Disclaimer: I don't own either of them. I suspect that if I did, I would be very rich, even though I don't know if the as yet unreleased film is going to be a success.

Moonjava: Nice chapter, hmm? Good. I'm glad. And thanks for reviewing, my most loyal one – or so it would seem…

MetalMyersJason: Be careful what you wish for – it may come true…

SimplyElymas: Yeah, I wanted my Giry to be tough! And slightly sexy! Who say you can't be sexy in you thirties? My mum was thirty-five – or maybe thirty-six – when she married my dad, and she had my sister and me, so she didn't do too badly. Poor Christine indeed. And it's not going to become any easier for her. Damn; more foreshadowing! But we know that anyway, really!

Mominator124: Yes, E/C rules indeed. I cannot answer your question, because you would probably kill me. And I can't tell you why you'd kill me either. I know; let's just call the whole thing off, okay? I thought it would be fun to stick those two together, because Sorelli's with the lecher –and who said she had to be Philippe's mistress? Thanks for the review, Barb!

Pertie: Welcome! I thought it would make a nice change – I like good crossovers as well. If you like them, you should read Gevaisa's Dear Professor Xavier – it won an award for best crossover phic! Here is another chapter!

Morianerulz & Carlotta: (Boy is your username hard to spell out properly!) I wanted my Carlotta to be slightly sympathetic. I mean, in practically everything else she's a cow – thought it would be a nice change to have them friends, instead of foes – not that they have much to be foes about. Morbid can be very nasty. Hopefully my morbidity won't be too bad.

Ripper de la Blackstaff: You were just waiting for a chance to say that, weren't you? Well, here's your precious chapter. No disaster; I don't need any at the moment – I've got three stories (one of which isn't going all that well) and a book on the go. Just read and enjoy.

And yet another foreword. And it is this:

Expect the unexpected.

The chapter speaks for itself.

A grave misunderstanding

'Blest be he that spares these stones, and cursed be he that moves my bones.'

Epitaph of William Shakespeare.

Christine stared down into the depths of her mug of milk – it had been the best Defarge had been able to offer her, since he certainly did not drink alcohol himself; and it would have been unseemly for him to offer it to her even if he did – and was evidently doing her best not to meet his eye. She clearly felt embarrassed enough as it was; sitting in a vestry with a priest she hardly knew, talking about her wedding which was to come in less than a week.

What do I say? Defarge did not have a great experience of dealing with women, considering his profession since relative boyhood. Though he attempted to be as courteous as he could towards them, the fairer sex generally remained a relative mystery to him; and there were times when he wondered if this arrangement was as satisfactory as he at other times convinced himself it was. Not that he would ever give up his profession, in exchange for a marriage of his own – the church was his first and foremost love.

It was just that, on occasion, he wished he had been given the chance to have a love other than the church.

In the meantime…

"I do not see why you should worry, Mademoiselle," he said carefully, his voice cutting through the silence, attempting to break the stalemate. "Though I was angry at the Vicomte a few days ago, I did not truly mean it in my irritation. But," he added, sitting back slightly in his chair "it is an important point – the Vicomte must learn his vows for the marriage ceremony in order for the said ceremony to proceed as intended."

"But that is what I wanted to speak to you about," the young woman replied, looking up from her mug, with a beseeching air. "Raoul becomes so nervous when he is required to speak in public; and especially long pieces; you really do not know – I worry about him."

"Are you suggesting I cut the sacred vows of marriage right out of the service, Mademoiselle?" he asked, half jokingly; but also partially to hopefully imply the magnitude of this situation upon her; that the ceremony was not simply something that could be moulded or shaped at will.

"No, Pastor, indeed not," the young woman said quickly, shaking her head so that a few dark brown curls whisked across her face, a small smile framing her pink lips – he hurriedly tore his gaze away from those, to instead focus on her deep brown eyes, gazing at him piercingly. "But I wonder if you could provide him with…a shorter version, perhaps?"

A shorter version? He felt inclined to laugh, but also felt that might hurt the feelings of the she who sat before him, looking at him so hopefully. "Certainly, Mademoiselle, if such a version existed, I would certainly provide him with it, so that you might be married to your lord without any hindrance."

She in turn had the grace to smile. "I know you must think me rather foolish, Pastor-"

"Mademoiselle!"

"-for pressing you with such requests at a time like this," she went on determinedly, despite his exclamation of the moment before. "A girl, a few days before her wedding, fretting herself about whether her husband-to-be will be able to say his words properly; that he might forget them altogether, and ruin the most special day of her life! Certainly I myself would think it foolish." She looked down into her cup again, and sighed.

Defarge sighed internally himself. "My child…are you unhappy?"

She looked up swiftly. "No, Pastor! Why would you think that?"

And she said it with such an air of finality that he knew there would be little point in pursuing the matter further. Still, he tried. "If you have any problem, my child, you know you can come to me at any time."

The young woman quivered, as if she had been struck. Then, abruptly, she looked up. "Pastor…I…in some ways, I do not look forward to this wedding. Is that so wrong?"

"In what ways do you fear, my child?"

Christine took a breath, then lowered her gaze again. "I…I must confess. I know that I will be happy, married to Raoul. I know it. And I know that I love him, and that he loves me." She looked up once more, her brown eyes filled with a sudden fire. "I know this! Father, I know! It is not Raoul which causes my doubt…at least, I hope it is not. It is just that, after this wedding, I cannot…I cannot see anything else. When I imagine my marriage, I have a wealth of imagery to sustain and inspire me. But after my marriage…I draw a blank. That is what I am afraid of, father. Not the wedding; the nothing which comes after it. I will not know what to do, when it comes to that." Her voice trailed away into nothing.

Unconsciously, Defarge reached out and gingerly touched her on the hand; then settled his over hers, in what he hoped was a comforting manner. Certainly he did his best to smile, and after a moment she looked back up, the smile reaching her own lips, though not her eyes. "I'm sorry, Pastor-"

"You have nothing to be sorry about, Christine," he said swiftly. "It is not a sin to be afraid of the future. And if it is, you are certainly acquitted of it."

At that, the smile did seem to reach her eyes; and she squeezed his hand in return; and he thought, yet again, what a beautiful, sweet girl she was – or must have been, for she had outgrown her childishness; the beautiful young woman she now was, then, and how the Vicomte must count himself lucky indeed to be worthy of her love. If he were in a position to be married, how fortunate would he count himself, if he were able to have her hand! As a neutral personage, however, he was simply able to admire the future Vicomtess de Chagny, without risk of losing his own heart.

And then, abruptly, the moment was over. She had stood up, and was even now making her way to the door, pulling her leather riding gloves back on. Hastily he got up, stumbling slightly on his robes, as he made after her. "Are you leaving so soon, Mademoiselle?"

She shot him an apologetic smile. "It is late, Pastor; and I promised Meg I would be back as soon as I could. I would not have her worry too much." Halting suddenly, she doubled about and clasped his hands in her now gloved ones. "Thank you so much for listening to me, Pastor. And for enduring my talk about shortening the sermon!"

He laughed gently. "I promise that when I attend the masquerade ball tomorrow, I will provide my solution to your dilemma."

Outside – having gone through the side entrance to the vestry the air was cool, and fresh; it was late afternoon, and the sun was already beginning its inexorable descent. Christine climbed into the saddle with a true horsewoman's seat, he un-roped the animal from where it had been tethered; and with a hurried "Farewell!" she was gone, riding back up the path and over the bridge which led to the fairly secluded church in the first place.

Defarge watched her until she was merely a green speck upon a whiter speck; and then went back inside the vestry, to prepare the candles for the evening. He would not need them for the mass; there was no mass this evening.

Yet for all his attempts to reassure her, Christine still seemed ill at ease, somehow. It was a frustration when he, as a priest, could not manage to minister to his flock; but he suspected that what troubled Christine was an ill that not even he would be able to remedy – it was the sort that must remedy itself.

Still, he could not get that glimpse of her face out of his head; when she had been squeezing his hand, and smiling; but her eyes had told quite a different story. He had never really believed in the eyes carrying such emotion; but in that moment he had felt as if she were a drowning person, and, if he had stretched out his hand further than just her skin, he would have saved her.

Christine made sure she was out of sight from the church before she urged her horse into a canter, and then a gallop; but not so that she would be back in time for dinner in the mansion. No; dinner was far from her mind. Her mind. The mind of the bride…

The bride who sat forward in her seat on the white horse, dappled with grey; her virgin weeds of green rippling against her even though they were close fitting, rippling in the resultant wind; the only thing white about her was her skin, though even that was turning red from being whipped by the wind…

Round the green gravel the grass is so green,

And all the fine ladies that ever were seen

Washed in milk and dressed in silk

The last that stoops down shall be married-

"Hya!" She cried out to urge the horse on faster, harder; the wind hit her across the face and tangled through her hair; she was glad for the hatpins holding her head gear on.

She kissed him, she hugged him,

She sat upon his knee,

She said, dear Prince, won't you marry me?

Will you marry me, Christine?

With a crow of delight she threw her head back, in a most unladylike manner; and as if to finish the deal her hat was suddenly ripped away by the wind, taking several pins with it; and part of her hair she knew now streamed out behind her, like a glorious banner; like a warrior maid, leading her troops into war. But she cared not. Let the wind howl and blow at her; let her lose all her hair pins, and return like an ancient virgin of old, with her hair tumbling down around her face; let her future in-laws be horrified; let Raoul and Meg worry themselves sick; let Carlotta be disapproving at her disobedience: she cared not! For one glorious evening, or even night, she would not be Christine Daaé, she would not be the future Vicomtess de Chagny; she would simply be Christine. Be herself.

There's a lady on a mountain

Who she is I do not know

All she wants is gold and silver…

She laughed at the thought of that particular verse in the book, as she switched her mind from nursery rhymes to what she had read in the last few days. She was not a lady on a mountain, and she knew who she was, at least for now; and the last thing she wanted was gold and silver – she wanted to ride, and sing her heart out; and forget her fears of what was to come.

Tomorrow be damned!

So she rode, and rode, along the winding road, away from that which she knew, away from the mansion where everyone was waiting for her to come back and take a seat at the table; and with every beat of the horse's hooves that shuddered through her body she wished as if she could ride out of her old life, if only for one night.

Closer…

Further…

Nearer…

He knew something had changed within him, in the days since she had read the book. As the verse had flowed into her soul, strength had somehow seemed to flow into him. But it was not just from her reading of the words he had written; people had done that since he had died – it was how the words had taken shape inside her mind. How she had secretly sung them to herself, making up rhymes, melodies; letting what he had created become part of her.

If ever life could be brought to the Dead, it surely was in this way.

And now, now he was as close to the border of the Land of the Dead as he could be; as close as he could possible manage; though it strained him deeply. But he was rewarded by more and more glimpses of her. It sustained him. It gave him the strength he needed to maintain himself.

She was beautiful, and she rode as if she and the horse were one creature…yet in her wind-whipped face her eyes were oceans of brown, and in them there was loss.

She knew the warning signs for when a horse was tired, and her steed was clearly showing them by the time they reached the trees of the wood. Taking the message, she slipped off the panting animal's back, and pulling off the gloves ran her hands over the sweating flanks. But the animal was fine; it would just need a few minutes rest.

She tethered the horse to a tree – after wiping her hands on her handkerchief, of course - by its reins, so that it would have some room to move about without choking itself, and then looked around her, running a hand through her hair. Her hair…what a sight she must look, with tangled locks all over the place, her hat gone along with many of the pins to hold it in place, her normally porcelain face whipped pink by the winds of their run. But she hadn't felt alive in such a way for, it seemed, forever.

Where was she? She had no idea. It had all melded into one, as she had crouched down low in the saddle and cried like a wild girl for the horse to run, and run; and the countryside had fused into a blur as they had rushed past; for years and years, or maybe only for a few minutes. She looked up at the sky. Already the light was fading; she could see the first of the stars. Soon night would fully fall.

All right. She would wait for the horse to recover, and then they'd go back – only at a more gentle pace than when they has come. And, maybe, if she was lucky, she would find her hat on the way back. But she wouldn't count on it.

They'd probably be furious at her – but she didn't care. One evening to herself, just one, was worth a thousand, a million reprimands, even from Madame Giry, who probably wouldn't smack her as she had when she and Meg were young, but would certainly subject her to extreme verbal punishments.

But I don't care. I don't care.

She looked around, for something to sit on – she didn't want to sit in the snow, and she was rather sore herself – and found herself looking into the woods.

And straight at a tombstone.

For a moment, she thought she was imagining things; but closer inspection proved that it was, indeed, a tombstone, weathered and decreased from the elements – obviously very old; so old she could no longer even read the name upon it.

What is a tombstone doing in the middle of the woods?

But she had a suspicion; and, walking a little way past the horse, she was easily able to make out the shapes of further tombstones between the trees – and, in the not too far distance, the shape of the church. The graveyard of the church was vast and sprawling, since once practically everyone in the nearby district had been buried there; but there had been so many graves after a certain outbreak of cholera that a second graveyard had been started up some way away, leaving the old one to age and wither, leaving behind only the church – the figurehead of God, among a sea of both nature and the dead.

She had gone round in a circle, then. Well, at least she knew where she was; she could make her way back to the house, starting from the church. She only hoped that the Pastor did not notice her pass – her doing so twice in one evening would surely arouse questions.

But she could not start back yet; her steed was still too tired, though it was licking at the roots of the tree for the moisture of the snow, and already its breath was coming more steadily. Yet she would still have to wait a while.

Somehow, she found herself advancing into the woods, to look at another tombstone – and then another, and another. She began to play the old, not quite game she had shared with her father, and with Meg once she had begun to live in Paris – she was used to graveyards, especially the Père la Chaise, in Paris, where Mamma and Papa and Meg's father were all buried, and where she and Meg had walked every Sunday, with Madame Giry, to pay their respects to the dearly departed. She felt no fear or dread as she walked between the gravestones, some so close to each other that she could reach out her arms and touch one on either side of her; so close their occupants could well have shared a double coffin; occasionally pausing to read the inscriptions on the stones, and to imagine who they had once been.

Madeline. Who had she been, and why had she been buried so close to Etienne? Were they husband and wife? Father and daughter, or mother and son? Brother and sister? Or were they not connected at all, but simply happened to be buried next to each other by chance? Marianne. Here, at least, was more information; when she had been born and when she had died; the former date less than fifty years ago, the latter not long after that. Only very young; poor little thing. Had her parents wept, or had they only continued to raise their other children, preferring to forget the lost daughter?

She looked up from the inspection of the tombstone of a man named Jacques, who, like Marianne, died about forty to fifty years ago, to see where she was. There were trees all around her now; she could see no sign of the horse. But, curiously, she was not afraid. There were no shadows between the trees to threaten, since they bore so few leaves; and the light of the stars and the moon which was already in the sky dispelled any that might have been.

And so she walked further; the light falling upon her and clothing her in silver, the only shadow her own, cast upon the snow. She, the only living thing in a veritable village of tombstones, held no fear.

No living things…

My mother said I never should

Play with the fairies in the wood…

Or the ghosts?

What ghosts? The only dead here were hardly able to get out of their coffins and come after her.

And so on she walked; the cryptic riddles of life that sprang on all sides at her from the markers of where graves stood, and the earth across which she should not walk, out of respect – the last vestiges of humanity, when the soul departed and the body slowly turned to dust.

Out of dust we came, and dust we shall return to…

She thought of all she knew who had died – how morbid her thoughts were, yet she felt no sorrow or depression – of her father. Surely by this time, if he had lived and did not lie in the mausoleum in Paris, there would by now be threads of silver in his hair; like to the moonlight which shone between the trees. Perhaps his beard would have turned silver, like Comte Philippe the Elder's hair.

And will a' not come again?

And will a' not come again?

No, no, he is dead;

Go to thy death-bed;

He will never come again…

And she, his daughter, walked between graves, and was not afraid; she tamed her fears, and her doubts, and disappeared into the forest…

His beard was as white as snow,

All flaxen was his poll;

He is gone, he is gone,

And we cast away moan;

God ha' mercy on his soul…

And as if in accordance with that thought, she stepped into a clearing, devoid of tombstones – and saw, across this clearing, a great tree, with many roots stretching out of the earth. Surely a good seat; for she was tired.

She made her way across the packed white snow, her boots crunching the white carpet that nature had laid out for her; the hems of her skirts by now soaked with snow. She settled herself down upon a certain root, which seemed almost designed to be sat upon; and pulled her stole more tightly about her, for it was even more chill than it had been earlier, as night truly began to fall.

She was so close…so close…

If he could only reach out, could only stretch beyond the borders of death and into life, he would be able to touch her; run his hand over her smooth pale skin, feel her hair slide between his fingers. Her hand rested but a little from that of his body; if only, if only if only…

But he could only be aware of her; know how near she was; hear her breath in and out; and feel the coldness of the snow upon his grave.

So near, and yet so far…

A lifetime away…

She must be getting back soon, she knew that. But she must be careful when going past the church – the Pastor should not get the wrong idea.

The Pastor! She was grateful to him, indeed, for giving her the opportunity to escape for one night from her life; and also for promising to help – even though she doubted there was much he would be able to do about the marriage service. Raoul would just have to learn it.

She could not help laughing quietly, to herself. Poor Raoul! It made it all the more unfair that she should know exactly what to say – she had always had a talent for remembering words, even in other languages – it was what made her a good singer, though her voice, everyone said, made her a great singer. How embarrassing, for him to have a partner who knew everything, while he knew so little!

She looked down upon the ring, which sparkled upon her finger; the ring which he had given her two weeks ago; the ring with which they had practised only the other day.

Poor Raoul…

On instinct, she gently slipped the ring of her finger. She did not really know why – perhaps, with this, she tried to ensure that Raoul would know what to do? Maybe just wilful fancy. At any rate, she looked up at the trunk of the tree which loomed above her, and pretended that she looked up at her beloved.

"I take you," she intoned, to no one at all, "as my lawfully wedded husband."

To get married…that is nothing special. But to be married…

"To love and to cherish…"

The ring was already cold; she cupped it between her fingers, trying to warm it again; as to warm her heart.

"…in sickness and in health…"

So that the sickness of the heart and the soul will not overcome me, I must find a way between…

How cold it was! The night wind seemed suddenly to grip at her face and hands, like ice.

"…forsaking all others…"

No other shall have a place in my heart…

"…and keeping unto you and you alone, as long as I shall live."

And may you be forever faithful to me.

"And thereto I pledge thee my troth."

The magic suddenly seemed to have departed, and she suddenly realised just how very cold she was; her hands were like ice, and had all the warmth of it. Still, she felt that she could not simply finish like that; there had to be something more.

But why? Who asks why?

And her gaze was drawn, almost by chance, it seemed, to a simple withered dead branch, at the foot of the tree, sticking out of the snow. It had probably fallen from the tree in the summer or autumn, and remained there, even through the winter. It looked almost like part of some sort of hand, attempting to claw its way out of the cold, dead earth, and back into the world of the living. The thought of such a thing made her skin shiver more than from the cold.

Well, at any rate, it would make a good substitute hand, for the last stage in the proceedings.

Leaning forward, her teeth beginning to chatter together with the cold, she quickly and carefully slipped the ring onto a stem of the branch, whispering as she did so, "with this ring, I thee wed." Now she could imagine no face, not even Raoul's simply a nameless, faceless groom, on which to pin all her hopes and promises and dreams of the future.

"I do."

Almost at once she drew her fingers back – she did not like to touch the thing anymore than she had to.

For a moment, she could have sworn, the circle of gold was truly ice at her fingertips – as if chilled by an air more cold that her surroundings.

The ring.

It swept through him, like a surge of morphine that he had once tried; it filled his whole being, every part of him that still existed, and not least his body on Earth.

The ring met what remained of his finger; yet that hardly mattered when compared with what the ring carried with it; the promises, the hopes, the dreams of the future. All encases and contained within that simple circle of gold.

It was invigorating.

It was glorious.

It was truly as if he was alive again.

And suddenly…

Why can I not do so?

All that had ever seemed to hold him back was swept away, as he surged out of his home and up through the earth and poured himself into his body once more – it was so quick, and yet at the same time it seemed to last an eternity of uncertainty, a balance between the worlds, detained, held back; but forcing through; through the earth and stone and remains of flesh and bone; reclaiming what had once been his; all in those simple words – "I do."

He felt the strength emanating from him, and from that which he had been given – the gift, from his bride – yes, his bride; for she had ledged her troth, and given him her ring; and he was hers forever.

He was aware of every natural force straining against him, as he struggled inside his body; trying desperately to force him back, back down to the Dead. But this was meant ot be; and he would not allow life to refuse him again.

Perhaps he was Hades, standing on the brink, waiting to rise up from the earth and seize upon the unsuspecting Persephone. But he was not Hades; he was a man who had been starved of love too long, even before he died; and his was a determination born from ages untold of loneliness and determination; and this time he was breaking all the rules.

She was so close; and if only he stretched out his hand, he might hold her…

And he would.

He had finished with watching. It was time to act.

My Angel of Music…I will hide no longer…

And with that, his body was truly his again; and grabbed out with a true aim, moving his limbs for the first time since he had died. For he knew where his heart lay.

With her…

Her fingers were poised to take the ring off the stick again…

And then the wind suddenly blew even more chill around her, and rustled through the trees above her; and breaking off from her action she looked up, and saw the moon overhead; and spearing the luminescent robs were the branches of the trees, like many stick thin arms, trying to carve up the moon's beauty for themselves.

She shivered with the cold, as it ruffled her curls. Maybe this place truly was haunted.

Haunted…

Then, everything exploded around her.

Something abruptly latched onto her wrist from nowhere; and if she had thought that the wind was cold, then such chill was only an essay in the craft; this was so cold that it seemed to actually burn her skin.

What-

And before she even had time to look around to see what had caught her, or make a sound of any kind, it was dragging her backwards and off the root and onto her side, this choking a strangled cry out of her lungs; which was muffled as her face hit the snow.

Oh God, what is happening?

She tried to scream again, as she felt the continual, unforgiving tug on her wrist – something from inside the bank under the tree; what could possibly be doing this? – but her cries were choked by the snow that packed itself into her mouth as she writhed, trying to free herself. It was burning; it burnt her face and her neck and her other hand as it scrabbled around, trying to find a hold on something so that she could push herself up and away from the tree and whatever thing had a hold on her; and her gagged screams were not so much of fear now as of pain.

Help me; somebody, please, help me! Don't let it get me! Don't let it…

Such a force she could never have imagined; it held her tight, and would not let her go; and she knew it would pull her after it, into the bole of the tree and the bowels of the earth, and then…

No! And with that she found a hold on a root with her un-trapped wrist, and anchored herself and pulled at the force, with a strength forged from deadly fear and desire to escape. And abruptly, suddenly she was flying backwards; away from the tree and the snow and the force, to land sprawling on her back with a speed that knocked the breath out of her.

Oh, my God…

She opened her eyes above her, to see the branches above her clashing together, in a dreadful whispering chorus, as if applauding her escape, and her breaking free from whatever had ensnared her.

But she knew…she knew…

For the ice cold grip was still upon her, no matter that she had gotten away from whatever dragged and pulled inside the tree.

She struggled up from her sprawl – the snow was already soaking the back of her clothes; and by some chance her gaze was brought to her wrist-

If she had had any breath to scream at this stage, then scream she certainly would have; because latched onto her wrist was nothing more nor less that an arm; a rotting, skeletal arm, with its truly bony fingers wrapped tightly about her, holding on tight, as if nothing would ever make it let go; an arm – and nothing else. Nothing else at all…

I'm in a nightmare. This has to be a nightmare…

"Get off me!" came her voice, squeaking and choked and grating, as if the snow had frozen her throat as well as her face; more like a hiss than a human voice. Desperately she writhed, shaking her arm, trying to loosen the loathsome thing's grasp on her; wheezing with fear and disgust; the snow working into her hair and melting and every part of her being soaked with whiteness as she and it grappled. It was too horrible; she could not bear it near her a moment longer. It was on her; she could feel its cold starkness, the bones compressing her wrist – actually feel them tightening on her!

Get off me! Get off ! Get off!

Her other hand came around; though she felt as if she would vomit she managed to grasp the thing's own wrist – or where its wrist would be if it had one – and, by some miracle, pulled and felt the horrible object loose its hold; a scrabble of the tips of its fingers, the dreadful feel of the grating bone upon her skin; and then she had flung it as far away from her as possible.

Oh, God. Oh God.

She sank back, almost sobbing with the fear and horror and disgust which roiled within her…but all the while she was trying to move herself; to leap up, and get away from the terrible, grasping, crawling thing, before it came after her again; and this time went for her throat instead of her wrist. But she couldn't move.

Run.

But her limbs would not respond; she was drained from her battle with the hand, and she could only lie, her skin chilling from the dampness of her clothes, her hair over her face, and breath.

But it wasn't over…

Her gaze was drawn, inexorably, to the bank of the tree; where a hole both in the snow and the ground beneath the whiteness indicated from whence the vile thing had come. And – she saw with a fresh thrill of horror – the ground was crumbling away at the sides, and cracks were spreading out from it.

Something was trying to force its way out.

Run, you stupid girl! Run! Run!

But I cannot…

And then surely she must have passed out, her senses must surely have deserted her; for how else could she see what came next; how else could she see how the ground parted asunder, and the dark shape suddenly break free and rise from the earth? It all happened so suddenly; one moment there was just the hole; then – as a devil's child rising from the womb of its mother - there it was; a figure; the figure of a person, fully able to step out from the earth where it stood…a man…

No, not a man. For what man could present such a figure as this? What man would wear such clothes – covered with dirt, and in some places mouldering and eaten away by whatever laced the earth? And as the moonlight shone upon this – this nightmare, it glinted upon the bare bone that could clearly be seen through the worn trouser of the right leg as it rested upon the rim of the hole through which the creature had burst; and illuminated the left shoulder that ended so abruptly with the empty sleeve of the shirt. Deep within her, she knew that she had not broken this thing's hold, but something else.

And what man could – oh, dear God? - bear a face like that? A face of white, bare bone, which glowed as the moon; and such eyes, which glowed yellow like a cat's…

Yellow eyes…a bare skull for a face…

I am dead. I am dead.

But she was alive. She was alive. She felt her pulse beat in her temples, and her breath rush in and out of her lungs. She would almost have lost herself in them; savouring the last few moments of life, before the thing that stood before her took her life forever.

I'm sorry, Meg…Raoul…I'm so sorry-

The creature regarded her for a moment. Then, suddenly, it leant forward, and reached out its remained arm to her; the hand, instead of being bare bone like its companion, was clothed in an ebony coloured glove, she somehow managed to notice, in the midst of the sickness of her fear and expectation of searing pain and blackness at any second.

And then a voice – such a beautiful voice…a voice that seemed almost to come from heaven; that flowed all around her, and almost took away her fear. It seemed as if the creature was not a creature at all, but an angel; an angel from on high, clothed in what mortal flesh had been provided for it, but still retaining the voice that had made it divine. But, lost as she was in the beauty of the voice, she nevertheless was able to listen to what it said.

"I take you to be my lawfully wedded wife."

With those words, beautiful though the voice had been that had shaped them, had grasped her heart and squeezed it so tight it might burst and freeze and die within her.

"May I kiss the bride?"

And suddenly she did have enough breath to scream.

Et voila! Without any further ado, Mesdames et Messieurs, I present to you my version of Erik, finally in the flesh…such as it is. Bet he's never made an entrance like that before! One thing is for certain, this is one introduction between the two that doesn't have Christine enthralled by his voice; or his physical beauty. You think? For me, however, nothing can match Helena Bonham-Carter's hiss of 'You may kiss the bride' on the Corpse Bride film trailer. Nothing. I can only do my best – 'You may kiss the groom' doesn't sound as good, does it'?

I must confess that this chapter was a bit of a trial to me, since I was wondering for ages how on Earth I was going to get Christine into the woods – since she obviously needed to put the ring on Erik's finger and everything – which she has avoided since she was little, without making her look like a complete idiot for doing so in the first place. But the graves work quite well in the woods, I think. This was, I believe, the same arrangement – for the graveyard, at least – as in the Corpse Bride film; although I think the holy building involved was a synagogue, not a church – though I can't say for sure. The Père la Chaise is a massive graveyard in Paris –a true necropolis, or 'city of the dead'. Oscar Wilde, among other famous people, is buried there – incidentally, if you kiss the sphinx on his grave, you are supposed to be granted a wish. Also, tying in with the Kay universe, there are some victims of the Commune buried there as well – as well as many Jewish people, and memorials to victims of the holocaust.

The various rhymes included that Christine thinks are, alas, not of my own invention. The first three are from the play The Ash Girl, by Timberlake Wertenbaker – a rather more macabre version of Cinderella, in which the Seven Deadly Sins take animal form, the Ash Girl's father at one point almost rapes her, not knowing who she is, and the step-sisters, in an attempt to be able to fit the recovered shoe, cut off bits of their feet – the fairies in the wood thing is an old rhyme; and the death bed verses come from mad Ophelia's lament in Hamlet. Wel, I said I wasn't a very good poet, didn't I?

(Also, if you didn't like the thought of the hand, don't blame me – it's in the original Corpse Bride film, so blame Tim Burton for inspiring me to give Erik a creepy crawling hand!)

Thanks to Ripper de la Blackstaff for the correction for the graveyard name. By gad, that was embarrassing. Also for the slight change to the end of the chapter. I did think of it first – then I dismissed it – then I decided to do it again. Go figure.

Well, what are you waiting for? An invitation? Oh, I guess that's what this is. Well, review anyway.