He couldn't seem to find the right words —  who knew vows were so... difficult? Wording and rewording, over and over again, as he walked through the dark and freezing forest with the ring clutched in his hand.

Fyodor couldn't even get past half of the first sentence, and he'd had half a mind to just give up until a wave of confidence struck him in that moment of desperation. The words flowed out of his mouth with ease, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

“...With this candle, I will light your way through the darkness,” He continued, holding the ring between his index and thumb. “And with this ring, I ask you to be mine.” He smiled, placing the ring on the end of what he'd assumed to be a branch, proud of himself.

Although that moment of pride didn't last very long. A sinking feeling washed over him so abruptly when said 'branch' — which had turned out to be a hand — suddenly moved and the ground around it started to break.

Arising from the snow-covered soil, there stood you in all your glory; deathly pale and features sunken, adorned in what were once beautiful wedding garments and yet it did not tarnish your elegance.