Standard disclaimers apply.
"Let's go, Erik! Please!"
Her excitement is almost palpable, but he doesn't share it. He is struck with an inexplicable desire to protest, that they haven't had enough time — though time for what, he's not certain, since in a few hours they'll be back here as though they'd never left. But her eyes are wide and her grip is strong, and so he lets her lead him to the boat and then out into the startling moonlight.
She blinks slowly as she emerges into the street, gazing around as though in a daze. He's not sure she can remember the last time she was outside, that rainy night months ago when she cut her real marriage short and condemned herself to a life in the shadows. But the shadows aren't all darkness, for after all, a light is needed to cast them. Right now, he's not sure if that light is the full moon or Christine's expression.
Either way, it is stunning here. The breeze ghosts across his skin — if only he could remove the mask. But as soon as the thought crosses his mind an awareness of reality returns: who they are, what they are doing. They've already remained in one place for too long.
"We must hurry," he murmurs in her ear, placing his hand on her lower back and leading her down an alley. "It would be unwise to linger here … my bride."
Her smile is more radiant than he remembers the sun.
The church is dark as they approach through the damp grass, for which he is infinitely grateful despite the way it causes Christine's face to fall. He can only imagine what one would think if they were seen — two figures of notoriety, presumed dead, who undoubtedly look like corpses roaming among the graves …
"We can return another day," he tells her, slowing his step to pick up the train of her dress trailing behind her on the grass. The fabric has become frayed and dirtied in their walk here, but she hasn't seemed to notice. "There's no hurry."
"We don't need a priest," she tells him. "God will witness the marriage."
Or Lucifer, he thinks, but outwardly he smiles. "If that is agreeable to you, my dear." She smiles back, tugging him through the doors and to the alter, lit only by the moonlight streaming through the windows. Their footfalls echo off the vaulted ceiling, but there is no one to hear them.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he calls, his voice a combination of her Erik and the Opera Ghost. He's always had a flare for the dramatic, and he loves the way the thought of an audience, even an imaginary one, makes her smile. "Let the wedding of the esteemed Christine Daaé commence."
He knows it's really Christine de Chagny now, of course. The death of the vicomte and a few months underground haven't changed that. But their little charade can be performed however they want it to, and he wants her to be his alone.
"Not yet," she tells him, taking a step back. He stares at her, wondering what could possibly improve this moment any further. Then her fingers move to the edge of the mask, prying it gently from his face. He can feel the air on his skin, feel her hands on his cheeks. The covering falls to the floor and she kisses him, pulling him gently to her and capturing his lips with hers.
"Much better," she gasps as she pulls away.
"I believe the kiss comes after the vow, my dear," he says gruffly, trying to hide the fact that he is out of breath as well. She giggles.
"Well then, I take you to be my husband," she whispers in his ear, her lips pressed just above his jaw. "In sickness and in heath. For eternity." She pulls back, gazes at him expectantly. He's wanted this for so long — there is so much he wants to say — he opens his mouth to swear himself to her, to promise her his world—
The words catch in his throat at the sound of hooves on the cobblestone outside the chapel door.
Please please please let me know what you think! Reviews are confidence boosters, and will definitely encourage me to put the next chapter up sooner. Do you think they have a chance at a happy ending yet? (Do they even deserve it?)
Much love,
KnightNight