It isn't supposed to go this way. She shouldn't be here. Then, though, this is the border of Ringford; where else could he expect her to be as Armageddon rained down on the world? She's a queen, a strong, brave, pure warrior-queen who defeated the beast Darkova. She isn't the problem; of course it's him. He's the one that shouldn't be here. A million things done wrong, every day of his miserable, mislead life, and he despairs that his mother's curse couldn't have killed him years ago. The Fairy Queen lays dying in the burning remains of her kingdom, a fate that should have been his.
A branch crashes to the ground close by, and the sparks rise and swarm like hornets. Her slim shoulders weigh so little, and her faltering smile is so sweet. He can feel his voice breaking higher as he soothes her, bolted frozen into the ground by the guilt and the realization rising up in him.
It had been such a story he'd made for himself here, a story about the person he wasn't and couldn't be, about the rogue and the princess, and it had been daring and dangerous and perfect. Everybody knows the frog gets the girl in the end, and it was true; he had--but in the end, he hadn't wanted that kiss. He'd gotten to like being a frog, and he knew that once the frog was a man again, all the guarantees were gone. Men had duties to attend to, scores to settle that they couldn't ignore. Stories about men and women could end any kind of way, and that's why it was all going so wrong now. He'd tried to end it the best way he could, leaving her with a promise to hold onto for long enough that by the time she knew the difference, it would be too late, and she'd never have to know how the story of the prince of Valentine ended. She was never supposed to see him again.
She's stopped breathing. At the treeline, the flames are growing brighter, kindling afresh as, without the queen's power to stave them off, they reach inward for the heart of the forest. The sob catches in his throat as she begins her return to the forest, the light suffusing in her wings glowing like the sun through stained glass. He tries to pull her close at the last, but too late, as the light of her flares brightly and disperses. Anguish rises up through him and the tears he held back for her sake spill free, but fall for nothing. He curses them as useless, wasted, his hands clenching in the empty space where Mercedes had lain.
Distantly, he can hear footsteps, laughter in the heart of the flames. Bowing his head, he renounces defiance and anger, praying that whatever approaches, it will be swift and brutal. Hopeless, and heartsore beyond measure, he slumps in his mantle, fists falling lax to his sides as he sinks fully to his knees and listens to the fires rise.
Sort of half-fanfic, half-retelling, this is in large part my interpretation of the Mercedes/Ingway relationship, as seen from his end. I was fascinated by the impression I got that he loved Mercedes because, with her, he could be the dashing rogue he would much rather be than the young man he actually is--scarred, bitter, revenge-seeking, manipulative, and angry. She didn't know any of his messy history, so it didn't matter with her. In any case, I'm rather bitter that they both die in 'the good ending.'
This is the first serious thing I've written for a non-original story in some time, so any thoughts or comments are, as ever, much appreciated.