V.

"Yes, I know this place," Victor said. It was the same railed-in ledge where Emily had told him her name. And given him the remains of his childhood pet for a wedding present. Victor hadn't thought about that in many, many years, not since he'd told the story to Victoria.

The view was rather amazing. This must have been the highest spot in the Land of the Dead. One could even see, off in the distance, what looked like the remains of old catacombs. The music from the Ball and Socket was faintly audible. The only element missing was the sky. Overhead, there was only darkness--it looked like earth. Perpetual twilight down here. Though yellow lamplight glowed here and there from the windows. Obviously the Land of the Dead had never been wired for electricity. The whole scene reminded Victor of his youth, the way the village in the Land of the Living had been when he and Victoria were young. But the memory was only there for a second before it slipped away. Victor closed his eyes for a moment. Try as he might, he couldn't get the image of the village he'd grown up in, and lived in his entire life, to stay in his mind. He could actually feel it growing dimmer. Suddenly he felt Victoria's hand on his arm.

"Come here, Victor. Let's sit down," she said softly, leading him to the rickety wooden bench. Still there, after all these years. They sat down, arms still entwined, and were quiet. Victor gazed out over the rooftops, wondering. The euphoria of seeing Victoria again was beginning to wear off, and again he felt disoriented. Confused. It seemed as though all of the memories of his life were slipping away from him. As a bit of an experiment, he tried to conjure up the faces of his daughters in his mind's eye. With effort, they slowly appeared, only to recede again. What was going on?

"What did you want to talk about, Victoria?" Victor asked, looking down at her. She too was looking out over the landscape, and she didn't turn as she replied,

"You asked about your parents. About why they're not here. About...why everything is unfamiliar." She sounded reflective, almost philosophical.

"So...my parents aren't here?" Victoria turned to look at him as he continued, "But this is the Land of the Dead, isn't it? Shouldn't everyone that's dead be here?"

"At some point, yes," Victoria replied. Victor didn't understand at all. At some point? Whatever did that mean? Sensing his confusion, she went on, "I've thought a bit about it, actually, and..."

"But what is this 'it'?" Victor interrupted. Her tone was worrying him a little--it sounded as though she wasn't sure he was going to like what she was going to say. Victor figured that it couldn't possibly be all that bad. After all, they were dead. What kind of bad news could there be?

"I'm getting to it, Victor. But it's hard to explain." She looked away again, lost in her own thoughts. Victor watched her, waiting. Finally Victoria asked, in that same quiet voice, "When did I die? How long ago?"

Victor was a bit perplexed by her question. He couldn't see what it had to do with anything. It seemed the sort of thing that she'd know for herself. Then he recalled how difficult it had been for him to recall his own death, and understood. A little, at least. Victor thought back to their conversation in the pub, and cringed inwardly. He'd been so wrapped up in himself that he hadn't even bothered to ask about what her death had been like.

"Two years, darling. I can't believe I didn't ask you about it...I mean, I...well..." But Victoria waved her hand, and Victor fell silent.

"It doesn't matter. I really don't remember, anyway," she said. She sounded rather nonchalant about it, too, as though it didn't worry her a bit.

"You don't remember?" he asked. How could she not remember at all? He remembered it, that was certain. Finding one's wife dead in her bed was a memory that didn't fade all that easily. Still, as he thought about it, Victor found that he could only remember the emotions from that day. What Victoria had looked like, what he had done, how the children had reacted, Victoria's funeral...He was shocked to find that he couldn't remember any of it. Only the dim memory of the pain and loss was there. Somehow, Victor felt incredibly disloyal for managing to forget--especially since he'd thought about it every day for two years.

"This might sound strange," Victor said, looking down at the top of Victoria's head, "But...are you losing memories, too?" With a quick movement Victoria turned to him again.

"'Too?'" she echoed. Victoria stopped, and looked into Victor's eyes. What she was looking for, what she saw there, Victor didn't know. Finally she asked, "So it's happening to you already?" Victoria didn't sound surprised. More like a doctor delivering a diagnosis.

Victor gazed back at her, squinting a little. This was all a bit much--he was having trouble following the conversation. "Happening to me? What do you mean?" She didn't answer right away, merely continued looking at him. "Victoria?" "Would you like to hear a confession, Victor?" Victoria pulled her arm from his and clasped her hands in her lap. The way that she was poking at the stub of her missing finger gave away her discomfort. A confession? Victor wondered. He had officially left confused and was into completely baffled territory now.

"I...well..." Victor scratched the back of his neck. "Er...what sort of confession?" Victoria still looked so dispassionate. What was going on here? After sixty-two years, what could she possibly have to confess now? Especially after death? Victor tried to will Victoria with his mind to look at him, but she seemed engrossed in the patch of mold that was growing on her skirt.

"I won't hurt your feelings?" Victoria asked. Well, at least she cares about that, Victor thought, relieved to get another glimpse of the caring, compassionate Victoria that he knew so well. Whatever she needed to say, she could say it.

"No, you won't hurt my feelings," Victor said quickly. Reconsidering, he added, "Or at least if you do, I won't say anything." He closed his eyes for a moment. What a thing to say. Eighty-three years old, dead, and still saying completely asinine things to my wife, he thought to himself. But if Victor knew Victoria--and he did--he was sure that she would understand what he'd meant.

Apparently she did, because she smiled faintly. "All right, then," Victoria replied. She reached out her hand, and Victor practically leapt to take it. "I just think that if I tell you, it might help you understand," she continued, pulling his hand in between hers. She still wasn't looking at him, but was keeping her eyes downcast.

Victor nodded, still unsure as to what Victoria was trying to explain. She seemed to be trying to sort out exactly what she wanted to say. Patiently, Victor waited, and used the silence to catch a few strains of the piano music coming from the Ball and Socket.

It wasn't a familiar tune.

Author's Note:

One reviewer asked about the timeline in this fic. Since it wasn't signed, I couldn't respond through email--so I'll do it here. I thought the movie took place around 1890, mainly because of the outfits and the general feeling of it being the hey-day of the Victorian era. So if Victor and Victoria were both 19 (again, just the sense of their ages that I got from the film) in 1890, they would have been born in 1871. Add eighty-three years to 1871, and Victor dies in 1954; Victoria in 1952. From what I've written, their youngest child was born in 1901. Does that make sense? Just thought I'd clear that up.