Disclaimer: I do not own POTO or Corpse Bride. Various people (too many to list) own the former, and Tim Burton owns the latter. Still, I hope.

MetalMyersJason: I am very impressed by the fact that you are enamoured of a zombie. Because that is, technically, what my Erik is. A zombie. Since he's dead, and risen from the grave, and all. But, if that's your kink, then good for you! You obviously have a strong stomach.

SperryDee: I'd post links; but I don't know how to do it on this site! Go to the offical website or Yahoo, they've both got very good trailers – although you can get just a little freaked by them. In a good way! Here is more.

Pertie: Well, the original film is considered strange by many. I suppose this is a tribute to it. No more strange than some of the phan phics floating around, though, I'd like to mention. Here is the next chapter. Enjoy!

musicallover: You know, I was hoping someone would say that. Thank you. Have a free guide to necromancy, complete with shovel. Sorry, just my little joke! You know, what with Erik rising from the grave and all…

Ripper de la Blackstaff: I see your point. It does get the attention. My God, I'm sooo sorry! I just wanted to get the chapter posted, and I'd just typed that in for later spelling ,check, and I forgot to rectify it! The shame! I have changed it, if you'd go back and read it. I've also altered a bit of the ending. Yes, Christine's certainly not too tranquil by now. Well, would you be, in the situation?

Carkeys: Here's your update. No tic-tac for Erik yet. Well, Christine's hardly going to let a corpse stick his – or its – tongue in her mouth all at once, is she? Ewww…bad thought; bad thought!

Mominator124(keeping your official title, even though you're not signed in): That's one of my favourite lines in the whole thing. Sweet! The tree and the branch were very creepy in the trailer – trust me, if you want a really ooky rising from the dead, check out the Corpse Bride trailer on Yahoo! Nope, I'm bad at poetry; rather better at prose. Though I did once write a very good prayer for assembly once:

Lord,

Do not let me take the shorter, darker paths in life,

Where the shadows seek to devour me,

Where the forms seek to daunt me,

Where the people seek to hinder me,

Where I am always alone,

And where I run the risk

Of never reaching my home.

Lord,

Let me take the longer, brighter paths in life,

Where the lights seek to guide me,

Where the shapes seek to encourage me,

Where the people seek to aid me,

Where I am never alone,

And where I know

I will always reach my home.

Poetry – nah. Prose and prayers – hmm. Thanks for the confidence, Barb.

Willow Rose 3(and I'm using you official username as well): Thanks for the huggles! Happiness is all that – but it is also sewing, Smarties, spaghetti and sausages. Hmm. It really doesn't take much to make me happy, does it?

SimplyElymas: Welcome back! Yes, Erik is here – and he is here agiain! Enjoy, y'all!

Two Erik and Christine chapters in a row, you lucky lot! Let's just saying I'm feeling generous. And inspired. I'm able to sew again! Yay! So, here it is; fight and flight. Or maybe just flight. Ever had one of those nasty dreams where you're being chased by something you'd rather not get caught by? Then feel Christine's pain.

To glance behind

'…having once looked round walks on,

And turns no more his head,

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.'

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

She is so beautiful…

It hadn't occurred to him until now, when she lay on the ground before him, looking up at him with her dark eyes wide, and her hair in disarray around her, like some glorious mane, and her mouth open, and her lovely face now drained of all colour, just how beautiful she really was. It was as if fate was saving that particular treat of realization for him until she became his bride. My bride. He felt a great surge of warmth flow through him, improbable as it was, as he looked down upon her, even as he spoke; and reached out his remaining hand to help her up, as any gentleman would surely do, living or dead.

A kiss…That was all he wanted. A kiss; to show that she truly was his bride, and that he was truly her husband. And he asked, in accordance with the marriage vows.

It is my right.

Then she had screamed – a high, keening sound, almost more like an animal than any human; he had shuddered, shocked, such a sound should not corrupt a voice like hers! - and scrambled up, and ran; ran away; ran as if the Devil himself was after her.

Where is she going? he thought, as he slowly straightened – his limbs were not yet used to moving to such extremities again - and watched her disappear between the trees; a swift green shade among the stark, dead, white trunks. But he already knew the answer to that. He had seen the fear in her eyes; which had disappeared for a moment when he had first spoken, to be replaced with wonder, and awe; but had swiftly returned when she had heard what he had said. It hurt him that she was afraid of him.

Even after life, nothing changes…

But then again, this, their first encounter, had not been the most tranquil of meetings; that he was ready to admit. After all, he had been rather forward – and the little matter that she had grappled with his disembodied arm and seen him rising out of the earth would surely not have helped the situation in the slightest.

No matter, no matter. He would simply go after her. She had not gotten very far; even now he could still hear her crashing through the undergrowth, far ahead of him.

He stretched, and heard as well as felt several somethings crack into place. Then, he stepped forward – down from the mound of earth, from where he had broken out of his grave after so many years. At first his movements were brittle, and jerky, making him grind his teeth in frustration; but after a few moments he felt the state of rigor mortis begin to dispel, as he gained more full control of his body once more.

A scuffling by his feet – or rather, his left foot and the bony remains of his right one – made him look down, to see his arm creeping across the ground; clearly making after his fleeing bride. A smile spread, however slowly, across the long dead muscles of his face – now no longer quite dead - and a chuckle came from deep in his throat, as he carefully bent down, and scooped up the detached limb. It was quite funny – if he had been told when he was alive that when (and if) he came back from the dead, one of his arms would have a life of its own, what would he have said? Or done, for that matter?

Slipping his arm back up his empty sleeve, he applied pressure in the right place, and felt and heard the snap as it clicked back into place in his shoulder. No pain, he noticed, with a slight, odd touch of melancholy – pain came with life, and he could not be truly alive, not ever again.

Still, he was alive in a way – and now, he would have someone to share it with. If he could only catch up with her.

His lips curled further; brushed the edge of the mask.

Here comes the groom…

After the first scream, she had not made a sound. She wanted to scream – heaven knew she was screaming mentally loud enough to wake the dead she hadn't already woken – but not a murmur had passed her lips, since the animal like lament she had made but a few moments before, except for the tormented gasps as she fled through the trees. It was as if that cry had taken away her voice altogether. Then again, screaming would only use up precious air and strength, which she very much needed just then.

As she ran, she could feel the warm wetness running down further between her legs; and for a moment she felt the same childish shame she had bizarrely experienced in the seconds between her scream and her fleeing from the seemingly paralyzed creature; that she had wet herself, like a little girl.

Run. Run. Get back to the horse. Get away. And whatever you do, don't look back. She tried to think of nothing else, as she hoisted her sodden skirts and leapt over roots and felled grave stones, tried to quell the screaming inside her head; but all the while every thought of that thing she had left behind her in the clearing, every detail of Buquet's awful story, was whirling around in her head – as if reality wasn't bad enough.

The terrible grasping, groping severed hand…

"Always one of two ends; their necks would either be broken, or they would have been strangled…"

That voice – that angelic, seraphic voice…

"And they say that he held many people in thrall, as he sang and played; and cast spells over them, so that they obeyed his every word, and followed him as if they were sheep..."

The bare whiteness of its face…

"…the handsome side of his face is now the white side, since it is his skull, the flesh having rotted away long ago; and that which was once white with the mask is now dark with evil…"

Don't look back. Don't look back.

"And if he catches you in his gaze, there is no escaping him; you are spellbound and follow him at his will; and then…"

And then…

"…you die. And he laughs over your body."

No! No! No! Please, God, no!

She could feel tears beading at the corners of her eyes, from terror or pain she could not tell. The air whipped past her, penetrating through her damp clothes and freezing he; her side was screaming at her – her corset, although made for riding, was certainly not made for running. Her boots were sodden; her feet were freezing. She wanted to scream, and sob with fear; but first of all she wanted to get away from that – that monster, coming after her.

Don't look back.

How far was the edge of the woods? How far had she walked earlier? Where was the horse? Everything seemed the same in front of her; a never ending tableau of pale, stark trunks, and grey tombstones, like the fangs of monsters sticking up out of the ground, trying to trip her up so that she could be pitched into the maws of the earth – or the arms of whatever pursued her. For she knew, she knew, that it was behind her; it was coming after her. It meant to get her.

Not me. It won't get me. I won't let it.

And as if in accordance with that thought, she suddenly saw the flash of a dappled flank in the moonlight, not too far up ahead; the swivel of the animal's head, as it evidently heard her coming, and looked around to see her. She could have burst into tears with thankfulness, as she put on an extra spurt for the last few hundred paces.

I'm safe.

But suddenly the horse stiffened; then it opened its mouth and screamed – not whinnied, but screamed; she could hear the terror in its voice; it was being driven mad by fear. Still screaming, it kicked at the tree which held it, and threshed its head. The next moment the reins had come loose from the trunk; and the animal was already tearing off across the countryside, without looking back.

"NO!" The scream was torn from her throat, as she tried, in vain, to grope for those distant reins; tried, as if by shouting, to bring the animal back, though she knew it was pointless. "Come back! Come back! You can't leave me here!"

She reached the edge of the trees much too late, and could only watch as the animal raced away across the plain. "You can't…" she whimpered, as she watched her only mode of escape disappear from view.

Don't stop moving. Don't let it catch you.

She cast around wildly, looking for some other way out.

The church!

The sanctity of a holy church – the Pastor - surely that would protect her against the abomination that walked the living earth? At any rate, it was better than trying to flee over the plains, after a steed that she would never catch. She set off along the edge of the wood at the best run she could manage; the whole business had taken less than half a minute.

At every moment, she was sick with dread; sick with expectancy that something would leap out of the woods onto her; expected to be knocked into the snow; expected to feel sharp – things, scrabbling at her arms, face, neck. She didn't dare look behind her; or to her left; she kept her eyes on her possible salvation.

Please, God, please, help me…

Tombstones began to obstruct her path, indicating that she had entered the main graveyard around the church; and then there was the wall of the church, looming up in front of her; she swerved but slid in the snow, and banged into the wall. At once she was up again – hurry, hurry! – and scrambling around to the front entrance.

Open up! Open up!

She rattled the handles of the doors, but her fingers were too clumsy to do any more than fumble; she bunched them into fists and banged on the wood; she tried to scream, "Sanctuary!" but the words would not come; her throat would not work, and most of her strength had gone into running, so she could barely raise a noise of any sort.

It was near, she knew. It was coming. It would find her.

Please, please, please-

She strained and squealed; her voice grated out, "Sanctuary! Please, give me sanctuary!" But would Defarge hear it? She doubted it. She was trapped. There was nowhere to run.

I am lost. I am dead, she thought, as she huddled closer to the wood, as if trying to force her way into the church that way; her fingers still clutched around the handle of the door.

God help me.

But where was it? Surely it had been only a little way behind in its pursuit of her? Or had she only been imagining things after all, since nothing had turned up? No; for why else would the horse have fled, for surely she would not have struck it with such terror that it would react in such a way?

She was tempted. Tempted to see-

No. Don't look back.

But she couldn't help it, she couldn't, she couldn't…

Slowly, deftly, she drew away from the doors, and peered around the corner of the church; looking back into the woods; expecting any moment for something to leapt out at her.

I am going to die.

But there was nothing. As far as she could see into the woods, between the trees, there was nothing; nothing. No black shape; no whiteness; no yellow eyes. The moonlight shone harmlessly, among a lot of harmless trees. Nothing. There was nothing. Nothing.

She almost hugged herself with relief. It was gone. She was safe! It hadn't caught her! She was safe. Safe.

But…

Her eyes were drawn away from the trees; to the wall parallel to her, which stretched down to the fringe of the forest; the wall of the church, which was cast in shadow, with no light shining upon it to dispel the darkness. The darkness that was deeper than it should be, even at night…

And she knew that it hadn't gone at all. That it was still waiting.

Waiting.

A pair of yellow eyes opened in the blackness; looked directly at her.

And she turned without a sound, and ran; ran as if her mad dash for escape before had been merely a first attempt at speed; ran as if Death itself stood there in the shadows, staring sedately at her.

And, in a way, it did.

Where could she run to? Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide! She stumbled, and almost fell over in the snow…she was so cold, so very cold...but she forced herself on, on.

No, no, no.

She slipped again; only this time the surface that she slipped on, underneath the snow, felt like stone instead of earth. She raised her muzzy eyes, to see that she had cleared the graveyard, and was on the foot of the bridge, which spanned the brook; the one she had ridden over earlier; back when her life was normal and she wasn't about to die.

The old legend…the dead cannot cross running water…

Did an iced up river count?

She tried to get to her feet again, but found she could not; the cold was flooding through her; her sodden garments were clinging to her and freezing her again. The best she could do was crawl. She couldn't feel her hands; the front of her dress was soaked; her stole was gone.

Move. Keep moving.

But she couldn't. She leant her head against the stone, breathing deeply. A brief rest, and then she would run; she would, she could, she'd-

There was a crunch in the snow behind her.

Another one. And another; slowly coming nearer, and nearer.

She couldn't move; she could only lean heavily against the stone wall; her eyes fixed upon the snow, her breath coming in rasping gasps; barely propped up, and sliding down all the while. She was dead, she knew that now. She had been dead all along. It had just taken a little longer for the Grim Reaper to catch up with her.

The footsteps stopped beside her. She tensed, squeezing her eyes shut; expecting any moment to feel bony hands, or a hempen rope, around her neck; expecting any moment to see true blackness.

But nothing came. Nothing happened.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Then, as if compelled by some gentle, irresistible force, she gradually turned her head around, and upwards, to stare at the being that looked down at her.

What she saw took what little breath she had been able to regain away again.

He was – or, technically, had been – a tall, well built man; well over six foot. But the slightly decayed dress clothes, which had clearly (and in a well cut way) covered strong, powerful, sturdy, limbs when both the clothes and the owner had been more fresh, now hung rather more limply around the left arm – out of which, she shuddered to note, that terrible hand, now, it seemed, fully reattached, protruded, complete with a mouldering shirt cuff – and the right leg, slightly torn at the bottom and the knee, and clearly showing the kneecap and, since the 'foot' was missing the boot that evidently matched its counterpart, every bone in the aforesaid foot. A black cloak, lined with what had once been white silk, was slung about the figure's shoulders; but what remained of the silk had long turned yellow.

Like Hel, she thought, remembering her father's childhood stories – though she hardly even dared to do so, as her gaze travelled inexorably up. Half human, half rotting.

And then she saw its face.

Oh. Her mouth went slack, as her eyes feasted upon the sight that lay before – or above – them. Oh, my.

His face – surely such a face could not have come out of the ground – it seemed not to come from the earth itself! Such high, elegant cheekbones; such an angled jaw; such sculpted lips…

A mask…

With a whimper, she came back to herself, and cringed away; almost trying, with her shoulder blades, to dig into the wall. For she remembered just who she was admiring; and what was supposed to lie beneath that mask, for all the beauty of the opposing side.

The living corpse…

"Please," she heard herself saying; her voice now merely a tiny mewl, like that of a half-drowned, battered kitten, that had been rescued from the water only to find its rescuer was a furrier. "Please…leave me alone." She closed her eyes, and silently raged at herself for being so stupid. "I meant no harm to you; nor disrespect. Please…don't make it hurt."

Make it quick.

"Why would I hurt you?" That voice again; that strange, wonderful voice; that voice which seemed to transcend all earthly limits, to take her and pull her up to soar above the clouds; which took away the cold and the pain she felt, and filled her with ecstasy. "I would never harm you; never."

His voice was filled with such sincerity that it enticed her to open her eyes again; to look up once more at the being that stood before her – no, crouched before her, in one swift, fluid motion. His beautiful face came much nearer to her; it was too near, too sudden, too much. No man had come so close to her, except Raoul; and he…she could not help giving a strangled moan, that grated her throat.

The next moment, her mouth was closed, gently but firmly, by his hand. "Please," he said softly, "you must not strain such an instrument as you voice. It is cruel."

But she was not paying attention to his voice; more to the fact that there was a skeleton hand covering her mouth.

And the smell…

It was too much for her, after everything else that had happened in the last while; the fear, the horror, the fatigue – all those were still with her, but this settled it. The blackness claimed her.

It was, she thought, just before it did, almost a relief.

She gave a little sigh, and collapsed forward into his arms, unconscious. In a moment he had scooped her up, and leant on one knee; his precious burden cradled in his arms and partially across his legs. Such a thing he had never even dreamed of before; that any woman would lie in his embrace.

But now he had cheated Death; anything was possible.

She lay nestled to his chest, as he held her close to him; so close. He could count every eyelash on her closed eyelids; see her breath as clouds in the chill air as she exhaled; she was warm in his embrace, despite her damp clothing, and he could feel her heartbeat shuddered through her – and him.

Perhaps there is a God, after all.

But if she stayed in the cold, she would not last long. He no longer felt cold, in a way; but already he could see her lips turning blue, even in her sleep, and she shivered even as he held her to him.

What then to do? He would not relinquish her – never.

He leant forward, and whispered to her – perhaps she did hear, even in her dreams – "I shall take you home, my bride."

He paused, relishing the words already forming in his mind. "My Christine."

Supporting her with one arm, he unfastened the clasp of his cloak with the other; swiftly he wrapped it around her, swaddling the young woman as one might do a baby; insulating her from the cold. Then, standing up jerkily, holding his burden tight in both arms, he looked down once more, at his now warm, sleeping peaceful bride, lying relaxed in his embrace. He felt his mind sing as it had not done for ages untold.

I shall carry you over the threshold.

And so ends the second Erik and Christine chapter in a row. I must say that I am rather proud of this one, in trying to catch Christine's fear and terror. I'm not sure if it's completely awe-inspiring; but so much of terror cannot be explained. If you're a little bit disgusted about Christine's – bladder problem, then let me be the first to say that that's probably what I'd do if some dead thing fought its way out of the ground, swore to marry me and asked to kiss me. Wouldn't you? Don't answer that if you think it's immoral.

The legend about the dead not being able to cross running water is an old legend; I'm not sure exactly where it originates from, but Garth Nix uses the theory a lot in his Abhorsen books. Check them out – they are extremely good. Plus most of the important people who save other people are women. So feminists should have a field day.

Hel, whom I mentioned earlier, was a character in Norse mythology; a daughter of Loki, the trickster god. She was a very singular character; from the waist up she resembled a normal, beautiful woman, but from the waist downwards – let's just say there were a lot more bones to be seen than flesh; rotting flesh and extremely corpse like. However, compared to her brothers in Loki's 'little brood', she got off quite easily; one of her brothers, Fenrir, was a giant wolf; and the other, Jormungard, was an even gianter sea serpent. Though Fenrir remained with the gods – until they got sick of him and tied him up with a ribbon, which is another story altogether – Jormungard was thrown into the sea by Odin, the king of the gods; and Hel was banished to the underworld – also, conveniently, called Hel – to be queen of all those who didn't get to go to Valhalla, the Viking heaven: a.k.a anyone who didn't die in battle – which says a lot about Norse society at the time. She was said to 'feast on hunger and thrive on sickness' – nice. Since Christien is Swedish, and Sweden is right alongside Norway, I theorized that her dad might know some of these old legends – so that Christine would be able to realise just what Erik reminded her of!

Read and review, please! I like reviews! They make me want to sew some more!