Authors note: Yeah, devotion to my 3 favourite reviewers, who always praise my work (way too much by the way which is like oil down my throat). For you threesome, this chapter, where I own none of the characters, but still feel entitled to do with them as I please (meaning letting them suffer and killing them off).
It could all be so good. All of us could be so happy.
Harold and I could be devoted grandparents. Fiona and Shrek could be loving parents. Donkey and puss-in-boots could be caring uncles. This castle, this kindom, could stand open to the likes of our granddaughter. Everything could be simply perfect.
Except for the fact that our son-in-law is standing in front of the gate to our castle, only accompanied by donkey and puss-in-boots.
Except for the horrified and immensely sad expression in his brown eyes. They way tons of silent, shining, pearly tears cascade down his green face, run over his nose and drip onto the cold hard earth. How even donkey is quiet.
And puss-in-boots quietly hands me a small, wrapped-up bundle. Our granddaughter.
For a second I wonder how come she is so quiet. Until she opens her immensely deep brown eyes. It seems this brown is seeking to haunt me forever. She is so beautiful, perfect, soft skin, if green.
But my mind always runs in circles around my only question. "Where is our daughter?"
Until my world falls apart. One always expects a loud boom and bang, a star falling down from heaven, an thunderstorm or an earthquake. But the sun is shining brightly and warm at this July evening. And my world breaks silently, quiet, and almost unnoticed.
Shrek staggers to the carriage and with an un-ogre-like tenderness carries out the lifeless body of our daughter.
I stare at her dear green body in the pretty dark-green dress. At her still beautiful face, although it is deformed by pain. At her long, braided brown hair that softly strokes the ground beneath her. At her closed eyes that will never open again.
I want to scream. But no sound escapes my dried lips. I want to cry. But not a single tear leaves my glassed-over eyes.
I wish she were far away, safe in that damned swamp. I wish she would never intend on visiting us, maybe not even write. I wish she would hate and detest us, her parents. As long as she were alive. Which she is not.
"How?" I do not need to turn around to recognize the croak of a broken frog.
"The child" is all our now widowed, no longer son-in-law, says. Died when giving birth to a new life. Is there anything more cruel in this world?
"Come inside" I still play the part of the polite hostess.
"No" he declines harshly.
I see now how much he truly has cared for Fiona. How deeply he has loved her. Too late! It is all clearly written into his eyes.
He helplessly gestures towards his daughter, who I still cling onto, with both my arms. "Will you take care of her?"
And that is the moment when I realize what he really has come here for. Not that I think badly of him now. He surely was Fiona a good husband. And he could have been a kind and caring father to his daugther. But that was before she died. And he believes he can not be a single father. To be totally honest, I do not think he actually would be the ideal choice when it comes to taking care of a baby. But he is her father after all. I also do know that I am not better a choice. I have spent the last year fighting for the pieces that have remained of my kingdom, my marriage and my life. I am empty and tired.
And then Shrek comes, tells me my daughter is dead, shows me her immobile body, falls into despair, hands my granddaughter over to me and asks me to take care of her.
I notice how quiet it is, now not even the small bundle makes a sound. I turn towards my husband. He does neither move nor cry. All he does is keep staring at Fionas body as if the rest of the world were gone and only her corpse had remained. And in a way it had.
"Harold?" I hate to rip him out of his moment of reverie. He looks as if he just noticed my existance. "Of course we will take care of her." But he looks like he is beyond actually caring. "Even if in reality it should be her father who raises her." I flinch. As does Shrek. But he does not start arguing with Harold, as they did so nicely not so long ago, even if it seems like an eternity. "I can not" he does not try to justify himself, just a simple fact.
"Come inside and stay for tonight." Again it is me, the cold, hardened queen, who makes that suggestion. Shrek looks doubtful, like he wishes to be somewhere far away, in a land where Fiona lives and they are happy – with or without child. I understand. I wish I were there too.
"Tomorrow we can have her burial ceremony." I shiver. It can not be my husband, not her father, who states such cruel facts. But it is his voice, clipped and hurtful, beyond any try of being civilized or kind any longer.
Too much for Shrek. His temper has been on the rim for many days now and Harolds drop just let the kettle boil over. "You heartless creature, how can you say such a thing, so cold, so uncaring, you were her father, did you not hold any love for her at all,…" I try to silence him, without any visible effect.
Harold does not seem to react. He just sits there, gaze fixed on Shreks raging figure. But in his brown eyes I see a pain that splits me apart. Shrek will never understand how much Harold really loved Fiona.
None of us can bear to eat. Donkey and puss-in-boots quietly and without complaints head to the stables. Shrek forcefully closes the door behind the bedroom I have given to him. It is not Fionas old room, I have had it locked up, three times. I asked him if I could help, but he just stares at me. "Fiona looked so much like you" is the last thing he says before slamming the door in front of me.
I dread going to our bedroom, having to face Harold. I still hold the small child in my arms, I had not noticed until now. She is sleeping so peacefully, not knowing her mother ist dead, her father wants to give her away, not aware of her grandfather being a frog and her grandmother a lost queen.
How I wish I were her, just innocently sleeping the peaceful sleep of a child. Not having to worry about nightmares, the next day, or the following year.
I softly lay the child into the middle of our double bed. Harold hops next to her and watches her with a sad sort of interest. I gaze absent-mindedly out of the window, my thoughts swirling in endless circles, but always returning to the one topic, my dead daughter.
"Does she even have a name?" Harold asks and I swiftly return from my mind-wanderings. "Did her father even think about naming her?" And like a bucket of cold water down my back, I realise that he is right, that Shrek probably not even has thought of how to call our granddaughter.
"No, I do not think she does." At the same time I feel that the right to name her is not mine or Harolds. It should have been Fionas and Shreks. But Fiona is gone now and Shrek as good as.
I undress myself and slip into the left side of the bed. It all seems like a ritual to me. Like I never roll over onto the other side, still expecting Harold in human form lying there.
But today it is different. A small bundle lies to my right, breathing softly and regularily. I know a servant girl would be glad to take care of her, but I still want to feel and know that small body next to me. When she was small, I always insisted on Fiona lying in our bed with us. Harold always objected, although I know he never actually minded. Oh, Fiona!
And I finally can cry. At last I feel the wet path of a tear trickling down my face. And another. And one more, until they flow. My body shakes and I shiver. A small frog hops towards me and softly lays his head onto my cheek. My shaking fingers stroke his back, my eyes keep watching the small nameless girl. And I vow to myself that I will take care of her, nurture her, do everything to keep her safe and protect her.
"You know Shrek did not mean what he said to you earlier." I speak silently, so the child will not wake up. I still envy her deep sleep.
"He did mean exactly what he said." Harold firmly states. Silence. "And he is right about it. Partly at least." He turns his head away from me. "I should have been Fiona a better father. Should have told her more often how much she meant to me. Should have…"
"No." I can not watch him doing this to himself. "Harold, Fiona did know how much you loved her! And you could have done nothing to save her." My voice fails.
Before I have noticed, I have cried myself into sleep. With tear stains on my cheeks, right hand extended towards my nameless granddaughter, left hand wrapped around Harold.
I dream of Fiona, staring at me out of hollow, dead eyes, looking pale and ghost-like. "Why, mother. Why did you not help me? You could have saved me!" Her arms reach out to me, but I can not get close enough. No matter how hard I try, she always drifts further and further away from me. "Fiona" I cry out. But she is too far to reach. "Why?" she asks before she is gone.
Authors 2nd note: So, done that. What a hard (literally – poor Fiona) birth! I know I commited a crime – killing off a main character. Sorry about that. But you know, want hippy-happy stories? – Go somewhere else. Oh yes, and I finally own one of the characters, so the up-to-now nameless small daughter is mine. I already like her. She sleeps so much!
