Standard disclaimers apply.
The sudden shift in the air feels like a twisted sort of springtime, sharp and sweet and free. If there's a whisper of tragedy in the wind, there's no way to tell if it comes from the future or is only an echo of a distant, horror-filled past. He can't find it within him to hold back anymore, isn't even sure what he was holding back for. The fear that she could be destroyed somehow is gone. How could he ever think his Christine was anything but invincible?
It's true that she has changed, in ways he only somewhat understands, but she is still here all the same. She is still his. And as she argued with him, over their prospects of marriage and happily ever after, he saw that again for the first time in months. Their reversal of roles — her in favor of a conceivably ill-fated marriage and him fighting against their undeniable connection — is unprecedented to say the least, but he's been persuaded, if nothing else, that this isn't over. It's only beginning. And as far as beginnings go, it is a good one, much better than either of them deserve.
"What will you wear?" he murmurs into her hair late the next afternoon. They haven't quite found their way out of bed yet, but they are still, curled quietly together and lazily conscious of the hemiola that is their heartbeats.
She pretends to think about it for a moment, then smiles at him and laughs. He closes his eyes and lets the sound wash over him. The lightness of her voice — how it rings rich with feeling the way her singing used to when she stood before a crowd — almost brings him to tears. Oh, how he's missed his angel.
"Do you even have to ask?" she whispers. She rolls from the bed and dashes from the room, draped only in the sheet. By the time he catches her she has pulled on the gown he made for her a lifetime ago, and is struggling to fasten the buttons on the back.
"You look lovely," he says as he moves to help her. It's a different sort of lovely than the way she was once — the fabric hangs loosely on her thin shoulders, the pale color washing out her gaunt face even more. Knotted curls straggle down her back, a spiderweb of waves criss-crossing over the lace. She looks … ethereal. A ghostly queen, perhaps something from the Underworld. Out of her line of sight he winces, regretful he saw that thought to completion. It's a far cry from the angel he prefers to see her as, after all.
Well, no one said Hell had to be torment for the devil, he thinks to console himself. Down here, they make the rules. And they are happy and beautiful, because they say so. Even he can be the hero of a nightmare.
None of that changes the fact that he's apprehensive to venture above ground once more, even if it is for a wedding.
"Let's go now," she says when the dress is more or less secure, her arms crossed across her chest to keep the bodice from slipping. It's almost as if she can sense the second thoughts forming in his mind. "We can be married and back before sunrise." Her eyes widen, pleading. "It will be perfect."
If only he could share her belief that they were still able to emerge from their little world and remain unscathed.
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Much love,
KnightNight