Disclaimer: I do own my presents, but not this.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS, ONE AND ALL!

Considering I wasn't that excited about Christmas this year, I got some really great prezzies. My parents and sister really are the best. Now I can finally see why everyone's either squeeing or complaining about Dead Man's Chest. (And if you don't know what THAT'S about, you must have been living under a rock since spring.)

Plus, my dad got me M.R. James ghost stories on DVD! Yes! On DVD! I felt like I might faint from the happiness.

So, in return, here is my Christmas prezzie to you all – a bit late, but better late than never.

The drizzling rain made the scene miserable indeed, for it was soaking the grass around the rebels' bodies, blending blood and sap and turning it to mud. The valley was dissected by little rivulets. Not the pure fresh waters of new life but streams of death that carried the wolves' souls weeping through the grass.

The Sight by David Clement-Davies.

'Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief. Indeed, it was no wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on my being put under control. I used to fancy that life was a positive and perpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live things, no matter how low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong life. At times I held the belief so strongly that I actually tried to take human life. The doctor here will bear me out that on one occasion I tried to kill him for the purpose of strengthening my vital powers by the assimilation with my own body of his life through the medium of his blood – relying, of course, upon the Scriptural phrase, "For the blood is the life."'

Dracula, by Bram Stoker

Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is alchemy's first law of Equivalent Exchange. In those days, we really believed that to be the world's one, and only, truth.

Alphonse Elric's introduction to episodes 2 – 41, Fullmetal Alchemist, created by Hiromu Arakawa.

(This chapter gets three quotes to celebrate, since I have always wanted a chapter called sanguis – and now I've finally got one! Squee hee! A late Christmas prezzie or an early birthday one? Who knows? Who cares? Just enjoy the chapter! Also, the last quote I put in there because Fullmetal Alchemist is DA BOMB. Even if fanfiction writers are always trying to pair Edward Elric with Roy Mustang. You know who you are. And, when all's said and done, that pairing creeps me out almost as much as the E/R relationship. And I'm sure that lots and lots and lots of people would agree with me.)

Sanguis

Defarge wearily lit the last candle, and placed it in the circle around him, putting the box of matches itself on the floor. He really shouldn't be doing this, not so soon after the last summoning three nights ago – using the ritual over-excessively could be potentially fatal. While researching this particular ceremony during his time in the seminary, he had read of at least one priest who had shed his blood so many times, spoken so eagerly to so many of his dead ancestors from far back in history, that – he still shuddered from the memory of that particular passage – one morning he had been found dead in his cell, as shriveled and withered as a mummy, without a single drop of blood left in his body though without any sign of any wound for it to have escaped from; his puckered mouth locked in a final, futile scream. That was the nature of the spirits: no matter what relation they were, they hungered for blood…and if blood of the family was continually shed for them, they tended to attract other, darker shades, which were far less fastidious about attaining the blood they so desperately loved and desired.

Besides, exerting the effort to keep the circle of protection going (a precaution laid down by the first practitioners of this obscure but powerful technique, since the very first to try it had sometimes tended to lose control of their 'guest', and were unable to stop them wreaking havoc on anyone who happened to be observing or simply in the vicinity at the time) was tiring as well, especially since he had had to do two in one night. All in all, he had had more than second thoughts about this venture. Not that he would mind seeing Nadir again, since he used the ritual so rarely: only six times, counting the last one, in the ten years since he had first discovered the…he disdained to call it a 'spell', though in all essence, that was what it was.

But this…this was different. It wasn't for him, but for others, for those poor children who had already suffered so much, that he sought to contact his forbear again, so soon, so dangerously soon.

They had come to him earlier that very evening. He was surprised that they hadn't mustered up the courage to come sooner, since their problems were so…unholy. But it had been Carlotta that they were most concerned about, naturally; and she had flatly refused to seek help for her terrible condition until nearly two days had passed without her being able to eat anything at all, and the constant pleas and urgings from her friends to ask for his aid had finally worn through her stubbornness. It was, if truth be told, a far longer fast than he would have imagined any untrained aristocrat, used to rich food in abundance, would have been to cope with, and he was duly impressed by the Spanish girl's determination and resolve.

Fortunately she had discovered that she was still able to drink, and so since the horrible revelation she had been living off clear broths and tea, though any liquid too thick seemed to be classed as 'food', and so came up again very quickly, with many 'co-ack's' on poor Carlotta's part. And yet, somehow, she managed to bear all of her suffering, all of her discomfort and her swiftly growing pangs of hunger, with a quiet, dignified patience that was truly remarkable to all those who knew the truth.

This had made her friends all the more determined to help her, as well as each other, each one hardly taking notice of their own woe, though these were bad enough as they were. Raoul had been unable to regain all of his lost strength by sleeping, and still moved slowly and with great effort, though his hair had regained its original colour through Carlotta's dye; Meg's fear of mirrors was by now so great, do what she might, that she hardly dared go into a room where there was one without someone supporting her, and even then she dared not look into it. It was much the same for little Cecile with fire of any sort, which was why they had not stayed to watch him now as he worked, and Christine…

…he preferred not to think of Christine. Whenever he did so, whenever he looked into her brown eyes, he felt the strongest, most powerful urge imaginable, to take her in his arms and let her weep upon his shoulder, stroking her and whispering to her that he would make sure that she was always safe; which, of course, was not possible…or else he had another equally powerful urge to ward her off as something unholy, unclean, wretched, unnatural. As a priest, and much more as someone who could see what others could not, he had looked into Christine's eyes, the eyes of the one whom he had once longed to reach out and save, and he saw someone who was already dead, who had died long ago, in the Land of the Dead.

So he preferred to think of the others, to save himself from his own fears, and not to think of Christine at all, to spare both of them. At least, not until he had consulted Nadir.

He had to help them, all of them. He had to find some way. And since it was Nadir who had suggested the procedure they had used in the process, he had an idea that his dead great grandfather would have an answer to his problems, as he had had to so many others.

He now let his mind slip into the special meditation he now used before making the cut for the summoning, preparing the way for the particular spirit to come through, however briefly the amount of his blood dictated, into the living world; and also to make quite sure that the spirit he summoned was the one he actually wanted to meet, rather than something he would not. He was forever thankful to God that he had managed to summon Nadir on his first try at the ceremony, rather than any other spectre who would be willing to gorge itself upon his blood and then turn upon him for more.

At length, his mind made the tenuous connection which he had grown used to and even grown to imagine in images as well as feelings, like a cold, cold key being inserted right into his forehead by an invisible hand; with a pure white ribbon tied to it, stretching back into the darkness which loomed in a little way away from his eyes, the candles now only softly illuminating his own private little world. The link was there, but it was exceptionally fragile; only with blood from the vein could it remain solid for more than a few seconds.

He had to act swiftly. He was practiced enough that he could bring the razor sharply across the heel of his palm without breaking his concentration, barely flinching at the minute pain that he was so used to by now. As he did so, the whiteness of the ribbon began to turn pink, the colour slowly running down the length of the fabric, and swiftly melting into a vivid, vibrant red, flowing away into the darkness, providing a guiding light for whatever was coming the other way and using the connection as a guide. Carefully he measured the amount of blood, and when the redness grew to a satisfactory amount he sealed off the flow with a quick brush of his mind, healing his flesh in the process. A trick that he had managed, with Nadir's help, on his third summoning; before that he had had to bandage his wrist and wear long shirt cuffs, lest people begin to get suspicious ideas and make assumptions. But at least back then he could simply drip more blood by exposing his wound again, rather than cutting again and again.

And now he could see a faint figure, making its way out of the darkness. He tensed himself, ready to at once break off the connection if it was not who he wanted it to be, but then he relaxed as he recognised his ancestor's distinctive aura, and made out the spirit's features.

He had no idea what the summoning looked like from an outsider's eye – even when the others had sat in on his actions, he had only been aware of them as voices outside the circle of light rather than as actual images – but he always saw Nadir as he must have been in life and presumably at the moment of his death, dressed in a fairly simple long sleeved tunic and trousers which reached to his ankles, slippers upon his feet, a silken turban on his head, his dark beard neat and orderly, his green eyes shining with intelligence; the only discordant element the great slit in his throat which had snuffed out his life.

And now on his face he bore an expression of terrible sadness, unconquerable and crushing…not the sort of sadness when one wept, but when one was too quiet and too unhappy even to cry. Despite himself, Defarge almost leant out to place a hand upon Nadir's shoulder, even while he knew that this could never be. Even in this summoning, great grandfather and great grandson could never touch, brought together by both their efforts but in truth sundered forever.

"Nadir." Apart from last time, when he had made the introduction for the benefit of the others, this was always how he had addressed his ancestor. Neither of them ever mentioned their relation by blood, save again for last time, when they had explained to those who did not understand. Why should Defarge address the spirit as his great grandfather, and why should Nadir address him as the son of his daughter's son, when both of them already knew through their blood, deeper than any name or title? They saw each other as equals in their strange, unnatural partnership, and addressed each other as such.

"Darius." Nadir nodded his head in acknowledgement. "I am surprised that you contacted me again, so soon."

"It was necessary." But before he could begin to relate his own problems, he felt obliged to ask after those apparent ones of his elder. Though they treated each other as equals, there were times when age was deferred to, even though Nadir hadn't been much older than he was now at the time of his death. "What happened when…your friend…found out about Mademoiselle Daaé's escape?"

Nadir sighed, shaking his head. "He was furious beyond measure, more sad than furious and more vengeful than either emotion. He cast me out of his domain when I came to try and calm him down. He has renounced our friendship, and I know not what. I fear for him, and because of him."

"I am sorry, Nadir." But Defarge could not help inquiring further, for the sake of the others. "What do you think he will do? Will he be able to come after Mademoiselle Daaé again?"

"I do not think so. He is not strong enough for that, rage and rant though he may. He only managed to come to the masquerade because Christine was with him, as far as I can tell. Now she has gone, the power that came to him with the regaining of his body will undoubtedly diminish. Even the wards he has no doubt placed on his lair will fade, allowing me access again. As it should be. He should not be left alone at this time, even if only to have someone to throw things at."

Defarge did not know whether he should smile at that last statement or not, so he chose to say nothing more on the subject. Instead, he turned his attention to the matter at hand, swiftly explaining the condition of the children that gradually worsened with each passing day.

When he had finished, Nadir look more troubled than ever. "I feared that this might happen."

"You knew?" Usually Defarge never raised his voice during the summoning – he had never needed to, until now. "You knew that this might happen to those poor children? You knew that Raoul would have his life sucked out of him, that Carlotta would slowly and patiently starve to death and Meg and Cecile would walk in constant fear, and Christine…and you didn't tell us?"

A definite frown had come to Nadir's face. "You shouldn't look so surprised, Darius…or has all that I taught you simply run out of one ear? When dabbling with the spirit world, you cannot get something for nothing. It is a greedy, rapacious world, and there is always a price to pay. You would not even be able to speak with me now, if you did not make an offering of your blood. What should I have done? It was the only method available to you, and the young Vicomte would have gone through with it regardless of the danger, as, I'm sure, would the friends of Christine. Would it have done any good at all if I had told you all the truth?"

Defarge had to curb his annoyance, with some difficulty. Now was not the time to lose his temper. "It might have helped us to be more prepared for any side effects. But I have no time to argue with you, Nadir. Do you know of anything that can lift the effects?"

But Nadir was staring, staring wide eyed at something other than him. Confused, he looked around – what could there possibly be here that Nadir wanted to look at? – before noticing the ribbon. It was now a deeper, darker red than it had ever been before, and letting heavy droplets of red fall to vanish into the dusk. That was a lot of blood. He had wondered why he had not needed to refresh the ritual beforehand.

"Oh, no." The tone of Nadir's voice made him look back at his ancestor, to be shaken by the real, pure terror on his face. He had never seen Nadir look so frightened, had never seen anyone look so frightened, except for poor little Meg when she hid her eyes from a mirror. "Darius, you have to go back! Break off the connection, break it off right now!"

"But I wanted to ask-"

"Darius, can't you tell? You're losing blood, too much blood! Go back now!"

Darius couldn't see the fuss. It simply meant that Nadir would be able to stay longer to answer his questions, wouldn't it? "But I sealed my-"

"Go!"

At those words the key was torn from his forehead, the power of the circle at once vanished, and the dreamlike haze which always accompanied his visitations disappeared like a puff of air. Defarge was suddenly aware of the pain in his wrist, customary for a summoning and a sealing, but even more so now, because...because…

…because the gash was still open, still pouring out great bursts of blood, and the floor, the floor was covered in a huge pool of ghastly redness, his red blood, spreading out across the wooden floor, lapping against the candles, soaking his own knees and the box of matches.

Oh God, oh God, oh God!

He seized his wrist quickly, exerting pressure on the wound, trying to cut off the blood supply, trying to stop the flow, trying to stop his life leaking away before his eyes. Why didn't it close? I sealed it, I know that I did!

But his flesh would not seal now, no matter what he did. Without his meditation he could only attempt to seal the wound with his fingers. There was too much blood, too much, and it went on pouring between his clenched fingers, escaping through the gaps in the flesh like water out of a leaking jar; it sang down over the floor and added to the crimson lake that now stretched beyond the border of the candles, no matter what he did, no matter how hard he pressed, because his blood would not clot, could not clot, would not turn solid but kept on spilling out of him.

He opened his mouth wider than was needed for his previous gasps and tried to call, to scream for aid, for someone to come and help him, to try and stop the bleeding, but his tongue had locked in his throat in the full horror of what was happening to him, and he could not speak. As if he were watching from outside his damaged, draining body, he had no control over his actions, save to try futilely to close the wound.

I'm going to die, he realised, quite suddenly. My wound won't close. My blood won't clot. I'm going to die. I've lost too much. I'm…I'm going to die.

A sudden burst of weakness made him tip forward; he flung out his hand to save himself from splashing down into the pool of blood, meaning that his wrist was free to bleed all the more, and it did so, flooding down over his palm and his fingers, coating them in warm wet redness that stank of iron. The reek of his own blood was almost overpowering. He felt his stomach heave in protest.

But he was aware at the same time of the darkness encroaching rapidly from the corners of his eyes, spilling into his vision, curling across the sea of blood, until he thought that if he cried he would either weep tears of blood or of shadow. He knew what this was – other, far terrible spirits than Nadir had picked up the traces of blood, and a great deal of blood at that, and were even now swarming for the feast, straining and squirming to make their way into life. It mattered little than there was no connection to the Land of the Dead at present, when one had just been broken off. A newly broken bridge could be rebuilt surprisingly swiftly.

They will drain me, he thought suddenly, as he tried in vain to get a hold on his wrist again, though he knew that it was no good even as his fingers fumbled. They'll drink me dry. If I don't bleed to death, they'll suck all the life out of me. Just like that priest, in his cell…

Not like this. Not like this. Please, God, don't let me die like this!

He lost his balance, and toppled sideways and landed hard on the floor, the blood stinging his eyes and coating his tongue as he gasped and bubbled for air, sweet air that would not keep him alive for long.

"Grand-père," he whispered, half drunk with weakness and fear, choking on the metallic taste that burnt his throat. "Please, help me. Don't let me die. I don't want to die. Not like this."

Already it seemed too late. As his eyes closed he knew he was delirious, for he felt fingers upon him, hands clawing at him, one cradling his head, the other grasping his bleeding wrist, which was painful enough almost to bring him back, but not quite – and a voice, a voice crying out in anguish, a voice that he felt he should know but could not quite place at the moment.

"No, Darius; not you too! Not you as well! Please, no! Not this, never this! I won't let this happen!" There was an even greater pain in his wrist at those words, but he was hardly aware of the pain any more, so dulled was he to it by now.

It's too late, he thought calmly, not bothering to open his eyes. I'm only sorry I couldn't help the others.

It's too late, he thought again, as he drifted into a gentle sea of dark, sweet calm, wet cloying all around him, supporting him, caressing him.

But what will this look like, when I am found?

That was incentive enough to open his eyes again, to see the ceiling above him. Slowly, carefully, he raised his head to look around him. The candles had melted down in their wicks, so time had passed while he had floated in the dark sea, darker than the pool around him, and he was lying on his back, feeling the dampness of the blood soaking through the back of his shirt, and seeping through his hair. Most notable, however, was the lack of darkness at the corners of his eyes and the loss of wet warmth upon his wrist.

He turned his head, and looked at the end of his arm. He hardly dared to believe it when he saw the scabbed flesh, puckered but closed, closed to keep his blood in rather than out.

He let his head fall back to the boards, with a thump and a squelch, too tired and drained of more than his lifeblood even to breathe a prayer of gratitude. He was alive, and all that he could concentrate on now was breathing.

A little while later, when he could do more than breathe and blink slowly, he pushed himself up and away from the floor, his clothes near soaked through by now and sticking to his back in a less than pleasant fashion. It was odd; he should be disgusted, but all he was now was curious as he gazed at the blood that was soaking into the floor boards; still extremely liquid, even now, so long after it was shed.

I was right. My blood will not clot. It…no longer can.

It has come to me, as well.

Defarge lifted his wrist to gaze at the closed wound, still so susceptible to open again, and this time bleed until he ran dry. He could not risk making another cut, he could not risk it…

…he could not risk summoning Nadir again.

It was as simple as that.

He stared long and hard at his damaged, mended skin. Perhaps it had been a miracle. Or perhaps so much blood had summoned more than just hungry ghosts – maybe it had summoned a stronger version of the one he had wanted just then, more than anything in the world; the one he would now never see again.

"Well met, great grandfather," he whispered. "Well met indeed."

That wasn't too icky, was it? No, didn't think so. Who's been reading too many Garth Nix books? Yes, that would be me.

And who's been reading too much Stephen King? Yes, that would be me again.

Hemophilia – a disease usually only suffered by men, since they have a Y gene that can genetically carry the disease, where the blood lacks the ability to clot - is really scary. If you get even a tiny cut, you could bleed to death, since the cut wouldn't be able to close. Fortunately I don't know anyone who has it, which is a relief. I was once writing a story where one of my main female characters had it, but after my sister told me that the genes she got from her parents would have to be really messed up in order to do so (her father would have to have it, and her mother would have to have the latent gene for it – or something like that?) that in the end I gave it up as too confusing. And yes, I know you can't develop hemophilia right off the ball, since you're born with it, but indulge me, hmmm?

So, what will happen to our intrepid heroes next? Tune in for the next exciting episode of L'epoux cadavre!

(I've been listening to Girl Genius Radio theatre for far too long.)

Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!