Disclaimer: "Corpse Bride" and its characters belong to Tim Burton. Not mine. I make no money from this. This is just for fun. No damage to or infringement upon intellectual property intended.

Slightly edited because The Fanfiction Network likes to eat my formatting. It's completely obnoxious.

WAITING FOR HIS MASTER

He did not remember how long he'd been dead. All he knew was that the earth of his grave was a warm place, comfortable, like the cushioned bed he'd had when he was living, or the lap of his master.

He ventured from his grave seldom, but sometimes to wander. He'd long explored this place, the parallel of the garden where he was buried. The garden pond had fish in it, headless fish that swam happily, fish heads that swam happily.

Scraps did not know exactly what this place was. All the other animals here called it the Land of the Dead or the Afterworld. Some living animals could come here, creatures of the night, creatures that most humans found fearful. The crows could traverse between the worlds of the living and this Land of the Dead without effort. Dogs, cats, horses and rabbits could not.

He'd asked a crow once if there was a way possible to return to the Land of the Living. The crow told him that there were only temporary spells and that he'd need his human to help him. That was the problem. His human wasn't dead yet. He wanted to go back to be with him.

"How long until he comes here?" Scraps had asked. "He was young when I passed, still a puppy was my bones grew weary from age, but he is soon to come after me, right?"

The crow preened his feathers and glared down dourly at him. "I am afraid, little dog, that human beings can live for a very long time. You may decay completely away before he ever shows up."

From what Scraps had seen, among the dead animals in the garden and in the woods, and from the times he had walked out into the town, the spirits of the dead here reflected the decay their bodies were undergoing in the living world. It was progressive, from the paled skin and scruffy fur of the newly dead to the mummification of dried skin and sinew, to bare bones. Scraps did not know if they all were actual corpses, "living" in this parallel world of death, or if they were simply spirits who showed their corporeal decay.

Beasts and men who arrived here showed the state of how they'd died. There was the man who was split in half, the Head Waiter at the town tavern who'd been decapitated, the war dead with swords through their gullets. Strangely enough, the headless fish in his garden pond had long become someone's dinner in the living world, yet they swam happily along and as relatively whole as the day they'd died. Scraps wondered about this.

Scraps had watched his fur fall off and his skin flake away. He'd had friendly maggots living in his head and between his ribs. They had long finished feasting upon him and had gone. He feared that he would decay into dust and oblivion before seeing his master again.

Scraps remembered everything about Victor – the way he smelled, the warmth of his chest when he snuggled against him, how far he could throw a ball for him to fetch. Victor had trained him tricks using treats, little beef-liver flavored biscuits.

Scraps missed the sensation of taste. He could smell, still, but it was dulled. Every feeling and sense was numbed here. He could see just fine, though he no longer had eyes. So, too, could he hear. Every other sense was a dull sensation, nothing more than a vague "knowing." Sometimes, on a whim, he'd pull off one of his front legs so he could have a bone to gnaw on. There was a dull bone-flavor there, but it wasn't the same taste that bones had when he was living.

Most of all, Scraps was lonely. He had not meant to die. It had simply happened. Had he a choice in the matter, he would have stayed with Victor. The boy needed him. The mother-human and the father human did not much approve of anything "frivolous." The only person Victor could be free around was him, because he was a dog, and dogs did not much care about propriety.

Victor had named him "Scraps" because of the way he'd sneak scraps of food to him under the table when he was a puppy. Mother and father did not approve of that at all. Mother did not approve of him jumping up into Victor's lap.

The boy and him had made a deal. They were careful to misbehave when the parents and the servants were not looking. Victor would call out across the table to everyone at mealtimes about seeing something interesting outside the window, or he'd comment about the lovely weather. When all the adults were distracted, he'd slip Scraps a little piece of roast or pheasant or ham – whatever meat they were dining upon at the time. Both the boy and the dog would look carefully around a room to make sure no one else was around before Victor would beckon him up into his lap.

The way Victor's face tasted – yes, Scraps missed that. Licking his face and the way the boy's fingers felt under his chin and behind his ears.

Many former pets awaited their masters. Scraps would chase the skeletal cats that moaned by his grave at night, meowing for some little girl, some little boy, or some old lady. Skeletons of parrots with half-feathered wings would converse in the trees, talking of how they'd love sitting on their best friend's shoulders and how they could sing, perfectly, songs sung on weekends in the parlor.

The Land of the Dead wasn't entirely mournful. It was a place of freedom. No one here worried about food or clothing, as the dead did not need those things. No one, of course, worried about dying – the inevitability that was constantly hanging over the heads of the living. Still, everyone here was waiting for someone, most especially the pets.

Some of the animals would sit outside the town tavern, waiting for the New Arrivals, hoping to see their masters. Scraps had long given up on that, after the first two years. He knew that the crow was right. Victor was a young man when Scraps had passed, and humans could live a very long time.

So, the sweet voice calling to him, telling him that Victor was waiting for him caught him completely by surprise.

Scraps had taken to sleeping in his grave most of the time, scattered bones among the garden loam. He heard scrapings above him, and felt the dull sensation of bone upon bone, bony human fingers across his spine and skull.

"Come on, boy!" the feminine voice said. "You're Victor Dort's dog, aren't you? He's come home. It is time for you to meet him."

Joy swelled in Scraps' heart – that is, if he still had one. He pulled himself together and looked up at the young woman with the pale blue half-decayed flesh. He did not know this woman, but, on her… the smell! Victor! She smelled of Victor!

The woman held out a box. "I just married him, and you'll be the perfect wedding present! I'm so glad I found your grave. Come along, little dog!"

Barking excitedly, Scraps jumped into the box. After all these years, he no longer had to be waiting for his master.

Shadsie, 2005