You have failed me, Gulliver," she spat, her voice dripping with pain.
Gulliver staggered back in shock. "Mary, no, please, I—"
She shook her head, tears pooling her disappointed eyes. "Why, why didn't you just let me go? Why did you have to do this? I-i can't live like this, I want to die." She sobs loudly.
Gulliver stared at his beloved Mary in horror, his heart aching in his chest. Her beauty, once radiant and luminous, was now twisted and contorted with pain. He could see the despair etched in every line of her face, the hopelessness in her hollow, empty eyes.
"Mary, please," he begged, his voice trembling. "Don't cry. I did what I thought was best. I couldn't let you go. I couldn't lose you, not like this."
Gulliver shot up, his heart pounding as his consciousness returned. His sleepiness faded away, yet the remnants of his nightmare lingered like a haunting echo, clinging to him like a sticky sweat. His eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of Mary's apparition. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw her translucent form hovering over him, her anguish-filled eyes gazing down at him with a silent plea for help.
Gulliver blinked, and the image vanished, leaving only the reality of his spacious bedroom. For a few seconds, he sat on the edge of his bed, the vivid recollection of his nightmare still swirling in his mind, like a maddening tempest.
Finally, he shook his head, attempting to clear his mind of the ghostly memory. He glanced at the clock by his bedside and and checked the time. It was 1am. Reaching out for the golden bellpull that dangled from his bedside, he gave it a sharp tug, the echoing ring slicing through the stillness of the early morning.
Within moments, the door to his room creaked open, and two maids shuffled in, their eyes downcast in deference to their king.
"My lord," one of them said, bowing low. "Shall we prepare your meal?"
"Yes, yes," Gulliver grunted, the taste of fear still lingering in his mouth. "Bring me wine and beef. And be quick about it."
The maids scurried off, and Gulliver leaned back against his plush headboard, feeling the softness of the silk sheets beneath him.
As he waited for his meal to arrive, Gulliver's thoughts turned to the events of the previous day. He remembered his conversation with Kshipa, the insidious temptation of the holy dragon, and the deal they had made. He had convinced himself that it was all for Mary—that he was willing to risk everything to save her—but a small voice in the back of his mind whispered that his motives were not so pure.
The maids returned, bearing a golden tray laden with a goblet of deep red wine and a heaping platter of roasted beef.
Gulliver wasted no time in grabbing the goblet, downing the rich, velvety liquid in a single gulp. The rich, fruity taste of the wine, a vintage from his own cellars, should have brought him pleasure, but all he could taste was the bitter aftertaste of his fear and guilt.
He took a slice of beef and tore into it with his teeth, savoring the juicy, tender meat. The smell of blood and iron filled his nostrils, but it did nothing to ease the tension that had coiled itself around his heart like a vise.
Gulliver's fork clinked against the now empty plate, signaling the end of his late-night feast. He wiped his hands on a silk napkin and tossed it onto the table with a sigh. Rising from his bed, he straightened his crimson robes and left his room, his footsteps echoing in the quiet halls of his palace.
Twisting and turning through the labyrinthine corridors, Gulliver soon arrived at a heavy wooden door.
He reached out and grasped the cool, iron handle, the metal biting into his flesh as he turned it. With a soft click, the door creaked open, the familiar aroma of herbs washing over him.
The room beyond was dimly lit, the walls lined with shelves of potions and elixirs. In the center stood a bed made of solid ice, upon which lay a thin and frail woman. Gulliver approached, his eyes fixed on her gaunt, pale face. She seemed even thinner than the last time he had seen her, her skin stretched taut against her cheekbones.
He reached out a hand and gently brushed a strand of sandy brown like sun-kissed sand hair from her face. Her skin was cool to the touch, her chest rising and falling in a shallow rhythm. She looked as though she were sleeping, but Gulliver knew that she had been in this frozen state for years.
"My queen," he whispered, his voice barely audible in the silent room. "Please, wake up."
He stared down at her, his heart aching with a love that he had never thought possible.
Gulliver lowered himself to the edge of the icy bed, his hand still hovering over her face. The cool air of the room sent shivers down his spine, but he did not move. He remained there, watching her, waiting for any sign that she might awaken.
"I should have told you sooner," he murmured, his eyes growing misty. "I was such a fool, a selfish fool. I should have told you how I felt."
As Gulliver sat by Mary's bedside, his mind wandered back to the early days of their marriage. He had been stubborn and mistrustful, refusing to believe that Mary could be different from the other women he had known. He remembered the night they were first wed, when he was repulsed by her advances, adamant that he would not be swayed by a woman's seduction, forgetting that she was not just any woman, but his wife. He remembered the morning after that first night together, how he had woken up with a raging headache and a feeling of betrayal. He had accused Mary of spiking his wine, of tricking him into bed, and he had hated her for it. He had told himself that she was just like all the other women he had known—vain, manipulative, and greedy. In his fury, he had ignored her pleas of innocence and her tearful attempts to explain.
Gulliver stared at Mary now, her features still and lifeless, and he felt a pang of regret. He should have listened to her then, should have given her the benefit of the doubt. But he had been so blinded by his own prejudices and anger, that he had pushed her away instead. And now, here she was, trapped in this icy prison, and it was all his fault.
Gulliver lowered his head, his guilt and remorse weighing on him like a heavy cloak. He had done this to her. He had caused this.
Gulliver sighed heavily, the weight of his guilt dragging him down. He rose from the edge of Mary's bed, his feet feeling like lead as he walked away. He made his way through the herb-scented room, the memories of his past mistakes clinging to him like a cloying fog.
Pushing open the door, Gulliver stepped back into the opulent halls of his palace. His thoughts still swimming with regret, he stumbled into the dining room and sank into his seat at the head of the table, his hands trembling.The room was empty but for the flickering candles and the servants who waited patiently in the shadows. Gulliver drummed his fingers on the table, his mind racing. He wanted to forget the past, to forget the cruelty he had inflicted on Mary, but it was impossible. The more he tried to push it away, the more it dogged him, like a persistent shadow. If she hadn't saved me, she wouldn't be in this condition, he thought.
Gulliver signaled to a servant, his voice rough with emotion. "Bring me more wine," he ordered, his eyes glazed over with memories. "And make it strong." Strong enough to dull this cursed memory, he muttered low." The servant nodded, her eyes downcast as she scurried away to fulfill Gulliver's order.
A moment later, the servant returned with a large platter of rich, succulent beef, and a goblet brimming with deep red wine. Gulliver's eyes locked on the meal, a ravenous hunger stirring within him. With a ferocity that surprised even himself, he tore into the meat, his teeth ripping flesh from bone.