Hi all. This is my first try at this, so I'd love some creative feedback. These characters, of course, don't belong to me.

His living bride.

He still couldn't believe she had said it, rejecting his offer, in the end, to let her go.

"I will marry you, Erik," she had said, even after he had kissed her and set her free.

He sighed at her stubbornness. "You love him," he said. "Go be with him. You owe me nothing."

"No, I want to stay with you. I see now how much my love is worth to you, and I would never mean that much to him, though he loves me."

"Christine, don't throw your life away. With me, your days will be lived out in darkness," he said, his conscience straining against everything else in him that wanted her.

"Light them up for me," she had invited, smiling gently and taking his cold hand.

The carriage stopped in front of Saint-Sulpice. This was the church of the poor, the anonymous. Its ugly, mismatched towers and seedy surroundings driving away anyone interested in appearances. Erik felt confident in his choice as they left the dark carriage—the few people walking the nearby streets were as eager to be unnoticed as he was.

Climbing the church steps they past a cluster of gypsies gathering on the massive church's portico against the chill of the night. A young woman with a whimpering bundle cradled in one arm stepped in front of Christine with an eager outstretched palm.

Erik stepped in front of her protectively, but she gently pulled him back. Searching in vain through her purse for a coin, she finally closed the little bag and pulled off her gloves, handing them to the girl, who took them without a word, pulling the warm gloves onto her chapped hands.

Kind, he thought, wordlessly guiding her up the rest of the steps. She was always kind. But he drove away the thought as it convicted his conscience even more. It didn't even bear mentioning that he didn't deserve her, but she chose this. She chose him.

"You swear to me that this is what you want—" he had asked her anxiously, "you want to marry me, and stay with me, even though I told you you were free to leave and marry the boy? I swear I won't hurt either of you, or anyone else, no matter what you choose. I want to know what you truly want."

"I truly want to marry you," she said, raising her fingers to his naked face, "Raoul doesn't need me—he could find happiness with nearly anyone else. You, however, have no one else."

"And so you simply pity me," he added grimly, pulling away from her touch, "and you stay with me out of some sense of Christian charity, or some other ridiculous compunction."

"No! You know that's not true, and you mock me by saying it. I care deeply for you, as I've told you—shown you—before. Why are you trying to push me away?"

Why was he trying to convince her to leave him? She had just granted his wildest wish, and yet he had resisted her.

"Because I love you too well," he decided finally, "to keep you trapped in darkness with me…"

"May I have a moment, Erik?" she asked quietly, interrupting his thoughts. He hesitantly released her, regarding her watchfully as she dipped her fingers into one of the huge bivalve shells that served Saint-Sulpice as holy water fonts, the gift of some king long ago. She crossed herself, and moved quietly into one of the darkened side chapels and knelt, her face illuminated by the flickering light a few smoky candles left at the shrine.

He stood uncomfortably, waiting in the shadow of one of the massive columns that supported the hulking vaulted ceiling. He always felt awkward in churches—they were for the living, the penitent, and he was already dead and already damned.

Or at least he would be damned in a moment, he thought, as he watched Christine pray. His joy at the prospect of marrying her momentarily was only rivaled by his guilt—could a demon ever make this reverent angel happy?

She chose me, he reminded himself again, pushing those thoughts away. She lingered still, so he chose a chapel of his own. This one held a small statue of an older man with a bunch of lilies cradled in one arm, and a child in the other, standing on a plinth over an altar. St. Joseph—guardian of virgins.

The coincidence prickled his conscience yet again.

I'll take care of her, he insisted in his mind, to no one in particular. She will never want for anything, as long as I live. The saint continued his benign gaze down at him.

"I'm ready, Erik," came a soft voice behind him. He turned, struck for the thousandth time by her beauty. Dark curls, a small form, and a soft, graceful way about her left him drunk if he admired her too long. He shouldn't be doing this...

"You're sure?" he asked again, softly, sadly.

"Of course," she said, taking his hand gently, leading him toward the transept. "Don't be afraid, Erik."

A few moments later a young gypsy woman watched as the strange couple left the church, hand in hand. She didn't usually pay the gorgios any mind—they sometimes threw coins, sometimes stones, and she often couldn't tell the difference. But this lady was different. The girl had never own anything as fine as this lady's soft embroidered kid gloves, and she had never been shown such artless regard in her young life.

As the kind lady and the dark gentlemen returned to their carriage in front of the church and left, the simple girl hoped that they had good food and somewhere warm to stay that night—the grandest wish she knew to make for their happiness.