Flowers for a Ghost

Every Thursday Isaac went to the cemetery. He sat for hours in front of Cruella's tomb and sometimes he even talked to her. He knew that she wouldn't have listened – not even if she had been alive – but the action had somehow a cathartic effect; he felt her closer than ever.

Maybe because, now that she was death, accepting to love her seemed easier.

Now he could idealize her how much he wanted, crystallize her in whatever image of lost angel, and simply remember her as the blonde Cinderella he had danced with so many years before. After all, he still could see those sparkling blue eyes in his mind.

Every Thursday he allowed himself to honor his unlived love and every Thursday he brought a single bluebell.

And it was white, as the deceptive purity he had loved of her.

It was Friday the day Ursula left her undersea Kingdom to come back on land; her only destination was Storybrooke's cemetery. She stopped in front of Cruella's tomb for no more than some minutes and simply stared at that wooden coffin that was sealing her best friend. She just stared at it, without ever talking, partly because she thought it was useless, but partly because she actually didn't know what to say.

Maybe because, now that she was death, pretending not to love her seemed easier.

Now she could reduce her to nothing, lessen her own feelings to dust and just remember her only like someone who was gone. After all, this time there wouldn't have been her sparkling blue eyes to make her crumble.

Every Friday she allowed herself to honor her unconfessed love and every Friday she brought a single bluebell.

And it was black, as the damned darkness she had loved of her.

Isaac wondered many times about the identity of the other visitor, but he asked that with curiosity rather than jealousy. In fact, he didn't mind seeing the black bluebells and thinking of the fact that someone else had loved his diabolic angel; it meant that someone else would have retained the memory of her – even if different from his one -, it meant that someone else could have shared his pain.

One day, he not too much accidentally delayed the weekly visit of a day, and it was then that he found the answer of his questions. He was just arrived in fact, when he saw a woman standing in front of the precious coffin with the well-known black flower in her hands. He approached her slowly and, even if she was giving him her back, he recognized her immediately as one of the villains of his fairytale: it was the sea witch and a strange smile escaped his lips at that realization. Maybe the two women had been friends, maybe they had loved each other: he didn't know. But the truth wash he didn't care; it was someone who still cared for Cruella and the thing seemed to lessen for a moment his suffering.

"She was very loved, wasn't she?"

Ursula turned her head defensively, but it just took to see the man for her to relax, against any expectation. She knew very well who he was and she knew at least a part of his story; without knowing him, she had hated him along with Lars Feinberg and every other man who had entered her Cruella's life, but now that Cruella was dead, it didn't matter anymore.

None of them could have had her now, none of them could have loved her anymore, and in pain they were more allies than enemies.

That's why she just gave him a bitter smile. "Yes, but maybe she didn't even know how much"

With a deep sigh, Ursula looked back at the place where Cruella was. For the first time she cried, while for the first time he was able to hold his tears. They remained for some minutes in silence just staring at the coffin, until they let fall at the same time each bluebell.

There were dozens of them - curiosly none wilted - and they covered all the coffin so much that the banal wood couldn't be seen anymore. Now it had gained a glamorous touch, a personal touch, now it almost seemed that Cruella De Vil could rest in peace, despite how much that words could sound strange.

"Goodbye, Cru" Ursula murmured with her broken voice, feeling suddenly ready to let her go forever.

"Farewell, darling" Isaac echoed her and in the painful irony of that epithet there was the same intention of the sea witch.

But yet, every Thrusday there would have been a new white bluebell, and every Friday a new black one.