Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own POTO. It belongs to M. Leroux, ALW, and
several other people I don't remember at the moment.
I rubbed my hands together nervously behind my back. I wasn't sure whether I would explode from anxious anticipation or joy. The day had finally come; I was standing at the altar, watching my beloved glide up the aisle to meet the priest and myself.
We had both been through so much in the past several months. Oh, the triumphs, the tragedies! They were the triumph of our love and her triumph on stage, and the tragedies of the forlorn soul that had haunted both the Opera House and her dreams. That insane genius that had almost killed us all with his raging, passionate hopes and desires.
Christine looked healthier now, fresher, more alive. The angel that both earth and hell had cried out to for salvation was the face of peaceful beauty, dressed in white lace.
I admit that I had been prepared to kill that monstrous figure that had played with my childhood friend's mind, but in the end, compassion had prevailed upon him, and in his humanity he found…the courage and strength to release her, to release us. Now, I felt a strange kind of pity for him. As a civilized man, I knew he didn't deserve it; as a human being, I knew he deserved so much more.
But he didn't matter now. She was at the altar now, peering up shyly at me from beneath her veil.
As the priest began to speak, I suddenly realized that she had grown up so much in the past few weeks. She had lost her childlike naiveté, and it had instead been replaced with new, albeit still innocent, confidence. Christine Daaé was a woman; the little girl whose scarf I had rescued was an adult now, and I couldn't have been prouder of her.
"…do you, Raoul, Vicomte de Changy, take Christine Daaé as your lawful wedded wife?"
I drew in a deep breath, and said smiling, "I do."
I rubbed my hands together nervously behind my back. I wasn't sure whether I would explode from anxious anticipation or joy. The day had finally come; I was standing at the altar, watching my beloved glide up the aisle to meet the priest and myself.
We had both been through so much in the past several months. Oh, the triumphs, the tragedies! They were the triumph of our love and her triumph on stage, and the tragedies of the forlorn soul that had haunted both the Opera House and her dreams. That insane genius that had almost killed us all with his raging, passionate hopes and desires.
Christine looked healthier now, fresher, more alive. The angel that both earth and hell had cried out to for salvation was the face of peaceful beauty, dressed in white lace.
I admit that I had been prepared to kill that monstrous figure that had played with my childhood friend's mind, but in the end, compassion had prevailed upon him, and in his humanity he found…the courage and strength to release her, to release us. Now, I felt a strange kind of pity for him. As a civilized man, I knew he didn't deserve it; as a human being, I knew he deserved so much more.
But he didn't matter now. She was at the altar now, peering up shyly at me from beneath her veil.
As the priest began to speak, I suddenly realized that she had grown up so much in the past few weeks. She had lost her childlike naiveté, and it had instead been replaced with new, albeit still innocent, confidence. Christine Daaé was a woman; the little girl whose scarf I had rescued was an adult now, and I couldn't have been prouder of her.
"…do you, Raoul, Vicomte de Changy, take Christine Daaé as your lawful wedded wife?"
I drew in a deep breath, and said smiling, "I do."