A flash of light erupted in the cell, accompanied by an agonising scream. He had loved her. He still loved her. And now she was gone. Because of him.
Guilt. It was a rare feeling for the God of tricks. But the pain going through him could only be described with that word. Guilt and pain and regret.
Regret, for all the words he wanted to say but didn't. Regret, for all the words he didn't want to say, but did say anyway. Regret, for he could not be at her funeral. Regret, for all the times he had shut her out. Regret, for the tricks he played her. Regret, regret, for he never was, and never would be, the better son.
Pain, for he had loved his mother dearly, even though she was not his mother in blood. Pain, because the last words towards her were hateful. Pain, because he hated the first thought that had come to mind when he had discovered his mother's death. Now I will never get out of here.
Pain, because every damn thing around him reminded him of her. The chairs scattered through his cell. The table, broken in half. The books, torn in pieces. Even the magic flowing through his being, the thing that had made him who he was, was a constant reminder of all that was no more.
And guilt. Oh, the guilt. Because it was his fault. His fault that she had now driven off the face of this world. His fault that he could hear the funeral songs. His fault that the warriors had to light their arrows. His fault that the land would be in mourning. His fault that her existence would now only be a memory. His fault, that her eyes would see no more, her mouth would speak no more, her heart would beat no more. His fault, all his fault.
"Always so perceptive about everyone but yourself." Those had been her last words.
"WELL MOTHER?" He screamed into the empty nothingness of the cages around him. "WHAT WOULD YOU THINK OF ME NOW?! IS THIS GUILT 'PERCEPTIVE' ENOUGH FOR YOU? IS THIS PAIN 'PERCEPTIVE' ENOUGH FOR YOU?"
"AM I ENOUGH FOR YOU?"
Another flash, followed by another wave of destruction, another wave of surging magic that painfully reminded him of her. Pain. Regret. Guilt. So much guilt.
Guilt, because she might have had survived had he not pointed that escaped monster the correct way to the castle. Guilt, because she might have had survived if he had talked to her for just a little while longer. Guilt, for she might have had survived had he not chased the throne. Guilt, for she might have had survived had he been there to protect her. Guilt, for she might have had, she might have been, could have been…
Another scream, this time not preceded by a magical wave of demolition. He simply used his hands, his feet, his foolish immortal body, for using magic was too painful, too agonisingly her.
He kicked the fallen chair, ripped the books, broke the lamps. He slammed the table, hit the vase, flung the bed towards the magical barrier kicking him in. He swirled and hurled and scattered everything in his sight. And he screamed.
His feet bled, but he didn't feel the pain. His arms were scarred, his clothes ripped, his hair hung loosely around his face. Beastly. Bloodied. Like the monster he was.
A monster surrounded by broken pieces of furniture, broken pieces of memories, broken pieces of things that once belonged to her, to the woman who had loved him, cared for him, raised him To the woman he denied. To the woman who was dead. Because of him. And he knew she would not come to heal his feet. He knew she would not come to was his wounds, to mend his clothes, to tie up his stubborn dark hair that made it oh so clear he wasn't truly part of the family. He knew she would not come to bring more books, new pillows, comfortable chairs. He knew she would not come, would never come again. For he had lost the only thing in this world he truly loved, because of his own arrogance.
He broke down,
and cried.