21
Looking back at his life he could name but a few moments when he felt truly happy. He was happy when he married and bedded his wife for the first time: she was beautiful and passionate, and her body delivered all it promised then – unlike later, when she came to despise him and barely tolerated his touch, turning her very submission into an insult. He was happy when he held his son in his arms for the first time, and his heart unraveled at the purely physical feeling of this little person belonging to him, being part of him, unquestionably and unconditionally. He was happy when he discovered he loved Belle, for the first time, and lay in bed marveling at the miracle of her existence. But in the time he spent with her here, in this world, he'd lost count of moments – they were so many. The moments when he'd open his eyes in the morning and meet her eyes smiling at him. The moments when, even before opening his eyes, he'd feel the warmth of her body beside his, and reach out to clasp her hand. The moments when he'd be busy with something, and then she'd enter the room, visibly brightening it. The moment when, after she left him over his inability to be honest with her, and he came to explain himself, and did so with much effort, and started to leave the library, he heard her voice, asking him uncertainly on that silly hamburger date. All the moments when she was smiling up at him; all the moments when, walking beside him, she'd slip her hand under his arm, cuddling closer. The moment when they stood across the town border, and she looked at him with complete trust, her eyes full of love and bright with confidence in him – in them. He was happy then.
Looking back at his life, he could name many moments when he felt despair. He was desperate as he sat in his dark hut, watching Bae sleep, counting the hours before his birthday when the Duke's soldiers would come and take him away to slaughter. He was desperate as he howled on the spot where the magical portal just closed, taking his son away. He was desperate as he crushed his wife's heart in his hand, knowing, at that very instant, that he was doing a truly stupid and unforgivable thing, yet being unable to stop. He was desperate as he was sending Belle away and sacrificing the miracle they had for his need to amend his own mistakes. He was desperate when he believed her dead, and realized that even if – no, when – he found his son and redeemed himself, he'd never feel alive again, for there was no life for him without her. He thought he was desperate then.
Yet, as he kneeled beside her at the border, and looked into her empty eyes, and heard her frightened scream as she begged him to get away from her, he realized he knew nothing about despair; not yet. True despair he had yet to learn. He had to live through the desolation that entered his heart as he felt their bond snap – the new curse that came upon her fell on it like an axe, cutting a living thing in two, leaving the severed parts to bleed, trashing, on the ground. He had to live through frantic attempts to recover what was lost – he had to live through failure, over and over again. He had to live through blinding hope that true love would overcome her curse – if it were able to wake the dead, why not this? He never even stopped to consider what his kiss might do to him; even if it turned him human, so what? He'd have dealt with it, somehow. He would have dealt with anything if she were with him again. And yet he failed, and had to live through thinking that he was to blame for his failure; perhaps the curse he put upon himself stood in his way now, muddying their love, obscuring its force and true nature. He had to live through blaming himself for everything he ever did – it felt like his every action in life brought on that present horror.
He had to live to see her shrink from him in fear, to hear her scream at his sight; he had to live to see her break their cup, and feel as if she broke his heart, hurling it against the wall. He had to live through picking up the pieces, and feeling their dead weight in his hand.
True despair came with hopelessness, and he realized, with great humility, that he never before in his life felt truly hopeless; even in the darkest hours of his existence, he always had hope. True despair came with helplessness. He was so accustomed to power – he always believed his magic was omnipotent, yet it failed now. And even before magic, even as a weak human he knew he could always do something – run, beg, use his wits, fight. He was completely helpless now – he could not do anything, anything at all.
He thought he was desperate when he lost her in the past, and was dying of pain, and losing his mind in the darkness of his solitude. Yet it was nothing compared to what he felt now, having known happiness and lost it.
He knew exactly why it happened, of course. He was paying the price for having her returned to him, alive. He was paying for a glimpse of happiness he experienced. He was paying for being distracted from his sworn quest. For an instant, for one dazzling instant he let himself go – he lived as if he deserved to live, he lived as if he forgot his vow to never love anything or anybody until he found his son. He broke his vow, and now he paid for it. And, as darkness followed everywhere he went, he took her along when he fell – he destroyed her life, as he always knew he would. He had no right to have anything for himself; yet, by wanting her for himself, he made her pay for his crimes. There was no punishment great enough for that.
His rush to finally find Bae was but a lame attempt of retribution – a miserable attempt to bargain with fate, saying: 'Look, I am doing what I have sworn to do – I am reformed – I am truly sorry I wavered – could you possibly show me some mercy?' Of course the attempt was doomed – fate doesn't bargain with losers. He felt nothing but helplessness as he traveled towards his son. He had lost his magic as soon as he crossed the border, yet this loss was not important, not really: he had lived without it for years, anyway – there was nothing new in the feeling. But now he lived with the knowledge that his magic was powerless even when he had it. That was what made him mad, that was what made him rage and beat the wall mindlessly in the airport toilet, trying to let some of his pain out of his mind by turning it into physical pain. Human or magical, he could not reach her – that thought filled his mind, driving him desperate, and it but foreshadowed his inability to communicate with his son. It was the cruelest joke fate could play on him: now, when he was so close to achieving his goal, it eluded him, for he lost his dedication; what was foremost for him for centuries became secondary to him in the face of his new loss, and he failed. He did not know what to say to the boy – he could not master proper words and feelings, for his heart wasn't in it. His heart was back there, with her, unwanted and bleeding.
His present surroundings were lost in a heavy haze of a confusing nightmare – nothing felt real. And as his enemy struck him, it did not feel real, too – not at first. He was just so surprised. It was strange to feel acute physical pain after centuries of not feeling any blows reach him. And, as very human pain filled his very human body, making him aware that the end of his journey was near, he felt strangely calm – content, almost. He deserved it. He said to himself there was no punishment great enough for his sins, yet he forgot about the ultimate punishment – death. He was paying a price for all that he's done, and it was… adequate. He turned the world around to achieve what he wanted, and it was not fate's fault that he failed. He still had to pay for the chance he was given.
He could not contest this deal. It was fair.
If only he could see her again, just once, before it was all over for him. Nothing mattered now, not anymore, nothing could be changed. Surely he could try and do something for himself, just this one more time? Surely he could give himself a chance to say goodbye.
There was no coherent plan in his mind as he asked to be taken back to his little magical town. He did not have a mind clear enough to think of saving himself – he just wanted to be closer to her. Survival instinct did kick in, eventually; while people scurried around him, trying to help him – oh, the infinite wonder of watching the good ones trying to save him, it was unbelievable, it was such a pity he was in no state to enjoy the spectacle… While they fussed around him, he did experience sudden surges of anger and determination; he told himself that he could not be beaten that easily, that he should fight for his life – that he should fight for his chance to see her again. He did work out a sort of a plan, he scared them into acting upon it – he still had it in him to bend them to his will. But the plan hung on a very thin tread, and he had no real faith in it.
He knew it was all over. It was obvious he would never see her again – there was simply no way. So he stopped struggling. He lay there, on the bed where he first made love to her, slipping in and out of consciousness, shaking with fever, listening to his son's worried voice, feeling the waves of magical protectiveness emanating from the girl his son loved, and kept thinking of Her. Even if he had a chance to choose, he would not have found a better place to die. Here, in this room, he knew the supreme joy of being with her. Here, on this bed, her body opened to him. Her scent still lingered here. If he just closed his eyes, he could imagine her near. If he let himself drift, he could just hear her voice, again… 'Let me love you', she said. If he just let himself go, he could forget that she did not love him anymore.
With all his magical powers, he was only human. He did not have the courage to die alone. He had to hear her voice. He had to tell her how much he loved her. It was a selfish wish – he knew it would only confuse her, and upset her. He knew that dying people have no right to presume upon the living, to make them feel ill about things that do not really concern them. It was unfair. People that are dying should not leave such burden with the living. Yet he was weak enough to succumb to his longing for her.
It felt so strange talking to her and knowing she doesn't care. Yet he forced that knowledge from his mind. May be one day she would remember, and then the things he said would matter to her. They would hurt her, yes – but she'd be glad to have something to remember him by. As he heard her surprised and polite small voice over the line, his breath caught. He wanted to tell her so many things. He wanted to tell her of his love – of all the things she meant to him, of all the light and the pain and the power and the glory she brought with her. He wanted to tell her everything about himself – he knew she wanted to know him. But there was no time for that – there was no time for anything anymore, and he had no strength to talk for long. So he told her the most important things – he told her about herself, as he saw her. And the way he saw her was the way she truly were, for he was looking at her through the eyes of love.
He talked quietly, struggling for words, struggling for breath. He listened to her breathing – there on the other end of the line. And when his voice left him, when he felt he doesn't have it in him to utter another word, he heard it – her sob. She sobbed, for him. She was crying for him, there on her hospital bed, so lonely and confused, so lost and helpless. Even so, she found a heart to sob for a man she didn't know. Of course she cried simply because she was a very good, very compassionate, very kind girl, and she probably would have been upset by anyone in his situation. Of course. But for him, the sound of her sob, muffled by the faulty telephone line, meant everything for, as he heard it, he felt it again – their bond, which he thought severed, tugged at his dying heart. The light of it, which he thought extinguished, glowed faintly, but even this shadow of a flame was enough to illuminate the darkness that slowly descended on him.
He closed his eyes, and let his own tears flow freely.
Looking back at his life, he could name but a few moments when he was truly happy. He was happy now.
So when the woman he once thought he loved came to kill him, he felt nothing but great pity for her. And, when she died in his stead, he felt reluctant to get back to living at first. What was the point, what was the purpose of fighting on if he made peace with himself? Yet, as the power filled him again, and brought him to his feet, as he felt the heaviness of his dagger in his hand, he knew what happened. He was given another chance, a chance to live and to love.
He just dreaded to think of the price he would have to pay for that.