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Prince Lyon does not penalize him for failing to deliver Princess Eirika and Prince Ephraim. Orson crumples with relief, and thanks every star in the sky that Prince Lyon is so forgiving, so understanding. He completed his betrayal, he can no longer go back, and the only way forward is through Prince Lyon’s generosity.
Without Prince Lyon, Orson would be dead, and Monica would never live again. He is appropriately grateful, and appropriately relieved. Orson isn’t afraid of dying, but imagining a world where Monica never smiles again is more painful to him than even death. If it meant that Monica’s smiles would never fade, he would die over and over again.
For his reward, they exhume Monica, and bring her to what had once been the king’s rooms. The colors are vibrant, the furniture soft to the touch and comfortable, and they lay her out on the bed. To his eyes she looks like she’s sleeping, like he might be able to just reach out and shake her awake. Thanks to Prince Lyon, this is a reality just around the corner.
The resurrection magic is dark, black and thick. It drips from Lyon’s outstretched hands like honey from a spoon, and spreads across the floor like a viscous fog. Orson shivers, and keeps himself to a corner. He should be by Monica’s side, waiting and waiting and waiting for her eyes to open once more. He should be there, waiting to be the first person she sees, when she wakes up from death and returns to him.
It’s just that the magic frightens him. It sucks all the light from the room, eating up what the sunny window and the glowing runes and lamps provide, and leaves Orson blinking against the gloom. Whatever Lyon’s magic is doing, Orson can’t see it. Whatever the magic is doing, Orson doesn’t want to see it. It’s unnatural, and he’s frightened.
When it stops, when the light floods back and blinds him, Orson scrambles forward to Monica’s side. He takes her hand, and waits with his heart in his throat. Any moment now, she’ll wake up to see him. Any moment now, she’ll blink and call him darling.
“You have what you want.” Lyon says. “Thank you for your service.”
When Orson looks up, Lyon is gone. Monica does not open up her eyes to look at him, and Lyon is gone. “What?” Monica is still sleeping, why has he gone? How could this be what he wants? Is this not the exact opposite of what he asked for?? Standing up, Orson stares at the closed door. Is this not the opposite of what he asked for?
“Orson, darling…”
“Monica?” Where is she? Orson spins around, looking and - there. There! There…
“Monica?” And there she is, shinging and beautiful. Just like how he remembers her being, before illness had struck her down and stolen her vibrance. She looks at him, and her eyes are clear and open. He almost forgets that she is also there on the bed, limp and unmoving.
“Orson?” She asks, and she glides closer, and her feet don’t touch the ground. Has she come back to him as an angel? Did the saint send her back with wings he can’t see? “Darling, what happened?” Monica falls to her knees, and she just looks at him. “You look so tired, darling.”
“Oh, I am tired,” Orson says, with a little chuckle. “I am so tired, but things are much better now that you’re here, my dove.” He reaches for her, but stops when he watches her catch sight of herself on the bed.
“Darling,” she says, and her hands go to her mouth. She looks scared, and when he reaches to hold her his hands go right through, as if she’s not even there. “Orson, what?”
“I did it for you,” Orson hurries to say. “The whole castle is ours, the king is gone, the prince and princess too. Prince Lyon made sure we had everything we need to be happy again, maybe even more happy than before.
“I did it for you.”
Monica pulls away, and Orson’s attempts to hold her hand, to keep her with him fail. He can’t touch her. He can’t touch her .
“Orson, what have you done.” And she’s upset with him, he can tell. She sounds so scared, and he can’t touch her . He can’t comfort her the way she needs. “What did you do .”
She touches her own hand, and shivers.
“I made a deal with Prince Lyon.” Orson explains, “He asked me to give Ephraim to him, and he would help me save you. He wouldn’t hurt Ephraim, they’re friends, and Lyon loves him. And you’re here, you’re back.
“We can go back to being a family, Dove. We can be together again. This is a blessing,” he insists, when all she does is gently trace her fingers over her corpse’s face. “I’m so thankful for this. Monica, please, look at me. I’m here and I love you. I did this for you, for us.”
“Darling,” Monica says sofly, and she looks horribly sad, “what have you done?” She ghosts her hands over her own hair, unable to touch what had once been her body. After a moment, she looks right at him, “Where has the king gone?”
“He’s...Grado took him.” Orson reluctantly admits. “But we can have this, Prince Lyon and the Emperor made me Renais’ regent. We can finally have the luxury I couldn’t afford to give you.”
“I don’t want this.” She says firmly. “I have never wanted this.”
“But, Dove,” he argues.
“No, my darling. I don’t want this. You...Orson, what have you done ?”
“I made us safe again.”
She shakes her head. “No.” She shakes her head again, and her lovely face twists up in angerl. “No, you didn’t.” A lingering glance at her own body, and Monica shakes her head again. “I don’t want this. Darling, I don’t want this.
“You should have let me go.”
“Don’t, don’t say that. You can’t mean it.”
His hands go through her again, when he tries to take up her hand, when he tries to hold her, give her comfort. “Don’t say that. Love, this is a blessing.” Orson tries again, and again, and every time his hands go right through her. This is maddening, this isn’t what he wanted. “Please, Monica.” Is this really what he wanted?
“I...I need to be alone.” Monica finally said, after letting a silence grow large and heavy between them. “Orson, I need you to leave.” He stares at her, wide-eyed and confused. “Go!” She commands, angry, and he goes.
She’ll understand eventually. They’re together again, after all, and that’s the only thing that matters.