Disclaimer: Don't own Corpse Bride, or POTO, or anything filmy in this. That's the way the cookie crumbles, you know.

Sorry for not writing for so long. Being in the Lower Sixth, you know. Lots of work to do. Ooo, I am so excited! It's come out here, at last! Whee hee!

So, this is where the Underworld really comes in, with all the dancing skeletons and stuff…or something. And a treat for all you who liked the film…hee hee heee…

…I've got to stop writing the 'hee hee heee's – they just make me look slightly mad.

'Sleep little, my lovely,

And wake with a smile;

Death is forever,

Life's only a while!'

Adapted from the Canterbury tales by Geraldine McCaughrean

Necropolis

Abruptly, the light ceased once more. Christine tried to blink the purple blotches out of her vision, rubbing her eyes – but stopped, as she caught sight of what now lay in front of her.

"Oh, my…"

Her first impression was of height. She had seen inside cathedrals, and mansions; the Opera house in Paris and the inside of the de Chagny mansion. But this…this was completely different. This wasn't just a high ceiling, it was a high sky! Surely it must be the sky; it had stars, and it was a deep, midnight blue; and it was so high!

Except…

"It's not real, is it?" she called back to Erik, tentatively.

"I shouldn't think so," he replied, already guessing what she was looking at. "We're far underground, Christine. The only real sky anyone down here will see now is in their own head. Which probably doesn't make it a real sky either…"

"So they don't go up to the Land of the Living at all?"

"As they say down there," and with that Erik gestured towards what seemed like a great plane supporting an enormous city, nestled far beneath the artificial, cavernous sky, and far beneath them, with many glowing lights, and putting on an exaggerated whine, "'why go up there when people are dying to get down here?'" He shook his head, and looked away. "Idiots."

Christine, who had stifled a little giggle when he had spoken in the high pitched voice – she couldn't help it, he had sounded so funny! – could not help saying, either, "But you went up there."

"Well, that was different." Erik punted the boat along, with effortless ease. Christine wondered how exactly they were going to get down to the city, if they were so high up on the cliff, but she pushed the thought away as she paid attention to him. "I had an added incentive."

"What was that?"

"You," he replied simply. "You might want to hold on now."

"W…why?" She was still trying to get over the power he could put into such simple words – such belief, and such love. She had felt the very scorch of it through the one syllable…

"Here is where the current gets a little…turbulent."

And before she had time to reply, ask another question or say anything, she abruptly felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her stomach; just in time she grasped at the side of the craft as it plummeted down, and down, and down.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…" Her breath was torn out of her in a wild shriek, as something – was it air? Could you have air down here? – whistled past her ears and into her mouth and her hair streamed up behind her, tugging at her scalp. She couldn't see anything; she had closed her eyes against the pressure by now. She felt as if she was on a nightmare ride, which would never, ever end; just an eternity of falling and screaming and screaming and falling.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped; her stomach stopped trying to claw its way up through her throat and out of her mouth, and instead plunged straight down into her legs. It was not a pleasant feeling at all. She groaned, and leant forward, trying not to be sick. Not that there was much in her stomach, except that pomegranate.

"Look up," came Erik's voice from behind her, seemingly quite unaffected by their freefall. "We're nearly there."

Angrily, she forced her head up, her eyes squeezing open…and then all her nausea dropped away, as she stared.

In their fall, they had somehow managed to go over some sort of cliff…water-fall…anything, and in doing so had gotten much closer to the strange city. They were now on the river which was winding its way into the heart of the city; Erik was propelling them with amazing dexterity through the blue waters, not even having to fight against the current…but then again, the current was flowing into the city, with slightly unnatural speed.

She swivelled around in her seat, to stare back at Erik. His golden eyes met hers, and they twinkled with amusement…and something else.

"Welcome to the Necropolis, Christine. The most aptly named city in the world – or underneath it."

"This place – it is huge!"

Erik smiled, as if at her naivety. "It has to be. A lot of people…reside here."

Christine was so awestruck by all she saw around her, she barely noticed as Erik subtly slipped his hand under her arm, and guided her away from the huge building she was staring at, and onwards into the amazing city. Everything was so big! There were towers, made of both black marble and of white, and sometimes of both, crowding up and all around them, clustering up to the 'sky'; there were squares with fountains and high pedestals upon which sat grand, elaborate statues of men on horseback or other various scenes from mythologies, only half of which Christine, even with her education in stories, was able to recognise; there were trees, which had greatly surprised her, until she looked more closely and saw that they had simply been fashioned, however exquisitely, out of a brown, gleaming metal – probably bronze, though she was no expert on precious metals – the leaves out of some paper thin green stone, at which she snorted. At least Erik didn't try to imitate his roses in cold, dead materials, even more dead than the plants themselves had ever been.

Everything, in short, was built on a colossal, slightly abnormal scale; a mix of the familiar and the oriental, the grand mausoleum and the everyday grand house or apartment in Paris; and it went on and on and on…

And then there were the people…

Secretly, Christine had been expecting something, or things, like Erik, or at the very least like that man, Nadir, with the gash in his throat. But she was more surprised than by anything else to see fairly normal people walking down the streets of this strange, strange city; some she might have seen back on the various streets in Paris, and some the likeness of she had seen only in travelogues, and pictures of far off places. As she watched in awe, a beautiful oriental woman, dressed in gorgeous silk clothes which somehow seemed to ripple around her feet, and with her face made up deathly white and her lips as red as blood, crossed serenely across the street, the ornaments in her elaborate black hairstyle jingling slightly, confident in her exceptional beauty as she surely must have been in life.

The only slightly marring effect in this otherwise perfect image was the vibrant red slash mark in her stomach, just below her large silk sash, most likely made by a sword.

"Most spirits keep the form they had at the instant of their death," Erik's voice whispered abruptly into her ear, making her start. "That lady there, I know for a fact, committed hari-kari; and she still has the stomach wound to prove it."

"I…see," she replied slowly, removing her eyes hastily from the woman, who was now on the opposite side of the street and walking sedately away. After a few moments silent contemplation, she decided to voice the thoughts which had suddenly emerged at such news. "Erik, how did you-"

But she stopped as abruptly as she had started; all her questions lost in a rushed heartbeat and gasp as she stared out at the place Erik had subtly led them to.

The best way she could think to describe it was as something akin to Saint Mark's Square in Venice, or Saint Peter's Square in Rome, both of which she had seen many pictures of, transformed into a ballroom; but even more so. Those spaces had been limited even by mortal standards; but in this place there appeared to be no such limits, and so the space spread out seemed larger than both of them put together; the buildings surrounding the dance floor were even taller that any other she had seen in the city, seeming to reach right up to the seeming sky, and yet shutting out no light. The light rather seemed to hang over the whole proceedings, like a beautiful glowing haze, stolen from the moon itself.

And as for the dancers…Christine had never seen so many people, in any place. She couldn't even comprehend trying to count, because she would probably become an old woman herself before she could estimate every single being that moved and swayed in that great throng before her; men and women of seemingly every nation she had heard of, and many that she hadn't, some dressed in fashions that seemed to her eyes almost outlandish, but somehow fitted in here perfectly. And not just adults, there were children as well; she could see an obvious family group, a little girl dancing between her parents, holding on to her mother's right hand and her father's left and being lifted up into the air, her mouth open although Christine could only faintly hear her squeals of delight.

And above all this was music…how she could have missed it before, she had no idea. It was unlike anything she heard before, even in Erik's lair; it caught at her lungs and heart and made her catch her breath again. She supposed that it was only because she was still alive; but the music seemed to be having a strange effect upon the dancers as well. They all seemed to be moving in time with it, dancing to its rhythm, no matter what they were actually doing. Even the people she could see leaning out of the windows on the buildings looking out onto the square, watching this strange display, were swaying in time to the strange, haunting melody.

"What is this place?" she asked tentatively.

"A very good question." Erik drew her slightly nearer, his arm pulling hers closer to him. "Have you ever heard of La Danse Macabre?"

"The Dance of Death," she replied automatically. "A tradition in medieval times, an obsession with the afterlife. What about it?"

"Well, what do you think inspired it?"

What indeed? She looked back at the dancers; revolving endlessly around the square. "How long have they been dancing for?"

"For as long as the dance and the music continues; and it has gone without stopping ever since Time began; ever since humans first learnt to make music and to dance and brought down what they had learned in their brief lives to the underworld with them."

"You mean-"

"Not that these people have been dancing for all that time," Erik went on swiftly, as if anticipating her question. "They break off from dancing to return sometimes, or never to return to the dance again; but there are always more dancers ready to cut in, ready to take their places. The musicians too leave when they wish, or when they have no desire to play any longer; but always there are another pair of hands to take hold of the instrument so that it does not fall silent."

"So this song and dance has being continuing ever since humans could first die?"

"Well, the dancing place has altered, as our expectations of buildings have changed. And of course the dances have changed with time, as has the music itself. But in all essence, yes, Christine; this ballroom of sorts has always been here, and the dance has always been danced, and the music has always been played."

"But what do they do it for?"

"To celebrate that they have broken free of mortal restraint; or the fact that they are with the ones they love once more. Or possibly just that they are dead. After all, from their point of view, things can hardly get worse."

She looked up at Erik's face, trying to see if he was joking – he had seemed serious enough – but his golden eyes were no longer on her. They were looking out across the square, seemingly mesmerised by the sight of the moving bodies, moving to the music.

"Erik…"

The atmosphere – she could not really say air – around her suddenly felt very close. She let go of Erik's arm to raise a hand to her temple, which was beginning to throb; there was a buzzing in her ears now. She took two steps forward dizzily, and saw an white arm come towards her out of nowhere; but she felt too strange – almost as if she were drunk again – to be able to dodge out of the way in time.

But the arm did not make contact with her – at least, she did not think it did. All she felt was a sudden coldness brush her face; the woman to whom the arm belongeddanced on with her partner without apparently noticing her, and something – probably Erik - grabbed hold of her own wildly flailing arm, trying to pull her backwards; unconsciously she swivelled meaning that she stepped out further onto the dance floor and her erstwhile rescuer was dragged after her.

At once the music hit her hard and washed over and through her; she felt as if someone had set off a firework inside her head. Her hands clasped Erik's fingers instinctively, as she felt her feet move of their own accord; carrying her away from the edge of the square in high, fluid steps, almost as if she were skipping, and seemingly dragging Erik with her. At first she made to try and stop herself; but as she whirled around and around, spinning around and barely holding on to Erik's hands, she found it more and more hard to make the attempt; and she felt the urge to stop holding herself back altogether; to break free and let her old adeptness at dancing come back, from the places where she had banished it when she gave up her ballet.

She arched her body, pivoted on the balls of her feet, ready to fly away from the grasp, to fly with the other dancers – only to be jerked out of both her ecstasy and her desire to dance with a jolt.

This is wrong.

Her pause gave an arm the opportunity to curl around her waist and whirl her right off the dance floor again. The heat left her veins, leaving her gasping, and the support was gone as she had to lean upon a pillar.

"What was that?" she wheezed, to no one in particular.

"That was what we tend to call 'The Siren's Call'," Erik muttered, looking out over the square of still dancing beings, what she could see of his face contorted into a frown. "It comes sooner than later in any music that is played here – a change of partners, if you will; a chance for those weary of dancing to be let off, and calling those who have not yet danced to the floor, irresistibly. It is possible to restrain yourself and ignore the call, of course, if that is your wish – but I had no idea of the effect it would have upon the living. I am sorry, Christine."

"For what? I haven't felt like that in years, it was wonderful! It was as if I could have danced forever!"

Erik tore his gaze away from the dancers, to look sternly at her. "And if you hadn't managed to pull yourself out of it in time, that is precisely what you would have done. Some have danced here for thousands of years, unable and un-desiring to break free from the music and the dance. You would have danced, unable to save yourself, until you dropped down dead; and then your spirit would have continued to dance in your body's wake."

"Oh." There didn't seem to be anything else to say.

"But you did break free," he went on, turning away from the dancing, a small smile creasing his face. "And no one seems to have noticed you, which is all to the good."

Not noticed me? Christine looked around her. It was true; spirits passing them by while walking through the colonnade, or watching the dancing as they were watching, did not even look at her at all, let alone twice. And she remembered passing people in the streets, and not attracting their attention – they didn't even look at her, the only living thing in this underworld…

"I would have thought they would," she muttered, pushing herself up off the pillar, and pulling her cloak around her more tightly. "I mean, a living person in the Land of the Dead…surely that does not happen every day?"

"No. But many here have lost their hold on Life, and are therefore unable to recognise it, even when it is right in front of their noses."

"Oh." She tugged her cloak about her even more. She suddenly felt very lost and alone, in this city of the departed – who could not even tell that she herself was not dead! How could she tell, herself?

"Erik!"

The sudden shout nearly jolted her out of her skin; it was so unexpected she gave a little shriek. For a moment she thought her ears deceive her – she could have sworn that she heard Erik swear under his breath, before coolly turning to face wherever the voice had come from.

"And then there are those have not lost their hold by any means," he muttered to her out of the corner of his mouth, before nodding coolly at the approaching, buoyant figure. "Jules."

Christine found herself face to face with a man who was as different from the sedate, calm beings she had encountered, and the graceful dancing shapes she had seen and briefly been touched by, as it was possible to be. Everything about him spoke of loudness; his bright, coppery coloured hair upon which his brown, rounded hat barely nestled, the vibrancy of his embroidered waistcoat, the ruddy colour of his skin, the milky whiteness of one of his eyes, so out of place in his otherwise red face, and most of all his voice, tinged with a certain accent often found in England, which boomed out again, making her ears ring, as he spoke to a frowning Erik.

"Well, well, well; and who do you have here, Erik? I've never known you to be so sociable with a lady before!"

"Shut up, Jules!" Erik ground out; she could see him clenching his gloved fists.

"Oh really, Erik, there's no need to be offended!" the man – Jules – said cheerily. "Congratulating you is not a crime!" He leant closer, his voice sounding strange when quieter. "And if you think I can't see that she's alive, Erik, or what's happened to you, you've been shut up in that lair of yours for far too long!"

"Jules, don't-"

Jules winked. "Don't worry; I won't tell a soul!" Beaming at the infuriated look on Erik's face, he turned to Christine, and caught up her hand in both of his, shaking it. It was a strange sensation – not at all like touching Erik, who did at least feel like a normal human, if slightly wasted, depending on what form he was in at the time – but Jules, for all his ruddy colour and warm looking hands, was cold to the touch, and sent a shudder through her. He, however, did not appear to notice.

"It is very good to meet you, miss! Might I know your name?"

"Chris…Christine…Christine Daaé," she managed, as the feeling flowed out of her arm from being pumped so much. "It is good to meet you, sir."

Erik coughed, disgruntled. "Christine, this is Jules Bernard…"

"Erik always prefers to use my proper name, even though he knows I don't like it," Jules said, giving both of them a wink.

"Probably because you irritate me so much, Jules…Monsieur Jules Bernard, who prefers for some reason to be referred to by his ridiculous nickname, 'Bonejangles'," Erik finished, a faint grin on his face now, despite himself.

"And don't say it isn't catchy, Erik!" Jules – or Bonejangles, or whatever he preferred to be called – let go of her hand, and clapped both of his together. "Right! Since you've deigned to come here, for once, Erik, I can therefore issue an invitation to you!"

"Jules," Erik said warningly again.

"Come on, Erik; how long have you been shut up there, playing on that organ of yours? The least I can do is treat you to a round of drinks, on me!"

"I…I think perhaps not," Christine stuttered, and not only from the sight of Erik's face. A 'round of drinks' inevitably meant a bar of some sort; and she had been warned by Madame Giry that bars were one of the places where young ladies should never go.

'Bonejangles' laughed, more gently than she might have guessed. "It's all right, little lady; there's nothing stronger in my bar than spirits."

Christine heard Erik groan deeply, even as the atmosphere and scenery around them burst into colour. In the blink of an eye they were no longer standing in the colonnade by the grand court yard, but instead were in the middle of – well, she wasn't sure what it was, except that it was loud, and bright, and crowded, and vibrant. There was music all around them, but it was completely different from the haunting melody of the dancers; it had a distinctly odd flavour – odd, but not unpleasant; she had heard it once or twice before, when walking through slightly less enlightened streets back in Paris.

But she barely had time to catch her breath or look at her surroundings, for at once a chair was swept under her legs and she sat down abruptly at a small table. Erik, next to her, having been seated in apparently the same way, was not looking very pleased at all.

Jules darted around from behind them, having shoved them into the seats, and beamed at them. "I will be right back with your beverages, Monsieur and Madame!" So saying, he danced away towards the bar, through the seated or standing patrons of the 'establishment' - she wasn't quite sure what sort of place they were in yet.

"Is he…slightly touched in the head?" she inquired, after a moment of relative silence, shifting in her seat and pulling her cloak put from under her to drape it across the back of the chair.

"In a manner of speaking," Erik replied sourly, glaring at their host, who was now talking animatedly to someone she couldn't see behind the bar, gesturing towards them. "Apparently he was slightly odd even when he was alive, so now he is even more so. He told me once he had always dreamed of owning a – 'pub', as he called it. When he came down here he was able to pull a few strings, and-"

"He's talking to a head," Christine, who had only just caught sight of the receiving end of Jules's statements, breathed in fascinated horror. "He's talking to a severed head propped up on the bar – and it's talking back!"

"That would be Henri," Erik said, without looking around. "A bit of a come-down from being a duc de Montmerency, of course, but he is very respective of – the certain needs of others."

"Of course." She watched as the head – Henri – jerked his eyebrows towards a tray with two glasses on it that had magically appeared next to him; and Jules scooped them up, and bore down upon them again with a smile. She forced a smile to her own lips as she accepted the small glass of clear liquid from him, not sure what to do with it – she remembered full well what Madame Giry had told her and Meg about drinking mysterious clear liquids.

"Thank you, monsieur," she said obediently, her etiquette still intact even in this strange place. It is probably the only thing that I can rely on…

"Call me Bonejangles, everyone else does," the one-eyed barkeeper replied, delivering her a roguish wink with his un-milky eye even as he delivered Erik his glass, which earned him another glare from Erik. "Except Erik here, who insists on calling me either Jules or Bernard, depending on how annoyed he is with me."

"Or whether I want to break your neck at the time or not." Christine seriously hoped that Erik was joking, though there was a steely edge in his speech that she recognised from somewhere, and that she had quickly learned to be wary of.

Jules seemed to have noticed this, since he smiled nervously and edged away. Hoping to avoid any argument, she quickly broke in, "I have been wondering, Monsieur…Bonejangles; why do they call you that in the first place?"

The man looked relieved at her voice of reason cutting in. "Why, miss, it was me nickname up top – I always used to jangle lots of bones in my profession!"

"And what was that?" she inquired tentatively, taking an experimental sniff of her drink.

"A grave digger," came Jules's answer, his lips stretched wide in a grin which revealed many tombstone teeth.

"Oh." For something to do, to break the awkwardness of the moment, she unthinkingly took a swig from her glass. To her surprise it did not taste like spirits at all; rather it had a fruity taste, not unlike apples, but rather the juice that came from biting directly into one, crisp and sweet upon the tongue.

"Mmm!" The murmur unconsciously came out of her at the taste.

"Well, it appears that at least someone likes my produce, eh, Erik?" Jules shot daringly at Erik.

"Oh, just go away, Jules," Erik said, waving his hand. "If I have to drink in your little 'pub', I should be able to do it without you blaring in my face all the time."

Jules gave a little mocking bow. "But of course, milord Phantom." He paused, and then added. "Milord Corpse Groom."

Corpse Groom? Does he know?

"What did he mean by that?" Christine asked feverishly, as she watched him walk back to the bar.

"I have no idea. Come on; we had better leave while no one is watching us." As he spoke, he stood up, pushing away his untouched drink, and stretching out a hand for her to take. Confused, though not exactly reluctant to leave herself, she stood up, discarding her own glass, and reached out to take his hand…

"Hey!"

Instinctively the two started; Erik at once seemed to forget about her hand and instead dragged her behind him as he glared in the direction from where Jules's voice had come. Peeping out and around his form in astonishment, she saw that Jules was not accusing them of leaving – he was in fact standing on a bar stool, waving his arms in the air. He looked for all the world like an amateur opera singer, about to burst into song. The band in a corner seemed to be limbering up to accompany him, having abandoned their old tune.

"Erik – what…?" But her living – or rather not – shield did not seem to be paying any attention to her; and at that moment Jules burst into song, accompanied by a strange, almost discordant tune, that nonetheless rang in her ears with hidden harmonies.

"Hey, give me a listen,

You corpses of cheer;

At least those of you

Who still have an ear,

I'll tell you a story

To make a skeleton swoon

Of our own jubilantly

Darkling Corpse Groom!"

Christine gasped. So Jules was talking about Erik! She craned her neck to look up at Erik's face; he seemed impassive to the stares he was getting from the other patrons – and some of the stares were not too friendly. Why was Jules doing this? Why didn't Erik run? But already some who were sitting near Jules perch were joining in, with the morbid chorus to this macabre song.

"Die, die,

We all pass away,

Don't wear that frown, there's not much to say;

You might try and hide

And you might try to pray

But we all end up

The remains of the day!"

Oh, God! Such a song she had never heard before! It was so terrible – and yet…yet true and the same time! Unconsciously she herself tried to hide, behind Erik – for she was the only one in the room who was not yet 'the remains of the day', and she wanted to keep it that way.

But Jules was grinning, as he opened his mouth to sing again. Oh, why doesn't he have better sense?

"Well, our groom was a strange one

Known for miles around,

Known and shunned through all of the town;

He was full up of brain,

But not so of heart

And our poor little hero

Didn't know where to start!

Then his best friend said

He needed someone by his side

So our groom soon found himself betrothed to a bride!"

A bride? Christine thought as if her heart had stopped beating within her chest at those words. But already the horrible chorus was pounding through her head again. She wanted to take her head in both hands to make it stop.

"Die, die,
We all pass away,
Don't wear a frown, 'cause there's not much to say;
You might try and hide
And you might try to pray
But we all end up
The remains of the day!"

Oh, it was horrible! She wanted to get away, to run away so badly! Feverishly she plucked at Erik's sleeve, whispered his name frantically, almost pleading. But he seemed rooted to the spot, clinging on to his chair for support, his eyes staring at nothing; and she could only cower back as the song continued

"So, there he was, on the blessed day,
Ready to wave all his troubles away,
Now he had on his finger a golden ring,
In order to offer her everything!
But suddenly there came, so they say in these parts,
His friend and his friends, with death in their hearts!"

God. God. Oh God. Now she knew why Erik was behaving like this – it was as if someone was stepping over his grave, literally. But she couldn't bear this; she couldn't!

"Erik!" she hissed. "We can't stay here!" Come quickly, while there is still time!" She had a dreadful feeling in her gut that if she listened to the rest of the song, the consequences would not be good; but she could not get Erik to move. He had half sunk down into the chair now. His eyes were wide and unseeing; he looked more like a corpse than ever. His now skeletal hand clasped the chair; the other unwittingly scraped the table with its fingernails. She could only listen in despair, and Jules sang on, in that now hateful voice of his.

"Then he ran to the graveyard, by the old oak tree,
Perhaps hoping to gain sanctuary?
He was stabbed in the side
But where could he flee?"

"And then?" came a sibilant hiss from the audience, as they swayed to the intoxicating music in delight.

"He waited," Jules hummed in reply; a curious smile upon his lips. God, how it made her shudder to see it!

"And then?"

There in the shadows, was it a man?"

Let me get out of here, please; please let me out of here. She wished that she might sink under the earth, if only it would stop the singing.

"His heart beat soured loud!"

"And then?" The audience seemed to fairly yowl with triumph.

"And then, my lovelies," Jules grinned again, as his voice seemed to shake her very soul, everything…went…black."

Please, let it be over. I can't take it any more. In her fear and dread, she even shrank away from Erik, who was now visibly trembling. Her heart was hammering so she had tried to seize it in her hands to make it be still; but she was so afraid by now she hardly paid any heed to it.

"Now when he opened his eyes,

He was dead as dust,

His ring was missing

And his heart was bust;

So he made a vow, lying under that tree

That he'd wait for his true love to come set him free!"

Those around her had started to clap in time to the tune; but their claps were hardly louder in her ears than her own heart beat. It was as if the blood rhythm of her own head was trying to beat her very brains out, to drive the blood right out of her body! The smiles all around, the knowing glances at her – she couldn't bear it! She thought she would go mad with it! The darkness besides the shadows seemed to be closing in on her, drowning her, smothering her…

"Always waiting for someone to share in his world;

When out of the blue comes this beautiful girl!"

Jules's finger pointed straight at her, like a spear or sword transfixing her to the wall behind her, piercing her to the stomach and the heart and the brain. She felt like retching – she had to get out – she had to get the sickness out of her. She felt so, so filthy, with all eyes upon her, the smiles like jagged crescent moons; the eyes like beacons alighting upon all the stains of her soul! She backed away from them, from their gazes, their smile, and the shadows; she wanted to plead with Erik to protect her, but it seemed as if he couldn't even protect himself against the attacks!

"Who vows forever to share his tomb;

And that's the story of our Corpse Groom!"

No! No! No!

Run.

Her skirts whispered and then shrieked around her as she turned – some way, any way out – her feet met steps and she scrambled upwards, her hands landing on boards, running up the stairs on all floors like a child, no longer caring. She had to get away; away from the singing and the smiles and the darkness; and away from everything! The awful chorus still echoed in her ears as she ran and scrambled and crawled, even though no one made any attempt to stop her. She wanted to stop her ears, but she had to run! And with that she reached the top of the stairs, and burst out into what one might call the sunlight; and she ran and ran; any way so long as it would stop that music in her head; stop the laughter and whooping; stop everything she had seen and heard in that cellar. But she couldn't stop herself hearing the chorus for one last time.

"Die, die,
We all pass away,
Don't wear a frown, 'cause there's not much to say;
You might try and hide
And you might try to pray
But we all end up
The remains of the day!"

Oh, dear. Christine's first trip to the necropolis isn't going very well, is it? You might think she's a wimp for running away, but it is a slightly macabre song; and after all that's what Victor did as well! Then again Victor managed to set his future mother-in-law's dress on fire, so perhaps it isn't a very fair comparison! I admit I made up that bit about everyone dancing in that square back there; but I did make a tribute to all of those who loved Bonejangles in the film – I combined Kay and Burton into one; and the milky eye is a nod to the film Bonejangles's missing one.

I am willing to admit that the reworked 'Remains of the Day' is not as good as the film one; but unfortunately I had to do a little reworking anyway so it would fit into the story – because it's no good singing about a 'Corpse Bride' if you've got a Corpse Groom on your hands, now have you?

There was something else I wanted to say, but I've forgotten it. Oh well. Maybe next time I post – which won't be for a while, as we're going to see my sister in her university, yay!

Reviews for the half-Irish, now embroidering seamstress, please!