Authors note: Here I am extremely glad to be back again. I have suffered from immense Internet access problems (meaning I had none). So I wrote down some ideas on this story (some that might…ähm…raise the rating…or so). Unfortunately I will have to be very cruel once more. Actually I should be working on a french presentation right now. Oh well!
So once more thanks for reviewing!
And of course you are one of my 3 fav (if more review there will be more) reviewers, Sonja. I have to agree with you partly: when it comes to protection, Harold can no longer provide that for Lillian. Although in my regards she can pretty much take care of herself. Oh and I am not THAT evil as to let her kill herself, I think she can go through mostly everything. The thing about Lillian expressing more pain is that she seems like a very controlled woman to me and that she uses to hurt more on the inside.
As for Harold, I definitely do not intend on portraying him as a cruel person (although I think he can be an ass if he intends to), but he strikes me as being rather cynical. I know what he said hit home, that was my intent!
Spunkeygirl60: Thanks so much! You are quite right, I have been thinking of Shrek commiting suicide too, he is very emotionally unstable at the moment.
So that must have been the longest note ever, but I hope I answered some of your questions.
Now enough of the boring small-talk, on with the saddening stuff!
Oh and I invented a type of money for Far-Far Away, ever heard of "Stardollars"?
Morning dawns. A very sad and quiet breakfast passes. Shrek has been letting me know that he does not wish to eat this morning, through a servant. He only wishes to "get over with" the funeral as soon as possible and leave. I do not know where he is so keen on going. I can not imagine him staying alone at that awful silent swamp. I even tried to make him stay here in the castle, but he seems to be running away. How long will it take him to notice, that however fast he runs, Fionas death will always be quicker than him?
I let the servant girl return with the message that the funeral arrangements will be held at 10 oclock today morning. The sooner the better.
I sit at the royal table, Harold across from me, and force tiny pieces of food down my throat. All the while thinking "she will never eat again, she will never drink again, she will never love again, she will never live again". Silence seems like a sack of coals to me. Whoever said it was golden? I wish for someone to chatter loudly and innocently about every-day-things.
Even the small girl that sits on my lap is silent as I feed her with a baby bottle containing milk.
Fiona wanted to be burned when she died. She told me once. Even more insistent after she had transformed for life. Of course she never knew that her life would be over so soon. She never told me the reason for her wish. But I knew anyway. Fiona had, as every princess does, always wanted to be beautiful. And when she had willingly chosen to turn into an ogre, because of the love she felt for Shrek, she had wanted to be burned in order to finally receive some sort of beauty, after she had died. So we would do her bidding and spread her ashes into the sea. Never could I bear having an urne on the table, knowing my daughter was in there. How could she not have know how beautiful she truly had been?
Only Shrek, Harold and I were present at the funeral, a silent, sad, family funeral. Shrek went up to her silent body and gently kissed her blueish lips. I felt like an intruder. Then he lit the straw on which she was softly bedded. The servants were taking care of our granddaughter. I would not have wanted the small baby to have to watch her mothers funeral at such a tender age.
And then we stood there and watched. Terribly passive.
Shrek was walking up and down, circling the fire, restless and nervous. One might have thought that his only wish was to jump onto it and be united with his beloved again. He cried openly, not bothering about hiding his immense grief. Large, salty tears streamed down his face, he looke crumpled and lost. All the time he was shaking his right fist, as if to an unknown enemy, whom he could blame for his loss.
Harold was sitting on the grass. I could not bear holding him right now. I saw no movement in his body. He sat perfectly still and stared up at the burning corpse of his only child. Again his eyes betrayed him. The brown was spiked with pain. But I feared the way he seemed so impassive, so cold and uncaring. He seemed not to be my husband, but someone else, someone who had lost too much and was beyond feeling pain any longer. For I moment I thought if he would even notice if I left, through death or willingly. But a moment later I scolded myself for judging him that badly. He suffered, but in a way I could neither understand nor share. And he did it alone. Which forced me to suffer in loneliness too.
I could not bear to look at my daughters corpse that was nearly burnt in the madly raging fire, eating away all of her young body, her beautiful spirit gone. I kept staring at Shrek, at Harold, the earth, the sky, instead, anything that still was alive. I tried not to think, not to feel. A statue, I had to be a statue or I would break. But I felt guilt and anger and sadness and pain and loneliness and rage and hate and grief boil inside me like a volcano. I want to remain stone, but I feel way too much, I need to get it out. I look at my daughters ashes and the tears come, the fury comes and takes me away.
I know that I am about to do wrong as I saddly my white horse and leave the castle to ride onto the shadowy streets. Noone will recognize me, for I hide my face behind a dark black veil. Noone will notice that I am the queen, tonight.
I feel bad and my conscience mocks me. But there is this painful, enraging, endless ache inside me. This need for physical closeness. The want of forgetting and revelling only in this one moment. Of feeling something primitive, but real.
Never before have I been to the poisoned apple. As soon as I enter I do know why.
Slow, sad piano music can be heard and the deep, somehow melodious voice of Captain Hook. I watch him, another beaten and torn creature and I find myself pitying him rather than condamning the crimes he has commited.
"Which drink?" the booming voice of the evil stepsister asks me.
I want to turn around and leave. "Gin" I say instead. (S)he laughs at me as (s)he passes over a grainy glass of the demanded.
I never drink alcohol except for the occasional glass of red wine during festivities. I gulp the Gin down as quickly as possible. It tastes bitter and I instantly recognize that under normal circumstances I would never touch the stuff. My head starts spinning, but the wanted effect is given.
Better soon get it over with.
A young man is standing in the far right corner. His body is tall and muscular and if I cared about such facts he would have been good looking. His shoulder-length blonde hair gleams like wheat. Something about him is familiar, but I can not place him, through the veil, the Gin and the mask he wears.
"Are you interested in him?" the deep barkeepers voice asks me. (S)he has noticed my staring. "Pardon?" I ask, the queen breaking through. Again that humourless, dry laugh.
"He works for me. Poor puppy!" (s)he almost sounds pitiful "has not been the same after his terrible loss." I think she refers to the death of his wife. I can sympathize with that. "He needs some sort of income badly, not being used to any type of working himself." I begin to understand which sort of act he offers.
"How much?"
I detest the woman who asks this terrible question. I do not know her, she is neither the queen nor Lillian, but another, much darker part of my personality. A side that has thankfully been hiding until today.
"He is really good." (S)he grins broadly, showing her personal experiences. "Let us say 500 Stardollars."
I hesitate before laying the money onto the table. "He will come to room 6 upstairs in 10 minutes." She hands me the key. I walk up the stairs, step by step by step.
I know I am heading towards sin. I am not only a queen who fools the king, but much worse, I am a wife who betrays her husband.
Self-hate tries to nag on my conscience. Because not matter what, I still do love Harold. And what I am about to do is not only treachery on him, but also on my very own heart.
I close the door of the small chamber behind my back. He will be here soon. Again hesitation before I drop my modesty and I start undressing myself. When I turn around I can almost see Harold sitting on the bed. I keep checking that my veil is still perfectly in place.
Noone can know who I am. Not my reputation is what I fear for. But Harold does not deserve this shame in front of our whole kingdom.
My thoughts try to drift towards my daughters body again, as much as I try to think of something else. But before they get too depressing, the boy enters the room. I do not know what else to call him, since I do not know his name, probably never will and he seems not to be much older than Fiona was.
He does not speak. He simply looks at me, no sign of anything passes his face, his blue eyes remain distanced and emotionless. Much more of a professional that I had thought him to be.
Swift as a shadow he undresses and slides into the bed. I feel nervous, but it is nothing compared to my immense self-loathing. I demand him to lay under me.
Forget, simply forget and feel instead. That is what I try to do, as he pushes inside me. No kissing or touching nonsense beforehand. Harder, faster, with more power and force. But I still remember. Even now. It does not help, although I try. The boy is good, not doubt about that, but I do not care. A voice keeps whispering "whore, loveless wife, incompetent mother" inside my head.
"What are you doing here?" Lillian cries inside me. "Why are you torturing Fionas memory, Harold and yourself? Why? You know you love Harold." "Yes" I scream. "I do love him. But I need to feel. I need to" and I fall sideways onto the rumpled white sheets.
My tears finally flow freely now. But I have not noticed that my veil has been ripped off and reveals my face.
The boy stares at me out of huge blue eyes. "Your highness". He is perplex. He gives a small forced arrogant laugh, more of a chuckle.
"How long has it been" he is reminiscencing. "How happy both of us were then, although we did not see lucks true worth."
I expect him to use the knowledge of my personality against me, maybe to get more money or simply to tell my husband. But he does not. Instead he unexpectedly pulls off his own mask and shows me his young, well-known face. "Charming"
