VIGIL

[VIGIL – A Tribute to Pan’s Labyrinth – Fanfiction]

By LittleFoxglove/litele_one/Reiycheru

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Disclaimer: Pan’s Labyrinth [El Laberinto del Fauno] is sole property of creator and director Guillermo Del Toro.

Contains SPOILERS – It is highly recommended that you DO NOT READ if you have not yet seen Pan’s Labyrinth in its entirety.

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VIGIL




He is old . . . old as the very bones of the world, and yet everlastingly young. Time will not touch him here, can not touch him here, as he once allowed it to do so, in another place, not so long ago. Time no longer holds any true significance or relevance for him . . . . . and yet here he waits.

He is free . . . entirely free, free from human standards or human judgment; exclusive; disparate; standalone . . . . . and yet here he remains, committed, steadfast, loyal, waiting in the darkness.

He is wild . . . wilder than any beast can ever be; in ways that beasts of the earth could only ever imagine. Only the elements can claim to share in this particular breed of fey and feral nature; only the wind can soothe and rage equally without justification, as he can comfort and kill at whim. Untamable, uncompromising, he will act as he so wishes, he will be whatsoever he chooses . . . and he chooses to be loyal. He chooses to be constant. He chooses to remain . . .

He waits.

Here, in the darkness, he waits for the dawn. Here, in the silence, he stands a steadfast, unwavering vigil. Here, in this room, he stands guard over something he deems irrevocably precious. Here, in the small hours of the night, he will never sleep . . .

. . . and so for him, this slender creature curled slumbering in a nest of silken sheets dreams of forests and mountains, of rivers and trees, of earth-scented zephyrs and endless leagues of boundless, untamed wilderness.

He belongs with them. He is born of them; of the ancient oak and fertile earth, of the magic deep in the womb of the world and the mingling weave of light and dark beneath the forest canopy.

He does not have to be here, surrounded by walls and pillars of towering stone, by regal splendor and palatial glory he has neither care nor desire for . . . but he will never leave. He will never leave. He abandoned her once before; he remembers it, he will always remember it, just as he will always remember that lost young girl, alone in so many ways and yet so full of spirit and courage that he knew, almost on sight, from the very beginning, that she would not fail . . .

He told her that she would be forgotten . . . That all memory of her would be lost to history, would cease to exist; as though she had never been. And then he abandoned her; his final words a livid oath that she would never see him again, leaving her shaking and voicelessly weeping as the darkness took him . . . . . And still she flew into his arms when he returned to give her a second chance.

She died that night . . . reborn to the life and the happiness she so truly deserved, returned to her title; her home; her family; and a father who loved her with all of his heart.

But, then, how could one not?

He is not indebted to her. He carried out his task, played his part, and saw his role through to the end. He would not, could not have made it easy for her; and so she suffered, yes, faced uncertainty, fear, pain, and at last death – but some things come at a price, and can not be obtained through quicker or easier means.

He does not feel guilt, or regret, nor is he expected to. She herself has told him this, has looked upon her memory of that time and come to understand it; the rhyme, reason and purpose behind his conduct, every outward ripple of cause and effect. She understands that it was not he who started her on that path to her destiny, it was herself. She could have chosen not to follow his pet, to run from him that night in the labyrinth, to refuse the tasks he set before her . . . Would she still have perished if she had not? Would her mother have birthed a healthy baby boy, and survived the ordeal? Would she have lived, would she eventually have come to call the captain “father”, would she have been his obedient little step-daughter, have grown out of “childish” notions of magic and fairytales into a respectable young woman, married some general or officer and had children of her own, have lived happily ever after to the end of her days?

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know if he would want to.

What he does know . . . . . is that he is so proud of her. She chose to follow her heart, even when it meant putting herself in dire risk, even when it meant disobeying him, when it meant breaking her promise to him; she chose to make her own choices. To act on her own instincts, and to trust in what they were telling her. In the end, she chose to sacrifice her only chance, her passage to her kingdom for the life of an innocent, even when he challenged her.

Nothing less than could have been expected of a princess . . .

She is adored by her subjects. Tales of her exploits on the surface world abound amongst the populace, though he has yet to hear one version of events that is wholly accurate. Only they will ever truly know the entirety of the story . . .

And he is content with this.

They recount it together, on quiet, thoughtful days, when they are alone and there is no one to intrude. Her memories of that time are exceptionally vivid; while her dam’s recollection of her own reincarnation in the over-world is somewhat dim, like the first stars at dusk, and she must be reminded of it before she can begin to engage the memory. His own memories, they remain as crystal clear as ever, if not even more so now.

He likes to hear the story through her words. To see it through her eyes, and know it as she experienced it. It fascinates him, just as it seems to fascinate her to hear it from his point of view. Time and again, she surprises him with her unassuming childish wisdom, the clarity of view her youth afforded, her lack of prejudice, biases, pre-emption. Everything in her came from the purest of places. Even when he disconcerted her, when his eyes gleamed wicked in the shadows of the pit, she never wrote him off entirely. She believed in him; she believed in magic, and its truth.

Belief breeds courage, which he well knows. And she certainly had no shortage of that.

Long fingers ghost over shining dark hair, and she sighs in her sleep. Swift and spree, three diminutive winged bodies weave a silent circle about them in the darkness.

After all . . . he never stopped believing in her.

He smiles to himself, and keeps his vigil in the night.



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END

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