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He was surprised, really, that he hadn’t been cursed as a monster in his death. Yes, Ingway knew there was some blessing in Cornelius being the one to end his miserable existence. Yes, he knew he died in his mortal form. And, yes, he knew Odette was no longer around to deal punishment upon those she despised most.
But he knew he deserved it. He deserved to be trapped in a body he could not control, chained to cages of bone and stone. He had contributed to the destruction of the world. And what had he to show for it? He couldn’t kill the Demon King—his sister had stopped him. And he couldn’t destroy the cauldron—his own foolishness prevented that. He had sacrificed everything. And ended with less than nothing.
Many of the souls who passed him now could blame their deaths on him. Many more, probably, who were absorbed by the earth, or who were never destined to come here. Those who he would never see again, no matter how much he yearned it . . .
Perhaps this was his punishment. Few here actually knew he was a cause of their demise. Instead, Ingway had to deal with his guilt alone, too much the coward to entice them with the revenge they rightly deserved. He could forever be shredded inside by this guilt, rendered to shreds by the knowledge that he would never see the one person he had only wished to see one more time.
And, perhaps, he had. Thinking on it, he could only remember fragments of the world that had burned beneath his fangs as Darkova. He could see charcoaled wings, flesh impossible to identify from the poison’s power, flowers frozen forever in ice. He couldn’t recognize the features in any of those visions, but he knew where he had been. And he knew that there was the chance that, in his destruction, he may have also faced the Queen of the Fairies.
We shall meet again, he had said. It seemed such a strange thing to say at the time. He knew where his path would lead him, and knew that—if she were to survive—it would be best that their paths never crossed. And yet he had said it anyway. Somewhere, deep in his heart, he wanted so badly to see her again. Had he, with his cursed soul, cursed her as well? Cursed her to die among her people at his hands?
Those thoughts plagued him in slightly different forms as he forced himself to wander the land of death. He had forced himself to walk across valleys of bone, lakes of poison, desolate mountains of creatures long gone. If he was not to embrace punishment from the other souls, at least he could punish himself.
It was in these wanderings that he found that single flower. It was the first thing that made him pause. The first time he stopped for longer than he could remember. It was such a delicate thing, glowing with such a weak energy that it seemed closer to death than anything else. But the petals were unmarked, the stem showing no sign of plucking or damage.
It reminded him so much of looking at her—that radiant energy so much more than he deserved.
Thinking about it, it seemed odd that there were no ghouls here. Everywhere he had gone, there had been something. But, without a leader, they seemed disinclined to attack—unless they were truly bored. But there weren’t any here. Perhaps it was the light the silly thing emanated—even Ingway could not look directly at it, the pain hitting straight to his head and his chest.
Perhaps this was his punishment. The pain clung to him, never fading no matter how long he stayed. And the memories of her struck even deeper into his soul.
He could stay here. He could relish in the pain that endless, undefined wandering could never provide. If the curse upon him was stronger, it would die and he would be alone again. If this was his new curse, then he would take it and atone for the crimes he would never do enough to be cleaned of.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the small white flower. It almost seemed to look at him, watching, waiting. Wondering what he might do. Gods, it reminded him so much of her. Always so lost, always hoping for someone else to take the initiative. But when she did—oh, she had been such a sight to behold. And he had left before he had even seen the best of it.
He had left, and had said so little. He had abandoned so many of the things that he had wished to say, knowing it more of a risk to tell her the words he hoped she wished to hear. He could put it off to an undefined time. He could die and hope she would forget him forever.
“I have never cared for someone more than I have cared for you.” He said, surprised at his own words.
The flower shifted with an unseen breeze, more likely the result of his movement. But could the dead truly move the air? Could a man truly rid of his sins by speaking of them?
Somehow, painful as it was, it seemed the flower listened. Even if it said nothing, even if it heard nothing, there seemed to be the unspoken promise that it would listen. He suddenly felt so tired, so weighed down by all of it. What point was there in standing? If the ghouls were to come and torment him, he would deserve it.
With a small sigh, he lay down on his chest, watching the small blossom shift.
“I should have stayed.” He muttered. “I should never have gone on my foolish quest. You looked beyond revenge,” he chucked, “yes, I heard but did not learn.” He had been so impressed by her actions. But, back then, he just seemed blinded by the fact that he still had the chance to personally destroy his father, thinking that was the source of his joy, and not her success.
“I wish I could have spent every moment with you. That I could have been there as your shield. I am . . . a fool could never begin to describe it.”
“I know.” A too familiar voice came from the flower, curling around him like a warm embrace. He expected it to be full of thorns, but somehow it wasn’t. Somehow it was the first time in a long time that he could feel as if he were by her side once more. “I understand.”
He blinked, propping himself up on one arm. “Mercedes?”
Was this another punishment? Was this just another thing that he deserved? Just to hear voices?
“’Tis impossible.” He muttered, shaking his head. “The Fairy Queen is too stubborn to know forgiveness.”
He could hear her giggle, practically imagine it bouncing off the walls as she brought her hand to her face. As her braids bounced with the movement. As her wings fluttered slightly as he teased and smiled with her.
What had he done to deserve this?
“I couldn’t leave you alone.” It was clear now that the voice was not his imagination. The rest, perhaps, was still a figment of his mind. “You could have made yourself less difficult to find.” He could practically hear the pout.
He couldn’t resist the smile on his lips. “You know how it is. We frogs blend in.”
He knew he would never be able to touch her or see her smile or hold her small hand. He could only conjure those from his memories, limited as they were. If he touched her petals, trying to make them more tangible, he may only curse her once more and be alone again—for eternity.
But being here like this, lying in the small pool of light she provided and hearing her voice, he knew he could be happy till time met its end.