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Chapter Forty-Five
Requiem
"Your Grace," said the woman, bowing low. "I come before you as a humble subject, seeking the gift of justice."
Nick leaned forward in his throne, the crown heavy upon his brow. The matter before him was a terrible one, but not unexpected given the current clime. A tanner and a soldier had gotten drunk in a tavern, and there had been a disagreement which had ended in a knife being shoved into the tanner's eye. Now, his widow begged for justice, which Nick would grant. Still, it left a bitter taste in his mouth. They banded together in the war, and now that we are in a tenuous peace, they return to their squabbling selves.
Still, the soldier had been a man in his employ, and that was something he could not tolerate.
"Justice will be granted," said Nick, "As will restitution. Sir Bolvar will be fined a sum of a hundred coins, to be paid from his estate, and he will be beheaded come dawn. I pray you find some solace in that."
The woman bowed low, her fringe all but touching the ground, and her legs trembled as she rose. Nick closed his eyes for a second, not wanting to look. She was an old woman, and the world had not been kind to her. She had lost three sons during the first rebellion of the Summer Isles, and two more when his mother had marched upon the Imperium. During the siege, all six of her grandchildren had given their lives in defence of his kingdom.
As the woman took her leave and the next petitioner made to approach the dais, the northernmost window of the throne room shattered. Someone hurtled to the ground to skid across the smooth floor, leaving a trailing smear of blood in their wake. Nick was on his feet in an instant, staff in hand as his guards surged forward, and a woman screamed. Aunt Anna was on her feet, trying to clear the room, and Uncle Kristoff leaned upon his cane as he reached for his axe. In the corner of the room, Morgan's eyes flickered to their draconic form, and Nick could all but see the flames gathering in his lover's throat.
Then, his throat went dry as he caught sight of the shock of white hair, and he was running. The courtiers and peasants were staring, as were the lords and the gentry, but he didn't care.
"Tsar Luna above," said the Duchess of Almera, her old voice shrill. "Is that Jack Frost?"
Nick barely heard her words. Dropping to his knees, he turned the man over, and his heart sank. Dad. His father's face was sticky with dried blood, and his body was run through with broken arrows. No.
"Dad," he said, his voice cracking. "Dad!"
"Summon the healers," yelled Aunt Anna, rushing to his side. "Now. And Lady Maleficent as well. She may well be needed."
"Dad, wake up," yelled Nick, shaking his father. "Dad!"
Jack Frost stirred, his eyes cracking open, and the faintest of smiles cross his lips. The room was in commotion around them, but Nick could barely hear them whispering. Did the king just call that guardian his father? King Nicholas' father is Jack Frost? Queen Elsa lied… she lied to us all. That boy is not human. He didn't care. All that mattered was his father. Panic blossomed as he clasped his father's bloody fingers.
"Dad, you're going to be okay," said Nick. "Listen to me. You're going to be okay. The healers are on their way."
"Gone," Jack whispered. "Beaten. We were… beaten, Nick. Pitch. He killed them. Santa… Bunny… Pan. Alice and Tooth… as well. I think. Dead. He's coming, Nick."
"Tsar Luna have mercy," muttered Aunt Anna.
Nick's mind was reeling. Uncle Peter? Dead? How? His honorary uncle was the Lord of Neverland. The Godmother as well? No, they didn't matter. Not now. All that mattered was making sure his dad survived. He couldn't lose him as well. He just couldn't. Not so soon after losing Mother. Tightening his grasp around his father's fingers, he shook his head.
"No, Dad," he said. "Save your strength. Please. You can tell me later, when you're well. Please. Please, just hold on."
"Nick… so proud… you." Jack Frost smiled. "Promised… promised your mother I'd look after you… Did a… pretty shit job of it. Be strong, Nick. He's coming. Froze him… froze him in ice. Time… you have time. Succeed... Please… succeed where we failed."
"You didn't fail. Dad, you're here, you're safe. You're a Guardian. You're immortal. You can't die, Dad. Please don't leave me." Nick was crying, the tears freezing on his cheeks. There were arms around him, holding him steady. He thought they were Morgan's, but he couldn't be sure. The crowd had grown around them. The guards were clearing a path for the healers. His dad would make it. He had to. They'd heal him.
"We can bring you back, Jack," said Aunt Anna, and Nick stared wildly. Bring him back. No. He wasn't dying. He. Wasn't. Dying. "You said it happened before. You told Elsa and I. All it takes it the belief of one innocent child."
"Can't… not this time." Jack's lips barely moved. "Not faded… not lost… not… corrupted. Dead. Gone. I'm… dying… No helping it. Should've… should've done." He fell silent, his head lolling to the side.
"Dad! Dad, please." Nick was bawling, his chest heaving. His crown slipped from his head to clatter to the ground, and he didn't even care. People were whispering, and he didn't care. Morgan was holding him, and it didn't even matter. Dad… Dad, please.
"Elsa…" murmured Jack, staring at nothing. "I dreamed… I dreamed I'd lost you."
Then, his chest grew still and his fingers went slack, and Nick howled. Shoving himself forward, he wrapped his arms around his father, and for the first time, his dad didn't hug him back. He came undone, shrieking his pleas into his father's ear, begging him to come back. Please. Dad. Please, don't leave me. Don't leave me as well.
"I am told that the king and yourself have taken to sleeping in separate quarters," said Silvanus, a strange look in his eye. "That is not wise. Word has already reached the nobility, and it will soon reach the commoners as well."
"If he apologised, I would return to him in an instant," said Alyssa as she sank into her chaisé lounge. "All he does is drink and spend his time in the barracks, playing cards with the men."
"He visits with his mother quite often," said Silvanus, raising an eyebrow. "My spies report that the king is a very broken man right now. Perhaps, it would be best for you to turn the other cheek, as it were, rather than wait for an apology you know will never come."
Alyssa wanted to scream. Don't you think I know that? Cornelius grieved and mourned, and he was in pain. She knew that. Everyone felt pain in their own way, and this was apparently her husband's. Yet, what was she supposed to do? She'd tried to talk to him and she'd gotten nowhere. She had an entire kingdom to rule, one that was fractured and in a constant state of collapse, and she needed Cor's support as well. Tsar Luna forgive her, but she didn't have the energy to keep pushing at the walls he'd built around himself after an entire day of ruling as well.
Maybe, if he'd joined her at council meetings or sat upon his throne when court was held, the workload would be diminished and they'd have time for each other. Right now, however, she was doing it all, and she was tired. She had never been this tired in her life.
"The commoners believe that their king and queen are happy and that there is an heir on the way," said Silvanus. "A fractured reign will break their spirits more than the war already has."
"I know," said Alyssa. "I know. Have you found the man I asked you to?"
"Lance Strongbow," said Silvanus. "We have been able to confirm that he survived the battle of Sommersea, but we have no idea where he's gone. My men are searching, but we need more time."
"A pity," said Alyssa, hanging her head. "I had hoped that perhaps a friendly face would be enough to rouse Cornelius from his stupor. Lance has known him since he was born. He's all but an uncle to my husband. Double the men you have searching. I need him."
Silvanus nodded. "If that is all, Queen Alyssa?"
"Yes," she said. "You are dismissed."
Her general took his leave, shutting the door to her study behind her. No sooner had he gone, did she sink down further into the lounge, tears stinging at her eyes. Go to Corona, then, if it'll make you happy, since you're so very miserable here. Her father's words, not hers, and she had been happy… for a time. Yet, how many others had known misery because of her actions? How many had bled and died because she had chosen to marry Cornelius in secret? What had even been the point of it all if this was what they'd become?
She was nearly eighteen years old, and she had the weight of two kingdoms on her shoulders, and where was her husband? Drunk, as usual. Her father had been right. She had been a stupid girl who hadn't known a damn thing about the world, but she'd rushed off on impulse just because she could, and now look where she was? No, she couldn't give up. Not after everything that she'd been through to get to this point.
Gathering her skirts around herself as she rose, she made her way through the castle, grateful that it was near dinnertime and that the servants would all be busy preparing the dining room. They did not need to see her like this. After what felt like forever, she reached the king's quarters, which were three floors below her own, and she knocked upon the door.
"Cornelius," she said. "We need to talk."
It creaked open, and she froze. The sheets had been ripped, and the furniture had been toppled. Ink spilled across the carpet, and glass littered the floor. She stared, not believing what she was seeing. Had there been an attack? Why had she not been notified? Then, she noticed him, sitting on the window seat with a bottle of wine in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other.
"Talk, then," he slurred, not turning to look at her.
"Will you even hear what I have to say?" she asked, "Or will you shove me to the ground and storm off again?"
"That was a mistake," he replied, gritting his teeth. "I never meant to."
"You still did it," she countered. "If I had landed wrong, I could well have miscarried. Do I not deserve an apology, at the very least?"
"I never meant to," he repeated, bringing the bottle to his lips. Wine sloshed down his chin to soak across his tunic, and she sighed as she sank onto the corner of the bed. Silvanus had been right. She would never get an apology from him.
"Do you remember what you said to me that night in Aquitania?" she asked.
"I said a lot of things," he replied. "You said a lot of things. And yet here we are."
"Here we are?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Cor, don't you dare put this one on me. I have my flaws. I've done a lot of terrible things, but I've owned them, each and every one. This one in on you."
"Aren't you self-righteous? Didn't you go to pieces for days after what happened to Amoré? Am I not allowed to grieve?"
"While I grieved, I accompanied you to Arendelle for Nick because he was our friend. While I grieved, I fought beside you to retake your homeland. While I grieved, I had to watch my husband go Faceless, then watch him die, and I still held him up after all of that. While you grieved, I ruled from your throne, and I'm the one still keeping your kingdom together."
"Do you want a medal?" he asked, turning to glare at her. "I know I'm an idiot and a failure, Alyssa. I don't need you to remind me."
Is that what he thinks? Cor… Alyssa sucked in a breath. No. She still loved him. It was hard to still love him, but she did.
"I think you're hurting and lashing out," she said, her voice soft. "I think you're in a bad headspace right now. I don't think you're an idiotic failure, Cor. I just… I just wish you'd remember that you're not the only person hurt in all this and that I need you right now. Your kingdom needs you. Please, Cor, be the king you were born to be."
He remained silent, bringing the bottle to his lips once more. She stared, hoping against hope that he'd say something, anything, but all that flowed was the wine. Finally, after what felt like hours, she rose to her feet and left, closing the door behind her and masking her tears until she reached her bedroom.
Then, and only then, when the door was locked behind her and nobody could see her break, did she cry.
"Why are you doing this to me?" asked Jaq, and he hated the weakness in his voice. "We played together as children, Aurelia. I thought you were my friend."
He had thought that he was stronger, but he wasn't, not really. The days had turned to weeks, and the weeks had quickly become a month. Soon enough, it would be two, and before he knew it, he'd have been here for three months. Would he last a year? Two? Three? I am my sister's sword and shield, he reminded himself. So long as he was their prisoner, the Rêveres would not go after his sister.
The sister who hasn't even answered your letters. He shook himself. No, Lucile was smart. She must know that he was only penning the words dictated by King Philip. That's just what you want to believe. He swallowed, his throat growing tight. She was in Aquitania, he'd learned. She was free. So why hadn't she written? What had stopped her? He'd heard whispers that she was in love with Prince Caspian, and that she was always in his company. Where he went, she followed. Does she even remember me?
No. He stopped himself. That had been unworthy of him. His sister would never abandon him. Would she? You're her frail brother whose life is dependent on a glass sword. Jaq didn't know where the thoughts were coming from. He must be going mad. They rarely let him leave their chambers. He shook his head. Where had that come from. These were Aurelia's chambers, and he was very much her prisoner. Nothing in this room was his, not even the clothes on his back.
I'm strong. I can endure this. A voice whispered in his head. In response, another voice, much louder, asked. Can you? You're only fifteen.
Jaq shook himself again. He was on his knees beside the dresser. Aurelia liked him on his knees. He didn't know why. She was taller than him without having to try, as were most people. The carpet was soft. Small mercies. He'd spent last week kneeling near the window, and the floor there was cold tile. He could still feel the ache in his bones. He should stand. He knew he should. Don't break. You are not fragile. But, it was best to keep her happy. When she was happy, she was sweet, and when she was sweet, she was kind. A happy Aurelia meant he might be allowed outside for a few hours. If he was good, they'd let him join them for dinner and listen to the bards, or else allow him to peruse their library. He'd always liked music and books.
Sir Mouse, they'd called him, because of his small stature, but he'd never been timid. He'd never begged or pleaded as he did here. In Eléadoré, they'd called him a house with irony, and he'd smiled at the jape. Here, he was a mouse in truth.
"Aurelia," he whispered, looking up at her as she powdered her cheeks with rouge. "Please. When I was four, we played with toy soldiers in my father's garden. You were my friend. Why are you hurting me now?"
"I don't mean too," said Aurelia, her voice impassive. She didn't even look at him. "I just love you so much, you know. I always loved you, Jaq."
There was no emotion in her words. Jaq had never been in love, but he'd had a crush once. The chef's daughter, Colette, had taught him to cook when he'd been a stripling boy and she'd been just a few years older. Colette had been sharp with her words and quick with her smiles, and he'd almost imagined himself being able to grow old with her. His sister wouldn't have minded, not really. He was a prince, but he would never have heirs or be more than a knight in Lucile's service, and she wouldn't have minded if he took up with a commoner.
It would have been sweet. Maybe. He'd never know. Colette had likely been executed along with the rest of the castle staff when Tremaine had staged her coup.
Yet, there'd always been feeling in their exchanges: shyness and giggles, and a kiss upon his cheek when he'd mastered a particularly difficult dish. He couldn't even remember what had won him his first kiss upon the cheek anymore. Coq au vin? Duck confit? Cassoulet? No… It hadn't been any of those things.
"If you loved me, you wouldn't force me to sleep with you," he said. "You'd have asked and waited for me to accept."
"That's not how love works for us princes and princesses, Jaq," she said, her tone still bleak and emotionless. "Father says that I am to love you, and so I love you. He has requested I create an heir to ensure a claim to Eléadoré, and so I am doing my duty. He requested we marry, and so we wed, even though you looked absolutely miserable throughout the entire ceremony. I suppose it's fine. I smiled enough for the both of us."
"You married me with a knife to my throat and the promise that if I didn't say the right words, you'd send a letter to Damon De Vil offering payment for my sister's heart," he said. "How could you expect me to smile?"
"Because it is what is expected of us, Jaq," she replied, setting down her powder-puff and reaching for her coal-sticks. "I have tried to be good to you, haven't I? I pleasure you so that it is good for both of us when we lay together. I have the cooks prepare your favourite meals when father permits. I got you ink, a quill, and parchment so that you could write to your sister after we learned she had escaped that monster. What more do you want from me?"
He stared at her, his hands clenching into fists. Didn't she see? Was she blind? He wanted to shake her, but that would anger her, and he'd spend he next week alone in the room, save for the nights when she had to do her duty, as she so eloquently put it. No, he was strong. He'd withstand it. What had that dish been? The one that had earned him his first cheek. He had to remember. He had to. He couldn't forget who he was, who he'd been before the world had gone to shit. Soufflé? Flamiche? Nicoise Salad?
Jaq had to remember. He was not Jaq Charmant, prince consort of Somnia, husband to Aurelia Rêvere, a prisoner to his father-in-law and nothing more than a bitch-in-heat to the lot of them. He was more than his claim. He was Jaq Charmant, prince of Eléadore, and he liked to listen to songs and read books and cook in his spare time. They called him Sir Mouse.
"What do I want?" he asked. "I want to go home, Aurelia. I miss my mother and my father and my sister. I want to see my bedroom again. I want to see my friends. I want to sleep in my own bed and wear my own clothes. I want my home."
He'd thought he was strong. He wasn't. The tears fell hot and fast down his cheeks. He wanted home. Home was a warm bed beside the fire, and leisurely strolls through the palace gardens whilst his sister walked Bambi. Home was the inns which housed the singers, and the great library his mother had kept. It was his sister's laugh and his father's smile, and his mother's eyes as she'd watch them at play. It was Colette in the kitchens and Duke Luis with his monocle, and a royal carriage that had once been a pumpkin. Home was a wish his heart made, and he wanted it more than anything.
Christopher tolled at the oars, his shoulders feeling like lead. In the third level of the trading galley, there was little ventilation, and his skin was slick with sweat. A sellsword, not a rower. The Naga were still a danger to ships, and he hadn't thought twice about applying for the post. It was good pay and a good voyage, and he'd been hoping for the best.
I should have stayed in that room with Jessica.
The chains clinked when he moved his legs to ease the stiffness, and the rusted manacles chafed against his ankles. A few more days and he'd be bleeding, he knew, but at least his hands were free to row. It was still early, and he still had hours to go before they'd escort him to his cabin.
They didn't want him to die, after all. It was a long voyage with little wind, and they needed rowers. His throat burned. It had been a few hours since a ladle of water had been shoved in his face, and his mouth as dry as a bone. What did I expect? Bitterness bloomed within his chest, and he almost wanted to last. They all said I was useless. The Prince of Fools. They were right, I suppose. How many princes can say they willingly walked onto a pirate ship?
They'd burst into his cabin at night, and he'd woken to four men holding him down while a fifth and put him in chains. His Dreamtouch had knocked out the first, but the second had backhanded him so hard that he'd tasted blood, and he'd quickly learned to play nice thereafter. He was miles away from land, and even if he managed to put the entire crew to sleep, he had no idea how to sail.
His stomach growled. That one was his own fault. They'd been feeding him well enough, he supposed: salted cod, pickled herring, hard bread, and clam soup. The problem, however, was that he was a vegetarian, and he hadn't eaten meat since his mother had forced it down his throat. He'd spent the night throwing up, and since boarding the ship, he'd been starving himself on bread soaked in wine. It kept the worst of the hunger away. A small voice in his head told him to give in, that this wasn't a normal situation and that he should eat what he could to keep up his strength, but he just couldn't.
He'd never had much autonomy, but save for the chicken incident, he'd always had control over his own diet. Giving it up, no matter the reason, felt like a loss, as though he was once more willing to let others dictate his life. You're in chains, idiot. You're a slave.
At the very least, he wasn't alone.
"When is that princess of yours supposed to get here?" he hissed, nudging the Imperial prisoner beside him with his elbow. "My arms are ready to fall off."
"Three days ago," said Jian, his expression grim. "I sent the message when we were passing the straits, but they took my fans after. I have no idea where she is, Ch—Robin."
"She has a dragon and we have black sails. How hard could it be to find us?"
"I don't know," Jian snapped. "Godmother above, at least I did something. What did you do again? Get captured. Typical you."
"And yet you're wearing chains right beside me," retorted Christopher, not in the mood for games. "At least I can say that I was naive and got hoodwinked by these bastards. You were a bloody captain of the Imperial Army. How do you fall for this?"
"I was in a hurry to return to DunBroch after the seas kept me trapped in Corona for a month," Jian admitted, sounding rather irritated at having to say it out loud. "I'd been to visit my sister in the Summer Isles, but I've grown rather fond of the DunBroch air. I wasn't really paying that much attention."
"DunBroch air." Christopher snorted, rolling his eyes. "Is that what they call Sigrun these days? The DunBroch air?"
"I had sincerely forgotten how bloody annoying you were." Jian glared. "Of all the people in the world, the one who happens to find himself onto the same ship as me is you, Robin… Grim, was it? Where did that come from anyway."
"You put frogspawn in my soup and then said I was annoying because I got upset about it." Christopher gritted his teeth. "And don't talk about the Grim. Using her name was a mistake."
"Her name?" Jian cocked his head, surprise flickering in his eyes. "There is a her where you are concerned? Just one more bloody sign that the world is fucking ending."
"Spare me," said Christopher, rolling his eyes so hard he was afraid he'd sprain them. "I've heard worse from better."
"Oh, the jester's found his spine. Maybe if you'd discovered it earlier, Renvale wouldn't be under enemy rule."
"And maybe if you could fight as well you run your mouth, the Imperium would still be standing. At least I have a home to go back to eventually."
Silence hung heavy in the air between them, and Christopher hung his head. That had been cruel. He didn't know what had come over him. Am I growing cruel? Leaving Jessica after bedding her without so much as a goodbye had been cruel, of that he had been certain. As for what he'd just said… He should know more than most what it was like to lose everything and have to pick up the pieces as best he could.
"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. Li Jian was a mouthy fucker, and there was no denying that there were a dozen other people Christopher would rather be in this situation with, but that didn't change the fact that he'd been unfathomably rude. "I didn't mean it."
"Yes you did," said Jian, hanging his head. "You're sorry. I can tell, but you meant what you said all the same. I shouldn't have said those things about Renvale."
Christopher nodded. He didn't want to agree, but… Jian was right. The words about his home had stung, and he'd wanted to hurt the other man in return. Am I growing cruel? Maybe. But the world they lived in was a cruel one, he thought, feeling the clink of the chains around his ankles, the grime upon his skin, and the sight of Margaret, her hair streaming behind her as she'd crumpled in his arms.
"Way I see it," said Christopher. "We're knee deep in this shit together. Might as well make the best of it."
"Not the worst idea in the world," said Jian. "That fucker with the whip. You got any ideas?"
Just as he said the words, the whip in question cracked through the air, and Christopher hissed as it struck him across the back. Another crack, and Jian buckled forward beside him, face screwed up in pain.
"Less talking, more rowing," said Flint, the quartermaster of The Black Pearl. "Shut your gobs and row, or I'll knock out a few of those pretty white teeth."
Christopher gritted his teeth and rowed, his arms aching as the sweat dripped down his brow. That fucker? I have something in mind, all right. A dream that never ends.
It was an hour past midnight when Cornelius saddled his horse, and the castle of Solaris was quieter than the grave. Pulling his hood low over his eyes, he boosted himself up using the stirrups, and he ran his finger along Sunshine's mane. He was a good, loyal steed, which was a lot more than he deserved. He'd left a note, but…
This is for the best.
He had failed in every way he could: as a son, as a friend, as a husband, as a king, as a soldier, as a sailor, and now, as a father as well. Alyssa's words echoed in his head. If he'd pushed her and she'd landed wrong, she could have miscarried. He hadn't meant to, but he'd done it anyway. He hadn't meant for a lot of things, but they'd happened all the same. The child… he clenched his fist.
His child would one day be grateful to have been spared having him for a father. Alyssa… she'd be upset, but she was strong, a better queen than he'd ever be a king. He'd wed her and given her an heir. That was all she needed to hold the throne of Corona as regent of the infant prince or princess she carried.
She didn't need him. Nobody needed him. All he did was turn good things into horrors, and he was done. Mother, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. If not for him, she'd still be whole.
Cornelius tightened his grasp on the reins as Sunshine began to trot down the path. Honestly, he wasn't even sure where it was he was going. Corona wouldn't work, obviously, and Amoré was a place of thorns and monsters. If he went to Arendelle… Nick, at least, didn't see him as the failure he was. He'd never be able to bear it if his cousin saw what a wretched person he'd become. He didn't have many options, then. Eléadore it is.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he ran a hand through his hair. It was oddly light without the crown. He'd at least had the decency to leave that behind. It was not his. It would never be his. He didn't deserve it and he never had. Maybe he'd grow out a beard to hide the scars along his jaw, and he'd let his fringe grow out to mask the scar across his eye. They were distinguishable, and he didn't want to be found.
I'm sorry, Father. I'm so, so sorry. He kept his head high as he rode, picking up speed as he left Solaris in the distance. I should have died with Corona. I should have died in that throne room with Nick's ice in my chest. It was true. How many had perished because of him? How many children would never know their fathers because of him? How many wives would never again feel their husbands' arms around them? How many mothers mourned their sons?
Too many. Corona bled for as far as the eye could see, and he knew whose hand had held the knife that cut open those wounds. I'm sorry, Alyssa. I'm so, so sorry. She deserved to love a better man. The thought broke his heart. I hope you find him someday, and I hope he treats you better than I did. He loved her like the sun loved the moon, and he'd die every night just to see her rise, but, he couldn't even look at her without seeing his failures in her eyes.
His wife may have brought the curse down upon Corona, but she'd done it because her father had disowned her for marrying him, and he'd been the one to propose, not her. It all lay at his feet. Amoré. Corona. Even Arendelle. He had never said. How could he? Yet, when they'd showed him that broken mirror, he'd known. He'd never had the courage to outright ask his mother, but he'd known all the same.
If some seer rode up to him right now and told him that Agrabah, Renvale, and Eléadoré had been his fault as well, created by some butterfly effect he'd triggered, he'd believe them without a doubt. All roads led back to him, and he was tired of being the king with everything when so many had nothing because of what he'd done. How did they bear it? How did they keep going?
They were stronger than him. They were better than him. And, despite all of that, he'd been the one dragged back from the dead, not once but twice, and for the life of him, he couldn't think of a single thing he'd ever done to deserve it.
The road went on and on, and Cornelius stifled a yawn. He was determined to put as much distance between Solaris and himself as he could, and he'd said in his note that he was going to Arendelle. Alyssa would work out the truth quickly enough, but by then, he'd be long gone. This wasn't a romantic adventure in which he wanted her to find him at the end so they could work things out.
No, this was a farewell without a goodbye, because he'd been too chickenshit to actually say it to her face.
Even when failing, I fail at being a failure.
As he rode, he glanced at his finger. The ring she'd given him glinted upon his finger, and he sighed. What would be his legacy? Once, they'd called him the Prince of the Dawn, but then he'd become the King Who Failed. He didn't even have the sun anymore. All he had was the bow and quiver upon his back, the saddlebags filled with supplies, and the clothes upon him back. And her ring…
Even Faceless, he'd been unable to part with the ring. It was all but attached to his skin. It was a symbol of their love, of the vows they'd sworn on the day they wed. The vows I'm breaking now. He slipped the ring from his finger, and he made to drop it into the dirt as he rode. Tsar Luna forgive him, but he couldn't.
Instead, he slipped it into his pocket, and he rode without looking back.
Their bedroom was a frozen ruin. Hoarfrost clung to the carpet, as did the frozen fragments of the grand piano. Ice crept up the walls in jagged spirals, and heavy snowflakes floated in the air. The windows were cracked and frosted, the desk had been split in half, and the couches were without stuffing. The coffee table had been shoved out the glass doors which led to the balcony, shattering them, and their bed.
Morgan felt a pang. The pillows were ripped and the springs bounced free of the mattress. The entire frame tilted to the side, and he saw that the bottom-left leg had been snapped off.
Nick knelt in the centre of the room, his icy swirling around him, and he didn't seem to even notice Morgan as he approached. Tentatively, Morgan held up his hands, letting his tail slide out of his back as he knelt beside his consort. Like clockwork, his tail wrapped around Nick's waist, and his boyfriend seemed to come out of his stupor just long enough to wrap his arms around the tip. It was like watching a child, Morgan realized, a child who'd been shell shocked into numbness.
"It hurts, Morgan," said Nick, his voice a cracked whisper. "It hurts so bad."
"I know, Frosty," he replied, reaching out to pull his boyfriend into his lap. Nick was clumsy as he moved, curling himself into a ball as once he was wrapped within his embrace; his knees pressed against his chin with his arms linked around them. His legs held Morgan's tail in place, flush between his thighs and chest, but he barely moved.
This scared him more than anything. When Nick was upset, there was always a storm followed by the calm. There was a loss of control and a spurt of vengeance, and then his Frosty would return to him, sobbing until the broken pieces of his heart began to stitch themselves together.
This time, there'd been none of that. This time, when he held Nick, all he could feel was emptiness within his lover.
"Why would he do that?" asked Nick, shivering. "Why would he kill my mum and my dad, Morgan?"
"I don't know, Frosty," said Morgan, holding him tighter. It's war, he wanted to say. Your parents were two of the most powerful people we had on our side. They had targets on their back from the start. Yet, he kept silent. This was not about the truth or being honest with each other. This was more important.
"I want them back, Morgan."
I know, Frosty.
"I just want to go to sleep and wake up to find it's all a bad dream. I want to wake in the morning and build a snowman with Mum, and I want to see Olaf again. I want Sven in the stables and I want to know my Dad is there, watching over me."
I know.
"Please, don't let me go," whispered Nick. "Please, Morgan. Never let me go. I'm tired. I don't want to leave this room ever again. I want to forget. Please."
"Always and forever," said Morgan, pressing his lips to his boyfriend's brow. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Frosty."
"I'm so tired."
"Then rest, Frosty," said Morgan. "I'll be here when you wake."
Nick nodded as he curled against Morgan's chest, his tears seeping into his shirt, but Morgan didn't even care. Deftly, he lifted Nick into him arms as he rose to his feet, and his boyfriend was light as a feather as he walked from the ruined bedroom. There was a single bed in the corner of Nick's study. They'd spend the night there and he'd have the servants clean the bedroom come morning. As he walked through the royal quarters, he was painfully aware of the rise and fall of Nick's chest. Don't wake him. Let him sleep.
When he reached the study, he unwound his tail from around Nick and opened the door with it. Closing it, he made his way across the room as quickly as he could and settled his boyfriend down upon the bed. Nick stirred but didn't wake, mercifully. Gently, Morgan slid off his boots and undid his cloak before turning his attention to himself and getting comfortable. It was going to be a long night. Nick's powers were temperamental at the best of times, but the cold beneath their blankets was going to be bitter tonight.
It would be bitter and biting for a very long time.
"Morgan," whispered Nick, his voice thick with sleep, curling up against his tail as he pulled the blankets up to their chin. "Dad's last words. Do you think he was delirious? Or?"
Morgan could hear the faint spark of hope in his boyfriend's voice. In all honesty, though, Morgan didn't know. There was nobody alive who knew what it was like to die, and the other side had always been one of the world's few true mysteries. Did it exist? What happened there? Would you be alone, or could you share it with someone?
"I think that in some mysterious place where the living can't enter, Jack Frost and Elsa Arnadalr are together again," he said, pulling Nick closer to him. "No, I don't think. I know."
There was no answer, and Morgan sighed as he realized that Nick had fallen asleep again. Morgan leaned over to kiss his cheek before closing his own eyes and sinking down upon the shared pillow. Nick was cold to the touch, almost uncomfortably so, and the sorrow had buried itself so deep inside him that Morgan didn't think it would ever end. Not now. Not so soon after Queen Elsa.
He sighed. Someone, Morgan knew that there'd be no more babbling.
.o0o.
Author's Note: And that's a wrap to Book 2. I hope you've all enjoyed it. We'll rejoin the gang in Book 3, which will launch soon. I like having a buffer of chapters so I don't take long gaps between updates, and I'm still working on Book 3 so would like to finish writing a few more chapters before publishing.
Much love for the reviews, favs, follows, and PMs.
-Shane.
