I own no characters in this fanfic - I just teamed them up with a lot of words, wedding vows I do not own, made-up middle names, and a made-up event to create this.

'Do you, David Lazarus Oliver Larrabee, knowing this woman's love for you and returning it, realizing her strengths and learning from them, recognizing her weaknesses and helping her to overcome them, take Elizabeth Cordelia Tyson as your lawfully wedded wife?'

The clipped voice of the solemn minister, wrapped in his white robes and pink stole, who worked devotedly for this thirteenth-century, faded red brick church, with its elegant high beams and marble statues of the Virgin Mary with baby Jesus, that stood on a hill overlooking a precious aquamarine-blue river, filled the church. The vows, once stamped in David's mind as a pointless declaration of obvious love that made the wait for bedding the bride even longer, appealed to the congregation earnestly, all of which were elaborately dressed in pin-tucked dresses, feathered hats and pearls. The father of the bride leaned forward, waiting for the two words to follow next, waiting to hear the younger, handsomer son of the rich Larabee family bind himself in a lawful contract with the man's beautiful daughter, the bride, who had served the Tyson family well in capturing the heart of such a wealthy man, fresh out of three marriages yet willing to jump into another, with a gloriously large sum of money in his belt and a face so tanned and handsome, and always a wide smile.

'I do.'

Philip Tyson sat back, his interest wavering. His wife, Maria Tyson, had tears spilling down her powdered cheeks and dripping onto the pink silk of dress, which was new and cost an arm and a leg. Her kerchief, which lay on her lap unused, was embroidered with 'David and Elizabeth, 8th June 1954'. Beside her, in beige muslin with a large-brimmed black hat, sat Maude Larrabee, the groom's proud mother, and next to her was the groom's elderly, ambitious, sometimes sour father, rich Oliver Larrabee. He claimed to be looking more forward to the money the marriage would give him than the wedding itself - but Philip knew that this match would benefit him for than them, for sure.

'Do you, Elizabeth Cordelia Tyson, knowing this man's love for you and returning it, knowing his strengths and learning from them, recognizing his weaknesses and helping him to overcome them, take David Lazarus Oliver Larrabee as your lawfully wedded husband?'

David Larrabee's mind flipped as he waited for his bride's answer. Elizabeth looked stunning; the decision, against the two mothers, for a Victorian-esque wedding gown had paid off; the two thick white satin straps that hung off-the-shoulder, adorned with lace bows and fake red roses, looked as sexy as fishnet stockings (which, David recalled mercilessly, his last bride has worn to their wedding). The neckline was low and the bodice clung to Elizabeth's curves, ending with a point at the centre of the hips, and going onto a vast skirt and train; all made of creaseless white satin. Her curled short hair, perfect blonde, was all but a fringe, hidden behind a frothy veil that touched her ankles, over a pearl tiara lent from her mother. She was a much more beautiful bride than either of David's previous wives, and much more a woman - there wasn't any doubt that she would do to him what the others had done. There would be no divorce; she would have to die before reconciling her vows.

He hadn't loved her whilst there was that fair maiden wafting around Long Island - what was her name? He hadn't thought of her since she boarded a ship to Paris. Not long after, his elder brother Linus had joined her - ah, Linus in love! It was definitely unexpected. But at least he kept the fair lady away from here. Her name, her name… Sabrina!

Sabrina. Oh, Sabrina, with her dark crop, mysterious eyes, chic allure… David's heart skipped with nostalgia of their waltz at that one party, her in the white and black dress, her in the glamorous suit when he first saw her by Glencoe Train Station, how she played him like a lovesick fool in his sport car as they cruised home to the Larrabee estate… oh, Sabrina, the Parisian delight! Oh, Sabrina, and her soft lips, and the way she kissed, so tenderly yet overflowing with passion! Sabrina, David's girl, now Linus's girl. Sabrina Fair.

'I do.'

Elizabeth grinned up at David, as he clumsily slipped the gold band down her long ring finger, sealing the deal.

'Let these rings serve as locks - not binding you together - but as keys, unlocking the secrets of your hearts for each other to know, and thus bringing you closer together forever.' said the minister.

'And now,' the man continued. 'David and Elizabeth, seeking the fulfilment of love and marriage, find again that the poet Gibran speaks for them:'

He nodded, and David, with Elizabeth echoing after him, spoke the passionate declaration of Gibran, allowing seconds to slip through the pauses as one line threaded onto another, like the string of pearls around Elizabeth's long kissable neck.

'Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and to give thanks to another day of living. To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy. To return home eventide with gratitude, and sleep with a prayer; for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise on your lips.'

It had been Elizabeth's idea to use this in the vows. Sweet, honest, lovable Elizabeth, with her scheming father and hopeless mother, her pretty face, her artfully sculpted body, her stylish taste, her innocent mind, her irresistible purity, her desire to please and to be loved and to love. She was the ideal woman - she was not dangerously desirous like David's three wives, nor chicly attractive like Sabrina, but enrapturing, delicately striking, modest - what matched, not mirrored, David exactly. David realized, far too late, that she was The One, and that divorce and shipping Sabrina - and Linus, as it turned out! - away was the best act he had ever had the mind to perform.

It was his pleasure when the minister cried, for the whole tearful congregation, 'I pronounce you husband and wife!' with as much happiness as he could muster. David, he smoothly glided a few steps so one shiny toe trod on the hem of the bridal gown, wrapped his arms around Elizabeth's waist, and allowed their two heads to come together, and their lips to touch.

The congregation jumped to their feet and clapped. It sounded like rain on a tin roof. Yet David, content, kept his wife in his arms and their kiss continuing. His mind emptied of thought on the three wives, of Linus on his Parisian rendezvous with Sabrina Fair, in her magnificent ball gown. He concentrated on the moment, of being newly wed to a gorgeous woman, and when she pulled away - as a woman brought up right would after a minute or so - he pulled her in again, and they shared another moment when they blanked out the rest of the world, wedding bands securely on their fingers, and they kissed, and kissed - the best gesture in the world surely possible - until their lips were numb, and they had to pull apart.

They walked down the aisle, stepped out of the old church and into a black Bentley, gleaming with shine, and when that drove away, and they were sure no one judgemental enough to tell them not to, to tell them they could not, David drew his new wife to him. 'I love you, my wife.' he breathed. Those three words he had hardly said since, well, forever! But it felt right.

Elizabeth's eyes moistened. 'I love you, my husband.' she repeated. Words became irrelevant, and the new Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee made good show of their love and indulged themselves in another passionate smooch, listening to the bells chime, melting into the intensity of their kisses.