fic: Sub Rosa Part II
Sub Rosa
Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Art Post
Beauty rode for a long time, unsure of where he was going. There was no clear path, and eventually he allowed Jess to lead, picking her way carefully among the tangled undergrowth of a forest untouched by man.
He found himself nodding off, jerking awake each time his chin hit his chest. Abruptly, he was yanked back to consciousness, unaware that he’d drifted off again, to find that Jess had stopped in front of a set of gates. She was shivering, her shoulders wet with sweat. Beauty dismounted, his legs stiff from the long ride in an awkward position. Taking the reins, he led her to the gates which, as his father had described, opened before he had quite reached them.
Jess was wheezing now, eyes rolling, and Beauty took pity on her. He led her away from the gates and removed the saddlebags, tucked the reins up under her bridle, and sent her off with a slap to the rump. She took off, round body jouncing through the black trunks. She would, he knew, find her way home. He hoped his family wouldn’t see the empty saddle and assume he’d been eaten. There was more meat on Jess anyway, he thought wryly.
Beauty watched her until she was out of sight, unaccountably sad to see her go, and then turned back to the gate, which hung open like an empty pledge. He sighed, hefted his bags, and trudged through. The gates swung shut with a bang that echoed through the air. It was completely silent within the fence, all birdsong and leaf rustle voided. Taking a deep breath, Beauty headed deeper into the estate.
The castle was surrounded by shrubs that were a lush, dark green despite the freezing weather. There was a scant inch of snow on the ground that seemed to have been placed there carefully, and the grey path that Beauty was following was completely clear. The castle itself towered above him, pale stone casting an ashen aura.
A long, low building to his right was what Beauty assumed was the stable, larger than his own house in the deepening gloom of evening.
By the time he made it to the main doors, twice at least as tall as he was, the sky had darkened to the knifepoint edge of night. Beauty stood a moment, resting the saddlebags on the ground as he took in the scenes that ranged across the doors themselves.
The left panel contained scenes of a hunting party, led by a man with a cruel face who was whipping his horse into a fury. He had a crossbow resting easily across his lap, and despite his pitiless expression, Beauty could see the attractiveness of his features.
The middle of the entrance was a large tree, obviously meant to symbolize a great forest. It spread across the crack between the doors, its heavy limbs extending over the entire scene, its roots creating a uniform base for both scenes.
The right panel showed a lone horse fleeing the tree, saddle askew, reins loose and eyes rolling. It was surrounded by deer, birds, wolves, squirrels, all stretched out into panicked runs. The horse had five long gashes on its flank, and Beauty was forcibly reminded of the wounds on his father’s leg. He wondered what had happened to the hunting party.
Swallowing loudly, Beauty stretched a hand forward to knock, and the door swung open before he made contact. The hall within was brightly lit, warm firelight licking over the walls and reaching across the marble floors to lap at his feet. Not quite what he was expecting, he admitted to himself, and grabbed his bags as he went inside.
He followed the hall to the dining room, where a feast, large enough to feed a dozen starving men, was laid out. Beauty meant to bypass it, to greet his host, but that was before the first smell of it hit his nose. He hadn’t realised how deprived he’d been of variety, but that first sniff was almost enough to bring him to his knees. Beauty discovered he was starving, and gratefully sank into one of the two chairs, mouth watering profusely.
He waited momentarily, peering into the shadows, wondering if the beast would perhaps choose to dine with him. The room, however, was still and laden with a thick feeling of, well. It was hard to say. Expectation, perhaps.
A high-pitched gurgle cut Beauty off from his good intentions, and he smiled down at his own belly before beginning the process of choosing from the literally dozens of plates of food laid out for him. Mountains of mashed potatoes were surrounded by forests of vegetable greens; there were heaps of salads and gravy lakes, all coyly surrounded by dishes of meats. And please, Beauty thought appreciatively, let us not forget the meats. There were steaks and rumps frolicking in amongst the pheasants and capons, with an entire plate of chops off slightly by itself, though none the less tempting for it. Beauty chewed and sighed and went back for seconds and thirds, everything done to perfection.
At some point, the meal gave way to dessert. Pies and ice cream and chocolate delicacies appeared, pushing the wreckage of the main course out of their way impatiently. Despite his own hunger and size Beauty could not eat all that he wished he could. The atmosphere within the room became lighter as he ate, which he took as either the lessening of his own fears or as the tacit approval of his host.
Throughout it all, the chair at the head of the table remained empty.
:::
Finally, thankfully, Beauty was full. His belly was stretched drum-taut over the waistband of his pants, his napkin a ruined mess on the remains of his plate. He tipped his head back on the chair and sighed, a smile dancing along the corners of his sticky mouth.
“Thank you,” he said to the room, eyes closed.
“You’re welcome,” it rumbled back, and Beauty nearly fell out of his chair. He opened his eyes and looked towards the other chair, unsure what would greet him. If it would greet him at all.
In it sat what could only be his host. The lighting of the room had shifted, gone gloomy, casting its master into a fuller shadow than was completely natural, and for that Beauty was grateful. The beast sat, hugely magnificent, shaggy head bowed. It was hard to make out, but it was massive, that much was clear. The great furred head that looked down at him, taller than Beauty even when seated, had ears like a wolf, pointed and swivelling. One ear - the right - remained aimed at him the entire time that they regarded each other.
A paw was on the table, lit by firelight, one wicked claw tapping gently. There was a puff of lace at its wrist, laid out daintily over short, thick fur, and Beauty’s eyes traveled along the length of an arm, thick and enormously powerful in a dark-red velvet sleeve. The shoulders were implausibly broad, rounded in a slouch under the soft material of its jacket.
But the head of the beast, what Beauty kept returning to, was what was truly awing. The fur there was longer and thicker than on the paw, ranging shaggy down the solid neck. It had, Beauty realised, a muzzle; four canine teeth shined wetly white where they pushed out over its lips. Beauty jerked his eyes up to meet the beast’s; they were only a gleam in the shadows, though he would swear that they looked amused.
The overall impression of the beast, Beauty concluded, was one of a horribly restrained power, brooding in the darkly sinister clothes of a gentleman.
The beast shifted slightly under the scrutiny, then cleared its throat. “You’re not… exactly what I was expecting.”
“Um,” said Beauty, blushing violently. In the painful, squirming silence that followed, Beauty imagined the many ways that he could be punished for his sex. None of them, to put it mildly, were pleasant.
The beast sighed and turned its head. Beauty caught the outline of its whiskered muzzle, the teeth, before it turned back. “Did you like the food?” the beast asked, and Beauty felt the low thunder of it in his chest.
“I-” It came out weak and thready, so he stopped, cleared his throat, started again. “It was good.”
The beast dipped its great head. “Yes. The uh, the pies are pretty good.” It perked up slightly. “Did you try the steak? Because the steak here is awesome.”
“It was a little rare for me,” Beauty told him - oh yes, definitely a him - feeling surreal.
“That’s the best part,” the Beast rumbled enthusiastically. “Still tastes like cow. And the pies, seriously, delicious.”
There was an awkward silence as both of them regarded the wreckage of the remaining pies.
“So,” said the Beast, shifting silently, “you’re not a girl.” It wasn’t really a question, but Beauty felt he ought to make it clear.
“No,” he replied carefully. Perhaps this would be the moment he would be devoured, like a second-rate steak. Still tasted like human, his mind gibbered.
“I was expecting a girl.” Beauty couldn’t take his eyes off the tapping claw, rhythmic in the flickering light. While he watched it, the Beast heaved a sigh that gusted hot over Beauty’s face, blowing his hair back from his forehead, and stood. “Well, come on then,” the Beast said, beckoning.
Beauty stood, uncertain, and blurted, “Are you going to eat me?”
The silence was ringing this time, as the Beast stared at him. Beauty almost wished he could see him, could discern the expression on his face, though he was still decidedly glad for the shadows.
Finally, the Beast stepped forward, one stride placing him directly at Beauty’s side. Beauty could smell him, all earth and musk and wild, and willed himself not to shake. Lowly, almost purring in his ear, the Beast rumbled, “I’ll show you to your room.”
The Beast stood a full head taller than him, despite Beauty’s own height, and the comparison made him feel like a child again. He stooped to grab the saddlebags and felt, rather than heard, his host move away. Low as he was, he could see the Beast’s feet, more like dog’s paws than anything human, with four dark claws curving to touch the stone floor.
Beauty straightened up in time to catch the Beast licking the fingers, shorter and thicker than a man’s, on his left hand. The Beast glanced over, saw him watching, and hastily snatched the hand into his cloak.
“I was just having a bit of pie,” the Beast told him, looking remarkably embarrassed.
“Um,” said Beauty, and swallowed loudly.
“Well, to the room, I suppose,” said the Beast after a moment and set off down one of the halls.
Beauty found himself having to lengthen his strides to keep up with the Beast’s lope. His shoes and breathing were the only sounds, for the Beast moved as silently as a shade. He had a tail, Beauty noticed, and had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep his laughter, which would probably be on the wrong side of hysterical, in. The fur there was long and shaggy, brushing the ground and preventing his dark cloak from keeping a flowing line. Beauty tried to focus on the wondrous sights of the hall, art and frescos and tapestries, but his eyes simply would not leave the tail alone.
“So,” the Beast said, turning down yet another hallway. “Have you always been a dude?”
“A… dude?” Beauty asked, unfamiliar with the term.
“You know, a dude,” the Beast threw a narrow-eyed look over his shoulder. At Beauty’s blank look, he stopped and turned around, cloak swirling impressively. Beauty took a step back and shrugged. He waited, whether for an explanation or a blow, he wasn’t sure. The Beast took him in and let out a sigh. “A dude. A guy. Un hombre. Un homme. A man.”
“Oh,” Beauty nodded, “a guy is a man is a dude. I understand. And yes, I have always been a man.” He paused for a moment, considering. “Although I suppose if I am to be completely accurate I would have to admit that at one point I was a baby, and then a child, a period that was followed by one of being a boy. Always male, though.” He swallowed nervously, biting back on the rest of his tangent.
The Beast frowned at him, bottom teeth looking particularly sharp in the dim light. He huffed out another sigh that sounded something like what a geek and turned to continue down the hall.
Finally, the Beast stopped in front of a door. The torches on either side of it flared to life, and the Beast set his candelabra down on a handy end table. The door itself was indistinguishable from the others that they had passed but for the small ornate B that had been carved into the doorknob.
The door swung open eagerly as the Beast angled himself in, a little too wide for the frame. Beauty followed him in, taking in the simple, if slightly feminine, décor. There were lush carpets laid strategically over the stone floor, vines tangled in a green riot over a cream background. There was a dark writing desk with a small pile of milky papers and dainty pens, not entirely suited for a man’s heavy stroke, matched with a chair just a shade too small to be fully comfortable. The walls were hung with tapestries of unicorns and birds, framing large windows. The bed itself was a massive four-poster with gauzy hangings, plump pillows, and inviting turned-down covers.
Beauty fought back a yawn as the Beast muttered something to the fireplace, which promptly burst into flame. Beauty wondered at the fact that this, a talking beast invoking fire-spells in a sentient castle, did not faze him in the least.
“This will be your room,” the Beast told him, turning from the hearth. “If you find anything not to your liking, do not hesitate to inform the room. I’m sure it will be only too happy to rearrange itself.”
“Oh,” said Beauty, on the knife edge of hysteria. “Of course.” He hoped he would not giggle.
The Beast regarded him for a moment, again. For the hundredth time, it seemed, Beauty was on display, and for the hundredth time he blushed under the scrutiny. This time, though, Beauty was able to look back. He took in the almost-knobs of horn half-hidden under shaggy fur, the hang of the Beast’s cloak, the fit of his trousers. But it was the dark eyes, green now in the brighter light, that were by far the most human aspect of his face. They transformed him from a beast into the Beast, from an animal into an almost-man.
“Will I ever be allowed to leave?” Beauty blurted, surprising himself not only with the question but with the hope in his voice.
Mournfully, the Beast shook his head. “I’m afraid your leaving me would end in death, Beauty. You must never leave.”
“Never?” Beauty asked, hating the way his voice wavered.
“Never,” the Beast affirmed, meeting his eyes.
Beauty turned to the bed, pressed a splayed hand to his chest. “Please leave,” he managed, Hope and Faith smiling and waving in his mind.
When he looked back, the room was empty, the fire burning lacklustre in its grate. The door clicked forlornly shut as Beauty flung himself on the bed and bit the inside of his cheek until it bled, until sleep took him down.
:::
Beauty woke up at the first grey light of dawn, a habit from his life in the country. His eyes were scratchy, hot, blurred. The smell of toast and tea filled the room, and Beauty could just make out a plate of breakfast on the bedside table, tendrils of steam curling lazy in the air. He groaned and propped himself up on an elbow, stretching out for the mug.
He was just easing it off the tray when he remembered: No more Hope, no more Faith. No mornings with John, laughing or grumbling over the latest of Ash and Andy’s antics. No more dinners at the pub, all warmth and smiles and stew that stuck to one’s ribs in all the right ways. The cup slipped from his nerveless fingers, a thump-smash-splash as it hit the edge of the carpet.
Beauty dropped back into the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. They smelled like nobody, like enchanted air, and nothing at all like home.
:::
When he woke next, the room was lit with the natural light of afternoon and filled with a wild, smoky tang. Beauty sat up with a start to see the bedroom door clicking shut.
Heart pounding, he slid out of bed, forgetting about the shattered cup - except that his bare feet felt only the soft cushion of the rug. Frowning, he looked down. There was no sign that anything had ever broken or spilled, though the tray at his bedside held only toast with congealing butter.
Pushing down the despair that threatened to well up again, Beauty padded to the door. There was no sign that anyone had been inside, and a quick check established that there was no one waiting in the hall. Beauty turned back to the room, feeling rather off-centre, and scrubbed a hand over his face. The ring that he’d worn since they’d opened the saddlebags - Hope gasping as yet another fine slip was produced, John smiling with bemusement - felt warm and alive on his cheek.
With a quick inhale, not quite a gasp, Beauty took in the room for the first time that day. The bed was sturdier, heavy curtains replacing the gauzy fabric of yesterday. The duvet was different too, a dark red. The desk had been replaced, dark heavy wood in the place of the lighter, airier furniture of the night before. The chair, too, was taller and stouter; the pens were thicker, broader; the loose leaves of paper succeeded by weighty black-bound journals.
One of which was held open by a glass paperweight.
Beauty edged forward, feeling himself almost ridiculously unnerved - though, to be fair, he was in an enchanted castle at the behest of the Beast. He peered at the paper without coming close enough to touch, read the clumsy words written there.
Beauty.
I hope you’re feeling better this morning. If you’d let me join you for dinner, that would be awesome.
Have a good day,
Your humble host.
Beauty sighed and stepped away, turning his mind resolutely to performing his morning ablutions.
Later, clean and freshly shaven, smelling like fine soap, Beauty was confronted with the fact that his clothes were gone. Mouth set in a grim line, he filled his voice with as much authority as he could and said, “Give me back my clothes.”
His clothes, from his simple coat to his simple shirt to his simple pants, did not appear, though he did suddenly spy his boots, as simple as the rest, leaning by the door.
“That’s a good start,” he allowed, “but I want the rest of it.”
Still nothing, though the doors of the armoire did creak open just the slightest bit, as if on the receiving end of a slight puff of air from within.
Beauty rolled his eyes and marched over to it, unconsciously giving the desk wide berth. He flung the doors open and was immediately appalled at what he saw.
The wardrobe was a mess of colour, hues bright enough to scald one’s eyes. Laughing incredulously, Beauty pulled a blue shirt (though really, ‘blue’ came nowhere near to describing the colour) from the racks. It was a riot of frills and ruffles, lacy bits and toggles. He supposed it might look quite dashing on a romantic pirate or foppish lover, but neither choice was the look that he was suited to.
It took some digging, not to mention some creative curses and dodging more than a few moth balls, but eventually Beauty found some clothes that were proper. Simple trousers, though buff rather than a plain black and a pale green shirt that would not make him look a fool. He grinned, feeling triumphant as he shrugged into it, and slipped his boots on.
Trying not to think at all, Beauty left his room.
:::
Beauty spent the rest of the day wandering around the castle. He got lost after about three minutes, but he figured that the Beast would come and find him before he starved to death in a dusty hall.
Except the halls weren’t really dusty; everything was perfection, enough so that it set Beauty on edge. He’d tilted a painting, an old dark oil portrait, nearly on its side as an experiment. He’d made it down the hall and looked back, saw one crooked frame in a long line of neat level edges, and had to turn back to set it right.
His boots echoing off the stone floors were the only sound. He’d gotten hungry at some point, and the next room he’d peered into had contained only an end table at its very centre. On it was a large silver tray bearing sandwiches, water, pastries. Beauty had eaten it, thanked the room, and left when the Beast failed to appear and rumble a ‘you’re welcome’ in his ear.
Throughout the day, he repeatedly found himself wandering through the same hallway. It was empty, utterly devoid of any decorations, save a lone painting.
It was a portrait of a young man, about Beauty’s age. He was undeniably handsome, with the sort of good looks that Beauty had longed for in the place of his own blandness. His eyes were a vibrant green, his lips plush and red, his brown hair a spikey riot. He looked undeniably cruel; closed off and cold. Something about the set of his jaw, perhaps, or the slight squint of his eyes.
Whatever it was, Beauty felt a chill whenever he walked past. When he’d gotten close to study it, he’d felt as if the young man was scrutinizing him just as carefully, judging him, and finding him wanting.
Despite the lack of dust, the castle had an air of disuse. While there were a few rooms that Beauty felt his host spent some time in (mostly due to the shadows that lay in clumps and piles, despite the sunlight that filtered weakly in through the windows) there were many rooms where fires burst immediately into flame at his arrival, and the doors opened if he so much as looked in their direction, as if they were eager for company.
There were no mirrors.
Overall, Beauty found nothing of any note. The day wore on until somewhere in the distance, just as he was inspecting yet another room of Medieval tapestries, a clock struck six. He left the room with a sigh, ready to face his host, his captor, for dinner.
The hallway looked exactly the same as all of the others he’d been wandering all day, but after only two right turns he found himself once again in the massive dining room of the night before. The long table was again heaped with food, candelabras casting soft lighting over the scene. There were the two chairs from the night before, but as Beauty got closer he realised that once again there was only one place setting.
Not wanting to get his hopes up for dinner alone, Beauty took his seat and spread his napkin on his lap. He looked up suddenly, hoping to catch the Beast sliding into his chair, but the room was still empty.
By the time Beauty was attacking his dessert - the long afternoon of exploring was apparently enough to have more than emptied his belly - the Beast still had not shown. Beauty shovelled some cake into his mouth and tried not to think of the sad, awkward conversation of last night. He gave a reluctant half-smile at the thought of such a fearsome creature attempting to put him at ease with talks of pie.
“Something funny?” came the deep, rough voice from over by the massive fireplace.
Beauty turned in his seat to send an unamused look over his shoulder. “Must you skulk around like that?”
The Beast detached himself from the shadows and paced over, cloak lapping artistically about his massive frame. His jacket was a dark blue tonight, Beauty noticed absently as he sat.
“I don’t mean to skulk,” the Beast told him, lips twitching around his pointed teeth. “I guess it’s just a habit. Normally there’s no one else here, and I don’t really like hearing myself stomp around. But I can make the effort to breathe extra hard when I’m around you, or something.”
Beauty hummed noncommittally and idly licked some chocolate icing off of his fingers, missing entirely the odd intensity of the Beast’s gaze. “The cake is even better tonight,” he said.
The Beast cleared his throat abruptly. “How was your day?”
“It was… interesting,” Beauty said. “I saw many portraits and tapestries.”
“Jeez,” said the Beast, eyeing the platter of untouched pâté, “you were in the wrong parts of the castle.”
Beauty startled himself by grinning, felt it stretch wider as it was matched with a much toothier one from the Beast. Determined to at least attempt to forge a friendship with his host if he was to remain for the rest of his life, he leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think perhaps that the castle was trying to keep me pinned in. I could almost swear that I saw the same hallway several times.”
“Oh?” The Beast raised a shaggy eyebrow.
Beauty nodded. “Yes. This hall had only one portrait in it.”
The Beast leaned forward exaggeratedly. “Do go on.”
“It was a young man, a brunette. He had rather piercing green eyes, and a very cruel mouth.”
The Beast sat back abruptly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to that section of the castle.” He stroked a claw though the tuft of long fur on his chin and murmured, “I was sure he’d been destroyed?”
“Who?” Beauty asked, curiosity piqued.
“Ah, no one,” the Beast said, straightening up. He speared a small sausage and flicked it in his mouth, smacking his lips happily as he swallowed. “I’ll have to give you a real tour of this place. Enough of the damn family photos, huh? That is,” he amended hastily, “if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course,” Beauty replied, taken a little off guard. There was a moment of silence, the Beast’s eyes staring hard at Beauty. “Something on my face?” he asked, a weak attempt at humour.
“Um, nope,” the Beast muttered, looking shifty. “It’s just, you know. You look good in green.”
“Thank you,” Beauty said, voice angling up until it turned into a question. He looked down at his shirt.
“I guess it’s the firelight,” the Beast rumbled. “You look really good. And stuff.”
“Oh.” Beauty wondered what it was about the dim lighting that made him look so edible, and decided he’d try to stick to direct sunlight. That way the Beast wouldn’t have to fight his urges to swallow him whole.
The silence lengthened, became awkward.
“Well, goodnight then, Beauty,” the Beast said, pushing back from the table abruptly. He paused slightly, in the act of sliding his chair back in, to send an unreadable look Beauty’s way. “Was Beauty the name you were born with?” he asked finally.
Beauty gave a rueful half-smile and shook his head slightly, standing as well. “No. My sisters are named Hope and Faith, and they thought their poor younger brother ought to have a similar name. And so they decided on Beauty, and unfortunately the rather contradictory nickname has remained. It’s entirely ill-suited, I know.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” the Beast told him quietly, and wiggled his pointed ears. Startled again, Beauty burst out laughing.
“I was born Samuel,” Beauty said finally.
“Sam,” said the Beast. “Sammy.”
He left the room before Beauty could say another word.
:::
The next morning, after breakfast and a minor battle with his closet, Beauty opened the door to the hall and found the Beast leaning his massive bulk casually against a wall. He straightened once the door opened, and offered what Beauty was fairly certain was supposed to be a smile. Mostly, it looked like a mouthful of knives.
It was horribly unnerving to see his grinning host in the daylight. Though the shadows were trying valiantly to deepen themselves, the mid-morning sun banished them lazily. The Beast was almost a shadow himself, dark in the cheery morning light. He was wearing dark blue pants that went to his knee, stretched tight across the mass of his thighs. A simple white shirt, loose at the throat and wide along the arms, sat civilized in stark contrast to the furred wilderness underneath it. The Beast had a pelt, a fact Beauty was having immense difficulty getting over. It was heavy and brown and Beauty jerked his eyes up to the Beast’s, determined not to stare.
The Beast cocked an eyebrow and bowed ironically. “Ready for our tour?” he asked, voice rolling like far-off thunder in the hall. Beauty nodded, and the Beast immediately perked up and offered his arm. There was an awkward moment as Beauty hesitated, the Beast deflating as time passed but stubbornly keeping his arm out. Beauty cleared his throat and cautiously tucked his hand in the crook of the Beast’s elbow, warm and intimate under the thin shirt.
The Beast beamed again and started off, towing Beauty in his wake. Beauty stumbled slightly and then managed to keep pace, tugging the Beast back a bit when his longer strides forced Beauty to pick up his pace.
:::
The Beast, it turned out, was a half-decent tour guide. He stuck to what he obviously thought were the best parts of the castle, which in turn gave Beauty some good insight into the character of his host.
The first place they went was a shooting range, located on the far western side of the castle’s grounds. The Beast was apparently quite entranced by weapons, and when asked about certain arms became rather animated.
“This crossbow,” he rumbled, pointing a wickedly long claw, “saved my life probably a gazillion times. It’s freaking awesome. Oh, and this one over here, you ever seen anything like it?” At Beauty’s confused expression, the Beast grinned around his massive teeth. “No wonder. I made it. Myself. Oh man, this takes me back.” He picked it up and did something strange to it, pulling a sliding piece back and forth so that it produced a rather intimidating snicksnock sound.
His hands were a bit clumsy, Beauty noted, claws getting in the way enough to make the Beast frown. “Haven’t been out here in a while,” the Beast said, putting the metal thing down. “My, uh,” he paused, looking at his furry hands. He tucked them back into his cloak and continued, “I’m a bit older than I used to be, and I can’t quite… Grip the way I used to. But you’re welcome to come on out and shoot the shit out of stuff whenever you want.”
“Um,” Beauty said, not quite sure what to say. The way the Beast spoke, the words he used; Beauty was almost completely lost.
“Anyway, off we go,” the Beast said cheerfully, and swept out. “I’ll take you back to the castle through the gardens,” he tossed over his shoulder. When Beauty pulled level, he continued, “They’re pretty awesome at this time of year.”
“It’s winter,” Beauty panted.
“That’s right, dude, good job.” The Beast slowed down, marginally. “But, I mean, obviously it’s a lot milder here than where you came from, and I take real good care of the flowers.”
And it was true; they rounded the corner of the hedge boundary that led from the range and Beauty was hit by the sight of acres of roses, all in perfect bloom, stretching out away from his feet. He stared, trying to take it all in.
The entire garden was hedged in, but inside the dark green borders roses ran rampant and wild, thin white paths winding through them. Reds, whites, creams, pinks, all frozen in silent splendour. Riots of colours he’d never seen in roses, all on a backdrop of perfect white snow. But not entirely perfect; there were huge, dog-like footprints along the winding paths, deep, busy impressions in the snow, showing the obvious work that went into tending them.
Beauty turned to the Beast, saw him watching him. At Beauty’s arched eyebrow, the Beast turned quickly back to the roses. His breath curled white from his muzzle, and Beauty marvelled at this massive creature’s care for such delicate flowers.
“Are we going in?” Beauty asked quietly.
“Yep,” the Beast said. “Here we go.” He didn’t move. “Going in.” He frowned. “Any minute now.”
Beauty watched him fight himself, and made a decision. Gripping the Beast’s arm at the elbow, he tugged him forward and into the gardens, snow crunching under his feet. The Beast’s eyes locked on his and stayed that way until they were a good ways into the garden, where he loosened up and started pointing out certain types of roses.
Beauty listened, taking it all in, and when he cautiously took his hand off the Beast’s arm, the Beast’s voice faltered only slightly.
(next)
Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Art Post
Beauty rode for a long time, unsure of where he was going. There was no clear path, and eventually he allowed Jess to lead, picking her way carefully among the tangled undergrowth of a forest untouched by man.
He found himself nodding off, jerking awake each time his chin hit his chest. Abruptly, he was yanked back to consciousness, unaware that he’d drifted off again, to find that Jess had stopped in front of a set of gates. She was shivering, her shoulders wet with sweat. Beauty dismounted, his legs stiff from the long ride in an awkward position. Taking the reins, he led her to the gates which, as his father had described, opened before he had quite reached them.
Jess was wheezing now, eyes rolling, and Beauty took pity on her. He led her away from the gates and removed the saddlebags, tucked the reins up under her bridle, and sent her off with a slap to the rump. She took off, round body jouncing through the black trunks. She would, he knew, find her way home. He hoped his family wouldn’t see the empty saddle and assume he’d been eaten. There was more meat on Jess anyway, he thought wryly.
Beauty watched her until she was out of sight, unaccountably sad to see her go, and then turned back to the gate, which hung open like an empty pledge. He sighed, hefted his bags, and trudged through. The gates swung shut with a bang that echoed through the air. It was completely silent within the fence, all birdsong and leaf rustle voided. Taking a deep breath, Beauty headed deeper into the estate.
The castle was surrounded by shrubs that were a lush, dark green despite the freezing weather. There was a scant inch of snow on the ground that seemed to have been placed there carefully, and the grey path that Beauty was following was completely clear. The castle itself towered above him, pale stone casting an ashen aura.
A long, low building to his right was what Beauty assumed was the stable, larger than his own house in the deepening gloom of evening.
By the time he made it to the main doors, twice at least as tall as he was, the sky had darkened to the knifepoint edge of night. Beauty stood a moment, resting the saddlebags on the ground as he took in the scenes that ranged across the doors themselves.
The left panel contained scenes of a hunting party, led by a man with a cruel face who was whipping his horse into a fury. He had a crossbow resting easily across his lap, and despite his pitiless expression, Beauty could see the attractiveness of his features.
The middle of the entrance was a large tree, obviously meant to symbolize a great forest. It spread across the crack between the doors, its heavy limbs extending over the entire scene, its roots creating a uniform base for both scenes.
The right panel showed a lone horse fleeing the tree, saddle askew, reins loose and eyes rolling. It was surrounded by deer, birds, wolves, squirrels, all stretched out into panicked runs. The horse had five long gashes on its flank, and Beauty was forcibly reminded of the wounds on his father’s leg. He wondered what had happened to the hunting party.
Swallowing loudly, Beauty stretched a hand forward to knock, and the door swung open before he made contact. The hall within was brightly lit, warm firelight licking over the walls and reaching across the marble floors to lap at his feet. Not quite what he was expecting, he admitted to himself, and grabbed his bags as he went inside.
He followed the hall to the dining room, where a feast, large enough to feed a dozen starving men, was laid out. Beauty meant to bypass it, to greet his host, but that was before the first smell of it hit his nose. He hadn’t realised how deprived he’d been of variety, but that first sniff was almost enough to bring him to his knees. Beauty discovered he was starving, and gratefully sank into one of the two chairs, mouth watering profusely.
He waited momentarily, peering into the shadows, wondering if the beast would perhaps choose to dine with him. The room, however, was still and laden with a thick feeling of, well. It was hard to say. Expectation, perhaps.
A high-pitched gurgle cut Beauty off from his good intentions, and he smiled down at his own belly before beginning the process of choosing from the literally dozens of plates of food laid out for him. Mountains of mashed potatoes were surrounded by forests of vegetable greens; there were heaps of salads and gravy lakes, all coyly surrounded by dishes of meats. And please, Beauty thought appreciatively, let us not forget the meats. There were steaks and rumps frolicking in amongst the pheasants and capons, with an entire plate of chops off slightly by itself, though none the less tempting for it. Beauty chewed and sighed and went back for seconds and thirds, everything done to perfection.
At some point, the meal gave way to dessert. Pies and ice cream and chocolate delicacies appeared, pushing the wreckage of the main course out of their way impatiently. Despite his own hunger and size Beauty could not eat all that he wished he could. The atmosphere within the room became lighter as he ate, which he took as either the lessening of his own fears or as the tacit approval of his host.
Throughout it all, the chair at the head of the table remained empty.
:::
Finally, thankfully, Beauty was full. His belly was stretched drum-taut over the waistband of his pants, his napkin a ruined mess on the remains of his plate. He tipped his head back on the chair and sighed, a smile dancing along the corners of his sticky mouth.
“Thank you,” he said to the room, eyes closed.
“You’re welcome,” it rumbled back, and Beauty nearly fell out of his chair. He opened his eyes and looked towards the other chair, unsure what would greet him. If it would greet him at all.
In it sat what could only be his host. The lighting of the room had shifted, gone gloomy, casting its master into a fuller shadow than was completely natural, and for that Beauty was grateful. The beast sat, hugely magnificent, shaggy head bowed. It was hard to make out, but it was massive, that much was clear. The great furred head that looked down at him, taller than Beauty even when seated, had ears like a wolf, pointed and swivelling. One ear - the right - remained aimed at him the entire time that they regarded each other.
A paw was on the table, lit by firelight, one wicked claw tapping gently. There was a puff of lace at its wrist, laid out daintily over short, thick fur, and Beauty’s eyes traveled along the length of an arm, thick and enormously powerful in a dark-red velvet sleeve. The shoulders were implausibly broad, rounded in a slouch under the soft material of its jacket.
But the head of the beast, what Beauty kept returning to, was what was truly awing. The fur there was longer and thicker than on the paw, ranging shaggy down the solid neck. It had, Beauty realised, a muzzle; four canine teeth shined wetly white where they pushed out over its lips. Beauty jerked his eyes up to meet the beast’s; they were only a gleam in the shadows, though he would swear that they looked amused.
The overall impression of the beast, Beauty concluded, was one of a horribly restrained power, brooding in the darkly sinister clothes of a gentleman.
The beast shifted slightly under the scrutiny, then cleared its throat. “You’re not… exactly what I was expecting.”
“Um,” said Beauty, blushing violently. In the painful, squirming silence that followed, Beauty imagined the many ways that he could be punished for his sex. None of them, to put it mildly, were pleasant.
The beast sighed and turned its head. Beauty caught the outline of its whiskered muzzle, the teeth, before it turned back. “Did you like the food?” the beast asked, and Beauty felt the low thunder of it in his chest.
“I-” It came out weak and thready, so he stopped, cleared his throat, started again. “It was good.”
The beast dipped its great head. “Yes. The uh, the pies are pretty good.” It perked up slightly. “Did you try the steak? Because the steak here is awesome.”
“It was a little rare for me,” Beauty told him - oh yes, definitely a him - feeling surreal.
“That’s the best part,” the Beast rumbled enthusiastically. “Still tastes like cow. And the pies, seriously, delicious.”
There was an awkward silence as both of them regarded the wreckage of the remaining pies.
“So,” said the Beast, shifting silently, “you’re not a girl.” It wasn’t really a question, but Beauty felt he ought to make it clear.
“No,” he replied carefully. Perhaps this would be the moment he would be devoured, like a second-rate steak. Still tasted like human, his mind gibbered.
“I was expecting a girl.” Beauty couldn’t take his eyes off the tapping claw, rhythmic in the flickering light. While he watched it, the Beast heaved a sigh that gusted hot over Beauty’s face, blowing his hair back from his forehead, and stood. “Well, come on then,” the Beast said, beckoning.
Beauty stood, uncertain, and blurted, “Are you going to eat me?”
The silence was ringing this time, as the Beast stared at him. Beauty almost wished he could see him, could discern the expression on his face, though he was still decidedly glad for the shadows.
Finally, the Beast stepped forward, one stride placing him directly at Beauty’s side. Beauty could smell him, all earth and musk and wild, and willed himself not to shake. Lowly, almost purring in his ear, the Beast rumbled, “I’ll show you to your room.”
The Beast stood a full head taller than him, despite Beauty’s own height, and the comparison made him feel like a child again. He stooped to grab the saddlebags and felt, rather than heard, his host move away. Low as he was, he could see the Beast’s feet, more like dog’s paws than anything human, with four dark claws curving to touch the stone floor.
Beauty straightened up in time to catch the Beast licking the fingers, shorter and thicker than a man’s, on his left hand. The Beast glanced over, saw him watching, and hastily snatched the hand into his cloak.
“I was just having a bit of pie,” the Beast told him, looking remarkably embarrassed.
“Um,” said Beauty, and swallowed loudly.
“Well, to the room, I suppose,” said the Beast after a moment and set off down one of the halls.
Beauty found himself having to lengthen his strides to keep up with the Beast’s lope. His shoes and breathing were the only sounds, for the Beast moved as silently as a shade. He had a tail, Beauty noticed, and had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep his laughter, which would probably be on the wrong side of hysterical, in. The fur there was long and shaggy, brushing the ground and preventing his dark cloak from keeping a flowing line. Beauty tried to focus on the wondrous sights of the hall, art and frescos and tapestries, but his eyes simply would not leave the tail alone.
“So,” the Beast said, turning down yet another hallway. “Have you always been a dude?”
“A… dude?” Beauty asked, unfamiliar with the term.
“You know, a dude,” the Beast threw a narrow-eyed look over his shoulder. At Beauty’s blank look, he stopped and turned around, cloak swirling impressively. Beauty took a step back and shrugged. He waited, whether for an explanation or a blow, he wasn’t sure. The Beast took him in and let out a sigh. “A dude. A guy. Un hombre. Un homme. A man.”
“Oh,” Beauty nodded, “a guy is a man is a dude. I understand. And yes, I have always been a man.” He paused for a moment, considering. “Although I suppose if I am to be completely accurate I would have to admit that at one point I was a baby, and then a child, a period that was followed by one of being a boy. Always male, though.” He swallowed nervously, biting back on the rest of his tangent.
The Beast frowned at him, bottom teeth looking particularly sharp in the dim light. He huffed out another sigh that sounded something like what a geek and turned to continue down the hall.
Finally, the Beast stopped in front of a door. The torches on either side of it flared to life, and the Beast set his candelabra down on a handy end table. The door itself was indistinguishable from the others that they had passed but for the small ornate B that had been carved into the doorknob.
The door swung open eagerly as the Beast angled himself in, a little too wide for the frame. Beauty followed him in, taking in the simple, if slightly feminine, décor. There were lush carpets laid strategically over the stone floor, vines tangled in a green riot over a cream background. There was a dark writing desk with a small pile of milky papers and dainty pens, not entirely suited for a man’s heavy stroke, matched with a chair just a shade too small to be fully comfortable. The walls were hung with tapestries of unicorns and birds, framing large windows. The bed itself was a massive four-poster with gauzy hangings, plump pillows, and inviting turned-down covers.
Beauty fought back a yawn as the Beast muttered something to the fireplace, which promptly burst into flame. Beauty wondered at the fact that this, a talking beast invoking fire-spells in a sentient castle, did not faze him in the least.
“This will be your room,” the Beast told him, turning from the hearth. “If you find anything not to your liking, do not hesitate to inform the room. I’m sure it will be only too happy to rearrange itself.”
“Oh,” said Beauty, on the knife edge of hysteria. “Of course.” He hoped he would not giggle.
The Beast regarded him for a moment, again. For the hundredth time, it seemed, Beauty was on display, and for the hundredth time he blushed under the scrutiny. This time, though, Beauty was able to look back. He took in the almost-knobs of horn half-hidden under shaggy fur, the hang of the Beast’s cloak, the fit of his trousers. But it was the dark eyes, green now in the brighter light, that were by far the most human aspect of his face. They transformed him from a beast into the Beast, from an animal into an almost-man.
“Will I ever be allowed to leave?” Beauty blurted, surprising himself not only with the question but with the hope in his voice.
Mournfully, the Beast shook his head. “I’m afraid your leaving me would end in death, Beauty. You must never leave.”
“Never?” Beauty asked, hating the way his voice wavered.
“Never,” the Beast affirmed, meeting his eyes.
Beauty turned to the bed, pressed a splayed hand to his chest. “Please leave,” he managed, Hope and Faith smiling and waving in his mind.
When he looked back, the room was empty, the fire burning lacklustre in its grate. The door clicked forlornly shut as Beauty flung himself on the bed and bit the inside of his cheek until it bled, until sleep took him down.
:::
Beauty woke up at the first grey light of dawn, a habit from his life in the country. His eyes were scratchy, hot, blurred. The smell of toast and tea filled the room, and Beauty could just make out a plate of breakfast on the bedside table, tendrils of steam curling lazy in the air. He groaned and propped himself up on an elbow, stretching out for the mug.
He was just easing it off the tray when he remembered: No more Hope, no more Faith. No mornings with John, laughing or grumbling over the latest of Ash and Andy’s antics. No more dinners at the pub, all warmth and smiles and stew that stuck to one’s ribs in all the right ways. The cup slipped from his nerveless fingers, a thump-smash-splash as it hit the edge of the carpet.
Beauty dropped back into the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. They smelled like nobody, like enchanted air, and nothing at all like home.
:::
When he woke next, the room was lit with the natural light of afternoon and filled with a wild, smoky tang. Beauty sat up with a start to see the bedroom door clicking shut.
Heart pounding, he slid out of bed, forgetting about the shattered cup - except that his bare feet felt only the soft cushion of the rug. Frowning, he looked down. There was no sign that anything had ever broken or spilled, though the tray at his bedside held only toast with congealing butter.
Pushing down the despair that threatened to well up again, Beauty padded to the door. There was no sign that anyone had been inside, and a quick check established that there was no one waiting in the hall. Beauty turned back to the room, feeling rather off-centre, and scrubbed a hand over his face. The ring that he’d worn since they’d opened the saddlebags - Hope gasping as yet another fine slip was produced, John smiling with bemusement - felt warm and alive on his cheek.
With a quick inhale, not quite a gasp, Beauty took in the room for the first time that day. The bed was sturdier, heavy curtains replacing the gauzy fabric of yesterday. The duvet was different too, a dark red. The desk had been replaced, dark heavy wood in the place of the lighter, airier furniture of the night before. The chair, too, was taller and stouter; the pens were thicker, broader; the loose leaves of paper succeeded by weighty black-bound journals.
One of which was held open by a glass paperweight.
Beauty edged forward, feeling himself almost ridiculously unnerved - though, to be fair, he was in an enchanted castle at the behest of the Beast. He peered at the paper without coming close enough to touch, read the clumsy words written there.
Beauty.
I hope you’re feeling better this morning. If you’d let me join you for dinner, that would be awesome.
Have a good day,
Your humble host.
Beauty sighed and stepped away, turning his mind resolutely to performing his morning ablutions.
Later, clean and freshly shaven, smelling like fine soap, Beauty was confronted with the fact that his clothes were gone. Mouth set in a grim line, he filled his voice with as much authority as he could and said, “Give me back my clothes.”
His clothes, from his simple coat to his simple shirt to his simple pants, did not appear, though he did suddenly spy his boots, as simple as the rest, leaning by the door.
“That’s a good start,” he allowed, “but I want the rest of it.”
Still nothing, though the doors of the armoire did creak open just the slightest bit, as if on the receiving end of a slight puff of air from within.
Beauty rolled his eyes and marched over to it, unconsciously giving the desk wide berth. He flung the doors open and was immediately appalled at what he saw.
The wardrobe was a mess of colour, hues bright enough to scald one’s eyes. Laughing incredulously, Beauty pulled a blue shirt (though really, ‘blue’ came nowhere near to describing the colour) from the racks. It was a riot of frills and ruffles, lacy bits and toggles. He supposed it might look quite dashing on a romantic pirate or foppish lover, but neither choice was the look that he was suited to.
It took some digging, not to mention some creative curses and dodging more than a few moth balls, but eventually Beauty found some clothes that were proper. Simple trousers, though buff rather than a plain black and a pale green shirt that would not make him look a fool. He grinned, feeling triumphant as he shrugged into it, and slipped his boots on.
Trying not to think at all, Beauty left his room.
:::
Beauty spent the rest of the day wandering around the castle. He got lost after about three minutes, but he figured that the Beast would come and find him before he starved to death in a dusty hall.
Except the halls weren’t really dusty; everything was perfection, enough so that it set Beauty on edge. He’d tilted a painting, an old dark oil portrait, nearly on its side as an experiment. He’d made it down the hall and looked back, saw one crooked frame in a long line of neat level edges, and had to turn back to set it right.
His boots echoing off the stone floors were the only sound. He’d gotten hungry at some point, and the next room he’d peered into had contained only an end table at its very centre. On it was a large silver tray bearing sandwiches, water, pastries. Beauty had eaten it, thanked the room, and left when the Beast failed to appear and rumble a ‘you’re welcome’ in his ear.
Throughout the day, he repeatedly found himself wandering through the same hallway. It was empty, utterly devoid of any decorations, save a lone painting.
It was a portrait of a young man, about Beauty’s age. He was undeniably handsome, with the sort of good looks that Beauty had longed for in the place of his own blandness. His eyes were a vibrant green, his lips plush and red, his brown hair a spikey riot. He looked undeniably cruel; closed off and cold. Something about the set of his jaw, perhaps, or the slight squint of his eyes.
Whatever it was, Beauty felt a chill whenever he walked past. When he’d gotten close to study it, he’d felt as if the young man was scrutinizing him just as carefully, judging him, and finding him wanting.
Despite the lack of dust, the castle had an air of disuse. While there were a few rooms that Beauty felt his host spent some time in (mostly due to the shadows that lay in clumps and piles, despite the sunlight that filtered weakly in through the windows) there were many rooms where fires burst immediately into flame at his arrival, and the doors opened if he so much as looked in their direction, as if they were eager for company.
There were no mirrors.
Overall, Beauty found nothing of any note. The day wore on until somewhere in the distance, just as he was inspecting yet another room of Medieval tapestries, a clock struck six. He left the room with a sigh, ready to face his host, his captor, for dinner.
The hallway looked exactly the same as all of the others he’d been wandering all day, but after only two right turns he found himself once again in the massive dining room of the night before. The long table was again heaped with food, candelabras casting soft lighting over the scene. There were the two chairs from the night before, but as Beauty got closer he realised that once again there was only one place setting.
Not wanting to get his hopes up for dinner alone, Beauty took his seat and spread his napkin on his lap. He looked up suddenly, hoping to catch the Beast sliding into his chair, but the room was still empty.
By the time Beauty was attacking his dessert - the long afternoon of exploring was apparently enough to have more than emptied his belly - the Beast still had not shown. Beauty shovelled some cake into his mouth and tried not to think of the sad, awkward conversation of last night. He gave a reluctant half-smile at the thought of such a fearsome creature attempting to put him at ease with talks of pie.
“Something funny?” came the deep, rough voice from over by the massive fireplace.
Beauty turned in his seat to send an unamused look over his shoulder. “Must you skulk around like that?”
The Beast detached himself from the shadows and paced over, cloak lapping artistically about his massive frame. His jacket was a dark blue tonight, Beauty noticed absently as he sat.
“I don’t mean to skulk,” the Beast told him, lips twitching around his pointed teeth. “I guess it’s just a habit. Normally there’s no one else here, and I don’t really like hearing myself stomp around. But I can make the effort to breathe extra hard when I’m around you, or something.”
Beauty hummed noncommittally and idly licked some chocolate icing off of his fingers, missing entirely the odd intensity of the Beast’s gaze. “The cake is even better tonight,” he said.
The Beast cleared his throat abruptly. “How was your day?”
“It was… interesting,” Beauty said. “I saw many portraits and tapestries.”
“Jeez,” said the Beast, eyeing the platter of untouched pâté, “you were in the wrong parts of the castle.”
Beauty startled himself by grinning, felt it stretch wider as it was matched with a much toothier one from the Beast. Determined to at least attempt to forge a friendship with his host if he was to remain for the rest of his life, he leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think perhaps that the castle was trying to keep me pinned in. I could almost swear that I saw the same hallway several times.”
“Oh?” The Beast raised a shaggy eyebrow.
Beauty nodded. “Yes. This hall had only one portrait in it.”
The Beast leaned forward exaggeratedly. “Do go on.”
“It was a young man, a brunette. He had rather piercing green eyes, and a very cruel mouth.”
The Beast sat back abruptly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to that section of the castle.” He stroked a claw though the tuft of long fur on his chin and murmured, “I was sure he’d been destroyed?”
“Who?” Beauty asked, curiosity piqued.
“Ah, no one,” the Beast said, straightening up. He speared a small sausage and flicked it in his mouth, smacking his lips happily as he swallowed. “I’ll have to give you a real tour of this place. Enough of the damn family photos, huh? That is,” he amended hastily, “if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course,” Beauty replied, taken a little off guard. There was a moment of silence, the Beast’s eyes staring hard at Beauty. “Something on my face?” he asked, a weak attempt at humour.
“Um, nope,” the Beast muttered, looking shifty. “It’s just, you know. You look good in green.”
“Thank you,” Beauty said, voice angling up until it turned into a question. He looked down at his shirt.
“I guess it’s the firelight,” the Beast rumbled. “You look really good. And stuff.”
“Oh.” Beauty wondered what it was about the dim lighting that made him look so edible, and decided he’d try to stick to direct sunlight. That way the Beast wouldn’t have to fight his urges to swallow him whole.
The silence lengthened, became awkward.
“Well, goodnight then, Beauty,” the Beast said, pushing back from the table abruptly. He paused slightly, in the act of sliding his chair back in, to send an unreadable look Beauty’s way. “Was Beauty the name you were born with?” he asked finally.
Beauty gave a rueful half-smile and shook his head slightly, standing as well. “No. My sisters are named Hope and Faith, and they thought their poor younger brother ought to have a similar name. And so they decided on Beauty, and unfortunately the rather contradictory nickname has remained. It’s entirely ill-suited, I know.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” the Beast told him quietly, and wiggled his pointed ears. Startled again, Beauty burst out laughing.
“I was born Samuel,” Beauty said finally.
“Sam,” said the Beast. “Sammy.”
He left the room before Beauty could say another word.
:::
The next morning, after breakfast and a minor battle with his closet, Beauty opened the door to the hall and found the Beast leaning his massive bulk casually against a wall. He straightened once the door opened, and offered what Beauty was fairly certain was supposed to be a smile. Mostly, it looked like a mouthful of knives.
It was horribly unnerving to see his grinning host in the daylight. Though the shadows were trying valiantly to deepen themselves, the mid-morning sun banished them lazily. The Beast was almost a shadow himself, dark in the cheery morning light. He was wearing dark blue pants that went to his knee, stretched tight across the mass of his thighs. A simple white shirt, loose at the throat and wide along the arms, sat civilized in stark contrast to the furred wilderness underneath it. The Beast had a pelt, a fact Beauty was having immense difficulty getting over. It was heavy and brown and Beauty jerked his eyes up to the Beast’s, determined not to stare.
The Beast cocked an eyebrow and bowed ironically. “Ready for our tour?” he asked, voice rolling like far-off thunder in the hall. Beauty nodded, and the Beast immediately perked up and offered his arm. There was an awkward moment as Beauty hesitated, the Beast deflating as time passed but stubbornly keeping his arm out. Beauty cleared his throat and cautiously tucked his hand in the crook of the Beast’s elbow, warm and intimate under the thin shirt.
The Beast beamed again and started off, towing Beauty in his wake. Beauty stumbled slightly and then managed to keep pace, tugging the Beast back a bit when his longer strides forced Beauty to pick up his pace.
:::
The Beast, it turned out, was a half-decent tour guide. He stuck to what he obviously thought were the best parts of the castle, which in turn gave Beauty some good insight into the character of his host.
The first place they went was a shooting range, located on the far western side of the castle’s grounds. The Beast was apparently quite entranced by weapons, and when asked about certain arms became rather animated.
“This crossbow,” he rumbled, pointing a wickedly long claw, “saved my life probably a gazillion times. It’s freaking awesome. Oh, and this one over here, you ever seen anything like it?” At Beauty’s confused expression, the Beast grinned around his massive teeth. “No wonder. I made it. Myself. Oh man, this takes me back.” He picked it up and did something strange to it, pulling a sliding piece back and forth so that it produced a rather intimidating snicksnock sound.
His hands were a bit clumsy, Beauty noted, claws getting in the way enough to make the Beast frown. “Haven’t been out here in a while,” the Beast said, putting the metal thing down. “My, uh,” he paused, looking at his furry hands. He tucked them back into his cloak and continued, “I’m a bit older than I used to be, and I can’t quite… Grip the way I used to. But you’re welcome to come on out and shoot the shit out of stuff whenever you want.”
“Um,” Beauty said, not quite sure what to say. The way the Beast spoke, the words he used; Beauty was almost completely lost.
“Anyway, off we go,” the Beast said cheerfully, and swept out. “I’ll take you back to the castle through the gardens,” he tossed over his shoulder. When Beauty pulled level, he continued, “They’re pretty awesome at this time of year.”
“It’s winter,” Beauty panted.
“That’s right, dude, good job.” The Beast slowed down, marginally. “But, I mean, obviously it’s a lot milder here than where you came from, and I take real good care of the flowers.”
And it was true; they rounded the corner of the hedge boundary that led from the range and Beauty was hit by the sight of acres of roses, all in perfect bloom, stretching out away from his feet. He stared, trying to take it all in.
The entire garden was hedged in, but inside the dark green borders roses ran rampant and wild, thin white paths winding through them. Reds, whites, creams, pinks, all frozen in silent splendour. Riots of colours he’d never seen in roses, all on a backdrop of perfect white snow. But not entirely perfect; there were huge, dog-like footprints along the winding paths, deep, busy impressions in the snow, showing the obvious work that went into tending them.
Beauty turned to the Beast, saw him watching him. At Beauty’s arched eyebrow, the Beast turned quickly back to the roses. His breath curled white from his muzzle, and Beauty marvelled at this massive creature’s care for such delicate flowers.
“Are we going in?” Beauty asked quietly.
“Yep,” the Beast said. “Here we go.” He didn’t move. “Going in.” He frowned. “Any minute now.”
Beauty watched him fight himself, and made a decision. Gripping the Beast’s arm at the elbow, he tugged him forward and into the gardens, snow crunching under his feet. The Beast’s eyes locked on his and stayed that way until they were a good ways into the garden, where he loosened up and started pointing out certain types of roses.
Beauty listened, taking it all in, and when he cautiously took his hand off the Beast’s arm, the Beast’s voice faltered only slightly.
(next)