Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Gaston Leroux or Susan Kay. Please don't sue me.
Author's Notes: I'm not exactly sure why I wrote this. It's morbid-ish. It's also not my writing at its best, so please, bear with me for now. I'm just in the mood for writing freaky little onshots like this.
The Corpse And His Bride
By Charites
The worshipper stands by the angel silently, unmoving. He gazes down at the marble countenance lovingly, but he does not touch. Nor does he show any sign of leaving. No, he stays, watching with a gentle eye. Watching…and waiting.
Coffins are places of rest. And so she rested, cushioned on a bed of dazzling red satin, her hands folded peacefully on her breast, her eyes closed. Her golden curls spread out around her head, appropriately like a halo.
The room was unnaturally dark. It was lit by the flickering light of a single black mourning candle placed on the dais, near the coffin. The candle had once been tall, but it had burnt down to half its height, surrounded by an oily mass of its own wax. It gave no comfort or warmth to the scene; all it did was accent the shadows.
The air was sharp with the metallic scent of blood that had spread, like a poisonous cloud, from the coffin, and also from a stained bundle in the corner. The man next to the coffin smiled absent-mindedly. He didn't sense the smell, simply because he didn't remember why it should have been there. What was the point of dwelling on the past when the future held so much more? His mind had been wiped clean, erased of all bloodshed and tragedy. There was only the wait ahead, a wait that became shorter with every second that passed…
Underneath the mask, Erik smiled. He didn't see the bloodied bundle on the floor, or the dark stains on the inside of the coffin. He only saw his sleeping bride, his own angel, lying on a bed of red satin. He only smelt the scent of roses on her skin, so sweet that he was almost compelled to reach out and touch her. Almost but not quite.
He wouldn't break the spell.
It wasn't time yet.
One look would suffice…for now.
Slowly, holding his breath, he lifted himself onto the dais and looked down properly into the coffin. He looked again. He screamed.
Christine didn't stir. She lay where she was, like a vision from heaven, her beauty unmarred. Even in death. It was her blood that stained the sides of the coffin and the blade of the dagger clenched in her hand. And her wrists.
Erik reached out for her now, to grab her shoulders and shake her, crying out her name again and again. No more need to be afraid of waking her, though his cries and moans were loud enough to wake the dead. But they didn't.
He had ventured over the brink of sanity, only to have himself thrown back without warning. His newly cleared mind tortured him with its sharp knives of remembrance and understanding, stabbed him mercilessly and cut his heart to pieces. The memories rushed back to him all at once, but their details were unclear. It was still enough. In agony, he writhed and fell.
The boy. A knife, not the one Christine held, a different one. Christine…no, she wasn't there. It was just he and the boy, the Vicomte.
His surroundings were different…not his home. A corridor…one of the many in the opera house. Silence, except for the Vicomte's ragged breathing.
"You can't win her love by making her your prisoner!" Whilst normally, those words would have angered him, all Erik felt was a moment of cool contempt.
"She is not my prisoner."
"How can you keep my fiancé with you by force and tell me that she is not your prisoner?" The Vicomte spoke angrily, made bold and purged of fear by his fury. The words echoed around Erik's head. My fiancé…fiancé…fiancé…Everything turned red. A cry of pain…Erik's own. He reached into his cloak, gripping the lasso concealed there…a scream…a snap…silence again. The cold handle of the knife pressing into his palm…the sudden spurt of warm, sticky liquid…leaving the body but taking the head.
Darkness.
Christine's screams. The bang of a door. Then…nothing.
Erik clutched at the side of the coffin, gasping for air, yet not quite managing to breathe. He was drowning in a sea of blood, her blood. The current yanked him down, further and further, till all he could see was the swirling redness around him.
He sank.
In the coffin, his blood mingled with hers, joining them, at least, in that way.
The corpse and his bride.