Fiona stood in the shadows, wrists resting on her rump, manacles chained to the wall.
Twenty minutes ago, when the rusty pin had dropped into the chain securing her to the dungeon wall and the witches had cackled their way out of the eerie, cavernous space, half a dozen little offenses had demanded her attention: The splinter still wedged in her cheek. A throbbing headache from an earlier concussion. An ankle that smarted from a vicious twist.
She had been tired and foggy earlier; she had every right to slump over in exhaustion. Strangely, though, instead of giving up, her muscles stepped up to the job. Her legs were stout, her body didn't waver. The little offenses faded into the background. Her physical condition was remarkably stable.
Her mental condition was a completely different story.
The war was lost.
Every ogre in the rebellion had been tidily gathered up by an imp in a wig half his own height. Her entire army, collected by a guy with a flute; herself, collected by the dumbest witches on patrol.
The mission was her life's work, her focus, her true love. Just thinking about it – about it being lost – made her ears ring and her head feel full, like a concussion without the grenade. The weave of reality around her seemed a little looser than it ought; gaps in the warp, stray threads coming loose at the edges.
Fiona shifted her weight, jostled the chains to feel the metal on her wrists.
"Fiona, you alright?" came a hoarse whisper from ten feet to her right … and twenty feet above. Fiona squinted up into the darkness, but what little light filtered through the clouds and windows was promptly sucked up by the thirsty dark stone. Metal squeaked where she'd heard the voice, and in two or three other places high above her.
"That you, Gretched?" Fiona answered.
Something heavy thumped into the outside of the huge wooden door through which the imp had departed. "Keep it down in there or it's more pumpkin pie for you lot! Ha ha ha ha ha ha" a muffled voice cackled from beyond the door.
"...you okay? What are you hanging from!?" Fiona continued in an urgent whisper.
"We're all in cages," Gretched replied softly.
"THEY CAN CAGE OUR HONOR–" Brogan began bellowing. He was sharply shushed by a chorus of tongues.
The tiniest smile fleeted past the very corners of Fiona's lips.
·❧·
Her eyes finally adapted to the very dark space. Fiona began to make out the dungeon. Dingy gray light dripped off the clouds and through the barred windows, illuminating a patterned tile floor. Disgust rose in her throat as she recognized the pattern – the tile floor of the grand ballroom she'd twirled around as a princess, back when the room was packed full of barons in silk and duchesses in satin, the gentle strains of a string quartet and the burble of a hundred conversations she'd had no interest in.
Now it was a wholly different world. A remarkably classy dungeon. The disquieting dichotomy set her off balance. At the far end of the long room the grand staircase swept up a tall story, leading not to a balcony but a stout iron portcullis. A hazy, flickering glow backlit the harsh metal as if an oversized candle adorned the entire next floor.
She could hear the cages above her creak, suggesting they weren't on an upper balcony or fixed to the wall, but suspended on chains. She could make out many different rhythms of breathing and the occasional cough or sniff. One cage was even snoring. There were dozens of bodies up there, easily enough to account for her entire army.
Why would everyone else be in ogre crates and her just standing around on the floor? He surely hadn't run out of cages. Had he something especially in mind just for her, some vicious reward for leading the onslaught? If she'd won, would she have done the same to him?
She was undoubtedly in a bad place. A toneless clamor of erratic thoughts rattled her head; at least the act of sensing her surroundings helped calm her mind. She had to think about something. A dozen thoughts competed, offering to help out.
Maybe you can fix this.
Ha ha no you can't you're chained to a dungeon wall! You failed, completely and utterly.
Maybe you can at least figure out what you did wrong so you don't do it again next time.
Ha ha as if there's a next time. You're about to be made into Witch Stew or whatever fate you just condemned all your friends to.
The thoughts sloshed back and forth, tug and pull. A shred of remaining optimism trying to light some path forward; a dark hopelessness trying to drag her into the abyss.
Get a grip, Fiona, going crazy isn't going to help you.
Gretched's whisper returned, cautiously, not for witches, but to avoid hurting Fiona. "So, Fiona … what's the plan?"
Fiona choked down a bitter laugh.
An awkwardly long pause sat in the big open space between them.
Fiona closed her eyes and tipped her head back, nose pointing up to the ogre zoo dangling above. From the waist down she was a solid oak; above she was a flag of surrender. "There isn't one, Gretched."
Gretched shifted, her cage squeaking in protest. A long breath slid out her nose.
Fiona knew Gretched could hear it in her voice: the first time her voice had ever admitted defeat. Surely every ogre could hear it, with the possible exception of Cookie, who could get the news when awake.
Her head rolled forward and her chin slumped onto her chest. She was surrounded by people; alone with her thoughts.
Evidently you can't help yourself. Maybe you should have gone along with Shrek's stupid plan, since apparently yours wasn't so great.
Oh yeah sure that would have worked out well. He's the idiot who ruined everything!
Record scratch. Don't you dare find someone else to blame, Princess. That old habit died the day she stopped feeling sorry for herself.
A lesson Fiona had learned the hard way was to be brutally honest with herself. If she were going to be honest with herself right now, Fiona had always known there was a possibility of failure. That pessimistic voice, so smug right now, had always been there, wringing its hands, helping her see flaws in her plans and fix them. A stronger voice of optimism would always drown it out, focusing on success, keeping her from losing faith in herself. But she had always known failure was a possibility. If it wasn't a love-struck foot soldier foiling her timing, it might have been an unfortunately-timed broomstick patrol, or the unlucky swing of an axe, or anything else. Failure had always been a possibility.
And here it was.
Fiona leaned forward onto her toes, letting the chain pull her arms up until her shoulders squealed uncle. She sucked in a few deep breaths, focusing on the self-induced pain to drag her attention away from that last thought. She took a step forward and pushed herself back upright and back to her chained position at attention.
"You arright, Fiona?" came Gretched's voice.
Fiona felt a thousand miles away. She made no reply.
·❧·
Hope. The word came to her unbidden.
When she had finally put the tower at her back and walked out into the night, she knew it was brave, but with every step of that journey she winced from her deep wound. The promise of a brave knight, a fulfilled life: that promise had been the biggest, most important gift her parents had given her, and now it was irrevocably lost. But with that loss had come a new hope: making a decision for the first time in her entire life. The discovery of independence. Back then, that had felt like a pretty sorry consolation prize, but with time, she'd come to understand that the reward was actually herself.
Then later, when she learned that her very humanity wasn't all it was cracked up to be, that she was more monster than princess, that too hurt. But with that loss had come the discovery of Groyl and Moyre and others who had treated her with genuine love and care, who had healed not just her physical injuries but her heart.
Learning that she was a hunted species was a rude awakening, but learning that others like her were ready to raise arms with her, to fight with her, to look up to her? She'd certainly rather not have an enemy, but there was a lot of hope in friends who would follow her lead.
Tonight was different. There was no exchange, no consolation. Tonight she'd lost everything. She'd lost her war, lost her friends, lost her own independence. Lost the privilege of sitting down or scratching her nose, even. But what had she found? Character growth? Inner harmony? Fiona spat in frustration.
What did she have to look forward to? She was chained to a wall, perhaps to be Rumpelstiltskin's plaything, poked in the eye with a stick to elicit his cruel laughter, tortured just for fun. He'd torment her until her mind gave out. Maybe he'd extract some heavy labor from her insensible body until it too gave out. Then he'd stuff her remains into a blender to make protein smoothies for his spectral staff.
She wasn't feeling sorry for herself; she deserved that wretched future. She had tried to make her own happily-ever-after, and had utterly failed. She had ruined her own life. She had ruined everyone else's.
She deserved to suffer.
Fiona's empty stare drilled through the pattern of floor tiles in the indistinct light.
She didn't try to distract herself with pain in the shoulders. She just let the pain emanate from her heart, reach out through her arteries, soak into every limb and digit.
Creaks filtered down from above as bulky bodies shifted trying to find comfort crammed in cages. A distant thump and scratch of activity sounded continuously beyond the heavy doors and above the high ceiling.
Her mind stayed blank. She'd found a meditative state of suffering; time ceased its ticking.
·❧·
A sudden popping and tinkling noise spattered throughout the cavernous chamber above her, little clouds of glowing, glittering dust raining down on her. The fading magical luminescence lingered for half a minute, illuminating empty cages swinging gently as they swung back into a new balance under their chains.
"Cookie?" No drawl, no snore.
"Traif? Ugerke?" Creak.
"Brogan?" she prompted, urgency filtering into her voice.
"Gretched?" she asked desperately. Only the squeaking chains replied.
Empty? Had Rumpel just magicked them to death? That was bizarre; she'd assumed he'd at least exploit them first. Why lock them up in the first place? And why was she still standing there?
The room sagged back into darkness as the sparks faded. In the near-dark, and the now near-silence, the acrid stench of smoke wafting into her nose was the most prominent sensation. It reminded her of the tower. She shuddered.
Her brain tried to make sense of the disappeared ogres, but her heart dulled her thoughts. All she could feel was loss. Did it even matter where the ogres were, if they were alive or dead? She'd failed them. Perhaps he'd killed them for rallying to her. Perhaps being mercifully vanished was a gift compared to how Rumpel had been treating ogres for the last two years.
Perhaps she was the only one left. Perhaps this was the end of her story. Perhaps I'm the woman who helped man eliminate every last ogre. Every last real ogre.
Perhaps she'd bear the entirety of his sadistic malice alone.
Perhaps she deserved it.
Author's Note: The deep wound and healed her heart are shouts out to Fiona's interactions with Charming & Moyre in Gadfly's Before Forever after.
Sixteen chapters of gratitude to hanny spoon for inspirational conversations, unexpected insights, and diligent reading and editing that made this into a story I am proud of. Thank you!