages; anything will do, so long as it's raw.
Leave the meat out in the sun for a few days – outside the house, otherwise your parents or flatmates or whatever would probably kill you for stinking up the apartment – until there are nice little bits growing on it and stuff.
When said bits are growing on it and stuff, take a nice deep sniff of your 'experiment'. (Optional, unless you're feeling strong stomached and/or slightly suicidal.)
Now; imagine that over your nose, people.
Is it any wonder Christine fainted in the book? Or here?
So where was I, when I got sidetracked on the subject of the death smell of Erik's hands? Oh, yes; while all this has been going on, poor old Meg has been holding the fort, so to speak,back at the mansion – and, like a good friend should be, is getting very worried about the whereabouts of her friend indeed. This chapter is fairly short, but, I hope, profound, and is dedicated to all those who've ever watched from a window for someone who may never come home; including all the families of people who have suffered and died in the bombings in London on Thursday 6th of July. My heart goes out to all those who were affected.
My Boy Jack
'Have you news of my boy Jack?'
Not this tide.
'When d'you think that he'll come back?'
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
'Has anyone else had word of him?'
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing and this tide.
'Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?'
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind –
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.
Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And given to that wind blowing and that tide!
Rudyard Kipling (whose son John was killed in the Battle of Loos on September 27th 1915.)
And still I wait
Christine…
Christine; where are you?
Meg clutched her shawl more tightly around her – the cold air penetrated the linen of her nightgown and raised goose flesh on her skin, forcing her to find a remedy – and looked out of the window again.
Oh Christine, where are you?
Every moment she hoped, wished, prayed that she would see the shape of a rider come up the path towards the mansion; see her friend return; know that everything was all right.
But it wasn't all right. At the moment, Meg felt as if it couldn't be all right ever again.
It will be all right, one part of her mind kept trying to convince her. She'll be back any minute now. Any minute. She has to. She has to be back.
But she wasn't. It was nearly one o'clock at night now; she had left in the early afternoon. Surely she would have been back by now? Surely she would have said all she wanted to say to the Pastor? Why, then, hadn't she returned?
Meg leant her head against the window frame, as her tired eyes scanned the dark scene outside. She could feel the uncomfortable, anxiety-ridden heat spreading through her; her nightgown was sticking to her back and under her arms now, even with the cold. She could feel her heart beating within her; and with every beat she wished she could turn back time, so that she could go back to that afternoon and persuade Christine not to go; or at least to let her go with her when she travelled to visit the pastor.
But she could not turn back time; and instead every beat of her heart counted out every moment that Christine was still missing.
Where is she?
Annoyance, when she had had to make up the excuse for her not being there at dinner – that Mademoiselle Daaé was so tired that she had to abstain from dinner, and was sleeping in her room - was long gone; in the face of almost panic, when she had had to dissuade Raoul from trying to come in to wish a exhausted Christine goodnight; claiming that Christine was sleeping, and that it was best not to disturb her; she needed all the sleep she could get for the great ball the following night; all this with a ridiculous but, she hoped, sincere smile upon her face.
And now here she was; crouched up on the window seat in Christine's room – which adjoined onto her own; not daring to light a candle in case someone – anyone – noticed; hunched up, her knees up to her chin and encompassed by her arms; gazing steadfastly out of the window that gave the best view of the road; and losing hope with every fresh minute that passed and Christine did not return.
Where is she?
"Christine, please; please come back," she whispered, so low that she hardly heard herself. "Please come back, Christine. Don't be…"
She didn't dare say what she was thinking; she didn't want to tempt fate. But all the same she couldn't stop herself from thinking of things…of Christine riding along, and some – thing, watching her go past, with eyes narrowed, and slide off after her…of Christine lying stiff in the snow, her lips blue, her eyes looking sightlessly upwards-
Stop it, she admonished herself swiftly. Christine is fine. She's, she's probably stayed talking so long that the Pastor wouldn't let her go back tonight, and she'll come back tomorrow – perhaps when he comes for the ball. Yes, she'll come back tomorrow. She'll come back.
She has to.
At any rate, there was no point in looking any further tonight; it was far too late. Unwillingly she dragged herself away from the window, and slipped into Christine's bed; not willing to go back into her own room for some reason. She lay, curled beneath the covers, in the big, lonely bed; hunched up, miserable in her anxiety, and her doubt.
Should I have spoken?
After the dinner, in the hours before bed time, should she have spoken up; said that Christine had actually gone out; and was not back yet? Should she have said something to Mamma, or even Carlotta, when they listened to her play the piano; said that the reason Christine was not there to sing along with her playing was that she had gone to visit the pastor, and that she had expected her back long ago? Should she – how she shuddered at the lost opportunity – should she have told Raoul, when he had come desiring to wish his fiancée goodnight, and instead received a cold reprieve? Should she have told him that Christine was not sleeping but gone; gone to ride without him, or her?
But no. How could she have told him that? How could she have said such a thing? And how could she have betrayed Christine's trust?
Christine! Abruptly, a small wave of anger rose up in her, against the other girl; growing larger. It was all her fault she was here, in this terrible state of uncertainty. Why did she have to go now; today of all days, the day before the masquerade ball? She cast a dark glance at the outfit which had been laid out for Christine in preparation for tomorrow; a rose pink dress, made from red satin with a thin white material sewn over it to give the impression of pink; and a gorgeous mask, trimmed with tiny rosebuds. Normally she would have sighed with delight over it; but now the eyehole of the mask, set on the vanity table and leant against the mirror, seemed to be almost winking stupidly at her; as if the person who was meant to don it tomorrow was already wearing it, and being stupid on purpose, to deliberately annoy her.
Why did she have to be so difficult? She assumed that everything would be fine for her; that what she left behind could take care of itself, while she enjoyed herself.
What is the matter with her? If she were getting married to a Vicomte, she would be overjoyed, not moping around the place. Why couldn't Christine just be happy, for once? She had always had everything handed to her, even after – her father's death; but she wasn't content, even then; she always wanted more. Hunched into a ball, her nervousness a sickness inside her, for a moment Meg positively hated her friend; for her selfishness, her disregard for what she might be going through while she swanned off by herself; the fact that she felt she could simply escape out from her duties when it suited her. She wanted to marry into the de Chagny family? She would have to get used to the way things worked, not try to avoid them at every possible moment.
It had all really come to a head since that rehearsal a few days ago, though. And that book. Meg shuddered. She hadn't read mush of it; but already to her there seemed to be something odd about those words…as if they were seeking, by themselves, to take you over; to make you make up tunes to them in your head, all the time. Christine certainly had been acting oddly since she had finished it; humming all the time, which she had never used to do, even when being trained to sing by a teacher Mamma had hired; even occasionally singing under her breath. Something had certainly happened, in the time she had taken to read that thing.
Christine, what have you done? That was all she could think. She did not know what her friend might have done, in the state of mind and potential nervousness she was in. She could not guess.
Meg clenched her teeth together, and shut her eyes, willing sleep to come and the morning to come and Christine to come, so that she could shout at her for being so irresponsible and causing her so much stress and worry. It was better and easier to think about than other things which threatened to consume her mind.
Still, underlying everything was the sick, sick fear that clutched her stomach and made her want to vomit; made her want to pass out if only to escape that terrible anxiety, that worry which had plagued her for most of the evening, and even now when she tried to sleep would not loosen its hold on her mind.
If she doesn't come back, she thought, as she willed sleep to come, as a release from the tension that gripped her frame like some sort of fever, if she doesn't come back…of course she will, but if she doesn't…
How on earth will I tell Raoul?
How on earth can I tell Raoul?
I know that from this you might get the impression that Meg is jealous of Christine, and maybe she is, just a little – like the way that I'm jealous of the fact that my sister can whistle well and I can't – but she isn't hugely jealous of Christine; she's just angry with her because she's causing her so much worry, and being rude about her, if only inside her head – you know the way when you think bad thoughts about a person because they keep you waiting, or ruin something for you? Well, it's a bit like that for Meg; and it's a lot worse for her, since she's not sure where Christine is. Naturally she's also a more than a little frightened, and is trying to keep herself calm in the easiest possible way – by slagging off her mate. Tough love; the way of the world. I've done it plenty of times; even with my parents – though once the above situation was in play with my dad as the catalyst of my alternate mind-lashings and feelings of sickness. But he did come home; so that was all right.
Read and review, please. There will be more E and C on the way!