Wintersong

“Don’t look back,” he said.

I nodded. I love you, I wanted to say. But I knew those words would break me.

“Elisabeth.”

The Goblin King was smiling. Not the pointed smile of the Lord of Mischief or Der Erlkönig, but a crooked one. Twisted to one side, lopsided and goofy, it cracked my heart open and I bled inside.

He mouthed a word at me. A name. “You’ve always had it, Elisabeth,” he said softly. “For it is to you I gave my soul.”

His soul. I held my music—our music—to my heart. We were sundered forever, never to be with the other again. The grief shattered me, broke me into sharp, jagged pieces. I wanted the touch of his hand, for my austere young man to put me back together, scarred but whole.

But I was already whole. I was Elisabeth, entire, even if I was Elisabeth, alone. The knowledge of it gave me strength.

I straightened my shoulders. The Goblin King and I held each other’s gazes for the last time. I would not look back. I would not regret. He smiled at me and pressed his fingers to his lips in farewell.

Then I turned and walked away, into the world above, and into the dawn.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

No. But I would never be ready. This day and the day after next and the day after that would be full of unknowns, full of uncertainty. And I would face each one as I was, Elisabeth, entire.

“Yes.”

He gave me a nod, more a gesture of respect than agreement. “Then,” he said. “The whole wide world awaits you.”

I walked to the edge of the Goblin Grove. I placed my hands against the barrier, invisible yet tangible. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself to push through. I stepped past the barrier, and into the forest beyond.

For a moment, I stood there, beyond the edge of the Goblin Grove. The air, warm and mild, did not change, did not grow cold. I had crossed the threshold, and there was no going back. And yet, still I lingered, unwilling to go, unable to stay.

“If—if I could find a way to free you,” I whispered, “would you walk the world above with me?”

My back was to the Goblin King; I could not face him. It was a long time before he answered.

“Oh, Elisabeth,” he said. “I would go anywhere with you.”

“You played them for me; now you should go play them for the rest of the world. Finish the Wedding Night Sonata, Elisabeth. Finish it for us.”

“I will write it for you,” I whispered. “For my immortal beloved.”

It was close, so close to what I wanted to tell him. I love you, I insisted, but my lips would not comply.

“Play it for me,” he said. “Play for me, my dear, and I will hear it. No matter where you go. No matter where I am. I swear it. I swear it, Elisabeth.”

A name came to my lips. I tried to lift my hand, to hold it against his cheek, to tell him I loved him.

“Will I see you again?” I whispered.

“No,” he said. “I think—I think it is better that way.”